It would have been extraordinary, after Teenie's visit, had Nellie not received a letter from Sidney, begging her to give him an opportunity of clearing up the mystery which had so long surrounded Black Anchor Farm. The style and spelling of this epistle moved her to the discovery that it would be necessary to leave Miss Yard in the hands of Kezia, and return to Highfield, for one night only, in order that she might superintend the packing of the furniture; in place of George, who might quite possibly prove untrustworthy.

She replied, not altogether to that effect, without one thought for the ridiculous nature of her expeditionary programme; she could not arrive at Highfield until late in the afternoon, she would be compelled to leave early the following morning, while the packers could not reasonably be invited to work from dusk to sunrise. Sidney could meet her at the station if he liked: in fact she thought that might be the best plan, "As poor old George does not possess a sense of humour." Sidney thought so too; but Nellie in her hurry missed the train. She was able to agree with Miss Yard, who could not travel without the observation, "They ought to do away with railway junctions."

There was no good reason for losing all sense of method upon her arrival at Windward House. As a methodist, she would have walked calmly indoors, announced to Bessie – who was presumably in charge – that she had returned to spend one more night in her old bedroom entirely out of sentiment; and then have gone for a walk, in the opposite direction to Black Anchor, among the moths and beetles, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new moon. But the sight of that open window, the garish lamplight, the cold apparition of George with a murderous cork in his hand, made her hopelessly unmethodical. Her mind became so entirely disorganised that everything escaped it, except that stupid necessity of going for a walk immediately. She flung her bag through the window and fled.

On the way to Black Anchor Nellie succeeded in persuading herself that she was, if not exactly discreet, at least as sensible as any other young woman in revolt from the severity of everyday life towards a more picturesque and imaginative style of existence. She actually made a plan. As it was night, and sufficiently dark for spying, she would approach the farm among the bogs, flit around it like a will-o'-the-wisp, play watchful fairy at the window, act recording angel at the keyhole, until part at least of the mystery might be revealed. She had no particular wish to discover the secret of Sidney's fascination, which attracted to him young ladies of superior birth and education, but she desired very much to learn something about these prepossessing damsels; who they were and why they came; and above all it was her business to ascertain why Sidney spoke like a farmer's boy, but looked like a farmer's landlord, and wrote like the descendant of a poet laureate.

"How dark it is down here!" she murmured. "Lucky I know the geography. I wish I knew my history half as well."

Then it seemed to her that all kinds of light-footed people were leaping over the bogs and jumping the furze bushes; while the moor on each side twinkled with teasing eyes of local inhabitants sent out to watch the movements of the spy.

Nellie saw the farm, and knew by the stream of light that all the doors and windows stood wide open. The trackway beyond was dangerous because one window threw a searchlight right across it; but she walked on, having never been taught the art of scouting, and came presently to a colossal figure, carved apparently out of granite, or beaten into human shape by wind and weather, rising from an unhewn boulder halfway to the sky. This was a wonder of the moor never previously discovered, thought Nellie; but a moment later she felt certain ghosts were abroad, and this colossus was being worshipped by the local inhabitants, dancing invisibly all over the peat and tussocks: she could detect the smell of incense, see the smoke rising; any moment she might be compelled to witness a human sacrifice. There was a glow of fire undoubtedly. Again she fled, while the colossus shook from side to side although there was no wind.

"How silly of me!" gasped Nellie. "It was old Mr. Brock, sitting on a rock – bother the rhyme! – smoking a cigar."

Obsessed by the idea of finding out something concerning this enchanted region, she went on towards the farmhouse, forced to walk along the lighted trackway because it skirted the edges of a bog, where in full swing was the season of grand opera and, from a cool green dais, the bullfrog conductor constrained an enormous amount of energy out of his orchestra – it sounded like Tanhäuser but was more melodious – although the night-jars and owls did their best to mar the performance out of professional rivalry, while the beetles with their trombones were hopelessly discordant. But soon there were other sounds, far pleasanter; a scuffling in the furze-clad regions beyond; an approach, a trepidation, a capture, and a scream:

"You beast, Sidney! I did think I had hidden myself that time."

