THE HOUND'S POOL

By day the place was inviting enough and a child wouldn't have feared to

be there. Dean Burn came down from its cradle far away in the hills and

threaded Dean Woods with ripple and flash and song. The beck lifted its

voice in stickles and shouted over the mossy apron of many a little

waterfall; and then under the dark of the woods it would go calm, nestle

in a backwater here and there, then run on again. And of all fine spots on

a sunny day the Hound's Pool was finest, for here Dean Burn had scooped a

hole among the roots of forest trees and lay snug from the scythe of the

east wind, so that the first white violet was always to be found upon the

bank and the earliest primrose also. In winter time, when the boughs above

were naked, the sun would glint upon the water; and sometimes all would be

so still that you could hear a vole swimming; and then again, after a

Dartmoor freshet, the stream would come down in spate, cherry-red, and

roll big waters for such a little river. And then Hound's Pool would be

like to rise over its banks and drown the woodman's path that ran beside

it and throw up sedges and dead grasses upon the lowermost boughs of the

overhanging thicket to show where it could reach sometimes.

'Twas haunted, and old folk--John Meadows among 'em--stoutly maintained

that nothing short of Doomsday would lay the spectrum, because they knew

the ancient tale of Weaver Knowles, and believed in it also; but the

legend had gone out of fashion, as old stories will, and it came as a new

and strange thing to the rising generation. 'Tis any odds the young men

and maidens would never have believed in it; but by chance it happed to be

a young man who revived the story, and as he'd seen with his own eyes, he

couldn't doubt. William Parsloe he was, under-keeper at Dean, and he told

what he'd seen to John Meadows, the head-keeper; but it weren't till he

heard old John on the subject that he knew as he'd beheld something out of

another world than his own.

The two men met where a right of way ran through the preserves--a sore

trial to the keepers and the owners also, but sacred under the law--and

Harry Wade, the returned native, as had just come back to his birthplace,

was walking along with Parsloe at the time.

The keepers were a good bit fretted and on their mettle just then, because

there was a lot of poaching afoot and pheasants going, and a dead bird or

two picked up, as had escaped the malefactors, but died after and been

found. So when Parsloe stopped Mr. Meadows and said as he'd got something

to report, the old man hoped he might have a line to help against the

enemy. One or two law-abiding men, Wade among 'em, had been aiding the

keepers by night, and the police had also lent a hand; but as yet nobody

was laid by the heels, nor even suspected. So it looked like stranger men

from down Plymouth way; and the subject was getting on John Meadows'

nerves, because his master, a great sportsman who poured out a lot of

money on his pheasants, didn't like it and was grumbling a good bit.

Then William Parsloe told his tale:

"I was along the Woodman's Path last night working up to the covers," he

said, "and beside Hound's Pool I fell in with a hugeous great dog. 'Twas a

moony night and I couldn't be mistook. 'Twas no common dog I knowed, but

black as sin and near so large as a calf. He didn't make no noise, but

come like a blot of ink down to the pool and put his nose down to drink,

and in another moment I'd have shot the creature, but he scented me, and

then he saw me, as I made to lift my gun, and was off like a streak of

lightning."

John Meadows stared and then he showed a good bit of satisfaction.

"Ah!" he said. "I'm glad as it is one of the younger people seed it, and

not me, or some other old man; because now 'twill be believed. Hound's

Pool, you say?"

Parsloe nodded and Harry Wade asked a question. He was a tall, handsome

chap tanned by the foreign sun where he'd lived and worked too.

"What of it, master?" he said.

"This of it," answered Meadows. "Bill Parsloe have seen the Hound and no

less. And the Hound ain't no mortal dog at all, but he was once a mortal

man and the tale be old history now, yet none the less true for that. My

father, as worked here before me, saw him thrice, and his highest good

came to him after; and Benny Price, a woodman, saw him once ten year ago,

and good likewise came to him, for Mrs. Price ran away with a baker's

apprentice at Buckfastleigh and was never heard of again. And since you've

seen the Hound, Parsloe, I hope good will come to you."

Neither of t'other men had heard the tale and Harry Wade was very

interested, because he minded that, when a nipper, his mother had told him

something about it. And Parsloe, who was pretty well educated and a very

sharp man, felt inclined to doubt he hadn't seen a baggering poacher's

mongrel; but old John wouldn't tell 'em then. He was a stickler for his

job and never wasted no time gossiping in working hours.

