“It’s the way to keep young and live long,” said Burrough, in his pedantic manner.
“Of course it is. These commoners of Dartmoor could live as long as they liked if they were not such fools. They sleep four or five in one small room with every chink sealed up even in summer. They pass the night undoing the good that the day has done. Nearly everyone on the moor goes off between seventy and eighty. They break up suddenly and go off, worn out by want of night air. Our fisher-folk in Cornwall are just the same. It’s no good talking to them. I’ve tried lots of times. ‘Sleep with my window open! Why, ’twould kill me,’ is what they say. One old woman sang quite a different song when I tackled her on the subject. ‘Us don’t want to bide over a hundred years,’ she said. ‘Us can’t afford it. Us bides too long as ’tis.’ You can’t argue against that,” finished Beatrice with a laugh.
“We’re on our way back to wigwams and hut circles,” suggested Burrough.
“Yes,” she laughed. “The house agent’s advertisement in the future will be something like this: ‘A charming modern residence for sale. Contains four large stones, carefully propped up and leaning securely against one another; an admirable hearthstone, and roofed most artistically with rushes. A perpetual current of cold east wind guaranteed. Pretty but inexpensive.’ And here’s another from the same list: ‘A few hurdles and a piece of sailcloth to be had cheap. Could be converted into a nice suburban villa.’ ”
“How were you brought up?” Burrough asked.
“Why, in the most sensible manner possible. Just as if I’d been a chicken. My father put up a ring-fence on the lawn, and I was dropped inside to crawl about and roll as I pleased. There was a sort of kennel for me to go to when it rained, but I think on the whole I preferred the wet grass. And this is the result,” concluded Beatrice, with a kind of shyness that was new to her.
Before Burrough could make the complimentary reply which he intended, she anticipated him by an exclamation of pleasure and the cry—
“Away to the right, or we’ll be in the marsh!”
Burrough looked up and saw Steeperton standing beyond like Chrephren’s pyramid, its grey peak pricking the soft blue sky, and the silvery ribbon of Taw River winding round its base. He realised suddenly how entirely alone they were.
“There’s a sort of pony-track this way—beneath the Tor,” said Beatrice the guide.
CHAPTER XIII.
HOW THEY STOOD UPON CRANMERE.
“Now we’re getting into the land of pixies,” quoth Beatrice, as she tried to lift a big shell which was lying sideways against a clump of heather. “This is the sixth. It must be from one of the new guns. My s’ars! it is heavy. I wonder what sort of a charge it takes to hurl a thing like this four or five miles?”
They had reached the side of Steeperton Cleave. There was not a living thing in sight. All around the peaty soil had been torn into pits and jagged fissures by projectiles. It was impossible to walk more than a few paces without seeing one of the ugly iron cylinders. A spectral figure stood near in the pose of a scarecrow. It was a dummy man. A well-aimed shell had pierced its wooden chest.
“One summer a man came along here, and he saw a nice bright shell,” said Beatrice, who had become frivolous again. “Men like nice bright things as much as children—at least this man did. He thought to himself, ‘This is a very pretty thing: I’ll take it home and play with it.’ But when he picked it up and saw that it was all alive-o, he was so drefful startled that he dropped it on his big toe.”
She made as though she would kick another shell, but changing her mind, jumped over it instead.
“Well, what happened?” said Burrough.
“I left it to your imagination. He dropped the shell, and went to—heaven. To drop a live shell is a good way of obliterating oneself. It’s warranted to leave no mark. Now you see me! Now you don’t! That’s the sort of thing. Look down there.”
Burrough followed her pointing finger, and saw, on a grassy ledge some way below, a crumbling ruin just above the river. Evidently it had been a dwelling-house once. Part of the walls still stood, and even at that distance a big fireplace was visible.
“That’s the domiciliary edifice erected by John,” said Beatrice, roguishly.
“Shall we go down and look at it?” he suggested.
“We shall not,” she replied. “We have quite enough in front of us. Besides, we will come back that way, following the river. It’s a jolly sentimental sort of a ruin. I should like to paint it, only if I did try it would be sure to come out a cathedral or a town hall.”
“It must have been built by the Tinners,” said Burrough.
“Oh, no,” she declared. “Nothing of the kind whatever. It was built by the pixies, with the kind assistance of the Cranmere witches. The style of architecture is distinctly Pre-Adamite, as you will observe if you examine it closely. It was formerly the palace of the king. The last king of the pixies was Tom-tit-tot the Sixth, and he allowed the place to fall out of repair. He knew the pixies were going to become extinct, so he didn’t bother. And now we must keep right on the top of the hill, or we shall be stugged in the mire.”
They tramped on resolutely, with the sun almost straight above their heads. Presently Beatrice went upon her knees, and began to eat whortleberries. “They’m lovely whorts up here,” she explained, “big, blue, and juicy. Come and have some. Gugh! Bluggy thing,” she exclaimed, as an over-ripe berry broke between her fingers and stained them scarlet. “I suppose you didn’t bring a toothbrush with you? It’s wanted after eating these squashy things.”
“I thought you had brought everything you could possibly require,” he said.
“Everything except a toothbrush, I think I said. I forgot it at the last moment. Do have some more whorts.”
“There are none,” said Burrough. “These are not ripe.”
“Sour things are nice when you’re thirsty,” said Beatrice. “But we must go on. Away and away! To the decayed peat-waste of a past age, silent, dreary, lifeless, without bird or animal, and to the pool where Bingie lives.”
“Where did you get that from?” he asked.
“Part guide-book, part my own invention. What stupid people write guide-books—sort of Willums in high life, I should think! And how wild they are upon churches—I mean sacred edifices. Wherever you go there’s sure to be a sacred edifice which isn’t a bit like any other sacred edifice all the world over, though if you do go and see it you don’t see anything at all different from any other sacred edifice. There’s one or two mouldy monuments, of course, but who ever wants to look at them? Another thing they’re wild upon is stones. Any old heap of stones is good enough for them. They always call them Druidical remains, though I expect they were only put there for mending the road. It’s rather disappointing to read in a guide-book about precipices, cascades, and gorges; and when you get to the place to find only a rock, and a stickle, and a crack in a mud-bank.”
“Guide-books are intended to be advertisements,” reminded her companion.
“Like the advertisement of a patent medicine, which cures everything from old-age to a broken leg,” chattered Beatrice. “Oh, but seaside places! They are the worst. They knock out the guide-book, and leave the patent-pill cold and stiff. Every seaside place suits invalids much better than any other place. It has a warmer temperature than any other, and publishes figures to prove it. Every seaside place is the only one which never has fog or snow. It has more sunshine than any other place. It has flowers which absolutely refuse to bloom anywhere else. Lord! what liars we are.”
“We can’t help that,” said Burrough philosophically. “Lying has become quite a venial sin. Society demands lies from us. A few generations hence no one will be able to narrate a bare fact without perversion or distortion. It has become almost impossible now.”
“Here is something the guide-book would not mention,” cried Beatrice, pointing to what might have been a piece of white marble, wrinkled with black veins, and lodged in a mud-cleft. “There are a lot of those stones about. When I become a millionairess I shall have them collected and a house built with them. I know! I’ll restore Tom-tit-tot’s palace with them, and live there all summer.”
“And a shell would fall and blow it to pieces,” added Burrough.
“Bother the shells! I should buy some big guns and fire back. Yes, I would raise an army, and proclaim myself Empress of Dartmoor.”
