might have posed as the most incompetent creature in the West Country.
It is hardly necessary to say he did not do so; on the contrary, he
posed as a many-sided genius. He occupied a hideous little tin house,
which would have been condemned at a glance in those parts of the
country where building by-laws are in existence. At one time and another
he had borrowed the dregs of paint-pots, and had endeavoured to decorate
the exterior. As a result, one portion was black, another white, and
another blue. Over the door a board appeared setting forth the
accomplishments of Peter Tavy, as he may here be called. According to
his own showing he was a clock-maker; he was a photographer; he was a
Dartmoor guide; he was a dealer in antiquities; he was a Reeve attached
to the Manor of Lydford; and he was a purveyor of manure. This board was
in its way a masterpiece of fiction. Once upon a time a resident,
anxious to put Peter's powers to the test, sent him an old kitchen-clock
to repair. He examined and gave it as his opinion that the undertaking
would require time. When a year had passed the owner of the clock
requested Peter to report progress. He replied that the work was getting
on, but "'Twas a slow business and 'twould take another six months to
make a job of it." At the end of that period the clock was removed,
almost by force, and it was then discovered that Peter had sold most of
the interior mechanism to a singularly innocent tourist as Druidical
remains unearthed by him in one of the shafts of Wheal Betsy.
As a photographer he carried his impudence still further. Some one had
given him an old camera and a few plates. He began at once to inveigle
visitors--chiefly elderly ladies, "half-dafty maidens" he impolitely
called them--down Tavy Cleave, where he would pose them on rocks and
pretend to photograph them with plates which had already been exposed
more than once. "If I doan't get a picture first time, I goes on till I
do," he explained. Once, when Peter announced "'twas a fine picture this
time," a gentleman of the party reminded him he had omitted to remove
the cap from the lens. Peter was not to be caught that way: "I took
'en," he said, "I took 'en, but yew was yawning."
As a guide upon the moor Peter was an equal failure. He ought to have
known Dartmoor after living upon it all his life; the truth was, he
would have lost his way upon the road to Tavistock had he strayed from
it a moment. Visitors, lured by the notice-board, had approached him
from time to time with the request to be guided to Cranmere. Peter would
take them along Tavy Cleave for a mile, then assure them a storm was
coming up and it would be necessary to seek shelter as soon as possible,
hurry them back, and demand half-a-guinea in return for his services.
Peter had never been to Cranmere Pool, and had no idea how to get there.
Sometimes a party would insist upon proceeding, in spite of the guide's
warning, and in such cases the bewildered Peter would have to be shown
the way home by his victims. He would demand the half-guinea all the
same.
As a dealer in antiquities nothing came amiss. Broken pipes, bits of
crockery, old mining-tools, any rubbish rotting or rusting upon the peat
were gathered and classified as Druidical remains. No one knew where
Peter had picked up the word Druidical; but it was certain he picked up
their supposed remains on the piece of black moor which surrounded his
house. Sometimes, it was said, he found a tourist foolish enough to
purchase a selection of this rubbish.
What he meant by describing himself as an official receiving pay from
the Duchy of Cornwall nobody ever knew. As a Reeve (another word he had
picked up somewhere) of the Manor of Lydford he believed himself to be
intimately connected with the lord of that manor, who is the Prince of
Wales. He knew that august personage was interested somehow in three
feathers. The public-house in the neighbourhood called _The Plume of
Feathers_ had something to do with it he was sure, though he had never
seen "goosey's feathers same as they on the sign-board." Once he thought
seriously of erecting three feathers above his own door, and for that
purpose captured a neighbor's goose and plucked three large quills from
one of its wings, accompanying his action with the bland request, "Now
bide still, goosey-gander, do' ye." He could not make his three
goose-quills graceful and drooping, like those upon the sign-board, and
that was probably why Peter refrained from doing the Lord of Dartmoor
the compliment of assuming his crest.'
The village of Peter Tavy, like most spots upon Dartmoor, has its summer
visitors; and these were sure, sooner or later, to make the acquaintance
of Peter Tavy the man. They thought him a harmless idiot, and he
reciprocated. One summer a journalist came upon the moor for his health
and, desiring to combine business with pleasure, he wrote a descriptive
sketch of Peter, and this was published in due course in a paper which
by a curious accident reached Peter himself. The man was furious. He
went about the two villages with the paper in his hand, his scanty hair
bristling, his watery eyes bulging, his mouth twisted into a very ugly
shape. It was a good thing the journalist had departed, for just then
Peter was angry and vindictive enough for anything. Presently he met his
clergyman; he made towards him, held out the paper, and, regardless of
grammar, cried out, "That's me."