"'Tis too long to unfold now," he said, "because Bill and me have got to

be about our duty; but if you'll drop in o' Sunday and drink a dish of

tea, Wade, you can hear the truth of the Hound; and you can look in on

your way to work, Bill, and hear likewise if you've a mind to it."

They promised to come and upon the appointed hour both turned up at the

gamekeeper's cottage on Thurlow Down, where the woods end and the right of

way gives to the high road. And there was John and his wife, Milly, and

their daughter, Millicent, for she was called after her mother and always

went by her full name to distinguish her. Meadows had married late in life

and Milly was forty when he took her, and they never had but one child. A

very lovely, shy, woodland sort of creature was Millicent Meadows, and

though a good few had courted her, William Parsloe among 'em, none had won

her, or tempted her far from her mother's apron-strings as yet. Dark and

brown-eyed and lively she was, with a power of dreaming, and she

neighboured kindlier among wild things than tame, and belonged to the

woods you might say. She was a nervous maiden, however, and owing to her

gift of make-believe, would people the forest with strange shadows bred of

her own thoughts and fancies. So she better liked the sunshine than the

moonlight and didn't travel abroad much after dark unless her father, or

some other male, was along with her.

Another joined the tea-party--a very ancient man, once a woodman, and a

crony of John's; and the keeper explained to the younger chaps why he'd

asked Silas Belchamber to come to tea and meet 'em.

"Mr. Belchamber's the oldest servant on the property and a storehouse of

fine tales, and when I told him the Hound had been seen, he was very

wishful to see the man as had done so," explained Mr. Meadows. "You may

say the smell of a saw-pit clings to Silas yet, for he moved and breathed

in the dust of pine and larch for more'n half a century."

"And now I be waiting for the grey woodman to throw me myself," said Mr.

Belchamber. "But I raised up as well as threw down, didn't I, John?"

"Thousands o' dozens of saplings with those hands you planted, and saw

lift up to be trees," answered Meadows, "and scores of dozens of timber

you've felled; and now, if you've took your tea, Silas, I'd have you tell

these chaps the story of Weaver Knowles, because you'll do it better than

what I can."

The old man sparked up a bit.

"For my part, knowing all I know, I never feared the Hound's Pool," he

said, "though a wisht place in the dimpsey and after dark as we know. But

when a lad I drew many a sizeable trout out of it--afore your time, John,

when it weren't poaching to fish there as it be now. Not that I ever see

the Hound; but I've known them that have, and if I don't grasp the truth

of the tale, who should, for my grandfather acksually knowed the son of

old Weaver Knowles, and he heard it from the man's own lips, and I heard

it from grandfather when he was eighty-nine year old and I was ten."

"Then we shall have gospel truth for certain," said Harry Wade, with his

eyes on Millicent Meadows.

"Oh, yes," answered Silas, "because my grandfather could call home the

taking of Canada and many such like far-off things, so that shows you the

sort of memory he'd gotten. But nowadays the learning of the past be

flouted a good bit and what our fathers have told us don't carry no weight

at all. Holy spells and ghostesses and--"

"You get on to Hound Pool, Silas," said John Meadows, "because Parsloe

will have to go to his work in ten minutes."

"The solemn truth be easily told," declared Mr. Belchamber. "Back along in

dim history there was a weaver by name of Knowles who lived to Dean Combe.

Him and his son did very well together and he was a widower with no care

but for his work. Old Weaver, he stuck to his yarn and was a silent and

lonely fashion of man by all accounts. Work was his god, and 'twas said he

sat at his loom eighteen hours out of every twenty-four. Then, coming home

one evening, the man's son heard the loom was still and went in and found

old Knowles fallen forward on the top of his work, dead. So they buried

him at Buckfastleigh.

"Then young Knowles, coming home to his empty house after the funeral,

suddenly heard the music of the loom and thought his ears had played him

false. But the loom hummed on and he crept up over to see who was weaving.

In a pretty good rage he was, no doubt, to think of such a thing; but then

his blood turned from hot to cold very quick, I warn 'e, for there was his

father sitting on the old seat and working weft through warp as suent and

clever as if he was alive!

