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C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to Program Design, Sixth Edition 9-1

Chapter 9
Records (structs)

At a Glance

Instructor’s Manual Table of Contents

• Overview

• Objectives

• Teaching Tips

• Quick Quizzes

• Class Discussion Topics

• Additional Projects

• Additional Resources

• Key Terms
C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to Program Design, Sixth Edition 9-2

Lecture Notes

Overview
In Chapter 9, students will be introduced to a data type that can be heterogeneous. They
will learn how to group together related values that are of differing types using records,
which are also known as structs in C++. First, they will explore how to create
structs, perform operations on structs, and manipulate data using a struct.
Next, they will examine the relationship between structs and functions and learn
how to use structs as arguments to functions. Finally, students will explore ways to
create and use an array of structs in an application.

Objectives
In this chapter, the student will:
• Learn about records (structs)
• Examine various operations on a struct
• Explore ways to manipulate data using a struct
• Learn about the relationship between a struct and functions
• Discover how arrays are used in a struct
• Learn how to create an array of struct items

Teaching Tips
Records (structs)

1. Define the C++ struct data type and describe why it is useful in programming.

Discuss how previous programming examples and projects that used parallel
Teaching
arrays or vectors might be simplified by using a struct to hold related
Tip
information.

2. Examine the syntax of a C++ struct.

3. Using the examples in this section, explain how to define a struct type and then
declare variables of that type.

Accessing struct Members

1. Explain how to access the members of a struct using the C++ member access
operator.
C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to Program Design, Sixth Edition 9-3

2. Use the code snippets in this section to illustrate how to assign values to struct
members.

Mention that the struct and class data types both use the member access
operator. Spend a few minutes discussing the history of the struct data type
and how it relates to C++ classes and object-oriented programming. Note that the
struct is a precursor to the class data type. Explain that the struct was
introduced in C to provide the ability to group heterogeneous data members
together and, for the purposes of this chapter, is used in that manner as well.
Teaching However, in C++, a struct has the same ability as a class to group data and
Tip
operations into one data type. In fact, a struct in C++ is interchangeable with
a class, with a couple of exceptions. By default, access to a struct from
outside the struct is public, whereas access to a class from outside the
class is private by default. The importance of this will be discussed later in the
text. Memory management is also handled differently for structs and
classes.

Quick Quiz 1
1. True or False: A struct is typically a homogenous data structure.
Answer: False

2. The components of a struct are called the ____________________ of the struct.

Answer: members

3. A struct statement ends with a(n) ____________________.

Answer: semicolon

4. True or False: A struct is typically defined before the definitions of all the functions
in a program.
Answer: True

Assignment

1. Explain that the values of one struct variable are copied into another struct
variable of the same type using one assignment statement. Note that this is equivalent to
assigning each member variable individually.

Note how memory is handled in assignment operations involving struct

Teaching
variables of the same type; namely, that the values of the members of one
Tip
struct are copied into the member variables of the other struct.
C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to Program Design, Sixth Edition 9-4

Comparison (Relational Operators)

1. Emphasize that no relational aggregate operations are allowed on structs. Instead,

comparisons must be made member-wise, similar to an array.

Ask your students why they think assignment operations are permitted on
Teaching
struct types, but not relational operations. Discuss the issue of determining
Tip
how to compare a data type that consists of other varying data types.

Input/Output

1. Note that unlike an array, aggregate input and output operations are not allowed on
structs.

Mention that the stream and the relational operators can be overloaded to provide
Teaching
the proper functionality for a struct type and, in fact, that this is a standard
Tip
technique used by C++ programmers.

struct Variables and Functions

1. Emphasize that a C++ struct may be passed as a parameter by value or by reference,

and it can also be returned from a function.

2. Illustrate parameter passing with structs using the code snippets in this section.

Arrays versus structs

1. Using Table 9-1, discuss the similarities and differences between structs and arrays.

Spend a few minutes comparing the aggregate operations that are allowed on
Teaching structs and arrays. What might account for the differences? Use your previous
Tip exposition on the history of structs and memory management to facilitate this
discussion.

Arrays in structs

1. Explain how to include an array as a member of a struct.

2. Using Figure 9-5, discuss situations in which creating a struct type with an array as a
member might be useful. In particular, discuss its usefulness in applications such as the
sequential search algorithm.
C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to Program Design, Sixth Edition 9-5

Ask your students to think of other applications in which using an array as a

member of a struct might be useful. For example, are there applications in
Teaching
which parameter passing might be reduced by using struct members in
Tip
conjunction with arrays? Also, are there other data members that would be useful
to include in the listType struct presented in this section?

3. Discuss situations in which a struct should be passed by reference rather than by

value. Use the sequential search function presented in this section as an example.

structs in Arrays

1. Discuss how structs can be used as array elements to organize and process data
efficiently.

2. Examine the employee record in this section as an example of using an array of

structs. Discuss the code for the struct as well as the array processing code. Use
Figure 9-7 to clarify the code.

