Where Wigmore Down descends in mighty shoulders clad with oak, there
meet the rivers Plym and Mew, after their diverse journeyings on
Dartmoor. The first roars wild and broken from its cradle aloft on the
midmost waste, and falls with thunder under Cadworthy and beneath the
Dewerstone; the other, as becomes a stream that has run through
peaceful valleys by bridges and the hamlets of men, shall be found to
wander with more gentle current before she passes into the throbbing
bosom of her sister. Above them, on a day in early summer, the hill
ascended washed with light, spread hugely for the pomp of the leaf.
From Plym beneath, flashing arrowy under their lowermost branches, to
the granite tonsure of the hill above, ten thousand trees ascended in a
shining raiment of all greens--a garment that fitted close to the
contours of each winding ridge, sharp cleeve, and uplifted knoll of the
elevation that they covered. Lustrous and shimmering, this forest garb
exhibited every vernal tint that nature knows, for upon a prevalent,
triumphant fabric of golden-green were cast particular jewels and
patterns; against the oaken undertones, where they spread a dappled
verdure of amber and carmine, there sprang the tardy ash, shone the
rowan's brightness, sparkled the whitethorn at river's brink, and rose
the emerald pavilions of the larch. Beeches thrust their diaphanous
foliage in veils athwart the shadows; here a patchwork of blue firs
added new harmonies to the hill; here the glittering birch reflected
light from every tiny leaf; and here the holly's sobriety was broken by
inflorescence and infant foliage, young and bright.
The forest spread its new-born leaves under a still, grey evening, upon
which, suddenly, the sun thrust through before it sank. Shafts of
light, falling from west to east upon the planes of the woods, struck
out a path of sudden glory along the pine-tops and thrust down in rain
of red gold even to the river's face; while on Dewerstone's self, where
it towered above the trees and broke the green with grey, this gracious
light briefly brooded and flashed genial into dark crevices and hidden
nests of birds.
The great rock falls by abrupt acclivity to the water; it towers with
pinnacle and peak aloft. Planted in the side of the forest it stands
veined, scarred; it is fretted with many colours, cut and torn into all
manner of fantastic shapes by work of roots and rain, by centuries of
storm and the chisel of the lightning. Bedded here, with ivy on its
front, the smile of evening for a crown, and the forest like a green
sea breaking in foam of leaves around it, the Water Stone stood. Night
was already come upon its eaves and cornices; from its feet ascended
musical thunder of Plym in a riot of rocks; and aloft, clashing,
echoing and re-echoing from scarp and precipice, there rang the
cheerful chiming music of unnumbered jackdaws, who made these crags
their home.
Mark Baskerville, descending into the valley from Shaugh, beheld this
scene with understanding. He had been well educated; he was
sentimental; he regarded wild Nature in a manner rare amid those born
and bred upon her bosom. Beauty did not find him indifferent; old
legends gave him joy. He knew the folk-tales of the land and dwelt
upon them still with pleasure--an instinct surviving from boyhood, and
deliberately suffered to survive. He loved the emotion of awe and
cultivated it; he led a life from choice much secluded; he had walked
hitherto blind, in so far as women were concerned; but now a woman had
entered his life, and Nature shone glorified throughout by the
experience.
Mark was in love with Cora Lintern; yet this prime fact did not lessen
his regard for the earth and the old stories concerning it. He found
the things that were good aforetime still good, but changed. His
emotions were all sharpened and intensified. His strength was
stronger; his weakness was weaker than of yore. She was never out of
his thoughts; she made the sunlight warmer, the bird's song sweeter,
the night more wonderful. He woke and found himself brave enough to
approach her in the deep, small hours of morning; but with dawn came
fear, and with day his courage melted. By night also he made rhymes
that seemed beautiful to him and brought moisture to his eyes; but when
the sun came and he repeated his stumbling periods, he blushed at them
and banished them.