"Well, young Knowles he glared upon his dead parent and felt the hair

rising on his niddick and the sweat running down his face; but he kept his

nerve pretty clever and crept away and ran for all his might to the

village and went to see Parson. They believed more in those days than what

they do now, and Parson, whatever he may have thought, knew young Knowles

for a truth-teller and obeyed his petition to come at once. But the good

man stopped in the churchyard and gathered up a handful of sacred ground;

and then he went along to the dead weaver's house.

"Sure enough the loom was a-working busy as ever; but it couldn't drown

Parson's voice, for he preached from one of they old three-decker pulpits,

like a ship o' war, and his noise, when the holy man was in full blast,

would rise over a thunderstorm.

"'Knowles! Knowles!' he cried out; 'Come down this instant. This is no

place for you!'

"And then, hollow as the wind in a winter hedge, the ghost made answer.

"'I will obey so soon as I have worked out my quill, your reverence,'

replied the spirit of Weaver Knowles, and Parson didn't raise no objection

to that, but bade the dead man's son kneel down; and he done so; and the

priest also knelt and lifted his voice in prayer for five minutes.

"Then the loom stopped and old Knowles came forth and glided downstairs;

and not a step creaked under him, for young Knowles specially noted that

wonder when he told my grandfather the adventure.

"At sight of Old Weaver, Parson took his churchyard dust and boldly threw

it in the face of the vision, and afore you could cross your heart the

shadow had turned into a gert black dog--so dark as night. The poor beast

whimpered and yowled something cruel, but Parson was short and stern with

it, well knowing you can't have half measures with spirits, no more than

you can with living men if you will to conquer 'em. So he takes a high

line with the weaver, as one to be obeyed.

"'Follow me, Knowles,' he said to the creature. 'Follow me in the name of

the Father, Son, and Ghost'; which the forlorn dog did do willy-nilly; and

he led it down the Burn, to Hound's Pool, and there bade it halt. Then the

man of God took a nutshell--just a filbert with a hole in it bored by a

squirrel--and he gave it boldly into the dog's mouth.

"'Henceforth,' he said, 'you shall labour here to empty the pool, using

nought but this nutshell to do so; and when you have done your work, but

no sooner, then you shall go back whence you came.'

"And the Hound will be on the job till the end of the world afore he gets

peace, no doubt, and them with ears to hear, may oft listen to a sound in

the water like the rattling of a loom to this day; but 'tis no more than

that poor devil-dog of a Knowles at his endless task."

Millicent poured the old man another cup of tea and Parsloe went to work

and Wade applauded the tale-teller.

"A very fine yarn, uncle," he said, "and I'm glad to know the rights of

it; and if the Hound brings luck, I hope I'll see him."

"More would see him if faith was there," answered old Belchamber. "But

where do you find faith in these days? For all I can see the childer

taught in school don't believe in nothing on earth but themselves. In

fact, you may say a bald head be a figure of scorn to 'em, same as it was

in the prophet's time."

"Youth will run to youth, like water to the sea," said Harry Wade. "But a

very fine tale, master, and I hope I may be the next to meet thicky ghost

Hound I'm sure."

"You've had your luck, Mr. Wade, by all accounts," laughed Millicent, but

the returned native was doubtful. They chatted and he told 'em some of his

adventures and how, at the last gasp, prospecting along with two other

men, they had found a bit of gold at last.

"Not any too much for three, however," said Harry; "but enough for a

simple customer like me. They say lucky in life unlucky in love; but I

much hope I haven't been too lucky in life to spoil my chance of a

home-grown partner."

Mr. Belchamber departed then, because he was rather tired after his tale,

but Harry stopped on, because Mrs. Meadow had took a liking to his talk

and found he'd got a very civil way with old women. He'd listen to her

and, as she loved to chatter, though she'd got nothing whatever to say, as

so often happens with the great talkers, his attention pleased her and she

asked him if he'd bide to supper. And Millicent liked him also, being

drawn to the man by his account of great hardships and perils borne with

bravery; for though Harry wasn't the hero of his own tales no more than

his mates had been, yet he had gone through an amazing lot and done some

bold and clever things. And the girl, being one of the timid sort, liked

to hear of the courage of a man, as they will. Wade was an open speaker,

and had no secrets from 'em. He confessed that he'd got a clear four

hundred pounds a year out of his battle with life.