"I saw the white ribbon in your hair. You looked out just at the wrong moment."

"It's my turn to seek now."

"I'm going up to Highfield."

"I don't believe she's coming."

"I'll go and find out anyhow."

"Shall I come?"

"No, you stop at home."

"I won't spoil sport. If you see her, I'll cut off full lick."

"Listen! that was grandfather whistling."

Nellie stood upon the trackway shivering. Behind her old Mr. Brock closed the pass; in front Sidney was approaching; on the right side spread the bogs; on the left a jagged wilderness of boulders. From a strategical point of view she was done for. And she had come there to spy! She could only halt in vexation squeezed against a rock until captured, or advance with what little dignity remained to make an unconditional surrender.

"Boots muddy, hair all anyhow, crushed clothes – and caught in this abominable fashion," she murmured. "In fact I'm so untidy there's just a chance he may not recognise me."

She had not the slightest cause for worry. A girl may know when she looks attractive to other girls; but she seldom realises she is most fascinating to a man when her boots are muddy and her hair is all anyhow.

There came a rabbit-like scamper up the trackway, and the stampeding Teenie screamed again:

"Oh, I say – you did make me jump! Sidney! Sidney, you ass! Here she is! Here's Miss Blisland! Oh, what a lark!" shouted the child with shameless and barbaric jubilation.

"Don't talk such beastly nonsense," cried the other voice.

"It is her!" screamed the child.

"Yes, it's me," said Nellie faintly; and all three stood together, in an atmosphere of amazement and bad grammar.

"I thought, as it was such a lovely night – I mean evening – I would stroll in this direction to tell you I'm off again first thing in the morning," explained Nellie.

"This is splendid! I was just going to start for Highfield, but this is far better, as there's no old Drake to waddle about and quack. I was hanging about the road all the afternoon. This is Teenie Stanley – my cheeky young sister."

"Your sister! And your name isn't Brock at all!" cried Nellie.

"Run away, kid, and talk to grandfather," Sidney ordered; and the little whirlwind whisked round Nellie and departed.

"I did have the idea, but thought somehow it wasn't possible," Nellie was saying. "You have humbugged everybody, but you never really deceived me; if you had, I shouldn't be here now. I saw through your Dartmoor dialect, and all the rest of it. And I suppose Dorothy is your elder sister?"

"Of course she is."

"And the much-abused Mrs. Stanley – "

"Is my mother who, in spite of local rumour, does not put on local colour."

"Why ever didn't you tell me before? What was the sense of making such a mystery of it?"

"The people in Highfield made the mystery. We didn't want them to know we were here."

"Couldn't they see you, stupid?" said Nellie, more cheerfully.

"I mean grandfather didn't want them to know who we are; but I should have let out everything that evening – when you were spiteful – if we hadn't quarrelled. You know, Nellie, you were rather too cross about mother, and – and I lost my temper because you wouldn't trust me, and I made up my mind you should."

"You are nearly as bad as George Drake," she declared.

"Nearly isn't quite."

"And who are you, please?"

"Oh, we are not of vast importance. My full name is Arthur Sidney Stanley. It was a shame to give me such names, as I can't possibly put my initials on anything. That little beast, Teenie, always calls me ass. We're not exactly paupers, as we own a big share in a number of stores all over the south. There's one at Drivelford."

"I've been in it hundreds of times, and distinctly remember seeing you behind the counter."

"Don't be horrid. I've never been to Drivelford in my life, but I'm going there tomorrow if you are."

"Who is Mr. Brock?" she asked in a great hurry.

"Really my grandfather, and the owner of Black Anchor Farm, also the patron of the living. Now you know why the vicar condescends to visit us. Brock is such a common name in this part of Devonshire that nobody could dream he is the Mr. Brock."

