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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/34576-0.txt b/34576-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0e3f82a --- /dev/null +++ b/34576-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1815 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 34576 *** + +BY VIOLENCE + +By + +JOHN TREVENA + +Author of "Bracken", "Sleeping Waters", etc. + + +With an Introduction by + +EDWARD O'BRIEN + + +BOSTON + +THE FOUR SEES COMPANY + +PUBLISHERS + +1918 + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +For eight years or more, since I first became acquainted with the novels +and tales of John Trevena it has been my firm conviction that only +Thomas Hardy and George Moore among contemporary novelists rival his art +at its best. Like Meredith, he has written for twenty years in +obscurity, and like Meredith also he has been content with a small +discriminating audience. I suppose that in 1950 our grandchildren will +be electing college courses on his literary method, but meanwhile it +would be more gratifying if there were even a slight public response to +the quality of his individual talent. + +Trevena's novels are the expression of a passionate feeling for Nature, +regarded as the sum of human personality and experience, in all its +moods,--benign and malign, as man is benign and malign, and faithful to +life in the stone as well as the flower. What a gallery of memorable +characters they are, Mary and Peter Tavy, Brightly, Cuthbert Orton, +Jasper Ramrige, Anthonie and Petronel, William and Yellow Leaf, Captain +Drake and dark Pendoggat, Ann Code, Cyril Rossingall, and a hundred +others, passionate and gentle, with wind and water and earth and sky for +a chorus, and the shifting pageantry of Nature as a stage. + +His fourteen volumes reveal a gift for characterization equalled by none +of the contemporary English realists, and a Shakespearian humor +elsewhere gone from our day. In _Furze the Cruel_, _Bracken_, _Wintering +Hay_, and _Sleeping Waters_, to name no others, John Trevena has written +novels of Dartmoor that will take their rightful place in the great +English line, when the honest carpentering of Phillpotts that now +overshadows them is totally forgotten. + +The feeling has spread among Trevena's few critical American admirers +who have written about him, that he is fundamentally morbid and +one-sided. On the contrary, I know of few novelists who are more +recklessly and irresistibly gay, in whom sheer fun bubbles over so +spontaneously and wholeheartedly. To ignore life's harshness is simply +to ignore life. Trevena's many-sidedness will be apparent only when +there is a definitive edition of his work. His habit of confining a +novel to a single mood or passion of nature, together with the fact that +Americans have only had an opportunity to read those novels by him which +deal with nature's most cruel moods, have done the reputation of Trevena +a grave injustice. + +_By Violence_ and _Matrimony_ are Trevena's most beautiful short tales, +and I hardly know which is the finer revelation of poetic grace and +gentle vision. Their message is conveyed so quietly that they may be +read for their sensuous beauty only, and yet convey a rare pleasure. If +their feeling is veiled and somewhat aloof from the common ways of men, +there is none the less a fine human sympathy concealed in them, and a +golden radiance indissolubly woven into their pages. + +If Nature's power is inevitable in these stories, it is also kind, and I +like to think that from _By Violence_ as a text a new reading of earth +may be deciphered. Trevena has written the books of furze and heather +and granite and bracken, which outlast time on the hills of Dartmoor. +But this tale hints at a fifth force which survives all the others. Some +day, when the wind is strong, John Trevena will write the book of "The +Rain-drop," which is the gentlest of all elements, and yet outlasts the +stone. + + Edward J. O'Brien + +_South Yarmouth, Mass._ + _February 26, 1918_ + + + + +BY VIOLENCE + + +"Dear Sir,-- + "The wooden enemies are out. + "Yours obediently, + "Oliver Vorse." + +Simon Searell read this short message as he tramped the streets of +Stonehouse, which were full of fog, from the sea on one side and the +river on the other. Vorse was an uneducated man; the mysticism of +flowers was nothing to him, the time of spring was merely a change of +season, and the most spiritual of blooms were only "wooden enemies." +Searell frowned a little, not at the lack of education, which was rather +a peace to be desired, but at the harshness of the words, and went on, +wondering if the wood-anemones were to be his friends, or little cups of +poison. + +He climbed streets of poor houses, their unhappy windows curtained with +mist, and came out near a small church made of iron, a cheap and gaudy +thing, almost as squalid on the outside as the houses. The backslider +looked at it with a shudder. It was his no longer; he had given it up; +he was forgetting those toy-like altars, the cheap brass candlesticks, +the artificial flowers, and all the images. They were wooden and stone +enemies to him now. He was going deeper to find the throbbing heart of +religion, putting aside dolls and tapers and the sham of sentimentality. +Solitude and mysticism were to be his stars through the night, and he +trusted, with their aid, to reach the dawn. He turned from the church, +stopped at a house, and that was squalid too, knocked, then wiped his +boots, as if certain of being admitted. + +"Father Damon?" he asked shortly. Searell's voice was sweet; he had +helped people "home," as they called it, with his tongue, not with his +soul, just as a sweet-toned organ calls for tears with the beauty of its +sounds, though the instrument itself is dead. + +"Yes, your reverence," the housekeeper answered, as shortly; and Searell +walked up the foggy stairs murmuring to himself, "The wind-flowers are +out, and I am free." + +Father Damon stood in a little square room hideously papered. He was +small, dark, heavy-featured, peasant-like; and Searell saw at a glance +that his successor was as dull in many ways as Oliver Vorse. All that he +knew had been forced upon him almost violently; he had not gone forth +gathering for himself, he dared not, his mind had been tilled by careful +teachers, kept under restraint, all his side-growths pruned away, in +order that orthodoxy might develop in one large unlovely head. When the +order went forth to kneel, he knelt, and when it was time to lift his +eyes to Heaven, he lifted them. It was a life of prison, and he could +never smell the woodland through the fog of incense. + +"He knows nothing," muttered Searell. "He thinks it is daylight where he +stands." + +"I come to give you information about the mission," he said aloud, and +then began; but the telling took some time. How troublesome, how paltry, +the details; and Father Damon was so dull. Everything had to be +repeated, explained so carefully; and was it worth the words? The +successor was very earnest, but not enthusiastic, that had been crushed +out of him; and Searell grew impatient at the wooden figure, with its +simple face and child-like questions. He spoke faster, almost angrily, +desiring to get away and smell the earth; and his eyes wandered about +the room, which was so unlovely, not bare, but filled with those things +that make for the nakedness of life. There was wanting something to +galvanise that sluggish Damon into passion, to destroy the machinery, +turn him into a strong animal with dilating nostrils. One little touch +would have done it. A portrait of a pretty woman upon the mantelshelf +would have gone far; but there was nothing except pictures of mythical +saints. + +"You are retiring. You seem strong and well," said Damon, when he had +obtained all the information that was required. + +Searell was in a hurry to be gone, as the sleeper struggles to awake +from a bad dream; but that voice and its stagnant repose aroused him. + +"I am old, I am sixty," he said. "I am beginning again, trying to find +what the Church has not shown me." + +"What is that?" + +"Light." + +Damon stared with the eyes of horror, and put out his peasant-like hands +as if to force away some weight that pressed against him; but he said +nothing. + +"I will not depart in the odour of hypocrisy. Listen," said Searell. "I +am far from saying that the Church does not lead towards a kind of +light; but it has not led me. And this do I say, that in the world at +large all religion is a failure; and I am going to find mine in the +solitudes." + +"The truth is in the Church. It is your fault if you have missed it," +said Damon, in a hollow voice, hoping that the other, for the sake of +his soul, was mad. + +"It is there for some, the minority. You will never realize how small +that minority is. We cannot hasten the dawn with juggling. True religion +is a thing of innocence, not a matter of spells and charms; and it is in +the innocence of Nature that I will search for it. I believe it exists +there, underneath the outward cruelty, and I shall find it among the +flowers. The flower alone does not struggle with violence, it sheds no +blood; the weed smothers, and the bindweed chokes; but without some +fault upon the surface, perfection might be obtained, which cannot be. +Look into the flower, and you will find a condition which is not +approached by man or other animals. There is a purity which brings tears +into your eyes. Eliminate violence, and you have innocence; obtain +innocence, and you see the light. At the beginning of things we are told +that the world was destroyed by water because the earth was filled with +violence. At the beginning of the new era we learn that the Kingdom of +Heaven suffereth violence. Will you say the Church does not rule by +violence, by threats, suppressions, rubrics, and by vows?" + +"I cannot understand you," said Damon. + +"Will you understand when I say that the God of life is to be found +among the flowers?" + +The other shook his head and looked frightened. Free speech was not +allowed, and, if it had been, he would not have known how to use it. He +walked between rubrics, turning neither to the right hand nor to the +left; and the living lily was a thing for funeral wreaths. For the +altars, artificial flowers were good enough, as they did not require +renewing, and they looked real to the congregation, and how they were +regarded elsewhere did not concern him; and whether they had been made +by sweated labour did not concern him, because he was not allowed to +think, and he himself was artificial, neither man nor animal, but a +side-growth of supernaturalism. + +"Let me go on now I have begun," said Searell. "I am leaving here, and +my words will not live after me. I am a man who has tested life, who has +been through every experience, and I have discovered that what morality +calls bad is often good, and that which we call virtue sometimes springs +from vice. The purest water runs upon mud, only you must not rake it up. +In my youth I served as a soldier, and upon leaving the army I sought +the Church, partly to find a rest, chiefly, perhaps, because my mind was +mystical. But nothing was revealed, and nothing could be, for the mystic +must be free; and the priest is a soul in prison, and the book of his +captivity is always before him. Here he must join his hands; there he +must lift his eyes to Heaven, prostrate himself, kiss the altar, until +the time comes when he feels alone, cut off from the Creator of his +dreams by these mechanics, horribly alone among images; and he seems to +hear a voice asking sorrowfully, 'What is this rule you are following? +Who told you to do this? Go out upon the hills and into the woods, for I +am there.' But he cannot move, for the time has come to join his hands +again, and the revelation passes unseen, because he has to keep his eyes +shut. It is written so, and he must obey." + +"I cannot answer you," muttered Damon; and it was true, for these words +took him outside the well-worn groove and dropped him useless. + +"If I found the man who could, I would follow him," came the answer, and +the white-headed priest passed a hand across his eyes, as if trying to +brush the fog away. "I have been longing to escape for years. The iron +of the little mission-church has eaten into my soul. I ought to have +resigned? Why so, when I performed all my duties? Without means I could +not have faced the