Emphasize that using a structured data type, such as a struct or class, as the
Teaching element type of an array is a common technique. Using the vector class as an
Tip example, reiterate that object-oriented languages typically have containers such
as list or array types that in turn store objects of any type.

structs within a struct

1. Discuss how structs can be nested within other structs as a means of organizing
related data.

2. Using the employee record in Figure 9-8, illustrate how to reorganize a large amount of
related information with nested structs.

3. Encourage your students to step through the “Sales Data Analysis” Programming
Example at the end of the chapter to consolidate the concepts discussed in this chapter.
C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to Program Design, Sixth Edition 9-6

Quick Quiz 2
1. What types of aggregate operations are allowed on structs?
Answer: assignment

2. Can struct variables be passed as parameters to functions? If so, how?

Answer: struct variables can be passed as parameters either by value or by reference.

3. True or False: A variable of type struct may not contain another struct.
Answer: False

4. True or False: A variable of type struct may contain an array.

Answer: True

Class Discussion Topics

1. With the advent of object-oriented programming, is it ever necessary to use C-type
structs rather than classes? If so, when? What are the advantages or disadvantages of
each approach?

2. Discuss how the object-oriented concept of reusability relates to structs, structs

within arrays, arrays within structs, and structs within structs. Ask students to
think of some applications in which defining these data types for later use would be
beneficial.

Additional Projects
1. In Chapter 8, you were asked to write a program that keeps track of important birthdays.
Modify this program to store one person’s birthday information in a struct data type.
The struct should consist of two other structs: one struct to hold the person’s
first name and last name, and another to hold the date (day, month, and year). Consider
including other information as well, such as a vector of strings with a list of possible
gift ideas.

2. In Chapter 8, you were asked to write a program that listed all the capitals for countries
in a specific region of the world. Modify this program to use an array of structs to
store this information. The struct should include the capital, the country, and the
continent. You might include additional information as well, such as the languages
spoken in each capital.
C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to Program Design, Sixth Edition 9-7

Additional Resources
1. Data Structures:
www.cplusplus.com/doc/tutorial/structures.html

2. struct (C++):
http://msdn2.microsoft.com/en-us/library/64973255.aspx

3. Classes, Structures, and Unions:

http://msdn2.microsoft.com/en-us/library/4a1hcx0y.aspx

Key Terms
 Member access operator: the dot (.) placed between the struct and the name of one
of its members; used to access members of a struct
 struct: a collection of heterogeneous components in which the components are
accessed by the variable name of the struct, the member access operator, and the
variable name of the component
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caution he had about him from his brain; he glared around in savage
rage, with his teeth showing, and his short red hair standing up on
his head like the comb of an angry cock.
"Who touched me? Bring him forth, that I may strike him." He drew
his hunting-knife, and turned from side to side. "Ah! let him come
near, and I will score him as I did Anthony Cleverdon."
Bessie uttered a cry and drew back.
Fox looked at her, and, encouraged by her terror and pain,
proceeded. "It is true, I did. We had a quarrel and drew swords, and
I pinked him."
"A lie!" shouted one present. "Thou wearest no sword."
Fox turned sharply round, and snarled at the speaker. "I have not a
bodkin—a skewer—but I have what is better—a carving-knife; and
with that I struck him just above the heart. He fell, and ran, ran,
ran"—his voice rose to a shriek—"he ran from me as a hare, full of
fright, lest I should go after him and strike him again, between the
shoulder-blades. Farmer Cleverdon! Gaffer Cleverdon! Thou hast a
fool for a son—that all the world knows—and a knave as well, and
add to that—a coward."
He stopped to laugh. Then, pointing with his knife at his father-in-
law, he said:
"They say that he has gone to join the rebels. It is false. He is too
great a coward to adventure himself there, and add to that I have
cut too deep and let out too much white blood. He is skulking
somewhere to be healed or to die."
Bessie had staggered back against the wall. She held her hands
before her mouth to arrest the cries of distress that could barely be
controlled. The old man had become white and rigid as a corpse.
"I would he were with the rebels. I hope he will be so healed, and
that speedily, that he may join them, and then he will be taken and
hung as a traitor. I' faith, I would like to be there! I would give a bag
of gold to be there—to see Anthony Cleverdon hung. I'd sit down on
the next stone and eat my bread and cheese, and throw the crusts
and the rinds in his face as he hung.—The traitor!"

An hour later there came a tap at the door of Willsworthy. Uncle Sol
opened, and Bessie Cleverdon entered, pale.
She asked to see her grandmother, Mistress Penwarne, who was still
there.
"I am come," she said, "to relieve you. Go back to Luke, and I will
tarry with Urith. Luke must need you, and I can take your place
here. I will not lay my head under the roof of Hall whilst Fox is there.
It is true that I promised this day to love and obey him, but I
promised what I cannot perform. He has forfeited every right over
me! Till he leaves Hall I remain here—with Urith—both unhappy—
maybe we shall understand each other. My poor father! My poor
father! I cannot remain with him whilst Fox is there!"
 CHAPTER LI.
ON THE CLEAVE AGAIN.

