ABOUT THE PASSOVER OF THE BRUTE
Mary soon forgave her brother for his failure over the electric light
business, and they became as good friends as ever, except when Peter
demanded sums of money for services which Mary could not remember he had
rendered. Peter had a trick of benefiting himself, and charging the cost
to his sister. They were settled for the winter; Peter had turfed up the
chinks in the walls, adding a solid plaster of clay; had repaired the
thatch of gorse where it had rotted, laying on big stones to prevent the
removal of any portion by the gales; and had cut the winter supply of
fern. He sent in the bill to Mary, and she had taken it to Master, and
Master had put on silver spectacles and golden wisdom and revised the
costs so thoroughly, that Peter had to complain he had not received the
price of the tobacco smoked during the work of restoration.
Mary still mourned for Old Sal, knowing she would never see "the like o'
he again," while Peter cooked his mommet and cursed Pendoggat. Peter was
a weak little creature, who could only revenge himself by deeds of
witchcraft. He was not muscular like his sister, who would have stood up
to any man on Dartmoor, and made some of them sorry for themselves
before she had done with them. Mary believed in witchcraft, because she
was to a certain extent religious; she had been baptised, for instance,
and that was an act of witchcraft pure and simple, as it was intended to
protect the child from being overlooked by the devil; but, if any man
had insulted her, she would not have made a mommet of him, or driven a
nail into his footprint; she would have taken her stick, "as big as two
spears and a dag," and whacked him well with it.
The prospect of winter encouraged Peter to turn his mind towards
literary pursuits. There were days of storm and long evenings to be
occupied; and the little savage considered he might fill those hours
with work for which his talents seemed to qualify him, and possibly
bequeath to posterity some abiding monument of his genius. Peter had a
weekly paper and studied it well. He gathered from it that people still
wrote books; apparently every one wrote thern, though only about one in
every hundred was published. Most people had the manuscripts of their
books put away in cupboards, linhays, and old teapots, waiting the
favourable moment to bring them forth and astonish the world. This was
something of a revelation to Peter. Where was his book! Why had he
remained so long a mute inglorious scholar? Possibly the commoners who
met him in daily intercourse had their books completed and stored away
safely in their barns, and he was certainly as learned as any of them.
Peter went off to Master, and opened to him the secret of his mind.
Master was entirely sympathetic. He gave it as his opinion that any one
could write a book. When the art of forming letters of the alphabet had
been acquired, nothing indeed remained, except pen, ink, and paper; and,
as he reminded Peter, Mother Cobley sold ink at one penny the bottle,
while pen and paper could be obtained from the same source for an
additional twopence. Genius could therefore startle the world at
threepence a head.
Peter was profoundly interested. He indicated the big tomes, which
Master kept always lying beside him: a copy of the _Arcadia_, a Bible
dictionary, a volume of Shakespeare, and a few books of poetry, most of
them presents from a former rector long deceased, and suggested that
Master was accountable for the lot. The old man beamed through his
spectacles, coughed uneasily, and generally assumed that attitude of
modesty which is said to be one of the most marked traits of literary
men.
"You can spell turnips," Master reminded.
"Sure 'nuff," said Peter. "I can spell harder words than he. I can spell
hyacinth, and he'm a proper little brute."
He proceeded to spell the word, making only three mistakes. Master
advised him to confine himself for the present to more simple language,
and went on to ask what was the style and subject of Peter's proposed
undertaking.
"I wants yew to tell me," was the answer.
Master had an idea that genius ought to be inspired from within and not
from without, but he merely answered: "Nothing's no trouble, varmer,"
and suggested that Peter should compose a diary. "'Tis what a man does
every day," he explained. "How he gets up, and how he goes to bed, and
how he yets his dinner, and how his belly feels."
Peter considered that the idea was brilliant. Such an item as how he
drank his beer would certainly prove entertaining, and might very well
be original.
"Then he ses things about other volk, and about the weather," Master
went on. "He puts down all he can think of, so long as it be decent.
Mun't put down anything that bain't decent 'cause that would shock
volks."