“Would you include me among your ministers?”
“Why, yes! I would give you a cocked hat, and make you Field Marshal.”
“I think I should prefer a post of equal honour and less danger.”
“Wouldn’t you like to fall like a hero?” she cried, reproachfully.
“I would rather live like a gentleman,” he said.
“Since you are not romantic, you shall be First Lord of the Treasury.”
“That will suit me very well. May I kiss hands on my appointment?”
“Certainly not,” she laughed. “How do you buy guns? Suppose I went into the stores, and said, ‘I want some artillery, please,’ what would they say?”
“They would regret exceedingly that they were quite out of the article, and then detain you until a doctor from the nearest asylum could arrive.”
“But not if I told them I was a real Empress?”
“Then they would send for two doctors.”
“What a vile world!” said she. “But I wouldn’t be an Empress unless I could do as I liked. For instance, if Mrs. Cobbledick were to be late in bringing up my morning cup of tea, I should want to ring the bell for a soldier, and say, ‘Take her away, and cut off her head, please.’ I should hate it, if he replied, ‘Beg pard’n, mum. You’ll have to get an Act of Parliament for thikky little job.’ ”
Beatrice was still laughing over her autocratic longings, when her laugh became a scream, and she vanished promptly from sight. A patch of heather had given way beneath her, and a crevasse had swallowed her up.
“It’s all right,” came a smothered voice. “I’m not lost, but gone before. I’ve fallen into lovely soft mud, so nothing is broken. I’m jammed! You’ll have to extract me with a corkscrew.”
Burrough parted the heather, and immediately a somewhat grimy little hand was extended. He seized it and tugged, and up came Beatrice on her knees. “Just as good as ever, reasonable wear and tear excepted,” she gasped. “Serves me right for not poking that clump of heather with my six-foot pole.”
“There are any number of fissures ahead,” cried Burrough, who was standing upon an elevation just above.
“We are on the borders of Cranmere,” she said. “And I’m dirty already. If there was only one crevasse upon Cranmere, and one bog upon Dartmoor, I should be dead certain to tumble into the one, and get stugged in the other. Oh, boots! boots!” she wailed tragically, “you were lovely and pleasant when I started, and now you’m mucky twoads.”
The serious part of the journey commenced with their arrival upon the broken ground. Burrough negotiated the crevasses by sliding down one side, crossing by means of the tussocks, and scrambling up the muddy walls opposite. Beatrice took little runs and jumped them. Presently they got upon the plateau, and felt the keen breeze, and saw the stagnant pools. At every step the water oozed up and covered their boots.
“We’re atop!” cried Beatrice. “It’s only one o’clock. There is Fur Tor in the midst of wild nature in her remotest fastness. That’s guide-book again. Now for the Pool. We must keep to the left. You are also requested to keep to the path.”
The last remark was for the benefit of her companion, who had floundered into a patch of deceptive mud and was sinking rapidly to his knees.
“Wallop!” mimicked Beatrice, as one boot came out with a sound like a pop-gun. “Your boots are worse than mine now.”
“You can jump!” Burrough exclaimed admiringly, as he watched the girl leaping from one tussock to another.
“I’ve been jumping all my life,” she said. “My primitive ancestor must have been a frog, instead of an ape. With short skirts I can jump a hurdle.”
“How do you know which way to go?” he asked. “When I came here before I simply wandered in circles and became hopelessly lost. I couldn’t even find the way back until it was nearly dark.”
“I’ve been here so often that I can go straight to the Pool,” she answered. “There isn’t a guide on Dartmoor who can get there more quickly than I,” she went on proudly. “Why, I put a guide right one day. He was ‘pixy-led summat fearful’ he told me, and the people with him were looking ‘summat fearful’ too. I led them to the Pool, made my best bow, and vanished. I expect they thought I was a wandering spirit—Bingie’s wife perhaps, or the White Witch of Cranmere—because it was a windy day and my hair had blown down, and I had fastened it round my waist. That is the only time I have ever met people up here.”
They went on jumping, wading, and scrambling across the desolate plateau, until Beatrice cried out in triumph, and pointed out to her companion the top of a post just visible against the dark background of saturated peat. A minute later progress became easier, a slight descent began, and almost immediately they saw the bed of the dried-up Pool, and the rough cairn of turves and stones, and the almost level stretch of deep-brown peat upon which the water had once spread and the rushes had flourished. There was not a sound. Even the breeze which shook the bleached sedges failed to disturb the silence.
However, Beatrice very soon broke it. With a cry of, “We’re in the middle of Cranmere, and I’m the only perfectly dry thing upon it,” she went down upon the edge of the Pool and began to unpack her knapsack. While she was thus engaged Burrough made for the cairn and extracted the two tin boxes. He came back with the visitors’ book and several postcards, the sight of which caused Beatrice to exclaim, “Any letters for me, postman?”
“Nothing to-day, miss,” he replied.
“Well then, we’ll lunch,” she cried. “We can attend to our correspondence afterwards. Here is a girl with two packets of sandwiches and a bottle of milk. She’s willing to swop one packet for any particular dainty in the satchel of the man, all muddy and damp, who lives on the moor, at the edge of a gorge, in the little tin house that Jack built.”
“You won’t covet my home-made dainties when you see them,” said Burrough grimly, as he drew out a bulky parcel and exhibited a shapeless mass of bread.
“What’s that?” she screamed delightedly.
“A poor thing, but my own make,” said Burrough humbly. “ ’Tis yclept a sandwich.”
“S’ars o’ mine! A sandwich! B’est going to yet en?”
“Ah, I be,” replied Burrough, in the same dialect.
“Well, I be wholly bate! What a nice new idea! Receipt for Sandwitche à la célibataire—take a pound of beefsteak and the largest loaf obtainable. That’s the raw material. Divide the loaf into two equal portions, add a tin of mustard and two pounds of butter, place the steak into position, then jam the loaf together, and secure with seccotine or iron rivets according to taste. Pack the finished article in a sack, and serve when starving.”
“There’s another in the bag,” said Burrough, giving her a glimpse at a second bulky parcel.
“What’s that for? In case the first doesn’t prove effectual? Like the man who was determined to kill himself, so first took poison and then shot himself. But this is sheer frivolity, and we’re at Cranmere Pool, which, in the words of the guide-book——”
“No more guide-book,” he implored. “Let me have your own opinion.”
“Ain’t got none,” said Beatrice. “I only know we ought to be solemn and sad. We ought to think of our sins, and of the shortness of this our mortal life. We ought to make a resolution to live more soberly, and to put the past behind us, and to keep the future in front of us, and to let the present stop just where it is. Ah, dearly-beloved, what a great and wonderful thought this is. It is not yesterday, nor yet to-morrow, but it is, my friends, it is to-day. We know that spring is over. We realise—how I cannot tell you—that this is summer. By some marvellous process we believe that autumn will come again. Let this thought sink into your hearts, as our nice clean boots sink into the bogs of Cranmere. There! That’s a specimen of old Y.’s pulpit oratory.”
“Much too lucid and well-connected for him,” laughed Burrough.
“Don’t you say anything against old Y,” Beatrice went on. “He can boast of having preached the shortest sermon on record. It was on a Sunday evening. He toddled into the pulpit, mumbled a text which nobody heard, and said, ‘Be good. Hymn number sixteen.’ Then he toddled down again. I see that sandwich is fading away gradually. I’ve eaten about a dozen. Now I must write my postcards. How many are you going to post?”