world, for the mystic is not a practical man, and +these hands," he said, frowning, "they are hands to be despised, for +they have done nothing. No, do not answer me, you cannot, you are bound. +I am free. A year ago I was left money--" + +"A curse." + +"If you will, a curse to buy a pathway to my Heaven. There was a place I +pined for, up on the heights of Dartmoor, a valley among mountains. I +have bought it. They call it Pixyland." + +"Paganism," cried the peasant-priest hoarsely, and crossed himself. + +"Purity," said Searell, in his sweet voice. "Pure air, pure hills, pure +loneliness. It is a place of rocks, of heather and large-rooted ferns, +and it is very steep, terrace rising upon terrace to the heights. At the +bottom of the valley are trees; here also is a wild path and a wild +stream broken upon the rocks, and becoming whole again at the foot of a +glen. For centuries the place has been haunted in men's imagination, and +they have avoided it because it is a garden of--angels. I am going now +to make it bloom, I am going to grasp that solitude and weave with it a +mantle of light. I am going to walk on my pixy-path and watch the +shadows creeping up and down my pixy-glen; and the growth will come, the +growth of knowledge, and of consciousness; and there I may meet my +Gardener, driven out of the world by violence, out of the Church by +violence, revealing Himself, not tortured, cross-laden, and frowning, +and not awful, but as the smiling Guardian of the flowers." + +There was hardly a sound in the cold room, stiff with the antique +pictures of quaint saints, dark with that dull peasant born to be ruled; +and yet Searell was going out with a haunted face, passing like a +phantom from the house of poverty, and the wet board with Mass notices, +and the waste of ground heaped up with rubbish. There was a pear-tree +leaning from the waste, a tree which the builders had forgotten, and +from the tree hung a broken branch, and at the end of that branch, +beneath the buds of spring, were two black leaves neglected by the +winter, side by side, struggling with one another; for there was wind +down the street which made them struggle; but neither dropped, and they +fought on silently while the wind lasted. + +"Violence even in dead things," Searell murmured; and, reaching up his +hand, he quieted those two restless leaves for ever. + + + + +II + + +Oliver Vorse was lying among the wood-anemones, and he was drunk. He +would have looked like a monster had his condition been rare; but it was +common, therefore Vorse was not abnormal, only a fool. He did not know +where he was, in the pixy-path upon the wind-flowers, crushing so many +with his sodden carcase, while the pure pixy-water trickled underneath. +He had come the wrong way at the turning of the path; instead of +ascending to the house, which was the way of difficulty, he had stepped +downwards choosing the path of ease, as men will, even when sober. The +state of his body was nothing, as nobody would see him except Sibley, +his wife. The master was expected tomorrow, and then he would have to +pretend to be a man. + +The moon was young, a cradle of silver, and the stars were wrapped in +sleep-compelling clouds; and all the light that there was seemed to come +from the anemones which Vorse was defiling. The little white things were +lanterns, retaining light, but not giving it forth, and a stickle of +water shone like a shield. There was such a wonderful purity in Nature +apart from the man. Everything seemed to bear the mark of beauty and +holiness except him. It was out of the world in that fairy garden +hanging between the cities and the clouds, and the vices of the world +were out of place; and yet there was no barrier which they could not +leap across. + +A light appeared thick and heavy, putting out the eyes of the flowers. +It wobbled down the natural terraces, weather-hewn from granite, and +with it came a voice suggesting more violence, harsh and angry, not a +voice of the clouds, but of the street-corner, where faces are thin and +fierce, and the paving-stones seem cruel. Sibley was searching for her +husband, not because she loved him, nor requiring his company for any +reason except the selfish one that the loneliness above frightened her, +and her small spirit quailed before the heaving moorland. Any sort of a +brute was better than the God of the mountains. She stumbled over an +obstacle, lowered the lantern, but it was a mass of granite carved +cynically by centuries of rain into the semblance of a tombstone. Again +she stumbled, and now it was the trunk of a tree, phosphorescent with +rottenness. A third time she stumbled, and so found her master with the +rottenness of the fallen tree, without the strength of the granite. + +She kicked him, struck him with the greasy lantern, and swore. + +"Get up, dirty swine. Get up, will ye? Mind what the master told yew? +and he'm coming in the morning." + +Oliver only growled and snored. This was his form of mysticism, and it +was a kind of happiness. If master had dreams, why not he? Master could +dream at one end of creation, he at the other. There was plenty of time. +Sibley was only twenty-four, Oliver not much older. When life is young +the end of it is a myth, and passion is the god. + +There was another light down the pixy-path, very steady and soft. Had it +been blue it might have been a thing of the bog, looking for the body it +had thrown away, but it was white, and it flickered hardly at all, for +the night was smothered up and the winds were slumbering. It came up the +path with a kind of gliding rather terrible and there was not a sound +around it. The master was approaching in the night. Having completed the +last duty sooner than he had anticipated, he acted on the impulse. There +was time to escape, so why wait for the morning? And there would be the +glamour of passing through the dark towards clouds and mistland. The +preparations of a man in earnest take no time. He must put a taper in +his pocket, the last relic of the church he was leaving, as the night +would be heavy upon the pathway, and he must walk there and see the +wood-anemones in flower and feel the peace settling upon his eyelids. +There was no time to be lost, for he was old, and still a child, with +everything to learn. + +Sibley saw the figure, and screamed, supposing it to be a spirit doing +penance for past sins with the lighted candle; while her husband heaved +and called for drink. + +Searell stood upon the path. The wind-flowers were out, but their heads +were hanging in shame; there was no spiritual life in them, they were +already dead like the two black leaves upon the pear tree, and the +destroyed of life was that heap of flesh upon them. He had come away +from the world to forget its violence, and here it was upon his mystic +pathway. He had come to find his God upon the flowers, and had found a +drunken man instead. + +He was calm, to Sibley he looked divine, as he placed the candle in the +niche of a gaping boulder, and she wondered at his restraint. He was a +god, for he had made her, had saved her from street life, and might +still save Oliver if he could bear with him. They were not of his +religion, they were only devil-worshippers, and yet he had stooped down +and dragged them almost by violence from the rubbish-pit. + +"Forgive 'en this once, master," she cried. "I'll see he don't fall +again. Us didn't look vor ye till the morning, and Oliver went down, and +this be how he comed back." + +There was a flat rock above the pixy-water, and here Searell seated +himself, saying, "Do not speak. Your voice is harsh." + +For some moments the only sounds were the deep breathing of Vorse and +the tinkling of the stream. The flame of the candle did not flicker, and +Sibley remained as motionless, her hands clasped before her, looking +down. Then Searell spoke: + +"I walked along a street, and at a dark end of it a man and woman were +fighting. They were young and fierce. As I came near, the man threw the +woman down and thumped her in the back, I separated them by violence. +They respected my profession, and did not greatly resent my +interference. So there was good in them, but, like young beasts, they +had run wild, and no man had tamed them. You know of whom I am +speaking?" + +"Yes, master, I reckon," she whispered. + +"At that time they were living together, although unmarried. I told them +I should be requiring a couple to attend to me and my home, and I +promised to engage them if they would be legally wedded. But conditions +were imposed. One of them has been broken tonight." + +"It won't ever happen again, master." + +"I have myself to think of. There must be selfishness," said Searell. +"There is no escaping from it. If one condition is broken, another may +be. You remember the other?" + +"Yes, master--no children." + +The words sounded harsh, in that fairy place, and they seemed to agree +rather with the breathing of the drunken man than with the ringing of +the stream. + +"Perhaps I am hard, but I have my peace of mind to consider. A child's +cry, a child's mischievous ways, would destroy it. There is no room in +my house for children, and this is not the place for them. I have a +search to make," he murmured. "The scream of infants would lead me far +astray. You will remember?" + +"Us ha' no other home, master." + +"You will remember?" + +"Yes, master." + +"I will forget what has happened tonight," said Searell, bending from +the rock, dipping his hand into the pixy-water. "Let this be a time of +regeneration for us all. Do you respect a ceremony?" + +"Yes, master, I reckon," she said again, though she could not understand +him. + +"We will lead a new life," he said, with a smile which was visible in +the light of candle and lantern. + +Sibley stepped forward as Oliver lifted himself with heavy movements, +and muttered a half-conscious "Ask your pardon, master." + +Searell brought up a little of the bright water, and sprinkled the +woman, then the man, without any other sign, and with the words in his +soft mystic voice, "I receive you into the new life." + +Then he picked up the taper and went, leaving the man and woman afraid +of him. + + + + +III + + +After a year in Pixyland, what was there? A garden, a place of almost +unearthly beauty, and through it the master moved slowly, clad no longer +in the clothes of religion, nor even in the garments of respectability; +his coat sack-like, its pockets bulging with bulbs and tubers, and his +hair was in white ringlets, and his hands were often in the warm earth, +grubbing out furze-roots. The terrestrial paradise had been attained; +down the steep slopes poured a cascade of colour, the pixy-path was +alight all night with white, out of the pixy-water rose golden osmundas +and the ghostly spiræa; and Searell's face was also ghostly, it was +hungry, and the eyes were dull. It was not the face of the priest who +had built up the mission, for that had been eager. It was not the face +of the mystic who had walked up the path by candlelight, for that had +been happy. It was not the face of the spiritualist who feels he is +conquering the atmosphere, nor that of a dreamer. It was the face of one +who was sad. + +Searell had discovered, though he would not own it to himself, that +lonely happiness is impossible. What was a discovery if no friend could +be told of it? What was the loveliness of his garden when there was no +one to share it with? What would Heaven itself be if he was there alone? +There must be sympathy, and without it life is lost. + +Intellect was losing its edge. He almost forgot what he had come there +for. Instead of ascending towards more light he was falling into grosser +darkness. He did not even dream; he was sluggish, and oblivion was over +him; which must happen when a man cuts himself free from the hearts and +brains of others. His cry was no longer the triumphant one of strength +and self-confidence. It was the cry "Why hast Thou forgotten me?" as he +walked heavily, and the weight of his own presence oppressed him; and +then he would mutter aloud, "Come and see my garden. I must show you the +flowers," though there was nobody to hear. That was all: he was a +gardener; he wanted to show his flowers, shrubs, ferns, he wanted to +delight some one with his bogplants, he longed to see admiration dawning +upon a human face, love for the beautiful kindling in human eyes; and so +he came to crave for human life, human words and beauty, human sympathy, +even human