TABLE of CONTENTS

BOOK I

CHAPTER I—FAREWELL.

CHAPTER II—NEIGHBOURS.

CHAPTER III—BRATTON REVEL.

CHAPTER IV—HARVEST.

CHAPTER V—WARNING.

CHAPTER VI—HALLOWMAS EVE.

CHAPTER VII—RECONCILIATION.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I—“ THEY TWO, THEIRZELVES."

CHAPTER II—FOUR-PENNYWORTH OF FORTUNE.

CHAPTER III—URSULA’S SCHEME.

CHAPTER IV—THE HIGHWAY.

CHAPTER V—THE WAYFARER.

CHAPTER VI—AN HIDING PLACE.

CHAPTER VII—BACK TO URSIE.

CHAPTER VIII—URSIE’S COUNSEL.

CHAPTER IX—EASTER.

CHAPTER X—THE FUN O' THE PAIR.

CHAPTER XI—THE ORDEAL.

BOOK III

RIZPAH.

BOOK I

CHAPTER I.

FAREWELL.

Far away, behind Penscelwood, the first streak of summer dawn came breaking above the level ridge of the hills—one thin, straight line of crimson, like a rent in the grey curtain of the night.

The quiet valley to the west of the range lay in darkness still.

In the village of Bratton, on the opposite side of the hollow, starlings had begun to twitter by the chimneys, and sparrows under the eaves; but this was only the tuning of the pipes before the play, for as yet no people were astir.

Of the houses scattered along the steep road, no eye could have distinguished the dormers from the roofs, or the windows from the walls. The small homestead standing away in a field, properly called Winterhays, but commonly spoken of as “up to Whites’,” was but a darker spot under the brow of the coombe. The Whites had held it for two centuries, and lived there still But the other day—well, on the Sunday, then, as Candlemas fell on the Tuesday —William White, the elder, seized with a sudden distemper, was taken in his prime, and so the place dropped into hand.

Presently, a faint light, glimmering from the kitchen of this solitary farm, showed that some one moved within. Then came a constant flash, regular as the throbbing of a pulse, as bellows drove a quickening fire of turf and sticks into a blaze. Then a single candle shone from one of the little square windows under the eaves and running right up under the thatch.

The Whites were up and about early that morning, and no mistake. But Bratton still lay in the gloom asleep, and took no note of that.

The rising flood of coming day flowed softly over the distant hills and slowly filled the vale. Things came into light and grew into form and being. Tall trees, dark orchard and copse, green fields and grounds of corn soon turning yellow, all took colour and peered out of the twilight and the mist. Red and white cattle were standing by the hedgerow down in Jacob Handaford’s mead. Near to Whites’ was a rick new-made and not yet railed around. East o! the farmhouse lay a square barton with styes and stalls, and at the front a garden shut in with low walls. From a large stone porch, bigger than many a small room, with a seat on each side, a short, straight path, roughly paved, led to a little wooden hatch, with a lilac just gone past on one hand, and a laburnum, still in golden flower, upon the other.

Behind the distant hill a shaft of fiercest light shot up into the sky.

The under edges of the cloud seemed to catch fire, and shone out all a-glow. Yet it wanted somewhat of sunrise still, when the oaken door, studded with nails, slowly opened, and three persons came out and walked one behind the other down the broken flagstones to the gate. There they loitered awhile—the widow White and her two sons, William and Jack. There was a leave-taking and a good-bye. Yet, after all, the widow changed her mind, and walked across the field right up into the road.

The widow White was staid. That is to say, though the brightness and gaiety of youth had fled, she was still comely. Thirty years of married life at Winterhays, where they had never done well—the struggle with a long family, of which William was the eldest and Jack the youngest left alive—and then, the sudden death of her goodman, upon whose life the land was held—all these troubles had not bowed her head, and she moved more sprack and active now than many a maid little more than out of her teens.

Her hair, once black, was turning grey. There were arched wrinkles upon her forehead, and deep upright lines between her eyes. But these will come from rain and sun to folk who go all weathers in the open air, and a yeoman’s wife in the time of “ good Queen Anne ” was no fine lady to sit about indoors. Anyway, her dark eyes were bright and her cheek fresh-coloured as the morning.

She was dressed in a home-spun skirt of a plain grey colour, altogether covered in front by a coarse white apron both long and broad. Over her shoulders and crossed before, she wore a red woollen shawl. Of the three she alone was bare-headed. She had but stepped out so far as the road just to bring her son going, as they say in those parts; but time was precious, and she kept knitting, knitting all the way. The needles, glistening bright as the morning dew upon the grass around, went of themselves without her heed. But her busy hands told their story of toil. They were hard and brown, and there was a deep, dry crack on one of the forefingers.

Her sons walked one upon each side.

William, the elder by several years, was a short, stiff man with a face full of character and determination. Below his high cheek bone he bore a deep scar, which showed the more because he was clean shaven. He was dressed in part like a sailor, and swayed somewhat in his gait. But Jack, a mere stripling of nineteen, wore a smock reaching nearly to the worsted hose below his knees. In his left hand was a bundle. Each of them carried a stout ground-ash stick.

By the time they reached the road, the dewy grass lay in the light like a sheet of silver. The two oaks out in the ground, and the row of shrouded elms in the hedgerow, cast long shadows right across the field.

“It must be handy 'pon four,” she said, with a glance at the hills. “ The sun is up. But you’ll get to Bristol hours afore dark- night An’ you’ll write, William; you’ll be sure to write or send word, if ever you do get the chance-”

“ Ay, mother, to be sure; whenever chance do fall. You may be certain-sure o’ that,” replied the mariner quickly.

“ An’ you’ll carr’ his bundle for him, Jack, so far as you can spare time to go,” she went on, though she could not take her eyes off William when she spoke to Jack.

“ I will, mother.”

“ And you’ll sit yourself down somewhere in the shade, do ’ee now, come mid-day, when the sun’s at his height. For’t ’ull be most terrible hot, and the road like the floor of a oven. I shall think o’ ’ee, William, all manners o’ times. When I do hear the cry o’ the storm over Cattle Hill, or the moanin’ o’ the win’ up in the wood, I shall feel fit to drop, for God A’mighty do only know whe’er or no I shall ever see ’ee back.”

“ I shall be back, mother, no fear. And mayhap bring home enough to make the place our own again,” he laughed cheerfully.

“ Well, since ’t have a-got to be, there’s little good in words,” she said, with a deep sigh. “ And ’tis better to walk in the cool. So I won’t keep ’ee about.”

She stopped knitting for the first time. She threw one arm around her son and kissed him. It was all very simple, and so natural and self-contained that no one seeing this farewell could have gauged the depth of feeling in her heart.

“Please God, keep ’ee safe,” she muttered. It was half-prayer, half-blessing, and then, the prudent mother getting the better of her again, she added in a louder tone: “ But you had best to be getting on”.

“ Good-bye, mother.”

“Good-bye, William.”

She stood a moment waiting on the road, her hand raised to her brow, for now the sun was well above the hill—then turned quickly, as all of a sudden a thought flashed upon her mind, and hastened towards the house. It was hard to take her eyes away, yet well enough she knew it always brings bad luck to watch the parting traveller out of sight.

The road went winding down a steep, and for some distance, shoulder to shoulder, the brothers strode along in silence. Thus they passed the cottages, the village inn, the broad pathway, a flight of stone steps leading up to the church upon the hill-top, and presently came in sight of the last dwelling in Bratton-town.

This was a farm-house of good size, standing end-ways towards the road, and William White scanned it narrowly as they drew near. The door was shut. No smoke arose from the little, red, brick chimney at the end of the ridge of thatch, and not a blind had yet been drawn. He stopped—lingered a minute or two in doubt—then, knowing that time was precious, stepped aside, and stooped to pick up a clod of dry crumbling earth from the bank below the opposite hedge.

A white curtain, hanging by brass rings from a cord, was hastily thrust aside, and the head of a young woman glanced from the small window in the pointing-end against the road. She gently pushed the casement open and leaned out into the morning air. The sound of passing footsteps had mingled with a dream bred of her expectation, and, half-awake, she had sprung out of bed in dread of being late. Her bright red hair, fallen loose, hung over her forehead. She raised both hands and threw it back out of her eyes.

“ Lawk a Massy! William, I was a’most afeared you mid ha’ passed,” she whispered, with a sigh of relief.

The brief moment whilst he waited she had turned to good account-—slipped on her skirt—jumped into her bodice—laced it tight and turned in the tag. Over her shoulders she had thrown a neckerchief; not forgetting in her haste to open the oak coffer by the foot of the bed and snatch out the Sunday one, only once worn and therefore white and clean. Her neck and full rounded throat were uncovered to the morning light. With her red lips parted, her round blue eyes wide open above the snowy cloth, her face looked strikingly bright and glowing with life against the grey old stones and black window frame. Then, with a toss of her head, she added: “ But though you be bent in mind to go away an’ leave me, you wouldn’t ha’ liked it so very well, I suppose, if I had let ’ee go off like that ”.

“ I was looking to have a last word, Ursie.”

In his delight at seeing her he raised his voice and spoke more loudly than he meant, but she quickly held up a warning finger, and he drew into the corner of the house close under the window.

Young Jack had long ago gone slowly on his way down the hill.

“Not but what it would be all one,” she laughed, not in mirth, but with a tinge of bitterness. “ By the time you be ten mile out o’ Bratton, you will ha’ forgot all about Ursie Handsford. Out o’ sight, out o’ mind. That’s the way wi’ all the men, an’ most o’ all wi’ you sailors.”

Truly, for a maid whose lover was going away to the perils of fighting and the sea, her words betrayed but little fear or feeling. Yet there lay some depth of untold emotion underneath, for her lips quivered after she had ceased to speak. She was teasing him, too, bent on making him tell how much he loved her.

She got her way at once.

“ There’s no other woman upon earth I’d look at in the way of love, and that you do well know, Ursula Handsford. No, not if she were so pretty as an angel.”

He was so terribly in earnest that it sounded like taking a Bible oath, at least; and that was what she loved to hear. When he talked so, then she felt fond of him.

“ But how long do ’ee think to bide away?” she asked so eagerly that her voice quavered.

“Nobody can telL ’Tis just as the luck mid turn out. There’ll be knocks enough to take afore there’s prize money. But never fear; what I do get I’ll hold fast to. I’ll be back for ’ee wi’ my pockets full, if you’ll wait a bit, Ursie.”

“ La! William, it mid be years, an’ I shall never bide at home; I do know I shan’t,” she faltered, with a sinking of the heart.

“ Long or short, there’s nothing ’pon earth shall keep me when I’ve a-won enough to make a good home. But I’ll never come back to be nothing in Bratton, where the Whites have a-lived so many years.”

“I’ll wait for ’ee, William, if ’tis till doomsday, for I believe you’ll do it an’ come back an’ marry me as you do say,” she cried, with a sudden outburst of passion, and she leaned further out of the window towards him, and gazed longfully into his face. Her great blue eyes looked frank and truthful as the day.

“ I know it, Ursie, dear. I shall carry the thought in my heart.”

“ Ay, I’ve a-promised ’ee afore, and now I do again,” she broke in, with growing warmth, and then her voice fell sad. “ But it will be all in the dark, so to speak. However long ’tis, I shall never hear a word.”

“ Ah, but that’s what I wanted to tell ’ee,” he answered quickly, for he had well-nigh forgot. “You must talk to Jack. We shall be in the Channel, Ursie, an’ put into port now an’ again. Yet, if you could read it, Ursie, I couldn’t send ’ee a letter unbeknown. But when we do put in, I shall send to Jack, and he’ll tell ’ee all about it, just as he will to mother, and read it out to ’ee, Ursie, if you will, word by word. You can trust Jack for a true friend. He’s most wonderful fond o’ me. And so you’ll hear all.”

“ But come back for a day or so, even if you must go again,” she coaxed.

He shook his head thoughtfully, as if it were not to be done.

Then the whim for mischief caught hold of her once more, “Or, like enough, father may frighten me out o’ it; or I mid chance to catch a mind to another man——”

She stopped short. Even the thought stirred such anger and jealousy in his heart that he set his teeth and clenched his fists.

“ If I had risked my life, and won enough, and come home to find ’ee wi’ another, I’d— I’d kill the fellow,” he hissed.

He meant it, too, for he looked dangerous. But she only laughed. Though it made her half-afraid, she loved to hear him talk like that.

“ Hark! ”

Suddenly becoming grave, she raised her hand in alarm and turned her head to listen. She placed her fingers on her lips and paused again. Then, throwing him one hasty kiss, without another word she stealthily drew to the curtain and was gone.

He understood she had heard some one moving in the house. Mayhap her father had caught a sound of their talking. Though for that matter it was broad daylight now, and frugal country folk, who burnt no candles of a night, were loth to waste the hours of summer morning. She dared not come again to the window. He was sure of that. For since the Whites got pinched for money, neighbour Handsford had hated the sight of him. Ursula would catch it, sure enough, if all were known. So, with one last look at the house, he crept under cover of the hedgerow and went softly on his way.

Around the second bend of the road, kicking his heels against a gate, sat Jack awaiting him.

Again they trudged quickly forward, side by side, but now the silence which had marked their first departure was broken, and they talked eagerly because their time was short. All their circumstances, all the affairs of life and the business of the land—that little patch of land called Winterhays—passed in review before their minds.

How things had been taken, unawares like, through their father’s sudden death, and what a pity there was no other life upon the farm. But the squire had treated them well, so he had, to let their mother stay on as yearly tenant, to see if they could take the place up again and keep in the old name. And how Jack must hold things together and do his best. For the money parted was no good at all. So it was not his own he had to do with. He must mind that. And if William only had luck, by-and-by, in a year or two, when things were set a bit straight, he would set Jack up in life, too, and make a man of him, so he would.

“ I do feel downright sorry for ’ee to go,

Bill, that I do,” cried the youth, with real affection.

" Never mind, sonny, I don’t care,” laughed the sailor a trifle boisterously, for he was upset too and ashamed to show it. “ ’Tis a smart little ship, and as good as a fortune * to be aboard her.”

“But I heard a funny sound last night.

I was in to Wincanton to ‘ The Bear ’ when the coach came in. Folk said the Queen was going to stop the war. Least-ways, that was talked about There’d be an end to privateering, and prize-money, too, if there should come a peace.”

The sailor shook his head.

“Oh, well,” he muttered grimly, with a mind made up for the worst, “then here’s off to the West Indies if that do come to pass.”

“ But you wouldn’t turn pirate? ”

“That’s a nasty word, boy. But as for setting fire to a nest of Spanish papists, I'd so soon do it as burn out wapses. What’s the war about but to keep out popery?

No, Jack, a papist is the enemy of England all the world over.”

He spoke with firm conviction, as if the rightship of this to any English understand- ing must be beyond doubt. For if the good folk of Somerset loathed popery before the days of the Duke, how much more did they hate it since? And Jack, now looking at the matter with a more serious eye and from a loftier point of view, saw that William’s words were not only honesty, but sense.

Thus they went on to the copse in the bottom. “ You can come to the end of the common,” said William. “ Ay, or so far as the little stonen bridge,” pleaded Jack. The youth found it so hard to say good-bye and turn back. After all, it was no more than a step then to the four-cross-roads. But time was passing on and Jack must get home to the milking, so there they stopped at last, being of one mind that they must part.

To have one word more, they sat down a minute by the wayside, for there were tears m the eyes of young Jack that, try as hard as he could, he could neither hide nor keep back, he felt so sorry at heart to go home alone. Bill was a boy when he was a child, and then a man when he was a boy, and had seen the world, and fought with the French, too, and was most terrible good company if only his tongue were a bit oiled. So William was a great figure in the eyes of the younger man.

“ Do your best to make the most of every bit and crumb; and don’t ’ee go in to ‘ The Bear,’ Jack,” the sailor urged again. “ If any ill should befell to me, you’ll have my share o’ what father left, so, anyway, you and mother ought not to want for a good living.” He hesitated. Then his voice sank into a confidential whisper. “And keep in wi’ Ursie Handsford, whatever you do do. An’ get mother to have her up to house. She’s like the apple o’ my eye to me. And, Jack, walk out as though by chance, look-y-zee, to meet the maid. And bring the talk round to me, and say, in her ear like, that I sent my dear love, and that was my parting word.”

“ I will, for she’s most time up and down the road of an evening.”

“ And I said, if I ever should write, you’d read it to her.”

“And so I will, Bill.”

“ Well, good-bye, boy,” cried the sailor, springing to his feet with sudden determination to cut the matter short. “’Tis no good to bide about. Let’s have the bundle.

Good - bye, Jack. God bless thee, Jack. Good-bye! An’ do thy best. And now, you hurry on back.”

“ Good-bye, Bill.”

“ Good-bye.”

So, with the best heart they could, the brothers shook hands and parted, and each went on his way.

Before the traveller lay a short, straight piece of road; and, at the end of it, William White stopped a moment and turned to take one last look at Bratton and the hills. He could see the home at Winterhays. Whitewashed and bright it shone from a setting of dark orchard and green hill. The sun was glistening upon the windows, and gleamed out of each diamond pane with that piercing brightness no gem on earth can rival. His mother bustled out to “ post ope” the barton gate in readiness for the cattle to come in on Jack’s return.

Into the mead below, but lying to the left, came Ursula Handsford to fetch in her father’s beasts. He stood and watched her whilst slowly, one by one, the cows were lost to view behind the hedgerow. Ursula stopped a minute, stooped, picked up a clod and threw at the last loiterer. The cow, a red one, raised her tail stiff and cantered forward to join the herd. Then Ursula too was gone.

At last, in good earnest, William White started on his journey, and, turning a bend in the road, at once passed out of sight.

CHAPTER II.

NEIGHBOURS.

Barely had William White withdrawn from below the window of Ursula, when a small, spare man crept secretly around the further comer of the house and stopped to listen. Not a sound could he hear. He came forward upon tip-toe to the black yew-tree against the wall and peered over into the road. Not a soul did he see. Unsatisfied at this apparent absence of all evil-doing, he drew closer under the dark branches and lay in wait, like a terrier watching for a rabbit to bolt.

But nothing came of it.

“ Ah! the sly toads! ” he sighed to himself in a voice guttural ^ith secret disappointment.

He had heard a board creak overhead, and then voices—yes, he had, sure as his name was Jacob Handsford. And he came downstairs with his shoes in his hand so soon as ever he could draw on his breeches and hose, so he did. And yet that cunning, fox-headed thing of a maid had outwitted him after all.

Jacob muttered to himself that he hated anything sly—he always had.

Then he climbed carefully over the wall, picked half a handful of sharp grit from the gutter cut on the hillside by winter rains, and pitched it a bit at a time against Ursula’s window-pane.

But Jacob reckoned without his host. Half-a-dozen times had he rattled against the glass, yet not so much as a comer of the blind quivered in response. Ursula Handsford was as sharp as her father any day of the week.

So Jacob stood there and scratched his grizzled crown in doubt.

There was no being upsides with that maid who, like enough, might be grinning at him now out of some unsuspected peephole or the other. The mere thought of it made him more angry with Ursula than if he had caught her in the act. Then he would have had something to go upon; but now he made but a poor figure indeed, with his shirt sleeves unbuttoned, his breeches untied, with the strings hanging loose about the knee.

A ferret-faced, irritable little man, standing not more than five foot three in his shoes, he fairly stamped with rage. His grey, pointed beard wagged and jerked up and down like the tail of a wash-dish, as he muttered threats and maledictions against this daughter whose condemnation was the deeper because she was not found out. “ A lazy slug-a-bed—ought to have been up and about afore this.” He almost persuaded himself that his only errand into the road had been to give her a call.

“ Urs’la! Urs’la! ” he shouted, for if he could pass it off like that he should not look such a fool.

The maid might be dead in her bed for all the sign she made.

That was always the way with her, a sulky huzzy who would hold her tongue by the hour if anything fell out so that she wasn’t best pleased.

“ Urs’la!"

In the impatience of his rage, he stepped back one pace and cast the pebbles still remaining in his hand with all his might against the window. Some of the little diamond panes, shattered to pieces, fell tinkling to the ground.

Nobody answered even that.

Then a misgiving fell upon Jacob Handsford, and, for a moment, his anger gave way to fear. What if Ursula, as she threatened nearly every day of her life, had gone and left him? The thought filled him with alarm. He could hear already the talk of all the neighbours, and the gossip that he had begrudged his own daughter every half-penny and driven her away. And what could he do without her? There is no labour on earth so cheap as the hands of your own kin who work for their clothes and keep. Ha! to have a strange woman about the house was like paying money out of pocket to get robbed. He had always hated to think that some day Ursula might marry ; and now, like enough, she had run off with William White.

The dread of this disturbed him so much that he turned quickly and hurried up the road to go indoors. To a sharp eye like his own, her empty room would tell a tale, sure enough. But as he came to the wall’s end, and opened the gate between the two yews trimmed into sugar cones with peacocks at the top, there he met Ursula, full butt, as they say, coming away from the barn’s door.

He knew she had fooled him—he could see it in her face. There was a bit of a twist by the comer of her mouth in the shape of a jeer, and a droop of the eyelid that only half concealed a secret satisfaction.

She must have gone out before he came downstairs. To meet that worthless fellow going back to sea. He glanced again at the barn, half expecting to see William White appear in the open doorway. Yet how could she have gone out first? He had unlocked the door for himself from the inside. Unless, mayhap, she stood ’pon top o’ the leads, and climbed out of the milk-house window, for fear he should come down and find the bolt drawn.

It was in the nature of this miserly little gnome to breed suspicions as a barren ground grows weeds. He had the wit, too, to shape them out of his own cunning; and then he laid them at the door of other folk. But he was not going to let out what he thought. He would cast his eye around the house and note whether anything were left amiss.

The girl was coming straight towards him.

She was so tall and well-grown, so free in gait and graceful in movement, that nobody would have taken her to be the daughter of this pigmy fellow with the little three-cornered face. Besides, she bore an open countenance. Whatever of guile it displayed was but a shadow from without, and not the malice of a mean heart within. As God made her, she was as frank and open as he was pinched. Yet Jacob Handsford had already done something to mar the meaning of Nature in this maid.

The morning sun shone upon her bright hair, and glistened, ruddy-gold, through the loose locks which fell in disorder over a forehead that sloped and narrowed somewhat above her broad cheek-bones. Her blue eyes were large and bright, and so were her ripe, pleasure-loving lips. She, like the widow White, wore a large, white apron from the waist, but above, a laced bodice and a kerchief, leaving her neck uncovered. Her round arms were bare below the elbows, and in one hand she carried a mob-cap with a broad brim to hang down behind, not unlike the curtain of a sun-bonnet.

Yes, Ursula Handsford was a woman bom to live; just as her father was one to whom neither good victuals and drink, nor any of the higher joys of life could do any good.

“ You be about in good time,” he sneered, in his thin, piping voice. “ ’Tis wonderful to see ’ee down wi’out calling—sure!"

“ I heard a sound below,” she answered sharply. “ I looked for ’ee to be beating ’pon the stair. I thought sure the end o’ the world were a-come to hear ’ee creep out so quiet as a snail.”

She was more than a match for him when it came to words, and she was not afraid. In those days, before bells, it was his way to arouse his household by hammering on the hollow staircase with a hazel stick kept handy for the purpose. He was wont, like this, to make noise enough, as the saying is, to lift the thatch. And never in his life, until this moment, since she was old enough to work, had he gone out of doors until Ursula gave signs that she was awake.

For a moment he was taken aback.

“ Get on down then an’ fetch in the beasts,” he growled, “since you be so sprack.”

Without a word, the girl drew an ashen stick from the faggot pile in the corner, and went as she was bid.

She was early, and there was plenty of time; so she strolled leisurely across the home-field, through the leaze, and into the mead, leaving a wet track in the long, dewy grass where her feet had trod.

She thrust back the gate, made it fast with a stone, and stood and called:—

“ Hobe—hobe—hobe—hobe ”

The morning was alive, and she was young and fresh. Her voice rang musical across the valley, at one with the lark above her head, and the low whistle of the blackbird in the wild crab tree.

The lazy cattle turned and stared. Some, longing for the ease that milking gives to overflowing udders, began to draw slowly towards her. Yet she must needs traipse across the ground at last to hurry up the laggards. She took her time about it. As for her father, let him wait. If he had not that to grumble about, there would be something else, sure enough. She had given over paying much heed to him.

So William White was gone to sea again, mate in a privateer, and lucky, so he said, to get the berth. That thought filled her mind, and shat out all the rest. It made her heart quite sorrowful like. Yet with luck, and his double share, who could tell? He might be home in no time, pockets full, and ready to marry her out of hand. That hope was stronger in her heart than any fears of danger to him from shot or storm. Let him only get luck, and take her out of these everlasting skinflint ways and “ nag —nag—nag ” from morn to night. She would love him then, if only for doing that, and be a true wife to him all his life.

But he was gone, and what to do was more than she could tell.

For months she had been looking for him all hours of the day, and went to meet him, if only for a minute, just in the dimmet, every night—but now, she must go on as best she could, with no man to walk out with, nor any soul to wag her tongue to, from week’s end to week’s end. Ursula was not a maid just sweetheart high with a head full of fancies, but three-and-twenty and woman grown. She felt gloomy and sad.

Her father by this time was in his smock, a one-legged stool in his hand; he stood by the open gate, ready waiting, when she came.

The cattle clustered into the barton. The slanting sunlight shone against their straight red backs, making dark shadows in the hollows behind their pin-bones. They stood stock-still and chewed. Now and again stung into sudden energy, a tail struck off a fly and went on swinging as if by its own weight. Ursula fetched stool and pail, sat down to a sparked cow, leaned her cheek against its white side, and looked away at the grey hills beyond which William White was gone. Not a sound disturbed the stillness, only overhead a ceaseless charm of birds, and below, an underlying lullaby of rushing milk beating against oaken staves. No sweeter picture could there be of restful plenty and contentment.

There were but three milkers, and these made up the household too—Jacob, Ursula, and the little workhouse love-child, christened Hannah Peach, bound apprentice to the said Jacob Handsford until the said Hannah Peach shall come to the age of one-and-twenty years.

Nobody took much count of this slip of a maid of eleven with the anxious face, that looked so much older than it ought to do. And since, in Hannah’s experience, notice had always taken the form of finding fault, this was her dearest wish, and the keystone of all her prematurely acquired wisdom.

“ Ah! let I go ’long quiet like, an’ nobody won’t take no count o’!” So she kept a still tongue in her head, though her eyes were quick and sharp as needles. And she held her mouth open for every breath that Jacob or Ursula might utter. It was a little square, pursed-up mouth, with lips like the bell of a foxglove waiting for the humming of a bumble-bee.

The presence of Hannah was nothing to tie up the clapper of Jacob Handsford.

Suddenly he began like a little “ting-tang” bell.

“So William White is off to sea again. Ha! I thought he wouldn’ be here very long, for all he were to bide at home for the rest of his days. Ha! Easy got, soon gone. Ho! Ho! Nothing left to show but the cut across the cheek-bone o’ un. Ah! and the rest o’ ’em won’t have so much as that come this time twelvemonth. They’ll never take up the land. Not they. Somebody wi’ more thought o’ to-morrow can get hold o’ that now.”

He laughed a little double-meaning chuckle, not loud, but with a lot in it How it sneered at the Whites, and gloried in Jacob Handsford who had more thought for the morrow than any other man he knew.

The girl flushed crimson, but firmly set her lips and did not speak. She turned her head, buried her forehead in the hollow behind the cow’s ribs, and hid her face. There was none of her to be seen but the nape of her broad neck where it rounded into her shapely shoulders beneath the curtain of her cap.

He went on again.

Aye, there were neighbour William White what’s dead an’ gone. Oh, he were such a good sort—sure; such a wonderful good sort. ’Twere ‘ Come in,’ ‘ Sit down,’ ‘ Have another glass ’. There, you see, he had such a good heart then. Oh, a terr’ble good heart. But now he's under the sod, and nothing but a fool. For that’s all they that did drink wi’ un so merry can say o’ un to-day. Foolish man! Let the money slip like water through the fingers o’ un. For ’twere every feast and revel then. Up to Blackford, over to Carey, down to Camel So now ’tis all they can do to get bread. Hal They that do enjoy themselves so well, go where they will, an’ have all they do want—they don’t leave much work for executors. He! he! he! Not much work for executors. No, no.”

The girl could bear it no longer. His saving, penny-wise wisdom aroused her anger more than his jeers, for as he talked he lived, and had never so much as a farthing to spare for her to go abroad to junketting or fair. She must slave for nothing from mom to night. As to that, she was no better off than Hannah Peach, except that what he saved by good right should come to her some day.

But the thing that made her maddest of all was the little “ Ha! ” and the “ He! ” and the “ Ho! ” thrown in to point his speech. These came straight out of his heart. They stuck into her like thorns. And he was worse to-day, because he had broken his own window, and there was money gone to no good end.

She had just milked out her cow. There was no need for it as yet, but, before sitting down to another, she strode across and poured the child’s milk in with her own. She rested the pail against her knee, lifted it to her head, then, steadying it with her upraised arms, she slowly rose to her full height and marched away between the patient beasts out of sight behind the buildings.

At the back of the house, facing towards the north, where the thatch came down quite low, lay a small court, walled in, and paved with great flagstones. It drained from both sides into the middle, where there was a gutter and a sink with a grating of iron.

She crossed the yard, stooped to pass under the door, and went into the low-roofed milkhouse.

How cool and fresh it was there, on the shady side of the house, where the sun never shone! All round were the flat leads, and, in the middle, the great oaken cheese tub. Into this she poured the sweet-smelling milk. Lawk! 'twas but a drop, sure enough, and scarcely covered the bottom of the tub. She laughed herself to see it. She would have been ashamed if anybody else could see. Then her face flushed again; and then grew hard. Let him say about three words more, and he should milk his cows for himself.

With this muttered threat upon her lips, at once she went back to the barton.

Hannah, awkward under the weight of pail and stool, was waddling to another cow.

“ Have ’ee milked her dry? Eh? Milk her dry. Be sure you do milk her dry. Ha! What you don’t take to-day she’ll never gi’e down to-morrow. So ’tes. If you don’t catch when chance do fall, ’tes slipped through your fingers for ever. And what you can catch—kip. He! he! Kip.”

Still the everlasting cry, “ Get, get! Keep, keep! ” Nothing but harping upon this one thought from morn to night. She went to the other end of the barton, as far away as she could.

Her return led him back to the old story, and he took up the broken thread.

“Ah! an’ that’s not all, nother,” he went on, raising his voice for fear she should be out of hearing. “ Let alone money out o’ pocket an’ time a-lost, where you do go you mus’ ax ’em back. If you don’t, they’ll come quick enough—ha! ha!—like the locusts o’ Scripture, an’ eat 'ee out o’ house an’ home. Now, up the hill, to-morrow, Bratton revel, there’ll be a score or more, I’ll warrant it, ’ll drop in, unlooked-for like—and she, poor foolish woman, make ’em welcome, though, for the life o’ her, she don’t know which way to turn. He! he! But that’s the way of the world.”

His words touched the girl upon a sore point. His sneering at the Whites, and at William in particular, she had schooled herself to bear in silence; but this stinginess in the house, both to neighbours and kin alike, was a never-ceasing disgrace. She was fit to hide her head with shame at the mere thought of it.

“An’ what’s that to you?” she burst out, beside herself with anger. “ If all creation should come to Bratton, there’s none o’ ’em do come here. Why, there’s never a Kirsten soul have a-crossed the drashel this year or last, ’ithout ’tis to dealy, an’ then if you do han’ ’em a cup of cider, you do count every time they do glutchy. Why, you be so stingy, you be, you do begrudge the victuals to your own belly—you do.”

As she went on her rage had grown in intensity, until at last she seemed to spit the words at him from between her clenched teeth.

The little workhouse maid looked all ways, as the saying is. To her, Jacob Handsford was “maister,” and that any one, even Miss Urs’la, should answer him was beyond belief. It was outside all the true nature of things. She felt a misgiving at the heart, just as when it thundered, or she met old Molly the witch hobbling down the lane.

“ Ha! ” cried Jacob, loader still and more shrill. “ ’Tis plain to see what company you do kip, by the words you do let fall. But you shall never ha’ a varden o’ my money— not if you do marry wi’out consent. Not a brass varden. For I’ll lef it away by wilL Ah! so I will. Iss, I will.”

He got up and walked towards her, pushing his way between the cattle with the flat seat of his little one-legged stool.

Stung to the quick by his talk about the will, she sprang to her feet. The cow was but half-milked out.

“ You can do the work yourself,” she cried, turning round full-face. She was taller and broader and straighter than he. She had more nerve, too, for his eyes glanced away when she looked at him. “ Or hire somebody else, if you can find anybeddy fool enough to bide an’ put up wi’ your ways. I tell ’ee what ’tis, father, you can do what you like wi’ your money. I don’t care. But gi’e me what’s my own. Gi’e me the two hunderd poun’ that girt - uncle Jeremy Handsford, my own god-vather, left me by will. Gi’e me my own money that you’ve a-put out to use, and the interest that you’ve a-saved back these years—an’ I’ll go. ’Tis mine by law. I can have it by law. An’ I’ll leave ’ee—an’ willing, ay, glad o’ my heart to do it—from this day forth. So there! ”

This threat of going away quieted him as nothing else on earth could do. The money was hers, sure enough, and, with the Whites at her back to edge her on, he might put off from day to day, but, sooner or later, he must come to an account. And all the gadabout, money-spending neighbours would take Ursula’s part. He knew that for certain sure.

“Very well,” he answered, but, though he tried to be careless and hold his own, his voice quavered. “ Just as you be a-minded. But, if you ben’t a-gwaine to milky—he! he!—’tis to be hoped your ladyship won’t be too proud to carr’ in a pailful as you do pass.”

At once she took him at his word. But her hands were shaking with excitement, and, as she poured in Hannah’s milk, she spilt a little over the brim of the pail.

The sight of waste, though it were but a teaspoonful, was to Jacob Handsford like a red rag to a mad bull. He could not see it and be still.

“ Little odds, sim-so, whether you do bide or go. ’Tis more loss ’an gain wi’ ’ee, look so,” he snarled.

Ursula gave neither word nor sign. She filled the pail full up this time, raised it upon her head, and went away as before. But in the little paved courtyard she stopped. For a moment she stood erect and motionless, like an image carved in wood or stone. All the little meannesses for which she suffered shame, the ever-pricking sense of injustice because her money was withheld, the constant taunts and sneers at William and the Whites, came crowding pell-mell into her memory and drove her half out of her mind. And William was gone to sea. William had gone and left her to months, perhaps to years, of this. She ground her teeth with rage. In the first heat of a burning fury kindled by a sense of wrong, and ablaze with outraged pride, she took three strides forward, and emptied the whole pailful of fresh, sweet-smelling milk into the sink.

“There, then,” she muttered to herself, with an evil toss of the head.

Then she felt glad at what she had done— glad and easier at heart for having given vent to her spite.

It was a protest against skinflint, cheeseparing miserliness, such as no words at her command could have given tongue to. It did not matter in the least that her father would not know. That made no difference to her. She had got the better of him, and was making him pay unbeknown for his “ Ha’s! ” and his “ Ho’s! ” and his “ He’s! ” She laughed aloud at the thought of how he would rave if he knew.

“ Ursie!”

She started. A voice close at her back was calling her by name. A blush of shame mounted to her cheek. She could feel it spread over her face and tingle upon her uncovered neck as she turned sharply round.

The young Jack White was looking over the wall. Only his head and just the open work below the collar of his smock came above the flat coping stones. He was staring, wonderstruck—dumfoundered, as the country people say. And then, as open-mouthed he took in both her anger and her confusion, he chuckled with amusement and a glimmer of merriment twinkled in his eyes.

She took note of it at once.

“ Then all the parish’ll know it, and grin,” she thought. And that brought her to herself and steadied her.

Her cap had fallen upon the stones when she lifted the pail from her head, and it still lay at her feet Certainly she was a woman of striking character and beauty as she stood there in her bare-headed excitement. But the fierceness had already melted out of her eyes, and to cover her confusion she gave a short, uneasy laugh. Then she looked upon the ground. To gain a moment, she stooped down to pick up the cap.

“Don’t ’ee breathe a word to any soul. Don’t ’ee now, Jack,” she beseeched, in a low, coaxing voice. “ I do trust ’ee for that.”

“ Not I,” he promised, as ready as a bee.

“ I don’t mind you, yourself, Jack—not one bit,” she went on, speaking kindly still, for she saw in a twinkling that she could get round Jack.

Yet, all of a sudden, she recalled her wrongs and blazed up again.

“There, ’tis more than I can do to bear myself. So 'tis. I wish the little toad were dead an’ in his grave, I do,” she cried in such a loud voice that it was a wonder if Jacob did not hear.

And then again she talked, quite honey-sweet. “ But I’ll tell ’ee more about it, Jack, quiet in your own ear, like, to-morrow if we should chance to meet.”

“ I do want a word wi’ ’ee, Ursie. Where will ’ee be? ” he asked, with some eagerness.

“ I'll go to Bratton revel. I will, if I do die for it. I won’t be penned np no longer —and I’ll go—come what may,” she burst out in a fury of resentment, and with a spirit at last hardened to revolt. But then again she bethought herself of coaxing Jack. “ An’ you’ll look out for me there? An’ you’ll come and have a talk wi’ me, eh, Jack? ”

“To be sure I will—an’ tell ’ee about William, too,” he promised gladly.

“ Then good-bye. Don’t ’ee bide now, there’s a good chap, for fear he should hap to pop in an’ catch sight o’ ’ee.” With her thumb she pointed over her shoulder towards the barton.

“ Then good-bye, Ursie.”

“ Good-bye, Jack.”

Yet he lingered. “I say, Ursie, come straight up to house to-morrow. Do ’ee now.”

“An’ so I will, Jack,” readily promised the girl.

She hesitated a moment, then picked up her pail and sullenly went back to the milking.

Her father said no more. He merely glanced at her with a sly satisfaction as she strode by. Her threats had given him food for thought. He could not do without her, that was the long and short of it; and it would be like losing his heart’s blood to give up her money. It was a relief to him, and he felt only too glad to see her come back.

She sat down once more to a cow, and they all worked in silence until the herd was dry.

And all the while, above and around the village of Bratton, with its sadness of widowhood and parting, was spreading a flood of golden sunshine; and smiling alike upon meanness, misfortune, bickering and strife— as though to say that life might be an idyll if men could only learn—was growing over vale and hill and dusty road the sweetest, gladdest summer day that ever shone upon the earth.

CHAPTER III.

BRATTON REVEL.

Now, though Jacob Handsford had not enough goodness in the heart of him, as folk were all agreed, to grease a gimlet, but screwed his rasping way through life, setting the teeth of everybody on edge, and driving all pleasure and peace of mind out of the house, there were ale and cakes enough in Bratton for all that.

Ursula thought so, as she looked at herself in the three-cornered fragment of broken mirror, set up between three stub-nails, at the height handiest for seeing her face in, against the white-washed side of her window wall. And, come what may, she was determined to sip and to munch like the rest of the world. For sure, if you don’t get about and enjoy yourself whilst you be young, ’tis too late to think of it when you’ve a-got to hobble upon crutches. All I the best played fiddle upon earth can’t spracken a body up to dance with one foot in the grave. And as for being cooped up at home, Ursula would stand it no longer, let the old man get so crabbed as he liked. Why, what good to live like that? She daren't so much as chirpy when she did sit to the cow; for as to a stave of a song he counted it no better than waste of breath.

Reflections such as these excited Ursula. Her mind was made up and her eyes were brighter than ever.

