They unrolled great planes of shifting gloom and splendour, of accidents
of vapour that concealed and of light that illumined. But at mid-day a
mighty shadow ascended against the wind and thunder rumbled along the
edges of the Moor. The storm-centre spun about a mile off, then it
drove in chariots of darkness over Sheep’s Tor.
At this moment Bartley remembered the Pixies’ House, and, hastening
sure-footed over the wild concourse of stones that extended around it,
he approached the crevice where it lay.
A woman suddenly caught his eye, and as the breaking storm now promised
to be terrific, he called to her and, turning back, joined her.
It proved to be Rhoda Bowden on her way home, and she accepted Bartley’s
offer of shelter.
"Something pretty bad’s coming," she said. "Be the Pixies’ House large
enough for the both of us? I’ve got a bit of news you’ll be surprised to
hear."
"Full large enough--quick--quick--down through there--let me have your
hand."
But she accepted no help and soon crawled through the aperture into
shelter. Then Bartley, taking two caps off the nipples of his gun,
thrust it in after Rhoda and followed swiftly to avoid the onset of the
storm.
They had acted with utmost speed and Rhoda was now aghast to find the
exceeding propinquity of Mr. Crocker. He could hardly have been closer.
She moved uneasily. It occurred to her that he ought to have
surrendered the Pixies’ House to her and himself found shelter
elsewhere. The idea, however, had not struck him.
"Can’t you make a little more room?" she asked, breathing rather hard.
"I wish I could, but it’s impossible. I forgot you were such a jolly
big girl," he answered.
She set her teeth and waited for the outer darkness to lighten. The
thunder roared and exploded in a rattle overhead; they heard the hiss
and hurtle of the ice and water; while at intervals the entrance of
their shelter was splashed along its rough edges with glare of
lightning.
"Better here than outside," said Bartley; but Rhoda began to doubt it.
It seemed to her that he came nearer and nearer. At last she asked him
to get out and let her pass.
"Can’t stand this no more," she said, "I’m being choked. I’d sooner
suffer the storm than this."
"You don’t want to go out, surely!"
"Yes, I do."
The lightning showed him her face very close to his, and he saw her
round cheek, lovely ear and bright, hard eyes with a wild look in them,
like something caught in a trap. The storm shouted to the hills and
cried savagely against the granite precipices; it leapt over the open
heaths and roared into the coombes and valleys. The waste was all a
dancing whiteness of hail, jewelled ever and anon by the lightning.
Already the heart of conflict had passed and it grew lighter to
rearward.
"You must wait a bit yet. Your people would never forgive me if I let
you go into this."
She pushed forward, then strained back horrified, for she had
accidentally pressed his face with her cheek. But Bartley was not built
to stand that soft, firm appulse of woman’s flesh without immediate
ignition.
"I must have one if I swing for it!" he said. Then he put his arms
round her and kissed her.
He expected an explosion and found himself not disappointed. The
thunder-storm outside was mild to the woman-storm within when Crocker
thrust his caress upon this girl. She started back as though he had
stamped a red-hot iron upon her face.
"You loathsome, godless wretch!" she shrieked out, and her voice broke
the rocky bounds of earth and leapt into the storm. Thence frantically
she followed it and trampled heavily on the amorous sportsman as she did
so.
"I could tear the skin off my face!" she cried; and her words came deep
and fierce and shuddering. "You coward! I’d sooner be struck by the
lightning than have suffered it!"
She departed, running like a frightened child, and he crawled out after
her and rubbed his bruised shins. Her nailed shoe had stamped on his
hand, torn it and made it bleed; but his wound was light to hers. He
was back in the shelter presently, laughing and smoking his pipe while
the weather cleared; but she sobbed and panted homeward under the sob
and pant of the storm. She felt unclean; every instinct of her nature
rebelled against this touch of male lips. She magnified the caress into
a mountain of offence; she held up her cheek that the rain which
followed the hail might wash it and purge it from this man’s hateful
blandishment. Passion got hold of her violated soul, and she would
gladly have called down fire from the cloud upon Crocker.
He, meantime, waited a while, and wondered what thing it was she had
meant to tell him. As yet none at Sheepstor knew of Margaret’s
engagement, the great subject in Rhoda’s mind; but though he did not
learn it from her, chance and his own act put the information into
Bartley’s hand within that hour. This reverse with David’s sister
altered his intentions and turned him towards another woman. He
suddenly longed for a sight of Margaret, and, abandoning the thought of
snipe, decided to go to Coombeshead and see her instantly. A still
larger resolve lurked behind. Now bright weather-gleams of blue and
silver opened their eyes to windward; the storm had gathered up its
skirts of rack and flame into the central moor; a thousand gurgling
rivulets leapt over the grass; the hail melted; the ponies turned head
to wind again and went on grazing, while their wet sides steamed in a
weak tremor of sunlight.
