HOW BURROUGH WENT TO DART HEAD.
It was very dark upon the moor that night. There was a cold mist,
and through it came from time to time stinging snow showers which
could hardly be faced, because of the bitterness of the wind which
brought them across the bare hills and bog land from the great
plateau, which was the centre of Burrough’s thoughts from the hour the
Breton left him. Hidden away in the tin box, which in its turn was
safely enclosed within the soaked masses of peat forming the cairn in
the centre of the land of desolation, was Beatrice’s letter, waiting
for the next traveller upon Cranmere. Standing at his door, Burrough
listened to the wind, felt the cold sting of the driven sleet, and
thought of the region which separated him from the letter.
The whimsical act was typical of Beatrice. She would be delighted to
think that her message for him was at the _poste restante_ of the
pixies. He knew that she secretly regarded Cranmere as the only place
left where the little people existed. It was to Cranmere that he had
sent the Cornish princess of his fairy-tale, that she might make her
choice between the three kings. And now it was to Cranmere that she
would send him to receive her final answer.
That the letter in the cairn did contain her last word, he felt sure.
Had it been otherwise, she would have written to him direct. The fact
that she had chosen this method of communicating with him was
convincing as to the importance of that letter. In the ordinary course
of events he could not have known that she had written to him at
Cranmere, and Beatrice would be well aware of it. She would be
wondering every day whether any moorman had been upon the plateau
where the rivers are born, or whether the pool had been rendered
inaccessible by winter. She would know that her letter would be taken
from the cairn almost at once, or that it must remain there until
early summer. No doubt she had made up her mind to accept the
conditions which the weather might be pleased to impose. That also was
typical of Beatrice. If it were to remain fine, Burrough should learn
his fate at once; if the winter were to appear suddenly, he would have
to wait. She had sent her letter to Bingie’s post-office, and the
issue remained in the hands of the pixies.
Directly the Breton went away, Burrough commenced his preparations. It
was Beatrice’s wish that he should receive his final answer at
Cranmere, and to Cranmere he must go. They had stood together there.
He had wished for her there. It was on the way back that she had
learnt how greatly he loved her. It was on the way back he had met
with the accident which had raised a barrier between them. The dreary
wilderness of Cranmere was the temple where their vows were to be
exchanged. The cairn was the altar where the barrier was to be broken
down.
“I wish I had Peter,” said Burrough. “Upon my soul, I would take him
with me for company. I should have to carry the little man, but at
least I should have someone to speak to.”
For a moment, when he heard the sleet driven against the window and
the water roaring more loudly than usual, his resolution weakened, and
prudence dictated a policy of waiting. Why not write again to
Poltesco, enclosing a letter for Beatrice, telling her he had become
acquainted with her whimsical act? But it would require four days to
receive her answer, and in the meantime that letter would be lying in
the cairn only seven miles away. And Beatrice would have a poor
opinion of him if she thought it was fear that had prevented him from
going to Cranmere. Burrough then considered whether he might not pay
someone to get the letter for him. There was wall-eyed Kellaway, who
was said to know the moor thoroughly, and where to cross the bogs,
however dense and white the mists. That idea he scouted also. In the
first place, he could trust no one on such a mission. Besides, how
could he confess to Beatrice that when he knew she was waiting for him
on the moor he had not gone? He had also an idea, which he dismissed
as promptly, that wall-eyed Kellaway would decline to go.
It seemed prosaic to be boiling eggs and cutting sandwiches while
occupied with such thoughts; but Burrough intended to start as soon as
it was light, and there was a very practical side to this sentimental
business of calling at the pixies’ post office. When his arrangements
were complete, he sat down and wrote the following note:--
“My dear Bill,--Here I am at Cranmere Pool for the second time, and
not alone, for I have just taken your letter from the box. I have not
read it yet. In fact, this is written in anticipation, as I may have
no time, or I may be too cold, or it may be too dark and boisterous to
write there. Anyhow, this letter goes into the post-office in place of
yours. The dramatic unities of place, time, and action have to be
disregarded in this letter. I am writing on Saturday night in my
cottage without news of you. And I must imagine it is Sunday
afternoon, and I am standing beside Cranmere Pool with your letter in
my hand and mine just posted. And now to read your letter, standing
just where you stood, and seeing you--how can you stand on such tiny
feet in this wild wind? Why were those eyes, that nose, mouth, and
hair made? They must have been treasured up for ages by the Creator,
and one day He thought He would use them, and gave them all to you.
