John’s announcement awoke a laugh in the younger man, and Timothy
dismissed the subject with a sort of lame apology; but the other remained
dumb after his assertion, and few more words passed between them.
Aggett, however, burnt within, for the recent incident had caused him
infinite uneasiness and alarm. To allay these emotions he hastened to
the home of Sarah as soon as his duties at the farm were ended, and
there, before her parents, rated her in round terms for speaking to a
strange man under the darkness. The girl’s mother heard of what had
happened with secret interest; Sarah herself laughed, then cried, and
finally made her peace with many promises that no light action in this
sort should ever again be brought against her. Of the white witch and
the prediction John did not speak; and though he returned to his loft
above the cows a comforted man, yet, in the hours of night, fear and
foreboding gripped his heart again and frank terror at the shadow of an
awful catastrophe made him toss and sweat in the darkness. Twice he rose
and prayed childish prayers that his mother had taught him. They were
nothing to the purpose, yet he trusted that they might call the
Almighty’s attention to him and his difficulties. So he lay awake and
scratched his head and puzzled his scanty brains with what the future
held hidden.
As for Timothy, the splendid twilight vision of Sarah in her red array
was by no means dimmed by the subsequent appearance of his own fair
kinswoman. A first fiery love had dawned in him, and the romantic
circumstances attending its awakening added glamour to the charm of
mystery. Already he almost granted Gammer Gurney a measure of the powers
she pretended to. Aggett’s statement had iced his ardour for a while;
but a bitter-sweet yearning and unrest grew again after the cowman was
gone—grew gigantic to the shutting out of all other things feminine; and
Sarah’s grey eyes, not his little cousin’s, were the lamps that lighted
Timothy’s midnight pillow.
In the morning he gave himself great store of practical and sensible
advice. He told himself that he was too good a sportsman to interfere
with another’s game and poach on another’s preserve; and he assured
himself that he was too excellent a son to fall in love with a
blacksmith’s daughter and sadden his mother’s declining days. He laughed
at himself, and, when he met John after breakfast, spoke no more of the
incident. He grew self-righteous toward noon and was secretly proud of
himself for having withstood the fascination of Sarah Belworthy’s face
and voice with such conspicuous ease. He told his conscience that the
fancy was already dead; he felt that it would be interesting to meet the
girl again; and he assured himself that her image in full, garish
daylight must doubtless fall far below the perfection that it suggested
half veiled under coming darkness. During that afternoon he marvelled a
little at his own restlessness, then sought occupation and decided that
it would be well to have his horse’s shoes roughed. He knew under this
explicit determination lurked implicit desire to see the father of Sarah
Belworthy, but he did not give his mind time to accuse him. He looked to
his horse himself; he was very busy and whistled and addressed those he
knew about him, as he trotted down to the smithy, feebly trying to
deceive himself.
A black cavern gaped out on the grey day, and from within came chime of
anvil and hoarse breath of bellows. But it was not the spluttering soft
red-hot iron that caught Tim’s eye. A lurid figure appeared and
disappeared like magic as each pulse of the bellows woke a flame that
lighted up the forge. This vision now gleamed in the blaze, then faded
as the fire faded, and Timothy knew it for his pixie queen of the
preceding night. Such an unexpected incident unnerved him; for a brief
moment he thought of riding on; but he had already drawn rein and now
dismounted, his heart throbbing like the fire.
Sarah had brought her father some refreshments from home, and was amusing
herself, as she had often done before, with the great leathern bellows,
while a lad worked at the anvil and the smith rested from his labour and
ate and drank.
Smith Belworthy gloried more than common in two possessions; his daughter
and his bass viol. Sometimes he mentioned one first, sometimes the
other. To-day, having greeted Tim with great friendship and not
forgetting the incident of the previous night, he bid Sarah step forward,
much to her mortification, and drew young Chave’s attention to her as
though she had been some item in an exhibition.
“My darter, young sir, Sally by name. Theer’s a bowerly maid for ’e!
An’ so gude as she’m purty; an’ so wise as she’m gude most times. Awnly
eighteen year auld, though all woman, I assure ’e. But tokened,
maister—tokened to a sandy-headed giant by name of Jan Aggett—her awnly
silly deed, I reckon.”
“The best fellow in the world,” said Timothy.
“Maybe, but who be gude enough for the likes o’ she? My li’l rose of
Sharon her be; an’ the husband as I’d have chose should have been
somebody, ’stead of nobody. But theer she is, an’ I lay you’ve never
seed a purtier piece in all your travels, have ’e now?”
The blacksmith grinned affectionately, held Sarah’s arm in his grimy grip
and surveyed his daughter as he had gazed upon some prize beast or a
triumph of the anvil.