Not a word about the revel had she spoken all the day. But she had promised young Jack to be there, and go she meant to, whether her father would or no. If she could but manage to outwit him and get away without any words, that was all she cared about. There was no good in kicking up so much fuss. And he might stamp and rave as much as he liked when she came back. She would have been and enjoyed herself, so that could make no difference to her then.

She cast an eager glance out of the window.

The whole village lay in full view before her. For, through the winding of the way, the pointing-end of Jacob Handsford’s house, though it lay against the highway, looked out towards the hill.

On a crown of the steep, high above the road, stood the little church and graveyard. Just below, from the doorway of the “ Lamb and Lark,” a village ale-house long ago forgotten—ay, for up five-and-twenty yards or more—the wayside was lined with standings, for all the world like a fair. Such a sight of people never in all her bom days had Ursula clapped eyes on. Such a crunching of ginger-bread and such buying of ribbons and cracking of nuts for certain never was. The maid took it all in quick enough, for though the crowd was too thick for her to tell Dick from Harry or Tom from Dick, and too far out of hearing for anything but a mere hum to reach her through the unmended window-panes, Ursula was already there in mind, busy talking and laughing with the best. In the field with the footpath to Winterhays, on the shady side of two broad-spreading oaks, the folk were dancing. Two rows of couples, jigging it finely, and the crowder’s fiddle-stick working up and down like mad.

Ursula loved dancing dearly.

She gave another look in the glass and ran downstairs.

She had put on her white frock and bodice, and tied up her hair with a knot of blue ribbons brought her last May by William from Carey fair. Her neck and throat and her arms below the elbows were bare.

Little Hannah Peach, with a cullender in the hand of her, stared in open-mouthed admiration, sure enough, as she came out of the dark passage into the kitchen on her way to the door.

“ La! Miss Urs’la! ” gasped the child.

“Where’s father?” asked Ursula, in a low, quick whisper.

“ I seed un by now, Miss Urs’la, so I did, right out along by Dree-hounds Waste.”

The maid was sharp as a needle. She had picked up the names of all the fields and places already, though she had only been there a few weeks. She understood too; for she looked quite knowing, and spoke with eager gladness to think, for Miss Urs’la’s sake, that the master was out of the way.

At the answer, so readily given, the face of Ursula Handsford grew hard, and a flush of shame reddened her cheek.

She knew her father so well. She could read the secret thought that prompted almost every step he took. From very stinginess he had crept out, thinking that Mends or visitors might chance on feast-day to drop in, and then, if only for the look of the thing, he must put his best upon the board. Even the relief of finding she might get away unbeknown and without words could not overcome her indignation at such meanness.

Out of the depths of her humiliation and anger she was like to laugh aloud at so much care so clearly uncalled for. Nobody wanted to come there—oh dear no! Nobody upon earth was such a fool, no fear! Why, the very cider that they drank was too sour to sell. Not once in a blue moon did any footstep out of friendship cross the threshold. She could almost wish her father back that minute to see her start. There would be a grim pleasure in hearing him rave. She would go on her way all the same, and never answer a word—just to make him the more spiteful.

Then her eye fell again upon Hannah Peach, still gazing in wonder and amazement.

It was not much, this admiration of a pauper child, dazzled for the first time by blue ribbons and a white frock, but it was sincere. To see it softened Ursula. There was something kind and good-natured always ready in the heart of her, and dearly she loved to be admired and liked, whether by man or maid. At once it brought her thoughts back to the hill, the revel, and the dance,

Then she smiled upon Hannah, who, after all, put her to do what you would, was a wonderful handy, good girl. Ursula’s voice became quite coaxing and sweet.

“ You must put out the bread and cheese, Hannah, just afore dark, the very same as if I were here.”

“ Iss, Miss Urs’la.”

“An’ only draw the little brown cup o’ cider, an’ not quite full. For the maister might not drink it all, an’ then he’d grumble at 'ee, Hannah, ’bout the waste.”

“ Iss, Miss Urs’la.”

“An’ bring it steady so as not to slop a drop ’pon the floor, whatever you do do."

“ No, Miss Urs’la.”

“An’ say, when he do ax ’ee, that Miss Urs’la is gone up to hill to the widow White’s.”

“Iss, Miss Urs’la."

Ursula paused a moment to turn over in her mind whether there might be anything more.

“Very well, then, Hannah,” she said, at last, in a tone of great encouragement; “ mind what you be about; an’ do your very best; an’ watch the geese be home; an’ count the turkeys up to roost; an’ be sure to turn the kay ’pon milkhouse door when you do go out, or the cats ’ull be in. An’ if you do all well, as I verily do believe you will, Hannah, I shall bring ’ee home something. Something for your very own self. Something you’ll like.”

Then, with a mysterious nod, which left a vague assurance of untold munificence, Ursula hastened out of the door.

Intoxicated with a promise leaving so much to the imagination, Hannah followed as far as the porch and watched her mistress up the hill. Never in her life had she possessed anything of her own. Even the milking-pinney, put on with such pride the day she left the workhouse to go out to work, was only hers to wear. It belonged to Jacob Handsford, as he let her know pretty sharp that day she strent it with a nail, right down through, running out to drive back the pigs. Hannah could not take her wondering eyes from the retreating figure of Ursula, as the white bodice and hair of golden-red gleamed in the sunlight above the hedgerow bush. It was a vision of everything on earth that Hannah longed for — everything she had not got. She loved and worshipped with all her heart this young mistress who, of all the world, alone was kind. She stood like one entranced, until the goddess, reaching the outskirts of the revel, mingled and was lost amongst the crowd.

Ursula walked quickly, for one desire above all others was uppermost in her mind —to fall in with young Jack White and have a talk as they had agreed.

She had been forced to wait until after milking before she could go up to put on her frock. She was late. Like enough, he would be out about by now. A tumbler, glittering in spangles, had spread a cloth upon the road and was tying himself into knots. A group of giggling maidens standing by shouted to Ursie Handsford to come and see. One and another called her by name, and asked in joke whether she had lost anything and where she was running so fast. But, nodding and laughing all round, Ursula pushed her way through the throng, scarcely stopping, as some folk said, to “so much as turn the head o’ her”. And so, by the footpath across the field, she came to Winterhays.

The front door, studded with great nails, stood hospitably open. A hubbub of laughter and voices, high in merriment and talking all together, came from within. For the sake of good manners, she lifted the iron latchring and rapped upon the door. But, la! if she had knocked till doomsday, nobody would have given heed; and so she walked straight in without waiting for any one to come. She was sure of a welcome. Not merely because the Whites were hearty people and neighbourly, to whom you could never come amiss, but she had walked with William now for more than a twelvemonth and was almost like one of the household.

The kitchen was a crowd of company. It was open house, sure enough. Folk came in and went out, just as it pleased their fancies. Visitors had become so plentiful that all the chairs, upstairs and down, could not provide a perch for everybody at once. So the young must stand, to be sure, and let women-folk and the aged quat down to rest their huckles. Why, the maidens were even sitting in one another’s laps. And as for a seat at the board to get a bit and a sup, what could be merrier than for the guests to watch to catch places as one after another did jump up?

All this Ursula gathered at a glance, as soon as she got inside the door.

In those days, the village revel was the feast of all the year, and relatives flocked to it from far and near. To-day, the widow White, bustling about in her best Sunday weeds, beneath a face of smiles carried a world of care. But her quick eye noted with satisfaction that nobody of consequence was missing. All the Puckeridges, the Moggs, and the Tutchinses of any account were there—to say nothing of Malachi Webb, who always pushed himself and his knock-knees everywhere, though only a second cousin by marriage and nothing by blood. Aunt Rebecca Eliza Mogg had come with all her five. And her sister Ann, bent on a holiday, had brought the baby in arms.

This was as it should be, for Rizpah White, that year, had done her best.

The floor of beaten clay was strewed with rushes and sweet-smelling herbs. The hearth was hidden with fresh green boughs and yellow flags brought up from the valley. But the dresser shelves were bare. For every wooden trencher and every bit of ware was on the long oaken bench, with a rump of beef, a spare-rib of pork, a famous ham that had hung twelve months to dry in the chimney—to say nothing of custards, and, in the middle, a great bowl of furmity, half as big as a house. The relatives were ranged upon each side on long stools and ate—oh, how they ate! And, with every mouthful, the widow, bustling around, popped in a word.

“ Come, uncle John Puckeridge, you don’t get on. Now, you ha’n’t a-got what you do like. I do know you ha’n’t. There, cousin Simon Mogg, now do gi’e your uncle John Puckeridge a bit more fat to his lean. Malachi Webb, if you can’t help yourself, you’ll be like to go short, so don’t ’ee bide an’ gapey, whatever you do do.

What! girt-uncle Tutchins, you ha’n’t never a-done! Why, you’ve a-eat nothing! There, I be sorry o’ my life ’tis no better, sure”—

So she went on, her voice rising in confidence above the clatter of the feast, and then sinking into solicitous anxiety lest more might have been thought of or expected.

To understand aright both the height and the humility of this good woman’s pride, you must know that Rizpah White was a Puckeridge born, and brimful of the self-esteem of that ancient, respectable race.

Before she wedded with William White, she had learned for certain, on the indisputable authority of all her kin, that no variety of human kind that ever trod shoe-leather, or ever shall, could be better than a Puckeridge. You see, all the Puckeridges had such sense. If any man, not being a Puckeridge, thought different to any Puckeridge, that man was wrong. Later years, alas! had brought a somewhat broader view of life. Being pinched for money had something to do with it—and the growing up of sons. For now that William and John were men, Bhe saw quite clearly that there might be Whites nearly if not just as good.

And the Whites were not out o’ Winter-hays—not yet.

Of all her doubts and cares, this was the head and chief: to hide her poverty from her own folk, and wear a good face over her troubles. Rizpah could not a-bear that people should go away and talk. And relatives—well, say what you will, relatives do come a-purpose to eye out and gape in wonder over the very leastest little thing. And, of course, everybody ’pon earth—that is to say, everybody within five miles o’ Bratton—had heard hundreds of times that poor William White had not done so wonderful sprightly, nor left his wife and sons anything too well off. Still, for all that, the Puckeridges, the Moggs, and the Tut-chinses, when they trooped in to the funeral, were all proper a-sucked in. There was a plenty o’ victuals, thank God! but no will to be read. And so there was to-day. Had it been the last bit and sup in the cupboard, the widow would have put it out. Better to pinch for weeks than to look poor. And this sort of pride, if it left a bare shelf for to-morrow, kept her from grumbling, too.

She chanced to glance that way just as Ursula came through the doorway.

“Hullo, then, Ursie. An' how’s Ursie Handsford?” she cried, with the welcome ever ready for any who crossed her threshold.

Every head turned at once. Great-uncle Tutchins, at that moment rising from the table, stopped dusting crumbs from the creases of his waistcoat, and burst into a loud guffaw.

“ Haw! haw! Why ’tis never Ursie Handsford, then? ” he roared.

He toddled into the middle of the kitchen floor and looked the maid up and down with his wicked little slit of a red eye, as if to make quite sure.

“An’ eet ’tis,” he went on, turning to the company with an air of conviction. “ Now do ’ee know what I thought? Da lied if I didn’t think ’twere a sunbeam a-coming in so soft, then. I did, sure.”

A merry little round man of threescore years and ten, great-uncle Tutchins, when there were maidens about, was even now a sad wag.

Now, though Jacob Handsford, with his unneighbourly ways, made no friends, he and his were objects of interest to all the country round. The knowledge that he must be saving every day of his life, though it begot dislike, filled every mind with awe. Fireside gossip never wearied of measuring his hoard. There was the farm, the scattered bits of land of his own, and the money in odd corners out to use, nobody knew where—except one or two present who had secretly borrowed a few pounds of which they did not tell. And money, never touched, will breed as fast as rabbits left alone. Why, Jacob Handsford, please God to spare him long life, must die worth thousands. And he had no call to leave so much as a penny-piece away from Ursula. Yet, for all that, he might For he hated William White like poison—everybody knew that.

So every mother’s son around Bratton was aware of a complication growing up in their midst, and went in wonder how things would turn out. Some had offered to bet a guinea that Ursula would marry her fancy, money or none. But some laughed that William White might surely wear the willow if he stayed away too long at sea.

Thus the arrival of the girl aroused such interest that mastication was for the moment suspended, and all the company stared and grinned at great-uncle Tutchins’ foolery. As to Ursula, she looked as pleased as the rest.

Then uncle Puckeridge chimed in in the same strain.

“ Now, I were, uneasy like,” he began, slowly raising his left hand—with a twopronged, buck-handled fork clutched in his fingers—and thoughtftdly feeling with outstretched thumb for the roughness of a growing beard on his shaven jowl; “ I really couldn’ enjoy my victuals for a thought o’ something a-wanting. I said to myself, ‘ What is it, now? ’ And I said, ‘ ’Pon my life, then, I can’t tell, but for certain ’tis a something’. But, there, now ’tis all complete.”

He waved both knife and fork to the peril of his neighbours, as he leaned back, as red as a turkey-cock, and chuckled, and choked, to the peril of himself.

Then cousin Simon Mogg had a word to say.

Nobody on earth ever had relative wiser than cousin Simon Mogg. He knew both sides of a penny, for all he looked so daft.

The man must get up early who would get round the blind side of cousin Simon Mogg. For sure, he was not such a fool as he looked, and that, in Bratton, was the loftiest wisdom to which the human mind could ever rise.

A fair man of five-and-forty, with freckles all over his face, and a weak, soft beard like wool, he had a squeaky little voice and looked staid beyond his years. “Now, I’ll warr’nt,” he began, screwing his mouth on one side and speaking only with his lips, “ I’ll warr’nt I do know what Ursie have a-got in mind, then.” He gazed all round with an air of having made a great discovery which, upon a little persuasion, he would be quite ready to impart.

“ Got in mind? ” roared great-uncle Tutchins, pointing a fat finger at Ursula. “ What should a fine, handsome young ooman have in mind, then, but to go a-dancing an’ hop round to the tune o' thik viddle? Eh? Come on then! Upzides! ”

Great-uncle Tutchins certainly was a wonder for his years, for with the word he raised his arms, stuck out his elbows, bent his knees and leapt, with all the airy lightness and alacrity of a hop-frog, which for the moment he very much resembled.

“ In an’ out ”—to and fro he danced before Ursula, first on one toe, then on the other, with such amazing quickness that it was impossible positively to affirm that he touched the ground at all.

“ Down the middle ”—he caught her by the hand and, holding it above his head, they jigged across the rush-covered floor and plump up against the blue back of Malachi Webb.

“ Ay, Ursie have a-got no lead ’pon the heels o’ her, I’ll go bail,” cried uncle Puckeridge beside himself with admiration.

“Not she. She’s so sprack as a kitten,” panted great-uncle Tutchins, wiping the perspiration from his brow.

“ Ay, or a young lambkin when the sun do smile down warm upon the back o’ un,” and in illustration of his own simile, uncle Puckeridge, whose face was always circular, assumed a smile of such luminosity and breadth as might well strike envy into the heart of the most brilliant orb in heaven.

“ But, Ursie, you be late. You be late, I tell ’ee,” said great-uncle Tutchins suddenly becoming grave.

Whether he admonished or played the fool, everybody laughed at great-uncle Tutchins.

He had such a way, with never so much as a smile upon the face of him, that folk were bound to laugh when there was really nothing to laugh at. And, at Bratton revel, they were all so jolly, with their little differences forgotten or made up, and every morsel-bit of envy and ill-will thrown to the winds. So that, what with the shower of compliments that pattered down as brisk as April rain, Ursula was quite pleased and flattered. She showed it too. For she was all smiles, and her eyes as bright as morning. It was such a change after the grinding life at home, where good-humour was as scarce as if it cost ready money.

Then Malachi Webb must needs put in his spoke.

“ Ah! but Ursie were fo’ced to milkey. She were proud as punch, I’ll go bail, when she carr’ed in thik last pail. ’Tis to be hoped, sure enough, she didden toss her head too high an’ drow down pail an’ all— there—right ’pon the stones by the milk-house door.”

The picture of such mishap was clear to all. The mirth, since everybody was so happy, became boisterous—out of all reason with the cause, as it were.

Were they poking fun at her?

A suspicion flashed across the girl’s mind that the young Jack White might have whispered a word of what he saw. Her countenance fell. The smiles faded from her cheek. Her only reply was a glance of sudden anger fit to curdle the blood of Malachi Webb.

“ Heart alive! Now you’ve affronted the maid. I wouldn’t be in your shoes, Malachi Webb, not if you should ax her to dance. Gi’e un a piece o’ yer mind, my dear. Such nothern talk as that.”

Great-uncle Tutchins twinkled with fun and shook all over himself with delight. Bear-baiting, cudgel-playing, cock-fighting were the joys of his life; and to set folk a-sparring was better to him than meat and drink.

But the girl recovered her temper so far at least as it was shown in her face.

“ La! I don’t care a pin about Malachi Webb, sure,” she laughed, with a toss of her head.

“ Then run out, there’s a dear, and enjoy yourself ”

“Tis better out o’ doors than in, any day o’ the week,” cried she, turning towards the door. Then, without waiting for more words, she acted upon the old man's advice and went out.

The home-field was by this time thronged with people, for folk had left the standings in the road to come in and join in the dancing or watch the sports. There was to be cudgel-playing on a stage, and wrestling, racing in sacks, and grinning through a horse-collar for a prize. But Ursula was ill at ease. She went wandering from one delight to another, but took no joy in any of them. She was certain Jack White had told. She knew well enough how easily things leak out. Just a whisper in the ear, with a promise to let it go no further, and then, by next day, it had run like wildfire. Above everything, Ursula hated to be talked about. Her father's ways had made her very sore, and already she pictured the neighbours smiling behind her back whenever she might chance to pass down street. But where was Jack White? Not a sign of him anywhere could she see. That made her madder still. It was he who said “Come up to house!" She never offered it.

She made her way out of the thickest of the crowd and along the path into the road.

Now, when everything was quiet with the pedlars and at the tradesmen’s stalls, was the time to look around and choose the promised fairing to carry home to Hannah. Ursula was kind at heart. She would pick out something downright pretty now to please her. Poor little maid!

Just above the village ale-house was a narrow strip of garden running alongside the road, with a bower at one end, furnished with a bench and stools. Scarcely had Ursula passed this summer-house when, suddenly, a sound of voices, high in dispute and talking all together, fell upon her ears.

“’Tis a lie,” cried one; “I tell ’ee ’tis a lie.”

And with the same, young Jack stepped out into the open, full in view above the hedgerow.

He had thrown aside his smock for the holiday and was in his best—a broad-tailed coat that had been his father’s, of dark brown West of England cloth, with cuffs six inches wide. For Jack was a bit of a buck in his way, as many of the Whites had been before. But his face was flushed. His teeth clenched. In his fist he still held four cards. With an oath he dashed them down upon the ground.

Ho! ho! So Master Johnny had been a-gaming, then—and lost. A smile just flickered around Ursula’s red lips. She had him, tit for tat. If this were known and should chance to come to the ear of the constable, Master Jacky wouldn’t like that.

Their eyes met. She gave him a mischievous nod, and was quick to mark his annoyance at being found out But he put on the best front he could, stepped back into the bower for his hat, gave a whistle, and, a minute later, was by her side in the road. Close at his heels, but hidden until now by the garden hedge, followed a brindled bull-dog, very heavy in the body and short in the leg.

“ Don’t ’ee ever say a word, Ursie,” he begged of her at once. “ But, there, I do know you won’t.”

“ Then why have you a-let out about me? ”

“I ha’n’t.”

She held up an accusing finger. “You told Malachi Webb.”

“Never a sound, Ursie,” he declared,

“ to any Kirsten soul.”

“ Sure? ”

“ So true as the light.”

“ Sure an’ sure an’ double-door? ”

She looked straight at him. She was so deep in earnest that the meaningless words took on the solemn nature of an oath.

“ Ton my life,” he swore.

She could see that he was speaking the truth. Her misgivings set at rest, she was now all eagerness to get back to the field. But she was older than he, and so, as they went, she talked to him, as it were, for his good.

“ What do you want to go a-carding for then, Jack? You’ve a-got no loose money to lose. An’ poor William forced to go to sea. ’Tis too bad, Jack. So ’tis.”

He looked quite crestfallen, and had not a word to say.

She found delight in scolding since he took it so well, and, under the circumstances, there was so much sense in it, too.

“ An’ then you mus’ needs be running about wherever there’s a bull or a bear to be baited. I can’t think how you can like to do it. I be ashamed o’ ’ee, Jack—I be. An’ spend you must, for certain, wherever you do go. La! Jack. How you can keep such an ugly thing of a dog for no purpose but to-”

This was too much for young Jack.

“ I tell ’ee what ’tis, Ursie,” he cut her off short, “he’s the handsomest thing in all Somerset but one—so there. Come on an’ see un. He’ll go straight, an’ never let go so long as teeth can hold, an’ never make a sound—’ood ’ee, Holdvast? ” He stooped to stroke the beast. “No, not if you did tear un limb from limb. Come on. ’Tis a’most time now.”

“I do hate to watch it,” cried the girl. But, for all that, she quickened her pace and they went along together as merry as crickets.

The people, by this time, had already begun to make their way to a small coombe in the hillside, and to take places, some sitting, some standing around. In the middle was a patch of level grass, towards which cousin Simon Mogg and Malachi Webb, in white shirts, were leading a large, red bull that pulled and dragged and snorted as he went. But, willy-nilly, they got him along, and, before Jack and Ursula were there, had made him fast to a ring in an oaken stake set deep and firm in the ground.

It was a sight to terrify a faint heart— this huge beast, as he snorted and bellowed with rage at seeing so many folk, and well knowing what was to come. Sometimes he made a rush, maybe six or eight yards, his tether’s length, and stamped, and then with lowered head tried to tear up the turf and toss it in the air. But the tips of his horns had been cut off lest he should gore the dogs. Then all the faces round the coombe grew eager with excitement longing for the sport to begin.

As they drew quite near, Ursula dropped a step behind. But, ashamed to show fear, there, in the face of the crowd, she kept on, although Jack pushed forward to the very front, as he needs must to set his dog. So the girl was standing very close indeed.

It was true she hated it. The noise and fierceness of the bull, although she knew he was tied up, made her tremble in spite of herself. The thud of his hoof upon the ground brought her heart into her mouth. For Ursula had imagination to raise dangers before her mind more than her eyes could see. Besides, she was all for gaiety, and would rather have been dancing—of course she would. Yet, being there, although she was wont to turn sick at sight of blood, there was such a fascination in the sport that she could not help looking.

The first to be let go was a bitch belonging to Malachi Webb, and she leapt at the bull fair and square, but broke her hold and fell under his breast. Then he, smarting from the scratch of her teeth, and in the first frenzy of his rage, trampled upon her with all his might. It made Ursula hold her breath to see how he turned the white of his wicked eye. The bitch, mangled, and dragging a broken leg, crept out behind, and with a yelp or two crawled out of reach. Then everybody of Bratton, always ready to laugh at Malachi, set up a jeer at his cur.

Next came the turn of Jack White.

The dog sprang a good six feet or more and seized the bull by the nose. Truly the boasts of his owner were not vain. Holdfast was as good as his name. Neither shaking nor lifting, nor crushing against the ground could make him let go. For he was cunning, too, and writhed out of the way when the bull bored down with his head. So that soon the people clapped; then they cheered; and, at last, there was an uproar that might have been heard as far as Staverdale.

Then a thing happened that was the talk of Bratton for many a year.

Out of breath and out of heart, the bull stood still. Except for the heaving chest and quivering flank, it was like a carven, painted image set up for show. And so they stood, until, after a minute or two, out of very quietness, the dog grew tired and dropped off.

In an instant the bull had got him on his horns and tossed him—ay, the height of a good-sized hayrick, and right to the other side of the level grass.

The dog was high in the air, head downwards, with his legs outstretched against the sky, and like enough to break his back with such a fall.

Then, quick as thought, young Jack rushed in—past the bull—across the green —and just in time to catch the falling “ Holdvast ” in his arms. And need he had to be.quick indeed; for the bull, charging from one end to the other, twice his tether's length, followed close at his heels.

There was a sound very like the crack of a whip, but loud as a gun.

With the weight of his rush, the collar that held the bull had snapped away from the rope, and the mad beast was free.

To Ursula all this was but a glance; and then, the folk were running all ways at once—women screaming—crying to their children—and men, as they got far away and out of danger, shouting to those who were near to “Stop him,” as if that were easy to be done.

Ursula ran and screamed like the rest, only, being so close, she kept turning her head to look over her shoulder in fear of what was to happen. Thus she saw it all.

The bull, checked as he came upon the rope when it broke, fell forward upon his knees.

Up in an instant, horns down to the ground, tail stiff as a pump-handle, with all his might he galloped at Jack White. And would have had him, too, in a trice. But, just in the nick of time, Jack dodged aside. The bull, with his eyes shut, went blundering by. Then turned off short and ran after great-uncle Tutchins, whom elderly nimbleness could never have saved from a better world if it had not been for a bit of real cleverness.

Young Jack caught the bull by the tail, and the life of great-uncle Tutchins was spared.

Round and round they spun as if they were dancing a reel, whilst Malachi Webb’s cur came and barked like a sheep-dog. And Holdfast ran in without a sound, but fell off at once. Then the bull, fairly distraught to find himself tackled in so strange a way, set out straight as a line right down the hill. Hard as he could go, he went (young Jack hanging back as much as he might, but holding fast with both hands), and fell blindly into the gully that parted Jacob Handsford’s wheat from the bottom of the home-field.

So there was an end to the danger, and all the rest was talk. For every tongue began to wag about what might have happened, and young Jack was a hero, to be sure. And great-uncle Tutchins felt truly grateful with all his heart, although overexertion after a heavy meal had brought on a hacking cough, and he was “ terrible much afeared,” as he owned himself, “ that he had run so fast thik night that he mus’ goo broken-winded for the rest of his days ”

The fiddle had struck up again, and many a young couple was footing it briskly in the long shadow to the east of the oak trees by the time Jack White came back to the side of Ursula.

He was warm with exertion, and blushing all over his face, as they say, to find himself so much bepraised.

“ Come on, Ursie! ” he cried, by way of asking her to dance.

“Come on,” she answered, springing to her feet at once.

So they stood up for a reel. On and on, up and down went the fiddle-stick under the chin of the crowder, as if it would never stop. For when a Somerset fiddler’s elbow is well oiled with cider, there is no more end to the music than to the noise of a running brook. And the good folk of Bratton, on revel days, never grew leg-weary or wanted to sit down, but hopped and frisked, in and out, and round and back, and then twined with such good heart that, verily and truly, in all likelihood they would have been hopping and frisking now if, by a merciful Providence, a string hadn’ a-snapped, and brought things to a sudden standstill.

Yet even then the fiddler did not lose his head. Quick as a bird he made the fiddle squeak, squeak, squeak, for all the world like a little pig pinched by the tail.

Then every girl cried “Oh!” as if she thought she was going to be hurt. For, at the sign, every man turned round and kissed his maid as he had good right to do. And if young Jack kissed Ursula, why, she would have thought him a fool if he hadn’t —and sure, he was almost a brother-law, so there could be no great harm in that.

They strolled around under the trees to cool. It was most terrible hot, and Jack took off his coat just as if he had been going to work, and hung it out of the way on one of the lower limbs of the oak. Ursula fanned herself with her “ handkercher ”. But they were ready enough, be sure, before the crowder could get in a new string and screw his fiddle well up in tune.

“ Come on,” said he.

“ Come on, then,” she echoed.

Ursula never enjoyed a dance so much in her life.

But the day was passing by. A gentle twilight came creeping over hill and wood and dale. The golden sunlight faded from the grass, and the last gleam from the western side of the square, red-brick chimneys jutting above the village thatch. Yet it did not become dark. The great full moon had risen behind the homestead of Winterhays straight in the face of the setting sun. So before they had quite drifted into the dumps o’ night everything was shining silver clear in the bright moonlight.

Then many of the quieter folk began to bid “ good-bye,” and think of turning homewards. But Ursula, carried away with the delight of movement and the freedom of unfettered mirth, went on dancing long after the dew lay wet upon the turf. It was such a change from the narrowness and everlasting fault-finding, morning, noon and night, of her niggard life. Just for once, this evening, she had been light and happy as heart could wish. So the minutes passed uncounted, whilst time sped on and it grew late.

At last most of the people had gone, and many of those that stayed began to grow quarrelsome in drink. For where there are sports, there is certain to be some bother or the other. All the world over it is just the same — the few that win will swagger over their fellows, and they that lose can never sit down satisfied. So the dancers had dwindled down to very few; and on every side were high words and a lot of noise toward the end of Bratton revel.

Then Ursula suddenly recollected the lateness of the hour.

“ I must get on,” she whispered in Jack’s ear. “I ought to ha’ went long agone. I can tell ’ee, the old man’ll be fine an’ angry as ’tis. Walk on down so fur wi’ me, Jack. Do ’ee, now. There be so many about—an’ all so rough.”

They went together by a path across the fields, away from so much trumpery hubbub in the village street. The night was quiet and sweet with all the fragrance of the dew-fed flowers. They talked of everything, with minds as frank and free from guile as the open air upon the hills is free from harm.

Of how William would have luck for certain and come home soon. And Ursula would get her own money into her own hands, if she died for it, so she would— and then marry at once. For what good is it to wait to be rich till all the best o’ life is gone? Not a bit. For the soul of her, Ursula could not see why folk could not go on all happy-like, one with another, without so much worry and scraping, just to think they've a-got more than the rest, and then to put it out to use or lock it away out of sight until they be dead. Fags! there was no sense in that. Not but what Jack must save his ha'pence — that was another thing, but—

So she talked on, with all the deep, unconscious wisdom that sounds like nothing when it falls from simple lips. And young Jack saw the rightship, too, of all she said.

At a stile, hard by the bam, they stopped. Her father hated the Whites, and it would be just as well, if he were waiting, that he should not see young Jack. They stood a minute; then shook hands and parted, with a—

“ Good night, Ursie “ Good-night, Jack.”

And that was all.

She hurried across the barton, with the empty cow-stalls dark upon one side, and through the little garden to the porch. The moonlight fell across the arch and lighted up the stone seat upon the right as bright as day. She lifted the latch and pushed, but the door was firm and would not give an inch. By the rattle she could hear that it was barred.

So he had locked her out!

That he was like to be fine and mad and to use loud words she knew, but she had never thought of this. Day by day, from early morning to dark night, she worked for him like a slave; and now, because for once in her life she had done as others do and taken her hour of pleasure with the rest, he must turn the key upon her. It was only a threat to be sure—as idle as the jeers with which he was so free. But the insult stung her to the quick. To shut her out from house was like saying she had gone to the bad, and there, for all he cared, she might stay. Again she wished to (rod he were dead and in his grave. She said it between her set teeth — and meant it, too. She hated him, so there I and had done so for years. He thought, no doubt, to hear her knock and knock, and at last come down as a favour, and grumble and let her in. She would never knock; not if she stood there all night upon the stones.

But, just at the height of this resolve, her heart failed. A woman’s courage is like a wave which rises sharply into a sudden menace, and just as quickly falls away and sinks. A sound of drunken revellers, singing in snatches as they staggered down the road, made her afraid.

She knocked and stood waiting, but no one answered.

Knuckles were no good against the heavy oaken door, and the ring of the latch, which served as knocker too, was scarcely to be heard beyond the passage. By the path lay a pebble that had fallen out of the edging of the flower-knot. She picked it up and knocked again, loudly, on the head of one of the great, square nails.

Then she laid her ear against the keyhole and listened.

But all was silent. Nothing stirred. There was not so much as a footfall in the house.

“Spiteful little devil,” she hissed, and stood back and threw the stone against the door with all her might. Then her mind was made up. She would run straight away to the Whites that minute, before they were a-bed, and tell how she was treated.

Yet there might be people staying for the night. Great-uncle Tutchins, with his jokes, or that fool, Malachi Webb, gaping and staring to swallow down everything said or done. Better take the barn-door key from its hiding-place in the chink below the thatch, and go in and lie down upon the cess, the heap of unthrashed corn upon one side of the threshing-floor, with a sheaf to make as sweet and clean a pillow as head could wish to lie upon.

Only there were rats—grey old rats—the bam was full of them—

Why, even as she was—in the porch—of a hot midsummer night—

But with so many tramps about, tumblers and showmen and that—bad fellows who were used to creep in anywhere of a night out of the way—

She shuddered at the thought.

She was more helpless to shift for herself than a child. At home she would have to stay until William came back to marry her —whenever that might chance to be. There was nothing for it but to wait until morning and then drudge on again.

A bitter feeling that, only half-suspected, lay at the bottom of her heart, burst out.

Why did not William marry her before he went, if he loved her so much as he said? He had walked with her for more than a twelvemonth. Why did he not take her to church, and home to Winterhays, out of the way of so much bother, half of it for his sake? She could have earned her living like the rest. No fearl And would have stood a true wife till he came bi:ck, even if it had been for years; ay, and worked her fingers to the bone there, where her lot was to be cast. But no, he must go off" and get money first, and leave her here to bear the brunt of it alone.

She threw herself into the innermost corner on the darkest side of the porch and gave way to a tempest of angry sobs and tears.

CHAPTER IV.

HARVEST.

It was harvest. But, in all Bratton, Jacob Handsford only had not yet began to reap.

All around the hillside, above the orchards bright with apples turning red, below the leafy woods, and wedged between the meadows green with aftergrass, were grounds of golden, waving wheat. The cloudless sky had never looked so blue as just behind the standing barley on the ridge, and not a storm that year had come to beat it down. Only a gentle, rippling breeze to help it ripen in the sun.

First into one piece then another the reapers went, and close behind them stooped the women binding sheaves. From early morning until dark, throughout the happy, sunny days, they worked without a drop of rain. So Bratton was in the best of humours, and everything as lucky as you like.

Now here, now there, sometimes two together, burst out the shouts and whooping of the reapers as farm after farm cut its last sheaf and decked it out with flowers.

Well cut! Well bound!

Well shocked! Well saved from ground!

Sometimes a waggon rattled up or down the village street past Jacob Handsford’s house. Upon the top o’ the load was a figure made of the best of the com, trimmed with ribbons of all colours, and crowned 'with poppies, great horse-daisies, and hollyhocks. This was the harvest-queen. With it went everybody, singing fit to burst his throat the song of harvest-home.

We have ploughed, we have sowed,

We have reaped, we have mowed,

We have brought home every load,

Hip! Hip! Hurrah!

Jacob Handsford watched and listened with a bitterness of envy in his heart. The neighbours were all doing so well whilst day by day his own was going to waste. It seemed to him that, only to madden him, they crawled as slow as snails up the hill, and cheered the louder over-right his door. Ha! he said to himself, he knew what they meant—and the thought made him grind his teeth. For that year they had sent him the “mare”! But, though the fools little guessed it, he could tell where it came from, and who was to pay for it, too, in the end. He had overheard every word that was said.

It came from up to Whites’, and this was how it happened.

In those days neighbours agreed together to help each other, and do the work first fit. They make a king of the reapers, whose word was law; and from farm to farm they went in turn, where they were wanted most, and every homestead found a feast. But Jacob, for his stinginess, and because in old times he was never satisfied with what was done, but always fancied himself hurt when men had worked their best, was left out of it that year or forced, however great his need, to wait tijl last. All the world over, where you will, folk will help them first whom they love most; and never a soul could he get to come to him until everybody else had done. So there was good reason why Jacob could not join in the general jollity. He was paying for his meanness a deal more than if he had put money out of pocket to win goodwill.

Beside himself to know what to do, for the twentieth time he walked up to the ground against the gully to look at his wheat. The sparrows that harboured by the thousand in the tall, thick hedgerows were playing most terrible work with it, to be sure. Blue pigeons spread their wings and sailed down upon it from the oak trees in the wood. And more than that, the berries were dead ripe and dry, fit to drop at the first breath of wind. It was enough to break a man’s heart to see the ears so beaten out, and thinner day by day. And there, across to Winterhays, they were cutting the last piece, too.

He heard the fools singing, and looked round.

He saw Ursula standing on one side, laughing and joking with the rest—enjoying herself just as if there was no such thing as waste of money in this world. A trumpery giglet of a maid, that any minute of the day must needs run off; and yet for the life of him, he dared not say too much, for fear she might go and leave him altogether.

He blamed that to the Whites, too. They set her against him, and held with her in her defiance. Ever since she stayed up to Winterhays so late, the night he locked her out of house, she was changed, and cared no more for him than if his words were water. And although nothing came of it at the time, and nothing had been said since, unspoken thoughts kept working in the heart of each like hidden seeds swelling underground and only waiting the right moment to spring forth.

What happened then, Jacob knew no more than the dead.

To bolt the door and go to bed at dark was his habit, for he never would consent to light a candle at night in summer-time. He should follow his everyday course. It pleased him to know that he was doing only as he was wont, and Ursula must take the inevitable consequence. And then twice he heard her knock. And then a third time with a bang fit to split the door. Ha! let her knock again. And let it be a lesson to her. He! he I She had never consulted him about going out, so what need to consider her about coming in? Jacob sat up in bed and listened.

But when Ursula did not knock again he became restless.

What could she be doing? Had she gone back to Whites for the night? Every soul in Bratton would know it to-morrow, and not one but would take the girl’s part. Or had she gone for good, as she, yesterday, threatened? The thought made him more uneasy still.

At last he could bear the silence and uncertainty no longer. He got up, slipped on his small-clothes, and went downstairs to open the door.

But Ursula was not there. The porch was empty, and he walked out into the barton in the bright moonlight and stood beside the stalls. Perhaps she might have crept in somewhere out of the way—into some corner to wait for morning. He called her name. But everything was still. If she were hiding, she did not mean to answer, that was clear. And the sly thing might be there close-handy, right under his nose—a cunning slut. He called again, louder than before. He was afraid that somebody might be about and hear. Up the hill there was still a noise of laughter and drunken song. Fools! Breaking rest and wasting money! Nothing would delight them better than to grin and jeer at a prudent man like himself. He stole back into the house and barred the door once more, with a feeling that things had not turned out well, and he had made a fool of himself.

If Ursula were to go from home, and the cows now all come into full pail, who would make the cheese to-morrow?

That thought worried him as much as what folk would say. He cpuld not get a wink of sleep all night for turning it over in his mind, and, at daybreak, he got up and went out again. Like enough she had found a place somewhere out of the way. Perhaps he might find her now, and sneer at her crumpled “fallals,” for Ursula would have on all her finery—no fear. But nothing fell out to his wish. In barn or loft or stall not a latch had been lifted. And at the hour for fetching in the cows, Ursula came down as usual fresh as a daisy, after a good night’s sleep. The toad of a maid went singing on her way to the leaze.

Jacob Handsford was perplexed, but he wisely kept a still tongue. She must have crept in unbeknown before he went to bed.

And Ursula never said a word, but, for that reason, harboured anger all the more. Father or not, she owed him nothing, for certain sure.

So it was like wormwood to him to see her binding sheaves in the Whites’ harvest-field. She was joking with young Jack, for the reaping drew to an end, and he stood upright, with his sunburnt arm raised in triumph above his head, holding a reap-hook in his hand. The last few blades were come to cutting. The men stopped work, eased their backs and stretched their limbs. There was only a handful of com left standing now. Then the king o’ the reapers, great-uncle Tutchins as it happened, trimmed up with flowers, “like a great Tom-fool,” as Jacob muttered to himself, toddled up to this last bit of wheat, and just below the ruddy ears, with a pride that made Jacob sick, he tied the straw together in a knot. .