"He does not mention you by name," said the clergyman.
"He says the man in the iron house wi' notice-board atop. He's got down
the notice-board as 'tis," spluttered Peter. "He says a ginger-headed
man--that's me; face like a rabbit--that's me."
It was as a purveyor of manure that Peter found his level, if not a
living. Probably he received financial assistance from his sister, who
lived across the river at Mary Tavy. She had been formerly a lady's maid
in Torquay; after more than thirty years' service her mistress had died,
and had bequeathed to her a modest income, and on this she lived
comfortably in retirement, crossing Tavy Cleave occasionally to visit
her eccentric brother. She, too, was said to be eccentric, but that was
only because she was fond of getting full value for a halfpenny. Mary
Tavy was a spinster, and Peter Tavy was a bachelor. On those occasions
when some ne'er-do-well attempted to annex Mary and her income, the good
woman's eccentricity had revealed itself very strongly; and as for
Peter, his own sister would remark, "Women never could abide he."
The Tavies always passed Christmas together. One year Peter would go
across and stop with Mary for three days; the next, Mary would come
across and stop with Peter for three days. Their rule on this matter was
fixed; the visit never extended beyond three days, and Peter would not
have dreamed of going across to Mary if it were the turn of Mary to come
across to him.
Peter had a little cart and a pony to draw it. How he came by the pony
nobody knew, but as it was never identified no hard questions were
asked. Every year a few Dartmoor ponies are missed when the drift takes
place; and at the same time certain individuals take to owning shaggy
little steeds which have no past history. When a brand has been
skilfully removed, one Dartmoor pony is very much like a score of
others. To drive Peter into a corner over his title to the pony which
pulled his shameful little cart--it was hardly better than a
packing-case on wheels--would have been impossible. He had hinted that
it was a present from the Prince of Wales as a slight return for
services rendered; and as no one else in the Tavy district was in the
habit of communicating with the lord of the manor, his statement could
not easily be refuted.
With this pony and unlicensed cart Peter would convey people from time
to time to the station at Mary Tavy, making a charge of eighteen pence,
which was not exorbitant considering the dangers and difficulties of the
road. For conveying his sister from her home to his at Christmas he made
a charge of one shilling; when she expostulated, as she always did, and
quoted the proverb "Charity begins at home," Peter invariably replied
with another proverb, "Business is business."
Few will have forgotten the winter of 1881, when snow fell for over a
week, and every road was lost and every cleave choked. Snow was lurking
in sheltered nooks upon the tops of Ger Tor and the High Willhays range
as late as the following May. Snow upon Dartmoor does not always mean
snow elsewhere. It is possible sometimes to stand knee-deep upon the
high moor and look down upon a stretch of country without a flake upon
it, and so on to the sugared and frosted hills of Exmoor; but no part of
the country escaped the great fall of 1881. Every one on the moor can
tell of some incident in connection with that Christmas. At the two
Tavies they tell how Peter tried to drive Mary from his village to hers,
how he failed in the attempt, and how both of them remained good
business people to the end.
It was Mary's turn to visit Peter that year, and she arrived upon
Christmas Eve, quaintly but warmly dressed, a small boy carrying her
basket, which contained the articles that she deemed necessary for her
visit, together with a bottle of spiced wine, some cream cakes, and a
plum-pudding as big as her head. The boy said a good many
uncomplimentary things about that pudding as they climbed up from the
Tavy, comparing it to the Giant's Pebble higher up the cleave. When Mary
raised her black-mittened hand and threatened him with chastisement, the
urchin lifted out the pudding in its cloth, set it at her feet, and told
her to carry it herself, as it was "enough to pinch a strong man
dragging that great thing up the cleave"; so Mary had to finish the
journey hugging the pudding like a baby. She was walking to save herself
sixpence. Peter had offered to come for her with his pony and cart, the
charge to be one shilling, payable as follows--sixpence when she got
into the cart and sixpence when she got out; but Mary had told him that
she could get a boy to carry her basket for half that amount; when he
protested she reminded him that business was business.
A light sprinkle of snow had fallen, just enough to dust over the rocks
and furze-bushes; but it was very cold, the clouds were low and
wood-like, and there was in the air that feel of snow which animals can
nearly always detect, and men who live on the moors can sometimes.
Peter and Mary spent the evening in simple style. Peter sat on one side
of the fire, Mary on the other; sometimes Peter stirred to get fresh
turves for the fire; sometimes Mary got up to heap the little table with
good cheer and place it midway between the old-fashioned chairs. They
both smoked, they both took snuff, they both drank spiced wine. Towards
evening they talked of old times and became merry. Then they talked of
old people and grew sentimental, dropping tears into their hot wine.