However short the time is--and you know what a journey I must go
before it is dark--however cold I am, however gloomy and boisterous
the weather, I must learn your letter by heart before I move from this
place, which is just where you stood that summer’s day. I love you,
dearest little Bill the fisherman--wildly when I am alone. But I love
you always. I think of your eyes always.--Yours ever and ever, Jack.”
This letter was enclosed within an envelope, addressed to Poltesco, at
Sennen, stamped and rigorously sealed.
There was nothing else to do but sleep. No dreams came until near the
dawn, and the dream then concerned the past. The Breton had ceased to
trouble. The scene was neither in Brittany, nor upon Dartmoor, nor in
Cornwall. Burrough became a schoolboy again. It was the last night of
term, and he was tossing uneasily in his bed, too happy to rest
because he would be up at the dawn, down to breakfast, get his journey
money, then off to the station as hard as he could go, and into the
train for home. The boys beside him in the dormitory were just as
restless as he. They were sighing impatiently in their sleep, and
sometimes laughing for sheer happiness. The Christmas holidays would
begin in a few hours, the happiest time of youth; and the prospect of
unlimited dainties, of pantomimes and parties, of dances, and little
girls to kiss under the mistletoe, was sufficient to make the most
stolid youth laugh in his sleep. What a striking of matches there was,
what a clinking of watch-chains! Would the night never go? Then the
bell rang, a manservant hurried in to light the gas, a shower of
pillows reached him, and a joyous shout went up, as Burrough awoke
with a struggle to hear the water roaring down the gorge.
After that, the night was soon over. It was a fine morning,
dangerously fine, with plenty of sunshine and a squally wind which
swept the clouds rapidly across the sky. Burrough was up as soon as it
was light, feeling somewhat nervous, and with the knowledge that his
temperature was higher than it should have been. He attributed it to
excitement, refusing to remember that he had been unwell for some
days. A long walk would do him good, he thought, and after all he
could always turn back if he should discover that the journey was too
much for him. The idea of postponing the expedition never even
occurred. Beatrice, the whimsical maid of the moors and the
sea-cliffs, was calling him out, beckoning him to the plateau of
river-heads, waiting to welcome him at Cranmere.
During his climb from the edge of the gorge up to the high moor
Burrough was thinking of Beatrice. How he had seen her standing with
old Y., beneath the sycamore, after he had fallen in love with her
footprint; how they had boiled the kettle in the devil’s kitchen, in
the centre of their little Arcadia by the river of ferns; and how they
had gone swaling. Above all, how they had come back together from
Cranmere, and the night of enchantment in Tom-tit-tot’s palace. He
thought of her running over the broken ground, jumping from one rock
to another, springing across the crevasses. He thought of her
fearlessly cantering her horse over the clatters of granite. And then
he thought of her shudder when she first saw his disfigured face that
day they had searched in vain for the white heather. Well, he had put
all that right. Poltesco had reported favourably, he felt sure, and
Beatrice would not shrink from him again.
The morning continued fine, but there was a bitter wind as Burrough
came up into the mountainous region of dark heath and splintered
granite. His course took him beside the river, which was swollen into
a white torrent by the recent heavy rains. The masses of water
descended with the speed of a racehorse, and with the noise of a
hurricane. The ground on either side appeared to tremble, and when
Burrough placed his hand upon a boulder to preserve his balance, he
could feel the vibration caused by the torrent. The huge stones in the
river’s bed were submerged. The action of the water had worn them as
smooth as chiselled marble. The boiling masses made his head ache. He
felt dizzy when he looked up and saw them thundering down towards him.
So he left the river, and made towards Oke Tor, which he ascended
slowly. Beneath were the bogs gleaming sullenly in the sunlight.
Long before he reached Steeperton Cleave, and sighted the ruin where
Beatrice and he had spent the night, the sun had disappeared and the
clouds had settled in a uniform dark mantle across the sky. That was
only to be expected, considering the time of year. There had been
already more sunshine than was usual.