Whooping like a pack o’ boys, the reapers all stood back in a half-circle and threw their reap-hooks at this mark. But nobody could hit it; and the longer they went on, the louder they shouted and the wilder was their aim.

“Ha! They’d grumble loud enough if ’twere work an’ they had to do it,” growled Jacob.

At that moment a hook sped true, and the last blades were cut.

Then he who had chanced to hit, rushed forward and held the bunch of corn above his head.

“I ha’ her. I ha’ her. I ha’ her,” he yelled in triumph.

Then all the others answered back.

“What ha’ ’ee? What ha’ ’ee? What ha ’ee? ”

“ A mare! A mare! A mare! ”

“ Whose is her? Whose is her? Whose is her? ”

Malachi Webb was the lucky man at Whites’. Red in the face with joy, he shouted out his own name to claim possession.

“Malachi Webbses! Malachi Webbses! Malachi Webbses! ”

“Who will ’ee send her to? Who will ’ee send her to? Who will ’ee send her to?”

“To little Jakey Handsford. To little Jakey-”

The remainder of the words, always religiously repeated three times, were drowned in the outburst of cheering and derision that followed. Ursula, standing by, laughed like the rest. Why not? It was only a joke to them, and if they chose to send this trumpery little sheaf, which for no reason in life they called a “ mare,” down to her father, what was that to her? It had been done before to others. Why not to him? It was a common thing to send it to the neighbour who was last with his harvest, and why should he be different to the rest. She did not care. Even from a distance he could see that.

Jacob, standing amidst his spoiling crop, grew pale with rage.

His ears had drunk in every syllable; and he, whose talk in the main was jeering at other folk, could not bear so much as a smile against himself. He crept out of the com and hurried home unseen. He would give a greeting to their messenger if any should appear. He felt mad enough, except for a thought of law, which costs money, win or lose alike, to lie in wait and knock the fellow down with a pick. He stayed at home on purpose to give him a word of h sort with the rough side of his tongue.

But nobody came.

“ I thought Malachi Webb ’ud be too wise. Hal and Malachi Webb have a-got good secret reason, too. He I he! ” chuckled Jacob. But they all knew better than to show their noses there. Their talk was nothing but words after all—empty words and foolery, of which the world was full.

He reassured himself. He even sneered inwardly at such trumpery folk too fainthearted to carry out what they had in mind,

It so happened that the milking now was no longer done in the barton, but iu the field in the shade of the tall elm trees by the back of the house. As they sat to the cows in the cool of that afternoon, he kept twitting Ursula as usual.

Ha I So they ha’n’t a-send down the mare to little Jakey Handsford. Eh? They thought better o’ it, simly. He! he! There is one or two of ’em might want a poun’ or two o’ un, one o’ these fine days. So better not to affront un. Eh? Oh no; better not to affront un.”

But when Jacob came to go into his house, there was the silly little sheaf, straight under the nose of him. Somebody had come by stealth, when the place was empty, and stuck it through the ring of the front door latch.

With an oath he dragged it out, and cursed and swore; threw it underfoot and stamped the ears abroad upon the smooth stone floor. But all his fury was against the Whites. Malachi Webb, who had shouted his name, was such a bom fool that for the moment he was of no account. It came from the Whites. It was they who had sent it—sent it out o’ spite because they couldn’t get on themselves, and couldn’t a-bear to see others do well. That was the phrase Jacob used for getting and saving, and nothing else.

He cursed them one and all at the top of his voice, with every evil that wish could put into words.

That the widow might want bread. That the house might catch fire and burn over her head. That their beasts might go dry, ay, and drop and die like flies in a frost, and lie and rot. That the young Jack might be brought home on a hurdle from his cudgel-play or his bull-baiting—ha! Sprack as he mid be. And that William might sink at sea, and drown in sight of shore.

At the height of his frenzy he stopped short. He had spent all his curses, or came suddenly to a sense that they were waste of breath.

||He kicked the bundle of bruised straw out of doors and turned into the kitchen.

His voice sank very low. It was little more than a muttering to himself as he went.

“ But they shall pay for it. Ha! Their little jokes shall stand in a big price. It shall cost em’ dear, then, little as they mid think it now, whilst they do laugh. He! he! Poun’s an poun’s they shall lose by it afore all is a done. An’ Malachi, too. Mayhap Malachi may grin the tother side of the ugly face o’ un when he do next get word from little Jakey Handsford. So there.”

CHAPTER V.

WARNING.

Three days had passed since the reaping, and the Whites were to have their feast of harvest-home that night.

It was early afternoon, with all the glowing heat of mid-day in the still, soft air, on the crumbling ground, and in the crackling stubble under foot. Ursula, free until evening, strolled up into the wheat-field under the wood-side to pick herself a pocketful of nuts. The ruddy, golden sheaves set up in stitch—ten to the stitch, ready for the pa’son to take his tithe—reached, in long rows, both up and down, all athirt the ground. Ursula, in her laced bodice and sun-bonnet, passed loitering between, and, as she went, here and there, she plucked an ear, rubbed out the berries between her hands, and stopped to winnow away the chaff with her breath. More than once she glanced around to see if anybody were about. But the harvesters were carrying over hedge, shut out of sight by a thick screen of hazel leaves. They would not be there for an hour or two, until the sun came over the tall trees in the wood. She could hear their voices, and now and again the rattle of the plough, as in those days they used to call the waggon and team.

Ursula was to be at the feast, of course.

She did not care a button for what her father might say or do, since he had locked her out, three months ago. He might lock her out again if he liked. She meant to act as she would. Long before then, a constant fretting had worn thin every thread and link that binds together father and child, often as much from pride and interest as love; and, on that night, the last was broken. The affection that should spring in infancy got blighted and never blossomed into respect. She was ashamed, and cared not a straw for him and his grumbling. She could even talk outright of his meanness to Jack or the widow, or to any of the neighbours, rather than it should seem that she held with his ways. She laughed to think that he had never suspected how she got in.

For, as Ursula sat sobbing that night, without sound of footstep within and with scarcely a rattle of the latch, very stealthily the door opened, so slowly that the hinges scarcely creaked. Out of the gloomy darkness of the passage, white as a ghost and quite silent, came little Hannah Peach. Her feet were bare. She had on only the little short smock, just down to her knees, she wore at night. As she crept out into the porch and looked at Ursula in the moonlight, her face grew keen and eager with expectation.

The child was excited. “The maister, he send me on,” she said, speaking with the quick delight of one who looks for praise. “ But I run an’ stood to winder in the empty room above to watch for 'ee, Miss Urs’la. There, I couldn’t shut my eyes nor bide abed for looking for ’ee to come. So I heard un bolt ’ee out, Miss Urs’la. An’ I heard ’ee knock an’ bang the door. So, though I were afeared o’ my life, I run down, Miss Urs’la—”

She glanced from right to left to note whether Ursula carried anything in hand. Then she looked up again with eyes more wistful still.

“That’s a good girl, Hannah. I shall remember 'ee. Run on up to bed to once afore your feet do get chilled 'pon the atones. Run on, my maid. I’ll do 'ee a good turn one o’ these days.”

The child drew back a little into the doorway, but waited.

“ Did ’ee—did 'ee bring—? ”

Then Ursula bethought herself.

“There!” she suddenly cried, “if I ha'n't a-forgot what I promised ’ee, Hannah. Good, now! Well I did think o’ it, too, an’ then it slipped out o’ mind. You shall have it. Don’t you fear, my maid. You shall—”

But, with a sigh, the child, turning with noiseless feet towards the unlighted staircase, had faded out of sight.

Yet, on the morrow, Ursula was as good as her word. She gave to Hannah Peach a lucky fourpenny bit with a hole in it, which she warned her never to part with whatever she did, for then she could never be out o’ money, come what may.

This dazzling gift of riches, beyond her wildest dream, the little workhouse orphan wrapped in paper, but night and morn took out to feast her eyes upon. All the week, for fear it might get lost, she kept it hidden in the toe of her Sunday shoe. But when she went to church, she carried it in her pocket, and, whilst she said her prayers, clutched it tight.

Oh no! Jacob, with his cunning, had not given a thought to Hannah Peach.

And Ursula had never felt so happy and light-hearted as during the last three months.

Half her time she spent up to Whites'. And nothing but right, too, since she was to wed with William, and the widow made her welcome as ever flowers in May. The life at Winterhays was free. There was room in that home for the heart to grow. For the first time she breathed, after the tongue-tied, hide-bound poverty in wealth of her father’s house. These Whites took such pride and put such trust in each other. It sounded good to hear Jack make a god of William, and the widow sing the praises of Jack.

The widow was full of motherly cares. As she hurried about the household chores, all her talk was of the boys. For certain, her mind dwelt most on William who was away at sea, but it was clear to see that Jack was the Benjamin and nearest to her heart. She spread out his virtues to cover up the shortcomings of youth. For Jack was wonderful for work. Nobody better 'pon earth. Only she must say it, if ’twere the last words she had to speak, Jack would get about wi’ gay company that were no good to him—for all the world like his poor father, so easy led and never could say no. Now, William was a Puckeridge all over. Nobody could ever lead him or frighten. Oh no, stubborn as a bull, and never to be turned when his mind was a-made up. And quick and hot as fire if you did but thwart him; with a look—ah! bless you!—fit to kill a man, when his blood was up. Though that might come of his roving life, for he softened most wonderful the last twelvemonth he lived at home. But, then, William had a mole on his left foot, a sure sign that of a fierce, determined nature that nobody could cow. Almost all the Puckeridges had moles. A-put by a merciful God for some wise purpose, an’ a warning, without doubt. Now, Jack had never spot nor blemish from head to heel. But Jack favoured the Whites, and a White was always smooth as a woman.

So she would go on by the hour; for the presence of Ursula about the place cheered her way, loosened the strings of her tongue, and lightened the burden of life. And, la, there! Ursula was as sprack as a kitten and always ready to lend a hand. A capital goodwife she would make one o’ these days, and no mistake. The mother in Rizpah warmed towards the maiden who was William’s sweetheart; for the heart of a true woman never grows so staid as to lose sense of the romance in marriage yet to be. This wholesome frankness of the farm—where folk were natural and nothing was hidden, because there was nothing to hide—in spite of anxious hours, made the days pass by as sweet as summer.

Yet in the bosom of Ursula that afternoon was a growing restlessness that kept her all the time on edge, in spite of herself. She busily rubbed out the ears of wheat, then made a cup of her two hands, raised it to her mouth, and blew away the chaff over her fingers. After all this trouble taken, she did but bite a berry Or two between her teeth, and threw the rest upon the ground. Then . suddenly she quickened her pace and strode up into the corner where the hedgerow meets the wood.

Never, by word of mouth, had they agreed to meet; but, sure as the day came round, somewhere or the other, quiet in the fields, she was certain to fall in with young Jack. If she did but pass along the hedge and pick a few nuts to carry home in her apron he must needs chance to come that way to pull the boughs down ready to her hand. But that afternoon he had not walked across.

Not that she wanted him—not she. So she said to herself, with a toss of the head, as she hastened with quick steps upon the glistening stubble. He had his own mind to use, to come or stay away for all she cared. He was nothing to her, and never could be —more than a friend, of course. Yet she cast another glance over her shoulder and gave one more look towards the gate. For though there were no more in it than warm blood and the joy of youth, Ursula felt neglected. She felt angry with herself, too, to be so vexed and disappointed because he was not there.

Oh, well I Some fine dayjbefore long, he would want her counsel, as he had many a time of late. He was always in some bother or the other, with no more headpiece over his shoulders than a great, overgrown boy. She could tell by his face when something went amiss; and the very next time she would be too busy to listen to one word of it—so there.

What a fool she was! Though, for that matter, a body can’t help one’s thoughts; and other folk don’t know what you don't tell, thank goodness.

Close above her head the nuts hung thick. She stepped down into the ditch and climbed the bank, reaching up her bare arm to get at a cluster of six.

From the wood behind her came a rustling of leaves and the sharp snapping of green bushes thrust aside. Her face brightened. Quick as thought she understood. To be out of sight of the harvesters, he had gone round and pushed his way through the copse.

So he could not stay away then, even when folk were about, and he knew, if they should happen to see him, how great-uncle Tutchins would jest and the others laugh. She climbed closer into the hedge. There was no need to take note of him until he spoke.

“ Ursie.”

She turned suddenly round and greeted him in surprise, as if his being there were the thing farthest from her thoughts.

“ Hullo, Jack, then! What, is that you?”

Then Jack, smiling, drawled his usual answer, never changing so much as a word:—

“ I eyed ’ee out here, Ursie. So I thought I mid so well come up ”.

They looked straight into each other’s eyes and laughed. As to the little bit o’ flim-flam — that took nobody in. Each knew the other had their meeting full in mind. So the pretence only turned to mirth and put them at their ease, as it were.

“Let’s go an’ sit ourselves down a bit, Ursie, an’ talk,” he begged of her, in a coaxing tone, and pointed to a stitch of corn hard by.

She shook her head.

“Tidden very likely. Not I,” she said, making much of what, after all, was but a very small matter.

“ But I’ve a-got something to tell ’ee.”

Am anxious look upon his face, altogether out of keeping with his happy-go-lucky nature, made her pause.

“What is it? What foolery have ’ee a-bin up to now?” she asked sharply, for she had taken to scolding ever since she found him out at the card-playing.

“’Tis nothing o’ that. ’Tis something I do want ’ee to know, Ursie, most partic’lar,” he answered in a hurt tone.

Her curiosity was awakened. In the next breath she gave consent. “Oh, well, there! since ’tis but jus’ for a minute, I don’t so very much mind if I do.”

The sun was about three hours past the south, but as yet the shadows were not long. Jack was in shirt-sleeves, rolled up to the elbows, fresh from his work. His sunburnt arms were brown and ruddy as the ears of wheat. They walked across and sat down side by side upon the yellow stubble, against a cone of leaning sheaves that rose above their heads and sheltered them like a hut. They were so hidden that a person might have come within ten yards and gone again no whit the wiser that any one was there.

He took off his hat and threw it with an angry gesture upon the ground. He was greatly worried ; and yet, now that she was there, he sat frowning, half in doubt whether to speak to her or not.

Then at last he made up his mind.

“ Ursie,” he began, in a whisper, leaning towards her, still with a troubled look in his eyes, “do ’ee know your father is at everything he can to get away Winterhays? He’ve a-bin to ’em an’ bid good money, so ’tis a-told me. So much an’ more ’an ’tis worth, so as to get us out.”

The girl flushed crimson and her lips set firm. It was just such a bit of underhand craftiness as the mind of Jacob Handsford would secretly invent. Oh, yes. To give these poorer neighbours, whom he hated like poison, the last push into the ditch would bring him the greatest joy in life. Her heart went with the Whites.

“But how do ’ee know?” she presently asked, in the quick, short manner that betrays a doubt After all it was scarcely to be believed that her father could bring himself to give more for anything than it was worth.

“I had it in to ‘The Bear’ of a clerk in to lawyer Winsford’s office, that Jacob Handsford he went in o’ Monday last an’ offered more ’an ’tis allowed at to us. For, he said, he could see the widow ’ud never be able to take it up—never in this world. So he thought no harm to speak in time, looking to what was sure to turn out. I do know ’tis true, Ursie. I’ve a-played skittles wi’ the man, manies o’ times; so he wouldn’t tell me a lie. But he dropped me a bit of a whisper, in friendship like, never to fall behind wi’ the rent, or maybe they mid be glad o’ the chance to run word an’ get the place out of our hands to once.”

The girl’s eyes flashed in a fury of indignation. She sat upright, her head thrust forward from the sheaves, quivering with shame at the thought of such meanness. She could see it all. She could hear the very tone of her father’s voice, quietly pointing out reasons and arguing that the Whites could never be able to make a do of it at Winterhays.

“’Tis all like un to be so under-creeping and sly,” she cried, and the words seemed to shape themselves into pictures upon her lips from the intensity of feeling with which she uttered them. “ He do covet the fields because they do lie so handy to his own. An’ he do hate 'ee all, too, like the very old Scratch hiszelf. He do love money so dearly that he can’t a-bear anybody wi’ none to part wi’—or that do spend a shilling when he don’t. I wish somebody ’ud do un out o’ it. I do. It ’ud do the heart o’ me good to see un lost every penny-piece that he’ve a-got in the world.”

From very stress of wrath she stopped. Then, because her anger must find something to fix upon—something that could feel it, as it were—she turned sharply upon young Jack.

“An’ why must you be wasting your money at The ‘ Bear,’ then; an’ at skittles an foolery, when it’ll take every farthing you can beg or borrow to hold your own? I know what it’ll be. Father ’ull gain his ends, no fear I He’ll follow an’ follow like a stoat ’pon the track of a rabbit. Why, you’ll be out o’ house an’ home, as you do go on, afore William have a-got time to be back.”

The youth’s countenance fell. He looked down upon the ground and pulled up by the roots the stubble that lay close to his hand. His confusion showed quite clearly how much he felt her taunts and how great the power she held over him. He was so crestfallen that he could not find a word of sense to answer.

“I’ll—I’ll never do it no more, Ursie,” he stammered humbly, not daring to look her in the face. “ An’ yet, when all’s a-said an’ done, ’tis a good thing to know,” he added in excuse.

It was the first unkind word she had ever spoken to him. All their talk had hitherto been pleasant, and even when giving good advice her manner was often caressing. For, if she had an eye to his follies, well, he knew about the wasted milk; and so they took things lightly and laughed and were friends. They got along together like a waggon and wheels. In truth, she liked him none the worse for his careless ways. He was straight and strong, and fresh with the ruddiness of early youth. Ever since they danced at the revel, his fondness for her grew and grew beyond all hiding. It showed through everything he said or did. But what could that matter? Her two or three years to the good made her a woman, whilst he, although a man full-grown, was but a boy in mind. She had the wit to treat him like a youth and hold her place. And as for this “ calf-love ” — his unspoken but clearly discovered folly for a woman older than himself and out of all reach — well, he knew tis well as the rest of the world that she was only waiting to wed with the man of her choice.

It softened her to see him so put down.

“ Well, then, mind that you do do as I do tell ’ee.” She laughed with an air of having taken him under her wing.

“I will, Ursie,” he burst out warmly, in gladness at this return of her good humour. “ For there’s nobeddy ’pon earth I do think o’ the same as I do you.”

“All very well, Jackie,” she said, very slowly, and shaking her head with a make-believe of unbelief.

“ ’Tis true I ” he cried, raising his voice and looking her straight in the face.

“ Ah! But I ben’t so foolish as to take in all I do hear,” she told him, and made a little grimace with her red lips. But although there was mockery in the words, in her heart she took delight to feel the power of her womanhood, and to know that it held him hand and foot as it were, and always at her beck and call.

He grew more than ever in earnest.

“ Why, I’d walk barefoot a hundred mile to please ’ee, Ursie, I would. I’d go through fire and water to—”

She cut him short.

“We don’t hear a sound o’ William,” she said, with a sly enjoyment in it too, and a sidelong glance at him to see how he would take the blow.

His talk of what he would do for her was brought to a sudden close. All the eagerness and gladness fled from his eyes. Again he was out of countenance, and looked down upon the ground. He twisted round his fingers the long stubble he had just now dragged up, and crumbled the dry earth away from the roots.

“ No; not a word,” he presently answered, gloomily.

“But you thought to, didn’ ’ee, Jack?” she asked, fondling him again with her voice, for she could not leave him alone, do what she would. “There, I can see you did. You do show it by the look o’ ’ee.”

“ ’Tis like this,” he said grimly. He cast away the clod and clapped his hands together to strike off the soil before he went on; yet he did not dare to look up. “ If they had a-met wi’ luck, they must ha’ come into port wi’ the prize. But I reckon the French ships be scarce, and hard to fall in wi’. There’s a-many have a-bin tookt, an’ the rest be afeared to so much as show their noses out upon the open sea. So, though there’s neither sound nor sign, I’ve a-got no doubt myself but what he’s right enough.”

“ But the other ship mid beat his.”

“Not very likely. She’s so well found for her size as a real Queen’s man-o’-war.” “Yet, for all that, mid turn out so. An’ what then, Jack? ”

He glanced up at her quickly when she spoke his name. There was something in her manner of speaking deeper than the mere words. Something that raised a thought —a hope that died away at once and left him ashamed.

“ He’d lie in a French prison to the end o’ the war,” he said in a low voice. “ That is, if he should have the luck to live. For they do die of fever by the dozen. ’Tis worse than the fighting, so ’tis said.”

Ursula drew a deep breath, and her face grew very grave. She might have to live at home for ever (and that was worse than any gaol) if things turned out like that.

“ That mid be a longful while,” she sighed. “ Next-never-come-day, mayhap.”

What with the matter of the land and doubts about the money—and, more than all, a secret feeling, unspoken but understood, growing up in the mind of each—a gloom and a foreboding had fallen over their talk. For both at heart were honest. Yet, as the eyes of Jack fell upon the face of Ursula, when she spoke about the dangers of war, that thought, at variance to his love for William, had flashed like lightning across his brain. Of late he had gone in dread of William’s return. Even though his brother should come to-morrow with enough to get back all the farm, the moment of rejoicing, of meeting at the cross-roads where they parted, must fall upon him like a blow. They would tramp together up Bratton Street, William all eyes for Ursula, all eagerness to come in sight of Jacob Handsford’s house. Ursula would take no heed of him after that. In a month, or allowing just time enough to ask out the banns, she would be married. Again there came into his heart a wish that William might not come back. Clear and unmistakable, it lasted only for a moment—and was gone.

They had been talking longer than they knew. A soft shadow from the wood fell along the slope of the hill right down to the sheaves against which they sat The shouts of the harvesters came close up to the hedgerow, and the great voice of Malachi Webb, from the top of the load, kept asking, “ Well, where’s young Jack a-got to, then? Where’s young Jack? ”

“ He’s only gone to courty Ursie Handsford for his brother William, you mid depend,” drawled great-uncle Tutchins, and the suggestion was received with a roar of laughter; for all the relatives were again at Winterhays that afternoon for the widow’s harvest-home.

“ ’Tis too much to put upon a young feller like Jack, then, I do call,” roared Malachi.

“ Not but what he do do his best—by all accounts,” jerked out great-uncle Tutchins, out of breath, as he raised sheaf after sheaf on his pick. “ Hold vast! ” he cried. Then, with the jingling of the harness-chains, they could hear his fat, double-cunning chackle as the heavy load creaked on.

“I had better be getting back to the work, Ursie. They’ve most a-done there. There’s only this to carr’, now, an’ they’ll be here in a jiffy,” he said in her ear.

But the open talk of the harvesters had made Ursula cautious and afraid. She quickly laid one hand upon his arm to hold him from getting up until the waggon had passed on farther from the hedge.

“ Hearky! ” all at once she whispered, and held her finger upraised. Then they both sat silent to listen.

Sure enough, close behind them could be heard a quick step rattling upon the stubble. It loitered—sometimes stopping, and then again passing on from stitch to stitch.

They remained quite still. So far, they were out of sight. Like as not, whoever it might be would come and go and never dream that any one was nigh.

Then into full view before them strode the widow White.

She stood, her back half turned towards them, tall and gaunt-looking—for worry and summer work when days are long had made her thinner than formerly—beside the very next stitch of sheaves. Her brown weatherbeaten face, the features sharp-cut against the blue sky, was stem and angry. Her lips were firm set. She, too, had overheard. That folk calling themselves kin should talk like that made her blood boil, and she kept muttering to herself. She could scarcely keep from going that moment and calling great-uncle Tutchins a fool to his face. Only then he would go home, now when the work was done, and that looked as if she wanted to save a supper. But although the widow would find meat and drink of the best for any one who came to her house, there must be no joking at her expense. She would give it to great-uncle Tutchins even now. Ah I wait until by-and-bye-night. Let him get up to go and hold out his hand to bid good-bye. Then she would draw herself up to her full height and say, “No, girt-uncle Tutchins, I’ve a-made ’ee welcome all alike, but I do only care to shake hands wi’ my true friends Or, better still, perhaps, to shake hands and let him tell how wonderful well he had enjoyed himself, and then say, “An’ glad I be to hear it, girt-uncle Tutchins, sure, but I should ha’ bin better pleased wi’ your company if I could ha’ felt better pleased wi’ yourself ”.

An’ then he would look up all in wonder like, and ask, “ What's that, then? ” and she could up and tell him straight out, how, being her own uncle by name and blood, she did take it to heart that he should hollar ill of his own kin to the four winds for all the world to hear—though as to Malachi Webb, she would say, turning round to Malachi with the same, he, of course, being only second cousin first removed by his mother’s side, and well known to have more tongue than sense, and to talk more than he could stand to—well, his words being the mere chackle of a born fool, good or bad, weighed of no consequence.

Let them see how they liked that, and what their feelings must be, there before everybody, after they had sat down to so fine a green goose as ever fork was stack into.

Yet, though this excitement was fermenting in the widow’s brain, her mind at the same time seemed bent upon the wheat. She stooped to pull a handful of green stuff, thistles and poppies, from amongst the reed, for it is always the weeds that heat and spoil the good crop. She twisted it together tight to find if it were full dry; and looked at it with all the doubtsome care for prudent husbandry that falls upon a woman lone and husbandless.

“ Please God, we ben’t a day too quick,” she muttered to herself, taking a few hasty steps onward in her doubt. Then by mere chance she turned her head, so that her eyes fell upon young Jack and Ursula only a few yards away.

Then folk had reason for their talk!

Her passion for respectability, for a life upright as the wheaten straw and clean as the yellow apples on her orchard trees, so that no finger could be raised in scorn or laughter at herself or any of her belongings, was deeper even than the love of Jacob Handsford for his money.

They were sitting on the ground close together, leaning with their backs against the sheaves, their faces turned towards each other the better to talk.

Rizpah White was furious. The sight of them at that moment, the gossip of the harvesters still ringing in her ears, was more than she could bear. The waggons had passed out of hearing and they were alone. There was nothing to hinder or to put a check upon her tongue. The pent-up anxiety of months of widowhood, the wrath already burning in her heart, and now her anger and shame at behaviour giving good cause for talk, all found a voice, as with half a dozen hasty strides she stood full in front of Ursula, taking no heed of Jack.

“ So this is the false-hearted, double-faced huzzy that you be,” she cried, stamping her foot, “ to come up to house day by day, wi’ a face all smiles an’ words so soft as butter, an’ all the while to be toling the boy from his work till the whole parish do bide a-grinning to see how you do go on. An’ pretty going-ons, too, there must be for folk to talk as they do. Why, girt-uncle Tutchins an’ the rest o’ ’em do know no more than the dead how you’ve a-crope away this day to hidey under the sheaves out o’ sight Yet they’ve a-seed enough other times and places, sim-so, to make the name o’ Ursie Handsford a bye-word all the country round. But a maid wi’ her name in everybody’s mouth is no better than a fool, if she do think to wed wi’ an honest man. Why, William, if his pride is but half so hot as his temper, ’nil throw ’ee off like an old shoe, when he do but catch a sound o’ what’s a-said. An’ right, too. I do uphold un in it. For, if the Whites be poor, sooner ’an he should marry wi’ a thing of a flirtigig—”

Ursula, crimson as a poppy, sprang to her feet. The word hit hard. Harmless as it sounds, it meant more than a mere flirtation and carried a reproach. It was a name to wound and leave a sting.

“ An’ he’s welcome to do as he will,” cried the girl choking with tears that were too proud to flow. “An’ when he do come back, you can tell un so—if he ever do— and let un listen to your lies so long as he do like. For, whether you be Whites—or Blacks more likely—I’ll never come a-nighst any o’ ’ee again—nor set foot across your door—nor sit down by your fire—not if he’s away ten year. An’, mayhap, ’full be you he’ll turn upon when he do hear the rights o’ it, and then—”

But, just then, the last load, leaning from the hill as if it were like to fall, came slowly jolting along the deep ruts through the gate; with it came all the harvesters, whoaing and shouting, as a wheel struck against the post. Thus the dispute, so far as talking was concerned, must needs be brought to a sudden end.

Smarting and quivering under the insult, Ursula turned away and hurried home. She would never look at one of them again. In her anger, she hoped with all her heart that her father would fiddle away the land. And serve the widow right, too. For what had Ursula ever done, more than pass a harmless word to have a laugh — unless ’twere to talk to young Jack for his own good?

As to the feast and all the rest of it, that had made life, of late, worth living, at that moment she gave not a thought to such things. She was carried away with rage to think they should tattle when she had done no harm. She was all the more angry because of a secret knowledge that—though she would never bring herself to break with William—her wandering fancy had alighted upon young Jack.

CHAPTER VI.

HALLOWMAS EVE.

It was near the end of fall. There had been frosts, and the elms were bare. The leaves upon the oaks at Winterhays turned parched and brown, and strips of orchard all along the hill looked black, with, here and there, a heap of shining, yellow apples gleaming out of the gloom between the rows of mossy, leaning trunks.

From every little house and homestead down the road came the creaking of the cider-press, the sour smell of fruit, crushed between layers of straw, and dripping its juice down into the vat. The cider-making went on all day long; and, after dark by candle-light, Jacob Handsford stayed out in the pound-house, paring down the sides, and giving another screw to his apple-cheese.

His habit now was to come in late, eat his bit o’ bread and cheese and drink his cup of cider by the hearth, and then to bed. When he went the rest must go. So the time for talking was short, and he and Ursula had little or nothing to say to each other. He knew she no longer went to the Whites, but had never asked her why. Ha! like enough the maid was affronted when they sent the little gimcrack sheaf to her father. For ’tis one thing to laugh at a joke out in field, but quite another to see it brought home to your own door, like. In his double-cunning way, Jacob knew human nature well—the little weaknesses and the worst side of it, that is—ao he only chuckled to himself and was snrewd enough to hold his tongue. To twit Ursula was to drive a maid of her spirit back into their arms. Ho! ho! wait a month or two; maybe Ladyday, or the Milemas after that, and Bratton would see the backs of them every one. No more Whites, Jacks nor Williams, up to hill after a little while. He! he! That looked as certain as to-morrow.

The girl noted his silence; but that was his secret way, now he was plotting in his head all the while how to get hold of the land.

She had never spoken to Jack since they sat together beside the sheaves. The talk overheard in the harvest field was a warning to her; for Ursula was straightforward and right-minded as a girl need be, except that, for the peace of her life, she was driven to fool her father when she could. But this was only his own craftiness turning back upon himself. It no more proved the maid dishonest than hot words spoken in anger can be taken as a sure sign of a bad heart.

So, for the most part in pride, but something in fear, also, for her good name, she kept out of the way. He was out to plough one morning as she passed along the footpath through the stubble ground. Books were flying close above his head to pitch upon the upturned soil behind. Midway down the furrow he pulled up his team and called to her. The field was on the slanting hillside and open from below to all the world; so on she went, with only a distant nod and just the mention of his name to pass the time of day. And, yesterday, he was apple-picking in the orchard against the road. He left the tall, ashen pole, with which he knocked down the red and yellow apples, leaning amongst the boughs, and ran across to wait behind the hedge to have a word as she came by. He thought he was certain of her then. But Ursula caught sight of him and turned back.

Yet all day long young Jack was in her mind. Do as she would, she could think of nothing else. Her imagination pictured him running in to catch the dog right under the bull’s horns, and she held her breath. She remembered how he had kissed her after the revel dance. Though that was nothing. He had never kissed her since, and she wouldn’t have allowed it even if he had offered to. Then in the dulness of the house she longed for the quiet summer evenings up to farm. There was both sense and learning in it too, when she and Jack sat together on a stile, whilst he read by the hour out of a chap-book bought from fair. It told the most wonderful things—and useful too. How to know the weather by watching the sky and the ways of beasts. How to call up in dreams your own true love by rubbing lemons on the four-post bed; and how a maid must act to see the man she was to wed over her shoulder in the looking-glass.

To tell truth, she had played with edged tools to the wounding of her own heart.

Whilst she trifled with the boy, she hurt herself. She had caught such an inkling after him she dared not go and talk—that was the long and short of it. For she went in dread of William, too. He was so hot and jealous, with such a way and a look about him when his blood was up, that made her tremble only at the thought. And sometimes, at the thought of William, for a minute or two her heart came home. There had been wild gales of late, and though their house stood under shelter of the hill, sitting in the great open chimney every night she could hear the moaning and mingled threats and wailing of the wind. The sound made her think kindly of the sailor far away at sea.

Very often the storm grew and grew until it rose into a tempest—then sank with a sudden lull.

This shook Ursula to the very soul. It seemed to be telling of a ship lost, and that William would not be lucky in his voyage. Then she would shudder and shrink back into the corner. With that gust the storm had conquered. Something whispered to her heart that he was drowned. He loved her true. He would have come back if he had lived. Neither oh earth or sea was there a truer heart than William's; and he was gone. The superstition got hold of her with the force of a belief. Then in her waywardness she loved him, as one loves the dead.

Upon the evening of the last of October Ursula was in the kitchen alone. She was restless. She moved to and fro without purpose; and stopped—unable to make up her mind. Quietly at last she crept out to the door and looked around the barton and the stalls. The sky was clear and frosty. Millions of stars shone overhead, for it was quite night although the last pale glow of day lingered fading behind the western hill. Her father was still at work. The light of his lantern shone through the cider-house window and fell dimly upon the side of the black faggot-pile in the corner. He might be there for an hour yet.

Ursula stole quietly across the yard. With a glance over her shoulder at the open pound-house door, she noiselessly piled up an armful of sticks and logs—as much as she could hold and carry, hands, arms, apron and all—and made haste back into the house. She threw them down beside the hearth. Then she chose the biggest and the best, and hid them all about the place. A heap behind the settle; a handful in the dresser cupboard; and a stick or two the size of her handwrist, and long and straight, she stood upright inside the kitchen clock. She had scarcely finished and swept the floor tidy of tell-tale bits of bark and scraps of dried moss, when her father came in.

The fire was burning brightly and he sat down to warm himself, holding out his palms to catch the heat. For the last week or two he had been quite jocular—for him. Ursula had seen him like it, at times, before, but only when he had made a bargain or sold for more than he thought to do at fair. To-day he had not been from home. She quickly put out his supper, and, whilst he munched his bread and cheese, for once in his life Jacob Handsford talked—really talked. Yet, even to-night, in the main— being in a merry mood—his conversation turned on other folks’ mishaps.

“There’s Malachi Webb,” he told her, looking round with eyes half-closed and speaking mysteriously, as if in fear of being overheard, “have a-lost two beastès. He can’t tell how. An’ last week his ho’se fell into ditch, an’ got so scammed he ha’n’t a-bin able to work an since. He’s a’most to his wits’ end to know what to do. He do talk loud that somebody have a-witohed un—he I he I—an’ do come an’ ride a ho’seback ’pon the chest of un, every night of his life, so as he can’t sleep a wink. Ha! ha! He’ve a-bin to the wise man up to Blackford to have it a-tookt off. For the wise man have a-promised to put on such a spell as shall lay he that do trouble un in the Bed Sea. I tell ’ee what ’tis, Ursie, Malachi ’ll come to want. Fust, he’ll borrow an’ find it hard to pay, an’ then he’ll sink down an’ struggle on till he do drop out Times out o’ number I’ve a-seed the same.”

Jacob turned back towards the fire and grimly shook his head. To the girl, witchcraft was so real a danger, that even to hear the word brought a shudder that crept to her very finger-tips.

“Ah!” cried her father, again glancing sharply up, “ there’s more talk ’an truth in what they do tell up about that. Malachi’s ho’se ud a-bin pulled out if he had a-bin about. ’Tis they that do go away a-pleasur-ing that do find these things befall. Misfortune do drop in upon ’em when they be out—ha!—an’ bide an’ sit down in house an’ wait till they be back. Ay, an’ live wi’ ’em all their lives, like as not. Then they do blame it to witching. I wur never witched myself. But, Lord alive! Ursie,” he stopped, and then his voice fell lower and more secret still, “ there’s they about do love un so well that, if they could witch Jacob Handsford, they ’ud never leave un wi’ a thread to his back.”

Then he sat chuckling to think that, whatever might happen to a fool like Malachi Webb, it could never fall to the power of any man to work Jacob Handsford any harm.

The thought pleased him so much that it sent a crumb the wrong way, so that he well-nigh choked and fell a-coughing to save his life.

He was a spare eater, being so small, perhaps, as well as stingy, and he laid aside his plate. He would have no more; and he stood up, the better to catch his breath again, there, inside the chimney.

“But, hearky, Ursie,” he presently went on, “the witch don’t live that can do un any harm. Not in mind—nor limb—nor pocket. He! he! ’Tis nothing but a fool’s tale. So there! Nor nobody can’t touch what he’ve a-got put away.”

He stepped across the hearth towards her and bent down until his face came on a level with Ursula’s as she sat. Then he thrust out his lean forefinger and kept tapping upon her shoulder whilst he talked.

“ An’ look here, maid, if you should chance to marry a careful man, one o’ my own sort, look-y-see, he mid come here to live, an’ we’d keep one house an’ get hold o’ more land. Ay, an’ do our work ourselves wi’ little help an’ cost out o’ pocket. Then, one day, you should ha’ so much as any two round here. Hal ha! you should. As any dree. You should, ’pon my life.”

It was Ursula’s breaking off with the Whites and her woebegone look that had opened this tempting prospect before his eyes. He wanted no answer. To him it seemed impossible that the thing could be looked at in any other light. He stood up and walked across the kitchen to take a rushlight from the dresser shelf.

Against the wall, opposite the window, stood an oak bureau, with drawers and a slanting cover, turning back upon rests drawn out each side, thus making a place to write. In it he kept the book in which he cast his figures, and there also he put away and hoarded any letter that might chance to come. To-night he did not go to bed at once according to his custom. He took a stick from the fire, lighted the rushlight and went over to his desk. The lock was old and broken; but no one in the house could read, and, such papers being no good to steal, Jacob had never put out money to buy a new. That night he stayed up full an hour poring over his book.

Ursula sat upon the settle and watched him.

What web was he spinning in his brain now, that made him so busy all at once? And what was the meaning of all this talk? He bent his head close over the paper; for the rushlight gave but a spark, though, in the gloom of that part of the kitchen, enough to light his face and show his sharp nose and shaggy eyebrows against the darkness of the wood. . His lips he held apart in eager expectation as he set down monies with a crow-quill, very small and aslant in the margin at the topmost corner of the page, and added up the sum. The girl never liked him less than as she saw him that night. So he would be willing for her to marry if the man had money and could work. What did he care so long as she was made to serve his ends? The want of hands to till and reap the farm had put this into the head of him, and, likely enough, in his eye he had got her future husband, too. She pictured the house and the other careful man like himself. One of his own sort! It sounded like a grim joke. As true as heaven, there were no two such in the wide world. She could have laughed outright if he had not been so near.

Then both his behaviour and words became linked in her mind with his scheming to get the farm of Winterhays. Putting these with what young Jack had told her before, she now felt sure of it, beyond doubt. The two holdings could be worked from one house—that was the true meaning of what he said. He felt so certain of carrying out his scheme that he was planning beforehand and counting up the cost.

Ursula wished with all her heart that she could read. The desire was nothing fresh or new. Often before, with the thought of her own money—that money which she could not get—came a hankering to pry into his books and papers and worm out where it was put and what had gone with it. To her simple, country mind this was not a mere sum with so much interest added. It was that particular money, left her by will, by great-uncle Jeremy Handsford, received by him on such a day, and thereupon put out to use. To-night, also, there came upon her a craving to know what he was about—whether he had got anything settled for Winterhays. If she were only a scholar to find out I But, then, to be sure, he would keep it under key, and-

Abruptly he got up, took the candlestick in one hand, and shut up the desk with the other.