“I have no one to write to,” said Burrough. “I have brought one stamped envelope, but I don’t know what address to put upon it.”
“Well, you may put mine if you like,” said Beatrice, kindly.
“And will you address one to me?” he asked eagerly.
“All right. I’ll put some nonsense inside. Nonsense-talking is my strong point, as you may have observed. Then we must stand up and wish, observing at that moment a terrible solemnity and a grim silence. The witch allows us three wishes, and they are sure to be granted if we’re good.”
“What are you going to wish for?” he said.
“But I mustn’t say,” cried Beatrice. “Bingie would be angry, and my wishes would go scat.”
“I think I know. The first, health. The second, happiness——”
“And the third, three wishes more, if you don’t mind,” she laughed. “You’re all wrong. I shouldn’t wish for health, because I have it; nor for happiness, because I’m fairly middling that way already. Everyone wishes for wealth as a matter of course. Some people say if you wish long enough, it’s sure to come. You must mutter ‘money’ by day, and murmur ‘money’ by night. They call that concentration. Auntie used to believe in that. She concentrated upon beauty, but as it didn’t come she exchanged concentration for art, which was more successful. I must warn you that Bingie is not quite infallible,” she added confidentially. “Last time I was here one of my wishes was for a nice tender undercut of sirloin for supper. The reality was a shoulder of mutton as tough as indiarubber.”
“It was too trivial a wish,” Burrough suggested.
“Tender beef is not a trivial matter at all. It is one of the seven joys of life.”
“Are you writing to me? May I see?” he asked eagerly.
“ ‘Trewidden, Trewinnard, Trewint!’ ” cooed Beatrice softly.
Their correspondence being completed, they turned their attention to the visitors’ book, which was nearly half full. Beatrice whipped the pages over until she found her entry the previous summer. She indicated her scrawl with a pink finger, and the remark, “It’s like my painting—wants a Daniel to interpret it. There’s my unoriginal remark, ‘Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.’ I did once though,” she chattered. “It was a blazing hot day, and my throat felt full of sand. I made a kind of bubbly noise every time I breathed. So I laid me down and sucked up saturated peat, green slime, and all manner of creeping things. Who was here last? Why the Reverend Mr. Legge. He’s got more than two. He brought a lot of little Legges—like a spider. Here’s some more over the page. Why the man’s a centipede! And Daddy Longlegs has written, ‘This is to be alone; this, this is solitude.’ Oh dearly-beloved! And he goes on, ‘We owe great thanks to our excellent guide.’ I expect he owed the poor man his half-guinea as well. Here’s a silly man who pretends he can’t write, and has made his mark. What a pity there isn’t a tree or a bench here, so that he might have cut his initials. Here’s one who wants to know why they don’t drain Cranmere, and another who offers to exchange his private fortune for a bottle of pale-ale. Here’s a party of three jolly Irishmen—Patherick of Dublin, bedad—and one’s a bit of an artist, for he’s drawn a barometer and signed his name opposite ‘dry.’ One of his friends has signed opposite ‘very dry,’ and the other opposite ‘great drought.’ In fact,” criticised Beatrice severely, “this book is a striking instance of the hold which liquor has obtained over the minds of men.”
Burrough was sitting on a tussock which was more or less dry, smoking his pipe, and watching the girl with ardent eyes as she chattered her nonsense. He was not in the least inclined to talk. It was much pleasanter listening to her; and her store of remarks was apparently inexhaustible.
“It’s getting chilly,” cried Beatrice suddenly. “The sun has gone, and I felt something that might have been a spot of rain. Gugh! ‘this, this is solitude,’ as the parson says. Why, I declare there’s a mist!”
Burrough removed his gaze from her, and looked in the direction she indicated. He saw white fleecy clouds rolling slowly down the plateau.
“It’s only a passing cloud,” he said reassuringly. “When it has gone the sun will come out again. The weather changes up here every few minutes.”
“It’s not very nice,” said Beatrice. “There! Did you hear that? I heard a sort of a humming, kind o’. It’s going to rain and blow like blue blazes. Here! take the pencil and write quickly.”
The wind began to sob and groan, and the wool-like mist thickened. Rain began to fall smartly. Every crevasse and tarn about them seemed to be suddenly occupied by invisible beings and creeping sounds.
“The morning was much too fine,” said Beatrice, shivering a little. “Well, we must face it. There’s no shelter nearer than Tom-tit-tot’s palace, and I expect the bad weather will have passed away before we can get there. Let’s get off Cranmere as soon as we can. It will be a little bit more sheltered at Taw Head.”
Burrough fastened up the two boxes and restored them to the hole in the side of the cairn. Then he called, “I’m going to wish.”
“For goodness sake wish for fine weather,” cried Beatrice, as she slung on her satchel. “Throw a little water over your left shoulder and wish hard for favourable signs and tokens in the heavens. My poor little life!” she murmured. “It’s going to rain and blow, and you’ve got a man under your guidance; and it seems to me you will never see your dear old home to-night.”
CHAPTER XIV.
HOW THEY TOOK SHELTER IN TOM-TIT-TOT’S PALACE.
An hour later two storm-tossed beings were fighting their way step by step beside the Taw river, which was there little more than a meandering crack in the peat. They were completely enveloped in whirling mist, which looked and felt like masses of damp wool. The wind was in their teeth and was steadily increasing. It threatened to become a gale. There was not much rain, but it could hardly be distinguished from the wet mists.
“Now I know what a fly feels like when it’s strolling along a ceiling,” shouted irrepressible Beatrice, as she balanced her shapely body between bog and river.
The girl had never looked so entirely fresh and charming. Her face was as red as a rose beneath the buffetings of the wind. Her hair, which had long ago discarded all pins and fastenings, streamed about her, and she had twisted the ends about her waist, and walked holding it. The wind stretched her scanty clothing tightly upon her and revealed every line from waist to ankle. She looked the very spirit of health and strength. She suggested the pixy queen or the white witch of Cranmere. She appeared to make headway without effort. It was different with Burrough, who was nearing the end of his tether. His breathing was becoming difficult and he was very weary. He had not spoken for some time, partly that he might save his breath, partly because he did not know what to say. He knew it would be impossible for them to reach the village, unless there was a sudden change in the weather, but he did not venture to put his conviction into words. Beatrice had arrived at precisely the same conclusion, and felt exactly the same unwillingness to mention the subject. They were both thinking of the ruin in Steeperton Cleave.
The crack in the peat which represented the river made the most astonishing curves. It was a marvel of crookedness, so that in following it they sometimes had the wind on their backs and appeared to be returning to Cranmere. Bogs were everywhere. They were continually jumping the river to evade them, and when the crack widened and boulders appeared this became a matter of difficulty and some danger. In the meantime the mists increased, it became gloomy, and the wind whistled like weird instruments of music.
“What were that you was a saying of?” cried Beatrice when her companion at last called to her.
“We shall never get anywhere at this rate,” he said. “Can’t we get away from the river? We seem to be walking in circles.”
“Leave the river!” cried Beatrice. “Why, it’s our only hope of salvation. If we got away from it we should be lost hopelessly. We should walk in circles then if you like. It would be Tregeagle’s very own job to strike a course over the moor without the river to guide us.”
