fight last winter;--no, nor heard her when she spoke of Bartley Crocker
kissing hers."
"I believe Bartley would marry her joyfully," said Margaret; but David
doubted it.
"Not him--not after what she said to him in the Pixies’ House, and after
what I said to him in the bull-ring. No man ever paid dearer for a kiss
than him, I reckon. But very good friends now, thank God. But my
brother-in-law--no. He’ll never come to be that. He don’t want Rhoda
and Rhoda don’t want him."
"He told me that well he knew he’d have beat you, if Rhoda had been o’
his side."
"I daresay that’s true."
They sat together in the theatre of their future life, and Madge brushed
David’s hair away from his right ear. The organ was slightly larger
than the other and she shook her head discontentedly.
"’Twill never be just so beautiful as the left one," she said.
He laughed.
"What do it matter so long as I can hear with it?"
"And your dear eyelid will droop for ever."
"Yes, but the eye behind be all right. Bartley’s got his mark
too--where I hit him that last time."
"He’s coming up one evening to see this place. Not but he knows it well
enough already. He told me that the valley under Harter up along and
beyond be nearly always good for a snipe at the season of the year."
"A pity he don’t come and lend a hand here, if ’twas only mixing mortar.
’Twould be something for him to do. How any living being can waste his
life like that man is a mystery and a shame."
"Always happy too," said Madge. "He’ve got a very kind heart, David."
"I know that--else he’d have licked me instead of my licking him. Don’t
think I bear the man any ill-will--far from it. We’re real good friends
and he’s very clever by nature. I’m only sorry he can’t find man’s
work. He’ve larned a trade now, then why don’t he use it?"
The conversation shifted to their house presently and Madge declared her
longing to see it grow.
"And what be us to call the place?" she asked.
"I thought of ’Black Tor Cottage,’" he said, "since Black Tor’s just
above us."
But Madge little liked the name.
"’Black’ ban’t a comely word for a home," she said. "Think again,
David."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"’Tis only the name of the tor," he answered; "black or white be no more
than words."
"Call it ’Meavy Cot,’" she said. "’Tis an easy name for folks to bring
to mind, and I’d sooner my home was called after the river than they
great stones up over, though I daresay I’ll get very fond of them too."
"So be it," he answered. "’Meavy Cot’ is the name! and I hope that a
good few prosperous years be waiting for us in it. But if ever I come
to be Moorman of this quarter, I might have to leave it."
"You’ll do greater things than that some day, David."
"I hope I shall," he answered; "but to be Moorman is a very good
stepping-stone, mark you."
*CHAPTER II*
*BARTLEY DOUBTFUL.*
A great drake waddled out from the yard of Mrs. Crocker’s dwelling, and
some white ducks followed him. The male bird was grey, but his head
shone with the rich black-green of the fir trees behind him on the hill
and the light of these metallic and glittering feathers made a fine
setting for his brown eyes. He marched to the stream, put down his bill
and tasted the water; he then threw up his bill again, quacked an order
to set forth, and so floated away with the current, while his household
followed after. Under the little bridge they went, and the drake,
screwing round his head, cast an upward glance at the parapet as he
passed by. There he might have marked a familiar figure, for Bartley
Crocker, with his hands in his pockets and his pipe in his mouth, sat
and talked to a woman who stood beside him. Their position was public,
but the subject of their discourse might have been considered
confidential. For the woman the revelation he now made opened a
desirable possibility. The man spoke half in jest, yet it seemed clear
that he found himself perfectly serious and meant all that he said on
the main question.
"Set down your basket, Madge, and listen. I’ll carry it along for you
presently; but I can’t talk and walk together--not when the subject is
so large. Where are you going?"
"Over to they old Elfords down at Good-a-Meavy. They be terrible poor,
you know, and he’s fallen ill and the pair of ’em was pretty near
starving last week. One of the Bowden boys--Wellington, I think it
was--called there, and he told his father; and of course the matter was
looked to. I’m just taking them a thing or two, till the old man can
get out again."
"’Tis only putting off the workhouse."
"Maybe--yet a good thing to put it off. They’ll be too old to smart
soon; and then it won’t matter."
"How’s Rhoda Bowden?" he asked suddenly.
"Very well, so far as I know."
"I’ve hardly seen a wink of her since I came back. Yet somehow, Madge, I
find her terrible interesting."
"She’s a fine character, Bartley."
