ABOUT BRIGHTLY
Up the road from Brentor to St. Mary Tavy came Brightly, his basket
dragging on his arm. He was very tired, but there was nothing unusual in
that. He was tired to the point of exhaustion every day. He was very
hungry, but he was used to that too. He was thinking of bread and cheese
and cider; new bread and soft cheese, and cider with a rough edge to it.
He licked his lips, and tried to believe he was tasting them. Then he
began to cough. It was a long, heaving cough, something like that of a
Dartmoor pony. He had to put his basket down and lean over it, and tap
at his thin chest with a long raw hand.
Nobody wanted Brightly, because he was not of the least importance. He
hadn't got a home, or a vote, or any of those things which make the
world desire the presence of people. He was only a nuisance, who worried
desirable folk that he might exist, though the people whom he worried
did not ask him to live. Brightly was a purveyor of rabbit-skins. He
dealt in rubbish, possibly because he was rubbish himself. He tramped
about Dartmoor, between Okehampton and Tavistock, collecting
rabbit-skins. When he was given them for nothing he was grateful, but
his stock of gratitude was not drawn upon to any large extent. It is not
the way of Dartmoor folk to part with even rubbish for nothing. To
obtain his rabbit-skins Brightly had to dip his raw hand beneath the
scrap of oilcloth which covered his basket, and produce a horrible
little red and yellow vase which any decent-minded person would have
destroyed at sight. Brightly bore most things fairly well, but when, on
one occasion while climbing over the rocks, he had dropped the basket
and all the red and yellow vases were smashed to atoms, he had cried. He
had been tired and hungry as usual, and knew he had lost the capital
without which a man cannot do business. The dropping of that basket
meant bankruptcy to Brightly.
The dealer in rabbit-skins was not alone in the world. He had a dog,
which was rubbish like its master. The animal was of no recognised
breed, although in a dim light it called itself a fox-terrier. She could
not have been an intelligent dog, or she would not have remained
constant to Brightly. Her name was Ju, which was an abbreviation of
Jerusalem. One Sunday evening Brightly had slipped inside a church, and
somewhat to his surprise had been allowed to remain, although a sidesman
was told off to keep an eye upon him and see that he did not break open
the empty poor-box. A hymn was sung about Jerusalem the golden, a piece
of pagan doggerel concerning the future state, where happy souls were
indulging in bacchanalian revels, and over-eating themselves in a sort of
glorified dairy filled with milk and honey. The hymn enraptured
Brightly, who was, of course, tired and famished; and when he had left
the warm church, although without any of the promised milk and honey, he
kept on murmuring the lines and trying to recall the music. He could
think of nothing but Jerusalem for some days. He went into the public
library at Tavistock and looked it up in a map of the world, discovered
it was in a country called Palestine, and wondered how many rabbit-skins
it would cost to take him there. Brightly reckoned in rabbit-skins, not
in shillings and pence, which were matters he was not very familiar
with. He noticed that whenever he mentioned the name of Jerusalem the
dog wagged her tail, as though she too was interested in the dairy
produce; so, as the animal lacked a title, Jerusalem was awarded her.
Brightly thought of the milk and honey whenever he called his poor
half-starved cur.
Presently he thought he had coughed long enough, so he picked up his
basket and went on climbing the road, his body bent as usual towards the
right. At a distance he looked like the half of a circle. He could not
stand straight. The weight of his basket and habit had crooked him like
an oak branch. He tramped on towards the barren village of St. Mary
Tavy. There was a certain amount of wild scenery to be admired. Away to
the right was Brentor and the church upon its crags. To the left were
piled the "deads" of the abandoned copper-mines. The name of Wheal
Friendship might have had a cheerful sound for Brightly had he known
what friendship meant. He didn't look at the scenery, because he was
half blind. He could see his way about, but that was all. He lived in
the twilight. He wore a big pair of unsightly spectacles with
tortoise-shell rims. His big eyes were always staring widely behind the
glasses, seeing all they could, which was the little bit of road in
front and no more.
