AT BUCKLAND-IN-THE-MOOR
Like beehives cluster the thatched roofs of Buckland, for the
cottages are dwarfed by the lofty trees which soar above them. Oak
and ash, pine and beech heave up hugely to their canopies upon the
hill slope, and the grey roofs and whitewashed walls of the hamlet
seem little more than a lodge of pygmies sequestered in the forest.
The very undergrowth of laurel has assumed giant proportions and
flings many a ponderous bough across the highway, where winds a road
with mossy walls through the forest and the village. Here and there
green meadows break the woods and lay broad, bright tracts between
the masses of the trees; then glimpses of the Vale beneath are
visible through woodland rifts.
The cottage coverings were old and sombre of tone; but on this
September day, before the great fall of the leaf, destined presently
to sweep like a storm from tree top to earth, sunshine soaked through
the interlacing boughs and brought light to the low-browed windows,
to the fuchsias and purple daisies in the gardens. It flashed a ruby
on the rays of Virginian creepers that sometimes clothed a wall and
brightened the white faces of the little dwellings to pale gold. All
was very silent about the hour of noon. For a few moments no human
form appeared; only a brook poured down from the hills, foamed
through its dark, hidden ways, rested at a granite drinking trough
beside the road, then trickled on again. A robin sang, and far
distant throbbed the note of a woodman's axe.
Midway between the squat-towered church, that stood at the limits of
the village to the north-west, and the congeries of cots within the
border of the woods, a second rivulet leapt in a waterfall from the
hedge at the root of a mighty ash that shook out its serrated foliage
a hundred feet above and made the lane a place of shade. The road
bent here and the dingle was broken with great stones heavily clad in
moss. Above stretched the woods, legion upon legion, their receding
intricacies of branch and bough broken by many thousand trunks.
Beneath, again the woods receded over steep acclivities to the river
valley.
Though the houses were few and small, great distinction marked them.
They held themselves as though conscious of their setting, and worthy
of it. They fitted into the large and elaborate moulding of the
hillside and by their human significance completed a vision that had
been less without them. There was a quality of massive permanence in
the scene, imparted by the gigantic slope of the hill whereon it was
set. It fell with no addition of abrupt edge or precipice, but
evenly, serenely from its crown on the naked Beacon above, by
passages of heath and fern, by the great forests and sweeps of
farmland and water meadows that broke them, down and down past the
habitations, assembled like an ants' nest on its side to the
uttermost depths of the river valley and the cincture of silver Dart
winding through the midst of it.
At a point where the road fell and climbed again through the
scattered dwellings there stood two cottages under the trees
together. They adjoined, and one was fair to see--well-kept and
prosperous, with a tidy scrap of garden before it and a little
cabbage patch behind. The straw of the roof was trimly cut and
looped heavily over the dormer windows, while above, on a brick
stack, four slates were set instead of a chimney pot. But the
neighbour cottage presented a forlorn appearance. It was empty; its
thatch was scabbed and crusted with weeds and blobs of moss; at one
place it had fallen in and the wooden ribs of the roof protruded. A
mat of neglected ivy covered the face of the cot and thrust through
broken windows into the little chambers. Damp and decay marked all,
and its evil fame seemed reflected in its gloomy exterior. For the
house was haunted, and since Mrs. Benjamin Bamsey had seen a
"wishtness" peering through the parlour window on two successive
evenings after the death of the last tenant, none could be found to
occupy this house, though dwellings in Buckland-in-the-Moor were far
to seek.
Now a man appeared in the road from the direction of the church. He
was of an aspect somewhat remarkable and he came from Lower Town, a
hamlet sunk in the Vale to the west. Arthur Chaffe combined many
trades, as a carpenter in a small village is apt to do. He attended
to the needs of a scattered community and worked in wood, as the
smith, in iron. He boasted that what could be made in wood, from a
coffin to a cider cask, lay in his power. And beyond the varied and
ceaseless needs of his occupation, he found time for thought, and
indeed claimed to be a man above the average of intelligence. His
philosophy was based on religious principle and practice; but he was
not ungenial for an old bachelor. He smiled upon innocent pleasure,
though the lines that he drew round human conduct were hard and fast.
He was eight and fifty, and so spare that the bones of his face gave
it expression. Upon them a dull, yellowish skin was tightly drawn.
He was growing bald and shaved his upper lip and cheeks, but wore a
thin, grey beard. His teeth were few and his mouth had fallen in.