Already Burrough was tired. He was beginning to stumble, and a
troublesome cough made him breathless. The solitude seemed to him more
depressing than ever. He had apparently left the world of living
creatures. Men he had not expected to see, but there were no black
cattle, no shaggy ponies, not a bird even. Every living creature had
gone into shelter. Perhaps they had scented snow in the air. The only
sign of man and his works was an unpleasant one--the shells protruding
from the sodden peat.
The great pyramid of Steeperton became a regular obsession. Would he
never get past it? He tramped on and on without appearing to make any
progress, for the mountain was there just in the same place every time
he glanced to the left. It reminded him of the enchanted mountain of
the Arabian story which would not permit ships to sail past it.
The river became narrower and less tumultuous; presently it was
nothing more than a crack meandering through an ocean of bogs. Even on
the high moor the surface was treacherous, and patches of vivid green
moss had to be avoided. There was still plenty of light; but it was
colder, very much colder; and there were little scraps of what
appeared to be cotton sedge fluttering around. It was snowing,
although Burrough refused to recognise the fact. He was nearly upon
the plateau; not more than a mile from Cranmere Pool; snow, sleet, and
wind, he would face them all for Beatrice’s letter.
Then he passed a few carcases: first a bullock, then a fox, and then a
pony--destroyed by the fierce weather.
It was when he entered the region of crevasses that he dimly realised
he was making a foolhardy venture. The wind was bitter. It was as
noisy as a stormy sea; and he could not be oblivious of the fact that
it was behind him. Once he turned, but he had to put up his hands to
protect his face.
Within one of the deep fissures Burrough crouched upon glue-like peat,
listening to the wind, and watching the snowflakes rushing overhead,
whiter and more rapid than the torrent of the river. He was fairly
warm and comfortable in that shelter. Sentiment still encouraged him
to go on to Cranmere. Sense advised him to make the best of his way
home. He was feeling very weak and ill, but he cheered himself with
the thought of Beatrice. How pleased she would be when she knew what
an effort he had made to get his letter from the pixies’ post-office.
She would think very much more of him. She would know he was no mere
summer’s day lover.
It became darker, and when Burrough dragged himself out of the
crevasse he saw that the worst had happened. A greater enemy than the
wind and snow had sprung up. It was the mist. He knew then the only
thing to be done was to escape from the upland. It was impossible to
return as he had come. The only course open was to go with the wind,
strike some water-way, and follow it down. He might be brought out at
Lydford; but he remembered being told that the region in that
direction was practically impassable in bad weather on account of the
bogs.
Burrough continued to ascend, not from choice, but from necessity. By
the nature of the surface, and the fury of the weather, he knew that
he was upon Cranmere. It was not easy to see more than a few yards on
either side, and to look back was impossible--one attempt almost
flayed his face. The tumult was terrific; from every crevasse issued
yells and moans. The black mud was nearly liquid. Even the big
tussocks gave way, or quivered, beneath his tread. Burrough could not
stand for any length of time, for immediately he halted he felt
himself sinking into depths of mire. Had it not been for the wind
behind him he could not have progressed at all.
Lower down upon the moor, around the cottage by the gorge, there was
probably nothing more than a slight wind and a flurry of snowflakes.
Still lower it would be calm and cold. The terrific wind, the freezing
missiles of snow, heavy mist, liquid mud, and interminable bog, were
the normal condition of Cranmere in winter.
The sides of the crevasses crumbled away like bride-cake, and Burrough
went down often into the slime. The stunted heather came away by the
roots in a clot of mud when he grasped at it. The only safe places
were the tussocks, and these afforded no sort of shelter. Burrough’s
one and only idea was to get away from that horrible place, to get
down in any direction, anywhere to be away from the full fury of that
wind and the sting of the snow. But enveloped in mist as he was he
could do nothing, except proceed wind-blown and hopeful of feeling the
descent commence. One lake of mud led to a fissure which landed him
into another lake of mud, and so on into an interminable maze of
crevasses filled with slime, choked with mud, and gurgling horribly
with wind and water.
Possibly another hour’s strength remained. If he were not off the
plateau by then--but he reproved himself for the thought, which he
dared not express, and struggled on with his head down. How interested
and sympathetic Beatrice would be when he told her of that day’s
experiences. She might scold him for having exposed himself to danger.
How delightful that would be. But was there danger? The high moor at
the time of mist and snow--there he was again with his morbid
thoughts! How comfortable he would find his cottage when he got back!