"Not much for what I endured," he said, "yet a lot more than many poor

chaps, who went through worse. And now I'm in a mind to settle down and

find a bit of work and stick to Dean Prior for evermore."

Mrs. Meadows laughed at her daughter when Harry was gone, for she had

quick senses and was a good bit amused to see her shy girl open out and

show interest in the man; but to chaff Millicent was always the way to

shut her up, and she wouldn't let her mother poke fun at her.

"Now I'll never see him again," vowed Millicent, "and all along of you,

mother, for I'd blush to the roots of my hair if he spoke to me any more

while I knew your cruel sharp eye was on me."

However, see him again she did, because Wade had asked 'em all to come and

drink tea long with him and witness the curiosities he'd fetched home from

Australia; and though the girl made a hard try to escape the ordeal, her

father bade her go along with him. Mrs. Meadows didn't go when the day

came, because she weren't feeling very well; and out of her ailments

sprang a surprising matter that shook 'em all to the roots.

Harry Wade lived in a little house all alone and did for himself very

clever as old campaigners know how to do. He'd planned a very nice meal

for 'em and laid out his treasures and was very sorry when John and his

daughter explained the absence of Mrs. Meadows. And sorrier still he

declared himself to be when they cut their visit a bit short, because for

the need to get home pretty quick to the suffering woman.

He was engaged for the most part with Millicent's father that visit,

though he pressed food of his own cooking upon her and tried to make her

chatter a bit. But he got little out of her, for she weren't a talker at

best, and she couldn't forget her mother had laughed at her for being so

interested in the man, and so she was shyer than usual.

But though she said nought, she liked to hear her father praise Harry as

they went home along, for John thought well upon him.

"He's a man who have got a regular mind despite his dangerous past," said

the old chap. "You might think such a venturesome way of life would make

him reckless and lawless; but far from it. His experience have made him

see the high value of law and order."

"He's brave as a lion seemingly," ventured Millicent, and her father

allowed it was so.

"An undaunted man," he admitted, "and his gifts will run to waste now,

because, unless you're in the police, or else a gamekeeper, there's little

call for courage."

Mrs. Meadows was a lot worse when they came home and they got her to bed

and put a hot brick in flannel to her feet; but she'd had the like attacks

before and John weren't feared for her till the dead of night; and then

she went off her head and he touched her and found she was living fire. So

he had to call up his girl and explain that, for all he could tell, death

might be knocking at the door.

Such things we say, little knowing we be prophets; but in truth a fearful

peril threatened the Meadows folk that night, though 'twas Millicent and

not her mother was like to be in highest danger.

"'Tis doctor," said John, "and I can't leave her, for she may die in my

arms, so you must go; and best to run as never you run before. Go straight

through Dean Wood and don't draw breath till you've got to the man."

She was up and rayed in less than no time and away quick-footed through

the forest; and so swift had been her actions that she hoped to cheat her

own fear of the darkness and get through Dean Woods afore she had time to

quail. But you can't hoodwink Nature that way, and not long afore the

trees had swallowed her up Millicent felt nameless dread pulling at her

heart and all her senses tingling with terror. She kept her mind on her

mother, however, and sped on with her face set before her, though a

thousand instincts cried to her to look behind for the nameless things

that might be following after.

'Twas a frosty night with a winter moon high in the sky, and Millicent,

who knew the Woodman's Path blindfold, much wished it had been darker, for

the moonlight was strong enough to show queer faces in every tree-hole and

turn the shadows from the trees into monsters upon her path at every yard.

She prayed as she went along.

"My duty--my duty," she said. "God help me to do my duty and save mother!"

Then she knew she was coming close to the Hound's Pool and hesitated for

fear, and wondered if she might track into the woods and escape the

ordeal. But that wasn't possible without a lot of time wasted, and so she

lifted up another petition to her Maker and went on. She'd travelled a

mile by now and there was another mile to go. And then she came alongside

the Pool and held her hands to her breast and kept her eyes away from the

water, where it spread death-still with the moon looking up very peaceful

out of it. But a moment later and poor Millicent got the fearfullest shock

of her life, for right ahead, suddenly without a sound of warning, stark

and huge with the moonlight on his great open mouth, appeared the Hound.