sin and shame and violence rather than the innocence and +purity and gentleness of God among the flowers. + +"Master, where be I to plant this?" "Master, will ye pay these bills?" +Such were the almost brutal questions around him. + +He had asked for solitude; and now he longed for passion, earthly love. + +It was winter, when the nights were wild and the evenings intolerable; +and during one of them the sound of a quarrel reached his ears. Oliver +and Sibley had not been satisfactory. If they had abstained from the +vices, they had not learnt to love one another; and, as Searell listened +then, he saw the violent streets and that boy and girl tussle in the +dirt. He went down, and at the foot of the stairs heard the woman's +angry voice, "Yew ha' ruined me"; and then the growl of Oliver, "Shut +your noise. Master be moving over." Through the doorway Searell saw +them, like beasts half-tamed, longing to break into their natural +habits, but dreading the master's whip. Were they worse than they had +been? Was it the effect of solitude upon them? Sibley had no small +amusements such as women desire. Oliver had no love for his home life. +It seemed to Searell that indifference was settling upon them all. He +advanced into the kitchen, stood between them as he had done before, +looked at the man, and noticed something new, a kind of eagerness, which +he tried to suppress; then at the woman, and here too was a difference, +a softer face and eyes half ashamed. Perhaps, then, they could love, and +a word from him might kindle the spark into flame. + +"I interfered between you once before. It was for your good." + +"No, master," said Sibley. + +"I think so," he said, startled by her independence and rudeness. + +"It would ha' been better if yew had passed by and let we bide," she +went on; and when Oliver growled his "Shut your noise," it was with less +anger than usual. + +"Us could ha' done what us had a mind to then," she said. "This be a +prison." + +"We are all in prison, if you can understand me. The walls are all +round, and we cannot get over them." + +"'Tis best vor volk to live as 'em be meant to," said Sibley. + +And again Searell was amazed. How had this woman obtained the power and +the courage to answer him? And to beat him, for he was beaten. He had no +words to reply to that simple philosophy, and to the woman who appealed +from his decision. He had played the God with them, had brought them out +of chaos, and had given them his commandments; and he was no God, but a +weak man; and they were not his children. + +He went back to his books, there were no flowers except Christmas-roses +and snowdrops, shivering things of winter, and tried to dream. Nothing +came. It seemed to him there was less mysticism in his mistland than in +the dirty streets of Stonehouse; and, while he mused, that world came +knocking at his mind, calling in the dialect of Sibley, "'Tis best vor +volk to live as 'em be meant to." His own body, his sluggishness and +unhappiness, convicted him of error; but, if he was wrong, what of all +religion which tells of a God of mysticism, and of his own in +particular, which, at that very season of the year, rejoiced at the +birth of a Child-creator by mysticism not through Love? And at his mind +was hot, red-blooded passion, a crude and awful thing, love for those +things which make men horrible, love for dirt and the roots, not for bud +and bloom; and a contempt and hatred for cold morality and the spells +muttered by candlelight; and the message of the flowers was this: +"Through the agency of others, through the eyes of those who are loved +and loving, not by the confinement of self, souls find the dawn." + +"Mrs. Vorse," said Searell one day, the yellow aconites were out, the +first colour of the year, and he was going to look at them, "you have +changed." + +Sibley had her back towards him, engaged in cleaning, and she was +wearing, as she always did, the enveloping apron of the country, which +hung from her shoulders and surrounded her body like a sack. He could +not see the flush upon her face. + +"Your voice is softer. You sing at your work. You are happy." + +"I hain't, master," she whispered. "I feels, master, I wants to be +happy, but I be frightened." + +"Of the loneliness?" + +"Not that, master. I can't tell ye, but I be frightened." + +"You and your husband get along better. You are quieter. I have not +heard you quarrel for some time." + +"There's good in Oliver," she said. + +"I thought so," he murmured. "But I have not been able to bring it out." + +He went to see the aconites, but they were cold, and made him shiver. It +was warm innocence he wanted, not the purity which numbed; and, down +below, the slopes were naked, the path rustled with dead oakleaves, and +the pixy-water was in flood. The violence of the world was there, and +nothing could drive it out. + +"Is your wife well, Oliver?" he asked. "I heard a sound in your room +early this morning. It seemed to me she was ill." + +Vorse was uprooting bracken, which is hard labour, and he made no pause +when his master spoke. + +"I ha' never knowed she better," he answered. + +"She frets less. There is a womanliness about her now which is pleasant. +You, also, have very much improved. You speak to her gently. You do not +drink now?" + +"Her made me give it up." + +"Had I nothing to do with it?" + + +"No, master," said Oliver bluntly. "I couldn't ha' given it up vor yew. +I did try, but I couldn't, I promised to give it up vor Sibley." + +"When?" + +"Months ago. Her told me something, and 'twur then I promised to give it +up vor Sibley." + +"What did she tell you?" + +"Her had received a message from God." + +These were strange words from the mouth of Oliver Vorse. + +"Her took 'em from yew, master," he added apologetically. + +Searell moved aside, gazing at the black snakelike fern-roots. Then he +lifted up his eyes in torment. His creatures finding in the garden what +he had missed, taking his God away from him! the dull Sibley his +superior, reaping the harvest that he had sown! the dull Oliver +reforming for her, and not for him! And he had nothing, he was alone, as +much alone in his garden as in the mission-church, obeying the printed +rubrics and hearing the call, "Who told you to do this? Go out and find +Me, for I am in the solitudes." + +"You are educating yourselves," he suggested, turning back. "You and +Sibley are improving your minds by learning. I have done that much for +you." + +Oliver said nothing, his head was down, and his hands grubbed at the +great roots. There was no answer to make. + +It was evening, the time of restlessness, and Searell came downstairs; +his study was above, and he came down only to change his rooms, to get +into another atmosphere, that he might find rest for his mind. The +kitchen door was open. Oliver was seated in a low chair, and Sibley was +upon his knees, her arms around his neck, her head upon his shoulder. +Both were motionless as if asleep. + +Searell went away. This time he could not interfere, and the noise of +the wind became to him the cry of the wild world. "Men must be violent," +it cried. "Men were made for passion," it cried; "and with the strength +of the body, rather than by the gropings of the mind, they shall clear +the mists from their eyes, and by means of the act of creation find +Creator." + + + + +IV + + +A perfect evening is often the prelude to a stormy night. It was such an +evening in spring again, when the wind-flowers were out, and an old man +riding off the moor paused beside Searell's boundary-wall to prophesy a +tempest. This was a white old man with queer blue eyes, and he too was a +mystic under the spell of solitude; but, unlike Searell, he had his +ties, without which no man can be happy. By day he roamed, and at +evening, by the fireside, told the children small and great his own +weird tales of Dartmoor. There were no restless evenings for him. +Searell shook his head almost angrily. He lived upon the face of the +moor, wrapped himself in its secrets, yet he could not foretell its +weather. The passing cloud had no message, the river with its changing +cry told him nothing. He went into the house. + +"Where is your wife?" he said to Oliver. + +"Her bain't well, master." The man was nervous, and his eyes were large. + +"Who is that woman in the kitchen?" + +"I had to get she up to do the cooking." + +"You have neglected your work today." + +"I be cruel sorry, master." + +"What is the matter with your wife? Yesterday I heard her singing." + +"Nothing serious, master"; but the man was listening all the time, as if +dreading to hear a call, a cry of pain, or the voice of life coming +along the moor. + +The old man was right. So soon as night began, the Dartmoor tempest +broke; there was no rain, nor thunder, but a dry and mighty wind which +made the rocks shake; and through the storm came a weird light defying +the wind to blow it out, that light which does not enter the lowlands, +but lives upon mountains; and Searell stood at his high writing desk, +and sought out legends of the wind. + +If there were sounds in the house he could not hear them. Deep in +mysticism, he read on of the winged clouds which brought the tempests, +and of their symbols, the rock-shattering worm, the stone of wisdom +which tears open the secrets of life, the rosy flower which restores the +dead, the house-breaking hand of glory; and the eagle symbol of +lightning, and the rushing raven returning to Odin. And he read of the +voices in the wind, while boulders were grinding along the river-bed; of +Hulda in the forest singing for baby-souls; of the Elf maidens alluring +youths astray; of Thoth staggering into oblivion with brave men's +spirits; of Hermes with his winged talaria, playing the lyre and +shutting fast all the myriad eyes of the stars. And something more he +read about the storm-wind. It was not always taking away, it was giving; +it was a bringer of new life, coming in spring as a young god with +golden hair, breaking the spell of winter, bringing a magic pipe to make +folk dance. + +"At one time it lulls into a mystic sleep, at another it restores to new +life," said Searell, speaking loudly and strongly, partly to reassure +himself, because the tumult was frightening. "What is this wind bringing +to me, more of the mystic sleep, or the new life?" + +He paced up and down the room, which shook as if with earthquake; and +hidden from him by a partition of lath and plaster was the staring +horror of a dream, one small lamp, turned down, giving the half-light +which suggests terror more than darkness, and on the bed a woman +moaning, and against the wall a weak man groaning. Let them rave and +scream, no sound of theirs could have pierced that lath and plaster, for +the god of violence was fighting on their side. + +"There be only one way." + +That was how Oliver had been muttering the last hour. + +"No, no," she sobbed. + +"What can us do? Master be hard, he bides by his word. He ha' been good +to we in all else, but this be our ruin." + +"No, no." She could not hear him, but she knew what he was saying. + +"Back on them streets again. No home to cover we, no food. Us ha' lived +easy too long to stand it. 