Ever full of pity and love for others, and forgetfulness of self, Bessie
sat holding Urith's hand in her own, with her eyes fixed
compassionately on her sister-in-law.
Urith's condition was perplexing. It was hard to say whether the
events of that night when she saw Anthony struck down on the
hearthstone, and her subsequent and consequent illness, with the
premature confinement and the death of the child, had deranged her
faculties, or whether she was merely stunned by this succession of
events.
Always with a tendency in her to moodiness, she had now lapsed
into a condition of silent brooding. She would sit the whole day in
one position, crouched with her elbows on her knees and her chin in
her hands, looking fixedly before her, and saying nothing: taking no
notice of anything said or done near her.
It almost seemed as though she had fallen into a condition of
melancholy madness, and yet, when spoken to, she would answer,
and answer intelligently. Her faculties were present, unimpaired, but
crushed under the overwhelming weight of the past. Only on one
point did she manifest any signs of hallucination. She believed that
Anthony was dead, and nothing that was said to her could induce
her to change her conviction. She believed that everyone was in
league to deceive her on this point.
And yet, though sane, she had to be watched, for in her absence of
mind and internal fever of distress, she would put her hands into her
mouth, and bite the knuckles, apparently unconscious of pain.
Mrs. Penwarne, who was usually with her, would quietly remove her
hands from her mouth, and hold them down. Then Urith would look
at her with a strange, questioning expression, release her hands,
and resting the elbows on her knees, thrust the fingers into her hair.
The state in which Urith was alarmed Bessie. She tried in vain to
cheer her; every effort, and they were various in kind, failed. The
condition of Urith resembled that of one oppressed with sleep before
consciousness passes away. When her attention was called by a
question addressed to her pointedly by name, or by a touch, she
answered, but she relapsed immediately into her former state. She
could be roused to no interest in anything. Bessie spoke to her about
domestic matters, about the rebellion of the Duke of Monmouth,
about the departure of Mr. Crymes, finally, after some hesitation,
about her own marriage, but she said nothing concerning the
conduct of Fox on the preceding evening, or of her desertion of the
home of her childhood. Urith listened dreamily, and forgot at once
what had been told her. Her mind was susceptible to no impressions,
so deeply indented was it with her own sorrows.
Luke, so said Mistress Penwarne, had been to see her, and had
spoken of sacred matters; but Urith had replied to him that she had
killed Anthony, that she did not regret having done so, and that
therefore she could neither hope in nor pray to God.
This Mrs. Penwarne told Bessie, standing over Urith, well aware that
what she said passed unheeded by the latter, probably unheard by
her. Nothing but a direct appeal could force Urith to turn the current
of her thoughts, and that only momentarily, from the direction they
had taken.
"She has been biting her hands again," said Mrs. Penwarne. "Bessie,
when she does that, pull out the token that hangs on her bosom and
put it into her palm. She will sit and look at that by the hour. She
must be broken of that trick."
Urith slowly stood up, with a ruffle of uneasiness on her dull face.
She was conscious that she was being discussed, without exactly
knowing what was said about her. Without a word of explanation,
she went out, drawing Bessie with her, who would not let go her
hand; and together, in silence, they passed through the court and
into the lane.
Their heads were uncovered, and the wind was fresh and the sun
shone brightly.
Urith walked leisurely along the lane, accompanied by Bessie
Cleverdon, between the moorstone walls, thick-bedded with pink and
white flowering saxifrage, and plumed with crimson foxgloves. She
looked neither to right nor to left till she reached the moor-gate
closing the lane, a gate set there to prevent the escape of the cattle
from their upland pasturage. The gate was swung between two
blocks of granite, in which sockets had been cut for the pivot of the
gate to swing. Urith put forth her hand, thrust open the gate, and
went on. It was characteristic of her condition that she threw it open
only wide enough to allow herself to pass through, and Bess had to
put forth her disengaged hand to check the gate from swinging back
upon her. This was not due to rudeness on the part of Urith, but to
the fact that Urith had forgotten that any one was with her.
On issuing forth on the open waste-land among the flowering
heather and deep carmine, large-belled heath, the freedom, the
fresh air seemed to revive Urith. A flicker of light passed over her
darkened face, as though clouds had been lifted from a tor, and a
little watery sunlight had played over its bleak surface. She turned
her head to the west, whence blew the wind, and the air raised and