She was friendly and not averse; but she was clever, and had many
friends among young men. Nathan Baskerville rejoiced in her, and often
foretold a notable match for Cora. What Mark could offer seemed very
little to Mark himself. His father, indeed, was reputed rich; but life
at Hawk House revealed no sign of it. They lived hard, and Humphrey
Baskerville affected a frugality that would have been unusual in the
homes of humbler people.
Humphrey had often told his son that he did not know how to spend
money; and as for Mark, until the present, he had shared his father's
indifference and been well content. But he felt that Cora might be
fond of money; and he was glad sometimes that his father spent so
little; because, if all went well, there must surely come a time when
he would be able to rejoice Cora with great riches. The obstacle,
however, he felt to be himself. His distrust of himself was morbid;
the folk said that he was frightened of his own voice, and only spoke
through the tenor bell of St. Edward's.
Now he descended into the shadows of the valley and moved along the
brink of Plym, seeking for certain young wood, ripe for cutting.
Presently Mark found what he sought, but made no immediate effort to
begin work. He flung down a frail which contained a bill-hook and saw.
Then he sat upon a rock overhanging the river and buried himself in his
own thoughts.
A path wound beside the stream, and along it sauntered suddenly the
maiden of this man's dream. She looked fair enough and moved in deep
apparent unconsciousness of any human presence.
But her ignorance was simulated. She had seen young Baskerville pass
over the hill; she had known his destination, and by a detour she had
entered the valley from below.
Now she started and exhibited astonishment.
"Mark! Whoever would have thought----! What be you doing here all
alone like this--and you not a fisherman?"
He stammered, and grew pale.
"Fancy meeting; and I might ask what brought you, Cora?"
"Oh, just a silly fondness for the river and the trees and my own
thoughts. I like being about among the wild things, though I dare say
you won't believe it."
"Of course, I'll believe it--gladly too. Don't I like being about
among 'em better than anything else? I'm very pleased to meet you, I'm
sure. There's no lovelier bit of the river than here."
"Dewerstone do look fine to-night," she said, glancing up at the crags
above them.
"It does, then. The Water Stone I always call it, since I read in a
book that that was what it meant. 'Tis the great stone by the water,
you see. Have you ever heard tell of the Black Hunter, Cora? But
perhaps you don't hold with such old wife's tales?"
She put him at his ease and assured him that she loved ancient fables
and liked to go on believing them, despite her better knowledge.
"Just the same as me!" he cried eagerly. "The very thing I do. How
wonderful you should feel the same! I know 'tis rubbish, yet I let it
go sadly. I'd believe in the pixies, if I could!"
"Who was the Black Hunter, if you don't mind telling me?" she asked.
"I'll sit here a bit afore I go on, if it won't be to hinder you."
"Proud I am, I'm sure," he said. "And as for him, the Black Hunter,
that's no more than another name for the Devil himself. 'Twas thought
that he'd come here by night with his great, bellowing, red-eyed dogs,
and go forth to hunt souls. A coal-black horse he rode; but sometimes
he'd set out afoot, for 'tis well remembered how once in the deep snow,
on a winter morn, human footprints, along with hoofmarks, were traced
to the top of the hill, but not down again!"
"The devil flew away with somebody?"
"So the old story says. But I like the thought of the little Heath
Hounds better. For they hunt and harry old Nick's self. They are the
spirits of the young children who die before they are baptised; and the
legend hath it that they win to heaven soon or late by hunting the
Prince of Darkness. 'Tis the children that we bury with maimed rites
upon 'Chrisomers' Hill' in the churchyard. They put that poor woman
who killed herself in the same place, because the old parson wouldn't
read 'sure and certain hope' over her."
But Cora was not interested in his conversation, though she pretended
to be. She endeavoured to turn speech into a more personal road.
"What have you come here for? I hadn't any idea you ever took walks
alone."
"I take hundreds--terrible poor hand at neighbouring with people, I
am--like my father. But I'm here to work--getting handles for tools.
There's no wood for light tools like alder. You know the old rhyme--
'When aller's leaf is so big as a penny,
The stick will wear so tough as any.'
