Two trestles and a dozen boards completed Mr. Cockey's professional requirements in the servants' hall; and here, day by day, he sat and snipped5 and sewed, and sewed and snipped. He was a very full-bodied, pallid6 man, with flabby cheeks, mournful, watery7 eyes and a puzzled expression. He came from Totnes, and often mourned that his itinerant8 labours required him to be much away from his wife and family. This tailor descended9 in direct line from Mordecai Cockey, the famous seventeenth-century bell-founder; and when he heard any one of those seven great bells that the bygone Cockey had cast, he would lift his head where the musical monster thundered from some Devon belfry, and nod respectfully, as to the spirit of his ancestor.
Now Mordecai worked at the wardrobe of the farm, and, elevated upon his trestles, held a sort of conference, and told the things life taught him. Once during the dinner hour, several farm folk were at Mr. Cockey's feet, as he sat cross-legged amid his tools and ate his meal of bread and cheese. Meat he might have had in plenty, but he explained to Dinah Beer that his sedentary life had long since turned him vegetarian10.
"By God's blessing11 I can stomach cheese," he said, "an' if so be as a body's humours will cope with vinnied cheese, he may hope for a long life."
"Be my breeches mended, Mister?" asked Tom Putt. "'Cause if so, I should like to don 'em afore afternoon. I've got a riding job as'll take me to Holne by-an'-by."
"They'm done. I've double-seated 'em for 'e."
Mr. Cockey nodded towards the garment.
"You'm always as good as your word, I'm sure," said Harvey Woodman, "though how them fat hands of yours—as look more like bunches of parsnips than hands—can do such finnicky work makes me wonder."
"Ah, I dare say a lot of things make you wonder," answered the tailor. "Not but what I envy you your way of life, for 'tis healthier'n mine. You chaps, as till the earth, have no time to fret12 your intellects like what I do. Ploughmen never band together and make trouble in the world. Tailors be a very thinking race; but you'll not find they takes a hopeful view of human nature."
"Then they'm small-minded," said Beer firmly; "for, looked at all round, human nature be a very hopeful thing."
Mordecai Cockey sighed.
"You may be in the right. Perhaps building of clothes do narrow the heart, for we grow apt to think 'tis our feathers make the birds. For that matter the world counts us but light. We'm slighted tradesmen, we tailors. They say it takes nine of us to make a man; though it only takes one to get a long family, as I know to my cost. Thirteen children have I, an' all with the tailoring spirit in 'em except my eldest13 son."
"An' what might he be doing?" asked Putt.
"Well, he's a baker14."
"A very honest trade."
"That's just what it ban't," declared Mr. Cockey. "They'm sly as lawyers; an' there's a damned sight more in bread than corn nowadays. A man may be eating his own great gran'faither; as I've said openly down to Totnes, an' nobody contradicted me.
"God's word! They don't rob churchyards for their bones, do they?" asked Woodman. "If I thought that, I'd never take bit nor sup to Totnes no more."
"There's ways an' ways," explained the tailor. "Bone goes in; as thus. Man is earth, an' earth is bread; an' when they take the top spit off what was thought to be an old burial place of the ancients an' turn it over an' make a wheat field—what then?"
"'Tis just short of a cannibal act!" declared Woodman; for they never buried deep in them days."
"Rubbish, Harvey!" answered Beer. "We ourselves be only the fatness of the earth when all's said. 'Tis nature's plan; an' I see no harm in it at all."
"More don't I for that matter," declared Cockey. "With my well-knowed feelings about human nature, you won't be surprised if I say that many a man's better as corn or cabbage than ever he was on two legs."
"Then you don't believe in God, same as me," said Kekewich grimly.
"Not at all, not at all," answered the other. "I'm only saying a man's body is mud, an' his clothes is mud in shape of wool or flax; an' he's all mud to the eye; but as to his soaring spirit I won't hazard a word. A tailor must believe in God. 'Twas Him as gave the word for clothes an' put Adam an' his lady into their first shifts of His own Almighty15 making."
"You meet men whose spirits be the muddiest part about 'em, all the same," declared Kekewich.