"Nothing 'bout Varmer Pendoggat and Chegwidden's maid?" the other
suggested, in rather a disappointed voice.
"Hark ye, Peter," said Master decidedly, "you had best bide quiet about
that. Volks wun't tak' your word against his, and if he purty nigh
murders ye no one wun't try to stop 'en. A man bain't guilty till he be
found out, and Varmer Pendoggat ain't been found out."
"He can't touch I. Mary wun't let 'en, and I've made a mommet of 'en
tu," said the little man.
"Made a mommet, ha' ye? Aw, man, that be an awful thing to du. It be
calling in the devil to work for ye, and the devil wun't work wi'out
pay, man. He'll come sure 'nuff, and say to yew: 'I wants your soul,
Peter. I've a bought 'en wi' that mommet what yew made.' I be main cruel
sorry for yew, Peter."
"It be done now," said Peter gloomily.
Master wagged his head until his silver spectacles dropped off his nose,
added a little wisdom, then returned to his subject.
"Yew mun write things what you wun't be ashamed to let folk read. When
'tis a wet day yew ses so, and when it be fine you ses it be butiful.
When yew gets thoughts yew puts 'em all down."
"What du'ye mean?" asked the aspirant.
"Why, you think as how it be a proper feeling when you'm good, and yew
ses so. That be a thought."
"S'pose yew bain't feeling good?" suggested Peter quite naturally.
"Then yew writes about what it feels like to be bad," explained Master.
"Yew puts it down this sort o' way: 'I feels bad to-day. I don't mean I
feels bad in my body, for that be purty middling, but I feels bad in my
soul. It be a cruel pity, and I hopes as how I wun't feel so bad
to-morrow.' All them be thoughts, Peter; and that be the way books are
written."
"Thank ye kindly, master. It be proper easy," said Peter.
"You'm welcome, varmer. Nothing's no trouble."
Peter bought the articles necessary for fame, and went home. Mary was
forking manure, pausing only to spit on her hands; but she stopped for
another reason when Peter told her he was going to keep a diary.
"What be yew talking about?" she cried, amazed at such folly. "Us ha'
got one as 'tis. What du us want wi' another?"
Peter had to explain that the business of his diary had nothing to do
with such base commerce as cream and butter, but consisted in recording
the actions of a blameless life upon a pennyworth of paper for the
instruction and edification of those who should come after them. Mary
grasped her fork, and told him he was mazed.
Peter was not sure that Mary had spoken falsely when he came to test his
'prentice hand. In theory the art of writing was so simple, and
consisted in nothing more difficult than setting down what he would
otherwise have spoken, adding those gems of thought with which his mind
was occasionally enriched under the ennobling influence of moderate
beer. But nothing appeared upon the sheet of paper except dirt. Even the
simplest art requires practice. Not every man can milk a cow at the
first attempt. After much labour he recorded the statement: "This be a
buke, and when 'tis dun 'twill be a dairy. All volks write bukes, and it
bain't easy till you'm yused to it." There he stopped for the day. As
soon as he left the paper all sorts of ideas crowded into his mind, and
he hurried back to put them down, but directly he took up the pen his
mind was a blank again. The ideas had been swept away like butterflies
on a windy day. Mary called him "a proper old vule," and her thought was
probably quite as good as any that were likely to occur to him. "'Tis
bravish times us lives in. Us mun keep up wi' em," was Peter's answer.
The next day he tried again, but the difficulties remained. Peter
managed to place on record such imperishable facts as there was snow and
more would come likely, and he had got up later than usual, and he and
Mary were tolerably well, and the fare for the day was turnips and
bacon--he wanted to drag in turnips because he could spell the word, and
he added a note to inform posterity that he had taught Master how to do
so--but nothing came in the way of thoughts, and without them Peter was
persuaded his book could not properly be regarded as belonging to the
best order of literature. At the end of his second day of creation Peter
began to entertain a certain feeling of respect, if not of admiration,
for those who made a living with the pen; but on the third day
inspiration touched his brain, and he became a literary soul. The old
gentleman who shared his house, so called out of courtesy, as it
contained only one room, was making more noise than usual, as if the
cold had got into his chest. The diarist kept looking up to peer at
Grandfather's worn features, wondering what was wrong, and at last the
great idea came to him. "Dalled if Gran'vaither bain't a telling to I,"
he exclaimed; and then he got up and went cautiously across the room,
which was the same thing as going from one side of the house to the
other, his boots rustling in the fern which covered the floor.