'Twould end in the river. Better to lose the +one than our two selves." + +"No, no," her lips made the words, but not the sounds. + +"'Tis only a matter o' two minutes," he cried fiercely. "Then us be free +again." He left the wall, crossed to the bed, bent down, cried into her +ear, "It be awful outside. The watter be roaring down under. Us mun +live, woman." + +Sibley lifted herself with a face of death, and screamed as if it had +been the last effort of her life, screamed again and again; but what was +that in the wind? Not even a whisper; while Searell read on of the Sons +of Kalew, and the miracle of their harps which changed winter into +summer and death into life. + +Oliver Vorse was staggering downstairs weeping; and outside the wind +caught him, dragged him hither and thither like a straw, stuffing his +mouth with vapour, and flung him against bellowing walls and into +shrieking bushes; and still he protected what he held by instinct, and +when he fell upon the steep descent he let his body be bruised and his +face torn by that same instinct which makes the timid beast a savage +thing. + +It took no time.... He was back in the ghastly lamplight, staring at a +ghastly face which was the reflection of his own; and the master was +still in his musing, and knew nothing. + +"Let me die, I'd sooner," Sibley muttered simply; but Oliver could not +hear. He was leaning against the wall again; then he went on his knees, +and then he turned his back upon the bed. That face, the black hair, a +blood-stain visible, they frightened him. He passed into a kind of +agony; he was so cold and his body was dry, and there was a lightness in +his limbs. + +"The watter wur roaring--roaring. There warn't no wind, not there. It +wur sheltered down under, and them little white flowers scarce shook." + +He turned his head and saw those staring eyes. + +"Bain't what yew thinks," he howled. "There wur moss, plenty on't. I +made a bed beside the rocks. It bain't cold, not very; but the watter be +rising--rising--rising." + +So was the tempest. It would be nearing its end, and would drop as +suddenly as it had arisen; and Searell was smiling as he read of the +beasts of the forest weeping as they listened to the song-wind of +Gunadhya. + +"I can't go out. Might see it crawling up-along, trying to come back, +little white thing in the dark." + +Oliver could see Sibley was speaking, making with her agonized mouth the +shape of words, "Go out." He could not, dared not, had not even the +courage to open the door and look down the dimly lighted horror of the +stairs. They were in the last stage of weakness, the one morally, the +other physically; and the almighty strength of the wind gave them +nothing except the security of its tumult. + +"It'll be over," he shuddered. "The watter wur coming up all white. I +couldn't bide there--there wur drops o' summat on my face, and 'twur so +helpless, and it looked up. Blue, warn't 'em blue, woman?'" + +Sibley could not have heard, but, with all those instincts quivering, +she recognized the word upon his lips and tried to nod. + +"Innocent. Hadn't done nought. Would ha' kep we good, made we man and +wife. I'll go down. I'd go down if I dared--the little chin wur agin my +cheek. I'll never face the dark. I'd see it move, and the little +drowning bubbles on the watter. Be it over now?" + +He glared at Sibley as if she could answer; and she stared back, asking, +pleading, imploring him to play the man and face the night again; but he +grovelled against the wall and shuddered, damp with an awful sweat, and +the weird light upon the mountain-tops went out, because other clouds +were coming up, having travelled far since evening, and the darkness +became real as the roarings of the dry wind decreased. It was getting on +towards midnight, and those mighty winds were tired. + +"Go!" came a sudden scream; and Searell heard the echo of it and +started. The cry seemed to have its origin in the storm. He closed his +book, listened, heard nothing more except the coherent bellowing, and +then he answered, "I will." Certainly the word had sounded, and as +certainly he was alone. The Vorses would have been asleep for hours. + +"I will walk along the path. It is sheltered down there," he murmured. +"This may be the night appointed, the time of revelation, the time of +young life. This is the mad music of the spring, the shattering of the +chains of winter. The growth follows. It is the birth-night." + +He wrapped a coat around him and went. During those few minutes the wind +had much decreased; in another hour it would be calm and clear; and then +the awful stillness of the sunrise and the perpetual wonder of the +daylight. + +There was again a kind of light, for the raven-clouds had gone by and +the swan-clouds were crossing; and the wind was now the magic piper who +drives away care, and with his merry music sets Nature capering. Searell +was on the pixy-path and the wind-flowers were jigging; it was ghostly, +but a dance, not a solemn marching as in autumn, when the leaves fall +processionally downwards. It was recessional spring, when the leaves +awoke, as it were, from their moon-loved sleep, preserved in unfading +youth and beauty by that sleep, and leapt back at the piper's music to +the branches, kissing their ancient oaks with the fervour of young love. +Every flower had a moist eye and a sweet heart; and the pixy-water rang +for festival. + +One turn Searell made, seeing nothing, because his eyes struggled with +the mist; another, and he stopped. There was a wonder, a miracle, a +revelation among his wind-flowers, upon the edge of the rising water, a +sleeping silent wonder which made him thrill. + +"It has no bodily existence. When I come back it will be gone." + +It was still there, and now the water was almost level with the bed of +moss, and some of the flowers were struggling to keep their pale heads +above; and it was silent, this child of the morning, lying upon its back +in the moss, numbed, perhaps, though the night was not cold, and there +was a beauty upon the small face, not the beauty which makes for +violence, but that which gives peace, the beauty of innocence; and there +was also upon it that perfect weakness, and the submission of weakness +which is one of the strongest things created. And it seemed to be +growing there like the wind-flowers, as fragile, but as hardy, and among +them; for white anemones had been blown across each eye and across the +mouth, and they gleamed from each ear, and the chin was another edged +with pink, and all of them seemed to be jealous of the child. + +"And it comes into the world by violence," Searell murmured. + +Even then he hardly knew what had happened. He could not think, for his +mind was full of the wonder, and commonplace ideas would not enter. He +picked up the child reverently; there was no motion, no sound, no +opening of bue eyes; had there been a shrill scream, the spell might +have been broken--the contact was dreadful to him. He was tending a +sacred mystery, elevating a sacrament newly consecrated, something which +a few hours ago had been leaping like a spark in the place of his +dreams, and had been flung as lightning upon his path to strike his +heart open. Here was the answer of the flowers. To men the Creator was +as a child, for the child is the only thing all-powerful and the only +thing all-pure. + +About the house Searell seemed to hear the sound of groaning like the +moan of the dying wind, and there were movements once or twice as of a +wounded body. + +A dusty prie-dieu stood in the comer of the study. This he placed near +the fire, a cushion upon it, and then the child; and lighted a candle +upon each side. He stood with his arms folded, the Omega of life +worshipping the Alpha of it, until all things seemed to be new and +strange, as upon a resurrection morning, and he awoke from the sleep of +death and felt the spring. The winter was over and past, the time of the +opening of flowers had come, and the voice of creation stirred upon the +garden; and the change had been wrought by violence. + +It was necessary to speak and find sympathy. He hated the solitude +because no one shared it with him; he had grown to hate the wonderful +garden because there was no one to wonder at it with him; he hated +himself because no one cared for him. "Oliver!" he called, breaking the +horrible quietness, forgetful of the time. "Sibley!" + +Movements followed, again like wounded bodies, and Searell remembered +that the woman was ill and he had done nothing for her. He went to the +door; it opened, and Vorse was cowering against the wall, his hand upon +his eyes. Searell hardly noticed the horrid smoking of the lamplight, +the eyes upon that bed, the guilty, frightened man. Still full of +himself, he cried: + +"Come and see what I have found." + +"I couldn't do it, master," moaned Oliver. "I took it down, but the eyes +opened. 'Don't ye hurt me,' it said. I be just come. Bain't time vor me +to go.'" + +Still Searell would not understand. + +"Come," he said impatiently. "She was upon my path, among my flowers." + +Then life stirred again upon the bed, and Sibley drew herself up with +ravenous eyes and muttered: + +"Alive--alive!" + +Soon the room was like a chapel. The smoky lamp had been extinguished, +the prie-dieu stood beside the bed, the candles cast a warm, soft light; +and outside upon the moor was peace. Even the merry piper had become +weary and had put all things to sleep till daybreak; while Oliver Vorse +upon his knees confessed the sin which had been forced upon him. + +"Us dared not keep she. Sibley dared, but not me. If a child wur born, +us must go, yew said. I couldn't face it, but her would ha' faced it. Us +be ready to go now," he said boldly. "I ha' these hands. I'll fight. I +ha' the maiden to fight vor." + +"Her lives. Her moves on my bosom," cried Sibley. "Look at 'em, master. +Did ye ever see the like?" + +"What made you kinder, Sibley, more attentive to me, soft and tender?" + +"'Twur the child coming, master." + +"What made you sober, Oliver, fond of your wife? What was it stopped the +quarelling?" + +"I minded the little child, master." + +There was something tender in their illiterate speech. + +"You cast her away. The sin is mine, so is the atonement. And she is +mine." + +"She'm mine, master," murmured Sibley. + +"I found her among my flowers, the reward of my searching. She is the +answer," he said. "Let her be to you the daughter of love, and to me the +daughter of violence. Oliver," he cried, turning, "bring up water from +the pixy-stream. As the sun rises I will baptise--my child." + +"Yew'm fond o' she, master?" + +"She is mine," he said, with the old impatience. + +"And we, master?" + +"I am old and you are young," said Searell. "But we are all beginning +life, we know nothing. We will try to find another and a better +pathway." + +He went back to his rooms to rest, but not to sleep, for there was +something burning inside him like a coal from the altar; and a new light +crept upon the moor, giving it form, changing it from black to purple. +It was the dawn. + + + * * * * * + + +BUSINESS IS BUSINESS + + +Tavy river rises on Cranmere, flows down Tavy Cleave, divides the parish +of Mary Tavy from that of Peter Tavy, passes Tavy Mount, and leaves +Dartmoor at Tavystock, or Tavistock as it is now spelt. Each Dartmoor +river confers its name, or a portion of it, upon certain features of its +own district. The Okements meet at Okehampton, and one of them has Oke +Tor, which has been corrupted into Ock and even Hock. Even the tiny Lyd +has its Lydford. Each river also has its particular characteristic. The +East Okement is the river of ferns, the Teign the river of woods, the +Taw the river of noise, the Dart the river of silence, and the Tavy is +the river of rocks. Tavy Cleave from the top of Ger Tor, presents a +grand and solemn spectacle of rock masses piled one upon the other; it +is a valley of rocks, relieved only by the foaming little river. + +Mary Tavy is a straggling village of unredeemed ugliness, wild and bare. +It lies exposed on the side of the moor and is swept by every wind, for +not a bush or even a bramble will be found upon the rounded hills +adjoining. Once the place was a mining centre of some importance. The +black moor has been torn into pits and covered with mounds by the +tin-streamers in early days, and more recently by the copper-miners. All +around Mary Tavy appear the dismal ruins of these mines, or wheals as +they are called. Peter Tavy, across the river, is not so dreary, but is +equally exposed. This region during the winter is one of the most +inhospitable spots to be found in England. + +In Peter Tavy there lived, until quite recently, an elderly man, who +might have posed as the most incompetent creature in the West Country. +It is hardly necessary to say he did not do so; on the contrary, he +posed as a many-sided genius. He occupied a hideous little tin house, +which would have been condemned at a glance in those parts of the +country where building by-laws are in existence. At one time and another +he had borrowed the dregs of paint-pots, and had endeavoured to decorate +the exterior. As a result, one portion was black, another white, and +another blue. Over the door a board appeared setting forth the +accomplishments of Peter Tavy, as he may here be called. According to +his own showing he was a clock-maker; he was a photographer; he was a +Dartmoor guide; he was a dealer in antiquities; he was a Reeve attached +to the Manor of Lydford; and he was a purveyor of manure. This board was +in its way a masterpiece of fiction. Once upon a time a resident, +anxious to put Peter's powers to the test, sent him an old kitchen-clock +to repair. He examined and gave it as his opinion that the undertaking +would require time. When a year had passed the owner of the clock +requested Peter to report progress. He replied that the work was getting +on, but "'Twas a slow business and 'twould take another six months to +make a job of it." At the end of that period the clock was removed, +almost by force, and it was then discovered that Peter had sold most of +the interior mechanism to a singularly innocent tourist as Druidical +remains unearthed by him in one of the shafts of Wheal Betsy. + +As a photographer he carried his impudence still further. Some one had +given him an old camera and a few plates. He began at once to inveigle +visitors--chiefly elderly ladies, "half-dafty maidens" he impolitely +called them--down Tavy Cleave, where he would pose them on rocks and +pretend to photograph them with plates which had already been exposed +more than once. "If I doan't get a picture first time, I goes on till I +do," he explained. Once, when Peter announced "'twas a fine picture this +time," a gentleman of the party reminded him he had omitted to remove +the cap from the lens. Peter was not to be caught that way: "I took +'en," he said, "I took 'en, but yew was yawning." + +As a guide upon the moor Peter was an equal failure. He ought to have +known Dartmoor after living upon it all his life; the truth was, he +would have lost his way upon the road to Tavistock had he strayed from +it a moment. Visitors, lured by the notice-board, had approached him +from time to time with the request to be guided to Cranmere. Peter would +take them along Tavy Cleave for a mile, then assure them a storm was +coming up and it would be necessary to seek shelter as soon as possible, +hurry them back, and demand half-a-guinea in return for his services. +Peter had never been to Cranmere Pool, and had no idea how to get there. +Sometimes a party would insist upon proceeding, in spite of the guide's +warning, and in such cases the bewildered Peter would have to be shown +the way home by his victims. He would demand the half-guinea all the +same. + +As a dealer in antiquities nothing came amiss. Broken pipes, bits of +crockery, old mining-tools, any rubbish rotting or rusting upon the peat +were gathered and classified as Druidical remains. No one knew where +Peter had picked up the word Druidical; but it was certain he picked up +their supposed remains on the piece of black moor which surrounded his +house. Sometimes, it was said, he found a tourist foolish enough to +purchase a selection of this rubbish. + +What he meant by describing himself as an official receiving pay from +the Duchy of Cornwall nobody ever knew. As a Reeve (another word he had +picked up somewhere) of the Manor of Lydford he believed himself to be +intimately connected with the lord of that manor, who is the Prince of +Wales. He knew that august personage was interested somehow in three +feathers. The public-house in the neighbourhood called _The Plume of +Feathers_ had something to do with it he was sure, though he had never +seen "goosey's feathers same as they on the sign-board." Once he thought +seriously of erecting three feathers above his own door, and for that +purpose captured a neighbor's goose and plucked three large quills from +one of its wings, accompanying his action with the bland request, "Now +bide still, goosey-gander, do' ye." He could not make his three +goose-quills graceful and drooping, like those upon the sign-board, and +that was probably why Peter refrained from doing the Lord of Dartmoor +the compliment of assuming his crest.' + +The village of Peter Tavy, like most spots upon Dartmoor, has its summer +visitors; and these were sure, sooner or later, to make the acquaintance +of Peter Tavy the man. They thought him a harmless idiot, and he +reciprocated. One summer a journalist came upon the moor for his health +and, desiring to combine business with pleasure, he wrote a descriptive +sketch of Peter, and this was published in due course in a paper which +by a curious accident reached Peter himself. The man was furious. He +went about the two villages with the paper in his hand, his scanty hair +bristling, his watery eyes bulging, his mouth twisted into a very ugly +shape. It was a good thing the journalist had departed, for just then +Peter was angry and vindictive enough for anything. Presently he met his +clergyman; he made towards him, held out the paper, and, regardless of +grammar, cried out, "That's me." + +"He does not mention you by name," said the clergyman. + +"He says the man in the iron house wi' notice-board atop. He's got down +the notice-board as 'tis," spluttered Peter. "He says a ginger-headed +man--that's me; face like a rabbit--that's me." + +It was as a purveyor of manure that Peter found his level, if not a +living. Probably he received financial assistance from his sister, who +lived across the river at Mary Tavy. She had been formerly a lady's maid +in Torquay; after more than thirty years' service her mistress had died, +and had bequeathed to her a modest income, and on this she lived +comfortably in retirement, crossing Tavy Cleave occasionally to visit +her eccentric brother. She, too, was said to be eccentric, but that was +only because she was fond of getting full value for a halfpenny. Mary +Tavy was a spinster, and Peter Tavy was a bachelor. On those occasions +when some ne'er-do-well attempted to annex Mary and her income, the good +woman's eccentricity had revealed itself very strongly; and as for +Peter, his own sister would remark, "Women never could abide he." + +The Tavies always passed Christmas together. One year Peter would go +across and stop with Mary for three days; the next, Mary would come +across and stop with Peter for three days. Their rule on this matter was +fixed; the visit never extended beyond three days, and Peter would not +have dreamed of going across to Mary if it were the turn of Mary to come +across to him. + +Peter had a little cart and a pony to draw it. How he came by the pony +nobody knew, but as it was never identified no hard questions were +asked. Every year a few Dartmoor ponies are missed when the drift takes +place; and at the same time certain individuals take to owning shaggy +little steeds which have no past history. When a brand has been +skilfully removed, one Dartmoor pony is very much like a score of +others. To drive Peter into a corner over his title to the pony which +pulled his shameful little cart--it was hardly better than a +packing-case on wheels--would have been impossible. He had hinted that +it was a present from the Prince of Wales as a slight return for +services rendered; and as no one else in the Tavy district was in the +habit of communicating with the lord of the manor, his statement could +not easily be refuted. + +With this pony and unlicensed cart Peter would convey people from time +to time to the station at Mary Tavy, making a charge of eighteen pence, +which was not exorbitant considering the dangers and difficulties of the +road. For conveying his sister from her home to his at Christmas he made +a charge of one shilling; when she expostulated, as she always did, and +quoted the proverb "Charity begins at home," Peter invariably replied +with another proverb, "Business is business." + +Few will have forgotten the winter of 1881, when snow fell for over a +week, and every road was lost and every cleave choked. Snow was lurking +in sheltered nooks upon the tops of Ger Tor and the High Willhays range +as late as the following May. Snow upon Dartmoor does not always mean +snow elsewhere. It is possible sometimes to stand knee-deep upon the +high moor and look down upon a stretch of country without a flake upon +it, and so on to the sugared and frosted hills of Exmoor; but no part of +the country escaped the great fall of 1881. Every one on the moor can +tell of some incident in connection with that Christmas. At the two +Tavies they tell how Peter tried to drive Mary from his village to hers, +how he failed in the attempt, and how both of them remained good +business people to the end. + +It was Mary's turn to visit Peter that year, and she arrived upon +Christmas Eve, quaintly but warmly dressed, a small boy carrying her +basket, which contained the articles that she deemed necessary for her +visit, together with a bottle of spiced wine, some cream cakes, and a +plum-pudding as big as her head. The boy said a good many +uncomplimentary things about that pudding as they climbed up from the +Tavy, comparing it to the Giant's Pebble higher up the cleave. When Mary +raised her black-mittened hand and threatened him with chastisement, the +urchin lifted out the pudding in its cloth, set it at her feet, and told +her to carry it herself, as it was "enough to pinch a strong man +dragging that great thing up the cleave"; so Mary had to finish the +journey hugging the pudding like a baby. She was walking to save herself +sixpence. Peter had offered to come for her with his pony and cart, the +charge to be one shilling, payable as follows--sixpence when she got +into the cart and sixpence when she got out; but Mary had told him that +she could get a boy to carry her basket for half that amount; when he +protested she reminded him that business was business. + +A light sprinkle of snow had fallen, just enough to dust over the rocks +and furze-bushes; but it was very cold, the clouds were low and +wood-like, and there was in the air that feel of snow which animals can +nearly always detect, and men who live on the moors can sometimes. + +Peter and Mary spent the evening in simple style. Peter sat on one side +of the fire, Mary on the other; sometimes Peter stirred to get fresh +turves for the fire; sometimes Mary got up to heap the little table with +good cheer and place it midway between the old-fashioned chairs. They +both smoked, they both took snuff, they both drank spiced wine. Towards +evening they talked of old times and became merry. Then they talked of +old people and grew sentimental, dropping tears into their hot wine. +Peter got up and kissed Mary, but Mary did not care for Peter's caresses +and told him so, whereupon Peter advised her to "get along home then." +Mary declared she would, but changed her mind when she thought of the +gloomy cleave and the Tavy in winter flood; so they went on smoking, +taking snuff, and drinking spiced wine. + +The next day was fine, and Peter and Mary went to chapel. Mary gave her +brother a penny to put into the plate, but he put it into his pocket +instead; he was always a man of business. She also gave him a bright new +florin as a Christmas present. He had made her understand, when the coin +was safe in his possession, that he should still demand a shilling for +driving her home, and over that point they wrangled for some time. In +the evening, when Peter had fallen asleep over the fire, Mary repented +of her kindness and sought to regain the florin; but Peter had it hidden +away safely in his boot. + +When the time came for Mary to start homewards it was snowing fast, and +she did not like the prospect. Although it was not much after three +o'clock, the outlook was exceedingly dark; there was an unpleasant +silence upon the moor, and the snowflakes were larger and falling +thickly. But the pony was harnessed to the unsteady conveyance, and +Peter was waiting; before Mary could utter a word of protest, he had +bundled her in and they were off. + +"Twould have paid me better to bide home," said Mary. + +"Do'ye sit quiet," Peter growled. Then he added, "Where's the shillun?" + +"There now, doan't ye worry about the shillun," said Mary; "I'll give it +ye when I'm safe and sound to home wi' no bones broke." + +"Shillun be poor pay vor driving this weather," said her business-like +brother. + +Now and again a light appeared from one of the cottages. The pony +struggled on with its head down, while the silence seemed to grow more +unearthly, and the darkness increased, and the snow became a solid +descending mass. The road between the two Tavies is not easy in winter +under favorable conditions, and on that night it was to become +practically impassable. When the last light of Peter Tavy the village +had vanished, Peter Tavy the man had about as much idea where he was as +if he had just dropped out of the moon. + +"Where be'st going?" shrieked Mary, as the cart swerved violently to the +right. + +"Taking a short cut," explained Peter. + +"Dear life!" gasped Mary, "he'm pixy-led." + +"I b'ain't," said Peter; "I be driving straight vor Mary