"Well, when I went up to Barnstaple for three months after the fight, I
did two things: I learned a trade, as you know, and I thought a lot off
and on of Rhoda Bowden."
"Yes."
"’Tis something to be anything at all. Now, if anybody asks what I am,
I can say I am an upholsterer. My uncle was well pleased for me to learn
the business, and a very nice girl helped me how to do it. But,
somehow, while I looked at her clever hands I thought of Rhoda Bowden."
"You ought to tell Rhoda, then--not me."
"Why should I? It’s all ridiculous nonsense, of course; but you see I
can’t forget the peculiar way we were flung together. If you’d seen her
after I kissed her! A princess couldn’t have raged worse. Then--at the
fight--time and again I tried to catch her eye; but never once she
looked at me--always busy with David. Did you hear that she came down
two nights after, all by herself, through the snow, to ask my mother how
I was faring?"
"No!"
"She did; but nobody ever heard it--not even David, I believe. She told
my mother not to mention it; and mother began to give her a piece of her
mind; but she didn’t wait for that."
"’Tis just like her. Something got hold of her to do it, no doubt,
while she was walking through the night. She feels kindly to all sorts
of dumb things; but she don’t often show any interest in humans--except
David, of course."
"If I was a dog now, she and me would be very good friends--eh?"
"Not a doubt of it. Anyway this is terrible interesting to me,
Bartley--for more reasons than you’d guess. David and I were telling
together only a week agone. I said that when we were married, we must
set to and find Rhoda a husband; but David felt a bit doubtful about
it."
"Well he may be!"
"You think that too?"
"I’m going to scrape acquaintance with her when you’re married. Mind I
don’t say ’twill go very far. I’m a bit frightened of her yet, and
’twouldn’t be very clever to offer marriage to a female that makes you
feel frightened. But a man must get a wife some day or other, I
suppose, and my mother’s at me morning, noon and night to find one."
"You do tell me wonderful things!"
"But for the Lord’s sake keep ’em dark. I can trust you--and only you.
You’ve been a rare brick where I was concerned all your life, and ’tis
very hard we couldn’t have been married, as I shall always think whoever
takes me. Still, you’ll have to go on wishing me well."
"Yes, indeed."
"Say no more about it then. ’Tis only a moonshiney fancy at best, and
very like I’d hate the woman if I knew her better--hate her as much as
she does me. You know what a fool I am about ’em. I always see her
sponging the blood off David’s face and always catch myself wishing
she’d been doing the same for mine. But I should have felt the same
silly wish about any girl, no doubt."
"There’s not another girl that ever I heard about would have done it."
"I know--and I ask myself if that’s to praise her or to blame her. To
hear my mother--"
"Better hear David. She didn’t do it for fun, I can tell you. Not to
me--not to no woman--did she ever tell what she felt afterwards; but she
did tell David; and he says that she didn’t know where she was for the
first four rounds, and that once or twice after, when it looked like
David being beat, that ’twas all she could do by sticking her nails into
herself to keep herself from dashing out to help David against you."
Bartley nodded admiringly.
"I believe it," he said. "I saw it in her face."
"And now I must get on," declared Madge. "Can’t waste no more time
along with you to-day."
"I’ll walk up over then and carry your basket," he answered. "When are
you going to be married?"
"Not till the house is ready. They’ve started. There’s a lot of the old
building will work very suent into our new cottage."
"Yes," he said. "I was over there watching ’em at it yesterday evening.
And d’you know what I was wondering?--What I should give you and David
for a wedding present."
"No need, I’m sure."
"Every need. You’m like your mother. You’d give your head away if you
could; yet when people think to do you a turn, you always cry out
against it. ’Twill be a joy to many more people than your humble
thoughts will guess, to bring something to help you set up house."
"It ’mazes me, the kindness of the world."
"It might--if the world followed your example. ’Tis your due, and it
oughtn’t to ’maze you. ’Twould be funny if anybody could be unkind to
you."
"’Tis all very hopeful and beautiful, I’m sure--yet here and there I
feel a doubt. Wouldn’t name it to none but you; but mother don’t seem
at all hopeful--"
"Don’t let her fret you," urged Mr. Crocker. "I beg you won’t do that,
Madge. There’s not a kinder, humbler-hearted woman on the Moor than
Mrs. Stanbury; but she’s far too superstitious and given to the old
stories--you know it."