“Are you tired?” was his next question.
“I shall be presently. I am putting on weight very fast. These woollen garments are soaking in the wet, and I could squeeze a jugful of water out of my hair. By the time we get into the Cleave I shall be a perambulating Cranmere. Bog!” At that monosyllable they jumped, and went on twisting and doubling as if they were trying to throw the bewildering spirits of the mist off their track.
“Have you any idea where we are?” Burrough asked.
“Well I’ve got a rough, a very rough idea,” she replied.
“If it were clear we should see Steeperton, or rather the spur of it, on our right, and Oke Tor on our left. The widening of the river tells me that, and the stickles are beginning. We shall get into a frightful part presently—all bogs and boulders.”
At the end of another hour the wind and the mist had increased and there was a great rain. Two very tired persons scrambled over the streaming rock-clatters, and one of them shouted in triumph when she perceived a dilapidated clapper bridge. The granite slabs had been broken, and the entire structure badly wrecked, by the Artillery. A huge shell was visible among the shattered rocks. A thick wire passed across the river and went up the steep bank through the heather. To this wire Beatrice pointed with the remark,—
“Tom-tit-tot’s palace is just above. This wire runs beside it. We might take shelter there until the storm passes?” she suggested.
They crawled up the steep bank beside the wire of the military field telegraph. Presently they reached a smooth stretch of turf which looked as though it had been mown and swept by fairy gardeners. A moment later a grey mass loomed out of the mist. They passed through what had been once a doorway, and the force of the wind became immediately broken. The mist was making strange shapes within. It was writhing and twisting along the walls, and passing like smoke up a huge chimney. But at least there was shelter. A portion of roof remained and beneath it was a huge antique fireplace, green with ferns and mosses, and there were blocks of granite for chairs and tables.
“The first thing to do,” said Burrough, rousing himself, “is to make a fire.”
Beatrice said nothing. She seated herself in a corner, to wring the water out of her hair, and watched her companion with shy eyes. She thought it exceedingly probable she would have to spend the night there with him.
“Can you find anything dry enough to burn?” she said demurely.
“I’ll look under the sheltered side of the ruin,” he said, and disappeared, while Beatrice smiled nervously at the mists and played with her wet fingers.
Burrough was soon back to announce his discovery of a peat-stack close to the wire of the field telegraph. It had been cut and placed there by the soldiers. The sergeant and his party, who had the duty of exploding the live shells that might be about the moor, had evidently made use of the ruin as a shelter in time of bad weather. Burrough brought as much peat as he could carry. There were gorse-bushes and dry bracken within the old walls. Beatrice produced paper from her satchel. After various efforts the fire was started. Soon the peat began to glow and warm scented smoke took the place of the mist.
“This is quite an adventure,” said Burrough, cheerily.
“Oh, it often happens upon the moor,” said Beatrice, indifferently. “I’ve been weatherbound like this before.”
Silence fell again. Burrough gave his attention to the fire, while the girl combed her wet hair with her cold fingers. Suddenly a gorse-stick became ignited and sent a warm light across the damp walls and the two eager young faces. Before the flame died down they had looked at one another, and Beatrice felt angry, knowing that she had flushed.
“How noisy the wind is!” she said, hurriedly.
“Do you think it’s going to clear?” Burrough asked, boldly. “You know this moorland weather better than I do. How long do you think this will last?”
Beatrice laughed and plucked up her spirits.
“I won’t prophesy,” she said. “It may clear in another hour or so; it may go on half the night.”
“I am thinking of you,” he explained, awkwardly.
“Well, I don’t mind. Auntie won’t be nervous—at least, not very. She knows I’m a moormaid, and can look after myself quite well. How goes the time?”
“Nearly four,” said Burrough.
“Gugh! it might be October,” she said. “Did you notice how dark it was last night? There’s no moon. This fiery chimney will be the only light upon the moor. If I could have three wishes now, I know what the first would be.”
“What?” he asked.
“For a great cup of the hottest tea that was ever brewed.”
“You shall have it,” he said.
“That’s wicked,” cried Beatrice; “wicked to tempt a poor girl. Unless,” she added, “you also are among the magicians.”
Already Burrough had produced various articles from his knapsack. He set them out upon the hearthstone, and the girl bent forward to examine them by the glow of the peat. She saw a metal flask, a collapsible cup, a canvas bag, which she smelt and declared to be tea, and a tiny packet, which she pinched and decided was sugar.
“I thought you might want a cup of tea,” he said. “I can boil the water in this flask.”
“This is entirely, utterly, too inexpressibly——” Beatrice began, then broke off and gazed, mischievous, witch-like, towards him between the dark-brown curtains of her hair. “And I suppose,” she went on in the naughtiest fashion imaginable, “if I express a desire presently for a little dinner, just a simple meal, you know—clear soup, a piece of sole, the wing of a chicken, and a relish—you will pull a lot of wee-winikin things out of that bag and serve it up hot.”
Burrough had sufficient self-restraint not to look at her. He knew, by the mere sound of her voice, what her face had looked like when she said “wee-winikin.”
“I’ll go down to the river and get some water,” he said.
“I’ll come too—I must,” she cried. “I’m not going to risk losing my tea.”
“Don’t get yourself wet again,” he pleaded. “I’ll follow the wire.”
“If you promise not to let go of it I won’t come,” she said. “I know it sounds absurd, but in a mist like this one is absolutely helpless. You might be within a few yards of the place and never find it. I’ll give you ten minutes, and if you aren’t back by then I shall come down with a torch and yelling like the whist hounds.”
Burrough gave the required promise and went out into the whirling clouds. While he was absent Beatrice sat gazing into the fire, with her hands clasped round her knees and little smiles chasing one another across her mouth.
“That’s nice and thoughtful of him,” she murmured; “but, my child, you must behave yourself. You must not talk nonsense, and you must leave off squeaking as if you were talking to a kitten, and you mustn’t use west-country words and phrases. Can’t you see that sort of thing makes him uncomfortable? You must be prim, and stiff, and old-maidish; only I’m afraid you can’t. You will keep on doing those things that you ought not to do. My dear little girl, really I love you very much, and I’m only telling you this for your good, because I’m afraid someone else loves you too, and if you are silly you will have to put up with the consequences. It’s no use saying you’re as strong as a little prizefighter, because you’re also a human being and a girl—a nice one, but still a girl—and when a girl’s feeling tired and slack, and has a good-looking young man with her, it somehow doesn’t occur to her to be sensible. ‘And that’s the end on’t,’ as someone used to say.”
Burrough came back safely, and in a very short time the water was boiling. He dropped the bag of tea into the cup, poured the water upon it, fished out the bag, added sugar and milk, of which Beatrice had a little left, and handed her the cup with the warning, “Take it by the top, or it will collapse.”
Beatrice thought it wiser to make no remark beyond a prim, “Thank you,” though a number of ridiculous things occurred to her. She sipped the tea with little gasps of delight. Presently she held out the half-empty cup and said prettily, “You finish it.”
He did so, although disliking the sugared tea; but that which was in the cup had touched her lips. They shared another cup and ate a few sandwiches. The weather remained as bad as ever. Burrough went for a fresh supply of peat, and Beatrice showed him how to build it so as to insure a hot fire. She piled a lofty pyramid, making below numbers of cunning air-holes, with passages above to convey the draught into the apex. She was a practical moormaiden. While she was thus engaged Burrough went to the sheltered parts of the ruin and cut a quantity of bushy heather, which he spread in the nook beside the fireplace. This was a bed for Beatrice. The girl watched him, but did not say anything. All the remarks which suggested themselves were instantly dismissed as being too frivolous. She wondered how long she would be able to keep it up.
