ABOUT SWALING-FIRES
Peter sat by his hearthstone and repeated with the monotony of a tolling
bell--
"There be a lot o' volks in the world, and some be vulish, and some be
artful, but me, Peter, be artful."
This was numbered one-hundred-and-seventy, and it was the latest gem
from his book of aphorisms; artful meaning in that connection clever,
the author having a tendency to use irregular forms of speech. Peter
read the thought aloud until most people would have found him tedious;
he recited it to every one; he had carried it to Master, and made the
old man commit it to memory. Master finally inscribed it, number and
all, in his presentation copy of Shakespeare, thinking the sentiment
well worthy of being incorporated with the work of the poet, and
declared that Peter's literary fame was assured. He added the
information that his old pupil was beyond question a philosopher, and
Peter agreed, then asked Master for his dictionary. It was an old book,
however, and the word was not given, at least not in its proper place,
under the letter F; so Peter failed at that time to discover his precise
position in the intellectual world.
The diary was certainly advancing, as Peter was already in his second
pennyworth of paper, and his bottle of ink was on the ebb. Thoughts had
been coming so freely of late that interesting details of the daily life
were crowded out. He omitted such confidential details as Mary was
dunging the potato-patch, or he had just mended his trousers; he filled
his pages instead with ingenious reflections which he supposed, and not
without some justification, had possibly not occurred to the minds of
thinkers in the past. He neglected biography for philosophy, and the
fluency with which such aphorisms as "'Tis better to be happy than good"
came from his pen, merely confirmed his earlier impression that the
manufacture of literary works was child's play. He would not have
allowed that he had been assisted by collaboration, even if the meaning
of the word had been explained to him; although most of the sentiments
which adorned, or rather which blotted, his pages were distorted
versions of remarks which had fallen from the lips of Boodles. His work
was entirely original in one respect; the style of spelling was unique.
Boodles did not know that she had developed into an inspiration, and the
poor child was certainly far too miserable to care. She came to Ger
Cottage every evening in the dimsies, stopped the night with Mary, and
went home in the morning. She followed Mary like a dog, knowing that the
strong creature would protect her. Her mind would have gone entirely had
she stayed at Lewside during those endless winter evenings and the long
nights. She owed her life, or at least her reason, to Mary. There was a
good heart under that strong creature's rough hide, a heart as soft and
tender as Boodles who clung to her. At first the child had refused to
leave Lewside Cottage, but when she screamed, "The shadows are getting
awful, Mary; they seem to bite me," the stalwart savage picked her up
like a baby, finding her much too light, and stalked over the moor deaf
to protest. She made up a little bed for Boodles in the corner of her
hut, and every night there was the strange sight of Mary bringing the
little girl a glass of hot milk to drink before going to sleep, and
singing quaint old ballads to her when she couldn't. Mary had got into
the way of asking Boodles for a kiss every night; she said it did her
good, and no doubt she spoke the truth. It seemed to give her something
she had missed.
"But I am ugly now, Mary," said Boodles, in response to her nurse's
oft-repeated "purty dear."
"That yew bain't," came the decided answer. "You'm butiful. I never saw
ye look nothing like so butiful as yew be now."
"I feel hideous anyhow," said the child. "I don't believe I can look
pretty when I feel ugly."
Peter overheard that, put his head on one side in philosophic
contemplation, and presently took his pen and wrote: "Bootiful maids
what feels ugly still be bootiful. It be contrairy like, but it be
true;" and the number of that thought was one-hundred-and-seventy-one.
Mary was not far wrong, for Boodles was quite as attractive as ever. She
was more womanly, and had put pathos on her face with the little lines
and shadows which impelled love for very pity. Her eyes seemed to have
become larger, and her pale frightened face, under the radiant hair
which had not changed, was fascinating with its restless changes. There
was one thing left to her, and she called it everything. Each week the
cold weather went away for a few hours, and warm June came round with a
burst of flowers and sunshine, and her heart woke up and sang to her;
for Aubrey had not forgotten. He wrote to her, though she kept her
promise and did not write to him. Every week the question came: "Why
don't you write?" and sometimes she thought the letters were getting
colder, and then the stage sunshine was turned off and real thunder
rolled. He had written to his parents, but they had told him nothing.
They didn't even refer to her in their letters. It seemed to him as if
she was dead, and he was getting miserable. But she would not break her
promise and write; and if consent had been given she could not tell him
the truth, send him out of her life for ever, and end those wonderful
mornings when the postman came.