Margaret looked troubled. These folk belonged to a time when still a
few fine spirits from the middle place between man and angel haunted
Dartmoor. The pixies were yet whispered of as frequenting this farmer’s
threshing-floor, or that housewife’s dairy; the witch hare leapt from
her lonely form; herbs and simples in wise hands acted for potions of
might; and the little heath hounds were well known to hunt the Evil One
through the darkness of winter nights and along the pathway of the
storm. The toad still held a secret in its head; the tarn, in its
heart; rivers hungered for their annual banquet of human life; the
corpse candle burned in lonely churchyards; charms were whispered over
sick children and sick beasts; the evil eye still shone malignant; the
murmur of the mine goblins was often heard by the workers underground.
But the time of these mysteries has quite passed by. Back to the opal
and ivory dream-palaces of fairy-land, back to the shores of old
romance, have Dartmoor’s legendary spirits vanished; they are as dead as
the folk whose ruined homes still glimmer grey on twilight heaths at
sunset and at dawn. Knowledge has stricken our traditions hip and
thigh; our lore is obsolete; and our Moor children of to-day, as they
pass through the stages of learning’s dawn, see only an unlikeness to
truth that stamps the faces of these far-off things. Yet who shall say
that knowledge and wisdom are one? Who shall deny that not seldom the
story loved in life’s dawn-light and rejected at noon, is welcomed again
and only understood when evening shadows fall?
Mrs. Stanbury was saturated with the ancient myths, and they brought her
more sorrow than joy.
"I could wish that dear mother didn’t believe so many things," admitted
Margaret. "But there it is--father haven’t changed her in all these
years, so it isn’t likely that ever he will. She was full of Crazywell
Pool only yesterday. You know it--a wisht place, sure enough, and it
tells about nothing but death and such-like dismal matters. But if you
was to say to her ’twas all nonsense--not that I would go so far as that
myself--she’d answer that you was courting your undoing and would surely
come to harm."
"I know she would and you yourself are as bad, pretty near."
"Crazywell is harmless enough every night but Christmas Eve," explained
Margaret. "Only then can you say that there’s aught out of the common
hidden in the water. But then--well, you know what they say."
"Stuff and nonsense! Your mother believes that you hear a voice there
after dark on Christmas Eve; and that it calls out the names of them
that’ll die afore another year’s out. What can be sillier than that?"
"Strange things have happened, all the same," argued Margaret. "I don’t
say I trust in all that dear mother does, though she can give chapter
and verse for most of it; but Crazywell have spoken out the death year
of more men than one. Why, only ten year agone you know how Joseph
Westaway, being over-got by the fog, was along there on Christmas Eve
and heard an awful voice saying, ’Nathan Snell! Nathan Snell!’ And
didn’t Nathan Snell--Mr. Simon Snell’s own father--actually die the
March afterwards, of a kick from his horse? You can’t deny that,
Bartley, because Joseph Westaway heard it with his own ears--him being
on the way to eat his Christmas dinner at Kingsett Farm, with the
Pierces, and not so much as market merry."
"You’re as bad as your mother, Madge, and worse than Bart. You’ll
believe in the pixies next, I doubt. But there’s one thing I do say
where Mrs. Stanbury’s right, though I can’t be supposed to know much
about such matters--a bachelor man like me. Your mother told mine how
’twas arranged that Rhoda joins you and David at ’Meavy Cot’ after you’m
married; and Mrs. Stanbury said that somehow, though far be it from her
to set her opinion over other people, she couldn’t think ’twas a wise
plan; and my mother who never beats about no bush, and always sets up
her opinion over everybody, said for her part ’twas flat foolishness,
not to say madness, and would end in a rumpus. What d’you think of
that?"
"’Tis taken out of my hands, Bartley. I wasn’t asked--no more was
mother. Some might think that it wouldn’t suit Rhoda--living along with
a young married couple; but I know, and you know, what Rhoda is to
David. ’Tisn’t a common friendship of brother and sister, but a lot
more than that. She’d be lost at the Warren House without him."
"But surely the man doesn’t want her now that he’s going to take a
wife?"
"Yes, he does--to look after his dogs."
"Can’t you look after his dogs?"
"No," said Margaret, firmly, "I can’t. I don’t treat dogs right. I
spoil ’em."
"Well, if the three of you are of one mind, I can’t see that it’s any
other body’s business. Here’s the top of the hill, and I can’t go no
farther, though I’d like to."
He put down her basket, and she thanked him for carrying it.