"Be'ye alright, Gran'vaither?" he asked, lapping the old fellow's chest
with great respect. He was accustomed to chat with the clock, when
alone, as another man higher in the scale of civilisation might have
talked to his dog. Peter noticed that it was getting dark around him,
although it was still early in the afternoon.
"I be cruel sick," a voice answered.
Peter cried out and began to shiver. He stared at the window, the panes
of which were no longer white, but blue. Something was taking place
outside, not a storm, as the moor was unusually silent, and there seemed
to be no wind. Peter tried to collect his thoughts into a form suitable
for publication. He shivered his way to the other side of the room and
wrote laboriously: "Gran'vaither be telling to I. Ses he be cruel sick."
Then he had another attack of shivers.
"Who was that a telling to I?" he shouted, the noise of his voice making
him bolder.
"'Twas me," came the answer at once; and Peter gulped like a dying fish,
but managed to put it down in the diary.
"Who be ye?" he called.
"Old Gran'vaither."
Peter stood in the fern, biting his fingers and sweating. He was
trembling too much to write any more. So Grandfather was a living
creature after all. He had always supposed that the clock had a sort of
existence, not the same as his own, but the kind of life owned by the
pixies, and now he was sure of it.
"Why didn't ye tell to I avore?" he asked reproachfully.
Grandfather appeared to regard the question as impertinent, as he gave
no answer.
"Yew was making creepy noises last night. I heard ye," Peter went on,
waxing bold. "Seemed as if yew was trying to crawl out o' your own
belly."
"I was trying to talk," the clock explained.
Peter had some more shivers. It seemed natural enough to hear old
Grandfather talking, and he tried to persuade himself it was not the
voice which frightened him, but the queer blue light that seemed to be
filling the hut. He remembered that pixies always go about with blue
lanterns, and he began to believe that the surrounding moor was crowded
with the little people out for a frolic at his expense. Then he thought
he would go for Mary, but remembered she had gone to Lewside Cottage
with dairy produce. That reminded him of the diary. What a wonderful
work he would make of it now!
"Gran'vaither," he called.
"Here I be," said the voice.
"I knows yew be there," said Peter, somewhat sharply. The old gentleman
was not so intellectual as he could have wished. "I wants to know how
yew be telling to I?"
"Same as yew," said Grandfather.
"Yew ain't got no tongue."
"I've got a pendulum," said the clock, with a malevolent sort of titter.
"Yew'm sick?" asked Peter.
"I be that. 'Tis your doing," came the answer.
"I've looked after ye fine, Gran'vaither," said Peter crossly.
"'Tis that there thing on the hearthstone makes me sick," said the
voice.
"That be a mommet," said Peter.
"I know 'tis. A mommet of Farmer Pendoggat."
"What du'ye know 'bout Varmer Pendoggat?" asked Peter suspiciously.
"Heard you talk about 'en," Grandfather answered. "Don't ye play wi'
witchery, Peter. Smash the mommet up, and throw 'en away." The voice was
talking quickly and becoming hoarser. "Undo what you've done if you can,
and whatever you du don't ye put 'en in the fire again. If ye du I'll be
telling to ye all night and will scare ye proper. I wun't give ye any
sleep, Peter."
"You'm an old vule, Gran'vaither," said Peter.
"I'll get the pixies to fetch ye a crock o' gold if you leaves off
witching Pendoggat. I'll mak' 'em fetch ye sovereigns, brave golden
sovereigns, Peter."
"Where will 'em put the gold?" cried Peter with the utmost greediness.
"Bottom o' the well. Let the bucket down to-night, and when you pulls
'en up in the morning the gold will be in the bucket. If it ain't there
to-night, look the night after. But it wun't be no good looking, Peter,
if you ain't done what I told ye, and you mun put the broken bits o'
mommet by the well, so as the pixies can see 'em."