tossed her dark hair. She stood still, with half-closed eyes, and
nostrils distended, inhaling the exhilarating breeze, and enjoying its
coolness as it trifled with her disordered locks.
Bessie had tried her with every subject that could distract her
thoughts, in vain. She now struck on that which nearly affected her.
"Urith," she said, "I have heard that a battle is expected every day,
and Anthony is in it. You will pray God to guard him in danger, will
you not?"
"Anthony is dead. I killed him."
"No, dear Urith, he is not dead; he has joined the Duke of
Monmouth."
"They told you so? They deceived you. I killed him."
"It is not so." Bessie paused. Her hand clenched that of Urith tightly.
"My dearest sister, it is not so. Fox himself told me, and told my
father—he struck Anthony."
"I bade him do so—I had not strength in my arm, I had no knife. But
I killed him."
"I assure you that this is not true."
"I saw him fall across the hearthstone. My mother wished it. She
prayed that it might be so, with her last breath; but she never
prayed that I should kill him."
"Urith! Poor Anthony, who is dear to you and to me, is in extreme
danger. There is like to be bloody fighting and we must ask God to
shield him."
"I cannot pray for him. He is dead, and I cannot pray at all. I am
glad he is dead. I would do it all over again, rather than that Julian
should have him."
"Julian!" sighed Elizabeth Cleverdon. "What has been told you about
Julian?"
"She threatened to pluck him out of my bosom, and she has done it;
but she shall not wear him in hers. I killed him because he was false
to me, and would leave me."
"No—no—Urith, he never would leave you."
"He was going to leave me. His father asked him to go back to Hall."
"But he would not go. Anthony was too noble."
"He was going to desert me and go to Julian, so I killed him. They
may kill me also; I do not care. God took my baby; I am glad He did
that. I never wish for a moment it had lived—lived to know that its
mother was a murderess. It could not touch my hand with his blood
on it; so God took my baby. I am waiting; they will take me soon,
because I killed Anthony. I am willing. I cannot pray. I have no hope.
I wish it were over, and I were dead."
On her own topic, on that which engrossed all her mind, on that
round which her thoughts turned incessantly, on that she could
speak, and speak fairly rationally; and when she spoke her face
became expressive.
They walked on together. Bessie knew not what to say. It was not
possible to disturb Urith's conviction that her husband was dead, and
that she was his destroyer.
They continued to walk, but now again in silence. Urith again
relapsed into her brooding mood, went forward, threaded her own
way among the bunches of prickly gorse, now out of flower, and the
scattered stones, regardless of Bessie, who was put to great
inconvenience to keep at her side. She was forced to disengage her
hand, as it was not possible for her to keep pace with her sister-in-
law in such broken ground. Urith did not observe that Bessie had
released her, nor that she was still accompanying her.
She took a direct course to Tavy Cleave, that rugged, natural fortress
of granite which towers above the river that plunges in a gorge,
rather than a valley, below.
On reaching this she cast herself down on the overhanging slab,
whereon she had stood with Anthony, when he clasped her in his
arms and swung her, laughing and shouting, over the abyss.
Bessie drew to her side. She was uneasy what Urith might do, in her
disturbed frame of mind; but no thought of self-destruction seemed
to have crossed Urith's brain. She swung her feet over the gulf, and
put her hands through her hair, combing it out into the wind, and
letting that waft and whirl it about, as it blew up the Cleave and rose
against the granite crags, as a wave that bowls against a rocky coast
leaps up and curls over it.
Bessie allowed her to do as she liked. It was clearly a refreshment
and relaxation to her heated and overstrained mind thus to sit and
play with the wind.
Rooks were about, at one moment flashing white in the sun, then
showing the blackness of their glossy feathers. Their nesting and
rearing labours were over: they had deserted their usual haunts
among trees, to disport themselves on the waste lands.
The roar of the river came up on the wind from below—now loud as
the surf on reefs at sea, then soft and soothing as a murmur of
marketers returning from fairing, heard from far away.
Something—Bessie knew not what—induced her to turn her head
aside, when, with a start of alarm, she saw, standing on a platform
of rock, not a stone's throw distance, the tall full form of Julian. Her
face was turned towards her and Urith. She had been watching
them. The sun was on her handsome, richly-coloured face, with its
lustrous eyes and ripe pouting lips.
Bessie's first impulse was to hold up her hand in caution. She did not
know what the effect produced on Urith might be of seeing suddenly
before her the rival who had blighted her happiness; and the
position occupied by Urith was dangerous, on the overhanging
ledge.
Bessie rose from her place and walked towards Julian, stepping