Brightly was known about that particular part of the moor which he
frequented as the Seal. Every one laughed whenever the Seal was
mentioned. Brightly's wardrobe consisted chiefly of an old and very
tightly-fitting suit of black, distinctly clerical in cut. They had been
obtained from a Wesleyan shepherd in exchange for a pair of red and
yellow vases to embellish the mantel of the nonconforming parlour. Rain
is not unknown upon Dartmoor, and in the neighbourhood of St. Mary Tavy
it descends with pitiless violence. Brightly would be quickly saturated,
having no means of protecting himself; and then the tight clerical
garments, sodden and sleek and shining, would certainly bear some
resemblance to the coat of a seal which had just left the sea; a
resemblance which was not lessened by his wizened little face and weary
shuffling gait.
Brightly did not think much while he tramped the moor. He had no right
to think. It was not in the way of business. Still, he had his dream,
not more than one, because he was not troubled with an active
imagination. He tried to fancy himself going about, not on his tired
rheumatic legs, but in a little ramshackle cart, with fern at the bottom
for Ju to lie on, and a bit of board at the side bearing in white
letters the inscription: "A. Brightly. Purveyor of rabbit-skins"; and a
lamp to be lighted after dark, and a plank for himself to sit on, and a
box behind containing the red and yellow vases. All this splendour to be
drawn by a little shaggy pony. What a great man he would be in those
days! Starting forth in the morning would be a pleasure and not a pain.
Frequently Brightly babbled of his hypothetical cart. He felt sure it
must come some day, and so he had begun to prepare for it. He had
secured the plank upon which he was to sit and guide the pony, and every
autumn he cut some fern to put at the bottom of the cart should it
arrive suddenly. The plank he had picked up, and the fern had been cut
upon the moor. He had clearly no right to them. The plank had probably
slipped out of a granite cart, and the fern belonged to the commoners.
There was plenty of it for every one, but, as the commoners would have
argued, that was not the point. They had a right to cut the fern, and
people like Brightly have no right to anything, except a cheap funeral.
Brightly had no business to wander about the moor, which was never made
for him, or to kick his boots to pieces against good Duchy of Cornwall
granite. All the commoners cheated the Duchy of Cornwall, while they
loyally cheered the name of the Duke. They took his granite and
skilfully evaded payment of the royalty, and prayed each Sunday in their
chapels for grace to continue in honesty; but the fact of their being
commoners, some of them having the privilege of the newtake, and others
not having the privilege but taking it all the same, made all the
difference. They had to assert themselves. When it came to a question of
a few extra shillings in the money-box, or even of a few extra pence,
minor matters, such as petty tyrannical ordinances of law and Church,
could take their seats in a back corner and "bide there." Brightly had
no privileges. He had to obey every one. He was only a worm which any
one was at perfect liberty to slice in half with a spade.
Brightly had a home. The river saw to that; not the Tavy, but the less
romantic Taw. Brightly belonged to the Torridge and Taw branch of the
family. On the Western side of Cawsand are many gorges in the great
cleave cut by the Taw between Belstone and Sticklepath. There narrow and
deep clefts have been made by the persistent water draining down to the
Taw from the bogs above. In the largest of these clefts Brightly was at
home. The sides were completely hidden by willow-scrub, immense ferns,
and clumps of whortleberries, as well as by overhanging masses of
granite. The water could be heard dripping below like a chime of fairy
bells. In winter the cleft appeared a white cascade of falling water,
but Brightly's cave was fairly dry and quite sheltered. He was never
there by day, and at night nobody could see the smoke of his fire. He
had built up the entrance with shaped stones taken from the
long-abandoned cots beside the old copper-mines below. The cleft was
full of copper, which stained the water a delightful shade of green.
Brightly had furnished his home with those things which others had
thrown away. He had long ago solved the difficulty of cooking with a
perforated frying-pan, and of turning to practical uses a kettle with a
bottom like a sieve.
Brightly reached the moor gate. On the other side was the long
straggling village of St. Mary Tavy. Beside the gate was a heap of
refuse. Brightly seated himself upon it, because he thought it was the
proper place for him.