“ Come on, come on.”

He snapped the words out with the fretful haste of one who has hindered time himself and now comes to hurry other folk.

Ursula slowly rose and stepped out upon the floor.

He went himself and lifted the logs, one at a time, from off the fire, and stood them upright in the chimney comers to go out. Every little stick no bigger than his finger he put back to save. Then he stooped, bending nearly two-double over the hearth, and spuddled and raked the ashes all abroad with a little pair of brass tongs. Ursula stood like a post, but did not offer to lend a hand. She had watched him at the like performance hundreds of times before, and hated him the more’ for it every night of her life.

“ Come on, come on.”

He glanced round to see that everything was safe, and, sheltering his rushlight with his left hand, went shuffling out of the door.

Scarcely had he reached the passage when the girl stepped back upon the smoking hearth behind him, hastily with her foot scraped a few of the glowing coals together in a heap, and followed close at his heels.

An hour passed. The last flickering green flame had long gone out. Even the click of the cooling logs had ceased when Ursula came feeling her way again towards the chimney-corner. The shuttered kitchen was darker than the night. Though she could have walked the house blindfold, and put her hand on cup or plate or tinderbox — as she did, without fear, every winter morning before light—she was afraid. She stopped to listen before venturing to push to the door behind her. Then, without making a sound, she shut it fast, took up her store of sticks hidden behind the settle, and went across and knelt upon the stones.

The embers of a wood fire will keep alive for hours. A faint glow still peered through the white ashes of the pile Ursula had made, and she bent forward and blew upon it with her breath. It burst into a flame. She chose the smallest of her sticks and snapped them off, reached for a few half-burnt and charred logs that her father had laid aside, built them all together, and blew again. In a minute arose a crackling blaze that lighted up the place. Then, from here and there, she fetched her logs and soon made herself a roaring fire.

She brought a low stool and .seated herself in the middle, straight in face of the sooty, notched chimney-crooks upon which crocks and kettles used to be hung. For a long while she sat quite still. It had taken her much courage to creep down upon the errand on which she was bent. She had begun to undress, and was not clad the same as when she went upstairs. There was an old belief that a maid, who ate an apple and then combed her hair on Hallowmas Eve, might see the man she was to marry looking from behind her into the glass. Her red hair, strong and thick, but now smooth and glossy from the comb, hung down her back, though some of it, from her leaning forward, had fallen loosely around her ears and dropped in front over her shoulders. She had slipped off her skirt. Her short petticoat and her hose were all of crimson, and her leathern shoes, brought down in her hand and just put on, a ruddy brown. The dancing firelight, as the flames leaped and grew, shone and glanced and flashed and played upon her. There was something uncanny in her look, as though she were a witch, or, more likely, a maid bewitched, as, with lips parted, and half afraid to move, she stared into the very heart of the glow where a white heat was quivering upon the embers.

At last her hand stole into the pocket of her petticoat; and presently she drew out a handful of nuts and laid them in her lap. Then, taking heart, she hastily dropped a couple into the ashes.

For a moment she hesitated. It was natural to say one thing, but all her wish and desire prompted another. Yet she must be quick.

With a stick she pushed the first nut into the very midst of the heat.

“ William White.”

Her lips did but just form the words, but she could scarcely find breath to utter the sound. She thrust the other nut forward until the two lay side by side, and louder, but still in an awesome whisper, spoke her own name.

“ Ursula Handsford.”

He was her sweetheart “in good right,” as they say, but she watched the nuts with a sinking fear that the omen might prove fair. For they neither burnt nor burst, but stood together and blackened amongst the embers.

The fire had blazed out its first fury, and glowed now with a steady light and quiet strength. A cricket kept chirping in the corner. The slow ticking of the tall clock, which the ear never heeded amidst the sounds of day, put on a mystery and solemnity in the stillness of the night.

Suddenly, William went off with a crack that carried him back into the chimney; and the nut called Ursula leapt bang up against the red petticoat, so that the girl could not help a scream as she thrust away her stool.

Then they were not made for each other. She breathed again. Yet this was but half of it, after all. And now, eagerly, without wasting a second, Ursula chose two other nuts, laid them down upon the hearth, and pushed them among the live coals with her fingers, so that they were close-touching like peas in a pod.

“John White,” she said, “an’—an’— Ursula Handsford.”

In a minute they were both afire. They burnt like candles with a steady flame, and went out near about together. Ursula first, as she might look to do, being the elder by a year or two. Truly, they were like man and wife, who live in union all their years, and fall to ashes in one grave.

A thrill of gladness sprang up in Ursula’s heart. The two omens did not disagree, but fore-tokened as she would have them do. There were times to try these things, and then the signs came true. And this was Hallowmas Eve, when all the pixies were abroad, the strongest night for spells of all the year.

Yet, when she ate the apple, a hedgerow crab, there came no vision in the glass.

Close upon her delight followed a misgiving that this burning of nuts might mean little or nothing. It was so easy. Maidens for the most part laughed when they talked of it; though, to be sure, it had told the truth hundreds of times, as they all could well vouch for.

There flashed upon the brain of Ursula a recollection of a spell Jack had read out from the chap-book. It could bring up the very figure and presence of the man, just as he would be, even if the maid had never set eyes on him before. But the thought of that made her shudder. Besides, to do it she must go out in the dark.

No doubt it was a sure thing. The very names of people who had done it and the places, too, were certain knowledge. She got up from her stool, walked half across the kitchen, and then stopped. She had not the heart to go on. Yet it was nothing to do—to cross the barton and open the barn. Any other night, if needs be, she would have gone without thought. Scarcely knowing what she did, she went into the milkhouse and peered out of the window into the yard. From the deeper darkness under a roof the starlight without looked quite bright. She could make out the lines of the paving-stones, the pump, the tree upon which the milk-pails were hung to drain and keep dry, the wall and gable of the bam. To work the spell aright, she must be unseen and alone. Everything was fitting. After all, it had been done hundreds of times, and nobody ever one bit the worse —or the book would have given a warning, certain sure.

She drew the dairy-house bolt and went out, taking the barn’s key from under the eaves as she passed. She was to stand midway upon the barn’s floor where they threshed the com, with both doors open, and raise three times the winnowing sieve above her head. Then her future husband would pass through, the way of the wind, in in his everyday dress, in the very appearance of his trade, calling, or degree.

But having found courage to start on her undertaking, Ursula was carried forward, in spite of her fears, on a whirl of growing excitement.

All her preparations were quickly ready —the heavy doors pushed back, the sieve found—she scarcely knew how.

At the back, the barn opened towards the fields, and above a dark line of orchard tops, but just below the black durn-head of the door, shone a great planet, sharp and bright, to which the stars around looked pale and small. There was not a sound of bird, or bat, or any moving thing, and barely a breath of wind.

The girl’s limbs shook and trembled so that she had scarcely strength to stand and raise her arms. But she nerved herself to the effort. Once—twice—

The sieve dropped from her hands.

“ Oh God I help me! ”

She stepped back, and, to save herself from falling, clutched the wooden wall that parts the raised threshing-floor from the bay of the barn. Something she saw that terrified her brought her heart into her throat and stopped her breath, yet she oould not turn away her eyes. Dim in the gloom, yet unmistakable in the better light of the doorway, stood the dusky figure of a man. It stopped—moved slowly towards her across the floor—then stopped again.

“ Ursie.”

Her name was spoken in a low whisper that filled the barn and died away amongst the rafters and the roof. Yet she knew the voice of the young Jack White. She was afraid. She did not dare reply. Even if she could have found the heart to speak, she had no tongue to utter word, but still clung to the board, and held her breath in fear she might be heard and found.

“Ursie. Where be? I saw the door ope as I passed along the path—on my way home from uncle Moggses nut-crack night We’ve a-had pretty high-digees sure ’nough—what wi’ the bean-mow, an’ the hempseed, an’ one thing an’ t’ other. I thought what you were up to, Ursie, when I heard the hinge go creak. I want to talk to ’ee, Ursie. Where be? ”

So it was truly he and no ghost.

The girl drew a deep sigh, half-gasp and half-sob. He stretched out his hand and groped his way to her in the dark. She was so frightened that at once she clutched him by the arm and held him fast.

“ Why, you be all to a-trem’le,” he began.

“ Oh, Jack. I be gallied a’most to death," she panted. “ For little sooner did I raise my han’ than you walked in, an’ I thought—

I thought—I thought mid-be the devil did do it, Jack.”

“ Come on, an’ sit down! ” he begged of her. “ Your father brought in a wheat-mow only to-day morning, for I chanced to see un myself. Come in on the sheaves.”

She was pliant as a child. He led her off the barn’s floor into the right-hand bay, and they sat down close together, side by side, very much as they were when last they talked in the harvest field. Only now the mirth of the harvesters and the widow’s open speech had shouted aloud all that before was hidden. And Ursula’s wits were scattered, too, with the fright and strangeness of this unexpected meeting.

“ I thought I should never come nighst ’ee again, Ursie, to talk to 'ee, that is,” he sorrowfully began. “ I did lie in wait to have a word, but you did keep out o’ the way. There I’ve a-bin wild about ’ee, an’ I’ve a-bin a fool, too, an’ spended money an’—an’ all. You kep’ me out o’ it afore by what you did use to say. I couldn’ go against ’ee, Ursie, for the life o’ me. I thought so much o’ your leastest word. I don’t care now— not what do hap nor what I do do. For I do love 'ee dearly, I do, an’ always shall.”

His arm was around her waist, and with this hopeless lament he drew her closer to him; but doubtfully, for his mind held her in such awe and respect that he was afraid of meeting only with upbraiding.

With a sudden impulse, the outcome of her fright, her fears, and the joy his words gave her, she threw her arms around his neck and held him tight. Her loose hair had fallen across her cheek and shoulder. He thrust his fingers amongst it and against her throat. There was no need of words. They kissed each other again and again, with all the burning gladness of a full love for the first time acknowledged. There could be no trifling—no disguising of their passion after that.

His kisses burnt her. She could bear no more and turned aside her lips. A sense of danger crept over her, a knowledge of the night, a sudden scruple and a dread lest another might detect the open door, as young Jack had done. She drew herself away and pushed him roughly from her.

“ I must go in,” she said, and the words sounded angry and harsh.

A recollection of William came upon him.

He had loved and worshipped this elder brother in no half-hearted way. In his heart he felt ashamed. He would never again be able to look William in the face.

“Don’t ’ee go, Ursie,” he entreated, and he found her hand and held it fast. “ Bide a bit, an’ tell what we shall do.”

He was “ so wonderful easy led ” as Rizpah had before declared. Now that their love was spoken and there was no going back he could find nothing to say. He only saw the plight to which it led them, but he put all his trust upon Ursula already, and was willing, without question, to act as she might tell him.

She drew him back to her, and they stayed awhile and talked in the darkness.

Neither one could see the faintest glimmer of the other’s face; for the barn was lighted only by the open doors, and the bay in which the sheaves were placed was dim even in broad day. But she grasped his hand and held it on her lap.

There came to Ursula a longing to explain and excuse herself.

“ I tell ’ee, Jack, I—I was never in love wi’ William,” she stammered in broken sentences. “ But I was so miserable in the house. There, he—he corned along, an’ I liked un well enough—an’ I took un. Not but what I was that afeared o’ un, sure, that at times I did a’most love un. An’ if so be he had a-wed wi’ me—an’ took me out o’ it all—then I would ha’ loved un true, An' I was terrible upset the day he went. But there was no depth in it, like. For I do tell ’ee true, Jack, all my heart have a-bin set upon ’ee since the night o’ the revel.” “Let’s marry at once an’ settle all,” he said.

“But what o’ your mother? You be boun’ to live to Winterhays,”

“Ay, you know, but once wed, not a word to be said.”

“And do ’ee think Ursula Handsford is the one to come where she isn’ a-wanted? ” “But she took to ’ee wonderful, Ursie —an’ would do again.”

The widow’s words still rankled, and Ursula was proud.

“ It didn’t look much like it then by what she said. An’ if I do but cast my eye ’pon ’ee in church, she’ll frown so black as a thunder-cloud. An’ if we should marry in such haste, it’ll be the talk o’ the country.” “ But what o' that? If we do meet, they’ll talk, an’ there’ll be no living wi’ mother then.”

“I tell 'ee what, Jack, you had best to tell her outright. That we’ve a-caught a mind to each other. That so ’tis, an’ we can’t help it, like. That I’ll never wed wi’ William now, not if I do die a maid. For I’ve a-got all my mind upon ’ee, Jack, an’ I can’t say no otherwise.”

“An’ if she won’t hear o’ it—what shall us do? ”

“Then we’ll act as do fall out. For I’ll ha’ none but thee, Jack, come what may. An’, at the worst, we’ll set up for ourselves wi’ a few cows in a small way. An’ we’ll fo’ce my own bit o’ money out o’ father to do it, whether he will or no. For I will have it—if needs be—so there. By hook or by crook I ”

As she spoke, the girl got up, fully bent this time upon going.

By the barn’s door she stopped to set things straight. But he put his arm around her again, and they kissed good-bye.

“Come out to-morrow, Ursie, dear,” he whispered.

“ Come an’ meet me up in wood.”

“ I will.”

“ So as to tell what your mother do say.”

He hesitated. He would rather have married without a word and made all sure. But he had no power to do other than she wished.

“ I will. Creep in quiet, an', when you be a-bed, I’ll lock all up an’ lef the key for ’ee to find to-morrow on the wall. Then, if your father should hap to hear a sound, he can never guess ’twas you.”

So they parted. She crept into the silent house and no one knew. But, as she stole upstairs, and all night after as she lay awake, beneath the rapture of this new-found love lay a vague dread of threatening evil yet to come.

CHAPTER VII.

RECONCILIATION.

It wanted but a week to Christmas when, for the first time since the quarrel, the foot of Ursula once more crossed the threshold of Winterhays.

Rizpah White had passed through many changes of mind before this came about. Her mood varied as, day by day, she looked at the matter in some new light; but always her thoughts were single-hearted and upright, and in her anger was nothing mean.

At first, she went beside herself with wrath that any maid, without cause, could throw over so bold a man as William. For William was good as gold. Where was another to match him for the doing of his duty? Going back to the danger and hardship of the sea when he had given it up for good, so as to keep the old roof over their heads when it pleased God to cast misfortune upon them. Not Jack, who, if he could work well enough whilst he was at it, must needs be running off to spend strength and money wherever there wets revelling and fighting and sports. The widow washed her hands of all. A pretty maid indeed to alter her mind a’most so soon as the man was out of sight. Rizpah would never gi’e consent to such a change-about so long as she lived, whether for William or Jack.

But soon her temper softened into a lament that such a thing should come between her sons. During her hours of solitary work, when Jack was a-field, she could think of nothing else. They were children again running about the house, the little one always at the boy’s heel, or riding pig-a-back on his shoulders. Poor William, dead and gone, used to call them dinner time an’ twelve o’clock, because when one came the other was not far off. And in all Jack’s growing up, never did they fall out but once. When Jack, all on the sly, carried off William’s whip, and thoughtless dapped it down and then forgot, and when he ran back it was gone. Then William in his haste hit him on the cheek—and made his ear bleed, too. Yet, before the day was out, they were again as thick and close as nuts in a cluster. Now, come what may, they must be at odds all their lives through.

The widow sighed. Doubtless it was the will of God to send so many trials for some wise end. And Jack was most wonderful struck over Ursie. He had only been into town once in the last six weeks. At last the piety of Rizpah found, even in this trouble, the finger of Providence. Over her knitting, between the wiles of household work, she saw it all. Ursula Handsford was to steady Jack. She was to keep him straight. Rizpah’s heart warmed at the thought. Then, in her mother’s love for the boy last bom, she half forgot William. Poor Jack was so terrible down in the dumps, with scarcely a word now and never a smile. And, after all, it was better for William, too. For pity the man wed to a woman who worked about house with all her best thoughts outside. No good ever came o’ that. Never in this world.

So, by the middle of December, she was ready to say that, since they had made up their minds, however it might please God for things to turn out, she had no wish to be ill friends or to quarrel wi’ the maid —not she.

It was a cold, bleak day the first time Ursula went up the hill. The north wind came driving down the valley, with a fine snow that lay along the path and lodged between the short scanty grass, looking more wintry than when the ground is covered deep in drifts. She was uneasy. She had never spoken to the widow since harvest. The insult did not rankle, but Ursula dreaded the meeting more than she could tell. However, she went on. Jack came out to meet her by the garden-hatch, and they went in together.

It was early of a dull December afternoon. The widow pulled together the logs, drew up a chair, and bade Ursula sit down. They were all three silent until presently Rizpah began.

“Well, Ursie,” she said, in the calm voice of one who accepts a fact and does not mean to murmur, “ so you lost no time so soon as William had a-turned the back o’ un. ’Twould ha’ bin better to ha’ bin oft wi’ the old love afore you were on wi’ the new—an’ more seemly, too, I’m thinking. But I’ve a-got no more to say. As ’tis— so must be. ’Tis to be hoped you do know your own mind now.”

If another had spoken so, Ursula would have fired up at once, but the quiet manner of the widow stirred no anger, but rather begot respect.

“ I should never ha’ listened to William,” replied the maid in self-defence, “ if I hadn’ a-bin so unhappy wi’ father at home.”

“Well, rich or poor, thank God, so far we’ve a-bin all happy one wi’ another in this house,” cried Rizpah with pride.

Then she paused and sighed. For once the busy knitting needles ceased. Her hands for the minute rested idle in her lap as she looked straight at Ursula. “But what may chance to come, now, is more than I do dare to think about,” she added sadly.

Ursula had thought of the future and wondered many a day and many a night, yet she found not a word to say. Presently, the widow went on:—

“ If he did but know, I sim, I could rest more content. But there’s nowhere to send to. An’ if he should write, he’d be gone again afore anything could reach un. I can’t a-bear to think o’ the man, fooled wi’ his own thoughts o’ what he is to come home to.

An’ his brother that loved un durs’n’t walk a mile or so to meet un if he should tramp back to Bratton out o’ luck. But there, it mus’ all turn out as is ordained. ’Tis poor talking o’ what you can’t mend. Hark! What’s that? ”

The gate had fallen to with a slam, and there came a step upon the garden path.

Ursula, by the further side of the fire, was facing the window; and as her eye glanced aslant across the garden plot, it caught sight of the passing figure of a man—a seaman with a staff and a bundle tied in a handkerchief.

“’Tis William a-come back,” she gasped, in a whisper so low that she could only just be heard.

“William!”

Rizpah sprang to her feet to run to meet him—then stopped.

Each one looked blankly into another’s face. The moment that they dreaded had come sooner than they thought. The widow pointed with her finger and nodded eagerly to Ursula to slip out quickly by the other way. But at once there came a sharp rap upon the door. Then it could not be he. For why knock when he need but lift the latch? Unless he meant for joke to bring his mother out and take her by surprise.

Eager to welcome back her son, yet trembling to think what might befall, Rizpah turned and hastened to answer the knock. The other two stood and listened, Jack halfway across the kitchen floor and Ursula in the outer doorway waiting to hear one word and flee.

“ Is this Winterhays Farm? ” inquired the voice of a stranger.

“It is.”

“ Where the widow White do live? ”

“Please to walk in.”

“I brought a message from Mr. White, mate o’ the Fortune.” The visitor kept on talking in a loud blusterous voice as he followed Rizpah into the kitchen. “‘Tis but a few miles out o’ your way,’ says he, and I promised to come. He’s safe an’ sound in Bristol port, and, though he can’t get away for a day or two, ‘I’ll eat my Christmas dinner at home,’ says he, ‘ and a merry time we’ll have,’ says he. ‘For the Fortune’s as good as her name,’ he says, says he—”

The widow interrupted to beg of the stranger to please to take a seat. This brought the seaman to his manners, as it were. He grasped young Jack by the hand and shook it as if he had known him for years. He did the same even more heartily to Ursula who had come back. He stepped into the chimney-corner and made himself at ease; though he must be going on almost at once, for he had some miles to travel that night. His face in the firelight was the colour of the oaken dresser. He wore a loose jacket of blue and a neckercher tied in a knot. The widow without a word, but as a matter of course, busied herself to lay out meat and drink, the best she had, upon the board. And all the while, taking no heed that Jack and Ursula stood mute, he talked.

“Ay, the little Fortune is as good as her name,” he cried again, and slapped his knee. “ Though for eight weeks we had the devil’s own luck off the west o’ Ireland—for they’ll beat right round now, rather than face the Channel—yet never a chase could we fall in with, but once a Bristol snow, French-built. And then a month or more between Ushant and Land’s End, and like to have mutiny, along of a Swedish bark we stopped and let go again. And then, a-cruising off Cape Finisterre, we fell in wi’ a Frenchman o’ fifty guns—and like enough she was to ha’ carried us home, but—”

The widow handed him a cup of cider, and when he had drunk put it down upon the hearth to warm.

“Then Will—then Mr. White is sound and hearty?” she asked, laying a dignity upon the word “ Mr.,” which, however, could not hide her concern.

“ Sound as oak, an’ hearty as ever I ”

“ An’ from what you do say, he—-he mus’ ha’ done well for himself this cruise? ” she faltered.

“ Never better, ma’am. But I’ll just wet my whistle again and tell all,” cried the seaman, stooping to take up the cup. “ Here’s to his health, an’ joy in the spending o’ it. Aye, aye. What with his pay, an’ double share o’ prize money for a master’s mate— but I’ve a-got a bit of writing stowed away on my clothes. ‘ Just run alongside an’ drop it wi’ my mother,’ says he—‘or my brother Jack,’ he says, says he—”

He drank the cup dry and put it down. He slapped and patted himself all over till he heard the paper crinkle; and then, thrusting his hand into his jacket, dragged out a crumpled letter which he held towards Rizpah White.

The widow laid it down upon the bench. She could not read herself, and Jack must tell it out presently, when they were alone. Besides, the meal was ready.

“’Tis but bread an’ cheese, for we ha’n't a-cooked to-day,” she explained, though, in good truth, Rizpah had not cooked for many a day, “ but you be kindly welcome, if you’ll please to sit down to what there is, an’ if you’ll bide the night——”

The stranger could not hear of that. He must be pushing on, too. The days were short, and he had still a good ten miles before dark-night. He swaggered to the oaken bench, and fell to at once with a will and an appetite fit to spread both famine and drought through the four continents. But having taken full supplies aboard, he would not go back to the fire. He took up his staff and bundle, boisterously wished them good-bye and a Merry Christmas—and a safe run home for Mr. White —and then, amidst the widow’s thanks, took leave and went on his way.

Then Rizpah took up the letter again. Without a word Jack and she went over to the window, but Ursie, who could not read, crept into the chimney out of the way. Her elbows on her knees, she leaned forward, with her cheeks resting tight against her two fists, and waited to hear.

The heavy leaden clouds had closed in, and, under a threatening storm, the afternoon grew dark betime. Like enough there was going to be a ground of snow.

With trembling fingers the widow broke the seals—two little pats of red wax flattened by the pressure of a thumb. Then Jack slowly spelt out the letter and puzzled out the sense.

It ran:—

“ DEAR JACK,

“ Tell dear mother that I am well, as I hope all are at home. Tell dear mother I cannot say the day, but I think to be at Bratton within the week, and she need not to trouble, far we brought in the French ship and all, and I shall have a pretty sum, though I do not know how much. Tell dear mother not to trouble her head any longer, but to kill a goose for Christmas and I will be there. And whisper to Ursie Handsford, first thing, I shall ride to Wells

for a licence, for none o' your beating to winnard with the banns for we. So no more till we do meet.

“ From your loving brother,

“ WILLIAM WHITE.”

BOOK II

CHAPTER I.

“ THEY TWO, THEIRZELVES."

Ladyday had come and gone, but Rizpah White had not found “ the wherewi’ ” to pay her rent.

As yet she was only a few days behind time, but what to do was more than she could tell. She was the mistress—young Jack not yet being of age—and she had been sent for by lawyer Anstey, the steward, to go that morning about it into Wincanton-town. The meeting with gentlefolks—the confession that she could not pay—had flustered Rizpah. Now, at noon, with heavy steps and a sad heart, she came trudging home by the lonely road along the hill-top.

Above the village was a four-cross-way, close to a piece of waste run wild with glistening gorse and brake. As she reached the corner to turn down into Bratton, between tall hedgerows through the gap of a five-barred gate, the whole valley lay suddenly open to her sight. Quickly her eye glanced from the grey church, with its square tower, in the graveyard high upon the side of the ridge, to the straggling houses all along the slope, with Winterhays standing alone, the nearest of them all, amidst the fields she had trodden daily for the best part of her life.

It was spring, of a Thursday, as Good Friday fell on the morrow. Bright-edged April clouds, with patches of deep, clear blue between, hung over all. Ploughed ground and pasture-field alike shone and glistened sweet with sun and shower.

The wheat was growing fresh as grass, and Jack had put the barley in most wonderful well to year. The pushing leaf upon the elm was breaking green, though blackthorn bushes in the gully hedgerow still held their blossom white as snow. Down in the bottom, close to Three-hounds Waste, a thin blue mist of smoke curled up between the trees. Sure sign that winter was behind their backs when the wandering gipsies came about once more.

The place was dear to her, and it never looked more homely than to-day. Since poor master brought her there—scarce out of her teens, she had never laid head to pillow under any other roof. For if they were ten mile away, no matter what the weather, rain or shine, starlight or cloudy night, back they must come to be ready for the morning work. And there the boys were born. And there, in the room of the middle dormer, above the porch, the blow fell; when the hand of God, without sign or warning, snatched the company from her fireside and the mate from her bed. The Ionesomeness of the empty comer made her heart cling to the old walls. And in the churchyard was the grave not overgrown where her goodman slept, with no stone at his head, as yet, that folk might read the name and who he was. Ay, though it were a palace fit for a king, with fields o’ meadow-grass knee-deep, and grounds to yield twelve sacks o’ wheat the acre, never fail, in any other spot on earth Rizpah must live a stranger all her days. And they would have to leave. Though it had not been said for good and all, it was clear as day that they must go.

All the road along she had been at her wits’ end to think of some way to raise money to try her luck for another year.

To beg for help of great-ancle Tutchins, or to try to borrow of cousin Simon Mogg. But it was of no use. To do either one or the other was but to lower her pride and to get “ No ” for an answer. No thought would come into Rizpah’s head clear enough to take in common-sense and flatter her into hope. Only, since the last word had not been spoken, her brain could not rest.

From the height she saw Ursula with young Jack behind come out of the house and ihto the path to look. Restless to hear what she had to tell, they were watching for her to come back. They dared not go up so far as the road, she understood, lest in their countenances folk should read their eagerness and talk. Nothing could be kept from the prying eyes and busy tongues of Bratton.

Then the whole weight of Rizpah’s troubles bore down upon her at once. All her life through she had stood up against the ills of to-day, and faced to-morrow with a stout courage, but at last her spirit failed. She had done her best. No hands upon earth could do more. She had slaved from mom to night, pinched and saved when nobody saw, and gone to bed hungry all to no end.

The chance was past, It was no longer any good to try to keep things together now, She glanced again at the man and woman standing just by the end of the wall. “ Ah I ” she sighed, stretching one arm towards them as she spoke, “ 'tis you two have a-brought it about. ’Tis you two——”

But tears rushed into her eyes, blurred her sight, and choked the words,

In the middle of a corner of waste made by the cross-roads was a small knoll, and, at one side, a copse with thick undergrowth and a few tall trees. She could not go home yet. To talk to gentry she had put on the mourning, heavy and stiff, that she wore on Sundays, and she was all of a sweat with this warm day of early spring. She went and sat down, out of the way upon the bank, to rest. To see Jack and Ursula brought back to her mind the story of the last few months, with all its vivid hope and dark disappointment.

This was how it had fallen out.

Within a day after the visit of the seaman the news of William’s good fortune and looked-for return went buzzing from mouth to mouth, and ran like wildfire through all the villages around Bratton.

Why, all the folk of the neighbourhood trooped to and fro along the path to Winterhays; and the widow could not stir out, so much as a foot, without being met and stopped by friends and neighbours burning “to hear the rights o’ it all”. And everybody was really and truly glad. For Rizpah was well-liked, as right-hearted people always are and will be. Now that she was in luck, the whole parish rang with her praises, and tongues chimed in, one with another, like a peal o’ bells.

“Ay, the Whites always were as good a sort as ever trod shoe-leather,”—“ So they were ”— “ always ready to lend a thing when they had it, and do a good turn when they could, like; and never waiting to snap a body off short who had any little favour to ask, like some do that could be mentioned.” “ So they do.” “ For if they must say ‘ No’—as everybody must now and again when it isn’t convenient ”—“ So they mus’, in course they mus’ ” or “ if they ha’n’t a-got it mayhap, why, then, wi’ a White, one and all, the answer do pop out smiling, and tell the reason why.” “So’t do.” “An’ never glad wi’ another’s harm, no, nor jalous o’ good. An’ if the widow do speak out straight when she idden best pleased, why, all that the better to be sure than ’tis to be so under-creeping, like some be”—“So they be ”—“ to tell behind the back o’ ’ee what they ha’n’t a-got spirit to speak to your face—no more they ha’n’t.” “ Ah! for then you can tell where you be ”—“ So you can.” “ An’ once said is a-had out an’ done wi’.” “ So ’tis.” “ Though there be many about do hide away a thing, and hold it in mind for years, till they can see what they can do.” “ So they do.”

And all this praise, though a little breathless, was sweet to Rizpah; for, look at it how she would, it was sincere, and the goodwill frank and clear as summer sunshine, so that her pride in herself sprang up and grew afresh in the warmth of it.

And, amongst the relatives, the rumour of this piece of good fortune swept away every little difference and healed every wound.

To tell the truth, great-uncle Tutchins had not been to Winterhays since harvest.

He was a bit upset. Yes, he was. And nothing but natural so to be. He made no pretence to hide his displeasure, for, as he said, after he had a-sweat like a bull all day, a-carr'ing wheat, and then zot down an’ ate his supper, and took his glass, without so much as a single thought in the head of him, to find Rizpah White jump up and come at him like a roaring lion was enough to stir the bile of any man. And there was no call for it, neither. Though, to be sure, Rizpah did not know then what had since turned out wi’ young Jack an’ Ursula; and that, now that the Whites looked to be better off, he began to see might make a difference.

So was Malachi Webb most terr’ble out of temper, too; though nobody thought that mattered but Malachi himself. He seized every opportunity of pointing out that it wasn’t to say that the widow had been doing so wonderful well, either, that she should stand up and spit fire at one no worse off than herself.

Cousin Simon Mogg had never so much as put a foot near the place since Bratton revel. He liked Rizpah, so he said, well enough to bide away. Look at it how you might, he said, the Whites were not wise; and cousin Simon Mogg, though he said it himself, had never been the man to take advantage. Folk that were well-to-do had no right to help eat their own kin out o’ house and home. Besides, as he owned in a whisper to great-uncle Tutchins, Rizpah, much as he respected her in many ways, might hap, one of these fine days, to run short and look around for a few pounds. Then, if a man have a-bin in an’ out the house morning, noon, and night, all times and all seasons, eating and drinking, making free with whatever there was, why, all that the harder to say “ No ” Though he liked Rizpah, mind that. An’, mayhap, if he were most wonderful friendly, might chance to give away. And to be fair, whatever might come, it was none of her own fault, and he should always like her, hap what may. So, in the staying away of cousin Simon Mogg there was no ill-will, but, on the one hand, real goodness of heart, and on the other, a prudent desire to keep out of the way of temptation. Great-uncle Tutchins saw this clearly, and told cousin Simon Mogg he was quite right.

But when it became known that William had done well, and was to be home for Christmas Day, they all trooped in, one at a time or two together, to shake the widow by the hand and show how glad they were.

The kitchen was full of visitors all the week through. And the questions they asked were more than Rizpah could well answer. How much had William made? What would his two shares amount to? There was nothing to go by but this—William was not the man to talk o’ more than he had done. Stories of untold gold won upon the high seas dazzled the fancy of Rizpah, so that, for a day or two, she dreamed that all her cares were over, but for the one trouble of this love affair of Ursula. Her load was so greatly lightened that, at times for hours together, she forgot even that. Her mind was made up what to do, and that in itself brings quiet. Ursie, at first, must keep out of the way. Jack need say nothing. And then at night she would sit with William by the fire alone, and talk, and, watching all the while, catch the right moment to speak out the truth.

So Rizpah killed and picked the fattest goose she had, and set it ready for roasting, Christmas morning. The holly was thick and glistening red in berry that year, and she trimmed up the kitchen as never was, chimney, window, wall and beam. It shone a welcome not only to the day but ready for the traveller, by this time started on his homeward road. And as she stood to tend the spit, anxious and trembling between mother’s love and fears, she thought out what was just If William’s money won back his father’s land, then, of good right, he must live with her at home. And Jack could marry Ursie and go into some farm, away out of sight, so as not to be an eyesore day by day. Mayhap, in God’s will, as time went on, William would choose another wife and marry, too; and so ill-will wear out and all be one again.

As the morning passed, every whip’s while she ran out to the garden gate to look along the path. For certain, he would come by coach to one of the towns near by and walk across. But travelling was like to be late, Christmas time and all. Yet William knew what he was saying when he wrote he would be there. Rizpah put back the cooking to make the dinner late.

But noon slid past, yet William did not come.

For certain, if it were by way of Win-canton he was travelling, by this time the coach must have gone by.

In the afternoon great-uncle Tutchins, and Malachi, and ever so many more looked in. What, not come? Oh, well, sure as the light he would walk in afore night. They sat down just to wait, and made themselves very merry as at that season eveiybody should.

“You see,” reasoned the widow sadly, but still with pride, “a man in authority is never free. He mus’ carr’ it all in the head o’ un, for if any little thing mid turn out wrong or go awry, the blame do fall ’pon his shoulders. So his duty do never cease, when a common man mid do as he will. What wonder, then, if William should be a little late?”

To this they all agreed, and fell a-talking of the great advantages of humble station. Great-uncle Tutchins declared that he had a-said it afore, and ’ud say it again, that, a steady, careful, labouring man, wi’ nothing, is better off in real truth than one that have a-got so much. For he’ve a-got no cares an’ nothing to lose. But property is a real tyrant, look at it how you will.” He took a deep drink of hot gin and cider, wagged his head wisely, and glanced around for support. Malachi and the rest of them seemed to have their doubts, until cousin Simon Mogg, one of the beat off and the most far-seeing men within ten miles of Bratton, mild as he looked, spoke up. “ It mid be hard for some to see it,” he said, speaking as one who had suffered the hardships of wealth, “but that’s no more than the truth.”

But evening drew on, and then dark-night and candles, yet William did not come.

With a sigh the widow put out the goose cold for supper, and the visitors grew very jolly and stayed quite late, laughing and talking all the more to keep Rizpah up in heart, so they said. For she showed a little downcast, to be sure she did. Anybody can understand that who knows a mother’s heart. But there, after all, he was sure to come to-morrow, or leastways as quick as he could.

To-morrow came and went. Then day after day and week after week had slowly slipped away until now, the beginning of April, but brought neither sound nor sign to tell whether William were alive or dead.

At first folk thought little of this delay. For, after all, it is the commonest thing in life for a man not to do the thing he means upon the day he mentioned; and wondering a little longer only whetted the appetite of Bratton to look for more, when William should come. But soon the Moggs, the Puckeridges, great-uncle Tutchins, and Malachi Webb began to smile. “Ah! set a sailor ashore wi’ money in his pocket, and you’ll soon find a man without a coat to his back.” “Ay, an' quick-come-by is a different colour to hold-fast.” Malachi Webb, for one, threw out a doubt whether William could ever ha' won one quarter so much as the widow had a-gi’ed out. So, in the end, interest flagged and fell. For weeks the name of William White had not crossed anybody’s lips, except, it may be, now and again in gossip over a friendly glass and coupled with a joke.

Rizpah alone felt quite certain of what had happened.

But what is done is done, and it is no good to talk. So she had hidden away her thoughts, and brooded over them, but, up to now, no word of complaint had crossed her lips to any Christian souL “Yes,” she muttered to herself, as the loss of William came into her mind, “ 'tis they two their-zelves that have brought it about.”

She waited only long enough to dry her tears and hide the traces of her agitation. Her emotion was too deep, and she too familiar with her sorrow, to give way to long weeping or useless lament. Besides, there was no time to waste. The day was passing away; the morning gone and nothing done. She must hurry home, change her gown, and get to work.

She got up and walked quickly homewards down the hill. Jack and Ursula had gone indoors again, but, as she entered the garden, they came running in haste out of the porch. Near the gate stood the butt of a hollow tree, filled with earth and the dry sticks of last year’s flowers, and upon the edge of this Rizpah sat down again.

“ What had he to say, mother? What could ’ee come to?” cried young Jack, as fast as words could follow one another.

Ursula looked at the widow’s face and was silent.

“He didn’ say so very much,” began Rizpah slowly, and pausing to think between each sentence, as if trying to call back the lawyer’s very words. “He was wonderful kind, in a way like, about the rent. He said, after knowing the Whites so many years, he knew that he was safe. He said, there was a-plenty here to cover all, an’ he said, he’d so soon trust me as any in the world—”

“ Then he’ll let it bide a bit,” put in Jack, brightening at the thought.

But, giving no heed to the question, the widow went on:—

“ If I had a-bin the first in the land, he couldn’ a-spoke more fair. He said, his meaning in sending were to learn out what I do think my own self. He said, he had a-heard a sound that there wasn’t enough stock on the farm. An' did I think we could ever hope to keep it on? He said, there was another willing to take the place at a high price—”

A feeling of mingled anger and shame came over Ursula, and her mouth grew hard. She could not bear to look the widow in the face. She turned away, picked a shining leaf from the laurel hedge, and tore it into shreds.

“ An’ then he said, ’twere better by far to lef betime than when we had a-lost all. An’, after all, ’t’ud be to our own good to go; for he’d find a littler farm to match our means, an’ take care we suffered no hurt going out or in. An’ then he said——”

But Rizpah suddenly broke off and could tell no more. She lifted her hands in utter hopelessness, and, raising her voice, she cried:—

“ There!—there! It was all such sense —such sense. For if he had a-found fau’t, I could have a-bore wi’ it. But when he were so kind, my tongue could shape never a word to say. An’ then he said, quite quiet like, ‘think it over a week, Mrs. White, what’s best for yourself, an’ come wi’ an answer then’.”

“We had better to sell—”

She cut young Jack short.

“ I tell ’ee there’s nothing but a miracle can save us now! ” she cried angrily, rising to her feet to go indoors, for the silliness of what he was about to say was more than she could be still to hear.

She took a few hasty steps upon the path, but, by the porch, she turned about and her voice rang sharp and clear:—

“ There was never but one chance in this world,” she cried, with a look full of reproach, “an’ that you cast away from me. For the Almighty blessed William—so He did—an’ gi’ed un luck; an’ ’twere you yourself, Urs’la Handsford, that drove un away from the home he thought to ha’ come back to. Ah! he would ha’ corned if he hadn’ a-heard. Mayhap he did come, for all we do know—an’ learnt—an’ went in shame or anger, so silent as he corned. For he had a steadfastness o’ heart, had William, that nam o’ ’ee have a-got, nor never will. An’ he do believe that his own mother allowed it all an’ held against un. For he'd never a-lef’ me, else. An’ say what you will, or do what you mid, 'tis you two that have a-brought it about—to drive away my son—to turn me out o’ house an’ home—an’ bring me to the grave in want when I mid ha' lived in plenty.”