Bartley stepped forth, shouldered his gun and whistled to his dog, which
had taken refuge near at hand and gone to sleep in a hole. Then he
started over the Moor to his destination and his great deed.
Margaret was at home and came out to see him. His greeting amazed her,
for it differed by much from what she expected. The girl doubted not
that her friend had heard the news and had come to offer his
congratulations; but he had not heard it, and he came to offer himself.
Mr. Crocker had toyed with this achievement for six weeks; and now the
storm, and Rhoda, and certain uneasiness begot of Rhoda, and a general
vague desire for something feminine as different as possible from Rhoda,
together with other emotions and sensations too numerous to define, all
affirmed his resolve.
He wasted no time, for he was full of desire for Madge and honestly
believed that she cared for him. And in answer to his abrupt but
impassioned plea, she assured him that she did care for him and that his
welfare was no small thing to her.
"We’ve known each other ever since we was dinky boy and girl to infant
school together; and I, with my managing ways, would oft blow your li’l
nubby nose when it wanted it," she said, looking at him with shining
eyes and in a mood emotional. "But with my David--yes, my David he
is--well, ’twas love, dear Bartley, and we’m tokened. And I’m glad
’twas left for me to tell you, though ’tis terrible strange it should
fall out at such a minute as this."
He stared and stammered and wished her joy. He was disappointed, but
not by any means crushed to the earth. It only occurred to him that no
other woman’s lips would that day destroy the flavour of Rhoda Bowden’s.
"Then what becomes of me?" he said; but not as though there were no
answer to the question.
"You’ll get a better far," she replied.
"But you--you to go into that silent family--all so stern and proper.
Think twice afore ’tis too late, Madge."
"I love them all," she answered. "But silent they surely are. I took
my dinner along with them yesterday and, if it hadn’t been for Dorcas
and me, they’d have gone without a word spoken from grace afore meat to
thanksgiving after."
"Dorcas is cheerful enough."
"I like her--best after David," said Madge, a little nervously, as
though she talked treason.
Then Mr. Crocker told of the storm and his companion in the Pixies’
House.
"Like a damned fool, just because her cheek happened to touch mine, I
kissed her."
"Bartley!"
"Well you may stare. Lord knows what come over me to do it; but I got
hell for my fun, and so like as not your David will have a bit more to
say later on. Him and Rhoda are the wide world to each other. I suppose
you know that?"
Margaret’s face clouded, but she was loyal.
"Rhoda’s a splendid woman, Bartley."
"She is. Now that you won’t take me, I believe I shall have a dash at
her. But ’twill be a long year afore she forgives this day’s work."
He left Margaret soon afterwards and his depression of spirit steadily
gained upon him as he returned home. At ’The Corner House’ he stopped
and drank a while; then he got back to his mother and took a gloomy
pleasure in shocking her pride with his news.
Nanny Crocker was sewing at the kitchen table when he returned, and his
Aunt Susan brought a belated meal to him hot from the oven.
He looked at the food and then spoke.
"Can’t eat," he said. "I’ve had a full meal to-day a’ready."
"Was you in the storm?" asked Susan. "In the midst of all that awful
lightning, with thunder-planets falling and a noise in the elements like
the trump of Doom.--If the cat haven’t chatted in the pigs’ house! Her
always brings six, so no doubt that’s the number."
"I’ve just come from asking Margaret Stanbury to marry me," said
Bartley, showing no interest in the kittens. "That’s what I meant when
I said I’ve had a full meal."
"At last!" cried Nanny Crocker. "Well, well, well--and what a day to
choose, my dear! God bless you both, I’m sure. She’s a lucky girl and
we must set to work now to teach her more than she’s been able to learn
at home. Rise up and kiss me, my son."
Bartley obeyed with a sort of sardonic smile under his skin. His mother
kissed him fervently and sighed.
"You didn’t ask twice, I lay," said Susan.
"No," he answered, "I didn’t."
"’Tis a terrible pity her mother’s such a chuckle-headed, timid
creature," declared Nanny. "Not a word against her after to-day, of
course. But I’m sorry she haven’t got larger intellects and don’t
believe a little less."
"When is it to be, Bartley?" asked his aunt. "You’re not the sort to
wait long, I reckon."
"It isn’t to be," he answered. "You two silly old souls run on so, and
can’t imagine any woman turning up her nose at me. But unfortunately
other people haven’t such a good opinion."