Tavy." + +Had he said straight for the edge of Tavy Cleave he would have spoken the +truth. The pony knew perfectly well that they were off the road, and the +sensible beast would have returned to the right way had it not been for +Peter, who kept pulling its head towards the cleave. Left to itself the +pony would have returned to Peter Tavy, having quite enough sense to +know that it was impossible to reach the sister village on such a night. +Its master, with his fatal knack of blundering, tugged at the reins with +one hand and plied the whip with the other. The snow was like a wall on +every side; the clouds seemed to be dissolving upon them; suddenly the +silence was broken by the roaring of the Tavy below. + +"Us be going to kingdom come," shrieked Mary. + +"Us b'ain't," said Peter; "us be going to Mary Tavy." + +The pony stopped. Peter used his whip, and the next instant the snow +appeared to rush towards them, open, and swallow them up. They had +struck a boulder and gone over the cleave. The body of the cart was in +one spot, its wheels were in another; and wallowing in the sea and snow +were Peter and Mary and the pony. The animal was the first to regain its +feet, and made off at once, with the broken harness trailing behind. +Mary was the next to rise, plastered over with snow from head to foot; +but she was soon down again, because her legs refused to support her. +Presently she heard her brother's voice. He was invisible, because he +had been thrown several feet lower, and had landed among rocks somewhat +bruised and sprained; had it not been for the soft snow he would +probably have been killed. + +"I be broke to bits," he wailed. + +"So be I," cried Mary; "So be the cart." + +"Be the cart broke?" said Peter; and when Mary had replied it was only +fit for firewood (it had not been fit for much else before the +accident), he went on, "'Twill cost ye a lot o' money to buy me a new +one." + +"Buy ye a new one? The man be dafty!" screamed Mary. + +"'Twas taking yew home what broke it," Peter explained. + +"Call this taking me home?" Mary shouted. + +"I done my best," said Peter; "'twas your weight what sent it over. +There'll be the cart, and the harness and the doctor's bill; 'twill cost +ye a heap o' money." + +"Dear life, hear the man talk!" said Mary, appealing to the snow which +was piled upon her ample form. + +"Mayhap there'll be funeral expenses," said Peter lugubriously; "I be +hurt dreadful." + +"Yew won't want the cart then," his sister muttered; "and I'll have the +pony." + +"Where be the pony?" Peter demanded. + +"Gone home likely; got more sense than we," said Mary. "Why doan't ye +get up, Peter?" + +"Get up wi' my two legs broke!" Peter replied in disgust. + +"Dear life, man, get up!" Mary went on, with real alarm. "If us doan't +get up soon us'll be stone dead carpses when us gets home." + +"I'll try, Mary, I'll try," said Peter. + +"Come up here, Peter; there be a sheltered spot over agin them rocks," +said Mary. + +"There be a sheltered spot down here," Peter answered; "'tis easier vor +yew to roll down than vor me to climb up." + +When the question had been argued, Mary went down; that is to say, she +groped and grovelled through the snow, half-rolling, half-sliding, until +she reached the shelter to which Peter had dragged himself. It was a +small cleft, a chimney, mountaineers would have called it, in the centre +of a rock-mass which made a small tor on the side of the cleave. +Normally, this chimney acted as a drain for the rock-basin above, but it +was then frozen up and dry. Peter was right at the back, huddled up as +he could never have been had any bones been broken. When Mary appeared +he dragged her in; she was almost too stout to pass inside, but as he +placed her she made an excellent protection for him against the storm. +Mary realised this, and suggested they should change places; but Peter +pointed out that in his shattered condition any movement might prove +fatal. + +Presently Mary began to cry, realizing the gravity of their position. +The snow was descending more thickly than ever, drifting up the side of +the cleave and choking the entrance to their cleft. Fortunately the +night was not very cold, and they were both warmly clad, while the snow +which was threatening to bury them was itself a protection. Help could +not possibly reach them while the night lasted; no one would know what +had befallen them, and they were unable to walk. When Mary began to cry +Peter abused her, until his thoughts also began to trouble him. + +"Think they'll put what's on my notice-board on my tombstone?" he +inquired. + +"Now doan't ye talk about tombstoanes, doan't ye now," implored Mary +tearfully. + +"Business is business," said Peter. "I told 'em to give me a great big +tombstone, and to put upon him, _Peter Tavy, Clock-maker, Photographer, +Dealer in Antiquities, Dartmoor Guide, Reeve of the Manor of Lydford, +Purveyor of Manure, and et cetera_." + +"Doan't ye worry about it; they'll put it all down," said Mary. + +"Us'll be buried together, same afternoon, half-past two likely," Peter +went on. + +"Doan't ye talk about funerals and tombstoanes," Mary implored. "Talk +about spicy wine, and goosey fair, and them wooden horses that go round +and round, and hurdy-gurdy music; talk about they, Peter." + +"It ain't the time," said Peter bitterly. + +A long dreary period of silence followed. Peter Tavy the village and +Mary Tavy its sister were completely snowed up; and in the cleave of the +river which divided the parishes Peter Tavy the man was snowed up with +Mary Tavy his sister. They were miserably cold and drowsy. The snow was +piled up in front of the chimney like a wall; there was hardly room for +Mary to move, and Peter kept on groaning. At length he roused himself to +remark: "Yew owes me a shillun." + +"What would I owe ye a shillun vor?" said Mary sharply, wide-awake +immediately at any suggestion of parting with money. + +"Vor the drive," said Peter. + +"I was to give ye a shillun vor taking me home, not vor breaking me +bones and leaving me to perish in Tavy Cleave," said Mary. "Yew ain't +earned the shillun, and I doan't see how yew'm going to." + +"Yew owes me a shillun," repeated her brother doggedly. "I done my best +to tak' ye home, and there was naught in your agreement wi' me about +accidents. I never contracted to tak' ye home neither." + +"Yew never promised to starve me wi' ice and snow on Tavy Cleave +neither," replied Mary. + +"I didn't promise nothing. I meant to tak' ye home, reasonable wear and +tear excepted; this here is reasonable wear and tear. Yew promised to +give me a shillun." + +"When yew put me down," added Mary. + +"Yew wur put down," said Peter. + +"Not to my door." + +"That warn't my fault," said Peter. "Twas your worriting what done it; +if yew hadn't worrited I'd have put ye out to Mary Tavy. Yew worrited +and upset the cart, and now we'm dying." + +"I b'ain't dying," said Mary stoutly. + +"I be," said Peter drearily. "I be all cold and nohow inside. I be a +going to die; I'd like to die wi' that shillun in my pocket." + +"Doan't ye go on about it, Peter. If yew'm dying yew'll soon be in a +place where yew won't want shilluns." + +"While I be here I want 'en," said Peter. "Yew'll be fearful sorry when +yew see me lying a cold carpse wi'out a shillun in my pocket." + +"Give over, can't ye," cried Mary. "You'll be giving me the creepies. If +yew wur to turn carpsy I wouldn't bide wi' ye." + +There was no reply. Silence fell again, and the only sound was the +moaning of the wind and the roaring of the Tavy; the snow went on +falling and drifting. Another hour passed, and then Mary shook off her +drowsiness, and called timidly, "Peter." There was no answer; she could +see nothing; her fear returned and she shuddered. "Peter," she called +again; there was still no reply. Mary pressed her stout figure forward +and reached out fearfully; she heard a groan. "Ah, doan't ye die," she +implored; "wait till us gets out o' this. What's the matter, Peter?" + +"Yew owes me a shillun," whispered a voice. + +"I doan't owe it, Peter, I doan't," cried Mary. "If yew had drove me +across the river I'd have paid ye, I would; but us be still in the +parish of Peter Tavy----" + +She was interrupted by another and a deeper groan. "Be yew that bad?" +she asked earnestly. + +"I be like an old clock past mending," Peter answered. "My mainspring be +broke; I be about to depart this life, December the twenty-seventh, +eighteen hundred and eighty-one, aged fifty-eight, in hopes of being +thoroughly cleaned and repaired and set a going in the world to come." + +"Can't I do anything vor ye, Peter?" asked Mary gently. + +"Yew can give me the shillun yew owes me," replied Peter. + +"'Tis hard of ye to want a shillun if yew'm dying." + +"Business is business," Peter moaned. + +Fumbling in the little black bag she carried beneath her skirt, Mary +produced a coin and held it out, saying sadly: "Here 'tis, Peter; I +doan't want to give it to ye, but if 'twill make yew die happy, I must." + +With singular agility Peter reached out his hand, and after groping a +little in the darkness secured the precious coin. He felt it, he bit it, +and he asked with suspicion: "How I be to know 'tis a shillun? He tastes +like a halfpenny." + +"I know 'tis a shillun; I ain't got no coppers," Mary answered. + +Peter's groans ceased from that moment; he pocketed the coin and +chuckled. + +"I be a lot better," he said; "my legs b'ain't quite broke, I reckon, +and I ain't so cold inside, neither." + +Mary's reply was too eccentric to mention. + +So soon as it was day a party of villagers set out from Peter Tavy well +supplied with blankets and stimulants; Peter and Mary were not the only +ones missing that fateful morning. The pony had returned to its stable +the evening before, and had been seen by the local constable trailing +its broken harness past the beer-house. An attempt had been made to find +the couple then, but their tracks were completely hidden. Snow was still +descending as the relief party waded through the drifts upon the edge of +the cleave. The moor had disappeared during the night, and a strange +region of white mountains had risen in its stead. The searchers worked +their way on, with a hopeless feeling that they were only wasting their +time, when they thought they heard a whistle. They stopped and argued +the matter like the three jolly huntsmen; one said it was a man, another +said it was a bird, and another it was the wind. They were all wrong; it +was a woman. Out of the centre of a huge white mass down the cleave +appeared a black scarf tied to the end of an umbrella. + +Peter and Mary were rescued, not without difficulty, because the snow +was four feet in depth on the side of the cleave, and were conveyed in +due course to their respective villages. Being a hardy couple they were +little the worse for their adventure, although Peter posed as an invalid +to the end of his days, and sought parish relief in consequence; that +was simply a matter of business. + +So soon as the roads became passable and he was able to walk, Peter +tramped across to Mary Tavy, to pay his sister a friendly, and a +business, visit. "There be ten shilluns yew owes vor breaking my cart +and harness," he explained. "When be yew a going to pay?" + +"Never," replied Mary decidedly. + +"Then I'll tak' ye into court," said Peter. + + + * * * * * + + +THE CHRISTENING OF THE FIFTEEN PRINCESSES + +A MODERN FAIRY TALE + + +Once upon a time there was a village called Lew, and it was perched on +the top of a hill 999 feet, 11 inches high. That is the way fairy-tales +have to begin; they insist upon going back into the remote past; but +unfortunately the village of Lew has come down to our own days, and so +has the big hill on which it stands. If we start over again with, "Once +upon a time there was a man of Lew who had fifteen daughters," we are +confronted by exactly the same difficulty; for the man is still alive, +and the fifteen daughters look as if they never would, nor could, belong +to the period when little pixy maids were to be seen any night running +round and round the furze-bushes. The only way out of the difficulty is +to be courageous, to tell the truth, and say: At the top of a hill 999 +feet, 11 inches high--some say it is 1,000 feet, but that is not +true--stands the village of Lew, where dwells a man named Heathman, who +has fifteen daughters and not a single son; and the daughters are all +princesses, although it is not