She had said her say. She stopped abruptly and went indoors.

Ursula, quivering in every nerve, turned round to Jack:—

“ Go up an’ put in the banns to-day,” she said shortly. “ An' wait, to-night, till everybody is a-bed an’ soun' asleep. Then come down—quiet, mind—to the milkhouse door. An’ bide, Jack, till I do let ’ee in. For I’ve a-got a need o’ 'ee for what I do mean to do,"

Then, without waiting for so much as an “ Aye ” or “ Nay,” she strode out of the gate, leaving Jack to watch in wonder until, amongst trees and hedges, she passed out of sight.

CHAPTER II.

FOUR-PENNYWORTH OF FORTUNE.

The footpath leading across the fields and passing close behind Jacob Handsford’s barn was more lonely than the village street. To avoid meeting anybody, and the better to get indoors unseen, Ursula had taken that way home.

Warm at heart and impulsive by nature, she had no power to conceal her thoughts and feelings, or to bide her time. If she were angry, she must show it; when her blood was up, she must speak out. And yet, brought up by her father and hourly alert to his secret ways, she had gained an insight into the hidden workings of the meaner side of human nature which the single-minded Rizpah did not possess. Well enough she knew who had hinted that Winterhays was understocked. The friendliness of the lawyer Anstey, which the widow took for kindly respect, and young Jack seemed to think made all things easy, did not deceive Ursula. Why, the very phrases smacked of her father’s words. She could hear his little dry chuckle as he whispered, for the widow’s own good, mind, that ’twere better to leave in time than to lose all. And the reason was as plain as noonday. By fair words, of her own will, they must get the widow to go out. For the name of Jacob Handsford was a bye-word already. And to go behind a bargain, or, by under-creeping, to worm and hook another out of home, was a crime in the eyes of all honest folk to follow a man to the end of his days, and be remembered and talked about when his bones lay bare and dry under the sod. Even he, who stuck at nothing when a penny was to be got, hesitated to face that, if by other means he could gain his own ends. But little did he guess that they knew he had made an offer for the land. She took a spiteful delight in picturing how he would fume and scold when he presently found her speaking straight out, and determined to claim her rights. For the time was come to have her money, and have it she would, aye, and use it, too, to stop him in what he meant to do.

And underneath all her anger and excitement was a constant gnawing of remorse. What the widow said was true. Ursula had thought of that herself. William had heard, and therefore would never again come back to Bratton. Even when she went in fear of his return, and the troubles it must bring, she saw clearly enough that his absence must mean the ruin of the Whites. To think of it made her sick at heart. It was she who was turning them out of Winterhays.

Oh, well! Wait until evening, she said to herself. Let her father be settled in to his supper, with nobody else about, then let them see what was to be done.

The moment came sooner than Ursula expected.

She had passed the barn and reached the barton gate, through which she used to drive in the cows, when a sudden outburst of voices fell on her ear. It came from the paved courtyard before the milkhouse door. At first she was too far off to catch the drift of it; but, sure enough, her father was dealing out shrill accusations and threats. She could also hear the terrified denials, the crying and frightened sobs, of little Hannah Peach.

“ You’ve a-stole it.”

“ I ha’n’t, maister, I ha’n’t—I tell ’ee I ha’n’t.”

“ You’ve a-stole the money, you little workhouse thief. I’ll send for the constable. I’ll bring 'ee to the gallis, I will. An’ you, too, you fortune-telling, thieving, runabout rogue, I’ll have ’ee brought afore a justice, I will. You shall go to jail, you shall. I’ll have ’ee flogged to the cart’s tail—”

Eager to learn what all this hullibaloo might mean, Ursula ran across the barton and into the yard.

By the pump stood a tall gipsy woman. She was black-haired and wore metal earrings. A wicker basket of wares hung by a strap from her shoulder. At the doorway was Hannah, bewailing and wringing her hands. Between them stood Jacob Handsford, in shirt-sleeves, just as he had popped in from the stalls, but with his upraised pick clutched in both hands.

“ I saw money pass, I did. Silver money I saw pass. Ha! ha! You little thought of anybeddy a-watching t’other side o’ wall. But I eyed ’ee in; and saw the maid run indoors—an’ come out again—an’ cross your han’ wi’ a silver piece. I saw the glitter o’ it, I did. Gi’e it here, I tell ’ee, or ’full be the wo’se for 'ee. She stole it. Gi’e it here! ”

As he spoke he grounded the pick and stretched out his lean hand towards the gipsy. Scared at his threats, and overawed at the mere mention of a justice, the woman stepped forward, and dropped into his hollow palm Hannah’s lucky fourpenny bit. Ursula understood at once. The little work-house maid, longing to know what her poor life might have in store, had given the only money she ever owned to learn her lot.

At sight of the coin Jacob Handsford was beside himself “ Run up for the tything-man! ” he threatened at the top of his voice. “ I won’t have no thieves about house. I’ll send her back to the workhouse. He! he! ’Tis you, Ursie, she’ve a-robbed, for I were never one to leave money about. She’ll come to the gallis, I know she will. Ho! ho! We shall live to see the huzzy ride on a hurdle.”

As Jacob turned to speak to Ursula the gipsy woman, muttering curses as she went, wisely took the opportunity to make the best of her way off. Hannah, still weeping bitterly, gave over her frightened declarations of innocence and became mute.

“No, we shan’t,” contradicted Ursula flatly. “ ’Tis her own money. I gi’ed it to her myself, for a honester girl to work there can’t be. ’Tis her own to do as she will wi’, so there.”

Jacob quietly slipped the groat into his breeches pocket.

“ Ho! ho! So that’s how you do waste what I do work so hard to get, is it? That’s how you do rob your father o’ what’s only a-gi’ed ’ee for a purpose. Oh, well! forewarned—forearmed; once bit—twice shy. I’ve a-gi’ed ’ee too much, I have, by far. I’ve a-bin a fool to be so bountiful. You’ve so good as stole it yourself—you have. ’Tis ’bezzlement in law. That's what 'tis. But I shall mind it. He! he! I shall tell ’ee o’ it when next you do come a-wanting an’ a-begging.”

He had been strangely shy of quarrelling with her of late, and, as he finished speaking, he turned his back as if to shuffle away about his business.

But the blood of Ursula was up. All that she had in mind to say to him at evening came out there and then upon the spot.

“An’ that’ll be next-never-come-day, if you do wait to then. I shall never ax ’ee for no more, except what's mine by good right and law. So I mid so well tell 'ee and gi’e notice at once. I do mean to wed wi’ the young Jack White. I have a-told un a’ready he mid put in the banns. So all you have a-got to do is to han’ me over what’s my own, for that's all I do ax o’ ’ee.”

Startled at such sudden and unlooked-for news, he turned round in a passion, again lifting his pick as if he would ^trike. But the girl only looked him full in the face, and that cowed him.

“ I won’t gi’e it to ’ee,” he said sullenly. “You don’t know your own mind. This time last year, ’twere William, an’ now, 'tis John. I don’t consent to the marriage, and I won’t gi’e it up.”

“Then there is they that can make ’ee, quick enough. Ay, an’ wi’ all the use-money, since the day you took it in han’——”

“They can’t. They can’t,” cried Jacob, louder than before. But the misgiving underneath his bluster was plain to see.

“ They both can an’ will,” the girl went on, raising her voice, and speaking very fast. “ An’ first thing to-morrow morning, so soon as the milking is a-done, I’ll walk into Wincanton-town my very own self, and see the lawyer Anstey; and hire un to look at girt-uncle Jeremy's will; an' find out what 'tis; an’ get my rights for me; an' then he can take so much as is wanted to pay off the rent on Winterhays, an’ the rest'll go to stock it better, as there's some about do think 'tis understocked. We shall get on well enough an’ ask nothing o’ nobody. An' you’ll be able to get somebody to manage for 'ee, more to your own liking.”

This volley of threats took Jacob so much by surprise that for the moment he was beside himself and without a word to say. He stamped—he glared—then took two steps towards her. But Ursula stood firm. That she would act as well as talk, he did not doubt. If she were to go to the lawyer Anstey and say as much as that, there was an end to all his schemes. With the help of Ursula, the Whites could stay on well enough. It was one thing to jog along and make a living with the land their own, as they did when old William White was alive, but quite another to pay rent. Yet, with more means, they could do it, ay, and save a little year by year. His shrewd, money-loving mind grasped all this in an instant. But it took longer to frame a wise reply. He was afraid; and since the girl would not be browbeaten, he became crafty as ever. He fidgetted with his feet. His eyes glanced restlessly from house to wall and back again. Then, at last, he found his tongue:—

“Pack o’ nonsense,” he cried, trying to appear calm and at ease, though his piping little voice cracked with excitement; “ you don’t know what you do say. He I he! There, I’ve a-got no time to listen to such stuff.” And, with a forced, uneasy laugh, he turned to go his way.

“ Then I’ll change my frock an’ go in to once,” the girl called after him.

He stopped, with his hand upon the latch of the little wooden gate that opened into the yard.

“You can’t do that,” he shouted, but without looking back. “You do want to move too fast by half. Ho! ho! I don’t deny ’ee your money. I never ha’n’t said no such word. But you can’t call in money like you can whistle to the dog. You've a-got to take your time. There's notice to be a-sar’ed, an' the time mus' run. He! he! You do think to ask at noon, an’ go to law afore night. Why, the lawyer Anstey 'ud laugh in the face o’ ’ee. Ay, an’ chuckle behind your back, too, the while he did use up half your money in law about nothing. But you can’t go to law if I don’t deny ’ee. An’ I tell ’ee straight out, you shall have your money. Some time after midsummer you shall have it. But tidden what you do think. I don’t gi’e my consent, an’ so I shall charge ’ee for time and trouble. Ah; an’ then there’s drawbacks, too. There’s keep and clothes. Ho! ho! Tidden what you think. But you shall have your money, never fear. All that you have a-got left o’ it. I have a-told ’ee so—mind that. So soon after midsummer as I can find time I undertake to reckon up the accounts.”

He gave her no chance to make reply, but hurried away as fast as he could. And all the afternoon he worked close about the house so that he might see if Ursula started for Wincanton-town.

He had got the better of her—the girl knew that.

She would be but a fool to go to a lawyer when he could answer that he was ready to pay. Yet, clearly enough, she saw this was only a put-off, and, at midsummer, he would find some other excuse. Then the miser able meanness of charging her for living at home—for that was what his words meant —when she had managed everything and worked for him like a slave, flashed across her mind. He might take it out and welcome, for all she cared, so long as she might have the rest at once to get out of the house and away from him for good. She wished that somebody would rob him of every penny and do him out of every acre that he had. She ran into the house and gave Hannah Peach a whole shilling out of downright anger and ill-will.

“ There! An’ I wish ’twur a crown,” she cried. “An’ I hope we mid both live to see un lose his last farden an’ beg by the roadside,” she cried.

The little workhouse maid, frightened half out of her wits at the word gallows, had been weeping her eyes out ever since.

Now she stared in wonder at Urs’la and dried her tears.

CHAPTER III.

URSULA’S SCHEME.

For more than an hour after Jacob Handsford was in bed and all was still, Ursula waited and listened before she ventured to creep downstairs.

She had taken no pains to-night to keep the fire from going out, and the kitchen was quite dark. She had to feel her way across the room. She had thrown a short, round cape over her shoulders, and the edge of it swept a drinking horn from off the corner of the bench as she passed. It fell against the stool and rolled away across the floor. The noise and clatter of it quite startled her. Then she bethought herself that it was wiser to strike a light before going to let Jack in. He would but blunder upon something or the other and rouse the house. But even the snick of the steel against the flint sounded strangely loud. And if she carried the candle to the door, somebody might see. The girl was so keenly alive to what she was about that she crept out into the yard, called him in, closed the door behind, and bade him wait where he was whilst she fetched the light to show the way.

“ Ursie—”

She raised her finger at once to cut his question short. He spoke in a deep, bass whisper that, in the quiet of night, seemed to rumble all through the place, and Ursula had set her heart so dearly upon the thing she had in hand to do that the mere thought of interruption frightened her.

Safely in the kitchen, without wasting a moment, she crossed to her father’s old bureau, noiselessly drew out the rests and turned back the slanting lid.

In one of the square pigeon-holes were two letters, both brought by hand within the last week. Her father had sat down, there and then, in a temper, and had written an angry answer to the first. Never had Ursula beheld such urgent haste in all her life. Why, to send a message by writing did not happen once in a blue moon. And for very good reason, too, since it was so much easier to wait a week or so for a chance to say what you might have to say by word of mouth. Something was going on. Ursula was sure of it. And his frequent poring over the writing and the figures—that was strange. It must be about this taking of Winterhays. Her mind was bent upon knowing, if it took all night.

His book was there also. She seized upon that, opened it at the beginning, placed the candle to light the page, and beckoned to young Jack.

“Bead it out, but soft, like,” she said in his ear.

The young Jack knit his brow into a frown too frightful for words to describe, as he drew his finger along the line and spelt and read aloud:—

“ To charm away warts. Take a bit of rancy bacon, rub the warts well, and bury it under the middle stone of the drashle of the stable door. The warts will then go.”

“Tidden that,” said Ursula, breathless with excitement, and she pointed haphazard at writing lower down on the same leaf. “There, what’s this about?”

“ To ward off the evil eye—”

“ No, not that. There, then—there.”

“ To cure pott-evil—”

“ La! ” burst out the girl sharply, in her impatience thrusting aside his hand from the page. “I sim, if I were a scholar, I could soon find out what I do want. Turn over leaf. Turn on till you do see where he do put down about his money.”

The early pages were covered thick with charms and cures and recipes intermixed with here and there a maxim of prudent husbandry, culled and copied in full out of some printed book in the small, scram hand of Jacob Handsford. Then came a blank as if all were done. And then again was writing in another shape, unlooked for, in the very middle of the book.

“ What’s that? ”

Jack pulled closer the candle, snuffed it, bent down his head and began to puzzle again.

“ The count of the two hundred pounds left by Jeremy Handsford, and put out to use upon security to Mr. Malachi Webb.”

“ That’s it. That’s it. That’s my money, Jack. Read it out quick, there’s a dear, good chap.” She caught him by the arm and squeezed him with delight. “ An’ that’s who one o' the letters was from, too. Here! Stop a minute. Look here.”

From the pigeon-holes in front of them she hastily reached down two thin sheets of paper, both folded alike and broken around the red wafers where they had been torn abroad. One after the other she opened and spread them out before him on his desk.

“ There, read them first, Jack,” she said, pushing them hastily towards him. Then she also bent forward her head and peered down upon the paper.

They were both from Malachi Webb, and the story which they had to tell was clear and not to be mistaken. The earlier was the longer, and to this Jacob had sent the sharp reply. It was in a tone of complaint. He should be “ a goodish bit put about,” so Malachi said, to pay off the mortgage in such a hurry; and he thought it a very hard thing to have it called in in such a sudden way, in a time of misfortune and when the use-money had never been even a day late. He begged of Mr. Jacob Handsford to think it over again before putting him to so much loss, to say nothing of ill-convenience.

Ursula could not hold her peace to listen to the end. She stood up from leaning on the bureau, and stamped her bare foot upon the ground. Forgetful of the need for silence, she spoke no more in a whisper, but as if, for anything she cared, all the world might hear.

“ I knew it,” she cried. “ ’Tis all a lie to put me off that he told just now, about not being able to call it in afore midsummer. He could do it when it suited un, well enough. Ay, or any other mortal thing to gain his own ends. Pinch and scrape and squeeze and starve his own self or ruin anybody else to gain a penny the more. But I’ll have it out o’ un. I’ll go tomorrow.”

“Hush, Ursie. He’ll hear ’ee an’ come down.”

“ An’ I don’t care if he do. I ben't afeared o’ un one mo’sel bit. Why, there’s scarce a minute o’ the day—what wi’ his talk o’ other folk; or his peeping an’ watchin’ what you do do—from morning when he do look for the broken crust for Hannah that were left overnight, to the last thing when his eye do measure the candle-end afore he do blow out the light—when I couldn’ catch un hold by the neck an' kill un. I could —now. When I do but think of it, I could kill un.”

Her voice had risen almost into a scream. It was the anger of a free heart pent-up and imprisoned through all its youth within a ring of meannesses that stood together, close as the bars of a cage. But Ursula's face told more than her words. Two deep furrows frowned between her brows, and her eyes glared with fury, as she cried again:—

“ I could, I could Then she stepped quickly back to the letter.

“ Come, let’s hear the upshot about Malachi Webb,” she said contemptuously, but forcing herself to be calm.

The second letter was very brief. The borrower must have found a friend to help him through, and now a strain of confidence and manly independence underlay Malachi’s style. There was almost a sneer in the way he stuck up for himself, telling Jacob to rest his mind in peace, for his money he should have to the last farthing upon April 13th, and not one minute before—“ when is the right time you can call it in by law, and I will meet you to Wincanton-toum after work that evening, for the convenience cf both, there to 'pay the money into your own

hand, cmd take your quittance in full” added Malachi, and signed his name with a flourish full of pride.

“ When is that? ” she asked abruptly, for a plan had flashed suddenly upon her mind.

He laid hand to forehead, trying to count right back from quarter-day. His brain was not so nimble as hers.

“’Twere the sebenth o’ Sunday,” she began, without waiting for his answer, telling the days upon her fingers, “ Monday, eight; Tuesday, nine; Wednesday, ten.”

“Ah 1 But ’tis Good Friday, to-morrow, and that do fall on the twelfth. Mus’ be o’ Saturday, then,” he put in, suddenly recollecting, after he had fallen into hopeless confusion.

“ Jack,” she went on eagerly, craning her head towards him and holding out a hand quivering with excitement, “ do ’ee see through it? Can ’ee read the meaning of it all? ”

He looked at her in perplexity, not catching what she meant.

“He’ve a-called it in, Jack, so as to be ready to take up Winterhays.”

“ That’s what ’tis, for certain sure,” sighed Jack.

Then he frowned. His lips and brow became hard-set. He looked as she had seen him many a time, when he stood up for a bout of cudgel-playing, or knelt on one knee on the grass to set “Holdfast” fair at the bull.

“ So he’s using my own money—my very own money—for 'tis the same by the book —to bring about my own ruin.”

In her indignation at such unrighteous dealing, she turned back to the desk and snatched up, as if that could help her, the letter she could not read.

“ But what’s mine is yours, Jack, or will be any time you do like. If ’tis only to spite un I’ll marry ’ee so soon as ever the time do allow. The Monday after we be called home the day afore. An’ I’ll never put up wi’ it. ’Tis mine, an’ I’ll have it, come what may. So there.”

“An’ so you ought,” he added grimly, truly angry on Ursie’s behalf. Yet, for the life of him, he could have given no counsel as to how it might be brought about. At the sports, or on the farm, he was sharp enough, and could make things hum; but of law and all such business there was not a notion in his brain.

“ Jack! ” she began suddenly in an awesome whisper. Then she hesitated, for her heart was half-afraid to put its own prompting into words.

“ He’ll bring the money home here,” she said, and stopped again, and glanced at him keenly as if expecting him to understand.

“ To be sure; he can’t use it till answer is a-gi’ed—the best part of a week.”

“No. He’ll bring it home an' think to hide it away—”

“ An’ you’ll find it, Ursie,” spoke up Jack, catching at what she meant.

The girl shook her head.

“You mid watch an’ peep till doomsday an’ not do that,” she said. “ He’s so secret and sly. He’ll never drop a word about going till it is time to start. But, Jack, if I do let the old mare out on the common, late in a’ternoon, an’ keep out o’ the way, he’ll never catch her by himself, not in a blue moon.”

“ But if he couldn’t go, Ursie, why, what odds? Malachi ’ud pay un on the morrow just the same,” stammered Jack, puckering his face in his perplexity.

“Couldn’t go?” she cried sharply, unable to hide her impatience at finding him so dull. “ He’d have to go a-foot, for go he will, if ’tis bare-foot. An’, Jack,” she turned towards him and stopped. She drew closer to him, and again her voice sank into a whisper: “ He could nohow get back then till a’ter dark ”,

Their eyes met. They gazed speechless at each other. Both understood; but, for a while, neither had the courage, even in the silent security of night, to breathe the word.

It was Ursula who spoke first.

“ If—if anybeddy were to wait—there, in the dark, between the high trees, near by the cross-roads—they—they would stop un, an' take all,” she faltered.

“ 'Tis the gallis, Ursie, to rob on the highroad,” he answered hoarsely.

“I don't call it to rob,” she broke out warmly, for Ursula’s nature was frank and honest as his own. Then she strode restlessly across the room and back, arguing in short abrupt sentences all the while. “ ’Tis but to take our own. He’ll be nothing the worse. Not a farden out o' pocket—not in all honesty. For he’ll never pay—not he! An’ though, for a blind, we mid claim to make un, nothing but law can do that. So, from time to time, we could threaten an’ sit stilL He’ll hollar, but he’ll lose nothing o’ his own.”

“ I misdoubt it 'ud never save a neck from the halter to tell a judge an’ jury that,” he told her, shaking his head.

“But nobody could ever know. How could any soul ever find it out? Oh, Jack, dear,” she wailed, stopping to throw her arms round his neck, “I can’t a-bear to think that ’tis we shall do your mother out o’ house an’ home. It do lie so heavy on my heart, that I do sim as if I could never be happy again. For William ’ud ha’ come an’ put all straight. He had the means to by his letter. That’s what I do feel. He faced death for it, an’ got it, but ’twere we that spoiled all,”

“Like as not, your father ’ud know me, Ursie, dear,” he wavered, yielding to her caress, yet, for the moment, neither strong enough to answer “ yes ” or “ no ”,

“ ’Tis pitch dark there along by the wood,” she urged again in a low whisper.

“ He’d know me by the voice. An’ all the Whites have a-bin honest, time out o’ mind.”

“ What need to speak? Stay in wait against a tree. Let un pass an’ then step out an’ catch un hold. He’d be no more ’an a chile in your arms. You’ve no call to hurt un. He ha’n’t a-got the heart o’ a mouse, nor the strength o’ a fly. He’ll gi’e it up to once and none 'll ever know. An’ ’tis my own—the very same that were left to me. If I were but a man, I'd go an’ take it for myself.”

At the thought of this money, her anger against her father rekindled, and, for a moment, was stronger than her love. She drew away from her lover and stood upright. Her spirit was as bold as her words, and it was plain to see that Ursula Handsford made no boast. “I wish I had a-bin a man,” she cried.

“ I’ll do it,” he told her quickly. “ I’ll do whatever you do say. For I do love 'ee so dearly, Ursie, that I must, whether my mind do go wi’ it or no. I do care for nothing ’pon earth but you—”

“ There’s a long coat—a gentleman’s riding-coat, only he’s in holes and libbets —he put un away to make a mommet, just the very same as he do do wi’ everything he do think he can turn to use. I’ll fetch un down in morning, and you shall wear un, Jack. He’ll cover 'ee right up. Father could never tell ’ee, no, not if you were his own son.”

“I’ll do it, Ursie. Hit or miss, I’ll take it in han’. I’ll get your money if I——”

“Hush,” she whispered, holding up her finger. “Don’t ’ee talk so loud. Creep into the corner, Jack, an’ sit down. 1’ll put away the things so neat as if they never had a-bin touched—an’ dout the light—an’ come an’ talk wi’ ’ee, Jack. You’ve a-got no call to go till daybreak or a little afore.”

She quietly closed the bureau, blew out the candle, and groped her way to him on the seat beside the hearth. It was quite dark, though the warmth of the fire still hung about the floor and walls. A gust of wind passed moaning overhead. Heavy drops of rain beat down the open chimney, above which was a black cloud. And then the stars, brighter against the sooty darkness than they ever shone in open night, gleamed out again as the April shower swept past.

She threw aside her cape. She leaned her head upon his shoulder with her glowing cheek to his. Her brain was all on fire. Thoughts sprang up as quick as flames, she knew not whence or how.

“I can see how to make all safe,” she went on, in a quick, low voice. “ Or, anyway, to baffle un if he should have an inkling who mid be. Hannah is a good girl. She cried her eyes out, a’most, this very afternoon, to think that I should marry an’ go. She’ll do anything ’pon earth to please me. You mus’ come down here, Jack, dear, so soon as father have a-started. An’ the maid shall see ’ee here. An’ you can bide, an’ talk wi’ her, too, a bit. An’, just afore you do go, we’ll put her out to gate to watch for father to come down road, an’ run in an’ let us know. An’ you’ll slip out by the back, Jack, all unbeknown. An’ when you’ve a-met wi’ un, an’ stopped un, an’ got my money, you’ll turn back upon the road—an’ quick athirt the fields—an’ in afore he can get roun’. An’ the maid 11 find ’ee here just as she left ’ee. Ay! an’ then you shall loiter a bit too long, an’ the old man hisself shall catch sight o’ ’ee, too, as you do go out. An’, if he should say a word, I’ll up an’ tell un, now we’ve a-put in the banns, you shall come an’ go as you like, or I’ll lef the house that minute.” “How you do think of things, Ursie.

An’ bring anybeddy to your own mind, too,” he said “I sim I could never go again a thing you do say—you do make it look so wise an’ easy like.”

For answer, she pressed her burning lips to his.

In the glow and rapture of their love, the undertaking for to-morrow night passed out of mind. Ursula’s plans, so clear and simple, had lulled their fears and set aside the difficulties besetting their path. All was simple, and could not fail to turn out right. Ursula would get her own. Then they could see their way. Winterhays would be saved, too. They were full of hope. The banns were in to-day. They were as good as man and wife already.

“An’ I do love ’ee so, dear Jack; so much as heart can hold,” she breathed, drawing his head closer, and pressing her hands against his cheeks.

It was the truth, and words could say no more. He worshipped her with the blind devotion of a stripling in his first love; but hers was the full passion of a ripe womanhood which had waited long.

“I sim I can never leave 'ee, Ursie.”

“ ’Tis full early yet, we can bide for hours,” she whispered.

Ursula’s scheme.

They stayed there in the kitchen all night through.

The stars that looked down at them from above the chimney-top began to pale. The first grey light of dawn found out each chink in the shuttered window and peered beneath the door. But still they could not part.

When, at last, the time had come that he must needs go, she led him out into the courtyard, and in the first cold light of morning held him fast again.

Whilst she clung to him her cheek grew crimson. She hid her face upon his shoulder as if she were ashamed. He laid his hand upon her neck below her bright red hair.

“ But we can be married, Jack, dear, afore the month is out,” she sighed.

“ In little better than a fortnight, Ursie,” he said.

Then they parted hastily, and, without looking back, she ran indoors. She barred all up, and crept into her room an hour before her father was astir.

When, as soon as day came up, he called and beat upon the stairs, she came down as usual and went out to fetch the cows.

At the milking and afterwards, the whole day through, Jacob Handsford was quite contented and merry—for him. He did not grumble once, morning or afternoon, even at Hannah Peach, until towards evening, when he found the mare had broken fence and strayed. Then he called, and raved and cursed; only it so fell out there happened to be no one thereabout to hear.

CHAPTER IV.

THE HIGHWAY.

The time was come for Jack to start.

From the kitchen window he and Ursula watched, at sundown, the last gleam of light die out beyond the hill. The promise of the early part of the week that spring was come had been belied. Good Friday had been cold and wet. Folk rubbed their hands, put on more logs at night, and talked of winter—blackthorn winter, as they called it, because the wild sloe was in flower. To-day there had been wild gusts of wind, and angry pattering of hail at times during the afternoon; but now the sky was overcast with heavy clonds. Almost at once the darkness fell, and the brief twilight turned to night. Houses, trees, and orchards melted into gloom. It grew so black they could not see the stalls across the barton yard.

Everything had fallen out just as Ursula foresaw.

Rather than wait a day, when the money was within reach, her father soon gave over trying to catch the mare, and started on foot without a word to anybody of his errand. To make sure, she had run into the orchard and stood back out of sight behind the leaning trees to see him pass. He was late, and red, and out of breath with running and shouting, yet he went in haste. Now, little Hannah Peach, glad as a child to be of use to Miss Urs’la, stood posted just within the gate, and with ears alert to listen for his footfall on the road. Yet the lovers lingered for a while. It was well that everybody should get indoors. Should, by ill-luck, any belated villager only chance to meet young Jack, and bid him “good-night,” there was an end to all the fine tale that Hannah Peach could tell.

They could not talk of what they had in hand. Not that the thought of danger held them tongue-tied. But they were on tenterhooks, as folk say, until the thing was done. If either were shaken in courage, it was Ursula who wavered now. To young Jack, as soon as his mind grew used to it, the matter gave no anxiety. For robbery on the road was common in those days, and though the penalty was hard, not once in a hundred times did a highwayman get caught and brought to justice. Why, many a man lived on it all his life and died in bed at last. Jack’s only fear was that something might go awry. Jacob Handsford might think twice about carrying so much by night, though Ursula felt sure he would never let money out of his clutch. Or he might happen to come home in company. Though, for that matter, he had never a friend in the world, and he would sooner walk alone until morning than trust himself to a stranger by the way. Or Jack might miss him. Though that could scarcely be. His only trouble, now that he had taken the thing to do, was lest his chance should slip.

“’Tis time I do start, Ursie,” he whispered restlessly at last, “ or he’ll ha’ passed the place.”

“ He can’t come yet for a bit.”

“ ’Tis a good step to get there.”

Now that they came to the point, Ursula was on the verge of breaking down.

“There’s no hurt can come to 'ee, Jack, dear, is there?” she stammered uneasily. She caught him by both arms, standing straight in front as if to block the way.

“ None in the world,” he answered gaily.

Ursula sighed. “ I can’t a-bear to let ’ee go,” she said. “Lord, if father should know thee, Jack I”

“Not he,” he laughed, and gave her a kiss as he set her aside.

The old coat put away to use for a scarecrow had been smuggled indoors. He put it on. It was threadbare and in tatters, but what did it matter for that? It was long, and reached below his knees—and broad, making another man of him altogether.

She took courage. “Ay, an’ ’t ’ull shoot off the rain, so that when he do find ’ee here, you’ll be so dry as a bone. That ’ull be proof, too, you ha’n’t a-bin out in the wet,” she cried eagerly. But then arose another fear.

“ Mayhap he mid chance to catch a sight o’ your face.”

“He could never so much as glimpse it in the dark.”

But she ran to fetch a “neckercher” nevertheless to muffle around and make all sure.

Then with both hands she clutched his arm, as they went together out in the night, careful not to make a sound lest the little maid might hear.

“ An’ don’t ’ee wait a minute, Jack, dear, afore you do run back an’ let me know and see you be safe,” she implored, still holding him fast. “ I shall look for ’ee every minute—an’ ’twill seem a year—till you be here again to show me everything have a-turned out well.”

“I’ll come straight back, Ursie, so quick as ever feet can run.”

For a moment she pressed him closer still. Then, with a sigh, she let him go.

He clambered over the low wall into the field, and quickly vanished into the gloom. In the heart of Ursula arose a sudden misgiving of evil—an eager prompting to cry out and call him back. But she did not. She wavered, half-afraid to speak, too, lest Hannah Peach should hear. And then it was too late.

Yet what ill could befall him?

None in the world. Not so much a dread of the undertaking but her love for him had made her coward. She could not help it. The other night all looked so simple and so safe—and now she saw only the risk. Oh God! if anything should happen to Jack! And she had sent him upon the errand. Yet what could? Heavy with doubt and a sad foreboding, which her mind told her was without sense and yet clung to all the more, she crept indoors to the kitchen and sat down to wait.

As to Jack, he went with a light heart enough. The thing was easy enough to do —to stop a man three times bis age, and not of half his strength. There was nothing on earth he would not attempt to please Ursula. And this had right on its side. It was Ursula’s very own money as clear as pen and ink could show. And as for Jacob Handsford, he hated him. Not only for the grudge owing because of the land, but with, the deep dislike that avarice and evil nature draw down upon a man. The thing well and safely done was no more to his mind than a grim joke. And how all the neighbours would chuckle and laugh when they heard that little Jakey Handsford had been robbed. Ha! and then, like enough, Jacob would be mean enough to put out the excuse that it was Ursula’s money which was gone, and so he was quit of her claim.

Yet even the most harmless Christmas prank has to be done with judgment, and forethought, and on the sly. All must turn out well if only he could get to and fro unseen. It seemed wiser not to follow the path, but to strike at once across the open ground. Nobody was likely to be about, but now and again he stood and listened all the same. Under the shelter of the hill the valley lay quite still. There was not a sound of moving—man or beast. The village windows glimmered one above another, here, close together, there, solitary and wide apart, all up the slope, a light in every house. A small drizzle, fine as a mist, was beginning to fall, and the night threatened more storm and rain.

That was good. The thick darkness blotted out all landmarks, so that, if he had not known every step of the country, he must have missed the way. But he bad the luck to hit the gap and clambered through the gully, where great stones gave a passage dry-shod above the water and across the mud. After that, the fields were his own— all up the slanting corn-grounds, along the copse, and so over a gate into the road.

The spot upon the highway where he came out of the fields was too open to please him. There lay a strip of grass upon each side, and the hedges stood too far back to offer a hiding place. These wayside wastes were common between market towns in olden times, when land was cheaper than it is to-day. In the first place, they had been left by law to give security from surprise to the home-returning traveller; and to-day there was neither bush nor cover by which he could lurk without fear of being seen. More than that, he was too near the village if Jacob might happen to cry for help. But, farther on, great trees had been allowed to grow up quite close and partly overhanging the highway. Towards them Jack White made the best of his way, keeping upon the soft sod, and feeling before him with the stout ground-ash stick he always carried in his hand. Very soon he came to an old elm, tall and weather-beaten, trimmed of its branches half-way up the stem, and covered thick with ivy. Against this he took his stand.

Here, on the height, the rising wind was free to have its way. It moaned and whistled as it drove sweeping through the bare branches that kept creaking as they bent and swayed above his head. The fine rain, now falling thick and fast, gathered on the limbs above and fell in great drops which kept striking with a thud against the broad ivy leaves. It was a night when those who were in would stay, and any who must needs be out would hasten on his way.

But time went by, and Jacob Handsford did not come.

How late it might be young Jack could not so much as give a guess. He tried to reckon on from sunset—so long in the house, so long across the fields, and now it seemed an age under the tree. In places through the holes and tatters of the old riding-coat he was getting wet to the skin. He dared not after this be caught sitting with Ursula at the farm. He must go just when the maid came in to tell. The wet-stained patches beneath upon his own coat would catch the eye of Jacob Handsford at once, and give the lie to anything that Hannah Peach could say.

From time to time he stepped out into the road to hearken.

Now that his eyes were used to the darkness, beyond the trees he could dimly make out the way running straight along the lonely ridge. But nobody could he see. How long was it good to wait? Jacob Handsford must have gone by before he came. Their only chance was gone. His heart sank. He had missed laying hands on Ursula’s money, and the holding of Winterhays was lost. Not until now, when he felt sure their plan had failed, did he know how keenly he was bent on carrying it out. He ought to have started before—just in the first dumps, like, before dark-night. Ursula had kept him too late, he said to himself.

And yet Jacob could never have got home so soon. Like enough the turning out of the mare had upset his plans, so that he had missed Malachi after all. Perhaps even followed him home to his own house, which would bring Jacob back to Bratton by another way.

Still Jack waited, in spite of all his doubts.

Suddenly a sound fell upon his ear. Something that was not of the wind and rain. Then a gust swept down the road that made it fruitless to listen. He crept back on tip-toe amongst the trees to wait. After the blast followed a lull. Yes, somebody was coming. Now and again he could distinctly catch the clink of a footstep far away—a short, quick step walking in haste. Soon he could dimly make out the figure of a man—then, as it came closer still, the short stature of Jacob, leaning forward as he hurried on against the wind.

He wrapped the “neckercher” around his face right up to the eyes. He was wet and cold, but a grim gladness wanned the heart of young Jack White. It was all right. Nothing could have turned out better, after all. He felt certain that Jacob carried the money. There was eagerness and excitement in the man’s pace.

Their plan was certain. He must let Jacob pass; then spring out unawares, throw both hands around him from behind his back and grip him fast. Ten to one, feeling his weakness, Jacob would give up at once. Or, at most, whine and swear himself a poor farmer on his way home with nothing about him; or offer, mayhap, a little from his pocket so as to save all. He would be cunning for certain sure, but if he were fool enough to struggle or utter cry—then let him put up with such roughness as may befall.

But the young Jack White reckoned without his host.

Jacob, as he drew near the trees, with that shrewd forethought which lay in the very grain of him, kept off towards the other side of the road. Instead of coming quite close, he would pass ten or a dozen steps away. In his hand he carried a stout cudgel with which be walked. For all his haste, it was clear that the senses of the little man, quickened with the knowledge of what he had about him, were keenly alert.

Jack waited his time.

Jacob Handsford had come opposite the elms and but one pace beyond, when, suddenly aware of some one moving behind him, he abruptly turned round. Close upon him he saw the tall dark figure, and quick as thought he grasped it all. Without a word, he ran forward, raised his cudgel, and struck with all his might.

The blow fell aslant across Jack’s head and on to his shoulder. It was so unlooked for, that, for a moment, it staggered him.

Then, beyond all belief, Jacob rushed wildly on, striking again and again in fierce excitement with the fearless rage of one carried away by fear or driven by overwhelming passion. Sure enough, Ursula had mistaken her father when she thought him timid as a mouse. However that might be in the doings of every day, for the safety of his money he sprang up to fight like a madman. That was everything to him. He came on, caring neither for life nor limb. To save that little bag of gold he found the blind courage to dare anything. Just as the most timid of womankind will face any danger to shelter her child.

For a moment, young Jack did but parry the strokes, and that, too, they came so fast, was as much as he could do. Once or twice he had been struck—on the neck, on the shoulder—and he was smarting on the arm. He saw the danger, too. If, by a chance blow, he should get knocked down, nothing could save him from the constable and the law, for Jacob Handsford, to be sure, would leave no stone unturned.

He stepped back on the wayside out of reach. He had been beaten, and he ached. The youth and manhood in him, the pride of so many a cudgel fight and wrestling bout, felt shame—to give ground to a weak old man like that. And, now that his blood was up, the money he must have, come what may.

“Body and soul!” he cursed aloud between his teeth.

He stopped a moment to draw breath. The other stood quite still in the road, facing him, staring at him, fearful to turn his back, yet too timorous now, as it looked, to make another onset.

It had grown lighter than just now. The rain had ceased. The storm seemed to be breaking up, for above the hedgerow before him shone a patch of bright starlight piercing through a breach rent in the cloud.

And still the little man stared, standing all the while on his defence, but with his head craned forward to peer through the gloom, as if half-recognising his assailant, and yet not quite sure.

A host of misgivings came jostling through his brain.

What if Jacob, even in the darkness, had made him out? No, that was impossible. He might have guessed at him by the voice. The heart of young Jack White quailed under the thought. What a fool he had been to speak—even to curse. Now Jacob knew him. Or, at the least, in his mind harboured a shrewd inkling as to who it was. Enough, with such a man, to give the clue by which to worm all out.

An awful dread of being known came over him. He would be in the power of one who had, all along, been doing in secret everything that wit could scheme to bring about their ruin. Quick as thought, and scarcely knowing what he was about, he changed his staff to his left hand, rushed in, no matter what blow might fall, and struck Jacob on the brow with his right fist.

The little man reeled two steps—and fell.

He uttered no sound. Half-dazed he made one poor attempt to rise, but the young Jack White raised his stick and hit him on the head. At once, he dropped back stunned and lay in the road quite still.