"So you will; but every thinking creature turned of fifty must have come across folks with souls looking out of their eyes. Why, I've seed pictures in big houses where the paint had a soul! Ess fay—beautiful dead an' gone women have pretty nigh spoke16 to me where I sat an' worked below their gold frames."
"I'll never believe in souls," said the older man. "We'm a vile17 race, an' no God of Heaven would ever make such a poor bargain as to overbuy such trash as us at the price of His only Son. Why for should He? If He'd but lifted His finger, He might have had us for nought18."
"The devil must be itching19 for you, Kek," said Harvey Woodman.
"You'm no hand at argument, Mr. Kekewich," continued Cockey; "for half the beauty of argufying is to hold close to the matter. You was saying as you didn't believe in souls; an' I was saying as I did. Well, take an instance. There's Miss Grace Malherb for who I be making this here lovely vest. Be that bowerly maiden20 no more than the pink-an'-white china dust she goes in? If so, she's no better'n this bit of flowered silk."
"People can be good or evil, an' yet have no more souls than dogs," began the head man; but at that moment Miss Malherb herself entered as a bell rang to tell that the dinner hour was done.
The labourers departed to their work, and Grace was left with Mr. Cockey. She came to beg a secret favour and now whispered it into the tailor's ear, though there was none but himself to hear it.
"If you command, it must be done," he said. "I know a mariner21 to the harbour at Totnes, where the Holne timber goes down Dart1 to build His Majesty's great warships22. The man has goodly stores, an' will sell me so much bunting as I want—red, white and blue. I'm going down to-morrow for the day to get more cloth."
"And, before all things, keep it secret. Not a whisper!"
"It shall be as you please, Miss. An' I'll ax you to take this here vest along, an' put it on, an' let me see if 'tis all right."
"You work so dreadfully quick! You're sewing a shroud,—d'you know that, Mordecai?"
"What a word! How comes it you want stuff for flags then?"
"Ah! 'tis not for my wedding day. Now, if you could fashion me a pair of wings to fly with——"
Mr. Cockey drew a thread through his needle.
"Fine clothes don't make a happy marriage, I know," he said; "but they do put heart into a wedding party, an' speaking generally, they'm a great softener24 of life to females. A parcel from me has dried many tears—poor fools."
"I'm not married yet, however."
"No, but—Lord! what's that?"
The tailor sat with his back to the window, and, unseen by him, a horseman had ridden up to it. Now he stopped, rapped upon the casement25 with his whip, doffed26 his hat and grinned at Grace. The glass was not good, and it distorted a countenance27 generally esteemed28 amiable29 and handsome.
"Mercy on us, what a chap! 'Tis a face like to Satan!" cried Cockey.
"That's the gentleman my father wishes me to marry," answered Grace quietly.
"Then I'm sure I beg pardon, Miss. 'Twas a twist in the glass."
"You caught sight of his soul—not his face," she said. The girl had turned pale, and now she hastily left the room.
Much had happened since Mr. Norcot's last visit, and soon accident was to enlighten him in certain directions. Mordecai Cockey went off on the following morning and returned in eight-and-forty hours with various bales and packages. One of these he handed to Grace in private, and she conveyed the parcel unseen to her chamber30. Its nature will presently appear. For the moment it suffices to say that Miss Malherb's secret concerned Cecil Stark31, with whom, thanks to John Lee, she had now established a correspondence. Their letters Grace showed to John openly for some time, but, perceiving that they were the joy of two lives, the messenger refused to read these missives more. Grace still stood at the parting of the ways, nor knew that John Lee's road was already chosen. The relation of three became difficult beyond endurance; Stark understanding that John had access to all letters, chafed32 at the mystery, and naturally found little to admire in such control. He was meditating33 action when a sudden incident upset their former relations and quickened the catastrophe34.
Peter Norcot, upon this, his last visit to Fox Tor Farm before the wedding, pursued a customary course and endeavoured by imperturbable35 good humour and kindness to soften23 his lady's temper. He well knew the futility36 of the task, yet persevered37.