That's true enough, for I've proved it."
"Set to work and I'll watch you, if I may."
"Proud, I'm sure. And I'll see you home after. But there's no haste.
I was thinking that bare, dark corner in the garden at Undershaugh
might do very nice for ferns--if you'd care----?"
"The very thing! How kind to think of it. I love the garden and the
flowers. But none else cares about them. D'you think you could get me
one of they king ferns? But I suppose that would be too much to ask."
"I'll get you more than one."
"I'll try to plant 'em then, but I'm not very clever."
"I'll come and make a bit of a rockery myself, if--if you like."
"'Like!" I should love it. But 'tis very good of you to bother about
a stupid girl."
"Don't you say that. Far, far from stupid. Never was a cleverer girl,
I'm sure."
She shook her head and talked about the ferns. Then she became
personal.
"I've always felt somehow with you; but I suppose it ban't maidenly to
say such things--but I've always felt as you understood me, Mark."
"Ah!" he said. "And as for me, I've felt--God, He knows what I've
felt."
The man broke off, and she smiled at him and dropped her eyes. She
knew the thing that shared his heart with her, and now spoke of it.
"And through you I've got to love tenor bell almost as much as you do.
Of a Sunday the day isn't complete till I've heard the beautiful note
of your bell and thought of you at the rope. I always somehow think of
you when I hear that bell; and I think of the bell when I see you!
Ban't that strange?"
"'Tis your wonderful quick mind, and you couldn't say anything to
please me better."
"I wanted to ask you about the bells. I'm so ignorant; but I thought,
if 'twasn't silly of me, I'd ask you about 'em. I suppose they'm awful
difficult to ring?"
"Not a bit. Only wants steady practice. The whole business is little
understood, but 'tis simple enough. I've gone into it all from the
beginning, and I'm glad--very glad--you care about it. The first thing
is for a ring of bells to be in harmony with itself, and founders ought
to be free to make 'em so. The bells are never better than when they
are broken out of the moulds, and every touch of the lathe, or chip of
the chisel, is music lost. The thickness of the sound-bow should be
one-thirteenth of the diameter, you must know; but modern bells are
made for cheapness. Long in the waist and high in the shoulder they
should be for true fineness of sound; but they cast 'em with short
waists and flat shoulders now. 'Tis easier to hang and ring them so;
but they don't give the same music. My tenor is a wonderful good
bell--a maiden bell, as we say--one cast true, that has never had a
chip at the sound-bow. 'I call the quick to church and dead to grave,'
is her motto. A Pennington bell she is, and no bell-founder ever cast
a better. Every year makes her sweeter, for there's nothing improves
bell-metal like time."
"I suppose it wouldn't be possible for me actually to see the bells?"
"It can be done and shall be," he promised. Then he went off again.
"I've been in nearly every bell-cot and bell-turret in Devonshire, one
time and another, and I've took a hand in change-ringing far and wide;
but our ring of six, for its size and weight, can't be beat in the
county, and there's no sweeter tenor that I've heard than mine. And
I'm very hopeful that Mr. Masterman will take my advice and have our
wheels and gear looked to, and the bell-chamber cleaned out. 'Tis the
home of birds, and the nest litter lies feet deep up there. The
ladder's all rotten too. We ought to have stays and slides; and our
ropes are a bit too heavy, and lack tuftings for the sally. I'm
hopeful he'll have a care for these things."
He prattled on, for it was his subject and always loosed his tongue.
She was bored to death, but from time to time, when he feared that he
wearied her, she assured him that her interest did not wane and was
only less than his own. He showed unusual excitement at this meeting,
was lifted out of himself, and talked until grey gloaming sank over the
valley and the jackdaws were silent. Then Cora started up and declared
that she must return home quickly.
"Listening to you has made me forget all about the time and
everything," she said. "They'll wonder whatever has befallen me."
"I'll see you home," he answered. "'Tis my fault you'll be late, and I
must take the blame."