His cheeks puffed out when he ate and spoke, but sank to nothing
under the cheek bones when he sucked his pipe. He had a flat nose,
and his long legs suggested an aquatic bird, while his countenance
resembled a goat and his large and pale brown eyes added to the
likeness. His expression was both amiable and animated, and he could
laugh heartily. Mr. Chaffe's activities were centripetal and his
orbit limited. It embraced Lower Town and Buckland, and occasionally
curved to Holne and outlying farms; but he was a primitive, and had
seldom stirred out of a ten-mile radius in his life. Had he gone
much beyond Ashburton, he had found himself in a strange land. He
employed three men, and himself worked from morning to night. His
highest flights embraced elementary cabinet-making, and when he did
make a piece of furniture on rare occasions, none denied that it was
an enduring masterpiece.
He left the high road now, approached the pair of cottages and
knocked at the door of the respectable dwelling.
Melinda Honeysett it was who appeared and expressed pleasure.
"So you've come then, Mr. Chaffe. What a man of your word you are!"
"I hope so, Mrs. Honeysett. And very pleased to do anything for you
and your father."
"Come in and sit down for five minutes. 'Tis a climb from Lower
Town. But people say you can fly so easy as you can walk, and a
hill's nought to you."
"We thin blades have the pull of the beefy ones in this country. I
sometimes think I'll start a pony; but I like to use my legs and
ban't often too tired."
"Will you have a drink and a piece of my seedy cake?"
"I will then and gladly. Milk for choice. How's the Governor?"
"Pretty middling for him. You must see him afore you go. You're one
of his pets."
"I'm none so sure of that. But 'tis a longful time since we met.
I've been busier than ever this summer. I surprise myself sometimes
what I get into twenty-four hours."
"I dare say you do."
Melinda brought the wayfarer refreshment. They sat in a pleasant
kitchen, whose walls were washed a pale ochre, making harmony with
various brass and copper articles upon the mantel shelf and dresser.
The floor was of stone, and in the alcove of the window some scarlet
geraniums throve. They spoke of neighbours, and Mr. Chaffe asked a
question.
"I hear from Ben Bamsey that his cousin have got two new men at
Falcon Farm, and foreigners both."
"So they are. One's youngish, t'other's middle-aged; and Joe says
they promise to be treasures. He's much pleased about them."
"Then they're gluttons for work without a doubt."
"So they are seemingly."
"How soft that chap do always fall," mused the carpenter.
"Because he's got the wit to choose where he will fall," answered
Mrs. Honeysett. "Joe Stockman has gifts. He's a master of the soft
answer."
"Because he knows it pays."
"Well, a very good reason."
"His cleverness and charity come out of his head, not his heart, Mrs.
Honeysett. He's the sort may cast his crumbs on the waters, but
never unless he sees the promise of a loaf returning."
"You don't like him."
"I wouldn't say I didn't like him. As a man of intellects myself I
value brains. He's a clever man."
"He's spoilt a bit. He gets round one you know. There's a great
power in him to say the word to a woman he always knows will please
her. I properly like him some days; then other days he drives me
frantic."
The gruff voice of Mrs. Honeysett's father intruded upon them. It
came from a little chamber which opened out of the kitchen and had
been converted into his bedroom. His lower limbs were paralysed, but
he had a vehicle which he moved by handles, and could thus steer
himself about the ground floor of his home.
"I hear Arthur Chaffe," rumbled the voice. "I'll see you, Arthur,
afore you go, and larn if you've got more sense than when you was
here last."
A gurgle of laughter followed this remark and the visitor echoed it.
"Ah! You bad old blid! No more of your sense, I promise you. We
know where your sense comes from!"
"Don't you charge too much for my new gate then--sense, or no sense."
"Whoever heard tell of me charging too much for anything, Enoch?"
"Widow Snow did, when you buried her husband."
Again the slow, heavy laughter followed; but Mr. Chaffe did not
laugh. He shook his head.
"Past praying for," he said.
Then he rose and suggested inspecting the old gate and making
measurements for the new one.
That matter settled and the price determined, Arthur Chaffe returned
to the cottage and found that Mr. Withycombe had travelled in upon
his little trolley and lifted himself into a large, dog-eared chair
beside the hearth.