"And what you say is true, I’m sure! if we three--Rhoda and David and
me--be well pleased at the thought of biding together, why shouldn’t we
do so?"
"Of course. You can but try it. Perhaps she’ll marry afore long, and
you’ll have the dogs on your hands yet afore you expect it."
"I’m sure I hope--at least--good-bye, for the present," said Margaret,
and hurried off.
"Ah! she told the truth then!" thought the man; "told the naked truth
and caught herself up too late! ’I’m sure I hope she will go,’ was what
her heart prompted her to say. Maybe ’twill be my luck to cut the knot.
Anyhow, as a full-blown upholsterer equal to making two pound a week at
any time, I’ve a right to cast my eye where I please. Funny ’twould be
if I should ever kiss Rhoda Bowden again. But ’twill be ’by your leave’
next time, I reckon, if ever that happens."
*CHAPTER III*
*PREPARATIONS*
To Margaret Stanbury belonged the mind that suffers sadness at the
return of autumn; and even with this autumn, which was to see her marry
the man she loved, her usual emotions wakened as the light again faded
out of the ling; as the brake-fern once more flashed its first auburn
signal from the hills; as the lamp of the autumnal furze went out and
left the Moor darkling. Grey rain swept the desert and the fog-banks
gathered together in high places. Sheep’s Tor’s crown and the ragged
scarps of Lether Tor were alike hidden for many days. Winter returned
with the careless step of a conqueror. Now he delayed for a little,
while belated flowers bloomed hastily and ephemeral things, leaping into
life, hurried through their brief hours during some golden interval of
sunlight and warmth; but the inevitable came nearer as surely as the
days grew short and the nights long, as surely as the sun’s chariot
flamed on a narrower path and the way of the moon ascended into higher
heaven.
The wedding day was fixed; the cottage under Black Tor was finished, and
David laboured there to fence the scrap of reclaimed ground and make all
sightly and pleasant for his bride when she should come. And now, while
yet six weeks of maidenhood remained to her, Madge set off one day to
visit Warren House upon various errands. Work was in full swing again
at Ditsworthy and David laboured with the rest for his father. The
mother of the household viewed this pending great exodus of a daughter
and a son with tearful mind, only soothed by thoughts of the increased
convenience when David and Rhoda should be gone; but as for the rest,
none regarded the incident from a standpoint sentimental.
Now Margaret on her way fell in with Mr. Shillabeer, gun in hand, and
she expressed gladness at the sight of him taking his pleasure. For
Reuben Shillabeer by force of accident has until the present appeared in
a light unusual and exceptional. The prize-fight and all that went
before it created an atmosphere wherein the master of ’The Corner House’
appeared translated from his true self. During that time he responded a
little to the joy of life and went about his business a cheerful and
even a sanguine soul; but with the decision of the contest and the
departure of Mr. Fogo to his metropolitan activities, Shillabeer found
life an anti-climax, the darker for this fleeting spasm of excitement.
His wife, as if in reproach, returned upon him with the force of an
incubus that haunted not only his pillow but hung heavy on his waking
hours; a settled melancholy, the more marked after its recent
dissipation, got hold upon him; he exhaled an air of depression even
behind his own bar, and only the high qualities and specific vigour of
his malt liquors were able to dispel it. The ’Dumpling’ became
increasingly religious and Mr. Merle had long since forgiven his
lamentable lapse of the previous winter. Mr. Shillabeer was actually
now engaged on behalf of the vicar of the parish, as he explained to
Margaret.
"Come Woodcock Sunday, ’tis always my hope and will to get the bird for
parson," he said. "He do read the chapter with special purpose to catch
my ear; and so sure as it comes, I fetch out my gun and set forth for
the man. But what with my failing strength and sight, I can’t shoot a
cunning creature like a cock many more years. I’m going down under
Coombeshead to-day and I shall call on your mother come the evening for
a cup of tea and a talk about the revel. Since the wedding feast is put
into my hands, I shall do my duty, though I may tell you that a wedding
in the air cuts me to the quick. It brings her back as nothing else
does."
"I’m sorry for that--truly sorry."
"You can’t help it," he said, rubbing the walnut stock of his gun with
his sleeve until it shone. "Ban’t your fault. But a oner for weddings
she was--a regular oner for ’em; and a christening would draw her miles
despite the girth of her frame. ’Tis only at the business of a funeral
I can comfort myself with an easy and cheerful spirit; for she hated
them. No doubt she knowed her own would come untimely."