"And I've kept you from your work, I'm afraid."
"That's no matter at all. To-morrow will do just as well for the
alder."
He rose and walked beside her. She asked him to help her at one place
in the wood, and her cool, firm hand thrilled him. Once or twice he
thought to take this noble opportunity and utter the thing in his
heart; but he could not bring himself to do it. Then, at her gate, he
left her, and they exchanged many assurances of mutual thanks and
obligation. He promised to bring the ferns in three days' time, and
undertook to spend an evening with the Linterns, build the rockery, and
stay to supper with the family afterwards.
He walked home treading on air, with his mind full of hope and
happiness. Cora had never been so close as on this day; she had never
vouchsafed such an intimate glimpse of her beautiful spirit before.
Each word, each look seemed to bring her nearer; and yet, when he
reflected on his own imperfections, a wave of doubt swept coldly over
him. He supped in silence, but, after the meal, he confessed the
thoughts in his mind.
"Never broke a twig this evening," he said. "Was just going to begin,
when who should come along but Cora Lintern."
"Has she forgiven parson for turning her out of the choir? Can't
practise that side-glance at the men no more now."
"She's not that sort, father."
"Not with a face like hers? That girl would rather go hungry than
without admiration and flattering. A little peacock, and so vain as
one."
"You're wrong there. I'll swear it. She's very different to what you
reckon. Why, this very evening, there she was under the Water Stone
all alone--walking along by herself just for love of the place. Often
goes there, she tells me."
"Very surprised to find you there--eh?"
"That she was. And somehow I got talking--such a silent man as me most
times. But I found myself chattering about the bells and one thing and
another. We've got a lot more in common than you might think."
Mr. Baskerville smoked and looked into the fire.
"Well, don't be in a hurry. I'm not against marriage for the young
men. But bide your time, till you've got more understanding of women."
"I'll never find another like her. I'm sure she'd please you, father."
"You'll be rich in a small way, as the world goes, presently.
Remember, she knows that as well as you do."
"She never speaks of money. Just so simple and easily pleased as I am
myself, for that matter. She loves natural things--just the things you
care about yourself."
"And very much interested in tenor bell, no doubt?"
"How did you guess that? But 'tis perfectly true. She is; and she
said a very kind thing that was very hopeful to me to hear. She said
that the bell always put her in mind of me, and I always put her in
mind of the bell."
"I wonder! And did you tell her what was writ on the bell?"
"Yes, I did, father."
"And d'you know what she thought?"
Mark shook his head.
"She thought that the sooner it called you and her to church together,
and the sooner it called me to my grave, the pleasanter life would look
for her hard eyes."
"Father! 'Tis cruel and unjust to say such things."
"Haven't I seen her there o' Sundays ever since she growed up? There's
nought tells you more about people than their ways in church. As
bright as a bee and smart and shining; but hard--hard as the nether
millstone, that woman's heart. Have a care of her; that's all I'll say
to you."
"I hope to God you'll know her better some day, father."
"And I hope you will, my lad; and I'll use your strong words too, and
hope to God you'll know her better afore 'tis too late."
"This is cruel, and I'm bitter sorry to hear you say it," answered the
young man, rising. Then he went out and left his father alone.
Elsewhere Phyllis Lintern had eagerly inquired of Cora as to the
interview with the bellringer.
The girls shared many secrets and were close friends. They knew
unconsciously that their brother was more to the mother than were they.
Heathman adored Mrs. Lintern and never wearied of showing it; but for
his sisters he cared little, and they felt no interest in him.
Now Phyllis sympathised with Cora's ambitions and romances.
"How was it?" she asked. "I warrant you brought him to the scratch!"
"'Tis all right," declared her sister. "'Tis so good as done. The
word was on his tongue coming up-along in the dimpsy; but it stuck in
his throat. I know the signs well enough. However, 'twill slip out
pretty soon, I reckon. He's a good sort, though fidgety, but he's
gotten lovely eyes. I'll wake him up and smarten him up,
too--presently."