the scratch. Bartley had a cut on his forehead and another on his
cheek-bone, while his nose and lips had swollen and become distorted;
the eyelids of Bowden’s right eye were puffed and bulged. His face and
breast were mottled with red; but Crocker, on the contrary, was as pale
as a parsnip. David led off right and left, just touching with the
first but missing with the latter. They countered heavily and then, in
obedience to orders, Crocker got in suddenly, caught David’s head in
chancery, and before the elder, by sheer strength, broke loose, fibbed
him thrice. Mr. Fogo rolled in an ecstasy. The blows had reached
David’s sound eye and done some damage. In getting away David fell and
Bartley immediately went to his corner. The round had been much in his
favour.
Rhoda worked hard to reduce the swelling on her brother’s face, but it
was not possible. He continued strong, cheerful and impatient to repay
a little of Crocker’s attention in the last round.
Yet from this point the fight went steadily in favour of the younger
man. He was naturally quicker, neater and straighter in his hitting.
The next round was a long one. David got to work first and lashed out
as usual with his right, but was short. Then Bartley retreated until he
had his enemy on the move, whereupon he stood and let fly both right and
left at the head. Both told, though the blows were light. David slipped
on to one knee but was up again instantly, and a moment later, for the
first time since the beginning of the battle, he got his right home on
Crocker’s ear. The hit fairly staggered Bartley but did not drop him.
He recovered before Bowden could repeat the blow and some furious
fighting brought the men into Bartley’s corner, where David had the
worst of the rally. Crocker at last closed and might have gone far to
end the fight, for he had his enemy on the ropes and was about to punish
him in that position. His instinct, however, prevented it. He had
raised his right and Bowden was for the moment defenceless; then the
younger drew back and shook his head. "Nay, David," he said, "I’ll not
take advantage of thee."
A hearty cheer greeted this sportsmanlike act; but in his corner at the
end of the round, Mr. Fogo took occasion to caution his man against
further display of such a spirit.
"You haven’t got him beat yet," he said. "’Tis all very well to play to
the gallery when you’re safe, but not sooner. He’s harder than you and
will take a lot of knocking out. You had it in your power then to give
him pepper, and you ought to have done it till he dropped. Fight for
his eyes and don’t let’s have no softness. You mind there’s a lot of
money going to change hands over this job, and you’ve no right to throw
away half a chance."
In answer Crocker showed temper.
"I’ll fight fair and be damned to you and your London ways," he said;
but Mr. Fogo permitted himself no retort.
A great deal of tedious sparring occurred in the next round and Bowden
got his second wind. He was strong and still confident, but the sight
of his right eye grew much impaired. After a time the pace quickened,
but when they began to fight in earnest, the round was Hartley’s own.
David received all the hits, and one on the mouth nearly floored him.
At the end they closed and Bowden was thrown. Both still went to their
corners without help.
Five and six to one were betted on Crocker, and even Fogo felt sanguine.
But he had time to take close stock of his man and noticed that Crocker
was weaker.
In the next round the men closed almost instantly and went down, David
undermost.
"All Dartmoor to a lark-sod on our chap!" said Mr. Shillabeer. "Go in
and finish him, Bartley. Only get on his left peeper again and the
shutters will be up. The right’s done for."
"I can do it, but I’m frightened to--might blind him for life," answered
the fighter; and ’Frosty-face’ was frantically expostulating at this
mistaken sentiment at the call of ’time.’
Heavy counter hits were exchanged in this round and Bartley’s left ear
was again visited. Blood sprang from it in answer to the blow and for a
moment he was dazed; then he hit David heavily on the neck and jaw. A
rally followed and Bartley used his legs and got away. At the end
Crocker hit out with his left and caught David on his sound eye. The
blow was well timed and Bowden nearly fell. A moment later they closed
and wrestled long for the fall. Neither won it decisively, but they
went down together. Both were weak after this round and both, for the
first time, were carried to their corners. Rhoda and her father lifted
David swiftly and neatly.