There was but one way now to make all safe. To waste no time in getting the money; to hasten back to Ursula; then to go straight to some neighbour’s house to sit an hour with a pipe and a glass. Later on let Ursula go running to the village to raise a cry that her father was lost. Nobody knew where Jacob had gone—or that he carried money. Nobody but Malachi Webb. Jacob could never be sure enough to swear to him upon oath. And Jack had friends and Jacob none. Jack White’s time could be all accounted for on oath, let Jacob hereafter say what he may.

This plan quickly passed through Jack’s brain. He knelt and bent over the outstretched body before him, searching pocket after pocket, and turning it, first on one side, then on the other, the better to do as he would. How the man bled to be sure 1 Jacob Handsford, so far as he could see, had not changed a stitch to go into the town. He had only taken off his long smock, and wore the everyday clothes in which he was wont to work about his farm. The breeches and hose, the long jacket with buttons close together down before, and the narrow strap with a broad buckle around his waist. But nowhere was any money to be found. Nothing, that is to say, but a silver groat and a penny piece in the pocket to the right hand side. That Jack put back and left there. It was no good. Besides, this was not Ursula’s money, and young Jack White was not a thief.

So all their trouble had been taken in vain. He must trudge back to Ursula from a fool’s errand, wet through and suspected for his pains. And Jacob had got a cracked crown that would last him a pretty while. She might have him a sick man on her hands for a full month or more. That was all the good that had come of their fine plot.

Then a sudden gladness, a sense of safety, came over him. Whether Jacob knew him or not was of very little account. Since there was no money there was no robbery, and to knock a man down, even if it could be proved, was a small matter indeed. Why, if everything were known right out as it now stood, every soul in Bratton would be ready to swear that it only served little Jakey well-right after all he had done. Folk would laugh at the thought of it. And he would sooner fly than show his nose in court to have Ursula’s money talked about. He would rather pay up than that. Very likely it was all for the best as it was.

Yet Jacob lay strangely still. Not a sound, nor a sigh, move him about as much as you would. Surely he was not much hurt—surely he could not be——

With nimble fingers Jack undid the buttons and thrust his hand within the jacket to feel.

Hidden close against the man’s heart he came upon a soft, leathern bag, spread flat, and hung around the neck by a string. He broke away the knot and dragged it out. It was heavy, and the coins grated and clinked together as he held it up. So here was Ursula's money after all—the money that was going to turn them out. He gave a short, grim laugh, very much as Jacob might have done himself when somebody was outwitted whom he loved none too well. Ursula would have her rights, then, and be even with the abomination old skinflint after all.

Then thd misgiving came back.

Again his fingers stole underneath the open coat.

Not a throb—not a flutter was there. Not the faintest rise or fall of breathing, nor any movement or sign of life.

For a minute Jack White knelt terror-stricken—the bag of gold in one hand, the other pressed upon the dead man’s breast.

Slowly the whole truth came home to him, and he understood it all.

It was the father of Ursula whom he had killed.

CHAPTER V.

THE WAYFARER.

Shuddering with horror and bewilderment, Jack White slowly rose to his feet. Dazed and overwhelmed with awe, he stood there trembling, almost touching the dead man and without strength to stir.

He grasped all that had happened. His mind saw clearly what he had done. But his brain could not help him. His forehead, sweating from every pore, was throbbing fit to burst. He stood as one in a nightmare, shivering, spellbound, and unable to move.

Slowly a fear for his own safety crept over him.

How should he act? Where could he go? What was he to do?

If he had done it secretly, of himself, and Ursula had known nothing, it would have been very easy to hide away the body and leave no clue. Nobody would dream that one of the Whites, hard up though they might be, would go upon the road to rob. But what of Ursula? She had never thought of harm. Only to get what was her own. “ He'll be nothing the worse. You'll have no call to hurt un. ” Those were her very words. And she was waiting still, all eagerness for him to come with the money and tell what had fallen out.

He could never face Ursie to tell her this.

At the thought of it he was beside himself. Better to take the money and run. There was all night through to get away. Say now—it might be hard upon nine, Dawn would break and folk begin to move at five. That gave eight hours. Thirty mile he could make and then hide until dark. Or get to Bristol and creep away aboard some ship. Or pay his passage. Though that must mean time and talk in open day, Folk would see him and take note. And the news of the murder could not be far behind his heels. For he would be missed. Of course he would be missed. In an hour or two, at most, his mother, at her wits’ end, would run and rouse the neighbours from their beds. And Jacob, too, must be lost—for what could Ursie do when no one came—ay, and looked for on the Wincanton road—and found? And then, even mayhap before midnight, horsemen would go galloping to every town within ten miles to raise the hue and cry. They would call him by name—tell of his age, his height, his colour —ay, and the very stuff of every stitch of his clothing. He could see them—hear them—already.The constables and the well-to-do riding and blowing their horns, gathering in noise and number in every village all along the road—and the lesser folk running a-foot, eager as hounds on a fresh scent.

No, no. To run was little better than to tell everything at once. The whole country would be up, and he driven to earth before another sundown. Then, what good could it be to plead or talk of innocence.

He stooped down again. Jacob, mayhap, might not be dead after all—but only stunned. Well enough he knew better, yet the mere hope for a moment brought him calm. He bent quite close, his cheek near to the lifeless lips, and listened, holding his breath the while. He lifted the head. The hair was matted, wet—and warm.

His ear caught a sound that made him start.

Somebody was upon the road.

He turned and hearkened. It made his blood run cold; for, just as if Jacob were coming again, against the rough stones thrown down to harden the way, there struck a hurrying footfall drawing rapidly towards him.

In his excitement he had heard nothing —thought of nothing but the horror he had done. Unbeknown, the wayfarer had drawn quite near—was almost upon him- There could be, as it seemed, but one minute and all must be found out. He sprang up. His thought was to get away into the fields and then creep home unseen. He seemed already to hear cries of “ murder ” ringing through the quiet night as the traveller, having come upon the body, ran to the nearest house to give the alarm.

He listened again. No. It was nothing —nothing but a wild frenzy of his heated brain. The darkness was quite still. There were no steps—only the throbbing in his forehead. And yet there they were again—louder and clearer as they came beating on — nearer by a stride at every beat.

Not a moment was to be lost. He caught ap the dead, limp body in his arms, and, staggering off the stoned road, on to the sward, laid it down behind the trees.

Then again he stood and waited. All sound of steps had ceased. After all there was nobody about; no other noise but the howling of the wind and pattering of a few hailstones threatening another storm, Yet, what was that—less than a score of yards away—there, where the blackthorn tree stood higher than the rest? The wayfarer must have heard something astir, for he was standing still. Against the deep gloom of the hedgerow, on the other side, once more a dim figure could plainly enough be made out.

A screech-owl, on its silent wings, came sweeping low, just over the hill-top. It wheeled around the trees, only a few feet above Jack’s head—and hissed, and swooped, as if to fly in his very face. Then on it went, with hideous screams, as if it saw and understood. To hear it made his flesh creep, and a chill ran through his veins. For the white owls that live in graveyards always knew and came, even to the window-pane, where there was death within. So Bratton people said, and had known it true many a time.

But at the noise the traveller took heart Like enough it was but the bird he had heard before. Stealthily he crept on a few steps—then stood again in doubt— then slowly walked close opposite the trees, and stopped, and peered into the darker night under the branches.

It seemed to Jack that the man was staring openly upon his crime.

But presently, as all was still, the stranger, growing more content, started again upon his way, and, gaining courage as he got free of this dark spot, hurried on as at first, making the best of his way along the road.

CHAPTER VI.

AN HIDING PLACE.

Jack White breathed again, as one to whom a respite had been granted.

He stood quite still until the distant footsteps died away beyond all reach of hearing, and the night, again clouding over, grew dark and lonely as at first.

His brain was in a ferment, but all thoughts of flight were gone. His fears began to shape themselves in other forms. The passing of this man along the road left him panic-stricken, and with no power to weigh the hasty impulses that came rushing pell-mell through his mind. All that his terror could clearly see was the village upon one hand and, in the valley on the other side of the hill, the crowded houses of the market town. This highway became a busy thoroughfare. Folk might throng in scores both ways at early mom. He must be quick. He must hide what he had done. His life lay upon that chance. Anywhere, anywhere, just to get time, if only an hour or two, before the crime was brought to light Or if it might be days—there must be gain in that. There was a man lost out of Bratton once, and never heard of since. At the time people talked of foul play. But now, he had made away with himself—so they said. Why might not Jacob be put out of all sight, never to be found? But Ursula! Could Ursie be brought to think he had not fallen in with her father? A pattering rain came pelting down, drenching him through and through. So much the better if it poured all night. Not even a dog would be out of doors; and the noise and clatter of it drowned every other sound. There was blood upon the road—it would wash the stones white and clean. Ay, and on the sod, too—the wet would soak it in. Everything would be hidden and his guilt never brought home.

But where?

The gully against Winterhays, at its deepest, was twelve feet down or more, overgrown above with gorse and briars so thick that even a spaniel dog could scarcely push between the thorns his yelping way.

That was the place. At the bottom, water had cut out a narrow rift more secret than a grave. Nobody would ever look there. Nobody had the right but himself on one side and—and Jacob on the other.

He shuddered. It was so hard to understand that Jacob Handsford lay there killed.

Hide it—hide it away. Out of sight of to-morrow morning and the eyes of men. At the thought of this place he was in a fever to get it done. Ay, and then, at daybreak, or the first fitting time, carry a shovel by stealth, creep up through the hollow from below, scoop a hole in the bank—or, better still, dig deep under the gully bed—and bury it. Pile stones into the hole and bury it—until doomsday— out of the light.

He bent over the corpse, groping with his hands to lift it up. But it slipped out of his grasp. Not from the weight, but it was so limp and awkward. He tried to carry it in his arms, as when he lifted it on to the wayside. But it fell away. In his haste, he heaved it roughly up across his shoulder and stepped out upon the road.

He got into the fields the way by which he had come and kept straight on, faster and faster as he went, now sliding down the slippery, grassy hillside, now stumbling over a rough tuft or stone, so that he was forced to run to keep his feet. Yet, in spite of rain and darkness, he safely found his way until he reached the coombe behind Bratton and stood upon the ground of Winterhays that Jacob had so coveted with all his heart.

He hurried down to where the gully parted the two farms. One field away his mother’s kitchen window gleamed like a lantern between the orchard trees. She must by this time be in wonder because he was not in. Down at the other house the door stood partly open and a shaft of light glowed out, falling aslant across the black faggot pile and the posts of the stalls. Ursula must be out at the gate watching for him to come. The water, swollen by the rain, was running in a flood. He could hear it moan and gurgle deep below the dark hedge and overgrowth that lay close before him and blocked the way.

He stopped a moment, dazed and breathless, not quite certain where he was. He stood in doubt on the brink of the gully and tried to collect his thoughts. How far had he come down the hillside? Was he above or below the only gap by which he could get into the ditch? With hasty steps he began once more to climb the hill, so close to the bushes that the sprawling brambles caught his feet. He stopped again. He tried to peer through the night, but nothing could his eyes clearly make out— no break in the line of the hedge. Fool! It was below. He was throwing away time. He turned at once and hurried the other way. On and on he went, but no place could he find. The thorns and bushes everywhere were denser than a wood. His heart failed him. He must have been within a yard or so of the place before he turned. He laid the body down beside the gorse. It was no good. He might just as well give up at once.

There flashed upon him another plan.

At the bottom, in the lowest comer of the field, was an open shallow, railed off so that the beasts might go so far and drink. Of a night as dark as pitch he could find that. There a man, blind as a bat, could go and push his way upwards through the hollow as far as he would.

His courage returned. The thing was as good as done. Even this moment’s pause had rested him and brought him back his strength. Again he lifted to his back his ghastly burden, and went on.

The opening to the watering-place was flat, and covered in stiff, firm mud. Even the rain had not made it soft, and it clogged his steps so that he almost fell forward. As he went on, he sank into the mire knee-deep. He was forced to lean upon the rail to lift himself free and climb upon the gully-bank.

Then, as he paused, his fears, following olose upon him, caught him up.

God! if any man, chancing to pass that way to-morrow, should see his track— a track going for no purpose, where nobody could have need—what must he think? How he would look! There was not one in Bratton—no, nor elsewhere—but his eye must catch, at a glance, a sign so strange. Not a soul but must wonder, ay, and then go to pry. For by daylight it was easy to climb around dry-shod. There would be footprints to the water’s edge, and then again along the sliding gully-bank. Every hobnail upon the sole—the round mark of the heel—left clear to tell the tale as plain as writing on a page. They would track him—track him like a rabbit in winter snow. Then everything, certain as noonday, must come out.

In sadden fright, he turned about; floundered, stumbling and splashing, out of the pool; and stood again on the firm grass of the field, no better off than before.

He would get rid of the body, anywhere, and go home.

In the middle of a ground next to his piece of new-sown barley was a pit, deeper, so it was said, than Bratton tower was high —so deep that never waggon-line could plumb the depth. That was common talk in the village. Hap what may, he would cast it there, and have done with it.

The way was easy. He had only to follow along the hedge to pass through a gate, at the present time thrown open that the cattle might be free to wander to and fro at will. Even in the night he could find this ancient marl-hole by the tall trees that grew around. Five minutes and the thing was done. All gone, and sunk, deep out of sight, in the still, black water far below, where the sides were cut steep as walls, and thorns and ivy grew thick together over the top. There it would be hidden from all eyes, and never found.

And yet—in three days a drowned man will swim. There is no keeping him under after that And the boy put in the barley to scare rooks was for ever and ever running across to olimb down to the moorhen’s nest upon the gnarled stump on the water’s-edge.

He stood upon the brink in doubt. The black water seemed to catch a feint shimmer of light even in the dark night. They looked there—he could remember them with poles and crooks—when the other man was lost.

What madness to have come here at all!— here to the very door of Winterhays. Any but a fool would have gone fer away—back towards Wincanton — anywhere, farthest from his own ground. Why, Jacob—lost— would be looked for high and low round his own place. Better to have left him on the road. Anyone might have robbed him on the highway. But here—

He must go back.

He could go to the bottom of the hill, across Three-hounds Waste, then by the lane into the road again. It was not possible to miss the way. From comer to comer of that unenclosed tract ran a drove, hoof-trodden and scored with deep rats. There were gipsies there the day before yesterday, but gone to-day. He had only to push on to hit the drove, and after that all was straight. No sooner did this thought spring in his mind than all his wavering ceased. Caught and carried away by a fresh current too powerful to resist, he hurried on.

The Three-hounds Waste lay just beyond the piece of common at the foot of Jacob Handsford’s farm. It was not far, and he was quickly there. The wind, that swept along the road on the hill-top, came driving up the valley behind him with all its might. At times it was as much as he could do to stand. The ground was rough and uneven, sometimes wet and soggy, broken with stiff tufts of reeds and rushes, and then again in patches of low scrub and last year’s brash, which caught his feet so that at every step he stumbled. Once he nearly fell. His nerve was shaken. He was almost done, and his knees trembled beneath him. He was driven to lay the dead man on the ground, and rest.

He was upon a piece of open turf. As he bent down, the gale blew off his hat. Dis mayed at the fear of losing it and leaving such tell-tale proof of his presence, he strode forward, in the line of the wind, thrusting and feeling on each side with his stick. He stooped and peered upon the ground. Yes! —there it lay round and black close at his feet. With a cry of relief he stooped to pick it up. There was nothing but a charred circle left from a gipsy fire.

He was hopeless! His courage failed. There came upon him a weakness as if he must fall. He must give up, and all was ruined. It could not have gone so far— “ not so far ” he kept saying to himself. Yet, with the words upon his lips, he still pushed on. Then he turned, knelt upon the grass, and crawled on groping everywhere with his hands.

At last, by sheer luck, his fingers came upon the soft cloth, caught and hanging against a small thorn bush. He seized it, set it on his head, and stood upright.

This brief respite from the weight had given him ease. His limbs were strong again, and he, burning with eagerness to go forward, turned hastily back towards the place where, as it seemed to him, he had laid the body down.

A few steps and he found himself off the grass, trampling once more amongst the rushes and rough herbage. He had got wrong. He stood puzzled, staring into the night, trying to make out where he was. But the waste around was one unbroken darkness. Neither bush nor bog nor brash could he tell, one from another, to give him any clue. He must have borne round to the right when he rose up. With this thought he pushed hastily to the left It was no good. He had already overstepped the mark, and was never the nearer to what he looked for. Yet it must be close at hand. He went back—to the right—then on again—hither—thither—in short, hasty journeys, always changing his mind. But everywhere was wilderness, and his feet never came upon the bit of sward.

At last, in very hopelessness, he stopped. He no longer knew where he was. There was no sense in anything he could do. He had lost it—lost it beyond all finding, in the blackness of the night.

Then, like a ghastly vision, the whole picture arose before his mind’s eye.

He saw the corpse of little Jacob Handsford whom he had murdered lying stiff and stark, unhidden by so much as a bush or a blade, upon the open ground. The face was upturned towards the sky. The eyes were open, glassily staring into the broad daylight of to-morrow morn.

CHAPTER VII.

BACK TO URSIE.

He began to feel a craving for help. He must tell somebody and find human sympathy—or loathing. The shifts to which his fears had driven him proved no better than mere foolishness, and worse. Now no more was to be done, he found himself bereft of all purpose and power to think. His frenzy was over. He was calm—with the dulness of a feeble will worn out and benumbed.

He stood motionless in the wind and rain, and looked towards Bratton.

Dotted down the hillside, the cottage windows were still wide awake. After all, it could not be late or the villagers would be a-bed. Doubtless, then, Jacob must have come home upon his time. Only excitement and restlessness had made the waiting seem so long. Since the—since meeting him not a moment had been lost. From road to gully was but a ground or two, with the pit hard by. Now, if it were but daylight, he would be but a quarter of an hour from home. The dread of being missed and asked for had made him believe the thing he feared. If he did but reckon out the hour by where he had been, he could be no such terrible while behind; and Ursie, beyond all question, was waiting still, out of all patience to know how things had gone, but yet with no great wonder all the same.

He must go back to Ursie, come what may.

He had need of her. For months he had leant upon her, been at her beck and call, and wanted nothing better than to carry out all she said. She found the nimble wit that was wanted to his courage and strength. Ay, only Ursie in all the world would tell him what to do now that their fine plan had gone awry.

If she would!

He must get back to her whether she would or no.

Yes, Ursie would tell him how best to act Whether to come here again at early daybreak, before folk were about, or to keep out of the way. For Ursie loved him. She would not change. How she loved him last night when all was settled, after they had looked into the book. And she hated her father. Many a time, in her anger, had she wished outright that he were dead and in his grave. And meant it, too. Ursie would never change to him in her heart because the miserly old man had met with his end. It was Ursie who had thought out the plan. And they meant no harm. He must tell her all, come what may. Go and tell her at once, make a clean breast of it, and take counsel how to keep things safe.

Yet he did not move.

Ursie, when she heard, would turn from him—never able to bear the sight of him again. That was but nature. It was well enough to wish her father dead. Such words were only breath and nothing worth. She must stand aghast at the horror of it Ursie! Ursie! In the depths of his heart he called her by name, as if she could hear. If she broke away from him for this, though it were hidden until doomsday, he would rather tell all out and hang for it than live. Yes, he must go back to her, come what may. She was looking for him. It was Ursie who had thought it all out She would bear that in mind. She must know, anyway— if not to-night, to-morrow. And they were in it together. They were one already, like man and wife. Ursie would hold to him and tell him what to do.

Leaning forward against the weather, he began to beat his way toward the village.

Having once started, on he trudged, no longer in haste, but never wavering in intent. He thought no more of what he was about, feared no risk, had no dread of to-morrow, but kept plodding on and on, head bent, like a worn-out horse on his last mile, or a lost hound on his homeward way. Keeping always to the fields, he came by the back of Jacob Handsford’s barn, and stopped by the wall to peer over into the barton.

The house was shut. This struck him sis strange. He had thought to see Ursie, restless with long waiting, at the first sound running forward out of the open dairy-door. But the farm looked, as it might be, locked up for the night. Could Ursie, under a strain of anxiety drawn out beyond the utmost stretch, have gone abroad to search for him and find out why he stayed so long? It was not that. More likely, when the storm came down so wild, she dared not let the little maid wait ont at the gate. She must have called Hannah in, or in five minutes the child would have been drenched to the skin. Then, she must stay indoors, herself, as if nothing were happening out of the way, except, perhaps, to wonder why the master could be so late. Ursie would be on the alert to hear him come inside.

He went quietly across the court, gently lifted the latch, and the door yielded under pressure of his hand. The milkhouse was dark and empty. He stood and listened. There was no one moving, and his ear could not catch a sound.

He stepped inside and, feeling his way past the cheese-tub, came into the passage unperceived and without meeting with a soul. At the other end, beyond the flight of stairs, the kitchen door stood open. Within, a blazing fire was roaring up the chimney back, and the flames lit up the place so that he could now see well where he was going.

Amazed to find the house empty, for so it seemed, he stood a moment in doubt. If Ursie had gone out, Hannah might be sitting there alone. He crept on a few steps, steadying himself with a hand upon the banister to make no noise. Suddenly he stopped—clutched the slanting staircase, and stared into the kitchen, trembling from head to foot in astonishment and fear.

Through the frame of the open doorway he could see the glowing hearth.

In front of the fire, but towards the further side, in an oak chair of which the polished legs and arms glistened in the light, sat Jacob Handsford. The little man appeared to be uncommonly merry to-night He was smiling and rubbing his hands. For once he had piled up sticks and logs without stint, and he leaned over towards the warmth as if unwilling to waste a ray of it. His worsted hose were damp and steaming with the heat He rooked slightly to and fro. Then he bent further forward and rubbed his scorching knees with his lean hands. And he chuckled, not loud, but deep down in his chest, and half-closed his little eyes in enjoyment of his inward satisfaction and delight.

Ah! Jacob had done well. He had carried everything through that night, just as he wished.

CHAPTER VIII.

URSIE’S COUNSEL.

“Go back. He’ll catch ’ee. How did ’ee hap to miss un?”

It was Ursula, upon the stairs, speaking in a low whisper close above his ear.

“Go back,” she said again, scarcely more than moving her lips to shape the words, as she waved him away with her hand and pointed towards the milkhouse door.

He obeyed like a frightened child. Without noise she followed close at his heels, and they crept into the dairy out of all danger of being found.

“How was it—eh? Did he chance to come home some other way? Or what?”

She had waited long, and in her impatience to know how things had fallen out, her voice was sharp and quick. The candle she carried in her left hand gave but a poor light; and, more than that, so bitter was her disappointment at the failure of their plan that she had no eyes to note how his limbs shook, or to see the look of abject terror upon his face.

“ I—I don’t know, Ursie.”

He could stammer out no more. His tongue stuck fast and words failed.

“'Twur our last an’ only chance,” she cried in tones of reproach, without heeding him. Then in her hopelessness she utterly broke down. She burst into sobs, and for a while she could not speak. At last with her arm she brushed the tears from her cheeks and went on. “There! Winterhays is gone now, so sure as the light Your poor mother ’ull be turned out. An’ I be to blame for it. I do know I be. Tis no good 'Tull be put off an’ put off—first one tale, then another. I shall never see the colour o’ my own money so long as he’s alive.” Only the one word—money—sounded clear through the disorder of young Jack’s mind. He could not speak. He was too shaken and helpless to find words. From his pocket he drew the leathern bag and held it out to her.

“ Then you did meet wi’ un, Jack? Gi’e it here. But how was it? How could he come home so glad? Oh, Jack! ”

As she eagerly stretched out her hand to lay hold of her own money that she had wanted for so long, for the first time she looked full at him. His face frightened her; it was so white and changed. Her sudden gladness at sight of the bag gave way to fear. She did not take it, but drew back.

“ What is it, Jack? Why do ’ee stare so wild as if you had a-seed a ghost? Oh, Jack! Did he know ’ee, Jack? Did he find ’ee out under all? An’ is that why he’ve a-comed home so well pleased? For all ’tis my own money, he can bring 'ee to the gallows, Jack. Oh, Jack! He can bring ’ee to the gallows, Jack.”

As she spoke, in her love for him she stepped forward and threw her arms around his neck. Yet at once she let go again.

“Take it off,” she said to him. “Why, you be soaking through and through wi’ the rain.”

She made as if to wipe her hand upon her apron, for it was dripping wet So doing, she held it by the light, and lo! she saw her fingers, palm, and wrist, almost to the elbow, were coloured crimson red.

She shuddered, for the sight of it made her heart faint and sick.

“ ’Tis blood! ” she gasped.

But at once her horror was overcome by the fear that Jack was badly hurt.

“You mus’ be half-dead!” she cried, catching hold of him again. “ Where is it? How could he sar’ ’ee so? Did he carry anything in the han’ o’ un, an’ wound ’ee wi’ it, or what? Pull off the old coat, Jack. Let me see for myself.” And she nimbly began to unfasten the buttons before the words were out of her mouth.

But he held her hand. His wits, scattered by that glimpse of Jacob sitting by the hearth, began to come home, and he found a tongue.

“ Let bo, Ursie,” he told her; “ I be sound in body, but I’ve a-killed un! I’ve a-killed un, Ursie, so sure as God’s above! I never went to do it; I never had such thought or meaning; but I heard his steps, an’ saw un, too, as he traipsed along the road. An’ I went for to stop un, but he turned and stood up like a man, an’ I knocked un down an’ killed un, Ursie! An’—an’ found the money hid inside his shirt. An’ I tried to hide the body, Ursie; an’ when I crope back to tell ’ee—for tell ’ee I wur bound to—he wur there, there afore his own fire. Ursie—Ursie —I thought he had a-comed back there— the ghost o’ un—to trouble me! ”

He shivered. Even now he could not believe that Jacob Handsford was alive and well. He was so shaken that he almost cried.

“You’ve a-killed another,” she sobbed, trembling like a reed. “ Mus’, be somebody hereabout—somebody wi’ money, too, on his way home from the same market, like enough. We shall hear to-morrow that he’s a-missed. There’ll be a outcry—an’ search a-made. Where have ’ee put it, Jack? ”

“’Tis out—out on Dree-hounds Waste,” he faltered; “ cold and stiff by this time. An’ open for all the world to see.”

They stood in silence, staring blankly at each other, dumfounded in the presence of the awful terror which had overtaken them. He still held the unopened bag of money in his hand, but all thought of that had passed out of his mind.

Presently they heard a noise of Jacob Handsford moving about the house. By this time, doubtless, he was dry and warm.

He had become his old self again, for he was setting back the logs and spuddling abroad the ashes ready for bed.

“ I had better go afore he do call,” began the girl, aroused by the sound.

She stepped forward and opened the oat-side door.

“Quick, Jack. Run across and get into bam. Take off the old coat, an’ your own clothes underneath be clean. Put it oat o’ the way, Jack, behind the strow. Run home—do as you would. Say you’ve a bin wi’ me. And when all is still come back again. I’ll slip out to 'ee, an' we’ll think what to do, an’ hide away every sign.”

Acting on her own counsel, as she spoke she laid the candle on the floor, followed him as far as the pump, washed away the crimson stain, and wiped her arm dry in the dark skirt of her frock. Then, with a hasty wave of her hand, she sent him away at once.

• • • • • • •

It was drawing near to midnight when next they met. They dared not strike a light. They stood a yard apart in the darkness on the level threshing-floor, and talked. There were no endearments now. They did not touch each other. There were no gestures, or, if so, nothing could be seen; only two voices, very low and secret, and Jack was hoarse.

Ursula spoke very quickly. She had thought it out “Had anybeddy a-bin in to Winterhays who could know you were out? ” she asked.

“No. An’ my mother took it wi’out telling that I wur wi’ you.”

“ There’s nobeddy ’ull think upon 'ee, Jack, if you do but keep a good face.”

“ I can never bide to hear tell o’ it when ’tis found out.”

“You mus’. ’Tis all in your own hands. You mus’ go about your work. I’ve a-thought what you had best do. Persuade your mother to sell stock. Say you must go to fair an’ sell to pay the rent. ’Tull be talked o’ then how short the Whites be. ’Tis in everybeddy’s mouth now. If you should use this you’ve a-tookt ’tull raise a doubt. Don’t ’ee show a penny o’ it. Where is it, Jack? Gi’e it to me to keep. Don’t ’ee have it in your house even.”

“ ’Tis here, Ursie.”

“ Where? ”

“Here.”

She felt for his hand and took the bag. He was glad to be quit of it.

“ I’ll hide it away. I’ll throw it into the pit. I sim, if we did use it, ’tud draw down a curse an’ a judgment ’pon us. I sim, if we were a-starving, I could never swallow a mouthful o’ victuals it bought. If ’twere but a crust o’ bread, ’tud turn an’ turn in the mouth o’ me, an’ stick in my throat an’ choke me.”

“ Put it out o’ the way—right out o’ the way, Ursie.”

His voice quavered in his anxiety to have it gone. He was more eager than she to get no good of it.

“You mus’ sell at Wincanton fair.” “That’s Easter Tuesday. Will mother bring her mind to gi’e consent so soon, do ’ee think?”

“ She mus’. There’s no way else.”

“ ’Tis but in two days’ time.”

“ Go there, Jack. Take the beasts there. I’ll come to-morrow an’ say the same.”

“’Tull be all foun’ out by then, Ursie. ’Tull be on everybeddy’s tongue, I tell ’ee, at such a time and place,” he moaned.

“ You’ve only a-got to act like yourself.” “They’ll flock round me like flies to D'gilizcd by bjOOQjC learn the rights o’ it, I living so near the place. ’

“You mus’ know just so much an’ so little as the rest.”

“ They’ll look. They’ll look, Ursie, to see me so mum.”

“ They’ll think ’tis the thought o’ Winterhays an’ selling your stock.”

He heaved a sigh from the bottom of his heart, but found no word to say.

“Why, there’s nothing to point to ’ee,” she went on, gaining courage as she talked.

“You do owe no man a grudge an’ no man you. You be thought well o’, Jack. They'll cast about in the minds o’ ’em for one who could know the man had money about un? An’ ’tull never be found out. Never.”

“ Could I do more, do ’ee think? ”

“ Nothing. Nothing at all. Keep away from the spot. Don’t ’ee let your thoughts run upon it. When we be married an’ the noise o’ it is a-blowed over, we’ll change our minds an’ go away herefrom.”

He stepped forward and caught her hold. His weaker spirit clung to her for support.

“ Do ’ee believe what you do say, Ursie, dear?”

“So true as God’s in heaven.”

“ That ’tull never be found out.”

“ Never.”

“An’ you'll tell me what to do—an’ when I do act foolish.”

“ I'll be up to Winterhays an’ keep about by ’ee all day long. 'Tis but nat’ral now the banns be in.”

“ I could keep in heart then.”

“ To be sure. For you never went to kill un—nor any man. Look at it as though you had a-brokt his neck at the wrestling. Would that ha’ bin your fau’t? For you never meant it, Jack. An’ if you do get no good of his money, you can feel you never meant it. Don’t dwell upon it. Look at it like that.”

“ I will, Ursie—but the coat——”

“ Leave it all to me; and go home now while ’tis dead o’ night, afore anybeddy is about.”

“ Oh, Ursie, how I do love ’ee,” he said.

She had already brought him to her way of thinking that there was little to dread. He felt as if she herself had drawn him out of the danger. He was safe if only Ursula would tell him what to do. He held fast to her, but she pushed him aside and made him go at once.

But when he was gone she had no heart to go indoors. She threw herself down and crouched amongst the straw and sobbed. She shed no tears. She saw the grim horror of it, and shook so that her teeth chattered. Then she laughed—and sobbed again.

She waited in the bam until, in the early morning light, she could just see across the barton and make out the stalls. The rain had ceased some hours ago. The storm had blown itself out or passed away. Over all the valley and reaching half-way up the hills lay a dense mist, cold and grey, hiding everything but a row of tall, black elm tops that pierced it half-way up the slope. The barn-door cocks, not yet down from the cart-house beams on which they roosted, set up to crow. There were five. Their voices all so different sounded strange. One was sharp and shrill, and one hoarse and deep; and they crowed against each other as if they knew that it was Easter-day— or in the night had overheard something and would trumpet it to all the world. Surely they had never made such noise before. They would wake her father and bring him down in fear that he was being robbed.

Then Ursula nerved herself to the work she had to do.

Behind the house, within a high wall, was a corner of the garden whereon no window looked. It was overgrown with weeds and in disorder, with fruit trees running wild and unpruned—a waste of niggardliness — for Jacob begrudged the money to pay labour and did not tend to it himself.

Ursula took a spade and carried it to this place. There, out of sight, she dug a hole. When all was ready she fetched the coat. She did not flinch, but she held it from her, dragging it along the ground; for the blood, in places, although clotted, was still moist to the touch, and she could not bear to look at it. Then she buried it, shovelled back the earth, and trampled it down. There were flat coping-stones close by, fallen from the top of the neglected wall. She lifted them up and laid them down to cover the upturned earth.

She went back to shut up the barn’s door and make all straight.

Rats had gnawed a large hole upon one side of the threshing floor. It caught her eye as she passed and into it she threw the bag of money. Upon the ground outside lay a spar-gad, dropped by the thatcher some time ago when he came to mend the roof. She picked it up and pushed the bag away out of sight, far as the stick would reach.

It was no good to them. There was danger and death in it for all they knew. She dared not even look to see the colour of the coins and count how much there were.

CHAPTER IX.

EASTER.

The sun broke through the bank of fog, and April smiled again. Nothing could be more sweet and gentle than that Easter morning after the wild rain. There were primroses on all the banks; and budding cowslips, pale and stiff of stem but not yet out, lay sprinkled over the home-field at Winterhays. The birds were singing—every one. The gorse shone yellow by the gully-side, and all the valley and the hills looked glad and fresh and green.

But if the earth arrayed herself new-clad in honour of the opening spring, so, on this day of the rising again from the dead, did all the people, too.

For any soul who did not put on something new on Easter Sunday there could be no luck all the year through. No matter what, a thread or a tag there must be. Even little Hannah Peach had kept back one new pinney out of two, that she sewed after work on the winter evenings, so as to be like the rest. The widow, short of money as she was, had waited for full an hour down at the stile to catch the peddler as he passed and buy herself a new lace. Ursula had a new bodice and handkercher; and Jack, a coat which, as folk said, would come in, as it now turned out, just right for his wedding, too.

Only Jacob Handsford, in all the country round, went as he was without change from head to toe. “ Ha! there’s enough calls upon your purse these days, sure enough,” he snarled, “wi’out a-putting your money out o’ pocket afore you do need.” But he was angry. On pain of paying a shilling to the poor, he had to go to church; and he knew how all the neighbours would peep at him, and then nod and smile one to the other whilst he was forced to sit still and listen to his daughter’s banns.

So, when the bells rang out, up and down the street from every farm and all the cottage doors, young and old came out as gay as birds new-feathered after a moult. All along the road, in twos and threes, they sauntered; slowly up the tall flight of stone steps leading to the gravel pathway between the graves. All was so bright this mom of Easter-day that a sunlight of golden hope shone on the headstones and the grey, flat tombs. It gladdened even the grassless, upturned earth that marked the spot of last year’s new-made sepulchre; and, where fresh verdure covered ancient mounds and raindrops hung like tears undried on every blade, it lit them into gems.

The folk stood about the porch and talked. They were merry, and everybody was there; the men with tutties in their buttonholes, bunches of yellow daffodils or primroses and sweet violets both purple and white—and the women holding nosegays in their hands, put together of such garden flowers as they could get at the time of year, with a slip or two of sweet-smelling herb, for fear they should fall sleepy or drop faint in sermon-time. The stems were wrapt around wi’ a bit o’ paper, and, over that, a clean, white handkercher to cover all.

Great-uncle Tutchins and cousin Simon Mogg—forgetful, for the moment, of his prudent resolve—had strolled over to Bratton to see for themselves whether it was really true that young Jack White and Ursie had a-pat in the banns or not. After all, as cousin Simon Mogg pointed out as they came across the fields together, the widow could never need to ask help of her kin—and not so very close kin either—when young Jack had a-married the maid of a man so rich as a Jew. For his own part, cousin Simon Mogg must feel that now. Whatever he might have felt called upon to do at one time, young Jack’s marriage would put an end to that. Should the widow ever open her lips to breathe a sound of borrowing, he should tell her straight out that though he would have helped her once, seeing she was lone and left by ill-luck a little in low water, now as things had come about the young people ought to look to Jacob, they really ought.

Cousin Simon Mogg shook his head and spoke with firmness, as a man who, under fresh circumstances, has been driven to change his mind.

So they were both very cordial when they found Rizpah by the church door.

“Well, Rizpah! And how’s Rizpah White?” they cried together, pushing forward to shake her by the hand.

The widow was flurried. The sight of them—for she knew well enough why they had come—made her self-conscious; but she smiled first upon one, then upon the other, and then looked away.

“Well in health, thank ’ee kindly, girt-uncle Tutchins. Well in health, cousin Simon Mogg.”

The stout little man chuckled, as was his wont. Then he winked and looked slyly at the widow.

“ An’ where’s young Jack? ” he asked.

“There, they be gone away together. I didn’ ax ’em what church they had it in mind to walk to. For sure you wouldn’ have ’em to sit there to hear their names a-called over the desk for folk to gape at Would ’ee, girt-uncle Tutchins?”

“ No, no. Better to walk away quiet. Then they can courty, too, a bit ’pon the road.”

Rizpah laughed, though her eyes wandered around the familiar churchyard. Inwardly she was wondering whether she should be at Bratton another Easter-day. That must be as God willed was the silent answer of her heart, and the thought brought her comfort. In the trouble and perplexity that lay upon her that morning she turned for aid to great-uncle Tutchins and cousin Simon Mogg. She had never spoken to any one of her distress before, never whined, nor once allowed a murmur to cross her lips. But to whom should she tell it if not to her own kin? Perhaps, in her pride, she had kept her own counsel too long already.

“You’ll stroll back home to Winterhays wi’ me when church is out, girt-uncle Tutchins, won’t ’ee now? An’ eat a cake, an’ drink a drop o’ wine or cider, whichever you do like,” she said, looking round at him with the ever ready welcome.

“I will, Rizpah White. An’ so I will, then. For I’ve said it afore—an’ heard others say so, too—an’ I'll say it again, so I will—that there’s nar another ’ooman in all Somerset can make a Easter cake like Rizpah White.”

Great-uncle Tutchins waxed quite boisterous in his praise, and wagged his little, round head bravely, let any man gainsay it who may. He looked around and repeated himself in a loud voice to the assembled parish, who had nothing to do with it.

“ No. Not another for an Easter cake like Rizpah White, find her where you mid.”

“An' you, too, cousin Simon Mogg?” she simpered.

“To be sure I will,” heartily answered cousin Simon Mogg, “ an' drink a health to the young couple—that is to be—that is to say. For there’s nobeddy I ever heard o’ yet that do make her wine better ’an what you do, Rizpah.” Cousin Simon Mogg, though not less genial, was a trifle more dogmatic than great-uncle Tutchins.

“An’ so do ’ee, then,” said the widow, pleasantly, glancing from one to the other. “I shall look for ’ee both. Well, there, I’ve a-got something to ask o’ ’ee. An’ so now ’tis out. For who should I turn to if not to you, girt-uncle Tutchins, that were my mother’s very own uncle—an’ you, cousin Simon Mogg, that everybody do look up to?”