He was a heavy man with a big, fresh face that had been exceedingly
handsome in his prime, but was now a little bloated and discoloured,
since fate had ended for the old sportsman his hard and active
existence. He had hunted the Dart Vale Foxhounds for thirty years;
then, maimed in the back by a fall, for five years he had occupied
the position of indoor servant to a master who was deeply attached to
him. Finally had come a stroke, as the result of the old injury, and
Enoch was forced to retire. He had now reached the age of sixty-six
and was a widower with two sons and one daughter. One boy was in the
Royal Navy, the other lived at home and worked in the woods.
Mr. Withycombe had grey eyes, a Roman nose and cheeks of a ruddy
complexion. He wore whiskers, but shaved his mouth and chin. He was
a laughing philosopher, admired for his patience and unfailing good
temper, but distrusted, because he permitted himself opinions that
did not conform to the community in which he dwelt. These were
suspected to be the result of his physical misfortunes; in reality
they were but the effect of his environment. An admiration amounting
to passion existed in the large heart of Mr. Withycombe for his
former master, and during those years when he worked under his roof,
the old fox-hunter had learned educated views on various subjects and
modified his own to match them. The Honourable Ernest Childe, of
Holne Chase, a lord of three manors, could neither do nor think wrong
in Enoch's opinion. He was the paragon, and the more nearly did his
fellow creatures take their colour from such a man and such a mind,
the better it must be for all--so Mr. Withycombe declared. Others,
however, did not agree with him. They followed parson rather than
squire, and while admitting that the latter's sterling practice left
little to be desired, yet suspected his principles and regretted that
his pew in church was invariably empty. They puzzled at the
discrepancy and regretted it, because it appeared a danger to the
rising generation.
Mr. Chaffe shook the heavy and soft hand that Enoch extended to him.
"And how's yourself?" he asked.
"Half dead, half alive, Arthur. But, thanks be, the half that
matters most is alive."
"And it be wise enough to feel patience for the weaker members."
"Now it do," admitted Enoch. "But I won't pretend. When this blow
first fell upon me and I knew that my legs would be less use in the
world than rotten wood, which at least be good for burning, then I
cursed God to hell. However, that's past. I've got my wits and now,
along of these spectacles, I can read comfortable again."
He pointed to a little shelf within reach of his hand where stood
various works.
"I could wish you'd read some books of mine, Enoch," said Arthur
Chaffe.
"So I will then--didn't know you'd got any books."
"Oh yes I have--Sunday reading."
"You chaps that limit yourselves to 'Sunday reading' get
narrow-minded," declared Withycombe. "For why? You only see one
side of life. I don't blame you, because you've got to do your work
on weekdays; but you'd find there's a lot of very fine books just so
good on Sunday as Monday. 'The Rights of Man,' for example. There's
a proper book, and it don't interfere with the rights of God for a
moment."
"Mr. Chaffe be going to ax seventeen and six for the gate and five
shillings for the hinges and lachet," said Melinda.
"A very fair price and I shan't quarrel with it."
He handed his tobacco pouch to the visitor. It was covered with
otter skin now grown shabby.
Arthur filled his pipe.
"We stand for different things, you and me," he said, "yet, thank
God, agree in the virtues. Duty's duty, and a man that's honest with
himself can't miss it."
"Oh yes he can, Arthur. There's plenty that be honest enough and
don't want to shirk, yet miss the road."
"Because they won't read the sign-posts."
"Now stop!" commanded Melinda. "Talk about something interesting.
How's 'Orphan Dinah'? Haven't seen her for a month."
"She's very well. Passed the time of day yesterday. Been helping in
the harvest. Ben Bamsey have had the best wheat he remembers. 'Tis
harvest thanksgiving with us Sunday week. And something out of the
common to thank for this year."
"When's the wedding? You'll know if anybody does--Ben's right hand
as you be."
"No, no; his wife's his right hand. But we'm like brothers I grant.
In fact, few brothers neighbour so close I dare say. No news of the
wedding; and that don't worry Ben. You know what Dinah is to him."
"Nearer than his own I reckon."
"Mustn't say that; but--well, now that the date is only waiting for
Dinah, Ben begins to feel what her going will be. No doubt we shall
hear soon. Faith Bamsey's at Dinah about it. She reckons it's not
fair to Johnny to keep him on the hooks longer."
"More it is."
"Well, I dare say you're right, Mrs. Honeysett. Dinah's the sort
that loves liberty; but the maids have got to come to it, and she's a
good girl and will go into matrimony fearless."
"Fearless enough," said Enoch. "If she'd been born in a different
station of life, how that creature would have rode to hounds!"