Aubrey loved her still, that gave her everything, and while his love
lasted she was still on the green oasis, and could shut her eyes to the
desert, scarred with the bodies of those who had tried to cross it and
had fallen in the attempt, the bare desert of life without any sweet
water of love, which she would have to try and cross without a guide
when he came back and she had told him plainly what she was. She thought
it would kill her, for love cannot be removed without altering the
entire universe; for with love the sun goes, and the flowers go, and all
the pleasant nooks; and there is nothing left but the rocks, the moaning
of the sea, the fierce and ugly things, and faces that scowl but never
smile. The only perfect happiness is the birth of love; the only
absolute misery is the death of it; and it is such a tender growth that
one careless word may chill it into death.
The three were sitting together in the lamplight, and Peter was giving
oral evidence of his inspiration, when there came a knock upon the door,
a thing almost without precedent after dark. Boodles shivered because
she hated sudden knocks which suggested unpleasant visitors and horrors,
while Mary turned from her work and went to the door. Annie was standing
there, or staggering rather, a black shawl round her head, her face
ghastly.
"Please to come in," said Mary.
Annie lurched in, and gazed about her wildly. She was sober enough to
know what she had come for. She stared at them, then upon the
hearthstone where the ceremonial of witchcraft was still being observed;
while Peter babbled of great thoughts like a running brook. The door was
open, and some of the smoke of the swaling-fires entered, and they could
hear the crackling of distant flames.
"I reckon yew can tak' 'en off," said Annie hoarsely, pointing to the
hearthstone. "He've done his work. All Dartmoor be in flames, and the
Barton be in flame tu, I reckon. I flung the lamp into the kitchen and
set a match to 'en. Coming wi' me, Mary Tavy? Best come wi' me and see
the end on't."
"What would I want to come wi' yew for, woman?" said Mary.
"Where be the old goose yew was so fond of?"
"My Old Sal. He be gone. Mebbe he got stugged, and some old fox come
along and took 'en," said Mary.
"Stugged was he? I saw 'en stugged," Annie shouted. "Came across Barton
court, he did, and the man took 'en, and twisted the neck of 'en, and
flung 'en in the vuzz. 'He be Mary's Old Sal,' I ses, but he only
swore."
Mary spat upon her hands.
"He picked up a stick, and hit me on the ear, me, a free woman. I ses to
'en avore, 'If yew lifts your arm at me, Mary knows.'"
"I be coming," said Mary.
"Me tu," said Peter.
There was much for Mary to avenge. Pendoggat had beaten her brother, had
terrified Boodles, to say nothing of his attempt to rob her, and now
Mary knew he had killed the old goose. She had never ceased to mourn for
Old Sal; and Pendoggat had destroyed the leader of her flock out of
sheer malice and cruelty. The spirit of the lawless Gubbings entered
into Mary as she picked up her staff and made for the door, while Peter
shambled after her, a philosopher no longer, but a savage like herself.
But Boodles was crying: "Don't leave me, Mary. The shadows will get big
and thick and take hold of me."
"Aw, don't ye be soft, maid," cried Annie.
"Bide here, my dear. Us will lock ye in, and no one shan't touch ye,"
said Mary.
"He may come this way. I can't stay here, with the light of these fires
upon the window. I shall scream all the time."
"Come along wi' us," said Mary. "Come between Peter and me, my dear.
Lord love ye, I'd break the head of any one what touched ye."
Peter left the hut-circles last, securing both doors, and dropping the
keys in his baggy pocket. Then they set forth, the smoke over them, the
fires on each side, and the white frost like snow upon the ground.
* * * * *
Pendoggat gave a sigh of relief as he descended into the hollow of the
Barton and saw nobody, and heard nothing except the crackling of the
flames and the furze screaming as the fire rushed through it; for the
furze screams when it is burnt like a creature in torment. There was a
smell of fire about the house and the heavy stink of paraffin; and in
the kitchen he saw the broken lamp, but the fire had gone out; it could
not feed upon damp stones. Pendoggat smiled when he saw the kitchen. So
Annie was drunk again, which was what he had hoped for, as she was less
dangerous in that condition; she could only scream and tumble about,
hurting nobody but herself. She would not be able to follow him, and if
she picked up his gun she would be more likely to kill herself than him.
Probably she was lying in the linhay, or on her bed, hardly conscious,
groaning herself to sleep. Everything was in his favour; the whole night
was before him, and he had only to finish his work there, then escape
through the warm scented smoke. He was feeling sorry for the minister,
but the ordeal which Eli had just undergone might prove a blessing,
strengthen his character, make a man of him. Annie was not in the house.
Perhaps she had gone down to the Tavy to drown herself. Pendoggat shook
his head as that idea occurred to him. There could be no hope in the
future state for a suicide. Still it was better she should drown herself
than obstruct him; and after all she was getting on in years, she would
soon be homeless, and would naturally shrink from the workhouse.