"And why did you come here? Why have you lived, like a couple of common people, in this ramshackle place, without housekeeper or servant? You simply made the people talk about you. How could they understand a couple of gentlemen pigging it! Your mother and sisters coming here naturally made a scandal. Even I couldn't believe they were your relations, though I was positive you were much better than you pretended to be. I shall never forgive you for talking to me in Devonshire dialect, though I'm quite willing to forget you had supper one Sunday evening in our kitchen."

"Wasn't it fun too!" Sidney chuckled. "I wanted grandfather to come, but he drew the line at that. When you know grandfather well – and that's going to be jolly soon – you will guess how enormously he has enjoyed his time here. It was his idea entirely. He loves roughing it, he has spent most of his life knocking about the world, and he's only really happy in a cottage. He declares luxury and high feeding kill more people than any disease. It's only the rustic who lives to be a hundred, he says; and, as he means to score a century himself, he takes a spell of living like a rustic occasionally. He could never get a satisfactory tenant for this place, so he told father one day he'd made up his mind to show the commoners what hard work could accomplish on a Dartmoor farm."

"Where do you come in?"

"Just here. I hadn't been very strong since leaving school – crocked myself rowing – and the doctor said I ought to work in the open air for a time before taking up anything serious. You can't persuade doctors that farming is work; they look upon it as a recreation. So grandfather suggested I should come along with him. Father was willing, but mother was horrified. I jumped at the idea of course. Grandfather is the grandest old fellow alive, and I would rather be under him than all the doctors in the world. He wouldn't have a housekeeper, as he likes doing everything for himself when he's roughing: besides, a woman would have seen his papers and letters, and found out who he was; and naturally he doesn't want the people to know that the patron of the living, and biggest landowner in the parish, is grubbing in the bogs down here."

"Didn't the scandal make him angry?"

"He has never heard a word of it."

"So that's the mystery!" cried Nellie, feeling rather ashamed of herself.

"It's jolly simple after all. We are going away before winter, when there's a flood four days a week, and a gale the other three. Grandfather owns the place has beaten him. He says a man who tries to farm on Dartmoor ought to receive a premium instead of paying a rent. If it isn't bog, it's rock, and, if it isn't rock, it's 'vuzzy trade.' And if you do put in a crop, the moles turn it out; and, if the moles don't turn it out, rabbits, sheep, mice and grubs in millions and slugs in trillions gobble it up completely. Now come and be introduced to grandfather, and then I'll take you home. He is sure to growl at you, but you must stand up to him, and then he'll love you. He likes anyone to stand up to him. The vicar got the living by contradicting him. I say, Nellie, don't hurry back to Drivelford."

"Are you aware you have not called me Miss Blisland once?" she demanded, showing no inclination to approach the terrible black grandfather.

"Quite! And are you aware you have never once called me Sidney?"

"I must go back in the morning. Miss Yard will be crazy all night without me. She will think I've been kidnapped," Nellie hurried on.

"She won't be wrong."

"I should like to start at once, though I hate the idea of facing George. I'm a dreadful coward really, and I'm afraid he will think I have treated him badly. He knows of my arrival, but I'm quite certain he is not bothering to look for me."

"A kick in the face will do him good," replied Sidney disdainfully.

"He can't take a joke, though he did try to take me, and I'm much the biggest joke he has ever run against. The truth of the matter is he has made up his mind to get back the Captain's furniture, which belongs to Miss Yard now, and he knows the only way he can get it is by marrying me."

"There's grandfather growling! He's telling Teenie to go to bed, and she's telling him to go himself. That kid never is tired. Now he's chuckling! Grandfather likes to be cheeked."

"I ought to have gone long ago. It must be getting on for midnight."

"And we've got to be up early. I'm coming with you, and you shall introduce me to Miss Yard, and then I'll take you to my people, and then we'll get married – "

"Well, of all the precociousness!" she gasped. "Do you know I'm older than you?"

"You can't blame me for that."

"And I expect to be treated with respect. And my father was never anything more than a very poor curate."