"I'll du it," chuckled Peter.
"Swear you'll do it?"
"Sure 'nuff I'll du it. You'm a brave old Gran'vaither if yew can fetch
a crock o' gold into the well."
"Good-bye, Peter. I wun't be telling to you again just yet."
"Good-bye, Gran'vaither. You'm welcome. I hopes you'll soon be better."
The voice did not come again, and Peter was left in the strange light
and eerie silence to recover, which he did slowly, with a feeling that
he had undergone a queer dream. It was not long before he was telling
himself he had imagined it all. Superstitious little savage as he was,
he could hardly believe that Grandfather had been chatting with him as
one man might have talked to another. As he went on thinking suspicious
features presented themselves to his mind. Grandfather's language had
not always been correct. He had not talked like a true Gubbings, but
more as a man of better education trying to bring himself down to his
listener's mode of speech. Then what interest could he feel in Pendoggat
that he should plead for the destruction of the mommet?
Peter addressed a number of questions to Grandfather upon these
subjects, but the old clock had not another word to say. That was
another suspicious feature; why should the clock be unable to talk then
when it had chatted so freely a few minutes before? Peter rubbed his
eyes, declared he was mazed, lighted his lamp, and scribbled the
wonderful story in his diary until Mary came back.
"Peter," she called at once. "Aw, man, come and look! Us be going to
judgment."
Peter rose, overflowing with mysticism, but he too gasped when he got
outside and saw the moor and sky. Indigo-tinted clouds were rolling
slowly down Tavy Cleave, there was apparently no sky, and through rents
in the clouds they could see blocks of granite and patches of black moor
hanging as it were in space. In the direction of Ger Tor was a column of
dark mist rising from the river. On each side of this column the outlook
was clear for a little way before the clouds again blotted out
everything. Those clouds in front were beneath their feet, and they
could hear the roaring of the invisible river still further down.
Overhead there was nothing except a dense blue mist from which the
curious light, like the glow of pixy lanterns, seemed to be reflected.
"I ha' never seen the like," said frightened Mary. "None o' the volks
ha' ever seen the like on't. Some of 'em be praying down under, and
wanting chapel opened. Old Betty Middleweek be scared so proper that
her's paying money what her owes. They ses it be judgment coming. There
be volks to the village a sotting wi' fingers in their ear-holes so as
they wun't hear trumpets. What shall us du if it be judgment, Peter?"
"Us mun bide quiet, and go along wi' the rest. If 'tis judgment us wun't
have no burying expenses," said Peter.
"I'd ha' gone in and asked Master if 'twas judgment, if I hadn't been so
mazed like. He'd ha' knowed. A brave cruel larned man be Master. What
happens to we if they blows on the trumpets?"
"Us goes up to heaven in a whirlpool and has an awful doom," said Peter
hazily.
"Us mun go up wi' vull bellies," said practical Mary, marching off to
blow at the fire.
Peter followed, walking delicately, hoping that witchcraft would come to
an end so soon as he had procured the crock of gold. Inside the hut,
surrounded with comforting lamplight, he told his sister all about
Grandfather's loquacity. Mary was so astounded that she dropped a piece
of peat into the pot and placed a turnip on the fire. "Aw, Peter! Telled
to ye same as Master might?" she gasped.
"Ah, told I to break the mommet and he'd give I gold."
Mary sat down, as she could think better that way. She had always
regarded Grandfather as a sentient member of the family, but in her
wildest moments had never supposed he would arouse himself to preach
morality in their own tongue. Things were coming to a pretty pass when
clocks began to talk. She would have her geese lecturing her next. She
did not want any more men about the place, as one Peter was quite
enough. If Grandfather had learnt to talk he would probably proceed to
walk; and then he would be like any other man, and go to the village
with her brother, and return in the same condition, and be pestering her
continually for money. The renaissance of Grandfather was regarded by
Mary as a particularly bad sign; and for that reason she decided that it
was impossible and Peter had been dreaming.