He thought of the shelves of books, the glowing fire, the warm green
curtains, the cosy lounge and easy-chair, the soft lamp-light, and old
Peter--no, poor Peter was among the missing. He had gone out upon the
moor and had never come back. What an intelligent cat he was! He
remembered that Peter had taken to Beatrice. He had regarded her as
his future mistress. So she would have been if Peter had lived.
Burrough was utterly exhausted. His legs felt numbed, but it was not
from the cold. He could not stop to take any refreshment. There was no
place where he could do so, and the pitiless wind bore him on. He was
becoming drowsy and stupid. He wanted to get home and write to
Beatrice, and tell her what Cranmere was like in winter.
A big crevasse presented itself. The edge was fairly solid, and
through the mist Burrough perceived a stream of black water gurgling
sullenly. He wondered if it were a river-head, and if so what river.
It was more important to learn that the ridge of peat was able to
support his weight. His gloves were sodden and his hands were numbed,
but he managed to open his coat and drag out his watch. There was mud
all over him; even the watch-chain was clotted with it, so he
understood he must somewhere have sunk up to his waist. He had no
recollection of it, although he knew he had been wading and
floundering and sinking for hours. The time was close upon half-past
two. Then it seemed that the watch was dragged out of his hands. The
liquid slime sucked it down, and Burrough followed, toppled over by
the wind. Somehow he worked his way out with spasmodic struggles, and
crossed that crevasse, as he had crossed a hundred others, still
wondering stupidly if it were the river of Tavy or the river of Dart.
Had he known it was the river of West Okement, and the very centre of
Cranmere, he might have abandoned the struggle, and given way to his
drowsiness in its mud.
He was not cold any longer. He was quite warm and comfortable. The
snow appeared to burn his face and neck. The howling wind made
pleasant music. He thought he was on the shifting sands of the Cornish
coast being carried seaward; and the mists were the sunset clouds
which rested upon the queen’s gardens and the king’s palaces of
Lyonesse.
Wherever he was he could rest a little, for his body found support
against a heap of turves and white stones. There was an aperture, and
within something that resembled a box. Above his head was a wooden
post streaming with moisture. He thought he had been there before. His
hands pulled at the almost invisible object which looked like a box.
He opened it, just as if it had been a box, and inside was something
that resembled a letter; and the handwriting was a wonderfully good
imitation of Beatrice’s. It seemed quite natural to go through a
pantomime of taking out that letter and putting the one he had brought
with him in its place; of closing the box, and restoring it to the
hole in the side of the cairn. The next thing was to read the letter.
It was really just as though he had arrived at Cranmere Pool by
accident. Indeed if he had not been so drowsy he might have been sure
of it.
It was exactly the letter that he would have desired Beatrice to
write. She told him he might come to her at Porth Zennor as soon as he
liked after reading it. So he rose to go. But the mist was all round
him, and the snow rushed on, and the wind was rather more furious than
it had been.…
It was not known until five months later why Burrough had left the
cottage beside the gorge. Then Beatrice received a letter, bearing the
Lydford postmark, and endorsed “from Cranmere”: and a few days later
she appeared in the little village of Lew, and everyone noticed that
she had not so much colour as formerly. She herself went, with
wall-eyed Kellaway and a few others, upon the plateau of river-heads,
although, as Ann Cobbledick quite sensibly remarked, it was merely a
waste of time and energy, for the bogs of Cranmere preserve their
secrets even more surely than the sea--and “’twas the Dart took ’en,”
said Ann.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
John Trevena was a pseudonym used by Ernest George Henham.
Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. folk-lore/folk lore,
tiptoe/tip-toe, etc.) have been preserved.
Alterations to the text:
Punctuation: correct some quotation mark pairings/nestings, and
missing periods and commas.
Place the footnote at the beginning of Chapter XXV inline with
the text.
[Chapter V]
Change “and his _son ’ll_ be Willum” to _son’ll_.
[Chapter XII]
(Why, _twould_ kill me,’ is what they say) to _’twould_.
[Chapter XV]
(“_Its_ easy to see you never had a Cornish nurse) to _It’s_.
[Chapter XIX]
(“Nine,” she _mumured_ with a gasp of mirth) _murmured_.
[Chapter XXIII]
“There were castles embattled with _hugh_ archways” to _huge_.
[End of text]