cautiously among the crags. Urith took no notice of her departure.
On reaching Julian Crymes, Bessie caught her by the arm and drew
her back among the rocks, out of sight and hearing of Urith.
"For heaven's sake," she entreated, "do not let her see you! Do you
see what has fallen on her? She is not herself."
"Well," retorted Julian, "what of that? She and I staked for the same
prize, and she has lost."
"And you not won."
"I have won somewhat. He is no longer hers, if he be not mine."
"He is not, he never was, he never will be yours," said Bessie,
vehemently. "Oh, Julian! how can you be so cruel, so wicked! Have
you no pity? She is deranged. She thinks she has killed Anthony—
dead; but you have seen—she cannot speak and think of anything
now but of her sorrow and loss."
"We played together—it was a fair game. She wrested from me him
who was mine by right, and she must take the consequences of her
acts—we must all do that. I—yes—Bess, I am ready. I will take the
consequences of what I have done. Let me pass, Bess, I will speak
to her."
"I pray you!" Bess extended her arms.
"No—let me pass. She and I are accustomed to look each other in
the face. I will see how she is. I will! Stand aside."
She had a long staff in her hand, and with it she brushed Bess away,
and strode past her, between her and the precipice, with steady eye
and firm step, and clambered to where was Urith.
She stood beside her for a minute, studying her, watching her, as
she played with her hair, passing her fingers through it, and drawing
it forth into the wind to turn and curl, and waft about.
Then, her patience exhausted, Julian put forth the end of her staff,
touched Urith, and called her by name.
Urith looked round at her, but neither spake nor stirred. No flush of
anger or surprise appeared in her cheek, no lightning glare in her
eye.
"Urith," said Julian, "how stands the game?"
"He is dead," answered Urith, "I killed him."
Julian was startled, and slightly turned colour.
"It is not true," she said hastily, recovering herself, "he has gone off
to serve with the Duke of Monmouth."
"I killed him," answered Urith composedly. "I would never, never let
you have him, draw him from me. I am not sorry. I am glad. I killed
him."
"What!" with a sudden exultation, "you know he would have been
drawn by me away! I conquered."
"You did not get him away," said Urith, "you could not—for I killed
him."
Julian put out her staff again, and touched Urith.
"Listen to me!" she said, and there was triumph in her tone. "He
never loved you. No never. Me he loved; me he always had loved.
But his father tried to force him, he quarrelled with him, and out of
waywardness, to defy his father to show his independence, he
married you; but he never, never loved you."
"That is false," answered Urith, and she slowly rose on the platform
to her feet. "That is false. He did love me. Here on this stone he held
me to his heart, here he held me aloft and made me promise to be
his very own."
"It was naught!" exclaimed Julian. "A passing fancy. Come—I know
not whether he be alive or dead. Some say one thing and some
another, but this I do know, that if he be alive, the world will be too
narrow for you and me together in it, and if he be dead—it is
indifferent to both whether we live, for to you and me alike is
Anthony the sun that rules us, in whose light we have our joy.
Come! Let us have another hitch, as the wrestlers say, and see
which gives the other the turn."
Urith, in her half-dreamy condition, in rising to her feet, had taken
hold of the end of Julian's staff, and now stood looking down the
abyss to the tossing, thundering water, still holding the end.
"Urith!" called Julian, imperiously and impatiently, "dost hear what I
say? Let us have one more, and a final hitch. Thou holding the staff
at one end, I at the other. See, we stand equal, on the same shelf,
and each with a heel at the edge of the rock. One step back, and
thou or I must go over and be broken on the stones, far below. Dost
mark me?"
"I hear what you say," answered Urith.
"I will thrust, and do thou! and see which can drive the other to
death. In faith! we have thrust and girded at each other long, and
driven each other to desperation. Now let us finish the weary game
with a final turn[6] and a fair back."[6]
Urith remained, holding the end of the staff, looking at Julian
steadily, without passion. Her face was pale; the wild hair was
tossing about it.
"Art ready!" called Julian. "When I say three, then the thrust begins,
and one or other of us is driven out of one world into the other."
Urith let fall the end of the staff; "I have no more quarrel with you,"
she said, "Anthony is dead. I killed him."
Julian stamped angrily. "This is the second time thou hast refused
my challenge; though thou didst refuse my glove, thou didst take it
up. So now thou refusest, yet may be will still play. As thou wilt: at
thine own time—but one or other."
She pointed down the chasm with her staff, and turned away.
 FOOTNOTE:
[6] Terms in wrestling. A "turn" is a fall; a "fair back" is one where
the three points are touched—head, shoulders, and back.
 CHAPTER LII.
THE SAW-PIT.