"You'm a liar," he answered in the vulgar tongue. "'Tis down in my
buke."
This was sufficient evidence, and Mary could only wag her head at it.
She had a reverence for things that were written in books.
"Be yew going to break the mommet?" she asked; and Peter replied that it
was his intention to make yet another clay doll, break it into
fragments, and commit the original doll, which was the only one capable
of working evil, to the fire as before. Thus he would earn the crock of
gold, and obtain vengeance upon Pendoggat also. Pixies were simple folk,
who could easily be hoodwinked by astute human beings; and he ventured
to propose that the mommet should be baked upon Mary's hearthstone in
future, so that Grandfather would see nothing of the operation which had
made him sick.
Mary remained an agnostic. She could understand Grandfather when he
played impish pranks upon them, but when it came to bold brazen speech
she could not believe. Peter had been asleep and imagined it all. They
argued the matter until they nearly quarrelled, and then Mary said she
was going to look about her brother's residence to try and find out
whether any one had been playing a joke upon him. They went outside, and
were relieved to discover that a change had taken place in the weather.
Evidently judgment was not imminent, Betty Middleweek could cease paying
her debts, and the chapel could be closed again. The blue light had
faded, the clouds were higher, and had turned to ghostly grey.
"Aw, Peter, 'tis nought but snow," said Mary cheerfully.
"Snow never made Gran'vaither talk avore," Peter reminded her.
Mary looked about her brother's little hut without seeing anything
unusual. Then she strode around the walls thereof, and her sharp eyes
soon perceived a branch of dry furze lying about a yard away from the
side of the cot. She asked Peter if he had dropped it there, and he
replied that it might have been there for days. "Wind would ha' took it
away," said Mary. "There was wind in the night, but ain't been none
since. That's been broke off from the linny."
At the end of the hut was a small shed, its sides made of old
packing-cases, its roof and door composed of gorse twisted into hurdles.
The back wall of the cot, a contrivance of stones plastered together
with clay, was also the end wall of the linhay. Mary went into the
linhay, which was used by Peter as a place for storing peat. She soon
made a discovery, and called for the lantern. When it was brought she
pulled out a loose stone about the centre of the wall, and holding the
lantern close to the hole saw at once a black board which looked like
panelling, but was the back of the clock-case. Grandfather stood against
that wall; and in the middle of the plank was a hole which had been
bored recently.
"Go'ye into the hut and ask Gran'vaither how he be," called Mary.
Peter toddled off, got before the old clock, and inquired with
solicitude: "How be 'ye, Gran'vaither?"
"Fine, and how be yew?" came the answer.
"Ah," muttered Peter. "That be the way my old Gran'vaither ought to
tell."
After that they soon stumbled upon the truth. It had been whispered
about the place that Peter was dabbling in witchcraft for Pendoggat's
detriment; and Annie Crocker had heard the whisper. To inform her master
was an act of ordinary enjoyment. He had sworn at her, professed
contempt for Peter and all his dolls, stated his intention of destroying
them, or at least of obtaining the legal benefit conferred by certain
ancient Acts of Parliament dealing with witches; but in his heart he was
horribly afraid. He spent hours watching the huts, and when he saw the
inhabitants move away he would go near, hoping to steal the clay doll
and destroy it; but Peter's door was always locked. At last he hit upon
the plan of frightening the superstitious little man by addressing him
through the medium of the clock. He thought he had succeeded. Perhaps he
would have done so had Mary's keen eyes not detected the scrap of gorse
which his departure had snapped from one of the hurdles which made the
door of the linhay. Pendoggat might be a strong man physically, able to
bully the weak, or bring a horse to its knees, but his mind was made of
rotten stuff, and it is the strong mind rather than the stalwart body
which saves a man when "Ephraim's Pinch" comes. Pendoggat's knees became
wobbly whenever he thought of Peter and his clay doll.
