Three months after the arrival of Maurice Malherb\'s family at Fox Tor Farm, a visitor appeared to spend some days with them. Mr. Peter Norcot set out from his home at Chagford and rode across the Moor on a fine morning in July; while before him at dawn a pack-horse with his luggage had started upon the same journey. Leaving certain final directions at the great factory by Teign River, in which he was a partner, the wool-stapler ascended from his home to Dartmoor, climbed a broad common or two, and in little more than an hour after noon he trotted southward over the mighty crest of Hameldon.

Norcot was a handsome, fair man of five-and-thirty. The only ugly feature of his face appeared in an exaggerated chin. For the rest, his countenance showed strength and abundant determination. Any special distinction was lacking from it. He exhibited a breezy and amiable exterior to the world, loved a jest and doted upon an epigram. Frank honesty marked his utterances, and his outlook upon life was generous. He had no enemies, and enjoyed considerable wealth, for despite the wars, his business prospered, and his grievances in connection with it were more apparent than real. A humorous and hearty manner concealed some traits of Peter\'s character, for tremendous tenacity of purpose hid itself beneath superficial lightness of demeanour. He had a great gift of constancy that rose superior to side issues. His first object in life was to marry Grace Malherb, and now he strove to win his way by careful study of the girl and by every delicate art that he knew. Her father was upon his side, and the end seemed assured; but Peter desired that Grace should come to him of her own free will.

Now misfortune unexpected overtook the lover, for out of fiery sunshine crept a sudden mist, and soon the clouds grew dense and the day changed. The fog in streaks and patches swept down with heavy and increasing density, until man and horse were brushed with its cold fingers. The light waned as evening approached, and the mist thickened steadily into fine dense rain. Norcot\'s hair dripped, his eyebrows were frosted, and he felt the cold drops running from his hat under his collar. The unexpected change of weather caused him no irritation, for the man was never known to lose his temper, and that fact, in a tempestuous and ill-educated age, won for him wide measure of respect.

Now he murmured scraps from various sacred and profane authors and addressed them aloud to his horse.

"We must keep the weather on our right cheek, nag. Tut, tut! How vast this silence and gloom! It helps us to know our place in nature, albeit we have lost our place in it. Lost, and found by being lost! Ha, ha!

                "\'Come, man,
Hyperbolized Nothing! know thy span,
Take thine own measure here: down, down and bow
Before thyself in thine Idea, thou
Huge emptiness!


"Crashaw, I thank thee. And I pray that thou wilt help me with Lady Grace. \'All daring dust and ashes,\' indeed, to hope in that quarter; but time is on my side. She must yield—eh, Victor?"

The horse pricked his ears at sound of his name and splashed on, leaving a trail behind him where he had brushed the moisture from heath and grass. By Norcot\'s calculations he should now have been nearing the valley of West Dart, and from thence he hoped to hit the mouth of the Swincombe River, and so reach his destination; but time passed; the faint wind blew now on one cheek, now upon the other, and at length Mr. Norcot realised that he was quite hopelessly lost. The darkness crowded in upon him and elbowed him; not one whisper penetrated it. He pulled up, drank a dram from a little silver spirit flask, and listened for the murmur of running water. But another sound suddenly rewarded him. A shadow flitted across the gloom, and a thin, old voice was heard lifted up in song.

"A ha\'penny for a rook;
A penny for a jay;
A noble for a fox;
An\' twelvepence for a gray!\'"


"Well met, neighbour!" shouted Norcot. "And since you sing, I doubt not you are happy; and since you are happy, you have a home and know the way to it."

"\'Ess fay! An\' you too, sir. I be Leaman Cloberry, coney-catcher of Dartmeet. An\' who be you?"

"One Peter Norcot, from Chagford. This is not my country, and I\'m seeking the River Swincombe—have been doing so for many hours in vain. Now \'Light thickens; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood.\' But where\'s the river?"

"You be within half a mile of it, your honour."

"Then I came straighter than I knew. That\'s the reward for always going straight, Mr. Cloberry; when darkness overtakes us, we go straight still. It has become a habit. I want the new farm of Mr. Malherb beneath Cater\'s Beam. And you shall show me the way thereto."

Leaman Cloberry shifted a small bag that he carried on his shoulder. He was bound in the same direction; but while Norcot might be supposed a friend to Fox Tor Farm, Cloberry crept thither with intentions the reverse of friendly. He had chosen the fog for a dark purpose. Now, however, he hid his designs and spoke.

"I know the place and a good few of the men as works there."

"How do they prosper? Malherb and Dartmoor must be flint and steel. Yet the man will prove tougher than the granite, I hope."

Cloberry stroked a red mark on his cheek.