"Well, a curate is a bishop on a small scale, and we are only shopkeepers on a large scale. It's funny that poor curates should always have the nicest daughters."

"And I can't forgive you for talking to me like a farmer's boy."

"Then I won't forgive you for saying horrid things, and thinking worse about my mother and sisters."

"Of course we might forget. But then that wouldn't be enough. So I can never marry you, Sidney – at least, not until Miss Sophy dies."

"She'll have to be jolly quick about it," said the young man fiercely.

"She is very kind and considerate," Nellie murmured doubtfully; trying to work out the algebraical problem. If a Giant Tortoise is hale and hearty at five hundred, and a Yellow Leaf is trying to inveigle a Mere Bud towards the matrimonial altar at ninety-something, what is the reasonable expectation of life of an old Lady who has nothing to die for?

"All this time," said Sidney, "grandfather is peering at us, while Teenie is simply goggling. We have got to pass them, and then – thank heaven! – we shall be alone."

"If I let you come with me – " she began.

"As if you could prevent it!"

"Will you stand up to George for me? Will you play the Dragon, and not get beaten?"

"Rather! I owe the saint one for his sermons."

But Sidney was not given the opportunity, for, when they reached Windward House, after wasting an extraordinary amount of time in climbing the hill, they found the place deserted; but the key was in the door, and a note lay on the table. They read it with explosions of sheer rapture.

Why Nellie had returned to Highfield George, for his part, could not imagine; but he considered her conduct on the whole disgraceful, and begged to remind her that nothing but a satisfactory explanation could avert a rupture. She, in her selfishness, had supposed, no doubt, he would either light a lantern and seek to track her footsteps; or sit up and wait until she should be pleased to return. He had no intention of doing either of these things. A game of hide-and-seek about the Highfield lanes at dead of night, after a long and fatiguing day, was not much to his taste; while the rôle of henpecked lover, awaiting the return of a profligate fiancée to the family hearth, was a part he was still less suited for. It was his habit to retire at half past ten. He had retired, utterly worn out and exhausted. In the morning he would give Nellie an opportunity for explaining her conduct; and, if the explanation should prove unsatisfactory, he should seriously contemplate asking her to return all the presents he had given her.

"What has he given you, darling?" asked Sidney.

"Nothing whatever, dearest."

They had learnt a number of words like that while toiling up the hill.

"But surely, sweetheart, he must have given you something."

"I expect he's thinking of the furniture; but I got that for myself, though he doesn't know how."

Then they made their plans, but George had also made his. His usual habit was to permit the sun to warm the world before he walked upon it; but on this occasion he had requested Mrs. Dyer to call him early. Nellie, on the other hand, overslept, having nobody to call her, and being naturally tired after so much travelling, romance, excitement and happiness: excellent things but all fatiguing.

She woke with a dream of a battlefield where shells of monstrous size were exploding upon every side, each one missing her by inches; nor was this surprising for, upon opening her eyes, she soon became aware that stones were being hurled into the room.

"It can't be Sidney," she murmured sleepily. "He wouldn't wake me so roughly, even though I am late. Goodness – that's a rock!"

It was not Sidney. It was George, as she discovered by one swift glance. He frowned like an artillery man while adding to his stock of ammunition.

"Stop it! You've broken the water jug, and my room is flooded," she cried.

"So I've got you up at last! You threw your bag into my window last night, so I throw stones into your window this morning. It's what they call the lextalionis."

"Please go away! I'm not dressed yet," she called.

"I'm waiting to hear your explanation, and I'm going to stand here, in this very same place where I was first beguiled by your deceitful face at the window, when you sat and worked a sewing machine, like that lady in the Bible who got pushed out and trodden underfoot," said George wrathfully; for during the night a suspicion of the truth had reached him.

"I'd better get it over at once," Nellie murmured. Then she wrapped herself in the quilt and approached the window.

"Here I am!" she said brightly.