Bowden began the next round and hit Bartley with right and left on the
chest, but he made no impression though the blows were hard. Crocker,
on the contrary, while lacking much force, yet planted one hit to
purpose on Bowden’s left eye. This stroke evidently caused great pain
for, despite himself, David’s hands went up to his face. Then it seemed
that he began to realise his peril, for he fought desperately and showed
tremendous energy and renewed strength. A blow on the ribs made Bartley
wince, but others as heavy missed him and his returns went over David’s
shoulder. Towards the end of the round, however, Crocker, catching the
other as he advanced, and timing his right better than usual, sent
Bowden clean off his legs with a flush hit on the mouth. It was the
first knock-down blow in the battle, and Fogo waited with desperate
anxiety and fervent hope that Bowden might not come up to time. But
Rhoda and her father achieved the feat. Within the regulation eight
seconds after time was called, David stood at the scratch. He was very
shaky, but cheerful. He grinned out of his distorted features as Bartley
approached and said, "Now I’m going to get some of my own back,
Crocker."
Fogo, during the respite, had given his man brandy and implored him to
try and finish before his strength was gone. The opportunity to
administer a final blow had come. Bowden was shaken, and for the moment
very weak. Alive to the situation, Crocker did his best; but now the
man’s own nature came between him and the necessity of execution. As he
grew more feeble a vein of sheer sentimentality in his character
asserted itself. For the moment he could not strike the bruised, bloody
and defenceless eyes of the enemy. His gorge rose at the act. Between
the rounds he had been watching Rhoda with a sort of vague, unreal
interest. In his increased weakness, the whole business appeared like a
dream out of which only Rhoda clearly stood. He admired her immense
courage and pictured her secret emotions as round succeeded round, and
she saw David’s face being battered from all semblance of humanity.
Nevertheless, Crocker began this--the tenth round--with a determination
to let it be the last. He hit out of distance but eventually struck
Bowden on the nose. The blow was not heavy, but David went down and was
carried to his corner.
Bartley stared across at his foe, while Fogo attended to him. He saw
Rhoda sponge the other’s face and speak to him. Then David laughed.
The expression of amusement was hideous on his countenance in its
present condition. Fogo kept speaking, but when he stood at the scratch
Crocker quite forgot the last advice he had received. It was clear now
that David was fighting for strength, and each round in the next five
saw him go down at the least legal provocation. Some shouted scorn at
him, but he paid no heed. He was hit several times during these rounds
and did little in return; but once he visited Bartley’s damaged ear, and
once he got a good cross-buttock and fell heavily on his man.
Seeing Elias and Rhoda busy with David’s hand after the thirteenth
round, Shillabeer whispered that the enemy’s left was gone; but he erred
as the sequel proved. Bowden had only cut himself on Bartley’s teeth.
Fogo, however, still felt satisfied, because it seemed clear that even
if Crocker could not finish his task, he would be able to stay until
Bowden went blind. David’s right eye had long since closed and the left
was beginning to vanish. Another blow would probably complete the work
of obliteration and leave Crocker with victory. Both men’s faces were
much swollen and disfigured, but both were still game and both were
cheerful. Bartley, however, began to get slow and his ear was causing
him much dizziness. It had swollen to horrible dimensions.
Snow now fell briskly and the ring had become very slippery.
The sixteenth bout found David busiest. He rushed in right and left,
and a good ding-dong round was fought in which advantage only came to
Bartley at the end. Then, after receiving some heavy body-blows, he got
on to Bowden’s lip, split it and drenched the man’s face with blood. In
the close they both went down, David, as usual, undermost. Both were
carried to their corners and both were weak.
In the next round David tried to upper-cut Crocker, but missed, and was
knocked down by a blow on the throat.
Elias asked his son if all was well with him, and David nodded. Rhoda
gave him the brandy bottle and he rinsed his mouth, but did not drink
any. Fogo did all that his knowledge suggested for Bartley, but knew
that he was growing weak very rapidly. It remained to be seen whether
Crocker’s strength or David’s eyesight would last longest.
In the eighteenth round Bartley began the fighting and with immense
impetuosity dashed in right and left on the face. He tried for the eye,
but just missed it and caught heavily on the body. And then fortune
smiled in earnest on David, and as the other came again to finish his
enemy at any cost, Bowden caught him with crushing force on the left
cheek. Chance timed the blow to perfection. It was by far the heaviest
hit in the fight, and the effect at this juncture proved terrific. The
tremendous blow seemed to go all over the side of Crocker’s face. It
brought the blood gushing from his mouth and nose; and it dropped him in
a heap.
A shout of consternation rose from the younger man’s friends, and Mr.
Fogo and Shillabeer picked up Bartley, while David, cheered by the yells
of his supporters, walked, with Rhoda guiding him, to his corner. It was
now the turn of the Bowdens to wait the call of time with anxiety; but
Fogo got his man to the scratch, though all fight was out of him. David
could still see but he had lost the power of calculating distances. He
struck thrice in the air; then he hit Crocker, where he stood dazed with
his hands down, and dropped him.
