CHAPTER XIV.-A SMALL COMMISSION.

UPO

PON the dreary moor, there is little pleasure of spring, or joy of summer, because of the absence of that beauty (transcending the loveliest daughter of mankind) the excellent beauty of the trees, which man was meant to nourish, but loves better to demolish.

Only in the softer wrinkles, where the hard face of the land relaxes into a smile aside-has any tree a hope of standing against the fierce wind and scowling sky. But in the few spots where shelter helps them, and frugal virtue of the soil gives food, the pleasure of surprise multiplies their beauty; and the jagged granite sets their green off, with a spiked white chain around their necks. These quiet dingles are the very sweetest places for any man to wander through, with the spring of the year around him, and the sound of crispness following his steps, and plenty of time to see things grow.

When the smiting wind from the wilderness leaps over the bristly ramp of furze, and after a few dying kicks expires, the soft kind creatures, that have finer feelings, rejoice down below, and hug themselves. For here they have safety, and comfort, and repose, and a soil glad with sweet oozyness; and the sprinkle of tempestuous air ruffles through them softly, and the hushing of the wind is music.

In such a gentle place, set largely with promiscuous hope, and strewn with more than good intentions of the modest work of spring, the foot of a savage man crushed the moss, and a tumult harsher than that of the wildest wind stirred through the branches. Forsaken of all his fellows' love, and disdainful of his Maker's, as hateful a man as ever trod the earth, because he had no love of anything. Even as a baby of low nature may be known by its cruel look at a little bird or fly, and a boy of nasty instincts by his torture of a frog, so a truly wicked man shows himself by doing despite to the goodwill of his mother earth.

This man came along, with a fierce glitter in his eyes, and a slouching of his lumpy neck, and hatred of mankind stamped upon his sour forehead, gingery brows, and grimy cheeks. The shape of the face had once been fine, the features strong and regular;

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and a mighty strength of will had made it, in the prosperous days, impressive. But no one would think of considering it now, as a matter of kind interest; the impulse of any one beholding it would be to prefer the other side of Dartmoor.

The man, who was tall and of vigorous frame, contrived to crush everything that could be crushed by one pair of feet planted recklessly. His coat was of undressed sheepskin, with the wool torn, and worn, by the briars and rocks; his breeches were of rickcloth sewn roughly by himself; his cap' of badger-skin; and about him there was nothing of tradesman's work, except his boots. These had been stolen from a shop, or cart, or perhaps from some gentleman's dwelling-house; for clearly enough they were boots of good art, flexible, shapely, strong, and lively, and really inclined to be waterproof on the feet of a clever wearer. They had a very clever wearer now, who instead of cracking them with blacking, anointed them daily with raw fat, which they sucked into their constitution.

There were many who desired to catch this man, for a heavy reward was upon him; but any one looking at him would think twice, before raising hand to lay hold of him. For he carried a big double-barrel'd gun, of heavy bore, not too long to be handy, and having percussion locks, a novelty as yet among the simple sportsmen of the moor. Wild, and savage, and reckless as he looked, with the stain of the bogs and the fray of the rocks, and ravellings of time and weather, it was manifest that he set store by his gun, which was clean, well oiled, and in good condition. Even now, fiercely as he trod his way, among delicate growth, frail bud and gentle flower, he bore his heavy weapon carefully and watchfully, lest any bough should bruise or sharp rock scratch it. Also he kept his keen eyes on the strain, for he was going to a doubtful and perilous appointment.

If he has doubled on me, he dies first," was the comfort he kept on administering to himself, although it did not make him comfortable; "he would turn upon himself, if he was paid, and could run away from it. There are many blackguards in the world; but none fit to hold a candle to my clever and exalted friend. He has thriven, and I have failed; because I had scruples, and he had none. But I have one pull upon him-his life is

much to him; mine is a small thing to

me."

In the bend of this glen where the wood grows thickest, there is a little driblet of a spring that falls—by way of an early lesson to itself almost as soon as it has done rising, over a rib of its hard mother granite. Certainly a few things fond of water come to alleviate its first mishap, moss for instance, and the stems of wet-bine, and crinkled caddis reeds, that introduce themselves as conduits. Still there the fall is, and it must be fallen, even though it be five bad yards deep, amid a little jubilee of fluttering expectants, flower, and leaf, and crocketted frond, jerk-tailed gnat, and snub-nosed fernweb, the little mouse that lives in a gossamer almost, and the rabbit who builds him a castle of sand-all of them rejoicing in the tiny spout of crystal, the jeopardy of a sprinkle from a whiff of wind across it, and the freshness of the seed-pearls that glisten in the sunshine, or make a sliding string of some long filament they have stolen.

Upon a slab of granite, near a stool of budding hazel, where the clear little thread of water frayed itself into a fantastic knot, at the base of the crag that shaped it, there sat a man of impatient mind, high colour, and strong character. Not such character perhaps as those who aim at the welfare of the human race would desire to increase and multiply ; but such as many positive moralists prefer to what they call "the washed out type of persons without any will of their own." word, here was the red-faced man.

In a

of

The style of courteous bluffness, and pleasant arrogance, which liked him well, and made clever women hate him so, was not at all the cue to suit him now. For now he had to deal with a man that knew him, and felt for him even less respect, than he still was able to nourish for himself. On this account, George Gaston allowed himself to look as nearly as possible the animal he was-an illbred, ill-conditioned man; who had chosen the evil rather than the good, and despised the good, because he never could regain it. Guy Wenlow, the murderer of two womenif verdicts could be trusted-and now the outcast of the moor, was forcing his overhung and tangled way to the place of appointment, with such a reckless noise, partly through ferocity, and partly of set purpose. For he wanted to show that he was not afraid of any one, but could roam where he pleased, like a gentleman at large.