“It’s getting quite homelike,” she said at last, and immediately observed under her breath that it was a stupid thing to say.
“Tell me if it’s comfortable,” he invited.
She tried the bed, and was graciously pleased with it. She declared it was as comfortable as a spring mattress, and then scolded herself again for saying such a thing. She went on to ask for a cigarette, and after a few soothing puffs she forgot most of her good resolutions.
“Do you mind me having my hair down?” she asked; “because I can’t help it. I’ve lost all the hairpins, and it’s too wet to twist up.”
“I think you ought to have it down always,” he replied; and after a moment he added, “What lovely hair it is!”
Beatrice ignored this remark, although the end of her cigarette glowed fiercely for a second.
“I wonder if we are the only two fellows weatherbound upon the moor,” said Beatrice slowly and distinctly, thus giving him to understand that she expected to be treated as if she had been a male comrade; but almost immediately she became feminine and fretful. “My feet are most uncomfortable,” she said. “Would you mind if I took my boots off?”
“Let me do it for you,” said Burrough.
He went on his knees and began to unfasten the boot which was the first to be extended.
“They’re horrid soppy and mucky,” she murmured.
“They will soon dry by the fire.”
“We’ll sit and tell ghost stories,” she went on. “If the pixies come here presently how astonished they will be. I hope they won’t be maliceful. Is my stocking wet?”
“Not very,” he replied; while she screamed, “Don’t! It tickles.”
A sudden gust forced its way into their shelter and beat upon the peat, making it appear like red-hot iron.
“That’s to tell us the king is on his way here,” she cried. “King Tom-tit-tot with all his lords and ladies. He’ll say, ‘What are yew a-here for?’ And you must bow and say, ‘What’s that to yew?’ ” Oh, dear, she thought, I’m talking nonsense again.
“Go on,” said Burrough, who was struggling with a tightly-knotted lace. “What would he say then?”
“A—what?” she mused. “Oh, he’ll say, ‘Ef yew ain’t out o’ my palace in less than no time, off’ll go yar hid.’ ”
“And then I shall put my foot upon his majesty and squash him,” said Burrough.
“You wouldn’t,” said Beatrice. “You would be too frightened. Tom-tit-tot is the funniest little black impet yew iver set eyes on. And when he’s angry he twirls his tail horrid. Now shall I tell you a story?” she said, as she extended a little stockinged foot towards the glowing peat.
“Tell me the story of Tregeagle,” he said.
“But every child in Cornwall knows that by heart,” she objected. “Wouldn’t you rather hear about the Lord of Pengerswick and his Saracen bride, and the witch of Fraddam who floats about in her coffin off Kynance Cove?”
“I would rather hear about Tregeagle,” he replied.
“Very well, then,” she said. “You shall have the true Cornish version. I wish some of our old women could tell you the story. They would make you laugh with their quaint words and tragic faces. I’m no good at telling a serious story. But I’ll do my best.”
“May I sit beside you?” he asked.
CHAPTER XV.
HOW BEATRICE TOLD THE STORY OF TREGEAGLE.
Charmingly she made room for him upon the bed of heather. She placed herself snugly between the wall and his shoulder, with her feet toasting upon the hearthstone, and merely gave a sigh of gratitude when he leaned forward to place his knapsack between the rough stone and her heels. Then she began:—
“Once upon a time there lived a man whose name was Tregeagle. Nothing is known about his early life, because none of the Cornish villages will own him, which is rather stupid, because after all a great criminal is just as famous in his way as an equally great saint—you may expect to hear comments like that. Remember they are mine, and don’t belong to the story. Well, this man became at last the steward of Lord Robartes at Lanhydrock. If ever you go there ask to see Tregeagle’s room. Mention me, and they will be delighted to show it you.
“Tregeagle was the wickedest man who ever lived. It’s much easier to say that than to give a list of his crimes. He was rotten all through like a medlar. As steward he gave the poor tenants an awful time, and it wasn’t long before he had screwed enough out of them to buy Trevorder, which is a nice estate in St. Breock. He went on amassing wealth and inventing new crimes until at last the sun refused to shine upon him and the grass withered where he trod upon it. You are not bound to believe that unless you like, but I think you’d better, as it may make it easier for you to believe what is coming.
“Tregeagle became a magistrate, and a churchwarden, and Chairman of the Board of Guardians, and all the rest of it. You see he was awfully rich, and men could be as wicked as they liked then as long as they spent money. Tregeagle lived hundreds of years ago, you must remember. But at last he got very ill, and knew that he was going to die. He didn’t like the idea at all, because there was a long line of devils standing in his bedroom waiting to grab his soul directly it left his body. So he called for his secretary and dictated letters to the abbots and priors of the district, asking after their health and begging them to pray for his, and telling them all about the devils who were waiting for him, and wondering whether the cheques enclosed would be of any use to their right reverences. Apparently they were, for the abbots and priors came as fast as they could, with bells, books, candles, and gallons of holy water, and drove away the devils in less than no time. Then they thanked Tregeagle for past favours, and assured him that any other esteemed order would receive their immediate attention. So the dying man told them he would divide his wealth among them if they would save his soul. They agreed of course, delighted that it was nothing more difficult. Tregeagle died, and they buried him with great pomp in St. Breock Church. They chanted and prayed and sang for weeks, so that they might cheat the devil out of Tregeagle’s soul. That ends the first chapter,” quoth Beatrice.
“Now we go upon the moor,” Burrough suggested. “Thunder and lightning. Enter Satan as the clock strikes twelve.”
“You’re going ahead much too fast,” said Beatrice. “It’s easy to see you never had a Cornish nurse. The Court of Justice scene comes next. It used to frighten me horribly when I was a kid. My nurse told me the story. My nurse was a fisherman, and his wife would always say, ‘Dids ’en, dids ’en frighten my child? It shan’t be frightened den. It shan’t hear Daddy Tregeagle howl.’
“The Judge is upon the bench,” Beatrice went on, in a hushed voice. “The jurymen are in their places, and counsel rises. The most celebrated case in the whole history of law is being tried. The plaintiff, as heir of Tregeagle, claims a large estate, which has since become part of the town of Bodmin. All that counsel for defendant can say is, that the dead man destroyed all the deeds connected with the property, and drew up forgeries in their place; but he cannot produce any witnesses in support of this statement. It appeared to be a clear case for the plaintiff. The judge was about to sum up, when the defendant came into court and asked permission to call a witness. The judge consented. A cold wind seemed to pass through the hall, and everyone was frozen with terror, though they could not tell why. Then Tregeagle stepped into the witness-box.
“In the midst of a terrible silence, the counsel for defendant rose and questioned the evil spirit. The truth was soon out, and the jury gave a verdict at once in favour of the defendant. Then the Judge ordered the victor to remove his witness, but the man said, ‘It has been enough for me to bring him from his grave. I leave him to the care of the Church of St. Breock which loves him so well.’