"Did you hear tell what chanced to Holne Church a week ago?" he asked.

"No, I did not."

"My gentleman from Fox Tor Farm took his ladies there to worship. An\' I comed along same time with a vixen fox an\' two cubs to hang \'em up in the sight of the nation, so as all men might see I\'d earned my money. An\' he falled on me like a cat-a-mountain, an\' used awfulest language ever let fly in a burying-ground, an\' hit me across the face with his whip."

"I\'m heartily sorry and ashamed to hear it. Under a sacred fane, too! I grieve for this. It is a lesson to us all. Yet to kill foxes! Tut, tut! \'Volpone, by blood and rank\' a gentleman.\' I preserve game myself, yet pay tithe unquestioning to reynard."

"\'Twas assault and battery, whether or no. An\' Squire he took Malherb\'s part, an\' parson was o\' my side. An\' I said as folks must live, an\' Malherb, in his lofty way, sees the force of that, an\' flings me half a sovereign. But I let it bide on the ground. You can\'t batter a man like that on a Sunday morning for money. I\'m set against him, and I\'ll set other folk against him too."

"Think better of it. Half a sovereign is a very convenient embodiment of ten shillings. Take this one for showing me my way. \'I would be friends with you and have your love.\' It is my rule of life."

Cloberry accepted the coin thus offered, declared that Peter was a hero, and presently put him upon his road to Fox Tor. But after Mr. Norcot had trotted out of sight, his guide followed in the same direction. The old man skulked under a wall until darkness had fallen upon the moor; then, walking out boldly into a fine piece of meadow-land upon which Maurice Malherb especially prized himself, he opened his sack and took therefrom a box with a pierced top. Gentle squeaking came from inside this receptacle; and now, opening it, Cloberry released a dozen fat and lively moles.

"There, my little velvet-coats!" he said; "go to work an\' tear the heart out of him when he sees what you can do. Increase an\' multiply, my dears, like the children of Israel; an\' presently I\'ll bring up a dozen more to help \'e!"

The moles crawled about uneasily, but presently began to dig and sink into the earth. The fog had lifted, and the lights of Fox Tor Farm now shone across the night. Leaman Cloberry shook his fist at them.

"That\'s a beginning," he growled. "An\' I\'ll bring rats for your byres an\' stoats for your hen-roosts. I\'ll plague you; I\'ll fret your gizzard! An\' I wish that I was Moses, for then I\'d fetch along all the plagues of Egypt against \'e an\' break your stone heart!"

Meanwhile, as the vermin-catcher tramped homeward, and presently so far recovered good temper as to sing his only song, Peter Norcot found a welcome and much sympathy. Malherb now regarded himself as an old Dartmoor man, familiar with every possible freak and manifestation of Nature upon the waste. He explained to Norcot the course proper to be pursued in a fog, and Peter, whose knowledge of the Moor extended from boyhood, listened very gravely, acknowledged his errors, and praised the older man\'s shrewdness in the matter.

Before dinner Mr. Malherb, in all the splendour of fine black, new pumps, and a frilled shirt-front with a diamond in it, went off to his cellar for those remarkable wines that he assured familiar guests were now no longer in the market; while the lover enjoyed some precious moments with his lady. Grace looked fair to see in her white muslin and blue ribbons. She wore the high waist of the period; her hair towered in a mass on the top of her head, yet little prim curls hung like flowers on either side; white shoes cased her feet, and the elastic of them made a cross between her ankles.

"The Moor suits you nobly, dear Grace," said Mr. Norcot, who was himself resplendent. "I never saw you lovelier."

"Do leave all that," she said. "Let us meet in peace."

"So be it," he answered, and continued—

"\'Gracie, I swear by all I ever swore,
That from this hour I shall not love thee more,—
What! love no more? Oh! why this altered vow?
Because I cannot love thee more than now!\'"


A gentle look came into his blue eyes as he gazed upon her. It was not natural to them, but he had practised it often before the looking-glass, and could assume it at pleasure.

"Still occupied with other men\'s jests, Peter. If you only understood me! Do you know why I love Dartmoor? Because it leaves me alone. Because it cares no more for me than for the ant that crawls on the grass-blade. So big, so grand, so stern it is. And it always tells the truth."

"You are quite wrong. The Moor loves with a hopeless passion. It has kissed you. I see the print of its kisses on your cheek. It has kissed your little elbow, for I note a dimple there that is new to me."

Grace frowned and pulled up her mitten. She sat upon the music-stool, struck a note or two, and did not answer. Peter sighed.

"You are cold, you are cold," he said. "What does Wycherley remark? \'Out of Nature\'s hands they came plain, open, silly, and fit for slaves, as she and heaven intended \'em; but damned Love——\' There it is! \'Blessed Love,\' if you happened to love me; doubly, trebly \'damned Love,\' since your heart is set on somebody else."