"I be cruel hungry, Ju," explained Brightly.
"So be I," said the dog's tail.
"Fair worn to bits tu," went on Brightly.
"Same here," said the tail.
"Wait till us has the cart," said Brightly cheerily, placing the
rabbit-skins upon the dirt beside him. "Us won't be worn to bits then.
Us will du dree times the business, and have a cottage and potato-patch,
and us will have bread and cheese two times a day and barrel o' cider in
the linny. Us will have fat bacon on Sundays tu."
Brightly did not know that ambition is an evil thing. It was ridiculous
for him to aspire to a cottage and potato-patch, and bread and cheese
three times a day. Kindly souls had created stately mansions for such as
he. There was one at Tavistock and another in Okehampton; beautiful
buildings equipped with all modern conveniences where he could live in
comfort, and not worry his head about rabbit-skins, or about Ju, or
about such follies as liberty and independence, or about such
unnecessary aids to existence as the moorland wind, his river Taw, the
golden blossoms of the gorse, the moonlight upon the rocks, and the
sweet scent of heather. Brightly was an unreasonable creature to work
and starve when a large stone mansion was waiting for him.
"Us ha' come a cruel long way, Ju," said the little man, descending from
his dream. "Only two rabbit-skins. Business be cruel bad. Us mun get on.
This be an awkward village to work. It be all scattery about like."
Brightly rose with some alacrity. The moor gate rattled. The hand of the
village constable was upon it, and the eyes of that official, who was to
Brightly, at least, a far more considerable person than the Lord Chief
Justice, were regarding the vagabond with a suspicion which was
perfectly natural considering their respective positions.
"Good-evening, sir," said Brightly with deep humility. The policeman was
not called upon to answer such things as Brightly. He condescended,
however, to observe in the severe tones which his uniform demanded:
"Best be moving on, hadn't ye?"
Brightly agreed that it was advisable. He was well aware he had no right
to be sitting upon the heap of refuse. He had probably damaged it In
some way. The policeman had his bicycle with him, as he was on his way
to Lydford. Brightly stood in a reverential attitude, held the gate
open, and touched his cap as the great man rolled by. The constable
accepted the service, without thanks, and looked back until the little
wanderer was out of sight. Such creatures could be turned to profitable
uses after all. They could be made to supply industrious village
constables with opportunities for promotion. They could be arrested and
charged with house-breaking, rick-burning, or swaling out of season; if
such charges could not be supported, they could be summoned for keeping
a dog without a licence. The policeman made a note of Brightly, as
business was not very flourishing just then. There was the usual amount
of illegality being practised by the commoners; but the village
constable had nothing to do with that. Commoners are influential folk. A
man could not meddle with them and retain his popularity. The policeman
had to be polite to his social superiors, and salute the elders of
Ebenezer with a bowed head, and wink violently when it was incumbent
upon him so to do.
Dartmoor has no reason to be proud of St. Mary Tavy, as it is quite the
dreariest-looking village upon the moor. Even the river seems to be
rather ashamed of it, and turns away as if from a poor relation. St.
Peter, over the way, is much more cheerful. They were well-to-do once,
these two. They were not only saints, but wealthy, in the good days when
the wheals were working and the green stain of copper was upon
everything. Now they have come down in the world. The old gentleman lets
lodgings, and the old lady takes in washing. They have put away their
halos, dropped their saintly prefix, and it is exceedingly improbable
that they will ever want them again. They always found it hard work to
live up to their reputations; not that they tried very much; but now
they are both easy and comfortable as plain everyday folk, neither
better nor worse than their neighbours Brentor and Lydford. Peter is a
fine, rugged old gentleman; but Mary is decidedly plain with age. There
is nothing tender or pleasant about her. She is shamelessly naked;
without trees or bushes, and the wheal-scarred moor around is as bald as
an apple. The wind comes across her head with the blast of ten thousand
bagpipes; and when it rains upon St. Mary--it rains!