The crisis had come and Mr. Fogo kept back Bartley till the last
available moment, while on the other side Rhoda led David to the
scratch, for he could no longer see it. A blow now was likely to settle
the matter; but the one man was too weak to strike, the other too blind
to make sure of hitting. Two more rounds were fought in this manner and
Fogo fancied that Bartley had a little recovered from the effects of his
terrible punishment; but the return of strength did not serve him. In
the twenty-second and final round Bowden--fortune still smiling--hit
Crocker heavily with a round arm on the ear and the younger man fell
unconscious. Fogo and Shillabeer picked him up and did what they could,
but Bartley knew nothing. His head had swollen in an extraordinary
manner from the smashing stroke in the eighteenth round, and it was that
blow which had put ’paid’ to his account. David walked to the scratch
with Rhoda’s help and waited to hear time called. He had, it seemed,
snatched victory at the last moment and now it was his battle as surely
as it had been Bartley’s after the ninth round. The referee cried
’time,’ the eight seconds crawled past, and ’Frosty-face,’ with a word
not to be chronicled, threw up the sponge. Bartley Crocker was deaf to
the call. Indeed, he remained unconscious for another five minutes.
The fight had lasted about three quarters of an hour.
Then a roar rose round the ring and a hundred men and boys crowded in
upon it. Many hastened away at once to avoid possible future trouble.
Rhoda threw her emotions into one kiss that she pressed upon her
brother’s mangled mouth; then, rosy as her name, she walked up to the
colours, unfastened them with unshaking, ensanguined hands, and tied
them round David’s neck. Many cheered her; and some fell in love with
her from that moment. David, for his part, asked to be led to Bartley,
and when, with the referee’s assistance, the beaten man had recovered
consciousness, Bowden held out his hand and Crocker took it.
By this time the winner was stone blind. His party stopped on the
ground only a few minutes, during which Mr. Fogo, as became a poet and a
man of imagination, insisted on shaking hands with Rhoda Bowden.
"Woman," he said, "you’re a wonder. I’ve never seen the like in seventy
years; and I hope I never shall again."
Then David was led to the cart and, with his sister, three of his
brothers and his father, drove off to Ditsworthy. A cheering mob of
fifty men and boys accompanied him half way; the Stanburys--father and
son--walked for some distance beside the vehicle, while one or two
energetic spirits ran on ahead with tidings of victory for Mrs. Bowden
and her daughters, Sophia and Dorcas.
Snow fell heavily now and detail was vanishing under it.
Mr. Fogo had no difficulty in explaining the defeat to the Fancy. He
threw light upon the situation, while Mr. Shillabeer and others carried
Bartley to ’The Corner House’ in a large wheelbarrow and put him to bed.
"’Twas just such a hit as the Tipton gave Tass Parker in their last
fight--to compare small things with great," said Fogo. "When a man’s
shaky, a smack like that is a receipt in full. A pretty finish, but it
ought never to have come to it. Bowden was beat half an hour ago, and
if our chap hadn’t been so milk-hearted, he’d be the winner this minute.
If he’d had a bit of the other’s kill-devil in him, ’twould have been
all over long ago. He fought better and wrestled better; but there it
was--the human nature in him couldn’t punish, though the fight depended
on it and t’other man was blind. He was never meant for a fighting
man--more the dancing master turn of mind."
"Very fond of the ladies, I believe," said Timothy Mattacott.
"So I’ve found; and if that amazing girl with the chin had been in his
corner with me instead of the ’Dumpling,’ I believe that Crocker would
have won," declared ’Frosty.’
At this moment there hastened frantically down a hill from the south
certain devoted peacemakers. Bartley’s relatives had learned at the
vicarage that Mr. Merle and others were gone at break of day to the pike
by Ringmoor Down, and they had struggled upward with the fatal truth.
Now it happened that these deceived upholders of the law came full upon
Mr. Fogo and a select company, on their way to the inn. Whereupon the
clergyman thrust among them and stood before Mr. Fogo, his face dark as
a mulberry with rage.
"You infamous scoundrel!" he shouted. "What is the meaning of this?"
The old man stared blankly and unknowingly before him. Not a spark of
recognition lighted his eagle features.
"I don’t quite understand," he answered; then he turned to his friends.
"Who may these snowy gentlemen be?" he asked. "His reverence seems to be
a little put out. But he’s got a kind expression of countenance. If
they wanted to see the mill, they ought to have started a bit earlier."