"Not at all. I love nobody. I hate the word."

"And you are seventeen to-morrow!"

"\'On that auspicious day began the race
Of every virtue joined in one sweet Grace.\'"


"What is my birthday to you, Peter?"

"You can ask that! I must answer in an epigram. There is only one reply possible. Martial—but I know a beautiful translation:—

"\'Believing hear what you deserve to hear:
Your birthday as my own to me is dear;
But yours gives most; for mine did only lend
Me to the world; yours gave to me a friend.\'

Only that word \'friend\' is too weak."

"I wish you would be content with friendship, and not fret me to death with all this nonsense. Do you know that father has bought me a lovely hunter for a birthday gift?"

"I do. And that horse will want a whip—until he knows your voice; and that whip Peter Norcot has provided. \'Tis almost worthy of you—a pretty toy."

"I don\'t want your whip," she said.

Mr. Norcot cast about for something from The Taming of the Shrew; but he changed his mind. Meantime Grace spoke again.

"I shall be sorry to give up riding my poor little \'Russet.\' Still, he\'s not up to my weight now; and he\'s growing elderly and lazy, and I\'m to hunt next season. Won\'t it be lovely?"

"Our Dartmoor blades will hunt no more foxes; they\'ll hunt for smiles from you," said Peter gloomily.

"You shall have some good long gallops with me if you will. I\'m mastering the country well, and now with \'C?sar\'—that\'s my new horse—I shall be able to go twice as far as formerly."

"I rejoice. You must take me upon your favourite rides."

"One has a horrid fascination for me. \'Tis to the top of North Hisworthy Tor above Prince Town. From there you can look straight down into that great War Prison—the saddest sight for any woman\'s eyes."

Mr. Malherb entered at this moment.

"A tender fool," he said, "and her mother no better. Eight thousand French tigers behind those bars; and these women in their silly way would set \'em loose to-morrow."

"They long for their dens and their cubs, poor fellows," said Grace.

"They fought for their country—that\'s their only sin," murmured Annabel Malherb.

"They fought against England—that\'s their sin," retorted her husband hotly. "The lying, slippery rascals! Dartmoor\'s too good for \'em. Honour! Three broke parole at Ashburton last week!"

"Isn\'t it wonderful? They play games and hold concerts and have play-acting!" said Grace.

"Their vile French levity," answered her father. "Instead of being on their knees asking God to forgive \'em, they dance and sing."

Mr. Norcot shook his head, as though to imply he echoed Malherb\'s sentiments. Then he asked a question, but did not guess the storm it would awaken.

"And what about the American prisoners?"

"Curse \'em!" roared the farmer, like a sudden explosion of thunder. "Curse \'em living and dying, and, if I had my way, I\'d hang the foul traitors—every man. Our own flesh and blood—a British Colony——"

"I\'m afraid \'tis idle to dream that any more. The tea business. Never was such a shattering storm bred in a teacup before," answered Norcot. "A bad day for England——"

"Matricides, murderers, insolent democratical scoundrels!" cried the other. "My blood boils at the name. How is it that the Almighty has not sunk their stolen continent fathoms deep in the sea to cleanse it? Why are they allowed to live? Pirates—slave-driving, slave-hunting, slave-breeding pirates, and lynchers, and blackguards—self-constituted a Nation. A Nation! They make you believe in Hell against your will."

"They have more pluck and originality than the French, I am told," said Peter calmly. "They escape in a wonderful manner; they give the guards ceaseless trouble and anxiety."

"For why? They\'re bastard English. They\'ve got our blood in their veins. \'Twill take a few generations yet ere it all runs into the sink and leaves nothing but mongrel. A poisoned race—a fallen race. Pride has ruined \'em; as it ruined the Devil, their dam. Hanging, drawing, quartering, I say! No honest man——"

"Come to dinner, Maurice," said Mrs. Malherb. "And don\'t thus rage before eating. \'Tis very bad for you. They are at least out of mischief now, poor creatures."

"Never," answered her husband. "An American is never out of mischief until he is dead."

"The prison should be a good, handy market for farm produce," ventured Peter.

"It is; but I\'d rather starve than touch their vile money," said Malherb.

He gave his arm to his daughter and went to the dining-room, while Mr. Norcot and Mrs. Malherb followed them.

Kekewich always waited upon the family, and not seldom he was addressed during the course of a meal concerning subjects within his wide knowledge. Now the talk turned to trade, and Norcot explained a serious problem of his own business.