"She's more interesting than most young things in my opinion, because
there's rather more to her," explained Mr. Chaffe. "With most of
them, from the point of our experience, they are pretty easy to be
read, and they do what you expect from their characters oftener than
not. But she'll surprise you more than many grown-ups for that
matter."
"It's something that a man who knows human nature so well as you
should be surprised, Arthur," said the old hunter.
The other laughed at a recollection.
"You're pulling my leg I reckon--same as that sly publican, Andrew
Gaunter, at the Seven Stars. 'Ah!' he said to me, 'you're a marvel,
Chaffe; you get every man and woman's measure to an inch!' I told
him I wasn't so clever as all that, because none but God knows all
there is to know; but he swore he was right--and proved it by
reminding me I'm an undertaker!"
Enoch laughed.
"One for him sure enough. Funny word, 'undertaker.' A good chap is
Andrew Gaunter. Many a flip of sloe-gin I've had at his door when
hounds met that way. He'd bring it out himself, just for the
pleasure of 'good morning.'"
"You often hear the horn from here?"
"I heard it yesterday, and I finger my own now and again."
He looked up to where his hunting horn hung from a nail above the
mantel shelf.
"There's no music like it as I always say, though not a sportsman."
"Is it true old Sparrow be gone to the workhouse?" asked Melinda, who
loved facts concerning fellow creatures and reduced conversation to
personalities when she could.
"It is true," answered Chaffe.
"A sparrow as fell to the ground uncounted then," said Enoch, but the
carpenter denied it.
"You mustn't think that. What be the workhouse but a sign of the
everlasting mercy put in our minds by a higher power?"
"A bleak fashion of mercy, Mr. Chaffe," answered Melinda.
"Many never know happiness till they get there. Human life have
always been a hand to mouth business for most of us. It's meant to
be, and I don't believe myself that Providence likes us to look much
farther than the points of our noses."
"The great man is him that can, however," argued Mr. Withycombe.
"Him as looks a few yards deeper into the mirk of the future than we
can soon rises to be famous. He knows there can be no security
against nature; but, outside that, he sees there did ought to be
security between man and man, since we are reasoning creatures. And
he thinks reasoning creatures did ought to be reasonable and he tries
to help 'em to be--man and man and nation and nation."
"Good, Enoch. If everybody would fight to be friends as hard as they
fight for other things, peace would set in, no doubt."
"To do it, you must come with clean hands, Arthur; but all the
nations' hands are dirty. They look back into each other's histories
and can't trust. Man's a brigand by nature. It's the sporting
instinct as much as anything, and the best sporting nations are the
best fighting nations. That's why we're up top."
"Are we?"
"The Honourable Childe always says so. He has chapter and verse for
all his opinions."
"He'll drop in on the way home and tell you about a run now and
again, same as he did last year, I shouldn't wonder."
"No doubt he will, Melinda."
"A puzzling gentleman," declared Chaffe. "Righteousness and goodwill
made alive you may say; and yet don't go to church."
His daughter headed off her father's reply.
"What's this a little bird has whispered to me about Jane Bamsey?"
she asked.
"Can't say till I know the particulars."
"That my brother, Jerry, be after her."
"Haven't heard nothing. But you ought to know."
"I've guessed it. Jerry's moonstruck and always looking that way."
"I hope it ain't true," said Enoch. "I don't much care for that
maiden. She's spoiled, and she's shifty. She came to see us with
her mother. Hard hearted."
"She's no more than a kitten yet, father."
"Yes; but the sort of kitten that grows into a cat devilish quick. I
wouldn't wish it for Jerry's sake. He's a man likely to be under the
thumb of his wife, so I'd hope a different sort for him."
"Jane's too young for Jerry," declared Melinda. "He's over thirty
and she's but eighteen or so. Besides, when Dinah marries John and
goes, then Jane will have to turn to and be more to her mother.
She's terrible lazy."
Mr. Chaffe shook his head.
"They don't know what it will mean to that house when Dinah leaves
it."
"Her step-father does," answered Enoch's daughter. "Dinah's the
apple of his eye. But Mrs. Bamsey's looking forward to it on the
quiet."
"It's natural in a way. She's always been a thought jealous of her
husband's great love for Orphan Dinah. And so has Jane. She'll be
glad enough when Dinah's away. And it's up to her, as you say, to
fill the gap."
"Which she's not built to do," prophesied Mr. Withycombe.
"We must hope. With responsibility often comes the grace to
undertake it."
They chatted a little longer and then, promising the new gate in a
fortnight, Arthur Chaffe went on his way.