Peter got up and kissed Mary, but Mary did not care for Peter's caresses
and told him so, whereupon Peter advised her to "get along home then."
Mary declared she would, but changed her mind when she thought of the
gloomy cleave and the Tavy in winter flood; so they went on smoking,
taking snuff, and drinking spiced wine.
The next day was fine, and Peter and Mary went to chapel. Mary gave her
brother a penny to put into the plate, but he put it into his pocket
instead; he was always a man of business. She also gave him a bright new
florin as a Christmas present. He had made her understand, when the coin
was safe in his possession, that he should still demand a shilling for
driving her home, and over that point they wrangled for some time. In
the evening, when Peter had fallen asleep over the fire, Mary repented
of her kindness and sought to regain the florin; but Peter had it hidden
away safely in his boot.
When the time came for Mary to start homewards it was snowing fast, and
she did not like the prospect. Although it was not much after three
o'clock, the outlook was exceedingly dark; there was an unpleasant
silence upon the moor, and the snowflakes were larger and falling
thickly. But the pony was harnessed to the unsteady conveyance, and
Peter was waiting; before Mary could utter a word of protest, he had
bundled her in and they were off.
"Twould have paid me better to bide home," said Mary.
"Do'ye sit quiet," Peter growled. Then he added, "Where's the shillun?"
"There now, doan't ye worry about the shillun," said Mary; "I'll give it
ye when I'm safe and sound to home wi' no bones broke."
"Shillun be poor pay vor driving this weather," said her business-like
brother.
Now and again a light appeared from one of the cottages. The pony
struggled on with its head down, while the silence seemed to grow more
unearthly, and the darkness increased, and the snow became a solid
descending mass. The road between the two Tavies is not easy in winter
under favorable conditions, and on that night it was to become
practically impassable. When the last light of Peter Tavy the village
had vanished, Peter Tavy the man had about as much idea where he was as
if he had just dropped out of the moon.
"Where be'st going?" shrieked Mary, as the cart swerved violently to the
right.
"Taking a short cut," explained Peter.
"Dear life!" gasped Mary, "he'm pixy-led."
"I b'ain't," said Peter; "I be driving straight vor Mary Tavy."
Had he said straight for the edge of Tavy Cleave he would have spoken the
truth. The pony knew perfectly well that they were off the road, and the
sensible beast would have returned to the right way had it not been for
Peter, who kept pulling its head towards the cleave. Left to itself the
pony would have returned to Peter Tavy, having quite enough sense to
know that it was impossible to reach the sister village on such a night.
Its master, with his fatal knack of blundering, tugged at the reins with
one hand and plied the whip with the other. The snow was like a wall on
every side; the clouds seemed to be dissolving upon them; suddenly the
silence was broken by the roaring of the Tavy below.
"Us be going to kingdom come," shrieked Mary.
"Us b'ain't," said Peter; "us be going to Mary Tavy."
The pony stopped. Peter used his whip, and the next instant the snow
appeared to rush towards them, open, and swallow them up. They had
struck a boulder and gone over the cleave. The body of the cart was in
one spot, its wheels were in another; and wallowing in the sea and snow
were Peter and Mary and the pony. The animal was the first to regain its
feet, and made off at once, with the broken harness trailing behind.
Mary was the next to rise, plastered over with snow from head to foot;
but she was soon down again, because her legs refused to support her.
Presently she heard her brother's voice. He was invisible, because he
had been thrown several feet lower, and had landed among rocks somewhat
bruised and sprained; had it not been for the soft snow he would
probably have been killed.
"I be broke to bits," he wailed.
"So be I," cried Mary; "So be the cart."
"Be the cart broke?" said Peter; and when Mary had replied it was only
fit for firewood (it had not been fit for much else before the
accident), he went on, "'Twill cost ye a lot o' money to buy me a new
one."
"Buy ye a new one? The man be dafty!" screamed Mary.
"'Twas taking yew home what broke it," Peter explained.
"Call this taking me home?" Mary shouted.
"I done my best," said Peter; "'twas your weight what sent it over.
There'll be the cart, and the harness and the doctor's bill; 'twill cost
ye a heap o' money."
"Dear life, hear the man talk!" said Mary, appealing to the snow which
was piled upon her ample form.
"Mayhap there'll be funeral expenses," said Peter lugubriously; "I be
hurt dreadful."
"Yew won't want the cart then," his sister muttered; "and I'll have the
pony."
"Where be the pony?" Peter demanded.