Cousin Simon Mogg, in his modesty, raised both hands, anxious to set aside any such claim to the widow’s regard. But at that moment the parson came in sight, and so the talk, for the time being, was brought to an end. The village folk stood back in a line upon each side, and then, like sheep following a shepherd, the little flock passed slowly into church. The door was shut, and neither on the hill, nor in the vale, nor by the waste, was any left outside to come or go.

When, at noon, the service was over, and the street was full again, great-uncle Tutchins and cousin Simon Mogg walked with Rizpah up so far as the little kiss-gate into the home-field.

There they stood and excused themselves.

“ Ton my word, then, Rizpah White, much as I do feel tempted, I don’t think we must come in to-day,” said great-uncle Tutchins, dragging a fat silver watch from his fob as he spoke.

Cousin Simon Mogg glanced at the sun. “’Tis too late,” he said. “Weil come and see 'ee another time. Pa’son were so terr’ble long-winded.”

But the widow was not to be put off.

“ Then I’ll walk along in your company a bit o’ the ways,” she told them, when they would not give way. “ But I do feel most terr'ble vexed wi' 'ee, all the same.”

“ Oh! well, well, sooner than Rizpah should be vexed.” “ To be sure—sooner than Rizpah should be vexed,” Now that she had oat-done them they went with her at once.

“ I suppose you do both know,” she began sadly, “ that we be none too well off? ”

Great-uncle Tutchins became suddenly grave, for though he was nothing but waggery on the top-spit, as one may say, underneath lay a bed of solid wisdom as hard as a stone.

“ Ah! ” he sighed, more in love of truth than kindness. “Poor William were none too wise.”

“That’s a plain fac’, Rizpah. He were too free by half,” echoed cousin Simon Mogg.

“I mus’ say it, he had no forethought, Rizpah; none at all,” went on great-uncle Tutchins, determined to be sternly just.

“ Ay, a man should make provision. He mid be gone to-morrow. We be but grass, Rizpah. None can tell when anybeddy mid be cut off,” said cousin Simon Mogg, for the sight of a poor relative is enough to make a well-to-do man serious.

The widow stopped just for a step or so, there in the path, and looking them, first one and then the other, straight in the face, answered in her quick, sharp way:—

“He had more heart ’an headpiece—an’ mayhap his goodness did outrun forethought But I won’t listen to any harm o’ un. He was a good man to me all my life. But now he’s gone, I be oft-times hard put to it to know what’s best to be done. An’ I thought to ax ’ee for your advice an’ no more—” The widow paused, and then in a rather louder tone repeated, “ An’ no more “To be sure—to be sure,” cried great-uncle Tutchins, with a sudden outburst of good-will, and waving his fat hand to show how greatly he had been misunderstood. I did but mean ’twur none o’ your own fau’t. Nobeddy ’pon earth can blame you, Rizpah.”

“’Twur only for your comfort that girt-uncle Tutchins spoke. Anything in reason, sure, either he or I'd do for ’ee at any time, an’ glad,” echoed cousin Simon Mogg.

Then Rizpah, now all hope of hiding her want was gone, took heart to open her whole mind to them. How she had been unable, do what she would, to make up the full rent. How Ursula was to have her money at midsummer—enough to keep on with—if only they could hold over to then. How young Jack, and Ursula too, that morning had begged of her to sell. And the thought o’ that did trouble her most terr’ble. An’ could great-uncle Tutchins or cousin Simon Mogg think of any better way—either by borrowing—”

They broke in together. They had never known borrowing turn out well — never once in all their lives—never in this world. And stock was selling high at that present time—most wonderful high. Really Rizpah couldn’ do better than part wi’ just enough. And as to the grass—they looked around at the growing spring-time, fresh and green —why, either great-uncle Tutchins or cousin Simon Mogg would buy a bit o’ keep to help the widow through, and who but themselves was to guess whose stock was there.

So by the time they got to Winterhays, the widow had settled that Jack should drive the beasts on Tuesday to Wincanton Fair.

But little sooner had she put out her cakes and wine when he and Ursula came in together.

Great-uncle Tutchins had regained his good-humour long ago. He must be joking —give him but half a chance—and at sight of Ursula he drew a face as long as a fiddle. Without a word of welcome, he stepped forward to shake bands with the maid,

“ This is a terr’ble sad thing, Ursie, as have failed out,” he said to her, gloomily shaking his head and still holding her fast by the arm.

The girl’s cheek grew pale. Then, with an effort, she nerved herself to listen to what she and Jack had gone in dread of all the day, and,sooner or later, knew must come.

“ What’s that? ” she asked quickly.

Young Jack turned his back upon the company, and, standing by the oak bench, made as if to break himself off a piece of one of the flat Easter cakes that Rizpah had set out there upon a wooden trencher.

“ What—ha’n’t you heard? ”

“No.”

“Not the terr’ble thing what have a-happened here in Bratton?”

“I don’t know what you do mean,” she answered, trying in vain to get away.

“ One ’ud think you did, then, to see how your colour do go. An’ how you do trem’ley, my maid.”

The girl, with a sudden jerk, snatched away her hand. She was telling Jack’s secret. They would all learn it from her frightened look—she knew they would,

But great-uncle Tutchins only burst out laughing.

“ Oh, ’tis true enough,” he cried, shaking his fat sides with delight to see the girl’s concern. “ Mus’ be true, for I heard pa’son say it myself out of his own mouth. That one Urs’la Handsford, spinster, o’ the parish o’ Bratton, have a-got it in mind to make an end to herself.”

So he was only poking fun at her about the banns. She breathed again. Then her cheek reddened at the thought that she had been so weak.

“ Lawk, Ursie! ” cried the old man. “ To look at ’ee one 'ud think ’twur a crime to get married.” He held up his glass, a tall, narrow glass tapering to a point at the stem, and drank to her. “Well, here's luck an’ prosperity to 'ee, Ursie. A short life now to Ursie Handsford, but long to live to Missus Urs’la White. Ay! A dozen bwoys so clean-growed as young Jack. A pack o’ maidens so neat an’ good-looking as yourself.” Then he lowered his voice and drank again in earnest. “An’ wi’ all my heart I wish ’ee a long an’ happy wedded life.”

“ There, do lef the poor maid alone wi’ your foolery, girt-uncle Tutchins,” put in Rizpah, with a laugh. “You did ought to know better at your age, you did.”

Then they fell a-talking of common things —of what a rain there had been only last night—and what a nipping wind on Good Friday—ay, wonderful sharp for so late in the year. These were the great matters that filled their simple minds. For nothing had been found in Bratton up to now, and not a soul was missing round about so far as anybody knew.

CHAPTER X.

THE FUN O' THE PAIR.

It was early morning, and the high road along the ridge of the hill was thronged with folk and cattle, all with heads and faces turned one way, making towards Wincanton Fair.

The widow was not going. She had given her errands to Ursula—for in those days, at the fairs, people laid in their household stuffs and bought their stores to last for months—but, for all that, as soon as milking was done, she climbed the slope unseen and stood a little back in the field by a gap in the hedge to watch the passing by.

Ever since daylight the line of men and women, horses, flocks and herds of horned stock had never ceased, and still the broken stream went by, a straggling pageant full of change and colour.

Nobody knew the Whites had stock to sell except themselves, great-uncle Tutchins, and cousin Simon Mogg. Rizpah, in her anxiety, was bent in mind to learn what else was going to fair that year. For the fulness of the fair, when, as sometimes happened there were more sellers than buyers, oftentimes beat down the price. And yet, for other things, not like her own, the more the better, for that brought folk there. So ever and again, as one thing passed out of sight, the eyes of Rizpah turned in expectation to the distant bend of the road, waiting in wonder to see what might come next.

There had been a slight white frost towards the small hours of the morning; but except under the long shadow of a tree, or here and there where the glistening rime still clung to a mote of straw or a dead twig lying in the road, the sun had melted it away. And the larks sang overhead for ever and ever, one more beginning just as another dropped. It seemed to soften Rizpah’s sorrow, and give a promise of better days to see the earth spring-clad and hear all sound so sweet.

A herd of heifers went loitering on upon the grass, sometimes stopping to pull a blade as they passed. Rizpah took note they were poor and thin and their red coats still ragged from the winter cold. But, lawk! Nobody would know them again in a month’s time.

A little way behind followed a flock of ewes and lambs. The whole place was filled with bleating; and, as they came opposite Rizpah, the slanting light fell like an edge of silver upon the long wool on the backs of the ewes. They were panting. Their breath rose like a faint vapour, scenting the morning air. The shepherd stood awhile to rest, and the lambs wriggled their tails and sucked.

Scarcely were these gone when a drove of colts came galloping down the road. Suddenly they stopped and would have turned back. But a party of gipsies soon appeared in view, riding barebacked on nags as lean as rails, and, with shouts and a great cracking of whips, drove them all on again.

As the day grew on, people began to come along, too, neighbours who lived handy travelling afoot, and all sorts of remote Puokeridges and Moggs whom Rizpah rarely saw went jogging by, mostly on horseback with the wife upon a pillion behind.

Rizpah let them all pass. She spoke to nobody.

At last there fell upon her ear a distant tinkling of bells; and soon around the corner came a nodding team, all decked with flowers, six of them, tossing their heads with pride, and making the brass-fitted harness glisten in the sun. The waggon behind was trimmed up with laurel boughs, so that it really looked like a bower or a walking wood. And there was aunt Rebecca Eliza Mogg—so she was— a-zot quite comfortable like ’pon a rush-bottomed chair, so large as life, sure, with all the five around her looking most wonderful well.

Rizpah had hoped to stand unnoticed, but love of kin overcame her sorrow. She must have one word with aunt Rebecca Eliza. And all the children, too! Dear little hearts, then! To let them pass so near and never to speak was every bit as bad as having a body to your house and then never to say “ Sit down She stepped out into the road.

“ Whoa,” shouted the carter.

The team stopped.

“ Why, ’tis never aunt Rebecca Eliza Mogg!” cried Rizpah, holding up both arms.

“ Why, ’tis never Rizpah White! ” echoed aunt Rebecca Eliza Mogg, clapping her hands.

This was merely the way of these simple souls, with whom the heartiest welcome took the form of surprise, and gladness was for ever expressed in astonishment.

“ Dear, dear, then! ”

“ Well, well, now I ”

“This is good for sore eyes.”

“An’ so ’tis. Do ’ee get up. Pull off your apern an’ get up. Such a beautiful day an’ all,” cried aunt Rebecca Eliza, all in one breath.

But Rizpah bethought herself. To be sure Jack must go with Ursula, and their wedding so near; and there was the stock to be sold, with a crowd of folk around.

“ No, and thank ’ee kindly, aunt Rebecca Eliza,” she said with a good face. “You see somebody must bide at home.”

Then the women smiled knowingly at each other, and the five put on broad grins. For where could they find a pleasanter, sweeter thought than that young folk who loved were to wed in a fortnight?

Then Rizpah sighed and hoped it would turn out well And aunt Rebecca Eliza declared she would be bound it would; and so, amidst a chorus of good-byes, the whip cracked, the team went on again with a jangling music like many distant chimes going all at once. Yet only to set eyes on aunt Rebecca Eliza Mogg, and call out in wonder—though, after all, her presence there was nothing out of the way—was a delight and helped to lighten a sad heart. For such simple joys, when there are many of them, make up the sum of happy life.

“Come in on your way back,” she shouted after them. Aunt Rebecca Eliza Mogg waved her hand and promised that, if there were time, she would.

Then, before Rizpah could get back out of the way, great-uncle Tutchins came along, too, to be sure he did.

He rode slowly, on that upstanding grey mare of his that many folk said was touched in the wind. Anyway, there was not the leastest sign of a cough about her to-day, so far as Rizpah could listen. And great-uncle Tutchins laughed at the bare thought, and was ready to swear the mare was as sound as a bell of brass. He only wished he was so sound himself—so there. Not but what the old man really looked wonderful well that morning, and carried a countenance so fresh as a daisy; and, for all his wrinkles, having but just now shaved, he looked as clear and as pink as any young maid. He did really. Rizpah was bound to tell him so outright, if ’twere the last words she had to speak, for he smiled so merry and so twinkle-eyed, too. But then great-uncle Tutchins was always a fairskinned man afore he went grey, and that, no doubt, did account for it, as Rizpah, not wishing to flatter or to seem for any end of her own to be a-sucking-up, hastened in all seriousness to add. The mare’s tail was tied up with a whisp of straw and a bit of red ribbon to show she was for sale. So great-uncle Tutchins had no time to stay about, for he was bent on business that day, if ever he was in all his life.

“But look in as you do ride home,” she asked him—for what could she do less?

And great-uncle Tutchins answered that, please God, he would.

At last Rizpah saw her own cows, seven in all, and she knew them like so many friends.

In front came the two white-faced ones she always chose to milk herself, and then the big sparked cow with the crumpled horn, and all the other four were red. Leisurely they came, close by the hedgerow under where she stood, bringing with their full udders a sweet odour of fresh milk. The widow sighed. Look at it how she would, this was the best, the only thing to do. A little way behind were Jack and Ursula, she in red hose and short grey homespun skirt and the new white bodice put on the day before yesterday. She carried a stick, too, a switch of willow covered thick with palms, picked up on the way. They were walking with heads bent close together, talking as they went, and had not glimpsed the widow as yet.

“Keep a good face on it, Jack,” the girl was urging in a low voice. “No man living can be ever the wiser.”

For all that, Jack looked most wofully downcast to think what he was about, and never once raised his eyes from the ground. And what sense, thought Rizpah, was it for Ursula to talk like that. Whether you buy or sell, every soul within ten miles must 19 know what you may hap to pay or take before the day is out.

The widow was upon the point of calling to him to get the most he could. Yet what good could that do? Jack would stand out for the last farthing for all their sakes. Without a word, and unseen, but with a foil heart and tears in her eyes, Rizpah stepped back from the hedge, watched them pass out of sight, and then slowly turned home to Winterhays. She stopped a moment before going indoors. “ Please God, Ursie do really get her money, an’ save us from more shame,” she prayed secretly in her heart. How could she bear to face the folk that would come in to-night ?

The quiet cows took no driving, and side by side young Jack and Ursula kept on at even pace.

Sunday, yesterday, and to-day, that was all her cry—unless the dead could rise and tell, it would never be found out For now three days had passed, and not a sound of alarm had broken the peace of the quiet valley. Yesterday, being Easter Monday, was a holiday. Folk came and went from far and near. There were matches at ballplaying wherever a square church-tower stood grey amongst the budding trees, and bell-ringing wherever there was a peal of bells. All the children were out about a-primrosing, or after daffodils down by the wet waste. Yet nothing had been found. And when such folks as went abroad visiting came home at night, they brought no word that anybody was lost. Ursie had made him go out all day and play fives, and show himself about and do as the rest.

Only once for a minute did her courage sink. Over-right the trees, she glanced between the trunks and narrowly scanned the grass as if expecting to find some sign, something that might tell tales after all. The thought made her tremble, and she felt her voice fail.

“ Is that the place? ” she asked hoarsely. She could not help herself. She was afraid to hear, and yet the question would come.

He silently nodded his head. Then he stepped upon the grass just where he had laid the body down. The very spot had a fascination for him and he stood there gazing upon the ground. Sooner or later he must have come even if they had not been forced to pass that way.

Ursula, with her face turned from him, dragged him away.

“I shall never get rid of the thought o’ it,” he wailed when they had passed; and he put his hand over his eyes as if to shut out the sight of something before his mind.

For a few steps they trudged on in silence. Ursula was the first to find courage to speak.

“Can be nobeddy o’ these parts,” she presently began in a low whisper. “ Mus’ be one o’ they that do take beastes to London, or some great city far away, a-hurrying across by night mayhap to catch some other coach. He mus' ha' met 'ee on his way from market or to fair. Why, mid be weeks afore anything is a-found out Some o’ that sort do bide away from home a woful while. An’ then, if he should be found, their first thoughts ’ull be o’ one aware of his ways to lie in wait for un. Tis all safe, Jack, dear. I do know ’tis. I do feel in my mind, like, that 'tis. An’ then, as time do go, the thought 'ull wear out.”

So she tried to comfort him all the way, and so much the better because she believed in every word she said.

At last they came upon a brow, opposite Wincanton where there were straggling cottages along the road. They could look right into the town, with a straight street running up the steep hill, and low thatched houses of all heights and sizes, dim in a mist of pale blue smoke, upon each side. Below, in the dip, was a crowd of folk and cattle all in uproar and confusion, as they had come in by different ways. Such a blaring, such a bleating surely ears had never heard. What with the bustle and shouts of drovers, and to hear every boy and hobble-de-hoy blowing a cow’s horn fit to burst, merely from good spirits and a delight in noise, Jack felt his heart come back.

“You be right, Ursie,” he cried, suddenly looking her full in the face for the first time. “ I’ll cast off care. What’s done is done past mending, an’ gone a-past thinking about.”

“An’ so do ’ee, Jack,” she said gladly. “ Come on. Make haste to get your business done, an’ so’ll I mine. An’ then we'll meet an’ go about together. An’ never let ’em say you’ll prove a sorry bridegroom, Jack. Why, to look at 'ee, they’ll think you’ve a-lost heart to see me a-buying my wedding things.”

His eye brightened. He held up his head again with the old devil-may-care look.

“’Tis all I do care for,” he cried, and caught her hold and kissed her there in the road. “Come on.”

He gave the hindermost cow a whack upon the back. As she ran forward the lazy beasts in front bestirred themselves; so there was no more time for talking, and he must needs run, too, to keep up. So they parted. Ursula went away up street, and he down into the thick of the fair.

In the hubbub, the merriment, the jokes, and the wrangling, Jack’s spirits rose.

All around were people known to him, for everybody went to fair in days gone by, and those who had no dealing to do, at least found plenty to laugh at. All up the street upon both sides the lower windows, such as were in reach, had been boarded up to save the panes; for tradesmen’s standings lined the road, leaving only a narrow footway between them and the houses. And, to begin with, was a fine to do, for the sparked cow, unused to so much company, ran wild, and, in her blind fright, struck against the corner of a stall and knocked it down. The ground was strewed with cakes and gingerbread. To see the folk scramble would have cheered the heart of any man except the owner of the stall But he got angry, as well he might, to find his wares all gone and more trampled under foot than was picked up. Out came he to the front and stood up before young Jack with his fists clenched, and began to shout and boast of what he would do. But, after all, he thought twice about that; and the folks jeered when he quieted down and talked about law, which, as all the world knows, is not the same thing as a fair, stand-up fight.

Jack had great luck with the selling of his beasts.

Malachi Webb, who had heard about the taking of Winterhays, and had his knife into Jacob Handsford, to be sure he had, fell in with a young man from up the country who was looking around to buy. Malachi just about cracked the beasts up “ in ear o’ un like,” and told him the lowest price, too—like a friend, as a favour. So when Jack asked high, the man opened his own mouth pretty widish too, and gave a goodish bid in the first place.

“ Vive poun', all roun’,” cried Jack.

“Not a ha’penny more ’an vower poun’ a-piece,” cried the man.

“ Not a varden less, for I wouldn’ bate ’pon ’em to my own brother.”

“Not a varden more, so sure as I do stan’ here.”

“Then ’tis little good to bide about,” said Jack, making as if to go.

“ None at all,” agreed the man.

But each one peeped over the shoulder as he went, to see what the other was thinking about, and so their eyes met.

Then the stranger stepped back and sprang a crown a head, and Jack—well Jack, after a while he did bate the same, for all he had said before. And then Malachi walked up between them—looking so knock-kneed and innocent like, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth—and put his nose in, as folks said was always the way of him.

“What is it? What is it?” cried he. “ Split the difference. A pity not to deal.” And Malachi shook his head sadly, feeling the pathos of a likely business transaction cut off in its prime.

So the man said he would spring another crown if Jack would throw back a pound on the deal.

“There, now,” shouted Malachi, and patted Jack on the back.

But, la! in the twinkling of an eye Jack had got the young man by the hand and cried “Done,” with a sudden alacrity fit to make the buyer jump.

The full money was solemnly counted out there-right, solemnly paid, and the pound as solemnly handed back. Without waiting a minute, Jack hurried up to lawyer Anstey and settled the rent. Malachi Webb was waiting at the door for him when he came out, and took seven half-crowns for his trouble, as was nothing but right.For everything was turning out well.No notice had been given. Winterhays was safe for another year. They stood and chuckled to think how mad little Jakey Handsford would be to find himself outdone.

To crown all, who should chance to come toddling by but great-uncle Tutchins, with a saddle in one hand and a bridle, in the other. He was wonderful pleased with himself, and smiled, as they say, all over the face o’ un. He had sold his upstanding mare—ay, sure! sold her to a gipsy—and then they all laughed to think how that gipsy had been proper a-sucked in.

“ Come on, come on,” cried the little man, and they went into “ The Bear ” to drink a cup for luck. And there, over the ale, well, it did leak out, like, that the mare was bad in her bellows. Only great-uncle Tutchins had oiled her up for the day so well that, verily and truly, she could never ha’ knowed her own self, like, for she never wheezed once in five hours nor gave the leastest bit of a cough. And she looked as pretty as a picture, she did. If she had a-bin but sound, mind, great-uncle Tutchins swore he would ha' turned away from twice the money. Not but what the gipsy would do well with her, too, for sure she’d be a wonderful mare to sell. Why a man wi’ no tongue in the head o’ un “ in a manner o’ speaking,” put in great-uncle Tutchins, in care for truth, and wishing not to assert an impossibility, “ could sell that mare So everybody was doing well and as merry as May. And when four out of five are making money, what else would you look for?

It was hard upon noon when Jack went up to meet Ursula, but they had all the rest of the day before them until dusk. What with the noise, the beating of drums, and the shouting upon all sides, his gloom was driven away. And sure there was a shilling or two to spare when he had sold the cows so Veil. And Ursie must have a fairing. He would treat her to anything she liked. He was a true White so long as he had a penny in his pocket, and he hurried her on from sight to sight, never resting long in one place, sometimes scarcely time enough to see the show out.

An excitement and a wildness had got hold of him; an eagerness to be doing, so that he might not stop to think.

There was a fire-eater who swallowed live coals; and a black man in a booth who fought with a mastiff. Always, as they came to some new wonder or delight, they met with friends who stopped to ask if they had fixed the day and to wish them luck with all their hearts. Ursula’s cheeks blushed like roses. It was plain to see young Jack did not trouble, so they said.

So far from being downcast, she had much ado now to keep him within bounds.

Close by the churchyard wall, there was cudgel-playing for ten shillings and a gold-laced hat. Two cider-butts had been brought out and set two feet apart; and perched, one upon each, without chance of stepping back, two gamesters belaboured each other with short staves about half the thickness of a man's handwrist. One of them, beaten, and with blood streaming down his forehead, came slowly down the ladder as they drew near. In a moment Jack was for going up, To hear the clatter of the sticks, and now the cheers of the crowd, had fired him with ambition. But Ursie held him back.

“Let me go, Ursie,” so he cried, “an’ you shall see me knock un off the cask.”

“ Bide where you be,” she told him. “For I’ll never stan’ up in church beside ’ee, wi’ your hair a-cut short, an’ a patch o’ plaster the shape of a Chris-cross ’pon the crown o’ ’ee.”

So he needs must listen, for she held such power over him that he never could go against Ursie, want what he would. And everywhere they went, something or other called up a talk of their wedding, and that put him in such heart that for the time it seemed that he had never a care.

At a corner where the roads ran together was an open space, and there a travelling doctor with a Merry-Andrew by his side, who grimaced and tumbled to draw a crowd and make the people laugh, had set up his stage. The fantastic dress of the fellow, in a red robe edged with fur, caught the eye of young Jack. The mountebank was shouting at the top of his voice—giving away powders to cure aches—head-ache, toothache, stomach-ache, heart-ache—giving them away for a groat a-piece to cover the cost of mixing and the paper.

“ And why do I come here to-day without pay or profit? ” he was asking. “ Why do I offer, three for a shilling in this place only, a remedy that the best half-guinea ever coined cannot pay for? It is because of my love for Wincanton-town, that I offer this boon to the poor of Wincanton. And should the affluent be dishonourable enough to avail themselves of my generosity, I can ask no man his means. For, ladies and gentlemen, there is no man, woman or child, who does not need my remedy. You cannot be in health without my remedy. For the humours of the body are at work breeding a wurrum—a malignant wurrum—thank you.”

Young Jack had stepped forward and handed up his groat, though he had never had an ache in his life. It was not that he believed the fellow or hearkened to his talk, but something within would not let him rest. And the man held up the little paper packet between finger and thumb, looked Jack straight in the face, and said, in a tone as serious as if he ha'd been telling Gospel-truth in church:—

“ There is a powder—of such strength— that, given to a dead man, if you can but get him to swallow it, will save his life.”

All the crowd set up a laugh. The country' folk of those days never failed to find the wit iu a saving “ if”. But young Jack grew red in the wattle. He did feel most terr’ble mad, so people thought, that the man should talk to him as if he were a fool.

Ursie was wild with him, too, for parting with his groat.

“How can 'ee be such a fool? 'Tis but a half of a pennyweight o’ chalk-dust I ” she cried, in a rage, as he opened the paper to find a pinch of white dust.

Just then a voice close behind them spoke in a quiet drawl:—

“ ’Tud be something, then, if could bring to life the murdered man that they’ve a-found to Bratton, so ’tis said.”

They started and turned round. Peering over their shoulders and between their bent heads was cousin Simon Mogg.

But Ursula, though her cheek turned pale and her breath came panting between her parted lips, quick as thought recovered her wits.

“Lawk! How you do galley a body, Simon Mogg—wi’ your nonsense,” she cried angrily.

“ ’Tis true as the light,” he said, laughing to see how she was shaking with the fright. Then his voice sank into an awesome whisper: “ Some o’ they run-about gentry ’pon the way to fair have a-picked up a dead man close below your place.”

“ Where to? ”

“ Down there in the bottom.”

“ Who is it? ”

“’Tis a foreigner, so they do say.” By this, cousin Simon Mogg only meant a man unknown in Bratton or close around. “ But the constable do think ’tis one they’ve a-had word about from up the country that have a-bin missing for a week. Brought there by the gipsies, like enough. They do mean to bring un into Wincanton, and send for his friends to own un—leastways, that’s the talk here in the fair.”

Cousin Simon Mogg had gradually dropped back into a careless manner of speaking, but now again he fell into dead earnest:—

“Girt-uncle Tutchins have a-bought his-self a wonderful nag,” he said. “ Just about a pretty chestnut nag.” And with that he turned about and went off, elbowing and shoving his way through the crowd.

After all, he had spoken as of a matter of small account. It might have sounded but mere gossip, likely enough to prove untrue, if they had not known. Yet the words fell upon them like a blow, losing no weight because this had been looked for, and, sooner or later, needs must come. Their hearts sank within them, cold and numb. Not from the fear of being found out. What cousin Simon Mogg had let drop was what the constable and all the rest were sure to think. Already suspicion had started upon a false track. Yet, though it could never come to light, something within the soul of each shuddered at the thought of what they alone knew.

They could stay no longer in the crowd.

They could not bear the laughter and the voices upon every side.

Of one mind, they left the corner with its blaring mountebank and noise, and, along the narrow pavement between the standings and the fronts of houses, made their way to the bottom of the town. Ursula went in front and Jack followed close at her heels. All the people known to them were out in mid-street, and they did not speak a word until they came to the town’s end at the beginning of the open road.

It was already well on in the afternoon. Frugal folk, who came to fair only for business, began to be setting out for home. Hard by stood an old inn with a broad archway leading into a square yard. From the open window of a room above came the sound of music—the scraping of fiddles with the drumming upon a bare floor of dancing feet. The eldest of aunt Rebecca Eliza Mogg’s five popped her head out of the lattice, with a knot of red ribbons for a fairing tied up in her hair, and called to them:—

“Come on in, Ursie. Come on, Jack. ’Tis but a shilling for the two, an’ there’s lots o’ us here.”

“ We’ve a-got to go a-milking,” answered Ursula, quite pat.

“ Mother do mean to stop at Winterhays on her way back,” cried the girl. Her voice was unsteady with excitement, and, unwilling to waste more time, she drew in her head.

Malachi Webb came riding out a-horse-back, bending to pass under the arch.

“ Hullo! What's this then they do tell up? Who is it you have a-bin murdering over to Bratton? ” he shouted merrily across the road to young Jack. “I had half a mind to ride round by Winterhays, for, ’tis little out o’ my way.”

So there was like to be no peace, no place out o’ hearing of the talk of it, even when they should get home from fair.

For the best part of a mile they were forced to keep along the road. Now that the stock was gone they could do as they liked, and they turned off by a footpath into the quiet fields, and hurried away, out of sight and call of the passers-by. Yet they were afraid to go home. As they drew near the village, at every gate and stile they loitered. All the early spring, with the quietude of eventide, broke into hill song —the blackbird hidden in the dark orchard, and the thrush upon the hedgerow elm. From the ridge came the distant halloing of drovers merry with drink, and singing, too, as they went, slowly driving cattle away from fair. Jack and Ursula leaned against an upright slab of blue stone set in the hedgerow, within view of the house. They looked like lovers who cannot find it in their hearts to part. But they did not talk. They stood side by side, yet apart, never speaking a word, until, at last, when only half the rim of the setting sun peered red above the far-off west, and the first gloom of coming darkness fell upon the wood, Ursula said she would go home.

“Come up to house wi' me first,” he begged of her, and caught her hold by the arm.

“ I had better to get back,” she faltered, for her heart was sinking to think of what was before them.

“No, Ursie. No, I can’t go up alone. I shall do something—or say something—or act like a fool—I do know I shall. Come, Ursie! Come!”

In their fears and excitement all thoughts of love had been forgotten. They had not so much as looked at each other, and now, as Ursula glanced up into Jack’s face, she saw that his eyes were bloodshot and his cheeks flushed. He bore the appearance of one who had been revelling at the fair. Already visitors in twos and threes had crossed the home - field to Winterhays. Quite a company must have gathered there by now. She could not leave him to face it out alone. All the while she was not there, she would go in fear of what he might have done.

“ I’ll walk up wi’ ’ee,” she said, loosening his hold and standing up from the stile, firm of mind again. “But, Jack, be yourself. If we had no knowledge o’ it, we should talk, an’ be as hot to learn as the rest.’’

They had got as far as the garden-hatch, or very near, when, suddenly, out of the homestead, pell-mell, one upon the other’s heels, the folk came running into home-ground. Somebody through the window had chanced to eye great-uncle Tutchins, jogging in upon his new mare. So they all rushed out to have a look. And, la! there she was, a picture to be sure. And so was great-uncle Tutchins, too. She was a silvermaned chestnut, with a beautiful, long swish tail that had never been docked, and great-nncle Tutchins was wonderful pleased with himself. It made him proud as Punch to see the folk come round. His face, ruddy in the evening light, shone like a pippin. He had made a wonderful deal. Great-uncle Tutchins knew he had. The mare, there I she was so dappled as a deer, she really was; and when great-uncle Tutchins drew rein she arched her neck and the mane glistened like silk.

“ Lawk! girt-uncle Tutchins, then! ” cried one and all. “ Why, you must ha’ bin in luck to ha’ picked her up.”

“ Now, all o’ ’ee then, try to pick a fau’t in her,” cried the old man, glancing round so red in the cheek and so proud as a turkey-cock. “ I can’t pick a fau’t in her to save my life. An’ such manners, too! Be dalled if she didn’ come on jus’ the very same as if she knowed my ways.”

Now, just as great-uncle Tutchins had reached the height of his joy, that mare gave a cough. It was but slight, and in the outburst of general admiration passed unmarked. But great-uncle Tutchins heard it—a quiet, confidential, familiar, hacking, little cough. Something like it he had known before.

At once, great-uncle Tutchins became the victim of a most terrible distrust. Some rascally rogue might have oiled up this smart young mare, and mended her broken wind for an hour or so, as could be done, so great-uncle Tutchins had before now heard tell. It took him all his time to keep his countenance and shout again with a good heart:—

“Come, then, Malachi Webb. Come, then, Simon Mogg. Come all o’ ’ee. Pick a fau’t in her, if you can.”

Nobody could. They looked at her from the front—they spied at her end-ways—sideways—slant-ways—every way that the wit of horse-dealing man has ever devised or thought of. They looked cunning, too, and deep and sly and wise all at the same time. Simon croupied down and squinted. So did Malachi Webb. “Was she a leettle —just a leettle—? ”

Without waiting to hear what, Malachi, always wishing to stand well with everybody, shouted, “Not a bit, not a bit,” so promptly that cousin Simon Mogg gave the point up at once, saying, “No, no. No more she is. No more she is.”

“Come, now,” laughed great-uncle Tut chins, again in the best of spirits, “there is nothing ’pon earth wi’out some fau’t or blemish. For you be knock-kneed, Malachi Webb—an’ Simon, when his hat’s off, is so bald as a bladder o’ lard.”

But neither philosophy nor good-humour could do any good. Pry as they would no defect could even be hinted at. The truth about that mare might never have been brought to light and would certainly have been kept a secret from the good folk of Bratton, if Simon, in making closer and more intimate examination of her near hind leg, to steady himself whilst stooping, had not laid his right hand upon the long swish tail.

She did not kick. The sweetness of that mare’s temper was a credit to her sex. She stood there as still as an angel amongst admiring friends. But just as Simon, leaning a little heavier, mayhap, carried his fingers down and down towards the hoof, the tail came off. Simon fell backwards, and all the people laughed. An’, la! sure, then, all the stump that was left to that mare had been shaved so close, it was a deal balder than Simon’s crown.

“’Pon my life, then,” cried Malachi, slowly knitting his brows in perplexity and half-afraid to speak, “if I don’t think Mr. Tutchins have a-bought back his very own mare—for I do sim I do know her—an’ so I do, too, when I do look again.”

“ Why, and zo he have then.”

Now that the word was spoken, everybody knew her at once. As well indeed they might, for there was no such fine, upstanding mare within ten miles.

“ Heart alive! ”

“ Well, now! ”

“ Dear, dear! ”

“But what wickedness there is in the world, then! That great-uncle Tutchins, wi’ all his years an’ wit, should ha’ been a-tookt in like that.”

In a twinkling the little man was down, stamping, swearing, using all the words, as Rizpah afterwards said, that he could lay his tongue to. But it was no good. Malachi spat in his hand and rubbed the chestnut dye off on his own palm. Why, as he said, if you did but pat her, you could knock out dust like beating a door-mat “ ’Tis they thieving, lying fellers o’ gipsies. That’s who ’tis,” cried great-uncle Tutchins. “They did ought to be all hanged—an’ should if I had my way. Why, they do do one half the crime in the country, they do.”

“But who did ’ee buy her o’, girt-uncle Tutchins? Who did ’ee buy her o’, then? ”

“ I took the young chap for a gen’leman’s servant.”

“ There, she wur a wonderful easy mare to sell,” grinned Malachi Webb, though he put on a tone of comfort too; “ yet, to be sure, to be short of a tail do take away some little from her looks,” he reflected in his innocent way.

“'Ah! ’tis they same murdering, run-about rogues, here to-day and gone to-morrow, that killed the poor man they’ve a-found in Dree-hound's Waste,” roared the little man, pacing up and down and round the mare. “ That's who 'tis. They gipsy robbers wi' no house to their heads, that brought that corpse a hundred miles or more, an’ dapped un down here in Bratton, to trouble honest folk.”

But, lo! nobody gave another thought to the murder that night, for every mind was filled with wonder as to what great-uncle Tutchins would do.

And afterwards that idea gained ground. Who could doubt it? For, after all, the rascals who would dye up a grey mare so well as to suck in a man like great-uncle Tutchins, could be guilty of anything.

A few days later it was rumoured that, as nothing could be found out, the poor man was to be accorded Christian burial in Bratton churchyard on Sunday next.

So all went well, and Jack and Ursula began to breathe once more.

CHAPTER XI.

THE ORDEAL.

They were standing on the footpath leading across the same ploughed ground where last harvest they sat and talked behind the sheaves. To all appearance they did but walk out round together as lovers should. For Sunday was come once more, with its rest from work and a sound of church-bells rising and falling upon the wind; and already, though it was fall early, groups of folk were making their way along the road up the hill.

“ I can’t never do it, Ursie. I won’t go a-nighst the place. I be a-feared o’ my life to think o’ it—let alone to go., I tell ’ee, my heart ’ud fail me to look upon it, or to so much as creep up an’ cast my eyes ’pon his coffin. I can’t I can’t do it, Ursie.”

“ For God’s sake, hush,” she warned him, in a quick, frightened whisper. “ Don’t ’ee talk so loud, Jack, or folk ’ull overhear an' find out all.”

Then they stared at each other with terror-stricken eyes; yet ever and again they glanced at the little graveyard on the knoll in expectation and in fear.

They had not long to wait. Presently a small procession began to slowly climb the flight of stone steps up the steep. Like a funeral it looked of some poor body who has left no mourners. In front walked the parson, and with him one from Wincanton who was a Justice of the Peace. Then followed a coffin, carried on a bier, but covered by a pall that hid the heads of the bearers too. But all the folk who watched were held back for the time being outside the gate.

Young Jack shuddered at the sight. He himself was pale as death; and so was Ursie, too, though she gave no other sign of weakness, but set her lips together firm and did not even tremble or so much as falter in her speech.

“’Tis no good for 'ee to talk, Ursie,” he wailed again, waving his hands in helplessness and despair. “I can’t. I tell ’ee I can’t. I’ll run away out o’ all reach.” And he turned his face from Bratton, and walked some hurried steps along the path, as if to suit the deed to the word.

“ Ah,” she sighed. But she followed him closely, and spoke with a firm voice. “ An’ that’s how things afore now have a-bin brought to light, when they mid ha’ bin kep’ dark till doomsday.”

“ But they’ll read me guilty in my face,” he cried, still pressing forward.

“ An’ why you more than the rest? ”

He turned suddenly towards her.

“ I tell ’ee I won’t go,” he said almost angrily.

“ An’ then the constable that warned all the men in the parish, he’ll come in a twinkling or send the tithing-man to bring ’ee. An’ what’ll they think then, Jack? ” Under the convincing reason of her clear common-sense he broke down completely.

“ Ah, Ursie I ” he sobbed. “ But they do say if the guilty do only draw nigh, the dead ull move an’ the blood flow afresh.” Then she did her best to comfort and soothe him. “ I tell ’ee, Jack, ’tis nothing. ’Tis no truth in what they do tell up. An’ when ’tis done, we shall have no more to fear, for they’ll bury un, an’ by to-morrow all ’ull be forgot.”

That was true. In the afternoon they were to bury the unclaimed dead, and so the talk about it all would end.

The friends of him who was missing up the country had been down to Wincanton to find only a stranger never before seen. Not the slightest clue had the constables got hold of to guide them to the discovery of the crime. The dead body, so great-unde Tutchins had said, might have been carried a “ hundred mile for all anybeddy could tell There was no writing in any of the pockets, no sign of anything with a word upon it, to tell them where to ask or make their search. The clothes were new—a jacket, breeches, and hose of sheep-grey yarn, such as were worn by yeomen and the better class of husbandmen — fresh bought, with the creases scarcely worn away, but with no name of the tailor by whom the seams were sewn. For craftsmen lived out of their neighbours in those days, and little thought of sending their names far abroad to bring in work. In the fob was a silver watch—but that was made in France. It only added another doubt by seeming to show that robbery was not at the bottom of the crime.

So, after all said and done, there was no more left to do but to lay these relics upon one side in readiness for some other proof which would never come, and lay the body underground. In Bratton parish it had been found, and to Bratton it must be brought back to be buried. There remained but one small chance; and that, as everybody felt, could but make it clear that no guilt lay upon Bratton folk. As to bringing home the murder to him who did it, nobody so much as dreamt of that. It could never be found out, so everybody said.