"Won’t have you!" gasped his parent. "A Stanbury won’t take a Crocker!"
"Madge Stanbury won’t take this Crocker--which is all that matters."
"The chit!" said Nanny.
"The ninnyhammer!" cried Aunt Susan.
"The sensible girl," answered Bartley. "She’s found somebody better--a
man as stands to work and will make a finer fashion of husband than ever
I should."
"How you can sit there and talk in that mean spirit passes me!" answered
his mother. "Have a greater respect for yourself, and let that girl see
to her dying day what a fool she’s been."
"Who is it? I suppose you got that much out of her?" asked Bartley’s
aunt.
"It’s David Bowden from Ditsworthy, and they’ve been tokened two days,
so, you see, I was a bit behind the fair."
"Nobody would blame her for changing her mind yet now you’ve offered
yourself," declared Susan.
"She’s no wish to change. She likes me very well as a friend--always
have since she used to blow my nose for me in infant school--but she
likes him a long sight better--well enough to wed."
"She’ll change yet--mark me," foretold his aunt.
"My son have got his self-respect, I believe, Susan, and, change or not
change, he’ll never give her another chance, I should hope. ’Tis done,
and to her dying day she’ll rue it--as she well deserves. To put that
rough rabbit-catcher afore--however, I thank God she did--I thank God
she did; and I shall thank Him in person on my knees this night. Never,
never was such an empty giglet wench heard of. A merciful escape
without a doubt; for a fool only breeds fools."
"I may be her brother-in-law if I can’t be her husband," said Bartley;
and then he departed and left the indignant and wounded old women to
wonder what he might mean.
*CHAPTER IX*
*THE DOGS OF WAR*
The renowned Mr. Fogo, with the modesty of a man really great, arrived
at Sheepstor in a butcher’s trap from Plymouth. He brought a box of
humble dimensions, studded with brass nails; while for the rest, a very
large umbrella, two walking-sticks and a cape of London pattern
completed his outfit.
Reuben Shillabeer walked as far as Sheep’s Tor Bridge, and the two
notable men met there and shook hands before numerous admiring
spectators. Then the sporting butcher, who had driven Mr. Fogo from
Plymouth, proceeded to Reuben’s familiar inn, while ’Frosty-face’ and
the ’Dumpling’ made triumphal entry into the village together. The
contrast between them could scarcely have been more abrupt. Shillabeer
ambled with immense strides and heaving shoulders, like a bear on its
hind legs, and his great, gentle face, set in its tawny fringe of hair,
smiled out upon the world with unusual animation as he shortened his
gait, crooked his knees somewhat and gave his arm to his friend. The
notable Fogo was a good foot shorter than Reuben--a thin, brisk,
clean-shaved man with eyes like a hawk, under very heavy brows, now
quite white. His nose was sharp and thin; his mouth, a slit; his hair
was still thick and white as snow. Fogo numbered seventy years, yet
bore himself as straight and brisk as a youth. He was agile, thin and
wiry; but a certain asperity of countenance, which had won him his
nickname in the past, was now smoothed away by the modelling of time,
and Mr. Fogo’s face, though keen, might be called amiable; though
exceedingly wide-awake, revealed no acerbity of expression. His glance
took in the situation swiftly.
"Crikey!" he said. "And you live here among all these trees and
mountains and rocks! But I daresay, now, there’s pretty fishing in this
river."
"Trout--nought else. And ’tisn’t the season for ’em. But a fisherman
still, I see--eh? What a man! Not a day older, I warrant. And how did
they serve you at Plymouth?"
"I’ve no fault to find with Plymouth," said Mr. Fogo. "They done me a
treat there, and we had a pretty sporting house and a nice set-to in the
new way with the mufflers. I got my boy through, but he’d have lost if
I hadn’t been there. And now let me cast my eye over you, ’Dumpling.’
The same man; but gone in the hams, I see. You big ’uns--’tis always
that way. Your frames can’t carry the load of fat. And so your lady has
passed away to a better land. But that’s old history."
"No, it isn’t, Fogo," declared Mr. Shillabeer, his animation perishing.
"’Twill never be old history so long as I bide in the vale; and I hope
you’ll have a good tell about her many a time afore you leave me. But
not to-day. We’ll talk about her in private--you and me--over a drop of
something special."