"Perhaps ’twas an instinct in her against ’em."
"Though never a woman hastened to dry other people’s tears quicker than
her. Then ’churchings’--she never had no use for them herself, yet
she’d often stop for the pleasure of:--’Like as the arrows in the hand
of the giant; even so are the young children.’ And so on. Nought’s
sadder than to see a childless wife, in my opinion--specially if she’s
fond of ’em. I hope you’ll have a sackful, my dear."
"It’s very kind of you--very kind," said Margaret, frankly. "David and
me dearly love the little ones."
"As you should do. I’ve often thought if that blessed angel had given
me a pledge, that I could have better stood up afore the trials of life.
But there’s only the Lord for me in this world now. True, Mr. Fogo
talks of coming to see me again some day; but I don’t suppose he will.
What can the likes of me do for the likes of such a man as him?
Besides, parson would never forgive me if I had him here again."
He wandered off, and Margaret, who instantly reflected the tone of other
minds with the swiftness common to sympathetic and not very intelligent
people, went saddened on her way. Some light expired out of the earth
and sky for her. She could not use reason and remember that Mr.
Shillabeer was--in a word--Mr. Shillabeer. She merely felt that she had
met and touched hearts with an unhappy old man. Therefore herself
instantly grew a little unhappy and a little older. Chance objects, as
they will at such times, intruded and carried on the dominant mood. A
thing beside her path chimed with Madge’s emotion and lifted itself as a
mournful mark and reminder by the way. Among reddening banks of bracken
that spread in a tangle above a little hollow, where scarlet and purple
of the bramble fluttered, and sloes took the hue of ripeness, there
thrust up an object, livid and gigantic. It resembled some monstrous
kindred of the fern that had taken root and risen here. But this
bleached frond, so regular and perfect in its graduated symmetry of
structure, had once supported an animal, not a vegetable organism.
Margaret saw the backbone and ribs of a horse scoured into spotless
whiteness by carrion crow, by frost, by rain; and the spectacle added
another shade of darkness to her mind. She thought upon it a little
while; then there came in sight part of the population of Warren House,
and the twins, Samson and Richard, succeeded in lifting their future
sister-in-law’s spirits nearer to gaiety. The children were sailing
boats in a pond, but they abandoned the sport at sight of Margaret,
because they had secrets for her.
"You’ll promise faithful not to tell, won’t ’e?" asked Richard.
"If you don’t promise, us won’t tell ’e," said Samson.
"’Tis the present us have got against David’s wedding-day," said
Richard.
"But you must say ’strike me dead if I’ll tell,’" added Samson.
"Mother gived us sixpence to buy it with, and Joshua got it last time he
was to Tavistock," explained Richard; "but ’tis our present, mind."
"You ought to give us something if we tell you," suggested Samson; but
Madge shook her head.
"I shall know soon enough," she answered.
"That you won’t, then," replied Samson. "You won’t know for six weeks."
"You might try to guess and give us a ha’penny each time you lose,"
suggested Richard.
"Yes, you might," declared Samson.
They walked beside her and, since nothing was to be made out of the
secret, presently told Madge that their gift was a shaving-brush.
"And Napoleon and Wellington have given him a razor," said Richard; "so
now he’s all right."
"Yes," continued Samson, "and Nap was showing us how a razor cuts hairs
in half, and he missed the hair and showed us how a razor cuts thumbs."
"My word--bled like a pig, he did," concluded Richard. "I’m sure I
never won’t use such a thing when I grow to be hairy. Much too ’feared
of ’em."
"You mind when I’m married to David that you often come over and see me,
Dicky; and you too, Sam," said Margaret.
"If one comes, t’other will come," said Samson.
"Us hunt in couples, faither says--like to foxes," declared Richard.
"And we’ll often come to tea."
"And oftener still if there’s jam--not beastly blackberry jam, mind you,
but proper boughten jam from a grocer’s."
"I’ll remember," promised Madge.
They reached the Warren House after some further bargaining on the part
of Samson and promising from Margaret. Then the twins returned to their
boats and she entered her lover’s home.
David was at work, as the girl knew, but her business lay with Mrs.
Bowden, and it happened that Elias himself was also within to welcome
her. Both kissed Margaret and both declared their good pleasure at
sight of her. She had already become a great happiness to them, and
Elias did not hesitate openly to declare that his firstborn was luckier
than even he deserved to be.