Pendoggat was not going to judge her harshly, as that would not be
right, and she had looked after him well at one time. If she had not
been so foolish as to grow elderly, and have grey hairs, he might have
remained constant to her.
He had destroyed everything in his secret drawer already, so he had only
to collect a few things, burn the furze and tidy up there. He fastened
up his things into a bundle before remembering that Annie had a bag
which was not likely to be of much use to her, so he went and fetched it
and packed his things in that. He brought the bag into the court, went
to the linhay for a spade, carried it to the edge of the furze, then
discovered he had no matches. He went back towards the house, but as he
crossed the court a figure came out of the smoke and laughed at him, the
figure of a white-faced woman who seemed pleased to see him; and behind
her towered another figure, tall and gaunt, the sort of figure which
might have made those weird footprints in the snow; and as the smoke
drifted upward there were two others in the background, a little girl
wrapped up in a big coat, and gnome-like Peter with big beard and
turned-up nose like an old man of the moor.
Annie said nothing, but only laughed, as a woman will when she feels
satisfied. She staggered to one side, and Mary came forward. There was
no laughter on her wooden face, and no drunken stupor over her body. She
dropped the big stick and it clattered upon the stones of the court. The
swaling-fires were all round, and they gave light enough, a weird kind
of light which tinted the smoke and made the walls of the Barton red.
"Aw, man," cried Mary. "You killed my Old Sal, and I be come to pay ye
vor't."
Pendoggat went white when he heard that. He could not stand before the
wiry creature who seemed to represent no sex, but the cruel principle of
natural strength. The trap had snapped upon him and he felt its iron
teeth. He had caught others and enjoyed watching their struggles, and
now he was caught himself and others were enjoying his struggles. A few
yards cut him off from the moor, but there was no way out except by the
gate of the court, and Mary was before him. He wondered if Brightly had
felt like that when he was running for his liberty with the hand of
every man against him.
"I never knew the old bird was yours," he muttered; and added: "I'll pay
you for him;" but Annie watched him, saw his face, and laughed louder.
Mary made an ungainly movement, a sort of lurch as if to collect her
strength, then she caught him by the neck. He struggled free and she had
him round the body, twisting him like a willow-stick; a big hand came
upon his throat and he felt as if water was rushing over his head. He
could hear Annie's mad laughter and her jeering voice: "You'm a strong
man, they ses. Why don't ye get away? She'm only a woman. Why don't ye
throw her off, man?" He began to fight at that, struggling and hitting
wildly, but Mary had a certain science as well as strength. She knew an
animal's weak points. She struck at them with a fist like a lump of
granite, and when he retaliated by hitting her on the face her savage
blood seemed to rise before her eyes, and she drove him about the court
until his face was bloody. Boodles turned away then, and went to the
side of the house between the wall and the brake of furze, half-sick,
trying not to give way. She had never felt so horribly alone. Mary, her
friend and protector, was a wild beast of the moor, the savage principle
of the cruel Nature which was crushing her. The red light of the fire
fell upon her radiant head, which resembled it, as if she had been
intended to punish Pendoggat, and not Mary, because her head was like
fire just as his nature was like furze. All the time she could hear
Annie's furious laughter and her mocking voice: "Why don't ye stand up
to she, man? Tak' your stick and hit she on the head till she'm mazed.
Hit she on the ear, man, same as you hit me. Yew twisted the old
goosie's neck easy enough. Why don't ye du the like to she?"
"Aw, man, I reckon I've paid ye," gasped Mary.
"Two or dree more vor I," shouted little Peter, jumping about the court
in riotous joy.
Mary was satisfied. She flung the man aside, still holding him by the
collar of the coat, which was an old one, as he was too miserly to buy a
better. The fabric parted at the seam, and as he fell the coat came
asunder and half remained in Mary's hand, the sleeve rending off with
the violence of her strength. It was the part containing the pocket
which was bulging, and when Mary threw it away Annie snatched it up and
tore out the contents, a letter or two, some papers, and the precious
roll of notes, which Pendoggat had played for with all his cunning, had
ruined the minister for, and finally had won; only Annie was too dazed
and mad to know what she was holding. She staggered to the furze,
holding the packet above her head, and flung it as far as she could; and
it fell in the centre and settled down there invisible among the frosted
prickles.
Pendoggat watched as he stood half-dazed against the well, wiping the
blood from his face, and again thanked his stars which remained
propitious. His soul had been thrown into the furze, but he could regain
it. Annie's madness had saved him. Had she been more sane and sober she
might have discovered what it was she had taken. Nobody knew he had the
money even then. His punishment was over. He deserved it for being
perhaps unnecessarily hard upon the minister; and now he was not only a
free man, but the sin had been wiped away, because he had been punished
for it and had suffered for it. The disgrace was nothing, as he would
never be seen there again. He edged away towards the furze, and no one
stood in his way. He caught up the spade, which he had placed there, and
began to hack at the big bushes, trying to make a passage. The
swaling-fires above were dying down and the red light was fading from
the hollow.
