Mr. Lyddon nodded his head and relapsed into taciturnity.

CHAPTER VI

AN UNHAPPY POET

That a man of many nerves, uncertain in temper and with no physical or temporal qualifications, should have won for himself the handsomest girl in Chagford caused the unreflective to marvel whenever they considered the point.  But a better knowledge of Chris Blauchard had served in some measure to explain the wonder.  Of all women, she was the least likely to do the thing predicted by experience.  She had tremendous force of character for one scarce twenty years of age; indeed, she lived a superlative life, and the man, woman, child, or dog that came within radius of her existence presently formed a definite part of it, and was loved or detested according to circumstances.  Neutrality she could not understand.  If her interests were wide, her prejudices were strong.  A certain unconscious high-handedness of manner made the circle of her friends small, but those who did love her were enthusiastic.  Upon the whole, the number of those who liked her increased with years, and avowed enemies had no very definite reasons for aversion.  Of her physical perfections none pretended two opinions; but the boys had always gone rather in fear of Chris, and the few men who had courted her during the past few years were all considerably her seniors.  No real romance entered into this young woman’s practical and bustling life until the advent of Clement Hicks, though she herself was the flame of hearts not a few before his coming.

Neurotic, sensual, as was Chris herself in a healthy fashion, a man of varying moods, and perhaps the richer for faint glimmerings of the real fire, Hicks yet found himself no better than an aimless, helpless child before the demands of reality.  Since boyhood he had lived out of touch with his environment.  As bee-keeper and sign-writer he made a naked living for himself and his mother, and achieved success sufficient to keep a cottage roof over their heads, but that was all.  Books were his only friends; the old stones of the Moor, the lonely wastes, the plaintive music of a solitary bird were the companions of his happiest days.  He had wit enough to torture half his waking hours with self-analysis, and to grit his teeth at his own impotence.  But there was no strength, no virile grip to take his fate in his own hands and mould it like a man.  He only mourned his disadvantages, and sometimes blamed destiny, sometimes a congenital infirmity of purpose, for the dreary course of his life.  Nature alone could charm his sullen moods, and that not always.  Now and again she spread over the face of his existence a transitory contentment and a larger hope; but the first contact with facts swept it away again.  His higher aspirations were neither deep nor enduring, and yet the man’s love of nature was lofty and just, and represented all the religion he had.  No moral principles guided