easy to say why; but as they are pretty, +and this is a fairy-tale, they must be. + +The little village lies within a kind of ring-fence of ash and +sycamores, which shelter the cob houses from the furious gales which +boom and bluster over the Dartmoor tors. The wind is always sighing and +moaning. It is cool upon the hottest day in August, and probably that is +why Lew imports weak-chested people in some quantity. A regular business +is done with big, smoky Bristol. Lew says to Bristol in its own +language, "Us ha' butiful air up over in Demshur, and us ha' a proper +plenty o' cream and butter and suchlike, but us ain't got much golden +money. If yew sends us sickly volk, they can buy our cream and butter, +and us will send 'em back strong." Bristol sees the force of this +argument, and packs up and sends off its weak-chested folk, who reason, +quite sensibly, "What's the use of being ill when we can go to the top +of Lew hill and get well?" There is a tariff, of course, for Lew does +not believe in free imports. The weak-chested folk must buy cream and +butter and suchlike in vast quantities, or they would be promptly +deported under the local Aliens Act. As a matter of fact, they buy Lew +produce without any grumbling; they do even more than they are wanted +to, and are actually spoiling Lew--where tips are unknown and a man will +do an extraordinary lot of work for two shillings--by raising the +prices. They get absurdly grateful, these visitors, who enter Lew weak +and thin, and are exported brown and fat and sleek, like porpoises. + +It is the importation of so much foreign raw material that has built up +the fortunes of the fairy family called Heathman. His Majesty, the +father--hereinafter called King Heathman--was village cobbler before he +came to the throne. After his accession he procured a horse and cart, +and conveyed people to and from the distant station. He also annexed +several acres of grass territory, by a process of peaceful penetration, +and went in for cows and dairy produce. These two businesses developed +so wonderfully that he dropped the cobbling, at which it must be owned +he was always rather a poor hand. The weak-chested imports have to be +brought up from the station ill, and taken back well; and while they are +on the top of Lew hill they pass the time consuming cream, butter, milk, +and eggs, which are provided by King Heathman, and delivered morning and +evening by the golden-haired princesses. Their Majesties of the +Palace--two cottages of red cob knocked into one--are busy people, and +have no time for boasting; nor do they appear to think they have done +anything out of the way in bringing up fifteen model princesses, not one +of whom has ever given her parents an hour's anxiety. Sickness, some one +will suggest; but that is a ridiculous idea, for the residents of Lew +are never ill, and they live just as long as they like. Mrs. +Heathman--hereinafter called Queen Heathman--looks the picture of health +and strength, and only last Revel Week was footing it merrily after a +long day's work, and dancing one or two anæmic young maids from foreign +lands like Plymouth to a standstill. Old Grandfather Heathman, His +Majesty's father, who is so much addicted to Lew that he won't die, had +the impertinence to be dancing too. He must be nearly a hundred, though +he neither knows nor cares about his age, and will merely state in the +course of conversation that he intends to live out the present century, +because he is so fond of the place. Old Grandfather Heathman is probably +the only man now living in England who has witnessed a fatal duel, which +was fought some time in the dark ages between the son of the then rector +of Lew and a young doctor, a lady being of course the cause. The +unfortunate young doctor, who very likely had never handled a sword +before, was quickly killed by his opponent, who was an army officer. A +stone still marks the spot, but it has become so overgrown with brambles +that only Grandfather Heathman knows where to look for it. + +The crown princess is just twenty-three. The girls are nicely dressed, +well educated, and speak and behave like little angels. If Romney were +alive, he would want to paint them all. They are so pretty, these +fifteen princesses of Lew. Each has a slender figure, wild-rose +complexion, shy eyes, and fair hair. But it must not be imagined they +are dancing princesses. One plays the American organ (which was alluded +to with less respect as the harmonium twenty years ago) in the church; +another is pupil-teacher; another manages the Sunday-school. They milk +the cows and attend to the dairy work. All of them love animals; each +has her dog, or cat, or bird, generally with her in work or in play. +When you meet a pretty, well-dressed girl in Lew, you will not--unless +you are the latest importation--ask her name. You will say, "And what is +your number?" She will blush delightfully, lower her shy eyes, put her +hands behind her back, and tell you. + +When the first child was born the neighbours offered their +congratulations, and said, "Of course you will call her Annie." In this +part of the country it is absolutely necessary to have a girl in the +family of that name, and it is most unorthodox to call the first girl +anything else. But King Heathman rebelled against custom. He did not +care for the name Annie. He liked something daintier, something more +unusual and fanciful. No doubt there is a vein of poetry somewhere in +His Majesty's system. King Heathman stated plainly he would not hare his +daughter named Annie. He would go to the rector and ask him to supply a +name. The good people of Lew were horrified at such heresy. They pointed +out what a great risk he was running. It was quite possible he would not +have another daughter, and thus his family would be branded with the +disgrace of having no Annie. But King Heathman hardened his heart yet +more, and tramped off to the rectory. + +The rector of Lew is a scholar of the old type, an unconscious pedant +who can hardly open his lips without quoting Latin or Greek, a type +which before another twenty years have gone will be as extinct as the +pixies. The rector of Lew is almost as much a curiosity of the past as +Grandfather Heathman, only when people plant themselves on the top of +the big hill 999 feet, 11 inches high, it never seems to occur to them +that they are mortal. The rector solved the royal difficulty at once, +and in the most natural way possible. "She is the first child. Let us +call her either Prima or Una," he said. "Una is a pretty name." + +"That 'tis, sir--that 'tis." For reasons of his own King Heathman always +prefers to use the dialect of his country. + +"You will find the name in the _Faerie Queene_ written by Spenser," the +rector continued. + +"Old John Spencer over to Treedown?" suggested His Majesty, who had not +dabbled much in classics. + +"No; Edmund Spenser, who lived in the reign of Queen Elizabeth." + +"Aw, yes, sir, I knows 'en," said King Heathman. + +Of course he didn't, but perhaps he was referring to the queen. Every +one in Lew knows Queen Elizabeth intimately, because there is a little +old house in the village where she was fond of putting up for the night +occasionally. This house is still furnished very much as it was in the +sixteenth century, but whether the Maiden Lady ever saw or heard of Lew +is another matter. It is certain, however, that Queen Elizabeth occupied +most of her long reign travelling about the country in order that she +might sleep in out-of-the-way manor-houses. Whenever you visit any old +house in this neighbourhood it is only polite to say, "Queen Elizabeth +slept here, of course?" And then you will be shown the room and the bed, +and if you go on being polite you may very possibly see the sheets and +blankets and pillow-slips also, with the pillow itself still marked with +the impression of Queen Elizabeth's head. + +Princess Heathman was duly christened Una, to the delight of her father, +and the horror of the inhabitants. Every one breathed a sigh of relief +when a second princess favoured Lew with her appearance. After all, the +Heathmans would not be disgraced. There would be an Annie in the family, +though they hardly deserved it after letting the first chance slip. King +Heathman remained as silent as the Sphinx, and about as mysterious. When +the time came for the royal christening, the church was filled. The +rector received a particularly plump bundle from Queen Heathman, and +placed it snugly into the hollow of his arm. He dipped his hand into the +font, and the whisper of "Annie" went about the church. The next moment +they heard, "Secunda, I baptise thee...." + +The next year Princess Tertia was christened, and then Princess Quarta. +Even the rector admitted Quarta was rather an unusual name, but His +Majesty revelled in it, and would hear of nothing else. Every one said Q +was such an awkward initial; and they had to make the same remark next +year when Princess Quinta was brought to the font. "Sounds like squint," +said one of the grumblers; but not one would venture to suggest such a +thing now. By this time the gossips of Lew had pretty well accommodated +themselves to the idea that King Heathman was irreclaimable. Annie, +Bessie, and Lucy were the orthodox village names for young ladies; and +it was perfectly clear he would have none of them. + +In quick succession princesses were hurried to the font, and the +unromantic ears of the congregation were astonished by a list of +beautiful names--Sexta, Septima, Octava, Nona of the wonderful eyes, and +Decima of the sunny hair. But when the eleventh princess was brought to +church a serious difficulty arose. A perfect understanding existed +between His Majesty and the court chaplain. The father had no idea what +the name of his new daughter was to be when she was handed into the +scholar's arms. The rector did not use the formula, "Name this child," +but substituted the question, "What is her number?" or words to that +effect. On this occasion, when the question was put, and King Heathman +had answered, "Eleven, sir," the rector paused. Then he whispered, +"Would you like Undecima?" + +"Aw, sir, proper. Let's ha' 'en," was the eager answer. + +The rector hesitated. Across his classical mind flashed the Latin +numbers ahead. The twelfth princess would have to be christened +Duodecima, and after that such names became impossible. So he whispered, +"Undecima is too much like Decima. We must think of something else." + +"As yew like, sir," said his accommodating Majesty, although in +distinctly disappointed tones. + +"Now there will be an Annie," murmured those villagers who were nearest +the font and had overheard the discussion. + +While the rector was deliberating his eyes fell among flowers, the +church happening to be decorated for a festival, and bunches of the +white cluster-rose known as the Seven Sisters being twined about the +font; and he suggested that, if King Heathman was agreeable, a bevy of +flower-named princesses would be a pleasing relief after the dull +monotony of numbers. + +"Twill do fine, sir," said King Heathman. + +And that is how the Princess Rosa came to be christened. + +But princesses went on filling the palace, and names were soon running +short again. Rosa had been followed by Lilia, Viola, and Veronica. King +Heathman was becoming fastidious. He had imbibed so much raw material of +knowledge from the court chaplain that he was beginning to regard +himself as a scholar of some importance. Then his royalty was increasing +in Lew; and he always wore a hard hat, which, in this part of the +country, is a sign, not exactly of majesty, but of stability and +respectability. He still hankered after the numbers, and was looking +forward to the birth of a twentieth princess who could be called +Vicesima. The fifteenth princess had just made her appearance, and the +father continued to disregard the petition of the neighbours praying him +to call her Annie before it was too late. It happened one day that he +cast his eyes upon two flowering shrubs which grew in pots, one at each +side of the palace gates. King Heathman could not remember the name of +these shrubs, though he had been told often enough, so he called Tertia, +and asked her to enlighten him. + +"The name is on the tip of my tongue, but I can't get it out," said +Tertia. "I'll call Una." + +Una is court encyclopædia. She appeared with her beautiful hair ruffled, +for she had been deep in arithmetic