“The Judge sent a special messenger to the Abbot and his monks,” went on Beatrice, with a return to her flippant manner. “The first thing the holy men saw, when they came into court, was Tregeagle standing in the witness-box. They did not like that at all, for they were afraid that little affair of the cheques might be mentioned. The lawyers talked at the clergy, and the clergy talked at the lawyers, and the Judge said it was a disgraceful affair altogether, and quite contrary to precedent, and went on to suggest that the best thing the Abbot could do would be to hand over Tregeagle to the Devil, who was waiting like a policeman by his side; and the Abbot coughed behind his hand and said, ‘Really, me lud, as a churchman, I can’t possibly hand over a soul that might—er possibly be saved by—er repentance to the evil one.’
“It would have been a shabby trick,” commented Beatrice, “considering that he was living upon the nice fat fortune Tregeagle had given him.”
When the girl had been describing the introduction of the spectre witness, her right hand had fallen somehow upon Burrough’s left. His fingers closed over it, but she did not attempt to withdraw the hand. She prattled on with her story, very much like a little sister entertaining her smaller brother.
“Presently one of the monks got up, and said he had found a way out of the difficulty. They must give Tregeagle a task which would take him a long time to accomplish. While he worked, the devil should not be able to touch him, but if he stopped, even for a moment, he would be doomed. While he worked he would have plenty of time to consider what a wicked person he had been, and thus his soul might gradually be softened, and in time he might repent and be saved. This seemed a good idea, and, on being put to the vote, it was carried unanimously. The next thing was to find a really lengthy job. One of the lawyers very soon had a suggestion. He thought it would be a good plan to send Tregeagle to bale out Dozmare Pool. One of the monks objected that this would be too easy; but another thought that if a wee-winikin limpet-shell with a hole in it should be given Tregeagle as an instrument of baling, it might be difficult enough. A nice kind of thing for a parson to say, wasn’t it? Of course, the Judge interposed with the question, ‘What is Dozmare Pool?’ although he knew perfectly well; and the lawyer had to explain it was a black sheet of water below the tin-streamers’ village on the side of Bron Gilly, surrounded by bare hills, dark and lonely. It was into this lake that Sir Belvidere flung Excalibur. The lawyer went on to say that he knew a man who had once spoken to another, who in his childhood had heard his grandfather say that he knew someone who had been related to a man, whose father had seen someone who had dropped a thorn-bush into Dozmare Pool, and the appearance of that thorn-bush—or another rather like it—in Falmouth Harbour a year or so later, proved what had always been suspected, namely, that the pool was bottomless. So the Judge was quite satisfied, and said to the Abbot, ‘I think we can leave this matter in your hands, Reverend Sir. Will you be good enough to recite the necessary incantations?’ The Abbot said he should be delighted, so he sent for bells, books and candles, and gallons of holy water, as before, and muttered the spells which protected the spirit of Tregeagle from the devil, and removed it to Dozmare Pool to bale out the water with a limpet-shell. And that ends the second chapter,” said Beatrice.
Burrough still sat beside her, clasping the small hand. Once she had withdrawn it to throw back a tress of hair, but she slipped it back into his in the most confiding manner possible, and went on with her child-like narrative. She had squeezed his fingers more than once out of pure excitement. She was a Cornish girl, and she was telling the most popular story of Cornish folk lore; and it stirred her blood, as the wandering minstrel of old must have felt his blood stirred when he sang of Arthur and his tragedy in a Saxon camp.
“Now for the moor,” she cried. “The moor as it is to-night, wild wind, white mists and cold rain. The wind is the howling of Tregeagle, the mist is his breath, and the rain the sweat that drips from him as he works. Years passed away, which is what years will do whether you want them to or not, and all the year round there was Tregeagle baling with the wee-winikin shell.”
She broke off with a sudden gasp. Her companion had flung his arm about her.
“Your head was against that cold wet wall,” he murmured passionately.
“He baled and baled with the winikin shell,” Beatrice went on more dreamily, closing her eyes for a moment; then fixing them upon the tiny feet which played together like two kittens beside the hot peat. “But of course the pool remained just the same. The devil was near all the time trying to catch him. He knew that if Tregeagle stopped baling for a moment he was his; so he kept on bringing winds and storms. But Tregeagle only screamed louder and went on baling.
“At last the devil called all the powers of darkness to his aid, and raised a storm such as had never been known upon the earth before. There was lightning and thunder, fire-balls fell like rain into the lake. There was an earthquake. The winds smashed the tors. Tregeagle gave way at last, and rushed over the moor with a host of devils at his heels. He ran in circles, as people do when they are lost upon the moor; and every time he returned to the lake he tried to dip the shell. But the devils would not let him. Finally he made a great leap, and was carried by the wind right across the pool. He flew away over the moor and left the devils behind. They had to fly round, because devils cannot cross water.
“Away went Tregeagle, shrieking with terror, and the devils were still after him. They had nearly caught him when he saw the hermit’s cell upon Roche Rocks, and the chapel of St. Michael, near the wishing well, where the girls go on Maundy Thursday to throw in pins and pebbles, and tell their fortune by the way the bubbles sparkle and burst. He flew over the rocks, and as the devils were about to seize him, he dashed his head through the east window of the chapel. He was safe because his head was inside the church. Nobody upon the Cornish moors had any sleep that night.
“When the hermit of St. Roche came to the altar in the early morning, there was the awful head of Tregeagle looking down upon him. While the priest prayed the demons yelled. Swarms of devils hovered about the Roche Rocks, ready to seize Tregeagle directly he withdrew his head. He remained there for years. The services had to be abandoned. The chapel became deserted. The hermit was nearly dead with terror. At length he collected a crowd of holy men, and they decided to procure two saints who should take Tregeagle out of the window and remove him to Laffenack—it’s called Padstow now—and condemn him to remain on the beach until he should have made a truss of sand and a rope of sand to bind it. The difficulty was to find the saints. I don’t know how they managed it. Very likely they advertised: ‘Wanted, two saints. Must know spells and incantations, and thoroughly understand how to exorcise demons.’ Anyhow, the saints turned up. They pulled Tregeagle out of the window and off the Roche Rocks, and took him to Padstow to make his truss of sand. And that ends another chapter,” said Beatrice.
She stirred a little, but without looking at her companion, and removing her hand, pushed the still damp hair from her forehead. She lifted her head; it had been pressing more against his shoulder than the wall—and stared into the ruddy mists where big stones and jagged outlines were faintly visible. It seemed to her that the wind was less violent, but the rain had increased, and the clouds were as dense as ever. The gloom which was gathering was not that of the storm, but that of evening. She settled herself again. She knew that her hair was caressing his cheek, but she had not intended that it should. He could move away if he did not like it. His arm was still round her, and it was pleasant, she thought, and decidedly more restful than leaning against the wall.
“Ho, and away for Laffenack Strand!” she continued blithely. “Tregeagle found the rope-making worse than the baling. He didn’t make any headway at all. So soon as he got a ball of sand together it would break, or a wave of the sea would knock it into pieces. He yelled and screamed worse than ever, so that the poor people of Padstow had no rest by day and no sleep by night. They agreed that Tregeagle was a regular public nuisance. As the demon’s rage increased, his screams became so frightful that not a creature could stop in the town. A meeting of the council was called upon the plain, and it was decided that a holy man should be requisitioned to remove the nuisance. Now Padstow was better off than most places. It did not have to look about for saints. It had one ready made, and his name was St. Petrock. It was proposed by the grocer, and seconded by the butcher, that a committee, headed by the mayor, who was a shoemaker, should call upon the saint and request him to act in a public-spirited manner on behalf of his native town. So the mayor put on his robes and his chain, and went off, headed by the town band, to interview the Reverend Mr. St. Petrock. The saint was at home. He listened to what the mayor had to say, remarked that demons were certainly unpleasant things, and promised finally to remove Tregeagle from Padstow. He set to work at once, and forged a chain with which he bound the evil spirit, and then took him across the county to Helston, which was then called Ella’s Town. The saint set Tregeagle down at the estuary of the Loe, and condemned him to carry the sand from Barreppa across the estuary to Porthleven, and not to stop working until there was no sand left upon the beach. They’re kind, charitable saints in this story, I do think,” said Beatrice.