“Doan’t heed un,” burst out Sally, her grey eyes clouded, and her face as
red as her gown. “Never did no girl have such a gert gaby of a faither
as me. His wan goose be a royal swan, an’ he do reckon all the
countryside must see wi’ his silly eyne an’ think same as him—fond auld
man!”
The cold light of day and the forge-glow struck her face alternately as
she moved. Young Chave was a man and not a stock or a stone. Therefore
he seized the hour and answered her remark.
“You shouldn’t blame your father for telling the truth, young mistress,”
he said. “Even though it suit you not to hear it. Yet when ’tis so
pleasant and so generally accepted, it might well be agreeable to you.”
“Theer’s butivul scholar’s English,” chuckled Mr. Belworthy; “theer’s
high gen’leman’s language, an’ the case in a nutshell!”
Sarah grew shy and uncomfortable. Angry she could not be before Tim’s
compliments, and how to answer him without contradicting him she did not
know. So she turned to her father instead.
“Be gwaine to eat an’ drink up your food or ban’t ’e, faither?”
“All in gude time. I’ve got to rough the young gen’leman’s horse’s shoes
fust.”
“Be in no hurry,” said Tim. “I can wait awhile.”
“I can’t then,” declared Sarah, ungraciously, and so marched off in a
fine flutter of mingled emotions.
Mr. Belworthy looked up from the hoof between his knees and winked with
great significance at Timothy.
“Kittle cattle—eh? Look at the walk of her! Theer ban’t another girl
this side Dartymoor as travels like that. ’Tis light as a bird, an’
you’d doubt if her’d leave a footprint ’pon new-fallen snow.”
“So Diana walked,” declared Tim.
“Did her? A Plymouth maiden, I s’pose?” asked Mr. Belworthy, with
simulated indifference.
“No—a goddess of ancient times—just a moonbeam shadow, you know. Not a
splendid flesh and blood beauty like your daughter.”
There was no sound but the rasping of the file; then Belworthy spoke
again.
“Tokened to a man as’ll never rise much beyond Bellever Barton cow
yard—that’s the mischief of it. Her, as might have looked so high,
seein’ as the body of her an’ the faace of her be what they be. Not a
word ’gainst the chap, mind. Brains is the gift of God, to be given or
held back according to His gude pleasure.”
“Such a clever girl, too, I’ll warrant. What did she see in John Aggett,
I wonder?”
“Clever in a way, though not so full of wit as my cheel might have been
prophesied. Me bein’ generally reckoned a man of might on the bass viol
Sundays. But Sally’s just Sally, an’ I wouldn’t change an eyelash of
her. Power over musical instruments ban’t given to women-kind, I reckon;
though for plain singin’ wi’ other maidens in a plaace o’ worship, she’m
a tower o’ strength. An’ she be just a polished corner o’ the temple
prayer-times, no matter what gentlefolks comes theer. As to why she took
on wi’ Jan, I lay her couldn’t give ’e reasons any more’n me. But so
’tis, an’ though it mayn’t never come to axing out in church, yet lovers
be stubborn in their awn conceits. An’ so—you being Farmer Chave’s awn
son an’ heir—might, if you was that way minded, up an’ say a word for
Jan.”
“So I will then. He’s a right good fellow.”
“’Tis the season o’ herald angels, when hearts are warm, you see. An’
six shillin’ a week do taake a terrible long time to goody. Of course,
Jan gets cider, an’ corn at market price tu; yet wi’out offence ’tis tail
corn most times an’ not stomachable—stuff as doan’t harden muscle.”
“My father would never give his men tail corn,” cried Timothy,
indignantly.
“Wouldn’t he? Then I was wrong. I wouldn’t go against un for all the
tin hid on Dartymoor. But theer ’tis. I doan’t see how the man’s gwaine
to save against a wife an’ fam’ly unless his wage be bettered. An’ I
don’t want to see my darter grow into an auld virgin mumphead while he’s
tryin’ to scrape brass enough to give her a home. ’Tis wisht work such
waitin’.”
“I’ll not forget John Aggett. He’s a very well-meaning man, and honest,
and a splendid shot.”
“So he is then, an’ a gude shot as you say, though I’ll allus be sorry as
he brought down my li’l bird.”
“If she loves him, ’twill fall out all right, you know, Belworthy.”
“If love could taake the place o’ victuals an’ a stone cottage an’ a snug
peat hearth, it might fall out right; but I’m sorry for the maiden’s love
as have got to burn at full pitch o’ heat year arter year wi’ marriage no
nearer. ’Tis a withering thing for a girl to love on, knawin’ in her
secret heart as each winter doan’t pass awver her for nought but leaves
its awn touch o’ coldness an’ greyness. She hides it from the man, o’
course—from everyone else tu, for that matter,—but ’tis with her all the
seasons through an’ dims her eye, an’ furrows her smooth young forehead
at night-times unbeknawnst to them that love her best.”