When the blue mist had cleared off, snow began to fall in a business-like
way, and before the last light had been extinguished in the twin
villages the moor was buried. Peter thought he would watch beside the
well during the early part of the night, to see the little people
dragging up his crock of gold, for he had not altogether abandoned the
idea that it had been witchcraft and not Pendoggat which had conferred
upon Grandfather the gift of a tongue, but the snow made his plan
impossible. He and Mary sat together and talked in a subdued fashion.
Peter knitted a pair of stockings for his sister, while Mary mended her
brother's boots and hammered snow-nails into the soles. A new mommet had
been made, broken up, and its fragments were placed beside the well,
while the original doll baked resignedly upon Mary's hearthstone.
Pendoggat or pixies the savages were a match for either. It remained
calm upon the moor, but the snow continued most of the night with a
slight southerly drift, falling in the dense masses which people who
live upon mountains have to put up with.
In the morning all was white and dazzling; the big tors had nearly
doubled in size, and the sides of Tavy Cleave were bulging as though
pregnant with little Tavy Cleaves. It was a glorious day, one of those
days when the ordinary healthy person wants to stand on his head or skip
about like a young unicorn. The sun was out, the sky was as blue as a
baby's eyes, and the clouds were like puffs of cigarette smoke. Peter
embraced himself, recorded in his work of creation that it was all very
good, then floundered outside and made for the well. He shovelled a foot
of snow from the cover, wound up the bucket, caught a glimpse of yellow
water, and then of something golden, more precious than water, air, or
sunshine, brave yellow pieces of gold, five in number, worth
one-hundred-and-twenty pints of beer apiece. They were lying at the
bottom of the bucket like a beautiful dream. Peter had come into a
fortune; his teeth informed him that the coins were genuine, his tongue
sent the glad tidings to Mary, his mind indulged in potent flights of
travel and dissipation. He had inherited twelve hundred pints of beer.
"Aw, Peter," Mary was calling. "There ha' been witches abroad to-night."
"They'm welcome," cried Peter.
"Look ye here," Mary went on in a frightened voice. "Look ye here, will
ye? Here be a whist sight, I reckon."
Mary was standing near the edge of the cleave, knee-deep in snow,
looking down. When Peter floundered up to her side she said nothing, but
pointed at the snow in front. Peter's hilarious countenance was changed,
and the five sovereigns in his hand became like so many pieces of ice.
The snow ahead was marked with footprints, not those of an animal, not
those of a man. The marks were those of a biped, cloven like a cow's
hoof but much larger, and they travelled in a perfectly straight line
across the moor, and behind them the snow was ruffled occasionally as by
a tail. Peter began to blubber like a frightened child.
"'Tis him," he muttered.
"Aw ees, 'tis him," said Mary, "Us shouldn't meddle wi' mommets and
such. 'Tis sure to bring 'en."
"He must ha' come up over from Widdecombe in the snow," gasped Peter.
"Going beyond?" asked Mary, with a motion of her head.
"Ees," muttered Peter. "Us will see which way he took."
"T'row the gold away, Peter. T'row 'en away," pleaded Mary.
"I wun't," howled Peter. He wouldn't have parted with his six hundred
pints of beer for ten thousand devils.
They floundered on beside the weird hoof-prints, never doubting who had
caused them. It was not the first visit that the devil, who, as Peter
had rightly observed, has his terrestrial country house at Widdecombe,
had paid to those parts. His last recorded visit had been to Topsham and
its neighbourhood half-a-century before, when he had frightened the
people so exceedingly that they dared not venture out of their houses
even in daylight. That affair had excited the curiosity of the whole
country, and although some of the wisest men of the time tried to find a
satisfactory solution of the problem they only ended by increasing the
mystery. The attractions of the west country have always proved
irresistible to his Satanic Majesty. From his country home at
Widdecombe-on-the-Moor he had sallied out repeatedly to fight men with
their own carnal weapons. He tried to hinder Francis Drake from building
his house with the stones of Buckland Abbey, and nobody at that time
wondered why he had taken the Abbey under his special protection, though
people have wondered since. It was the devil who, disguised as a simple
moorman, invited the ambitious parson and his clerk to supper, and then
led them into the sea off Dawlish. There can be no doubt about the truth
of that story, because the parson and clerk rocks are still to be seen
by any one. It was on Heathfield, near the Tavy, that the old
market-woman hid the hare that the devil was hunting in her basket, and
declared to the gentleman with the tail she had never seen the creature.