"What a nasty, hostile, ungrateful expression. And you ought to be in a white sheet instead of that scarlet quilt," said George bitterly.

"Well, you shouldn't be so rude as to throw stones at me. They were not pebbles either."

"It's my house and my window. Why have you come back?"

"Because I wanted to."

"That's a woman's answer. Did you give your address to that wicked little girl who answers to the name of Teenie?"

"I might have."

"That's another woman's answer. Did that young man who wallows in vice write to you?"

"A young gentleman known here as Sidney Brock did write to me."

"That's the sort of confession a woman does make. And you actually replied? You had no shame whatever?"

"I sent an answer."

"Then came!"

"And saw and conquered," she murmured happily.

"What are you muttering about?"

"I suppose you would call them my sins. But, if you speak to me again like that, I shall shut the window," Nellie replied with spirit.

"I'm blest if she isn't going to argue," George mumbled. "I don't want to be hard upon you, young woman, but I can't have this sort of thing," he went on sternly. "You desert my dear old aunt, and come back here, and rush into bad company, and you don't even ask my permission. I'm a liberal and broad-minded chap, but I can't stand that."

"How are you going to prevent it?"

"By asserting myself, by putting my foot down. Here am I working and toiling for you. I have sent Robert and Bessie away for a well-earned holiday, and presently vans will be coming for the furniture. It's all for you. I don't think of myself at all. I'm saving the furniture, and handing it over to you at great expense, while you are breaking my heart by making appointments with young Mormons in the dark, and going to such a place as Black Anchor at dead of night, and staying there till morning. That sort of conduct makes men commit murder and suicide, and other things they are sorry for afterwards. But I'm not a criminal, and I'm not passionate. I'm practical, and cool, and – and amiable. I have taken quite a fancy to you, Nellie. Other people don't think much of you, but I can see you have good qualities, only you won't show them. Now I want you to tell me why you wrote to young Sidney, and why you met him last night. Be very careful how you answer, as the whole of your future happiness may depend on it."

"I wanted to clear up the mystery," she said.

"There is no mystery about shameful wickedness. Being about to marry a respectable gentleman, who bears a highly honoured name, upon the last day of this month – "

"Oh, stop! Do please!" cried Nellie appealingly. "We are only playing. We have been fooling all along, and you must have known it. I was always laughing and teasing – have you ever seen me serious, as I am now?"

"You don't mean to tell me you are trying to get out of it – you are not going to keep your promise?"

"What was my promise?"

"That you would marry me on the last day of this month."

"It wasn't put like that. I promised, in fun, to marry you on the thirty-first of September, and, of course, I thought you would have seen through that joke long ago."

"I suppose the point of the joke is that you mean to become a Mormon?"

"There is no thirty-first of September. And I am going to become a Mormon, if you like to put it that way, for I am engaged to Sidney Brock."

"And I'll tell you what I am going to do," George shouted. "I'm going to jilt you."

"Thanks so much," laughed Nellie.

George stalked out of the garden, and was not seen again until Sidney and Nellie had departed, and big vans had drawn up beside Windward House to the wonder and dismay of all the village. Then he revisited the scenes of his former triumphs and issued certain orders to the packers. After that he hurried off to the town and visited an auctioneer.

Returning to Highfield, he passed behind Robert's cottage, demolished the peatstack, and brought to light the musical box, the silver candlesticks, and all the rest of the purloined articles. These were deposited in the vans.

A hostile crowd had collected, but George took no heed of anyone; not even the Wallower in Wealth who sought ineffectually to obtain possession of the musical box by force and without payment. The unhappy Dyer had his eyes opened to the exceeding perfidy of his lodger, but he dared not open his mouth as well.

The following day bills were posted about the neighbourhood, announcing a sale to be held at short notice, in the market hall of the town, of the valuable furniture and remarkable antiquities formerly in the possession of Captain Francis Drake, by order of the Executor of the will of Mrs. Drake deceased.

"I'm sorry for Aunt Sophy, but she ought to have kept out of bad company," was George's only comment.