On the night of his arrival Grace had a headache and did not appear, whereupon he wrote her a letter and sent it to her by the hand of Mary Woodman.
"Dear Light of my Eyes," said he, "I am quite broken-hearted to know that Mordecai Cockey has a greater place in your affections just now than any other man. It is the Tailor's Hour! Well, well! I must be patient. Yet what can a tailor do to make Grace more graceful38? Here's a beautiful epigram from our own Devon poet, Browne. I transcribe39 it for you:
"'To CUPID.
"'Love! when I met her first, whose slave I am,
To make her mine why had I not thy flame?
Or else thy blindness not to see that day;
Or if I needs must look on her rare parts,
Love! why to wound her had I not thy darts40?
Since I had not thy wings to fly away?'
How cruel well these lines fit one Norcot! But I would never fly. True love is patient—like charity it suffereth long; like hope it is eternal; like faith it keeps its course with the stars. Bless you! May the morning light restore you to health, and to the presence of your devoted41 Peter.
"Postscript:—
"'If all the earthe were paper white,
And all the sea were incke,
'Twere not inough for me to write
As my poore hart doth thinke.—LYLY.'"
To this letter came no reply; but in the morning Grace appeared as usual and spent a reasonable portion of her time with the wool-stapler. For once Mr. Norcot tried an erotic vein42, quoted the most passionate43 things he knew and attempted to warm a heart that—moonlike—ever turned one face to him. But it was the dark frozen side he saw.
"My ideas are boundless," he said. "I spurn44 space on the day I call you my own. You were meant to mirror the Mediterranean45 in those wonderful eyes of yours, and you shall. We'll sail away to the land of wine and song—to Provence, the cradle of the troubadours. It can be done now that we are friends with the French again. Yes; and I'm going also to take you to Italy; I——"
"At the beginning of the hunting season? How ridiculous you are, Peter. Why, even if I married you—which you know I never shall—I would not——"
"Grace, you must marry me. It is an accomplished46 fact. The banns have been read for the first time of asking at Widecombe and at Chagford. Nobody forbade 'em. You are absolutely vital to my peace of mind, to my well-being47, to my sanity48. You may not love me yet, but soon enough you'll look back to these wayward days and mourn 'em."
"Indeed I shall."
"Mourn 'em, that you could so often have made so true a man sad. You won't understand me."
"Yes, I do—perfectly. If there is one thing about our dreadful relations that I do see clearly, it is your nature. You have been peculiarly and horribly clear of late. You want me—what you call 'me'—my curls, eyes, lips, and all the rest of a wretched girl. But you don't care a feather for the part of me that matters. You never consider that I've got a soul, and that it's always sad and sick and sorry when it thinks of you. You don't mind that you're killing49 all my higher senses and instincts—poisoning them; you——"
"Now, my dear Grace, these assumptions are nonsense, and show first how little you really know about me, and, secondly50, how absurdly scant51 attention you pay to my conversation. It is a union of souls that I sigh for and shall assuredly establish when the time comes.
"'Tell me not of your starrie eyes,
Your lips that seem on roses fed,
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed—'
George Darley—a pretty boy-poet who has not published yet."
"Really, Peter, you're impossible!"
"I say tell me not of these things, Grace, because they are nothing whatever to me. I don't want to hear about 'em. Soul to soul—that's all I ask; and that is what I will have."
"Never! It takes two people to be married, and they've got to be of the same mind."
"Happily you are mistaken in that last assertion. Your idea is that one lover may take a maid to church, but the Bench of Bishops52 can't make her his wife if she's averse53. Tut, tut! What a violent thought! We'll find ourselves of one mind yet. Greater things than matrimony have happened in less time than lies before us."
"Plain English is wasted upon you, Peter Norcot, and upon my father too."
"I'm much afraid you'll hear some exceedingly plain English yourself before long—from that same father. He grows singularly savage54 of an evening when you have retired55. How clear lies your duty—why do you so shirk it? Is your conscience taking a holiday? You know better than you speak—I'm positive you do."