“The people of Helston woke up to hear Tregeagle yelling and screaming as he shovelled up the sand, and they wondered whatever it could be. They were not left long in doubt, and after that there was no rest for them. Tregeagle screamed worse than ever, and no wonder, for as fast as he carried the sand across the estuary and emptied it at Porthleven, the sweep of the tide round Trewavas Head carried it back again. St. Petrock was an artful person. You won’t find any churches dedicated to him round Helston. They rather prefer the devil in that part of the country. The devil did try all he could to get Tregeagle away, but Mr. St. Petrock ruined the place. I’ll tell you how. Helston in those days was one of the principal ports in England. It was the harbour of the tin-streamers, and ships from all over the world sailed up the estuary of the Loe to load with tin from Huel Vor.
“Now Tregeagle was staggering along the mouth of the estuary one day, with a huge sackful of sand upon his shoulders, when the little devil who was watching him thought he would have a lark. He put out his foot and tripped Tregeagle. The spirit fell on its face, the sack burst open, and its contents streamed out right across the estuary of the Loe, making a sand-bar which completely cut the town off from the sea. It’s there to this day, to prove that I’m telling you the truth, and what was the harbour is now called Loe Pool. Sometimes they cut a trench in the sand-bar and the waters in the pool sweep out and carry the sand away; but the next tide brings it back, because it’s the accursed sand which fell out of Tregeagle’s sack when the maliceful little devil tripped him up; and the tide from Trewavas Head throws it back just as St. Petrock saw that it would. One of the morals of this story is that a saint can be quite as great a nuisance as a sinner,” said Beatrice.
She sat up suddenly and cried, “You are not listening. I believe you are half-asleep.”
“I have heard every word,” Burrough said. “But I can look at you at the same time.”
“It’s getting dark and gloomy. The fire’s dying down and I’m not dry yet. Don’t you hear Tregeagle screaming as he sweeps the sand? For he is sweeping now. The poor people of Helston were in an awful state when they found their harbour had been destroyed. They collected all the bishops, priests, and deacons they could lay their hands on and rushed them down to Loe bar. Tregeagle was bound by spells once more, and this time it was decided to place him where he couldn’t destroy commerce or frighten people. So they carried him off to Land’s End, and sentenced him to sweep all the sand and shells out of Porthcurnow, round Tol Pedn Penwith, into the Valley of the Bosom, which is also called Nankissal. And he’s doing that still. You can hear him always. In summer he sighs and sobs; in autumn he wails; and in winter he screams. The fishermen know when a storm is coming by the sound of his wailing, and they don’t put their boats across the bar when they hear him roar. And that, my child, is the true story of Tregeagle,” she murmured. “Now put all your toys away tidily into the cupboard, then ring the bell for nurse, because it’s past your usual bed-time, and I’m sure you’re tired.”
Beatrice did not draw away, but stretched herself with a little yawn. He felt her strong body tighten and relax against him, and saw her eyes flicker and close.
“Do wake up,” she said sleepily. “There are all sorts of wild beasties about the ruin—ferocious sheep, ravening ponies, and mad March rabbits. I’ve seen big eyes and little eyes staring out of the mist. It would be fearful to be trampled underfoot by a rabbit, or torn to pieces by a sheep.”
“I am wide awake,” he said.
“We must make the fire up and have supper. It’s lucky you’ve got another giant’s sandwich. Then if the weather clears, and we can find a guiding star, we must be going home.”
“There isn’t going to be any star,” said Burrough.
“Yes, presently. Do you think I could stop all night in this haunted ruin? I should be pinched to death by pixies. All sorts of little people will be here by midnight—quite a mixed crowd. They would be dreadfully annoyed to find me here.”
“They will find you here,” said Burrough boldly. “Because you know it’s impossible for you to get away from here to-night.” Then he went on hurriedly, “This has been a very happy day.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t,” she said flippantly. “It began nicely, but it turned out a perfect beast. Do let me get up. I want to see the fire.”
“Beatrice,” he murmured.
“I’m here,” she whispered saucily. “You needn’t shout. Will you please see if my boots are dry yet?”
“In a minute,” he said.
“Now you must be good,” she went on, with her sleepy laugh. “I told you a story to keep you quiet, and then I told you to run away. You’re very disobedient, and in the Sunday School books you will find that disobedient children are invariably devoured by lions.”
“Never mind the Sunday School books.”
“But you must. S’ars o’ mine! Don’t you know that the good child becomes Lord Mayor of London, and the bad child goes to the gallows?”
“Yes, but Beatrice——”
“Hush-a-den! It shall be a Lor’ Mayor itself sometime or other, and ride in its own coach.”
“Bother the Lord Mayor,” said Burrough, with his cheeks flushed and eyes eager, bending over her.
“Won’t it be a Lor’ Mayor?” she laughed. “It shan’t be a Lor’ Mayor. Dod a bless it! It shall be a Bishop. O! de blessing of it!”
At that instant he kissed her saucy mouth. He had already kissed her soft hair a hundred times, and she had been quite conscious of it.
“Thee’rt a tiresome brat!” she sighed.
CHAPTER XVI.
HOW BURROUGH BECAME A DUMMY MAN.
It was early morning when Burrough awoke. He had never intended going to sleep, but drowsiness had come, and he had succumbed to it. He blinked his eyes when the clear light met them, and wondered what was the meaning of the grey ruin which surrounded him. Then he remembered, and hastily pulled himself round. The bed of heather was empty. The little boots had disappeared from the broken hearthstone where turves still smoked and smouldered; and the satchel too was gone. Burrough looked about the ruin through the rents in its walls. A couple of horned sheep scampered away when they saw him; a shaggy pony stared with wild eyes. There was not a trace of Beatrice.
For a moment Burrough felt resentful. She might have waited for him, or at least have aroused him to say she was going, and that she preferred to depart alone. She was not the sort of girl who would care what the villagers said about her; yet for the sake of peace she would prefer they should not know how she had passed the night with him in the ruin of Steeperton Cleave. That no doubt was why she had wished to steal alone into the village before anyone would be astir. She had not disturbed him out of pity for his weariness. She had acted quite wisely. It was not her fault they had been stormbound; but the evil-thinking minds and slandering tongues of the villagers might very well determine that it had been his.
The “fulness,” as a Dartmoor dame would have called the mist, had vanished. It was difficult to imagine it in the clear sunshine of the early morning. The rain had dried off the whortleberries, and the wind was nothing but a murmur. The only distinct sound came from the river tumbling through the ruin of its bridge below.
Burrough was too lazy to think. The sensuous waves of warm gorse-scented air lulled him into a feeling of perfect peace. He tumbled upon the springy heather, and tried to imagine the future—a future with Beatrice—but did not think for long. His eyes closed and he was soon again in the land of dreams.