At Hall, that same morning had broken on Squire Cleverdon in his

office or sitting-room—it might bear either name—leaning back in his
leather armchair, with his hands clasped on his breast, his face an
ashen grey, and his hair several degrees whiter than on the
preceding day.
When the maid came in at an early hour to clean and tidy the
apartment, she started, and uttered a cry of alarm, when she saw
the old man in his seat. She thought he was dead. But at her
appearance he stood up, and with tottering steps left the room and
went upstairs. He had not been to bed all night.
Breakfast was made ready, and he was called; but he did not come.
That night had been one of vain thinking and torturing of his mind to
find a mode of escape from his troubles. He had reckoned on
assistance from Fox or his father, and this had failed him. Fox, may
be, for all his brag, could not help him. The Justice might, were he
at home; but he had gone off to join the Duke of Monmouth, and, if
he did return, it might be too late, and it was probable enough that
he never would reappear. If anything happened to Mr. Crymes, then
Fox would step into his place as trustee for Julian till Julian married;
but could he raise money on her property to assist him and save his
property? Anyhow it was not possible for matters to be so settled
that he could do this within a fortnight.
The only chance that old Cleverdon saw was to borrow money for a
short term till something was settled at Kilworthy—till the Rebellion
was either successful or was extinguished—and he could appeal to
Fox or his father to secure Hall.
But to have, ultimately, to come to Fox for deliverance, to have his
own fate and that of his beloved Hall in the hands of this son-in-law,
who had insulted, humiliated him, publicly and brutally, the
preceding night, was to drink the cup of degradation to its bitter and
final dregs.
It was about ten o'clock when the old Squire, now bent and broken,
with every line in his face deepened to a furrow, reappeared, ready
to go abroad. He had resolved to visit his attorney-at-law in
Tavistock, and see if, through him, the requisite sum could be raised
as a short loan.
The house was in confusion. None of the workmen were gone to
their duties; the serving-maids and men talked or whispered in
corners, and went about on tip-toe as though there were a corpse in
the house.
His man told the Squire that Fox was gone, and had left a message,
which the fellow would not deliver, so grossly insolent was it; the
substance was that he would not return to the house. The Squire
nodded and asked for his horse.
After some delay it was brought to the door; the groom was not to
be found, and one of the maids had gone to the stable for the beast,
and had saddled and bridled it.
The old man mounted and rode away. Then he heard a call behind
him, but did not turn his head; another call, but he disregarded it,
and rode further, urging on his horse to a quicker rate.
Next moment the brute stumbled, and nearly went down on its
nose; the Squire whipped angrily, and the horse went on faster, then
began to lag, and suddenly tripped once more and fell. Old
Cleverdon was thrown on the turf and was uninjured. He got up and
went to the beast, and then saw why it had twice stumbled. The
serving girl, in bridling it, had forgotten to remove the halter, the
rope of which hung down to the ground, so that, as the animal
trotted, the end got under the hoofs. That was what the call had
signified. Some one of the serving-men had noticed the bridle over
the halter as the old Squire rode away, and had shouted after him to
that effect.
Mr. Cleverdon removed the bridle, then took off the halter, and
replaced the bridle. What was to be done with the halter? He tried to
thrust it into one of his pockets, but they were too small. He looked
round; he was near a saw-pit a bow-shot from the road. He
remembered that he had ordered a couple of sawyers to be there
that day to cut up into planks an oak-tree; he hitched up his horse
and went towards the saw-pit, calling, but no one replied. The men
had not come; they had heard of what had taken place at Hall, and
had absented themselves, not expecting under the circumstances to
be paid for their labour.
The old man wrapped the halter round his waist, and knotted it,
then drew his cloak about him to conceal it, remounted, and rode
on. Had the sawyers been at the pit he would have sent back the
halter by one of them to the stable. As none was there, he was
forced to take it about with him.
Five hours later he returned the same way. His eyes were glassy,
and cold sweat beaded his brow. His breath came as a rattle from
his lungs. All was over. He could obtain assistance nowhere. The
times were dangerous, because unsettled, and no one would risk
money till the public confidence was restored. His attorney had
passed him on to the agent for the Earl of Bedford, and the agent
had shaken his head, and suggested that the miller at the Abbey Mill
was considered a well-to-do man, and might be inclined to lend
money.
The miller refused, and spoke of a Jew in Bannawell, who was said
to lend money at high rates of interest. The Jew, however, would not
think of the loan, till the Rebellion was at an end.
All was over. The Squire—the Squire!—he would be that no more—
must leave the land and home of his fathers, his pride broken, his
ambition frustrated, the object for which he had lived and schemed
lost to him. There are in the world folk who are, in themselves,
nothing, and who have nothing, and who nevertheless give
themselves airs, and cannot be shaken out of their self-satisfaction.
Mr. Cleverdon was not one of these, he had not their faculty of
imagination. The basis of all his greatness was Hall; that was being
plucked from under his feet; and he staggered to his fall. Once on
the ground, he would be proper, lie there, an object of mockery to
those who had hitherto envied him. Once there, he would never
raise his head again. He who had stood so high, who had been so
imperious in his pride of place, would be under the feet of all those
over whom hitherto he had ridden roughshod.
This thought gnawed and bored in him, with ever fresh anguish,
producing ever fresh aspects of humiliation. This was the black spot
on which his eyes were fixed, which overspread and darkened the
whole prospect. The brutality with which he had been treated by Fox
was but a sample and foretaste of the brutality with which he would
be treated by all such as hitherto he had held under, shown
harshness and inconsideration towards. He had been selfish in his
prosperity, he was selfish in his adversity. He did not think of
Anthony. He gave not a thought to Bessie. His own disappointment,
his own humiliation, was all that concerned him. He had valued the
love of his children not a rush, and now that his material possessions
slipped from his grasp, nothing was left him to which to cling.
He had ridden as far as the point where his horse had fallen, on his
way back to Hall, when the rope twined about his waist loosened
and fell down. The old man stooped towards his stirrup, picked it up,
and cast it over his shoulder. The act startled his horse, and it
bounded; with the leap the rope was again dislodged, and fell once
more. He sought, still riding, to arrange the cord as it had been
before about his waist, but found this impracticable.
He was forced to dismount, and then he hitched his horse to a tree,