Timothy doubted not that the blacksmith spoke truth, then he trotted off
up the hill, and without set purpose overtook Sarah on her way home. Her
voice and the frankness of her face thrilled him as she smiled shyly, her
temper gone. Again she chid him for listening to her parent’s nonsense,
and he tried to assume a friendly, fatherly manner toward her, and
failed. The girl made his blood burn and his hand shake on his horse’s
mane. His breath came short, his eyes grew bright, and only with
difficulty did he arrest a frantic, reckless petition for a kiss at any
cost. Perhaps such an abrupt and volcanic climax had been best; but he
restrained himself, swallowed his ardour and became humble before her.
Seeing that she preferred this attitude, he sank to servility; then,
rating him for wasting his time and her own, she turned away hard by her
cottage door, and he, without formal farewell, walked his horse onward
all a-dreaming. Sarah, too, was not unmoved, but she hid her emotion and
was glad that neither her mother’s nor any other pair of eyes had seen
her with young Chave.
Timothy met the third party to that unfolding drama as he proceeded on to
the Moor. Then came John Aggett with an anxious face looking out upon
the world above his pale beard. The labourer stopped Tim, and in broken
sentences—like a child that wrestles to describe new things within his
experience but beyond his vocabulary—strove clumsily to express a mental
upheaval which he lacked words to display. He made it clear, however,
that he was in a great turmoil of mind and much driven by fear of
appearances in connection with Gammer Gurney’s predictions of the
previous night.
“I be just come from speech with the old woman, and can’t say as ’twas
sense or yet nonsense I got out of her. She kept a close watch on her
lips, ’peared to me; but her eyes threatened bad things an’ her weern’t
at ease. ‘What will happen, will happen,’ she sez to me; an’ at the fust
utterance it seemed a deep sayin’, yet, come to think on’t, ’twas a thing
known so well to me as she.”
“Why did you go to her?” enquired Timothy, knowing without need of
answer.
“’Bout last night. Couldn’t banish it from my head what her said as to
your sweetheart. So I went an’ telled her how you met my Sarah an’ axed
if that comed in the spell, seein’ the girl were tokened to another man.
An’ she said as it might be or might not be, because the spoken word
remained an’ was no more to be called back again than last year’s
primrosen. Then I axed her what her view of it might be, an’ she up an’
said what I told ’e; ‘What will happen, will happen.’ Arter that I grew
hot an’ said any fule knowed so much, an’ she turned round ’pon me like a
dog you’ve trod on by mistake, an’ her eyes glinted like shinin’ steel,
an’ I reckoned she was gwaine to awverlook me theer an’ then. So I
cleared out of it.”
“What happens, happens, because it must. That’s all right enough, John.
And things won’t fall out differently because we take thought and pine
about ’em.”
“I be keepin’ comp’ny, an’ it may be a sort o’ state as blinds the eyes,”
said Aggett, humbly. “I trust ’e in this thing—you’m a gen’leman, an’
wiser’n me, as be a mere zawk for brains alongside you. But theer ’tis,
she’m my awn maid, an’ if the ’mazin’ butivul looks of her have fired ’e,
then, as you’m a gude man, so I pray you’ll be at trouble not to see her
no more. ’Tis very well to say what must fall, must; but the future did
ought to be a man’s sarvant, I reckon, not his master.”
“That’s not philosophic, John.”
“Anyway, if theer’s danger in my maid to you, then turn your back upon
her. I sez it wi’ all respects as man to master; an’ as man to man, I’ll
say more, an’ bid you be a man an’ look any way but that. Ess fay, I sez
it, though not worthy to hold a cannel to ’e. An’ what’s more, I trust
’e.”
To Timothy’s relief John did not delay for an answer to his exhortation,
but proceeded upon his way. So they parted, by curious chance, at that
spot where to-day there rise the mound and aged thorn. The Moor was of a
uniform and sullen iron colour under a sky of like hue but paler shade.
The north wind still blew, but the clouds were lower, denser and heavy
with snow. Even as Aggett went down the hill and his rival proceeded
upward, there came fluttering out of the grey the first scattered flakes
of a long-delayed downfall. They floated singly, wide-scattered on the
wind; others followed; here a monstrous fragment, undulating like a
feather, capsized in the invisible currents of the air. Then the swarm
thickened and hurried horizontally in puffs and handfuls. The clean
black edges of the distant Moor were now swept and softened with a mist
of falling snow; aloft, thicker and faster, came the flakes, huddling and
leaping out of nothingness and appearing as dark grey specks against the
lighter sky. Presently indication of change marked the world, and a
glimmer of virgin white under on-coming gloom outlined sheep tracks and
made ghostly the grey boulders of the Moor. By nightfall the great snow
had fairly begun, and blinding blizzards were screaming over the Moor on
the wings of a gale of wind.