"Ah, go in there, man. Go in," muttered Annie, becoming quiet when she
saw what he was after.
Pendoggat had lost his senses, as men will when their money is taken
from them. Had he waited a little, until Mary had gone, and he had got
rid of Annie for a time, he might have started for Tavistock presently
with nothing lost except honour which was of no value. But he could not
wait; he was dazed by Mary's blows; and all the time he fancied he saw
that precious packet which contained his future stuck in the furze; and
if he could not see it he knew it was there and he must get at it. He
went on hacking at the bushes, burrowing his way in, without feeling the
prickles; while Mary picked up her stick, turned to Peter, and said she
was going home. Then she looked for Boodles, but the girl was not there,
and when she started round Annie was not there either. She and Peter
were alone in the court, and the furze beyond was convulsed as though a
beast had fallen there and was trying to flounder its way out.
"He'm mazed, sure 'nuff," said Peter, in a happy voice. The blows which
Pendoggat had dealt him were avenged. Peter forgot just then the power
of witchcraft which he had invoked by the arts that were in him. Neither
he nor Mary remembered the mommet, but Annie had not forgotten. She
thought of the little clay doll squatting in the glowing peat, and she
seemed to see the fantastic object shaking its head at her and saying:
"Who is on my side?" Annie went into the house for something, then
passed round the wall, and came upon Boodles standing at the other end
of the furze brake, rubbing the frost off the white grass stalks.
"Is it all over?" asked the child.
"Aw ees, it be done. You'm cold, my dear," whispered Annie hoarsely.
"Tak' this, my dear, and warm yourself. You've been out swaling, I
reckon."
She pushed a box of matches into the girl's hand.
"He wun't have it burnt just to spite me. Makes the kitchen so cruel
dark I can't see from one side to t'other. Now be the time, for he'm
mazed and can't stop us. Sot a match here, my dear."
"It's so close to the house," said Boodles.
"The house can't burn. 'Tis stone and slates. I don't want 'en to think
I did it," said Annie cunningly. "Quick, my dear. Mary be calling ye."
Boodles loved swaling expeditions. In the past, furze-burning had been
almost her only outdoor pleasure; and, though she was unhappy then, she
was very young and the sense of enjoyment remained. That huge brake
would make the most glorious blaze she had ever seen. Dropping to her
knees she struck a match, hearing Annie gasp once, and then the fire
touched the tinder-like masses of dead growth, there was a splutter
caused by the frost, a flame darted up, then down, and up again higher;
and then there was a roar, and the brake before her became in an instant
like an open furnace and she jumped back to save her face and hair.
"Oh, it's splendid," she cried.
Annie was leaning against the wall screaming, sheltering her face,
perhaps from the heat, perhaps from what she might see.
"It's done. My God, it's done, and nothing can put it out."
Somewhere in those flames a man's voice was shouting horribly. The fire
seemed to sweep through with the rapidity of light, but nothing else
could be heard except the roaring and the screaming and hissing as the
big bushes melted away. Mary came running round, and Annie screamed at
her--
"I never done it. I never put the match to 'en."
"Aw, my dear, what have ye done?"
"I am swaling. Did you ever see such a blaze?" cried innocent Boodles.
"Her don't know," screamed Annie. Then she staggered into the court and
fell fainting.
"The man's in the vuzz," Mary shouted.
All the sounds had ceased, and already the great flames were going out,
leaving a red smoulder of ashes and big scarlet stems. It seemed to be
getting very dark. Boodles did not realise what she had done, and Mary
said no more; but Peter shuffled round, understanding it all perfectly,
though not in the least ashamed.
"'Twas just the mommet," he explained. "Her had to du it 'cause her
couldn't help it."
Presently they trod over the fiery ground and dragged the body out,
without clothes, without hair, without sight; without money also, for
the roll of notes had melted away in one touch of those terrible flames.
He looked dead, but, like the furze which seemed to be annihilated, he
lived. The heart was beating in the man's body, and the roots were alive
in the glowing soil. Both would rise again, the one into a fierce
prickly shrub; the other into a man destined for the charity of others,
scarred, maimed, and blind. There was to be no escape for Pendoggat, no
new life for him. Boodles of the fiery head had fulfilled her destiny;
had burnt out one malignant moorland growth which had caught so many in
its thorns; and had rendered it harmless for ever.