Brightly knew all about that rain. He had often played the Seal upon
that wild road, and had felt the water trickling down his back and
making reservoirs of his boots; while people would stand at their
windows and laugh at him. Nobody had ever asked him to come in and take
shelter. Such an idea would never have occurred to them. Ponies and
bullocks were out upon the moor in all weathers, and every winter some
died from exposure. Brightly was nothing like so valuable as a pony or
bullock, and if he were to die of exposure nobody would be out of
pocket.
Brightly went from cottage to cottage, but there were no rabbit-skins
that day. There seemed to be a rabbit famine just then. Lamps were
lighted in windows here and there. When the doors were opened Brightly
felt the warmth of the room, smelt the glowing peat and the fragrant
teapot, and sometimes saw preparations for a meal. What a wonderful
thing it must be, he thought, to have a room of one's own; a hearth, and
a mantelpiece holding china dogs, cows with purple spots, and
photographs of relations in the Army; a table covered with rare and
precious things, such as waxen fruit beneath a dome of glass, woollen
mats, and shells from foreign lands; a clock in full working order; a
dresser stocked with red and green crockery; and upon the walls
priceless oleographs framed in blue ribbon, designed and printed in
Austria, and depicting their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of
Cornwall, simpering approvingly at a scarlet Abraham in the act of
despatching a yellow Isaac with a bright-blue scimitar. Brightly sighed
as each door was closed upon him, and each smoky little paradise
disappeared. He was having a run of bad luck. Ju knew all about it. She
put what was left of her tail between her legs and shivered. No doubt
she wished she had been born into the world a genuine dog, and not a
mongrel; just as Brightly sometimes wished he had been born a real human
being, and not a poor thing which dealt in rabbit-skins.
He reached the top of the village. The road heaved above him, and then
came the bare upland. He could do no more that evening. There was no
food, or fire, or shelter for him. He knew of a barn in which he could
sleep at Brentor, but it was too late to go back there. Darkness was
coming on. Brightly did not require to feel in his pocket to discover
the state of his finances. He knew he had just twopence.
There was a gate beside him, and on the other side a row of very small
whitewashed cottages one room high, which had been built for miners in
the days when Mary Tavy had been a saint and prosperous; they were then
occupied by assorted families. Brightly stumbled through and knocked at
the door of the first. It was opened by a young woman nursing a baby;
another was hanging to her skirts; a third sprawled under the table;
there was a baby in a cradle, another wrapped upon a chair. It appeared
to be a congress of babies. The place was crawling with them. It was a
regular baby-warren. They had been turned out wholesale. Even Brightly
felt he had come to the wrong place, as he asked the extraordinarily
fertile female if she would give him a cup of tea and piece of bread for
one penny.
The answer was in the negative. The woman was inclined to be hysterical,
which was not surprising considering her surroundings. She was alone in
the house, if she could be called alone when it was hardly possible to
step across the floor for babies which were lying about like bees under
a lime-tree. Brightly was known as a vagabond. He looked quite the sort
of man who would murder her and all the children. She told him to go
away, and when he did not move, because he had not heard, she began to
scream.
"I'll send for policeman if ye don't go. You'm a bad man. Us knows ye.
Coming here to scare me, just as I be going to have a baby tu. 'Twill be
cross-eyed, poor dear, wi' yew overlooking me. Get along wi' yew, or
I'll call neighbours."
Brightly begged her pardon in his soft voice and went. He knew it was no
use trying the other cottages. The woman with the army of children would
only follow from door to door, and describe how he had insulted her. He
made his way to the top of the village and sat upon the hedge. Ju
crouched beside him and licked his boots. It was a fine evening, only
they were too hungry to appreciate it properly.
"Us mun get food, or us wun't tramp far in the morning," said Brightly.
"This wind du seem to mak' a stomach feel cruel empty."
"Makes a dog's stomach empty too, father," said the eloquent tail of Ju.
"Us will go to the shop, and get what us can for a penny. Mun keep one
penny for to-morrow," said Brightly.
He turned his dim eyes towards the road. A horse was trotting up the
long hill, and presently he saw it; a big ugly grey with a shaggy coat.