"’Twas the weather killed her, I doubt," hazarded Mr. Fogo. "You
couldn’t expect a London woman to stand so much fresh air as you’ve got
down here. Why--Good Lord!--you breathe nought with a smell to it from
year to year! There’s not a homely whiff of liquor or fried fish
strikes the nose--not so much as the pleasant odour of brewing, or them
smells that touch the beak Covent Garden way. Nought for miles and
miles--unless it’s pigs; and that I don’t like, and never shall."
"Our air will make you terrible hungry, however," promised Mr.
Shillabeer; "and by the same token we’d better get on our way, for
there’s a goose with apple sauce and some pretty stuffing to welcome
you."
That evening a very large gathering assembled in the public bar of ’The
Corner House,’ and the men of Standing were introduced each in turn to
Mr. Fogo. He had changed his attire and produced from the box of many
nails a rusty brown coat, a shirt with a frill and black knee-breeches.
Thus attired, he suggested some pettifogging attorney from the beginning
of the century. He sat by the fire, smoked a clay and conducted himself
with the utmost affability. He was, in fact, no greater than common men
while ordinary subjects were under discussion. Only when the Prize Ring
began to be talked about, did the aquiline and historic Fogo soar to his
true altitudes and silence all listeners before the torrent of his
discourse.
The visitor drank gin and not much of that. He was somewhat silent at
first until Reuben explained his many-sided greatness; then, when the
company a little realised the man they had among them, he began to talk.
"The Fancy always felt you was unlike the rest," said Shillabeer. "Even
the papers took you serious. There was pugs and there was mugs; there
was good sportsmen and bad ones, and there were plenty of all sorts
else, but never more than one ’Frosty-face.’"
Mr. Fogo nodded.
"I can’t deny it," he said. "’Twas my all-roundness, I believe. Fight
I couldn’t--not being built on the pattern of a fighting man, though the
heart was in me; but I had a slice over my share of wits, and I’d forgot
more about the P.R. than most people ever knew before I was half a
century old."
"You must understand," said Shillabeer to his guests, "that Fogo always
had letters stuck after his name, for all the world like other learned
men. They was complimentary and given to him by the sporting Press of
the kingdom."
"Quite true," said Fogo. "I was D.C.G., which stood for Deputy
Commissary-General--the great Tom Oliver of course being C.-G. We had
the handling of the stakes and ropes of the P.R. from the time that
Oliver fought his last serious fight in 1821. He’s a fruiterer and
greengrocer now in Chelsea, and a year or two older than me."
"Then you was--what was it--P.L.P.R.--eh?" asked the ’Dumpling.’
"I was and still am," returned ’Frosty-face,’ proudly.
"P.L.P.R.--that’s ’Poet Laureet of the Prize Ring.’ And it may interest
these gentlemen here assembled to know that many and many a time my
poems about the great fights was printed in the sporting papers afore
most of those present was born or thought of."
"I hope you’ve brought some along with you," said Reuben.
"Certainly I have--a sheaf of ’em. I never travel without them,"
returned the Londoner. "And when by good chance I find myself in a bar
full of sportsmen of the real old sort, like to-night, I always say to
myself, ’not a man here but shall have a chance of buying one of the
poems on the great fights, written by old ’Frosty-faced Fogo.’"
"And you never fought yourself, Mr. Fogo?" asked David Bowden, who was
of the company.
"Never in a serious way," answered the veteran. "There wasn’t enough of
me."
"I can mind when you come very near a mill though," declared Shillabeer.
"’Twas after the fight between Tim Crawley and Burke, and the rain was
coming down cats and dogs."
Mr. Fogo lifted his hand.
"Let me tell the story, ’Dumpling.’ Yes, ’twas in 1830 at East Barnet,
and ’the Deaf ’Un,’ as Burke was called, had Master Tim’s shutters up in
thirty-three rounds. Then, afore I’d pulled up the stakes, if that
saucy chap, Tommy Roundhead, the trainer, didn’t come on me with a lot
of his bunkum. I was on the losing side that day and not in the best
temper; but I let him go a bit and then gave him some straight talk; and
’Dumpling’ here will tell you that as a man of forty my tongue was as
ready as my pen. Anyhow, I touched Roundhead on the raw and lashed him
into such a proper passion that nothing would do but to settle it there
and then in the old style. Tommy put down his five shillings and I
covered it, though nobody knew ’twas the last two half-crowns I had in
my fob at the time. But I was itching to have a slap at the beggar, and
into the Ring I went and shouted for Roundhead. Raining, mind you, all
the time--raining rivers, you might say. Well, up hops Roundhead,
stripped to the buff and as thin as a dead frog; and when the people saw
him in his skin and counted his ribs, they laughed fit to wake the
churchyard. But thin though Tommy was, I knew right well that I was
thinner. However, I cared nothing for that, and was just getting out of
my togs, when some reporters and other chaps, having a respect for me as
a poet and a man in a thousand, came between and wouldn’t hear of it.