From nowhere he'd come, but there he stood within ten yards of her,

barring the way. And she heard him growl and saw him come forward to meet

her.

One scream she gave, though not so loud as a screech owl, and then she

tottered, swayed, and lost her senses. If she'd fallen to the left no harm

had overtook her; but to the right she fell and dropped unconscious, face

forward into Dean Burn.

The waters ran shallow there, above the Pool, yet, shallow or deep, she

dropped with her head under the river and knew it not.

Many a day passed afore the mystery of her escape from death got to

Millicent's ears; but for the moment all she could mind was that presently

her senses returned to her and she found herself with her back against a

tree and her face and bosom wet with water. Slowly her wits worked and she

looked around, but found herself a hundred yards away from the Pool. Then

she called home what had befallen her and rose to her feet; and presently

her blood flowed again and she felt she was safe and the peril over-got.

'Twas clear the Hound had done her no hurt and she felt only puzzled to

know why for she was so wet and why, when she went fainty beside the Pool,

she'd come to again a hundred yards away from it. But that great mystery

she put by for another time and thanked God for saving her and cleared the

woods and sped to doctor with her bad news.

And he rose up and let her in and, hearing the case was grave, soon

prepared to start. And while he dressed, Millicent made shift to dry

herself by the heat of a dying fire. Then he put his horse in the trap and

very quick they drove away up to the gamekeeper's house. But no word of

her amazing adventure did the woman let drop in doctor's ear; and the

strange thing was that peace had come upon her now and fear was departed

from her heart.

Milly Meadows had got the influenza very bad and, guessing what he'd find,

the physician had brought his cautcheries along with him, so he ministered

a soothing drug and directed her treatment and spoke hopeful words about

it. He was up again next day and found all going very orderly, and

foretold that, if the mischief could be kept out of Milly's lungs, she'd

recover in due course. So the mind of her husband and her daughter grew at

peace when Milly's body cooled down; and then the girl told her father of

what had befell her by Hound's Pool, and he was terrible interested and

full of wonder.

In fact, naught would do but they went there together the morning after,

and there--in the chill light of a January day, Millicent pointed out

where she stood when the vision come to her and presently the very tree

under which she had returned to life.

But John, being skilled in all woodland craft, took a pretty close look

round and soon smelled out signs and wonders hid from common sight. He'd

been much pleased with the tale at first, for though sorrowful that his

girl had suffered so much, he hadn't got enough mind himself to measure

the agony she'd been through; and, whether or no, since the Hound brought

good luck, he counted on some bright outcome for Millicent presently, if

it was only that her mother should be saved alive. But when he got to his

woodcraft, John Meadows weren't so pleased by any means, because he found

another story told. Where the girl had fainted and dropped in the water on

seeing the Hound was clear to mark; but more than that John discovered,

for all round about was the slot of a big dog with a great pad and claws;

and, as if that weren't enough, the keeper found something else also.

He stared then and stood back and scratched the hair on his nape.

"Beggar my shoes!" said John. "This weren't no devil-dog, but a living

creature! The Hound be a spirit and don't leave no mark where he runs; but

the dog that made these tracks weighs a hundred and fifty pound if he

weighs an ounce; and look you here. What be this?"

Well, Millicent looked and there weren't no shadow of doubt as to what her

father had found, for pressed in the mire and gravel at river edge was the

prints of a tidy large boot.

William Parsloe came along at the moment; but he knew nought, though he

put two and two together very clever.

"'Tis like this," he said; "you ran into the poachers, Millicent, though

what the blackguards was up to with a hugeous dog I couldn't tell you. And

now I'll lay my life that what I saw back along was the same creature and

he whipped away and warned his masters."

"But me?" asked the girl. "Why for if I fainted and fell into the river,

didn't I drown there for you or father to find next day?"

"Yes," added John. "How came that to be, Bill?"

"I see it so clear as need be," explained Parsloe, who had a quick mind.

"You fell in the water and the dog gave tongue. The blackguards came along

and, not wishful to add murder to their crimes, haled you out. Then they

carried you away from the water, loosened your neckerchief and finding you

alive, left you to recover."

"Dear God!" said Millicent, shivering all down her spine, "d'you mean to

tell me an unknown poaching man carried me in his arms a hundred yards,

William?"