He woke with a muffled cry, and raised his hand to his head as though to avert a blow. It seemed to him that the pixy blacksmith had come beside him with a huge hammer and intent to murder. The phantom had indeed aimed a blow at his head, but he had dragged himself away in time, and the hammer had fallen upon the rock hard by and shivered it with a noise like thunder. The echoes were still ringing upon the moor. Before Burrough could fully awaken the noise came again. There was a furious hissing, followed by a deafening shock. The ruin trembled. Dust came down like rain, and after it a lump of peat fell upon Burrough’s chest. He was up at once, muttering, “A thunderstorm! Good Heaven! When is the weather going to be fine again?”
The next moment he was laughing, because he perceived that it was as fine a summer’s morning as the heart could desire. So Beatrice had not gone after all. She was upon the other side of the wall, and had amused herself by throwing peat over it, as a hint it was time for him to get up. As for the noise, it had probably been caused by her rolling stones down the steep descent to the river. He picked up a piece of peat and threw it over the wall. No reply came, although he persuaded himself he heard a muffled laugh. He rushed outside. Nobody was there.
In an instant Burrough was back in the ruin, as though he had been Tregeagle with the devils at his heels. What was it that had made the mysterious building a ruin and destroyed the old clapper bridge below? What had aroused him and flung that turf upon his chest? Those ugly iron cylinders scattered all over the surrounding moor gave the answer. What a fool he had been to forget the artillery. He was upon the range. A shell might fall at any moment and blow him into fragments.
“On this day of all days in my life!” he muttered with shivering lips. During the next few moments his mind worked rapidly. Was it because of the danger that Beatrice had hurried away in the first dimness of the morning? That could not be, because if the idea had occurred to her she would not have left him sleeping at the mercy of the gunners. Was it a chance shell which had fallen near the ruin? He knew the firing was sometimes erratic, and he remembered the sheep and the pony he had seen upon looking out earlier. These thoughts did not bring much consolation, because he knew the cleave was upon the Cranmere range. He had slept five hours since seeing those animals, and since then the moormen would have rounded them up and driven them off. Naturally they had not searched inside the ruin. They could not have expected to find a man sleeping there.
While Burrough’s mind was at work his hands were busy methodically packing his knapsack. He did not lose his head, as he had lately done with Beatrice, and he managed to retain his self-restraint. He knew it was no good running wildly about the moor, like a hunted rabbit looking for a hole to dive into. He was aware that the particular part upon which the ruin stood was not visible from the firing point because of the steep slope of the cleave. It would be madness to run up the hill, stand upon the sky-line and signal. He might be mistaken for one of the dummy-men. He had been told by an artillery sergeant that at a great distance the rippling currents of air rising from the moor frequently gave an appearance of motion to the dummies and perplexed the gunners in their aim. Then he thought of the field telegraph and of the possibility of the firing being stopped if he were to cut the wire. A patrol might be sent out to discover why communication had been put a stop to. But he had no instrument except a pocket-knife, and the wire could not be cut with that. The only course open was to find a shell-proof shelter where he could hide himself until the mid-day interval.
These thoughts passed rapidly through Burrough’s brain. He slung on his knapsack. He was a practical man in some respects, and had no idea of leaving his property behind. He passed out of the ruin, and as he did so the hissing began again; he cowered like a frightened animal, and a shell burst far above, flinging masses of peat into the air. Another followed almost immediately, and then a couple passed overhead screaming like the whist hounds. He heard them burst far ahead and breathed more freely as he scrambled down.
Fear returned, however, before he reached the old bridge. He looked back and discovered a spectral dummy upon the crest of the hill. While he was looking the wooden man vanished, to the accompaniment of another terrific explosion, and the storm of stones and divots was renewed.
“Hot work,” muttered Burrough, trying to smile. “Very hot work.”
His first thought was naturally the selfish one of self-preservation. His second was gratification that Beatrice had slipped away in the early morning. It would have been terrible if she had been there, exposed to instant death or mutilation in some horrible form. The strong beautiful body of Beatrice scarred and crippled! The very thought made him shudder as his own danger had not done.
There was no shelter to be found upon the treeless moor. Reaching the river in safety Burrough rushed over the rocks like a frightened water-vole, looking for a hole to creep into. Near the old bridge he hesitated. There was a shelf of rock jutting out from the side of the cleave and overhanging the river. The bombardment continued like a tremendous thunderstorm. Burrough scrambled down, dragged himself beneath the ledge, and crouched among the ferns, with the water splashing below, and the noise of war above.
Not more than a few minutes had passed when an earthquake came. The ground shook, the great shelf which pressed upon him like the roof of a vault trembled, and some small rocks rattled overhead and plunged into the river. When peace became restored Burrough reconsidered his position by the light of a few fresh discoveries. As he dug his hands into the bracken they came in contact with something hard and round. It was a shell. As he looked down he noticed that huge masses of the river’s bank had been broken off. Some portions had not been cut away completely, but were hanging forward over the water; other parts had been blown into the stream. Burrough quickly concluded that his present position was as bad a one as he could have chosen. He noticed that the shells were falling either some way above the ruin or some way below, that is to say, across the high moor where the dummies had been stationed early that morning while he was asleep, and along the river. He remembered that the gunners were instructed to respect the stone antiquities of the moor as far as they could. They were not permitted to bombard the picturesque tors, or to drop their shells where stone avenues and kistvaens were known to exist. The ruin was therefore the safest place. It was between two fires, which was better on the whole than being in the direct line of one.
Burrough lost no time in returning to the place which had sheltered Beatrice and himself from the storm. It was a very different and far more terrible storm which was raging then. He went up the steep ascent at an astonishing speed, and tumbled into the ruin sweating and breathless. As he made for the old fireplace a small pony stampeded in a panic from the corner. Evidently the shaggy little beast had become separated from its companions, and had been overlooked by the range-clearers. Burrough called to the animal in vain. All men were its enemies. It made off to the open moor, calling for its comrades, mane and tail streaming in the breeze. Quite possibly it had been left deliberately on the range by the moorman who owned it. If it were destroyed the compensation money might amount to the value of many ponies.
Soon Burrough became positively elated. Hidden away in the chimney he felt that the odds were very much in his favour. It had stood through many a summer’s war; and though no doubt it was only a question of time before a badly-aimed shell fell and demolished it, there was no good reason why such a disaster should occur upon that particular day. Burrough tried to forget that portions of the old stone building had been shattered by misdirected efforts. Broken blocks were close to his feet; there was an ugly rent in the jagged wall opposite; through that hole he perceived a shallow pit which could not have been made by anything except one of those huge new projectiles—but it was foolish to think of such things. He turned to other matters. He wondered whether the pony would escape and rejoin its herd that evening, with a tale of its wonderful adventures, including the stupid frightened man who had driven it out of its shelter—or whether it would be lying dead or horribly wounded upon the high moor between the dummies. That was another unpleasant thought, and others followed. Burrough remembered the tales that were current concerning the recklessness of the artillerymen. How they had been known to take aim at pedestrians wandering upon the moor, and to attribute any fatal consequence to accident. Well, that need not trouble him, because he was completely hidden. What was much more disquieting was the fear lest some raw beginner might be firing presently. Such a one was as likely to drop a projectile upon the ruin as upon Cranmere.