and proceeded to take the halter from his body, that he might fold
and knot it together.
Whilst thus engaged, a thought entered his head that made him
stand, with glazed eye, looking at the coil, motionless.
To what was he returning? To a home that was no more a home—to
a few miserable days of saying farewell to scenes familiar to him
from infancy; then to being cast forth on the world in his old age, he
knew not whither to go, where to settle. To a new life of which he
cared nothing, without interests, without ambitions—wholly
purposeless. He would go forth alone; Bessie would not accompany
him, for he had thrown her away on the most despicable of men,
and to him she was bound—him she must follow. Anthony—he knew
not whether he were alive or dead. If alive, he could not go to him
whom he had driven from Hall, and to Willsworthy, of all places
under the sun, he would not go. Luke he could not ask to receive
him, who was but a curate, and whom he had refused to speak to
since he had been the means of uniting his son to the daughter of
his deadly rival and enemy. What sort of life could he live with no
one to care for him—with nothing to occupy his mind and energies?
How could he appear in church, at market, now that it was known
that he was a ruined man? Would not every one point at him, and
sneer and laugh at his misfortunes? He had not made a friend,
except Mr. Crymes; and not having a friend, he had no one to
sympathise with, to pity him.
Then he thought of his sister Magdalen. Her little annuity he would
have to pay out of his reduced income; he might live with her—with
her whom he had treated so unceremoniously, so rudely—over
whom he had held his chin so high, and tossed it so contemptuously.
What would Fox do? Would he not take every occasion to insult him,
to make his life intolerable to him, use him as his butt for gibes,
anger him to madness—the madness of baffled hate that cannot
revenge a wrong?
Anything were better than this.
The old man walked towards the saw-pit. The tree was there, lying
on the frame ready to be sawn into planks, and already it was in
part cut through. The men had been there, begun their task; then
had gone off, probably to the house to drink his cider and discuss his
ruin.
Below his feet the pit gaped, some ten or eleven feet, with oak
sawdust at the bottom, dry and fragrant. Round the edges of the pit
the hart's-tongue fern and the pennywort had lodged between the
stones and luxuriated, the latter throwing up at this time its white
spires of flower.
A magnificent plume of fern occupied one end of the trough. Bashes
and oak-coppice were around, and almost concealed the saw-pit
from the road.
That saw-pit seemed to the old man to be a grave, and a grave that
invited an occupant.
He knelt on the cross-piece on which the upper sawyer stands when
engaged on his work, and round it fastened firmly the end of the
rope; then fixed the halter with running knot about his own neck.
He stood up and bent his grey head, threw his hat on one side, and
looked down into the trough.
He had come to the end. Everything was gone, or going, from him—
even a sepulchre with his fathers, for, if he died by his own hand,
then he would not be buried with them, but near that saw-pit, where
a cross-way led to Black Down. It was well that so it should be; so
he would retain, at all events, six foot of the paternal inheritance.
That six foot would be his inalienably, and that would be better than
banishment to the churchyard of Peter Tavy. But he would make sure
that he carried with him something of the ancestral land. He crept
along the beam, with the rope about his neck, fastened near the
middle of the saw-pit, like a dog running to the extent of his chain,
and scrabbled up some of the soil, with which he stuffed his ears
and his mouth, and filled his hands.
Thus furnished, he stepped back, and again looked down. He did not
pray. He had no thought about his soul—about heaven. His mind
was fixed on the earth—the earth of Hall, with which he must part,
with all but what he held, and with which he had choked his mouth.
"Earth to earth!"
No words of the burial office would be said over him; but what cared
he? It would be the earth of Hall that went back to the earth of Hall
when he perished and was buried there. His flesh had been
nourished by the soil of Hall, his mind had lived on nothing else. He
could not speak as his mouth was full. How sweet, how cool tasted
that clod upon his tongue under his palate!
Though he could not speak he formed words in his mind, and he
said to himself—
"Thrice will I say 'Earth to earth!' and then leap down."
Once the words were said, and now he said them again, in his mind
—
"Earth to earth."
There was a large black spider on the oak-tree, running up and
down the chopped section, and now, all at once, it dropped, but did
not fall—it swung at the end of its silken fibre. Mr. Cleverdon
watched it. As the spider dropped, so, in another minute, would he.
Then the spider ran up its thread. The old man shook his head.
When he fell he would remain there motionless. What then would
the spider do? Would it swing and catch at him, and proceed to
construct a cobweb between him and the side of the pit? He saw
himself thus utilised as a sidestay for a great cobweb, and saw a
brown butterfly, with silver underwings, now playing about the pit-
mouth, come to the cobweb and be caught in it. He shook his head
—he must not yield to these illusions.
"Earth to——"
A hand was laid on his shoulder, an arm put about his waist; he was
drawn to the side of the pit, and the rope hastily disengaged from
his throat.
With blank, startled eyes old Squire Cleverdon looked on the face of
his preserver. It was that of Luke, his nephew.
"Uncle!—dear uncle!"
Luke took the halter, unloosed it from where it had been fastened to
the beam, knotted it up, and flung it far away among the bushes.
The old man said nothing, but stood before his nephew with
downcast eyes, slightly trembling.
Luke was silent also for some while, allowing the old man to recover
himself. Then he took his arm in his own and led him back to the
horse.
"Let me alone! Let me go!" said old Cleverdon.
"Uncle, we will go together. I was on my way to you. I had heard in
what trouble you were, and I thought it possible I might be of some
assistance to you."
"You!" the Squire shook his head. "I want over a thousand pounds at
once."
"That I have not got. Can I not help you in any other way?"
"There is no other way."
"What has happened," said Luke, "is by the will of God, and you
must accept it, and look to Him to bless your loss to you."
"Ah, you are a parson!" said the old man.
Luke did not urge him to remount his horse. He kept his arm, and
helped him along, as though he were conducting a sick man on his
walk, till he had conveyed him some distance from the saw-pit. As
the Squire's step became firmer, he said,
"A hard trial is laid on you, dear uncle, but you must bear up under
it as a man. Do not let folk think that it has broken you down. They
will respect you when they see your courage and steadfastness. Put
your trust in God, and He will give you in place of Hall something
better than that—better a thousand times, which hitherto you have
not esteemed."
"What is that?" asked the old man, loosening his arm, standing still,
and looking Luke shyly in the face.
"What is that?" repeated Luke. "Wait! Trust in God and see."
 CHAPTER LIII.
BAD TIDINGS.