Many such-like futile56 conversations passed between them; then befell the accident aforesaid. It placed some sensational57 information in the hands of Peter, and, little guessing at the result, he hesitated not to avail himself of it.
There came an afternoon when he sat with Maurice Malherb; while the master mentioned Grace and inquired how matters progressed in the affair of Peter's courtship.
"To tell you truth, a very retrograde business. I had done better to have copied your own unbending methods. But I'm a soft-hearted fool. What says the poet? Those writing men always know such a deal about it!
"'He that will win this dame58, must do
As Love does, when he bends his bow;
With one hand thrust the lady from,
And with the other pull her home!'"
"I'm amazed that any child of mine—but words only waste air now. The wedding day's at hand. She'll be the first to see her own folly59 when she looks back upon it. Obey she must and shall. To-morrow I purpose to have speech with her. Things have reached a climax60. Heaven knows whence she got this sullen61 and mulish humour. Not from me."
"Nor from her mother, I'm very sure. Would she was more like your wonderful lady.
"'Prudently62 simple, providently63 wary64,
To the world a Martha and to heaven a Mary.'
Annabel is a jewel among her sex."
"A wise man chooses his wife," said Malherb, "but it is denied him to choose his daughter. To-morrow, at any rate, we'll try and make the matter clear to her. I hate force. I am naturally a man of mild manners; yet this thick-headed world will never understand me until I clench65 my fist."
"One thing I must beg," interrupted Peter. "Don't surprise her. Don't suddenly appear before dear Grace. It would not be fair. I passed her chamber door yesterday, and by chance it stood ajar. She sat there busy with her needle; and the purpose to which she was putting it nearly startled me into an ejaculation. She does not know that I saw her. Candidly66, I wish that I had not done so. There are sad secrets—'She loves a black-hair'd man.' In fact, there is somebody dearer to her than either you or I. What did I see? 'Sight hateful—sight tormenting67!' Stars and stripes—stars and stripes—but all stripes to me. I'll swear each one has left a bruise68 upon my soul!"
"What, in God's name, are you ranting69 about?" cried Malherb impatiently. "Is everybody going mad, or have I already become so?"
"You must ask Gracie that question. I saw her enfolded in a mass of red, white, and blue bunting. There is nothing in that. Bunting may stand for joy.
"'The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.'
And I wondered the more since these coloured rags were taking upon themselves the likeness70 of the United States national flag. Now, what is that notable emblem71 doing under this roof? I would not deny my future wife any rational amusement, but——"
Peter stopped, for Maurice Malherb had hurried from him.
The father strode straightway to his daughter's room, found the door locked and kicked it open with a crash, to see Grace sitting beside her window half hidden under billows of bunting.
In the year 1814, America's banner consisted of fifteen alternate red and white stripes with fifteen stars arranged in a circle on the blue canton. Helped by designs from Cecil Stark, Grace was carefully reproducing the historic standard upon a generous scale; and her father surprised her in the act to fit the last star into the circle. Upon one star was the word "Vermont," embroidered72 with white silk, and round about it ran a tiny margent of golden thread.
"What means this, woman?" roared Malherb.
"Why, that you've broken into my private chamber, dear father, and kicked the door down. And this—this, that I am making, is a flag of freedom for Mr. Cecil Stark and his friends. They hoped to hoist73 it above their Prison and rejoice at the sight of it on the Fourth of July—a very glorious day among them."
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1
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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snipped
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| v.剪( snip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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7
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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8
itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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16
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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17
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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18
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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itching
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| adj.贪得的，痒的，渴望的v.发痒( itch的现在分词 ) | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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warships
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| 军舰，战舰( warship的名词复数 )； 舰只 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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softener
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| n.起软化作用的东西，软化剂，柔软剂 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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28
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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32
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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41
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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44
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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45
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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48
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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49
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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50
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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51
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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52
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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53
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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54
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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55
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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56
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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57
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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58
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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59
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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60
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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61
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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providently
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| adv.有远虑地 | |
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64
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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65
clench
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| vt.捏紧（拳头等），咬紧（牙齿等），紧紧握住 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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67
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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68
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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69
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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70
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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71
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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72
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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73
hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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