"I mean that," answered Parsloe, "and if we had the chap's boot, we should

know who 'twas."

So they parted, and John he went home very angry indeed at such triumphant

malefactors, and though Millicent tried her bestest to be angry also, such

is the weakness of human nature that she couldn't work up no great flood

of rage. And when she was alone in her bed that night, for it was her

father's turn to watch over her mother, she felt that unknown sinner's

arms around her again and his wicked hands at her neckerchief, and

couldn't help wondering what it would have been like if she'd come to and

found herself in that awful position.

Then Milly Meadows recovered and John, along with William Parsloe, Harry

Wade, and a few more stout men, plotted a plot for the poachers and combed

the plantations on a secret night in a way as they'd never done afore; but

they failed and had Dean Woods all to themselves, though the very next

night there was another slaughter and a lot of birds lost.

And a bit after the pheasant season finished, John Meadows heard that the

master reckoned 'twas time his head-keeper made a dignified retirement and

let a younger man--William Parsloe in fact--take his place.

But while John felt sorry for himself in this matter, yet was far too sane

and common-sensible to resent it, another wondrous thing fell out, and

Harry Wade got in a rare sort of fix that promised more fret and strain

than all his other adventures put together. For, along of one thing and

another, though the true details never reached but two ears, he was up

against a new and tremendous experience and from being a heart-whole man

with no great admiration on the women, he felt a wakening and a stir and

knew 'twas love.

For Millicent Meadows he went through the usual torments, and his case

weren't bettered by William Parsloe neither, because when he confessed to

the man, who had got to be his friend, that Millicent was a piece very

much out of the common, Bill told him that he weren't the first by many as

had thought the same.

"But she's not for men," said Parsloe. "All sorts have offered, and good

'uns, including myself I may tell you in confidence; but the man ain't

born to win Millicent Meadows."

However, Wade, he set to it, and after a lot of patient skirmishing he

began to see faint signs of hope. He held in, however, so powerful as his

nature would let him until the signs heartened the man for a dash at last,

and 'twas by Hound's Pool on a May day with the bluebells beside the

water, and the cherry blossom tasselling over their heads--that he told

the girl she was the light of his spring and the breath of his life.

And she just put her hand in his'n and looked up in his face and took him

without any fuss whatever.

Not for a week, however, till he felt safe in his promised state, did

Harry ever open out his dark secrets to her; but then, for her ears only,

out it came.

"You mind that fatal night?" he asked; and they were beside the Pool

again, for she loved it now, because 'twas there he begged her to marry

him.

"Ess fay and I do, but I don't hate the Pool no more--not after you told

me you loved me there," said Millicent.

"'Twas I that saved you," he confessed. "At a loose end and for a bit of a

lark--just sport, you understand, not wickedness--I done a bit of poaching

and picked off a good few birds, I fear."

She looked at him round-eyed.

"You wretch!" she cried; but his arms were close about her, and she was

powerless.

"Oh, yes. And my great dog it was as I kept hid on a chain by day. And

when he frightened you into the water that night, I was behind him and had

you out again and in my arms in half a second. And then I carried you away

from the river, and when I held you in my arms I knew you'd be my wife or

nobody would."

"Thank the watching Lord 'twas you!" she gasped.

"I waited till I see you come to and knew you'd be all right then; but I

followed you, to see what you was up to, and didn't go home till I saw you

drive away with the doctor. My dog was my joy till that night--a great

mongrel I picked up when I was to Plymouth and kept close of a day. Clever

as Satan at finding fallen birds in the dark, though unfortunately he

didn't find 'em all. But after the happenings I took him back to Plymouth

again on the quiet, and he won't frighten nobody no more."

Then 'twas her turn and she dressed him down properly and gave him all the

law and the prophets, and made him promise on his oath that he'd never do

no more crimes, or kill fur or feather that didn't belong by rights to

him.

And he swore and kept his oath most steadfast.

"I've catched the finest creature as ever harboured in Dean Woods," he

said, "and her word be my law for evermore."

But nobody else heard the truth that Wade was the unknown sinner, for

Millicent felt as her father would have been cruel vexed about it.

They was wed in the summer and Wade found open-air work to his taste not a

mile from their home. But often, good lovers still, they'll go to Hound's

Pool for memory's sake and sit and hear Weaver Knowles working unseen

about his task.