On reaching Hall, the first person that came to meet them was
Bessie. She had returned, anxious about her father, and to collect
some of her clothes. On arriving, she had been told that he had not
gone to bed all night, that he looked ill and aged; that he had
ordered his horse and had ridden away without telling any one
whither he was going, and that some hours had elapsed without his
re-appearing. Bess was filled with uneasiness, and was about to
send out the servants to inquire as to the direction he had taken,
and by whom he had been last seen, when the old man returned on
foot, leaning on Luke, who led the horse by the bridle.
"Has any accident happened?" she asked, with changing colour. The
old man gave a shy glance at her, then let his eyes fall to the
ground. He said nothing, and went into the house to his room.
Bess's uneasiness was not diminished. Luke spared her the trouble
of asking questions. He told her that he had met her father on the
way, and that they had come to an understanding, so that the
estrangement that had existed between them since Anthony's
marriage was at an end.
Bessie's colour mounted to her temples, she was glad to hear this;
and Luke saw her pleasure in her eyes. He took her hand.
Then she lowered her eyes and said:—"Oh, Luke! what am I to do?
Can I withdraw the promise made yesterday? I cannot fulfil it. I did
not know it then. Now it is impossible. I can never love Fox—never
respect him. He has behaved to my father in a manner that even if
forgiven is not to be forgotten. And, indeed, I must tell you. He said
he had struck Anthony and half killed him. I do not know what to
think. Urith——"
"I know what Urith says. I was present. I saw the blow dealt. Fox
did that—Urith bade him do it."
Bessie's breath caught. Luke hastened to reassure her.
"Anthony was not seriously hurt. Something he wore—a token on his
breast—turned the point of the knife; but I am to blame, I am
greatly to blame, I should have come and seen your father before
your marriage and told him what I knew, then you would not have
been drawn into this——"
"Oh, Luke!" interrupted Bessie, "I do not think anything you said
would have altered his determination. He was resolved, and when
resolved, nothing will turn him from his purpose. As we were
married at Tavistock and not in your church, you were not spoken to
about it."
"No—but I ought to have seen your father. I shall ever reproach
myself with my neglect, or rather my cowardice, and now I have
news, and that sad, to tell you. It is vague, and yet, I believe,
trustworthy. Gloine, who went from my parish to join the Duke of
Monmouth, has come back. He rode the whole way on a horse that
belonged to some gentleman who had been shot. There has been a
battle somewhere in Somersetshire. Gloine could not tell me the
exact spot, but it does not matter. The battle has been disastrous—
our side—I mean the side to which nearly all England wished well,
has been routed. There was mismanagement, quarrelling between
the leaders: bad generalship, I have no doubt; it was but a
beginning of a fight; and then a general rout. Our men—I mean the
Duke's—were dispersed, surrendered in batches, were cut and shot
down, and those who fled were pursued in all directions, and slain
without mercy. What has happened to the Duke I do not know,
Gloine could not tell me. But Mr. Crymes is dead. He passed the
coach and saw the soldiers plundering it, and the poor old
gentleman had been shot and dragged out of it, and thrown on the
grass."
"But Anthony!"
"Of him, Gloine could not tell me much. He was greatly in favour
with the Duke and with Lord Grey. There was a considerable
contingent of men from Tavistock and the villages round, who had
been collected by the activity of Mr. Crymes and one or two others,
whose names we will now strive to keep in the background; and, as
Mr. Crymes himself was incapacitated by age and infirmity from
officering this band of recruits, Anthony was appointed captain, and
I am proud to say that our little battalion showed more
determination, made a better fight, and was less ready to throw
away arms and run, than was any other. That is what Gloine says."
"And he can say nothing of Anthony?"
"Nothing, Gloine says that when the rout was complete, he caught a
horse that was running by masterless, and mounting, rode into
Devon, and home as hard as he could, but of Anthony he saw
nothing. Whether he fell, or whether he is alive, we shall not know
till others come in; but, Bess, we must not disguise from ourselves
the fact that, supposing he has escaped with his life, he will stand in
extreme danger. He has been one of the few gentlemen who has
openly joined the movement, he has commanded a little company
drawn from his own neighbourhood, and has given the enemy more
trouble than some others. A price will be set on his head, and if he
be caught, he will be executed—almost certainly. He may return here
if alive, he probably will do so; but he must be sent abroad or kept
in hiding till pursuit is over."
"O, poor Anthony!" said Bessie. "Will you tell my father?"
"Not at present. He has his own troubles now. Besides, we know
nothing for certain. I will not speak till further and fuller news
reaches me. But, Bess, you must be with him—he is not in a state to
be left alone. Now, may be, in his broken condition, he may feel your
regard in a manner he has not heretofore."
"Heigh, there. Have you heard?"
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