"’What about my five bob?’ I said. ’D---- your five bob, "Frosty,"’
they said. ’Here’s ten.’ And so, without ’by your leave,’ they thrust
me back into my clothes and dragged the arm out of my ’upper Benjamin’
in doing it. ’Twas just the world’s respect for me as a maker of
verses, you might say, that kept me out of the Ring that day. So I soon
had the true blue stakes up and went off with ’em; and the ropes and
staples and beetle, and all the rest of it."
A warlike atmosphere seemed to waken in the peaceful bar of ’The Corner
House.’ The youths imagined themselves engaged in terrific trials of
strength; their elders pictured the joy of playing spectators’ parts.
Mr. Fogo told story after story, and it seemed with few exceptions that
the heroes of the ring, tricky though they might be in battle, were men
of simple probity and honourable spirit. His great hero was ’Bendigo,’
William Thompson of Nottingham, a Champion of England.
"And ’Bendy’s’ going strong yet," said Mr. Fogo. "After his last fight
with Paddock, about ten year ago now--a bad fight too--’Bendy’ won on a
foul; after that he got converted, as they say, and took to preaching.
He’s at it yet and does pretty well, I believe."
"’Bendy’ with a white choker! What a wonder!" declared Mr. Shillabeer.
"Yes--he met a noble lord last time he was in London," continued Mr.
Fogo. "And his lordship recognised him for all his pulpit toggery.
’Good Gad!’ says his lordship, ’’tis "Bendy"! And what’s your little
game now, my bold hero?’ ’Not a little game at all, my lord,’ says
’Bendigo’--always ready with a word he was. ’I’m fighting Satan, and
I’m going to beat him. Behold, my lord, the victory shall be mine,’ he
says in his best preaching voice. ’I hope so, "Bendy,"’ answers his
lordship; ’but pray have a care that you fight Beelzebub fairer than you
did Ben Gaunt, or I may change my side!’ Not that ’Bendigo’ ever fought
unfair; but he had to be clever with a giant like Gaunt; and he had to
go down--else he’d have stood no chance at all with such a heavy man."
"One of three at a birth ’Bendy’ was," concluded the ’Dumpling.’ "I
never knew one of triplets to do any good in the world before."
At this juncture in the conversation Bartley Crocker entered the bar.
He had not heard of the celebrity, but soon, despite his own cares,
found himself as interested as the others. The talk of battle inflamed
him and, to the delight of the guests assembled, a thing most of them
frankly desired actually happened within the hour.
David scowled into Bartley’s eyes presently, and the younger, who was
quite willing to pick a quarrel with this man of all men, walked across
the bar and stood close to him.
"Is there any reason why you should pull your face crooked at sight of
me, David Bowden?" he asked.
Something of the truth between these two was known. Therefore all kept
silence.
"’Twas scorn of you made me do it. A chap who could kiss a girl,
without asking if he might, be a coward."
"Bah! that’s the matter--eh? Because I kissed your sister!"
"Yes; and if you think ’twas a decent man’s act, it only shows you’re
not decent. Shame on you--low-minded chap that you are!"
"Not decent, because I kissed a pretty girl? D’you mean that?"
"Yes, I do."
"Did Rhoda tell you?"
"Yes, she did--when I axed her what ailed her."
"Well, hear this. You’re a narrow-minded, canting fool; and if women
understood you better, you wouldn’t have won Madge Stanbury."
"Don’t you name her, or I’ll knock your two eyes into one!"
"Do it!" answered Bartley; "and if that’ll help you to start, so much
the better."
As he spoke and with infinite quickness he raised his hand and pulled
David’s nose. A second later they were in the sawdust together.
The huge Shillabeer pulled them apart, like a man separates a pair of
terriers. Then Simon Snell, Ernest Maunder and Timothy Mattacott held
Bartley, while, single-handed, the ’Dumpling’ restrained young Bowden.
Immense excitement marked the moment. Only Mr. Fogo puffed his long
clay and showed no emotion. A senseless babel choked the air, and then
Shillabeer’s heavy voice shouted down the rest and he made himself
heard.
"I won’t have it!" he said. "I’m ashamed that you grown-up chaps can
sink to temper like this and disgrace yourselves and me and the company.
Strangers present too! If you want to fight, then fight in a decent and
gentlemanly way--not like two dogs over a bone."
"I do want to fight," said Bartley. "I want nothing better in this
world than to give that man the damnedest hiding ever a man had."