"Everything is depressed in these fighting times," he said. "One looks for that and provides for it. But what shall be thought of our principal customers, the East India Company? Wool don\'t get cheaper, that\'s very certain, but they are sending down the price of long ells half-a-crown a piece. They say that our woollens are often a drug in the Indian market; and now to remedy the thin web, every piece of long ell in stripes shall weigh twelve pounds. We work web at coarser pitch to meet this want, and, of course, defeat the object of the demand by producing rubbish."

The conversation became profoundly technical, and Malherb, who deemed himself an expert upon wool, as upon most other subjects, uttered great words. Then Kekewich, himself an old wool-comber, became so interested that he forgot his business. At last he could stand it no more, but set down a dish violently and plunged into conversation, much to Norcot\'s entertainment. He perceived, however, that Kekewich knew far more about the matter than Mr. Malherb, and when the servant was from the room made a jest upon him.

"A wonderful man, and sane too. Sound sense—every word of it.

"\'Old Kek doth with his lantern jaws
Throw light upon the woollen laws.\'"


"And upon most other matters," declared Grace. "And his thoughts are all his own—borrowed from nobody."

"It happens to me," confessed Peter, "that the things I think have always been better worded by others. With becoming modesty, therefore, I borrow."

According to modern ideas of courtesy, Mrs. Malherb and her daughter were somewhat slighted during the progress of dinner; but women listened more and talked less a hundred years ago than now. Annabel saw that Peter\'s plate and glass were kept full, chatted with her daughter, laughed at her husband\'s jests, and departed to the drawing-room as soon as the table was cleared. Then Kekewich deposited two silver candlesticks and a pair of silver snuffers within reach of his master, produced a dish of dry walnuts, and tenderly stationed a bottle of port at the elbow of each gentleman.

"I know you\'re only a one-bottle man, and you are wise at your age," said Malherb. "Indeed, I seldom do more myself, save on rare occasions, and never except during the hunting season."

"I hope you\'ll account for two bottles upon the day I marry Mistress Grace," answered Peter. "She grows an angel. Never beamed such radiant beauty.

"\'Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do intreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.\'

But I wish they would twinkle for me."

"To-morrow she is seventeen—God bless her! They are my heart and my soul—she and my son. But she\'s yours, Norcot, for I\'ve said it. She shall reign over your place at Chagford. Her welfare is my first care in this world. Now leave that. Let our talk be about sheep. I have discovered that Dartmoor is the best sheep-walk in the kingdom. We shall have such wool for you next year as will make you generous against your will. Already I\'m treating for certain three-year-old Dartmoor wethers that\'ll shear nine pounds of unwashed wool a fleece. Think of it! Take one shilling and threepence a pound and five hundred sheep—the result is nearly three hundred pounds of money in one year! Then I design to cross with the new Leicesters. Frankly, I see a large fortune within ten years. It can hardly be avoided."

Mr. Norcot nodded thoughtfully. He knew the farmer\'s figures were absurdly high, both in wool and money.

"You look so far ahead. I always envy you that gift of foresight. Yet, in sober honesty, you must not count to get more than a shilling a pound. If you could breed Merinos now."

"I\'ve thought of that, too."

"Ah! I\'ll wager you have," said the merchant, with admiration. "What don\'t you think of, Mr. Malherb? \'Tis good to know that another man of ideas has come on Dartmoor."

So the talk and the wine sped, and presently they joined the ladies. Annabel was at the piano, and Grace sat beside a peat fire, engaged with her needle. While the music ran, Peter, inspired by dinner and the fair maiden under his eyes, pulled forth a notebook and adventured an original rhyme. He was hurt at the girl\'s recent allusion, and now determined to reveal powers unsuspected. But the gem he designed would not polish, and Grace herself went to the piano to sing an exceedingly doleful ballad before Mr. Norcot\'s effort was complete. Then he handed it to her in a book, while Mrs. Malherb spoke aside to Dinah Beer, and the master, who cared little for music, perused an agricultural survey of Devon.

Miss Malherb read, and her lip curled visibly.

"Sweet vestal Gracie\'s lovely eyes have lighted
Such fires within his breast that Peter\'s frighted;
For now, behold! This man of noble mettle
Doth feel his heart boil over like a kettle."


Annabel still talked with her woman, and Grace, after brief cogitation, wrote a few lines under Mr. Norcot\'s effort, and handed it back again. He saw what she had said, and smiled—

"Though water boils apace and fire be bold,
Pour one on t\'other, quickly both grow cold.
Therefore, good Peter, let thy heart boil over.
\'Twill ease thee of thy pain; me of my lover."


He tore a scrap from the bottom of the sheet, and concluded the correspondence.

When Grace bade her father and his guest farewell and reached her room, she scanned Mr. Norcot\'s final comment, and found that it needed no reply. He had merely written—

"The epigrammatist rejoices; but the man weeps."