Generally when two big villains meet, for concoction of further villainy, one of them takes

the upper hand, and keeps it, in virtue-it the word may so be used-of more skilful and masterful villainy. This was what Gaston intended to do ; and Wenlow was equally resolved to do it. But a man who has dwelt in the desert for a twelvemonth, and mainly been dealing with the larger forms of nature, lies at a sad disadvantage, before his fellow, who has never missed a day in the factory and mart of lies.

George Gaston smiled at his former comrade, as he broke from the covert into the rugged opening, with his gun at full-cock, and eyes flashing defiance. "Did you think that I would harm you?" he asked rather sadly; "is there no confidence among old friends?"

"Talk no rubbish," the old friend replied; "if you could gain sixpence by hanging me, and keep your own body out of it, you would do it. What do you want with me? My time is short.”

"Your time will be shorter, if you so misuse it. You are soured by retirement, instead of growing mellow. I am disappointed by your want of cordiality."

The man of the sheepskins turned away with an oath, and threw his gun on his shoulder. "I came a long way, to oblige you," he said; "good bye! You will swing before I do."

But

Civilisation has no sweets for him. There was a time when he loved potted char. now he cares only for Dartmoor mutton." Gaston," cried the other, coming back with dignity, and yet with some signs of desire about his mouth; "is it potted char? What a memory you have! If you only knew how sick I am of mutton!"

"It is potted char, from the only house possessing any connection with the genuine fish. The brand is on the top, and the bottom, and the sides, and especially over the place to put the knife in; because of the sad increase of commercial roguery. smell alone will indicate how genuine it is. A 3 lb. pot, for old lang syne. But alas, there is no true friendship left!"

The

"How many pots of it have you brought? This is truly kind on your part, George. No one has shown a bit of care about my likings, But ever since every one turned against me. what is it you want of me, in return for all this bribery?”

Only a little thing, Guy Wenlow, a trifle altogether for a man of your position. I am half ashamed to give you such a trumpery commission. But it may lead to better things for both of us, hereafter."

"That I do, with all my heart. It is humbug, rank humbug. We are all alike. You know it, as well as I do."

"Never mind moralizing now. Do you remember a tale I told you, that night when the lightning was so frightful on the heath ?" Every word of it;" answered the other, with a laugh; "for it let me into a little secret, that even George Gaston was afraid of something. Let us talk of something good,' you said, 'the weather is so awful; let us talk of something good.' Fie George, fie,

to be a coward of a thunder-cloud!"

"If you had seen what I have, ay and felt too, you would sing another song, Guy Wenlow. Some men attract it, some repel. Twice have I been struck; and the colour of my face-but never mind now-it never thunders here."

"That shows your ignorance of the moor. You should hear it rattle round the tors sometimes. But what am I to do for you? And how much for it?”

All you have to do for me is to knock down a boy. And for that you shall have £5 in gold. Unless you like to do it from good feeling only. For what chance can you get of spending any money?"

Gaston, you always were a despicable screw. To knock down a boy costs five shillings, and expenses. For £5, twenty boys should be knocked down; and you are not the man to pay too much. What you want is a bigger job than that. Out with it!" Well, if you want a big name for it, and small crimes do not suit you, Guy, you may call it the robbery of Her Majesty's mail, as represented by a cobbler's boy. The man of whom I told you that fine story, a cock-a- | hoop, a highflyer, a romantic fool of honour-" "You called him none of that, George Gaston, when the lightning was around you. He was a marvel of good works then; and to praise him seemed to protect you in your trembles."

A little healthy business on the outskirts of the moor will cure you of bog ague, and put cash in your woolly pockets. Wenlow, I congratulate you on your brave appearance.

Any fool can laugh. You are wasting time. I cannot. My day is divided, and I never knew the value of time, till I had to score it by the shadows."

"And to keep on the shadowy side of the score. Impatient man, I will be brief. Have you ever heard of Christowell? "

"Yes, I know all about it. I have got an eye to the Parson's house. You may hear of something I do there."

"Try nothing of the kind. It is a very quiet hole, and must be treated quietly. Under the beacon lives our friend, who made such a fool of himself, years back. There he has got a sort of hut and garden—a craze, a bit of madness, suited to his strange propensities. He was knocked on the head in some battle, I believe; and the earth went in upon his brain, and stayed there. He cracked about gardening, and the things the worms do. He pounds away, and labours with his naked arms, as if he had been born in a brickfield. I saw him myself, or I could not have believed it. I was let in by a man who knows every rat-hole of the premises. The fellow was a mass of mould and grime, when he might have been rolling in guineas."

"It

"I like a man of that sort. He cannot be a sneak;" Black Wenlow replied, with a look that meant, 'like you my friend.' will take more than £5, to make me go against him.”

"What a sentimental turn that is! Such a lesson in morality is worth £5. A man is enabled to charge for his work, according to his character; £10 will be very handsome for a man of yours. You know the man I mean, from my description. The chaw-bacons call him 'Captain Larks.' I have no time to tell you how I am concerned with his affairs; and if I had, it would do no good. The practical part of the matter is, that I want to keep him as he is-retired, industrious, respectable, and wholly in the dark about his family affairs. He has quitted the world, of his own accord; he is as happy as a king; and I wish him to continue so. His return to civilised life would be a plague to me, as well as a misery to himself. I wish him well, with all my heart; for I always liked a magnanimous fool, a boy who sees the world through his own pea-shooter. Perhaps he has never even heard of me; for I have arisen