"Gone home likely; got more sense than we," said Mary. "Why doan't ye
get up, Peter?"
"Get up wi' my two legs broke!" Peter replied in disgust.
"Dear life, man, get up!" Mary went on, with real alarm. "If us doan't
get up soon us'll be stone dead carpses when us gets home."
"I'll try, Mary, I'll try," said Peter.
"Come up here, Peter; there be a sheltered spot over agin them rocks,"
said Mary.
"There be a sheltered spot down here," Peter answered; "'tis easier vor
yew to roll down than vor me to climb up."
When the question had been argued, Mary went down; that is to say, she
groped and grovelled through the snow, half-rolling, half-sliding, until
she reached the shelter to which Peter had dragged himself. It was a
small cleft, a chimney, mountaineers would have called it, in the centre
of a rock-mass which made a small tor on the side of the cleave.
Normally, this chimney acted as a drain for the rock-basin above, but it
was then frozen up and dry. Peter was right at the back, huddled up as
he could never have been had any bones been broken. When Mary appeared
he dragged her in; she was almost too stout to pass inside, but as he
placed her she made an excellent protection for him against the storm.
Mary realised this, and suggested they should change places; but Peter
pointed out that in his shattered condition any movement might prove
fatal.
Presently Mary began to cry, realizing the gravity of their position.
The snow was descending more thickly than ever, drifting up the side of
the cleave and choking the entrance to their cleft. Fortunately the
night was not very cold, and they were both warmly clad, while the snow
which was threatening to bury them was itself a protection. Help could
not possibly reach them while the night lasted; no one would know what
had befallen them, and they were unable to walk. When Mary began to cry
Peter abused her, until his thoughts also began to trouble him.
"Think they'll put what's on my notice-board on my tombstone?" he
inquired.
"Now doan't ye talk about tombstoanes, doan't ye now," implored Mary
tearfully.
"Business is business," said Peter. "I told 'em to give me a great big
tombstone, and to put upon him, _Peter Tavy, Clock-maker, Photographer,
Dealer in Antiquities, Dartmoor Guide, Reeve of the Manor of Lydford,
Purveyor of Manure, and et cetera_."
"Doan't ye worry about it; they'll put it all down," said Mary.
"Us'll be buried together, same afternoon, half-past two likely," Peter
went on.
"Doan't ye talk about funerals and tombstoanes," Mary implored. "Talk
about spicy wine, and goosey fair, and them wooden horses that go round
and round, and hurdy-gurdy music; talk about they, Peter."
"It ain't the time," said Peter bitterly.
A long dreary period of silence followed. Peter Tavy the village and
Mary Tavy its sister were completely snowed up; and in the cleave of the
river which divided the parishes Peter Tavy the man was snowed up with
Mary Tavy his sister. They were miserably cold and drowsy. The snow was
piled up in front of the chimney like a wall; there was hardly room for
Mary to move, and Peter kept on groaning. At length he roused himself to
remark: "Yew owes me a shillun."
"What would I owe ye a shillun vor?" said Mary sharply, wide-awake
immediately at any suggestion of parting with money.
"Vor the drive," said Peter.
"I was to give ye a shillun vor taking me home, not vor breaking me
bones and leaving me to perish in Tavy Cleave," said Mary. "Yew ain't
earned the shillun, and I doan't see how yew'm going to."
"Yew owes me a shillun," repeated her brother doggedly. "I done my best
to tak' ye home, and there was naught in your agreement wi' me about
accidents. I never contracted to tak' ye home neither."
"Yew never promised to starve me wi' ice and snow on Tavy Cleave
neither," replied Mary.
"I didn't promise nothing. I meant to tak' ye home, reasonable wear and
tear excepted; this here is reasonable wear and tear. Yew promised to
give me a shillun."
"When yew put me down," added Mary.
"Yew wur put down," said Peter.
"Not to my door."
"That warn't my fault," said Peter. "Twas your worriting what done it;
if yew hadn't worrited I'd have put ye out to Mary Tavy. Yew worrited
and upset the cart, and now we'm dying."
"I b'ain't dying," said Mary stoutly.
"I be," said Peter drearily. "I be all cold and nohow inside. I be a
going to die; I'd like to die wi' that shillun in my pocket."
"Doan't ye go on about it, Peter. If yew'm dying yew'll soon be in a
place where yew won't want shilluns."
"While I be here I want 'en," said Peter. "Yew'll be fearful sorry when
yew see me lying a cold carpse wi'out a shillun in my pocket."
"Give over, can't ye," cried Mary. "You'll be giving me the creepies. If
yew wur to turn carpsy I wouldn't bide wi' ye."