But then Mr. Fogo saw Mrs. Crocker approaching and he did not hesitate
to run with his bodyguard about him.
Snow began to fall in earnest at last. Heavier and heavier it came,
until Sheepstor and the churchyard and the bull-ring, with hills and
valleys round about, vanished under a silent, far-flung cloth of silver.
After all the riot and life, noise and blood-letting, peace fell like a
pall at noon. The folk kept their cottages. Only at ’The Corner House’
persisted a mighty din and clatter of tongues, while the larder and many
bottles were emptied, the barrels were heavily drawn upon and the battle
was fought and lost again a dozen times before nightfall.
*BOOK II*
*CHAPTER I*
*’MEAVY COT’*
On a day in summer, David Bowden wandered up the higher valleys of Meavy
and stopped in a little dingle where the newborn river tumbled ten feet
over a great apron of granite into a pool beneath. In four separate
threads the stream spouted over this mossy ledge, and then joined her
foaming forces below. Grey-green sallows thronged the top of this
natural weir and the wind flashed a twinkle of silver into their foliage
as the leaves leapt and turned. Low hills sloped to this spot and made
a natural nest. Black Tor and Harter ascended at hand, and on the
horizon northerly Princetown’s stern church tower rose against the sky.
Beside the pool, wherein Meavy gathered again her scattered tresses, an
old ruin stood; and round about the dwelling-places of primæval man
glimmered grey upon the heath.
David Bowden had chosen this spot for his home, and his reason was the
shattered miner’s cottage of Tudor date that rose there. Four-square,
crowned with heather and fretted with pennyworts and grasses,
stone-crop, grey lichens and sky-blue jasione, the old house stood.
Broken walls eight feet high surrounded it; an oven still gaped in one
angle, and the wide chimney-shaft now made a green twilight of dewy
ferns and mosses. Bowden crept into the ruin and looked about him, as
he had already done many times before. At his feet lay old moulds
hollowed out of the granite; and where molten tin once ran, now
glittered water caught from the last shower.
Since first he found the place, David, with his scanty gift of
imagination, had pictured a modern cottage rising on these venerable
foundations. And soon the thing was actually to happen. He knew that
the hearth whereon his feet now stood would presently glow again with
fires lighted by Margaret’s hands; he thought of white wheaten loaves
baking in the oven; he almost smelt them; and he saw above this
loneliness the thin blue ringlets of peat smoke that soon would rise and
curl on the west wind’s fingers and tell chance wanderers that a home
lay hidden by water’s brink in the glen beneath. The place was very
sequestered, very remote from all other habitations; and he liked it the
better for that. Here was such privacy as the man desired. Margaret
would do her shopping at Princetown; and since she knew scarcely anybody
there, the chances of gossip and vain conversation were small. His
ambition was a life far from trivial social obligations and the talk of
idle tongues. He desired opportunity to pursue success without
distractions and waste of time. Whether this home might suit the
sociable Margaret, he did not pause to consider. As for Rhoda, she
would certainly be of his mind.
The facts that most impressed Bowden at the moment were certain loads of
lime and sand, together with granite boulders, water-worn, from the
stream bed close at hand. Materials for his house were already
collected and the building of it was to begin during the following week.
It would need five or six months to finish, and Bowden proposed to be
married and settled in his future home before another Christmas came.
While he sat here now, slowly, stolidly planning the future and waiting
for Margaret to meet him, certain black-faced, horned sheep approached,
drew up at a safe distance and lifted their yellow eyes to him
inquiringly. David returned their regard with interest, for they were
his own.
Presently came Margaret and he kissed her, then pointed with
satisfaction to the preparations.
"They’ve kept their word, you see. Next week our house is to be
started. There’s a good bit of pulling down to do first, however. And
Sir Guy have given way about that ruined spot t’other side the stream.
It’s going to be built again for a lew place for stock; and I’m to pay
two pound a year more rent."
"’Twill be good for the kennel," said Madge. "Rhoda tells me as you’ll
have five or six dogs at the least for her to watch over, not counting
’Silky’ here."
’Silky’ had grown from puppyhood into adolescence. He was now a
beautiful but a spoiled spaniel, who never wandered far from his
mistress.
Bowden looked down and shook his head at ’Silky,’ where he sat with his
nose between his fore-paws at Margaret’s feet.
"A good dog ruined," he said. "If you was to do the proper thing, you’d
let me shoot it. ’Twill never be any manner of use here."