Brightly knew who it was approaching him, and had there been time he
would have hidden, because he was afraid of the man who rode. "It be
Varmer Pendoggat," he whispered. "Don't ye growl, Ju."
Possibly the rider would have passed without a word, but the grey horse
saw the creatures upon the hedge and shied, crushing the rider's leg
against one of the posts opposite. This was unfortunate for Brightly, as
it was clearly his fault. Quaint objects with big spectacles and
rabbit-skins have no business to sit upon a hedge in the twilight. He
had frightened the horse, just as he had frightened the woman with a
family. The horse had hurt his master, and Pendoggat was not the sort of
man to suffer patiently.
There is a certain language which must not be described. It may be heard
to perfection in the cheap enclosures at race-meetings, in certain
places licensed to sell beer, at rabbit-shoots, and in other places
where men of narrow foreheads come together and seem to revert to a type
of being which puzzles the scientist, because there is nothing else in
the entire animal world quite like it. Pendoggat made use of that
language. He had a low forehead, a scowling face, small eyes, which
looked anywhere except at the object addressed, bushy black moustache,
and high cheek-bones. He never laughed, but when he was angry he
grinned, and spittle ran down his chin. He was a strong man; it was said
he could pick up a sack of flour with one hand. He could have taken
Brightly and broken him up like a rotten stick. Most people were
respectful to Pendoggat. The village constable would have retired on a
pension rather than offend him.
"I be sorry, sir. I be cruel sorry," muttered poor shivering Brightly.
"I did bide still, sir, and I told the dog to bide still tu. I hopes you
hain't hurt, sir. Don't ye be hard on I, sir. Us have had a bad day, and
us be hungry, sir."
Pendoggat replied with more of the same language. He tried to destroy Ju
with his thick ground-ash, but the wise cur escaped. Then he sidled the
horse towards the hedge, and crushed Brightly against its stones. He saw
nothing pathetic in the poor thin creature's quivering face and
half-blind eyes; but he obtained some enjoyment out of the piping cry
for mercy. Brightly thought he was going to be killed, and though he
didn't mind that much, he did not want to be tortured.
"Don't ye, sir. Don't ye hurt I," he cried. "I didn't mean it, sir. I
was biding quiet. You'm hurting I cruel, sir. I'll give ye two vases,
sir, purty vases, if yew lets I go."
Pendoggat struck his horse, and the animal started back. Brightly
reached his raw hand up the hedge and lifted his basket tenderly. It was
like losing flesh and blood to part with his vases, but freedom from
persecution was worth any ransom. He removed the oil-cloth. What was
left of the light softened the hideous ware and made the crude colouring
endurable.
"Tak' two, sir," said Brightly piteously. "Them's the best, sir."
"Give me up the basket," Pendoggat muttered.
The shivering little man lifted it. Pendoggat snatched at the handle,
pulled out a vase, and flung it against the stone hedge. There was a
sharp sound, and then the road became spotted with red and yellow
fragments.
This was something which Brightly could hardly understand. It was too
raw and crude. He stood in the road, with his hands swaying like two
pendulums against his thin legs, and wondered why the world had been
made and what was the object of it all. There was another crash, and a
second shower of red and yellow fragments. Pendoggat had selected his
pair of vases, and he was also enjoying himself. He looked up and down,
saw there was no one in sight; Dartmoor is a wild and lawless place, and
nobody could dictate to him. He was a commoner; master of the rivers and
the granite. Brightly said nothing. He lifted a red hand for his basket,
which contained what was left of his capital, but Pendoggat only struck
the clumsy fingers with his ground-ash. It was darker, but a wild gleam
was showing over what had been Gubbings Land. The moon was coming up
that way.
"I'll learn ye to scare my horse," growled Pendoggat. "I saw you shake
your hand at him. I heard you setting on the dog. If I was to give you
what you deserve, I'd--" He lifted his arm, and there was another crash,
and more flesh and blood were wasted.