There was no reply. Silence fell again, and the only sound was the
moaning of the wind and the roaring of the Tavy; the snow went on
falling and drifting. Another hour passed, and then Mary shook off her
drowsiness, and called timidly, "Peter." There was no answer; she could
see nothing; her fear returned and she shuddered. "Peter," she called
again; there was still no reply. Mary pressed her stout figure forward
and reached out fearfully; she heard a groan. "Ah, doan't ye die," she
implored; "wait till us gets out o' this. What's the matter, Peter?"
"Yew owes me a shillun," whispered a voice.
"I doan't owe it, Peter, I doan't," cried Mary. "If yew had drove me
across the river I'd have paid ye, I would; but us be still in the
parish of Peter Tavy----"
She was interrupted by another and a deeper groan. "Be yew that bad?"
she asked earnestly.
"I be like an old clock past mending," Peter answered. "My mainspring be
broke; I be about to depart this life, December the twenty-seventh,
eighteen hundred and eighty-one, aged fifty-eight, in hopes of being
thoroughly cleaned and repaired and set a going in the world to come."
"Can't I do anything vor ye, Peter?" asked Mary gently.
"Yew can give me the shillun yew owes me," replied Peter.
"'Tis hard of ye to want a shillun if yew'm dying."
"Business is business," Peter moaned.
Fumbling in the little black bag she carried beneath her skirt, Mary
produced a coin and held it out, saying sadly: "Here 'tis, Peter; I
doan't want to give it to ye, but if 'twill make yew die happy, I must."
With singular agility Peter reached out his hand, and after groping a
little in the darkness secured the precious coin. He felt it, he bit it,
and he asked with suspicion: "How I be to know 'tis a shillun? He tastes
like a halfpenny."
"I know 'tis a shillun; I ain't got no coppers," Mary answered.
Peter's groans ceased from that moment; he pocketed the coin and
chuckled.
"I be a lot better," he said; "my legs b'ain't quite broke, I reckon,
and I ain't so cold inside, neither."
Mary's reply was too eccentric to mention.
So soon as it was day a party of villagers set out from Peter Tavy well
supplied with blankets and stimulants; Peter and Mary were not the only
ones missing that fateful morning. The pony had returned to its stable
the evening before, and had been seen by the local constable trailing
its broken harness past the beer-house. An attempt had been made to find
the couple then, but their tracks were completely hidden. Snow was still
descending as the relief party waded through the drifts upon the edge of
the cleave. The moor had disappeared during the night, and a strange
region of white mountains had risen in its stead. The searchers worked
their way on, with a hopeless feeling that they were only wasting their
time, when they thought they heard a whistle. They stopped and argued
the matter like the three jolly huntsmen; one said it was a man, another
said it was a bird, and another it was the wind. They were all wrong; it
was a woman. Out of the centre of a huge white mass down the cleave
appeared a black scarf tied to the end of an umbrella.
Peter and Mary were rescued, not without difficulty, because the snow
was four feet in depth on the side of the cleave, and were conveyed in
due course to their respective villages. Being a hardy couple they were
little the worse for their adventure, although Peter posed as an invalid
to the end of his days, and sought parish relief in consequence; that
was simply a matter of business.
So soon as the roads became passable and he was able to walk, Peter
tramped across to Mary Tavy, to pay his sister a friendly, and a
business, visit. "There be ten shilluns yew owes vor breaking my cart
and harness," he explained. "When be yew a going to pay?"
"Never," replied Mary decidedly.
"Then I'll tak' ye into court," said Peter.
* * * * *
THE CHRISTENING OF THE FIFTEEN PRINCESSES
A MODERN FAIRY TALE
Once upon a time there was a village called Lew, and it was perched on
the top of a hill 999 feet, 11 inches high. That is the way fairy-tales
have to begin; they insist upon going back into the remote past; but
unfortunately the village of Lew has come down to our own days, and so
has the big hill on which it stands. If we start over again with, "Once
upon a time there was a man of Lew who had fifteen daughters," we are
confronted by exactly the same difficulty; for the man is still alive,
and the fifteen daughters look as if they never would, nor could, belong
to the period when little pixy maids were to be seen any night running
round and round the furze-bushes. The only way out of the difficulty is
to be courageous, to tell the truth, and say: At the top of a hill 999
feet, 11 inches high--some say it is 1,000 feet, but that is not
true--stands the village of Lew, where dwells a man named Heathman, who
has fifteen daughters and not a single son; and the daughters are all
princesses, although it is not easy to say why; but as they are pretty,
and this is a fairy-tale, they must be.