It was the devil who spoilt the miraculous qualities of St. Ludgvan's
well by very rudely spitting in the water; who jumped into the Lynher
with Parson Dando and his dogs; and it was the devil who was subdued
temporarily by Parson Flavel of Mullion; who was dismissed, again
temporarily, to the Red Sea by Parson Dodge of Talland because he would
insist upon pulling down the walls of the church as fast as they were
built; and who was routed from the house that he had built for his
friend the local cobbler in Lamorna Cove by famous Parson Corker of
Bosava. Mary and Peter knew these stories and plenty of others. They
didn't know that a canon authorising exorcism of the devil is still a
part of the law of the established Church, and that most people, however
highly educated, are little less superstitious than themselves.
The hoof-prints went towards the village, regardless of obstacles. They
approached walls, and appeared again upon the other side without
disturbing the fresh snow between, a feat which argued either marvellous
jumping powers or the possession of wings. Peter and Mary followed them
in great fear, until they saw two men ahead engaged in the same
occupation, one of them making merry, the other of a sad countenance,
the merry man suggesting that a donkey had been that way, the other
declaring it was the devil. "Donkeys ain't got split hoofs," he stated;
while his companion indicated a spot where the snow was much ruffled and
said cheerfully: "'Tis where he swindged his tail."
Nearer the village the white moor was dotted with black figures, all
intent upon the weird markings, none doubting who had caused them. The
visitant had not passed along the street, but had prowled his way across
back gardens, taking hedges and even cottages in his stride. Peter and
Mary went on, left the majority of villagers, who were lamenting
together as if the visitation was not altogether disagreeable to them,
and found themselves presently near Lewside Cottage. Boodles was walking
in the snow, hatless, her hands clasped together, her face white and
frightened, taking no notice of the hoof-prints which went through the
garden, but wandering as if she was trying to find her way somewhere,
and had lost herself, and was wondering if she would find any one who
would put her on the right road.
"She'm mazed," said Peter. "Mebbe her saw him go through."
"Aw, my dear, what be ye doing?" called Mary. "Nought on your feet, and
your stockings vull o' snow. He never come for yew, my dear. He'm a
gentleman, and wun't harm a purty maid. Be'ye mazed, my dear?"
"Mary," murmured the child very softly, raising both hands to her
radiant head. "Come with me. I'm frightened."
"Us wun't let 'en touch ye," cried Mary valiantly. "I'll tak' my gurt
stick to 'en if he tries."
Boodles caught her big hand and held it tightly. She had not even
noticed the footprints. She did not know why all the villagers were out,
or what they were doing on the moor.
"He won't wake," she said. "I have never known him sleep like this. I
called him, and he does not answer. I shook him, and he would not
move--and his eggs are hard-boiled by this time."
"Bide here, Peter," said Mary shortly.
Then the big strong hermaphrodite put a brawny arm about the soft
shivering little maid, and led her inside the cottage, and up the
stairs--how mournful they were, and how they creaked!--and into the
quiet little bedroom, with the snow sliding down the window-panes, and
the white light glaring upon the bed, where Abel Cain Weevil was lying
upon his back, and yet not his back, but its back, for the old man was
so very tired that he went on sleeping, though his eggs were hard-boiled
and his little girl was terrified. The Brute had passed over in the
night, not a very cruel Brute perhaps, and had placed his hand on the
old man's mouth and stopped his breathing; and the poor old liar liked
it so well he thought he wouldn't wake up again, but would go on
sleeping for a long time, so that he would forget the rabbit-traps, and
his petitions which nobody would sign, and his letters which had done no
good. He had forgotten everything just then, but not Boodles, surely not
his little maid, who was sobbing in Mary's savage and tender arms. He
could not have forgotten the radiant little girl, and he would go on
lying for her in his sleep if necessary, although he had been selfish
enough to go away in such a hurry, and leave her--to the lonely life.