"Don't ye, sir," cried Brightly bitterly. "It be ruin, sir. I tored they
once avore, and 'twas nigh a month 'vore I could start again. I works
hard, sir, and I du try, but I've got this asthma, sir, and rheumatism,
and I can't properly see, master. I've been in hospital to Plymouth,
sir, but they ses I would never properly see. 'Tis hard to start again,
master, and I ain't got friends. Don't ye tear any more, master. I'll
never get right again."
Pendoggat went on smashing the vases. There were not many of them, not
nearly enough to satisfy him. The last was shattered, and he flung the
basket at Brightly, hitting him on the head, but fortunately not
breaking his spectacles. Brightly wanted to be alone; to crawl into the
bracken with Ju, and think about many things; only Pendoggat would not
let him go.
"Hand up those rabbit-skins," he shouted. He was growing excited.
Smashing the vases had put passion into him.
"I've tramped ten miles for they, master. Sourton to Lydford, and
Lydford to Brentor, and Brentor to Mary Tavy. Times be very bad, sir.
Ten miles for two rabbit-skins, master."
"Hand them up, or I'll break your head."
Brightly had to obey. Pendoggat flung the skins across the saddle and
grinned. He passed his sleeve across his lips, then put out his arm,
seized Brightly by the scarf round his neck, and dragged him near. "If I
was to give ye one or two across the head, 'twould learn ye not to scare
horses," he said.
Brightly shivered a little more, and lifted his wizened face.
"Got any money? Tell me the truth, or I'll pull the rags off ye."
"Duppence, master. 'Tis all I has now you'm torn the cloam and got my
rabbit-skins. If it warn't for the duppence I don't know what me and Ju
would du."
"Hand it over," said Pendoggat.
"I can't, master. I can't," whispered Brightly, gulping like a dying
fish.
"Hand it over, or I'll strangle ye." Then in a fit of passion he dragged
Brightly right across the saddle and tore his pocket open. The two
copper coins fell into his hand. He dropped Brightly upon the red and
yellow fragments, which cut his raw hands, then hit his horse, and rode
on triumphing. He had punished the miserable little dealer in rubbish;
and he fancied Brightly would not venture to frighten his horse again.
Pendoggat rode up to the high moor and felt the wind. He was about to
strike his horse into a canter, when a spectre started out of the gloom,
a wizened face reached his knee, an agonised voice cried: "Give I back
my duppence, master. Give I back my duppence."
Pendoggat shivered. He did not enjoy the sound of that voice, or the
sight of that face. He thought of death when he saw that face. Brightly
was only one of the mean things of the earth, and mean things make a
fuss about trifles. That face and that voice all over the loss of
twopence! Probably the wretched thing was mad. Honest men are often
frightened when they see lunatics.
"Us be cruel hungry, master. Us have eaten nought all day. Us have lost
our cloam and our rabbit-skins. Give I back my duppence, master. I'll
work for ye to-morrow."
Pendoggat hit his horse, and the animal cantered away, and the spectre
troubled him no longer. He wiped his chin again and felt satisfied. He
had made a poor creature suffer. There was a certain amount of crude
pleasure in that thought. But why had that face and voice suggested
death, the death of a man who has used his power to deprive a poor
wretch of his vineyard? Pendoggat flung the rabbit-skins into the gaping
pit of a mine-shaft and cantered on. He was a free man; he was a
commoner; the rivers and the rocks were his.
Brightly stumbled back to the hedge to reclaim his empty basket. He
talked to Ju for a little, and tried to understand things, but couldn't.
He would have to start all over again. He discovered a turnip, which had
probably rolled out of a cart and was therefore any one's property, and
he filled his stomach with that. Ju raked a bone bearing a few sinews
out of a rubbish-heap. So they might have done worse.
At the top of the village was an old cow-barn. Above was a loft
containing a little dry fern. Brightly and Ju lodged there. It was quite
away from other buildings, standing well out upon the moor, therefore
nobody heard a queer piping voice, singing and feasting on the quaint
doggerel far into the night--
"Jerusalem the golden,
Wi' milk and honey blest...