had just warmed to his work, drove his bow into them strings that glorious grand that he e’en a’most sawed the bass viol into two pieces. Every winder in church rattled as if ’twere a thunderstorm. Old Pa’son Williams lifted his hands in his great holy surplice as natural as if he’d been in common clothes, and seemed to say hisself, ‘O for such a man in our parish!’ But not a soul in Kingsbere could hold a candle to Yeobright.”
“Was it quite safe when the winder shook?” Christian inquired.
He received no answer, all for the moment sitting rapt in admiration of the performance described. As with Farinelli’s singing before the princesses, Sheridan’s renowned Begum Speech, and other such examples, the fortunate condition of its being for ever lost to the world invested the deceased Mr. Yeobright’s tour de force on that memorable afternoon with a cumulative glory which comparative criticism, had that been possible, might considerably have shorn down.
“He was the last you’d have expected to drop off in the prime of life,” said Humphrey.
“Ah, well; he was looking for the earth some months afore he went. At that time women used to run for smocks and gown-pieces at Greenhill Fair, and my wife that is now, being a long-legged slittering maid, hardly husband-high, went with the rest of the maidens, for ’a was a good, runner afore she got so heavy. When she came home I said—we were then just beginning to walk together—‘What have ye got, my honey?’ ‘I’ve won—well, I’ve won—a gown-piece,’ says she, her colours coming up in a moment. ’Tis a smock for a crown, I thought; and so it turned out. Ay, when I think what she’ll say to me now without a mossel of red in her face, it do seem strange that ’a wouldn’t say such a little thing then. … However, then she went on, and that’s what made me bring up the story. Well, whatever clothes I’ve won, white or figured, for eyes to see or for eyes not to see (’a could do a pretty stroke of modesty in those days), I’d sooner have lost it than have seen what I have. Poor Mr. Yeobright was took bad directly he reached the fair ground, and was forced to go home again. That was the last time he ever went out of the parish.”
“’A faltered on from one day to another, and then we heard he was gone.”
“D’ye think he had great pain when ’a died?” said Christian.
“O no—quite different. Nor any pain of mind. He was lucky enough to be God A’mighty’s own man.”
“And other folk—d’ye think ’twill be much pain to ’em, Mister Fairway?”
“That depends on whether they be afeard.”
“I bain’t afeard at all, I thank God!” said Christian strenuously. “I’m glad I bain’t, for then ’twon’t pain me. … I don’t think I be afeard—or if I be I can’t help it, and I don’t deserve to suffer. I wish I was not afeard at all!”
There was a solemn silence, and looking from the window, which was unshuttered and unblinded, Timothy said, “Well, what a fess little bonfire that one is, out by Cap’n Vye’s! ’Tis burning just the same now as ever, upon my life.”
All glances went through the window, and nobody noticed that Wildeve disguised a brief, telltale look. Far away up the sombre valley of heath, and to the right of Rainbarrow, could indeed be seen the light, small, but steady and persistent as before.
“It was lighted before ours was,” Fairway continued; “and yet every one in the country round is out afore ’n.”
“Perhaps there’s meaning in it!” murmured Christian.
“How meaning?” said Wildeve sharply.
Christian was too scattered to reply, and Timothy helped him.
“He means, sir, that the lonesome dark-eyed creature up there that some say is a witch—ever I should call a fine young woman such a name—is always up to some odd conceit or other; and so perhaps ’tis she.”
“I’d be very glad to ask her in wedlock, if she’d hae me and take the risk of her wild dark eyes ill-wishing me,” said Grandfer Cantle staunchly.
“Don’t ye say it, Father!” implored Christian.
“Well, be dazed if he who do marry the maid won’t hae an uncommon picture for his best parlour,” said Fairway in a liquid tone, placing down the cup of mead at the end of a good pull.
“And a partner as deep as the North Star,” said Sam, taking up the cup and finishing the little that remained. “Well, really, now I think we must be moving,” said Humphrey, observing the emptiness of the vessel.
“But we’ll gie ’em another song?” said Grandfer Cantle. “I’m as full of notes as a bird!”
“Thank you, Grandfer,” said Wildeve. “But we will not trouble you now. Some other day must do for that—when I have a party.”
“Be jown’d if I don’t learn ten new songs for’t, or I won’t learn a line!” said Grandfer Cantle. “And you may be sure I won’t disappoint ye by biding away, Mr. Wildeve.”
“I quite believe you,” said that gentleman.
All then took their leave, wishing their entertainer long life and happiness as a married man, with recapitulations which occupied some time. Wildeve attended them to the door, beyond which the deep-dyed upward stretch of heath stood awaiting them, an amplitude of darkness reigning from their feet almost to the zenith, where a definite form first became visible in the lowering forehead of Rainbarrow. Diving into the dense obscurity in a line headed by Sam the turf-cutter, they pursued their trackless way home.
When the scratching of the furze against their leggings had fainted upon the ear, Wildeve returned to the room where he had left Thomasin and her aunt. The women were gone.
They could only have left the house in one way, by the back window; and this was open.
Wildeve laughed to himself, remained a moment thinking, and idly returned to the front room. Here his glance fell upon a bottle of wine which stood on the mantelpiece. “Ah—old Dowden!” he murmured; and going to the kitchen door shouted, “Is anybody here who can take something to old Dowden?”
There was no reply. The room was empty, the lad who acted as his factotum having gone to bed. Wildeve came back put on his hat, took the bottle, and left the house, turning the key in the door, for there was no guest at the inn tonight. As soon as he was on the road the little bonfire on Mistover Knap again met his eye.
“Still waiting, are you, my lady?” he murmured.
However, he did not proceed that way just then; but leaving the hill to the left of him, he stumbled over a rutted road that brought him to a cottage which, like all other habitations on the heath at this hour, was only saved from being visible by a faint shine from its bedroom window. This house was the home of Olly Dowden, the besom-maker, and he entered.
The lower room was in darkness; but by feeling his way he found a table, whereon he placed the bottle, and a minute later emerged again upon the heath. He stood and looked northeast at the undying little fire—high up above him, though not so high as Rainbarrow.
We have been told what happens when a woman deliberates; and the epigram is not always terminable with woman, provided that one be in the case, and that a fair one. Wildeve stood, and stood longer, and breathed perplexedly, and