"He’ll be of use to me, David. I should miss him cruel now."
"God send you don’t bring up the childer so, when they come, Madge."
"No childer of yours will ever be spoilt," she said.
"I hope not. And I hope they don’t prove of wayward nature; for that
sort’s a thorn in the parent’s side. Take Dorcas now--so different to
the rest of us as you can think. Light-minded and a chatterer--colour
and mind both different. I hope as I’ll never have a red child, Madge."
"I’m very fond of Dorcas. She’s the happiest of you all,
anyway--light-minded or not. Only her father sees her good points. I
don’t think, David, that you rate her high enough."
"I know her very well--light-minded and a laugher," he repeated. "And
now there’s that insolent chap, Screech, after her; and he had the cheek
to talk to faither and mother about it, and offer to take her--a
beggarly man, with none to say a good word for him--a man that have
lived on his widowed mother all his days, and haven’t even got regular
work, but picks up an uneven living where he can."
"What did your father answer?"
"Sent him away with a flea in his ear! There was a few high words, and
then I seed my gentleman marching off across Ringmoor, and Dorcas with
her apron to her eyes. ’Better bide single all your days than marry an
out-at-elbows good-for-nought like that,’ I told her; but, of course,
she knowed better, and said he was all he should be, and that her life
would be gall and wormwood without him."
"Your father’s not one to be flouted."
"He is not; and Dorcas knows it very well. Us shan’t hear no more about
the chap."
"She’ll tell me, however."
"Mind you speak sense to her then, Madge. Don’t go pitying her. You’re
too prone to pity every mortal thing that’s in trouble, or thinks it is.
You know as well as any one that Billy Screech is a bad and lazy man.
You know that he’s not built to make any female a good husband.
Therefore tell her so."
"I hope she’ll soon find a better to make her forget him."
"I hope she won’t then. She’ve got Sophia’s poor luck before her eyes.
Better for a woman not to wed at all than wreck her life in it. Dorcas
is better at home in my judgment. Nought but a tramp would fancy such a
homely creature as her."
"You’re wrong there, David. A girl’s face isn’t everything. But no
brother ever yet knew what his sisters were worth."
"’Tis you who are wrong to say that," answered David. "I know their
virtues very well. Sophia was far too good for her husband, and
Rhoda--well, never was a better than her--a marvel of a woman."
"She is--yet the men keep off. But her heart’s so warm and soft as any
woman’s, I daresay."
"Men generally want something less fine and high-minded," said David.
"Something weaker and wilfuller than Rhoda. They are frighted of her.
She makes ’em see how small they are, if you can understand that."
"She does. So strong and fearless. Looks through men and women with
those eyes of hers. Yet you wouldn’t have her bide a maiden into old
age surely, David? There’s men good enough--even for Rhoda."
Not a spark of spite marked the speech, and Madge only meant what she
said.
"We must find her a husband, David!"
He shook his head doubtfully.
"A kicklish business. She’s not the sort to let others do that work for
her. She’ve got no use for a man in my opinion. There’s only one male
as ever I saw her eye follow for a yard, and that, if you please, be the
leat-keeper, Simon Snell."
Madge laughed.
"Poor Mr. Snell! I can’t picture him ever daring to lift his eyes to
Rhoda."
"No more can’t I," agreed David. "And don’t you breathe what I’ve told
you to Rhoda, for I may be wrong, and, right or wrong, she’d never
forgive even me for saying it. She’ll be happy enough here with us, and
if a husband comes--come he will. But I don’t want him to come in a
hurry."
"Such a lover of the night as she is!" declared Margaret. "Never was a
stranger girl in some ways, I think--to say it lovingly. Give her a dog
or two and nightfall, and off she’ll tramp to meet the moonrise.
Whatever do she do out in the dark, David?"
"Blest if I can answer that. She’ve got her secrets--like everything
else that goeth in petticoats, no doubt. But few enough secrets from my
ear, I reckon. ’Twas always a great desire in her to be out by night,
and more’n once faither whipped her, when she was a dinky little maid,
because she would go straying in the warrens when she ought to have been
in bed, and fright her mother nigh to death. I’ve axed her many a time
about it, but she can’t or won’t offer reasons. It pleases her to see
the night creatures at their work, I suppose. She’ll tell you things
that might much surprise you about the ways of the night, and what
happens under it."
"She likes the moon better than the sun, I believe. Sometimes I’m
tempted to think her blood’s cold instead of hot, David."