There was an old lingering belief—somewhat fallen into disuse of late, but still firmly held in far-off parts of the country— that, at the touch of the murderer, or even in his presence, the wounds of a murdered man would break out and bleed afresh. Great beads of sweat had been known to rise upon the dead man’s forehead, ay, and run down upon his brow, so many a ballad sang and chap-book set down in print. Quite a number, even of the bettermost people, believed this still; so that, although some thought the Queen’s judges would not take it for proof in law, many more stuck out that it ought to be done. It was Grod’s way, so Rizpah had said overnight, to bring the hidden ill-doer to justice; and then she spoke the text that “whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed”. Jacob Handsford was the only one in Bratton to sneer when yesterday the word had been sent round that every male above sixteen should undergo this ordeal as he passed on Sunday morning into the village church. It must be the devil then sure enough, he scoffed, for more than once a corpse had bled anew at touch of one who had never been near the place. “ Ay, an’ one time at the pa’son hiszelf—he! he!—when he reached out his han’ to lift off the cloth.” “ ’Tis but this,” the' girl cried again, with growing eagerness, “ an’ then all ’ull be done wi’ an’ safe. Look, they’ve a-most a-got it ready there by the porch, close handy to the path. Jack, I tell ’ee ’t ’nil be tookt note o’ that we do bide away so long. ’Tis out o’ all reason—for everybeddy is there an’ some from other places, too. They’ll suspect something, Jack; I know they will. Come on; you ought to ha’ bin the first”

In her anxiety she caught hold of him, as if to drag him along the path. Half-yielding to this new fear, but half out of his habit of trusting to Ursula, he suffered her to lead him some way back towards the village.

Then he stopped again.

“Ursie, I can never look upon un,” he moaned.

“There’s no need. You can turn your head away. You have but to lay your finger ’pon the back of his han’ as you do pass by.”

“’Twere pitch dark,” he muttered to himself in a low voice.

“ But why think o’ that that’s past? ” she urged.

“ I meant that I’ve never a-seed un. He’ll draw my eyes to un, Ursie, though I could scarce dare to look.”

“’Tis but a minute,” she went on, pleading at first, but growing impatient that he should be so weak, “ an’ then all the trouble over for good. An’ what can this be after what you have a-done afore? Why, you carried un whilst he wur still warm, an’ now he’s cold more ’an a week. Would 'ee be such a coward that you can’t so much as lay finger-tip to un?”

He winced as she called him that, and once more they walked on.

“ But what if the blood should run? ” he presently gasped. That was his real dread, and at thought of it all his strength fled, his knees bent and his hands shook.

“ I tell ’ee ’tis but a trap to catch a guilty heart wi’ fear that have a-bin gi’ed up in most parts years agone,” she said quietly, to give him courage. “ Be a man, Jack. Why, what is it a-told up about Master Babb, o’ Chard, that killed the widow ’ooman? He ran away an’ so it all came out. An’ what o’ he in the song, then, that shook an’ trembled like a leaf, an’, sooner ’an touch the body, fell down an’ told all there-right. ’Tis but to keep up a good heart for a minute, Jack—just to talk to the folk as you do pass, an’ hurry in the first an’ out again. For there’s no need to go to church. No-beddy ’ull expect it. An’ we’ll come out in the fields, Jack, happy to think that there’s no more to be thought o’. Come—afore we be missed; there’s no time to spare.”

“I’ll do it, Ursie, come what may,” he cried with sudden boldness. But though her words had brought him to the point, his spirit still quailed within. He paused a moment. Then he looked blankly into her face. There came a hopelessness into his eyes as again he put his fear into words: “ An’ if they do mark anything in my countenance or gait, so it mus’ be In a twinkling he had again cast fear aside, and was ready to go on—ready with the reckless courage that belonged to his nature. But his weakness and uncertainty of mind in presence of those rites that went beyond things living, as it were, into the other world filled her with alarm. In her heart also was a doubt. But the outcome and the upshot of not going stood clear before her brain. He would be missed —sent for—brought, after all, and watched —watched with that narrowness of expectation that could often see even more than there really was.

“I tell ’ee what, Jack, dear,” she said, moved by a sudden impulse of pity and love, “ if’t ’ull do ’ee any good I’ll go along wi’ ’ee. I’ll walk straight up an’ stand there by your side. ’T ’ull be only as if I went out o’ cur'osity—and there’s a-many women folk in Bratton ’ull do that. An' I’ll just speak a word to ’ee, quiet like, as you do step on to the grass.”

“ Will 'ee do that, Ursie? ”

“ I will,” she said boldly. “ An’ I'll go on first.”

“ What, afore me? ”

“ So I will—for I don’t believe their tales one word—I don’t—”

“If you will but do it, Ursie, I’ll go at once,” he cried eagerly, seizing upon her offer almost before the words were oat of her mouth. “I’d never back out, nor turn tail, if you were by, but go on, whatever mid hap. I’Ve a-got that trust in ’ee, Ursie, that what you do say is right. An' you truly don’t believe in it yourself, do 'ee, Ursie? Nor your father, Ursie? So you said—”

She stopped him in his anxious talk harping back upon the old strain, and stepped in front to look at him.

“You be all in a sweat,” she said, “wi’ the thought o’ it. Here, let I wipe yonr forehead and your cheeks with the comer o’ my neckercher, afore we do meet wi' a soul. An’ look up cheerful like. For anyway, no harm can come. If nothing should hap, that’s a proof. An’ if it should, why, stand bold. For it can but show false in the minds o’ all—wi’ no reason an’ no link to hold 'ee to it, as mid say. There’s nothing ’pon earth can hurt ’ee, Jack, but yourself for certain sure. Come, look-y-see, they’ve a-oped the gate for folks to go up.”

“ Come on, then, Ursie,” he said, his mind now fully made up. “When all’s said an’ done, there’s none ’ull take note o’ we unless ’tis to smile when they do think o’ the banns.”

They hurried along the path towards the village street Even to be late, when everybody was so full of wonder and eagerness to see, might look strange and call for some comment, if only in joke. By the time they came down into the road all the people had slowly filed up into the churchyard, and were standing in groups upon the path. So much the better after all. The moment was too solemn for shaking hands and talk. Nobody had so much as a word or a look for Ursie and young Jack, but all stood there in silence, each waiting to be called.

“ Take off your hat, Jack,” she said in his ear in a hasty whisper.

Then he felt confused, for he saw the men standing in a rank all bareheaded, and the women with parted lips and pale, a little farther back, watching as one after another stepped forward in his turn.

The bier had been placed upon the grass close by the church-door; and the corpse, wrapped in woollen cloth, lay in an uncovered coffin with its face and hands open to the light. The parson, the Justice of the Peace, and the constable, stood upon one side by the head and watched. One after another the villagers lightly touched the murdered man, and, passing on, waited by the entrance to the porch. And slowly the circle of the people who came only to see the sight, overcoming their awe of death, drew closer and closer until they blocked the way, and now and again had to be told in a loud voice to stand back.

For a minute Jack and Ursula waited upon the outskirts of the throng.

She glanced at him. His lips were set firm with the dogged look she had seen at times before, when, at cudgel-playing or wrestling, he stood up before a man he knew to be as good or better than himself. In the deed itself, the thing seemed easier than when only thought upon and pictured in the mind. She touched him on the elbow. Intent on what he saw he gave no heed. She pulled him by the sleeve, and beckoned with her finger. Then they pushed a way between the folk and came to the very front.

“ John White.”

It was the constable calling his name from the strip of paper in his hand.

His tom had come, but still he did not move.

He was staring upon the face of the unknown man whom he had killed. It had a fascination for him, just as he had feared, lying there in its cerecloth with closed eyes, ashy white. On the brow, full in sight, was the wound—with blood about it still, but dark and black. The cheekbones and the thin nose were pitted deep with the smallpox, but the cheeks, and mouth, and jaw, were hidden in a moustache and beard clipped short and close.

He stood like one spell-bound, though the Justice made a sign to him to come. He looked dazed and perplexed, as if scarcely knowing what he did, where he was, or what he looked upon.

Was he going to break down, now, at the last? Ursula’s heart sank. Again she spoke to him, quickly, in a whisper:—

“ Now—Jack—’tis you.”

At the sound of her voice he started, and stepped sullenly towards the bier.

An awful fear gripped her around the heart. God I If what folk said was true, and the blood should flow I Her breath came fast. She felt like to fall; but she pressed one hand tight against her side, and though she had promised to go in front, she followed a pace or so behind.

A shudder passed over her that made her flesh creep and her very soul tremble. With the guilty secret upon her conscience she was standing in the presence of the murdered man. The horror of bloodshed seized upon her. The mystery of Death was calling upon her to look. Then the superstition which she had denied got hold of her. She fixed her eyes upon the wound. She could scarcely keep from crying out. Already it seemed to her to moisten as they drew near.

Now that he was brought to the pinch, Jack White, without wavering, stretched out his arm to touch.

The air was still and soft. There was neither sound nor movement in the crowd as he quickly put forth his hand with less D g I zeo by^ooole of care than any of the rest, and tapped with his fingers on the white, shining knuckles of the dead.

At that moment, close by his shoulder, arose a shriek.

Then it was all true! The blood had come afresh! The dead had told his tale and everything was found out.

He staggered back. He turned, and would have run, but Ursula was already clinging to him; though her face, turned from him, still stared upon the bier.

“ ’Tis William! ” she screamed, her voice wild with terror. “Poor William—on his way home unbeknown—William—that you have a-killed! ”

At once there was an uproar everywhere.

“ What? William White I ”—“ It can’t be William White”—“Though ’tis his hair— an’ height—an’ forehead—”

But the constable without waiting laid hands upon young Jack, for at least there had been words spoken, whether it was William White or no. Some of the women ran to Ursula, who had fallen, sobbing and wringing her hands, upon the ground. And some cried out to fetch Rizpah, who, sure enough, must know her own son, and was coming at that moment, book in hand, across the field.

But the truth, once spoken, stood beyond all doubt. Malachi Webb, always the foremost, stepped up to look. Below the cheekbone, but hidden now under the new-grown hair, was the scar brought back from an earlier voyage. And though the face was thin with illness—and the features out of all knowledge disfigured and changed, pitted thick and deep with the small-pox—there was not one of Bratton who could not say without doubt that this was William White.

Ay, and it was clear to see, too, why William White had not come home according to his promise, and yet sent no word. Lying at death’s door, like enough, for weeks, and laid aside for months, how was he to write or send? Illness had made of him another man. Even his own mother would scarcely have known him now. And Rizpah, who had stayed away from the grim sight-seeing, was hard by on her way to church. Make room for Rizpah—break it to her gently, sure. Poor woman—little better than twelve months a widow—and to have such sorrow wi’ her sons.

And all the while, above this hum and buzz of voices, arose the moan of Ursula, sometimes growing into a shriek, that it was William, and then sinking into a wail as she cried and sobbed for young Jack.

She had found him courage to come there and face the ordeal only to fail him at the last.

BOOK III

RIZPAH.

A year and more had passed, and many changes had taken place in Bratton.

Young Jack had died for the deed that was more a misfortune than a crime. Ursula, just at the torn of winter, had been laid to rest in the quiet churchyard. And no more Whites were ever to live at Winterhays. Yet the quiet village on the hill-side gave no sign of change.

Again it was near midsummer, the very day of the month upon which, at early daybreak, William had set out for sea, two years before. It was the hour of twilight, too; but not, as then, of dewy dawn. The west above the hill was broken into fierce rifts. Crimson light ran up into the sky, pierced the walls of purple cloud, and cast a blood-red glow upon the masses overhead. This was the last clutching after life of a long and passionate day, when the tumult is spent and the shadow of night rolls on apace.

Again there was hay in the pook in the home-field and also in the meadow at the back of Jacob Handsford’s barn. There had been a heavy tempest during the afternoon that had brought all work to a standstill, and spoilt the greater part already done. Early in the day, huge, threatening mountains of leaden cloud, sun-capped against the pale blue sky, arose above the hill-tops, so that there was much ado to rake the grass together before the coming storm should break. For hours the jagged lightning played and thunder rattled all along the ridge, with scarce a breath of wind or drop of rain to cool the sultry air. Then a whirlwind, chilly and cold, came rushing down the open space by the cross-roads and swept the valley round. The clouds burst. A sudden torrent poured that drenched the running work-folk to the skin. And so by eventide the storm wore out its strength and passed into a moaning rumble far away.

Then everybody in the village was out of doors to look about and eye out what harm had come to their neighbours as well as themselves; for here and there a chimney-tun had been blown down and the thatch was torn away from many a pointing-end.

But at any rate Jacob Handsford was not changed. Almost before the rain had ceased, as fast as he could set foot to ground, the little man went shuffling up to Winterhays alone. He was always alone since Ursula was gone; for folk, one and all, had made up their minds to have nothing to do with such a thing of a fellow. Not a neighbour, young or old, would so much as pass the time o’ day with the man as he went down street. Children, who could little more than lisp, called “ skin-flint ” to his fiace, and boys, just big enough to run, thought it a good deed to throw a stone after little Jakey Handsford so soon as ever his back was turned. So there was no comfort in it, though he had won what he craved.

There is nothing so slow to grow, but nothing so deep of root and long in dying out as the ill-will of a village. Jacob felt very sad at heart as he hurried up the hill. For great-uncle Tutchins and Malachi Webb were standing below the churchyard as he turned into the field. He could see by their looks that something had gone awry, and his quick ear caught the sound of their laughter just as he slammed back the little kiss-gate and stepped in upon the path. “ Ha! ” muttered Jacob to himself, “ there’s no such thing as good-fellowship left ’pon the face o’ the earth, I do declare.” No matter what damage might be done, well enough he knew that nobody would lend him a helping hand. And he able to buy up both o’ the ignorant, grinning fellows and then look round for more.

He had got hold of the farm that he coveted after all; but so far it had brought him nothing but trouble.

In that matter his cunning recoiled upon himself. For on the evening he received his money from Malachi Webb (being afraid of what Ursula would do), to make all safe, he wrote his offer and left it at the door as he started for home. Thus a month afterwards when he wanted to back out, the lawyer Anstey held him to his bargain tight as wax.

Rizpah went out at Milemas last, and ever since then the house lay empty. What good was the land to her—with William killed and laid to rest, and young Jack where they had put him at the cross-roads just on the brow of the ridge, for all the world to see? Glad enough was she to give it up and creep into the little cottage hard by the high road.

Great-uncle Tutchins and cousin Simon Mogg had been just now whispering about that very thing until Jacob came in sight. “For certain sure, she must have money a plenty now,” reflected great-uncle Tutchins, stroking his fat chin.

“ For all her wants and more,” cousin Simon Mogg sententiously agreed.

“She can never want so much as a penny-piece of any living soul, not if she do live to a hundred,” continued great-uncle Tutchins, beaming pleasantly in contemplation of a position so secure.

“ No, no. For wi’ what belonged to both o’ the boys, so well as her own share, she is so sure o’ to-morrow’s bread as she is o’ to-morrow’s daylight,” and cousin Simon Mogg stood upright and spread out his arms as broad as noon.

“Jus' the very same,” nodded great-uncle Tutchins.

Then for a spell they gazed solemnly upon the ground and were silent.

“ ’T’ud be nothing but a friendly act and kind and prudent to get the poor ’ooman to choose executors and draw up a bit of a will,” thoughtfully suggested cousin Simon Mogg without looking up.

Great-uncle Tutchins drew very close, half closed his eyes, and became mysterious and wise. “ Do 'ee ever fear for her mind, Simon Mogg? ” he said.

“Since you mention it—I have,” replied cousin Simon Mogg, and nodded emphatically, determined to tell the truth.

“ She ought not to spend her principal,” mused great-uncle Tutchins.

“ Yet money put out is a tax on the brain,” argued cousin Simon Mogg.

“ So ’tis,” sighed great-uncle Tutchins pensively.

Cousin Simon Mogg hooked him by the button-hole in a very confidential way.

“ But, la! ” he said, “ what Rizpah do really want is some near relative—or say two—to take her money to use an’ pay the interest regular-like, wi’ no thought or trouble to herself.”

“ But here’s little Jakey Handsford.”

“ Little pinch-faced toad.”

Then they both chuckled and turned to watch him as Jacob had observed.

He hurried across the field and stood before the tenantless homestead. No matter how little he asked, he could get no one to take the house without the land, and no one to live in it and work for him. They would not take it at a gift to be under Jacob, so folk said. And morning, noon and night, it worried him most wonderful to know the place empty, day after day, and week after week, when it ought to be bringing in a few shillings, if only, as he grumbled to himself, to pay the outs. For keep it up he must. That he was bound to do in black and white. “ Ha! an’ things out o’ use do run to disrepair more than they do wear out wi’ hard usage,” daily he kept snarling to himself. But when he first clapped eyes upon Winterhays to-night, he stopped and raised his hands and looked aghast.

The old place had stood right in the stroke of the wind. Some weeks ago, the mischievous toads of boys had unhung and carried away the garden hatch and broken all the window panes with stones ; and now came the tempest and all the roof was a ruin. For the gale had got under the broad eaves and stripped off the thatch, leaving the rafters bare as bones. The chimneys at the gable ends were carried away and red bricks lay strewn and broken all across the garden plot. The old pear tree in the comer was blown down and had fallen against the wall. The old home of Winterhays that had covered the Whites for so many generations looked no better than a wreck.

Little Jacob Handsford stamped his feet and tore his hair.

Then he fell to raving.

“ God’s life I but a pretty penny it must cost to put all straight—an’ that’s good money after bad, wi’ not so much as a varden to be got out o’ it all, whatever mid be spent. Ha I sure enough, there's work an’ pay for the thatcher, an’ the mason, an' the glazier —an’ all out o’ one pocket, too—all out o’ Jacob Handsford’s. An’ the place a-bought so dear as fire, too—so dear as fire—so dear as fire.”

In his excitement, still repeating these words, he began to wander aimlessly around the dismantled house. He crossed behind the cowstalls towards the orchard, but it was only to pass from one damage to another. More than a score of apple trees, thick in leaf and heavy-laden with green new-kemed fruit, had been blown down—and then to see the hurt they had done, tearing and breaking the limbs of others in their fall. Three tall elm trees that grew in the bank of a hedgerow ditch, tom up by the roots, had fallen, crashing into a piece of wheat. “ Ha! How be they to be got at? How be they to be got at?” groaned Jacob, asking the question of himself again and again, but unable to find any reasonable answer.

He stayed there until dusk was falling, and homestead, trees and orchard became wrapped in gloom. He could do no good— no good at all. He would be out o’ pocket —out o’ pocket after all his pains. Jacob Handsford pitied himself with all his heart. After the way he had thought, and schemed, and worked, and saved, that everything he had put hand to should go so much awry. Ah I all this trouble was the only reward he got for being so prudent and thrifty. He might just as well get home at once and see what Hannah Peach was about. He got his village news from Hannah, too; for she was the only soul he had to speak to since Ursula died at the turn of the new year.

But what was that Hannah was telling up the other night? Once or twice of late, in his perplexity, his mind had run upon Rizpah White. Sure, when her trouble had passed over awhile, she would be looking for something to do. If he could get a staid woman like that, and honest and respectable, to come and manage for him, it would pay to give her good money rather than things should go so much to waste. But Hannah had brought in strange stories about Rizpah White. Jacob stopped in the path and thought. There came upon him a curiosity to pry out and learn whether the things said were true.

He climbed quietly up the hill-side, towards the cross-roads, close by the gate where Rizpah sat down to rest and think that Monday when she had been to Win-canton about the rent.

It was lighter on the hill than down below. The air was still and calm. Long strips of cloud, broken up and left behind in the wake of the storm, stretched above the horizon, one over the other, ragged-edged, blood-red and livid, with shafts of golden light bursting between and spreading up into the sky.

He stood and peered through a gap in the hedga Upon the top of the little grassy knoll stood a gibbet; and from the outstretched arm hung a shapeless burden, black and motionless against the brilliant glory of the passing day. The post, upon one side, was all aglow with the red light, and glistening too. For higher than the tallest man could reach it was studded thick with nails, driven so close together that never the point of a knife could get between. Above that it had been bound with iron bands. Sure enough, it was put there to stand, maybe a hundred years, till wind and wet had eaten all its strength away. Nobody could cut it down, or even whittle off so much as a splinter to carry about as a charm against toothache. Thus had they hung Jack White, on the tree that bears no leaves, a warning to others, for all the world to see.

Without a shudder Jacob had seen this gruesome sight before, even in broad day, had heard the chains creak, and watched the body swing in the wind. It brought him only a feeling of contentment to reflect that rogues were sometimes caught to make it safer for honest men; but, to-night, in the growing darkness, it made his flesh creep to look.

At the foot of the gallows crouched a dark figure, almost lost in the shadow of the further hedge. His eyes could not clearly make out the shape, but well he knew it could be none other but Rizpah White. To and fro she moved, a step at a time, bent down like some old pauper crone stooping under the bare trees to gather dead sticks for firewood after a winter gale. She went peering amongst the rank nettles, and feeling with her fingers in the wet grass. She still wore her long apron which she held together in her left hand Once she picked something up and dropped it within the folds. Then she went on again, more eager than before, along the close sward on the edge of the highway.

Jacob Handsford saw and understood. Sure enough she was picking sticks—-the dead sticks that the wind shakes from the gibbet tree. It was just as Hannah had brought in word, only the little maid had not understood all. Folk said that Rizpah sat there from early morning all day long, watching to keep the carrion-crows away, and then at night crept down into the churchyard and knelt an hour beside the spot where William lay.

“Hal” said Jacob to himself. “What! Ha’n’t Bratton people got wit, then, to see what the ’ooman is about?” He did not understand that the neighbours did not want to see. That churchwardens, constables, even the pa'son himself said, “Let her be. What harm if the bones of the brothers lie together in one grave? They must both rise before God at the Judgment Day.” And nobody had any need to know what Rizpah was doing, for nobody had any call to look.

But the prying into any secret thing had a fascination for Jacob. The better to watch, he caught hold of a hazel stick to drag himself higher into the hedge. With a sharp sound the twig snapped oif in his hand.

In a moment Rizpah stood upright. She looked eagerly around her, turned her head and glanced over her shoulder down the road behind her back. She was scarcely sure from whence the sound had come. Nobody did she see. But she hastily hid away the one bone she had found under her neckercher; and, as if that might not be safe enough, secretly thrust it underneath the laced bodice upon her bosom.

Then she let fall the apron, hastily palled her knitting-needles from her pocket, and, as if innocent of any purpose in being there, nimbly set to work.

But it was quite late. Kites and crows had flown home to their rocks and roosting trees. There was no more that night for Rizpah to wait for, and she presently stepped off the sward and took her way slowly down the village.

As she came to the gap her eye fell upon Jacob Handsford. She stopped mid-road and stared, not able, in the gloom, to make out who was there. She took two steps towards him and craned forward with her head. Then, though he had been prying all his life, something crept over Jacob that made him feel uneasy, if not ashamed. He crept noiselessly down from the bank and stole homewards under cover of the hedge. Presently, Rizpah also went on her way, not knowing who had watched her, and half in doubt whether or not she had been seen.

Jacob sauntered on, but when he came opposite the churchyard steps he loitered to pry again.

“ Ha! ’Tis a wonder,” he muttered to himself, “that nobody do look into what the ’ooman is about. Or where’s the good o’ living honest? Where’s the good o’ law an’ example, if the 'ooman is to do as she do like, an’ the rogue to rest wi’ the Christian after all? There’s they about don’t think much o’ their duty to let it go on. For 'tis plain as a pike-staff to any but a fool. Ha! ha! 'Tis, sure.”

Yet, after all, this did not express the attitude of his own mind towards Rizpah. “What did it matter to him? He was rather sneering at those in power who could let themselves be thus hoodwinked.

In the heart of Jacob was no thought of doing her harm. All the same it made him uneasy; for there could be no security for property if the law were not to be carried out. But there were others whose place and duty it was to look to that. It did not fall upon him. Oh, no! Jacob was bent in mind only to see all, and then, for his own ends, to hold his tongue. And if Rizpah could be got to keep house after a while, when—

His ear caught the rattle of a latch at the churchyard gate. Then there was silence; and presently Rizpah went stealthily creep mg up the stone steps. At the top she waited awhile, glanced down the village street, and listened.

All the earth was sweet and fragrant, and folk were glad to be out of doors after the rain. From below came a chorus of children’s voices singing to their game. At the nearest cottage a boy was sitting on the threshold playing upon a pipe. A dog was barking and there were voices and laughter far away. But in all this was nothing to make Rizpah afraid. Bratton was but enjoying its leisure evening hour of talk and merriment before going to rest She stepped upon the sward and passed between the headstones. Then by the foot of William’s grave she stopped again.

“ Who’s that? ”

Rizpah had seen him. And again in a hoarse whisper, half-anger and half-alarm, she called across the road:—

“ Who's that? What, then, is it come to this, that a poor lone body can’t creep away to spend a minute in peace beside her own dead, but one or another mus’ come a-poking roun' to stan’ an' pry upon her grief?”

Jacob made no answer. He had nothing to say. Yet he was doing no harm—there in the field—his own field—now that he had got Winterhays. Heart alive! Things had come to something, then, if a man might not stand at will in his own field.

The widow strode forward and stood tall and erect above the coping of the low churchyard wall. Only the narrow road lay between them, and now she could make out the little pinched figure and short stature of Jacob. “ I can tell ’ee,” she cried. “ For there is nobody else in Bratton so small.”

The memory of all the anxious heartburning and striving doubt that she had suffered during the last two years came back upon her. And everywhere, underneath it all, like a warp upon which the sorrows of her life had been woven, ran the strands of Jacob Handsford’s avarice and craft. He had done it all—he, with his holding-back and under-creeping. And now he came to peep at her—perhaps to tell.

Her tongue was loosened. The brooding misery of the months that she had watched, and sat in solitude, and wept at the foot of the gibbet-post found utterance. Her words came quick and fast, she knew not whence. She had never tried to set in order the things she now said, though they had long lain unbeknown and in confusion deep in her heart.

“ No, there’s no need to ask ‘who’s that,’ ” she went on, and, as she raised her voice, it rang sharp and loud across the quiet valley. “ For there is but one in Bratton, or in all the length an’ breadth o’ the whole land for that, that ’ud come to look at a poor soul in trouble, as if mid be a show. An’ that’s Jacob Handsford—little Jakey Handsford —wi’ a heart that never harboured a kind thought for a neighbour out o' luck; an’ never brought so much as a stale crust to door to gi’e to the hungry poor; an’ never paid a penny-piece well owed ’ithout a groan to think that they mus’ part.”

For a moment she paused. The cottage boy had ceased to blow his pipe, and was stealing unseen on tip-toe up the road. The village gossip and the laughter, too, were stilled. It was as if the whole hill-side had hushed to listen.

“But He whose eye do look through all things, an’ can see the truth that do underlie the outside show, He do know all the ill that do lie at your door, Jacob Handsford. An’ as you’ve a-lived for yourself, so He’ll lef ’ee to die alone, when you ha’n’t a-got so much as the sweet memory of a friend under the sod. The maid that wur yours you cast away for the sake of a few pounds. You’ve a-had never a thought o’ any good in, your life but saving, Jacob Handsford; till now you ha’n’t a-got so much as a soul to save. For you’ve a-sold yourself, morning, noon an’ night, for money. You’ve never a-had no soul above money all the days o’ your grown-up life. Never so much as five minutes free to yourself an’ they around ’ee. An’ you’ll live to be more lonesome, for want o’ what you’ve a-let slip, than I that have a-had all I ever loved a-snatched away.”

Again there was silence. Great-uncle Tutchins and cousin Simon Mogg had fallen in with Malachi Webb down in the village, and they, all three, hearing such unwonted flow of words, had crept up also and stood in the road below. Jacob they could not see; and the widow also, high above them, was beyond their view. It could be none other but she. Though it did not sound like Rizpah, who had found scarcely a word for anybody this twelve months back. It was like a strange voice speaking from the tombs.

“Ay, an’ then all the death an’ sorrow that you’ve a-brought about ’ull come home to ’ee. For ’tis you that have done it all—you, Jacob Handsford—that have murdered William—an’ brought young Jack to the gallis—an’ laid Ursula in her shroud when she might ha’ bin a mother, happy to feel the babe upon her breast. For if you had but helped her she would ha’ wed wi’ William; or if you had but gi’ed her her own, there need ha’ bin no call to wait, and he had a-bin here living to-day an’ well-to-do. Look at it how you will, at the root o’ it ’twere you. Or if not that, she would ha’ married wi’ Jack, and her own rightful money were enough to find ’em a home, an’ they’d a-loved one another an’ lived happy an’ honest as the open day, an’ thought no hurt to any ’pon earth, nor wished no harm. For they only thought to take what belonged to ’em, that you couldn’t a-bear to let out o’ your hands. You an’ your money. You’ve a-done it all. You’ve a-set the gibbet at the four-cross-roads, an’ digged the grave for poor Ursula that broke her heart. ’Tis you —’tis you—only you, yourself. An’ now you do walk round to look upon your work. What’s your heart plotting next? That you must pry upon me, as if I had no right to bide by day wi’ my boy they’ve a-killed—or to creep at dark to beg an’ pray o’ the Almighty to gi’e me strength to bear it.”

However wild and out of all common-sense such words might be, they made Jacob feel ill at ease. That he had held back Ursula’s money was well known, and Hannah Peach had more than once brought home to his ears what the neighbours had said about that. He himself set her to listen and let him know. It was a good thing there was nobody about to-night to hear all this that Rizpah had bawled out so loud. It would be well to make haste in out of the way —now, whilst she had stopped, like enough only to draw breath and begin again. If he were gone, she would say no more.

He hurried to the stile hard-by, leading down the road. But as he passed through, in his haste to be gone, he ran “ full-but,” as they say, into the very arms, as it were, of great-uncle Tutchins and Malachi Webb. Cousin Simon Mogg was there, too, close under the wall, and quite a crowd besides, for everybody within hearing had run up, taking all care not to make the very “ leastest sound,” as great-uncle Tutchins, in a whisper, warned each as he drew nigh.

To find, unlooked for, so many people, Jacob stood aghast. They stood between him and his house. There were no two ways, and he must face it out. It would never do to let them see that he took to heart such mad talking as this. He had not of his own will wasted breath to talk to a neighbour for years, but now he put on a bold front and stepped up to Malachi Webb.

“She’s mad. She’s beside herself. Her head’s a-tumed. ’Tis scand’lous how she do act, to my mind. She did ought to be put away,” he said, beginning in his shrill pipe, but sinking at last into a low, confidential whisper.

But Malachi Webb answered aloud:—

“If all they that do act scand’lous were put away, Mr. Handsford, Bratton would ha’ lost sight o’ you years agone,” he said, with all the dignity of a man who, having owed money, has paid it off. Then he turned upon his heeL

But Jacob was not so easily to be put off, particularly by a twopenny-ha’penny sort of a fellow like Malachi, who had found it a pretty tough job to hold his head above water for more than ten years past, and with another stroke o’ bad luck might go to the wall any day o’ the week. He shuffled forward to great-uncle Tutchins and cousin Simon Mogg, who were now standing together close by, both sound, saving householders, with plenty of common-sense, and not likely to be led away by foolish talk.

“How d’ee do, Mr. Tutchins? And how’s Mr. Tutchins?” he said, trying to appear at ease and holding out his hand.

Great-uncle Tutchins did not move. He did not, according to all accounts afterwards given in Bratton, so much as offer to shake hands. But still, the night was almost dark, and he might not have seen.

“ How d’ee do, Mr. Mogg? ”

Simon, on the best authority, is said to have responded only with a bit of a snort and then to have tossed his head with a sniff. But he said nothing.

Jacob went on, speaking to neither in particular but to both at once.

“ I say the ’ooman is not right,” he said, in his old sharp manner. “Do fall to her kin to look a’ter her, an’ if any harm should hap ’t’ull be all their own faults, an’ only they to blame. I say for a man to be hollared at when he’s only standing so quiet as a mouse on his own groun’ is a thing that ought not to be ’lowed. She’s mad. The ’ooman's mad. Stark, staring mad. That’s what she is; for all her words do show it. ’Tis well enough for fools to run up here an’ listen, an’ then go home an’ laugh. ’Tis but a step from words like that to deeds. Did ought to be looked into by they that do belong to her afore harm do come an’ ’tis too late. She’s mad.”

“She’s more in her right mind than you have ever a-bin, Jacob Handsford, clever as you be. I do hold wi’ more ’an half she said, an’ more ’an dree-quarters, too. Let her be, I say. Poor thing, she’ve a-suffered enough. Let her come an’ go in peace,” said great-uncle Tutchins, and a murmur ran round the little group of bystanders. “ Ay, let Rizpah come and go as she will.” “ She do bring down the bones o’ young Jack to bury—” cried Jacob, his thin whistle of a voice rising into the shriek that used of old to make poor Ursula so angry.

But the villagers broke in upon his words. They would hear none of this, and least of all from Jacob. “ ’Tis a lie,” muttered one. “ There’s none have a-seed it done,” shouted another; and Jacob found himself pushed aside and jostled from behind, he could not, for the life of him, say by whom.

Then somebody took up the phrase that had fallen from the lips of Rizpah, and from all sides the folk yelled at him: “No Soul above Money”. “No Soul above Money.” So that he felt there was never a friend in the whole crowd, and then his heart quailed.

Then cousin Simon Mogg said the last word, and it was very serious, too.

“ You’d better to get home, Jacob Handsford, out o’ the sight of honest folk. I for one shall never like 'ee nor listen to ’ee so long as I do live. For a trust is a trust, mind, a-left by one of they that’s gone. An’ a man that do fail to carry un out, every jot an’ tittle, do wrong dead an’ living both alike. So I for one shall think bad o’ ee’ for Ursula’s trust money so long as I do live. An’ you’d better to take care o’ the chile, so there—I do tell ’ee you’d better to take care o’ the chile. For there’s eyes enough upon ’ee, Jacob Handsford, an’ some that do know your ways be ready to act like yourself just now an’ think more ’an they can see.”

There had been talk amongst the neighbours about the child that Ursula scarcely lived to see, and many a woman had said she would rear the boy herself and glad, sure enough, rather than the poor mite should grow up under the same roof as that old screw.

The taunt stung Jacob. He could stand no more, and, pushing his way between great-uncle Tutchins and cousin Simon Mogg, with head bent and trembling in every limb, he slunk homeward down the road.

A dim glimmer of light broke in upon his mind. He had always thought of himself as the most prudent man alive, whilst all the rest were fools. He had pitied himself to think such weight of trouble should fall upon one so wise, who had worked and saved, worked and saved so laboriously, every day alike, from mom till night. He but followed a blind instinct to get wealth, and hitherto his conscience commended him in all he did.

But now a doubt crept into his brain.

He held back Ursula’s money for her good—for her own good—he kept saying to himself, in anger too, as if he were contradicting Simon Mogg. But yet it was true. If he had given Ursie her own, she would have been there to-day, and none of this sorrow would have befallen.

Then a sense of his helplessness fell upon him—two farms on his hands, and not a soul, man or woman, to help in anything, except Hannah, who had her hands full, half her time, with the motherless child.

Ah I if he had but Ursula now, wed to. either William or Jack, with the other up to Winterhays, good friend and neighbour to turn in at busy times. Why! not the revelling of ten years could bring about the waste of the last six months. Yet he acted all for her good—all for her good, as he thought. Though it was hers by law. And he lied to her to hold it back. .And would have kept it from her until he died if he could.

So, as he plodded home, this doubt, new and strange, that he had brought all the loneliness and sorrow upon himself, kept working in his brain. Argue as he would, back it came, and he could not shake it off.

As he reached hard by his barton-gate, his hobnails struck with a sharp clink against something lying in the road.

He stopped and looked upon the ground at his feet He was not so swallowed up in thought but he must stoop down and search around him. There, shining dimly upon the wet road, he found a horse-shoe and picked it up. Iron was scarce in those days, and it was worth a penny of the smith.

He crossed the farmyard and went into the garden, carrying it in his hand. There was a nail in the wall by the kitchen window, and to keep it safe he would hang it upon that. The outside shutters were as yet unclosed, for day was only just gone and Hannah, so far, had not found a moment to run out. He stepped forward to shut them up. Faithful to the habit of his life, he glanced in through the window. Then he stayed to watch.

Upon the hearth blazed a small fire, for Hannah had just laid on a handful of sticks. Jacob could hear the crackling as the flames leapt up. The maid had something to warm. She had set on the skillet. And now she was sitting back on the little four-legged oaken stool, but just in the glow of the blaze, a bright picture against the gloom of the square kitchen behind, in which no candle burnt On her lap lay Ursula’s child, a boy getting on for six months old, and the little maid’s face was bent down close over the face of the baby. And they talked and laughed, these two love children, as though there could be no ill in life. For Hannah looked like a little mother and happy as the day. She had put him ready for his cot, and then turned back the long robe, so that the warmth from the fire fell on the naked limbs of the child, and that for the present was enough, for it crowed, and jerked, and kicked, and laughed again.

Then the smile faded from Hannah’s face and the old wistful look came back. She bent closer still and kissed him again and again, as if he were the first thing she had ever found to love.

Jacob stood awhile to look. The sight held him, he knew not why. Yet it made him restless, and uncomfortable too, as if there might be something uncanny in seeing these two things, with nothing in the world, so glad.

Suddenly the child grew querulous—and quirked—and then began to cry.

Hannah Peach rose quickly and, pressing the baby to her breast, paced to and fro, singing all the while something that sounded like this:—

Lack-a-day! Well-a-day! What shall he be? He shall go for a sailor and toss on the sea.

Lack-a-day! Well-a-day t Shall he be bold? He shall gallop a-horseback and get himself gold.

Lack-a-day! Well-a-day! How shall he mate? He shall wed a great lady and travel in state.

Lack-a-day l Well-arday! Where shall he lie? He shall sleep in his bed and his grave shallbe dry.

Where could Hannah have learnt to sing? Jacob had never heard her sing before in all his life.

At last he stepped back from the window and, forgetting after all to draw to the shutter, went indoors.

He sat down in the corner in silence. But at his coming all the joy and laughter fled, and Hannah was only the frightened workhouse child once more.

The thought of Simon Mogg’s warning came into his mind, and presently Jacob spoke:—

“ So you do like the chile, don’t ’ee? ” he squeaked.

“ Iss, sir,” replied Hannah, half in doubt whether it might not be wrong.

“ Take care o’ un, Hannah,” he said quickly, in a low voice, leaning forward so that his thin face came close to the little workhouse maid. “ Ha I see you do look a’ter un well. Don’t 'ee stint un—don’t ’ee let un want, whatever it do cost. Bring un up to be a man. Look to it that he do thrive an’ do well, an’ do have all he do want An’ if he do get on, I’ll—I’ll mind ’ee one o’ these days.”

The little workhouse maid looked up—a sharp, wondering glance—to learn what this might mean.

Jacob had never looked more in earnest in his life.

Presently he drew back into the gloom of the chimney-corner muttering to himself.

“ Ay, they Tutchinses—an’ Moggses— an’ thik trumpery Malachi Webb. I’ll bring un up to buy ’em all up. So I will. The whole pack o’ ’em. He! he! The fools!”

Then the little new-born waif, with all its journey before it, by ways unknown to regions unexplored and undreamt of, kicked and laughed and crowed again.

But the strange life of that man-child, with what he wrought for Jacob and what Jacob did for him, is a story which has yet to be told.

THE END.