when Tertia called her, trying to +paper an imaginary room, having most impossible angles, with imaginary +wall-paper at the ridiculous price of one penny three-farthings a yard. + +"What be the name o' that plant?" asked His Majesty. + +"That is a hydrangea," said Una, in a delightfully prim and pedantic +fashion; and then she slipped back to her wall-papering at a penny +three-farthings a yard. + +"What b'est going to call the new maiden?" shouted the blacksmith a few +moments later over the palace gates. + +"Hydrangea," answered King Heathman grimly. Then he went into the state +apartments to break the news to his wife, leaving the blacksmith to have +a fit upon the road, or to go on to his smithy and have it there. + +For the first time Queen Heathman rebelled. She said it was ridiculous +to give the child a name like that: she was surprised that the rector +should have thought of it, and she-- + +But at that point her husband interrupted with the famous remark of the +White Knight to Alice "'Tis my own invention." + +This gave Queen Heathman free licence to exercise her tongue. She talked +botany for some time, and concluded with such words as: "You'll call the +poor maids vegetables next. If us ha' another maiden you'll call her +Broad Bean, I reckon, and the next Scarlet Runner." + +"One Scarlet Runner be plenty, my dear," said her husband, with regal +pleasantry. + +"What do ye mean?" + +"Bain't your tongue one, my dear?" + +This was a libel, for Queen Heathman is remarkably silent--for a woman. +She had to laugh at her husband's little Joke. They have always been a +devoted couple, and this little tiff was in perfect good-humour. +Finally, King Heathman went off to the rectory, where he discovered the +court chaplain and the Home Secretary chatting upon the lawn. Without +any preamble he disclosed his difficulty, and proposed that the +fifteenth princess should be named Hydrangea. There was no seconder. The +motion was declared lost, and the subject was thrown open for +discussion. + +The Home Secretary suggested that the princess just born and her eleven +successors should be given the names of the months; and when he rolled +forth such stately titles as Januaria, Februaria, Martia, His Majesty +trembled. However, it occurred to him there might not be sufficient +princesses to exhaust the months, and he stated with much dignity of +language that he should not like to have an incomplete set. Then the +Christian virtues were suggested, Faith, Patience, Charity, Mercy, Hope; +but King Heathman would have none of them, not because he despised the +virtues, but because he considered that his daughters had them all. + +Then the rector interposed in his quiet manner: + +"The child shall be called Serena." + +"What do 'en mean, sir?" asked King Heathman eagerly. + +"It means free from care." + +"That's it, sir--that's it," said His Majesty, expressing satisfaction +in his usual way. + +"It is an appropriate name," the rector went on. "It implies a perfectly +happy condition. There may be dangers, but the girl shall not know of +them. There may be difficulties, but they shall not trouble her--at +least, we will hope so," he added with a smile. + +"Thank ye, sir," said King Heathman. "And what will be the next name?" +he asked hopefully. + +"The next?" said the rector, still in his classical musings. "Why, the +next child shall be called Placida." + +But for some reason or other the Princess Placida has never come to +claim her name. Serena appears to be the last. She is still a toddler. +Almost any day of the week you may see her, fat and jolly, and extremely +free from care, staggering between Septima and Octava as they go +a-milking. She is generally embracing a yellow and very ugly cat, in +lieu of a doll. If you ask her name, she is just able to lisp, "I'se +Swena." + +The gossips of Lew have revenged themselves upon King Heathman. They +refuse to call the baby Serena. They call her Annie. + +And they are all living happily ever afterwards. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 34576 *** diff --git a/34576-h/34576-h.htm b/34576-h/34576-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0534b52 --- /dev/null +++ b/34576-h/34576-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1896 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<!-- $Id: header.txt 236 2009-12-07 18:57:00Z vlsimpson $ --> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of By Violence, by John Trevena. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + + +.bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + +.bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + +.bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + +.br {border-right: solid 2px;} + +.bbox {border: solid 2px;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.u {text-decoration: underline;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 34576 ***</div> + +<hr style="width: 95%;" /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p class="center"> +<a href="#INTRODUCTION"><b>INTRODUCTION</b></a><br /> +<a href="#BY_VIOLENCE"><b>BY VIOLENCE</b></a><br /> +<a href="#II"><b>II</b></a><br /> +<a href="#III"><b>III</b></a><br /> +<a href="#IV"><b>IV</b></a><br /> +<a href="#BUSINESS_IS_BUSINESS"><b>BUSINESS IS BUSINESS</b></a><br /> +<a href="#THE_CHRISTENING_OF_THE_FIFTEEN_PRINCESSES"><b>THE CHRISTENING OF THE FIFTEEN PRINCESSES</b></a><br /> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + +<h1>BY VIOLENCE</h1> + +<h3>By</h3> + +<h2>JOHN TREVENA</h2> + +<h3>Author of "Bracken", "Sleeping Waters", etc.</h3> + + +<h3>With an Introduction by</h3> + +<h3>EDWARD O'BRIEN</h3> + + +<h4>BOSTON</h4> + +<h4>THE FOUR SEES COMPANY</h4> + +<h4>PUBLISHERS</h4> + +<h4>1918</h4> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="INTRODUCTION" id="INTRODUCTION"></a>INTRODUCTION</h2> + + +<p>For eight years or more, since I first became acquainted with the novels +and tales of John Trevena it has been my firm conviction that only +Thomas Hardy and George Moore among contemporary novelists rival his art +at its best. Like Meredith, he has written for twenty years in +obscurity, and like Meredith also he has been content with a small +discriminating audience. I suppose that in 1950 our grandchildren will +be electing college courses on his literary method, but meanwhile it +would be more gratifying if there were even a slight public response to +the quality of his individual talent.</p> + +<p>Trevena's novels are the expression of a passionate feeling for Nature, +regarded as the sum of human personality and experience, in all its +moods,—benign and malign, as man is benign and malign, and faithful to +life in the stone as well as the flower. What a gallery of memorable +characters they are, Mary and Peter Tavy, Brightly, Cuthbert Orton, +Jasper Ramrige, Anthonie and Petronel, William and Yellow Leaf, Captain +Drake and dark Pendoggat, Ann Code, Cyril Rossingall, and a hundred +others, passionate and gentle, with wind and water and earth and sky for +a chorus, and the shifting pageantry of Nature as a stage.</p> + +<p>His fourteen volumes reveal a gift for characterization equalled by none +of the contemporary English realists, and a Shakespearian humor +elsewhere gone from our day. In <i>Furze the Cruel</i>, <i>Bracken</i>, <i>Wintering +Hay</i>, and <i>Sleeping Waters</i>, to name no others, John Trevena has written +novels of Dartmoor that will take their rightful place in the great +English line, when the honest carpentering of Phillpotts that now +overshadows them is totally forgotten.</p> + +<p>The feeling has spread among Trevena's few critical American admirers +who have written about him, that he is fundamentally morbid and +one-sided. On the contrary, I know of few novelists who are more +recklessly and irresistibly gay, in whom sheer fun bubbles over so +spontaneously and wholeheartedly. To ignore life's harshness is simply +to ignore life. Trevena's many-sidedness will be apparent only when +there is a definitive edition of his work. His habit of confining a +novel to a single mood or passion of nature, together with the fact that +Americans have only had an opportunity to read those novels by him which +deal with nature's most cruel moods, have done the reputation of Trevena +a grave injustice.</p> + +<p><i>By Violence</i> and <i>Matrimony</i> are Trevena's most beautiful short tales, +and I hardly know which is the finer revelation of poetic grace and +gentle vision. Their message is conveyed so quietly that they may be +read for their sensuous beauty only, and yet convey a rare pleasure. If +their feeling is veiled and somewhat aloof from the common ways of men, +there is none the less a fine human sympathy concealed in them, and a +golden radiance indissolubly woven into their pages.</p> + +<p>If Nature's power is inevitable in these stories, it is also kind, and I +like to think that from <i>By Violence</i> as a text a new reading of earth +may be deciphered. Trevena has written the books of furze and heather +and granite and bracken, which outlast time on the hills of Dartmoor. +But this tale hints at a fifth force which survives all the others. Some +day, when the wind is strong, John Trevena will write the book of "The +Rain-drop," which is the gentlest of all elements, and yet outlasts the +stone.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 21.5em;">Edward J. O'Brien</span><br /> +</p> + +<p><i>South Yarmouth, Mass.</i></p> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>February 26, 1918</i></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="BY_VIOLENCE" id="BY_VIOLENCE"></a>BY VIOLENCE</h2> + + +<p> +"Dear Sir,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">"The wooden enemies are out.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8.5em;">"Yours obediently,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 12.5em;">"Oliver Vorse."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Simon Searell read this short message as he tramped the streets of +Stonehouse, which were full of fog, from the sea on one side and the +river on the other. Vorse was an uneducated man; the mysticism of +flowers was nothing to him, the time of spring was merely a change of +season, and the most spiritual of blooms were only "wooden enemies." +Searell frowned a little, not at the lack of education, which was rather +a peace to be desired, but at the harshness of the words, and went on, +wondering if the wood-anemones were to be his friends, or little cups of +poison.</p> + +<p>He climbed streets of poor houses, their unhappy windows curtained with +mist, and came out near a small church made of iron, a cheap and gaudy +thing, almost as squalid on the outside as the houses. The backslider +looked at it with a shudder. It was his no longer; he had given it up; +he was forgetting those toy-like altars, the cheap brass candlesticks, +the artificial flowers, and all the images. They were wooden and stone +enemies to him now. He was going deeper to find the throbbing heart of +religion, putting aside dolls and tapers and the sham of sentimentality. +Solitude and mysticism were to be his stars through the night, and he +trusted, with their aid, to reach the dawn. He turned from the church, +stopped at a house, and that was squalid too, knocked, then wiped his +boots, as if certain of being admitted.</p> + +<p>"Father Damon?" he asked shortly. Searell's voice was sweet; he had +helped people "home," as they called it, with his tongue, not with his +soul, just as a sweet-toned organ calls for tears with the beauty of its +sounds, though the instrument itself is dead.</p> + +<p>"Yes, your reverence," the housekeeper answered, as shortly; and Searell +walked up the foggy stairs murmuring to himself, "The wind-flowers are +out, and I am free."</p> + +<p>Father Damon stood in a little square room hideously papered. He was +small, dark, heavy-featured, peasant-like; and Searell saw at a glance +that his successor was as dull in many ways as Oliver Vorse. All that he +knew had been forced upon him almost violently; he had not gone forth +gathering for himself, he dared not, his mind had been tilled by careful +teachers, kept under restraint, all his side-growths pruned away, in +order that orthodoxy might develop in one large unlovely head. When the +order went forth to kneel, he knelt, and when it was time to lift his +eyes to Heaven, he lifted them. It was a life of prison, and he could +never smell the woodland through the fog of incense.</p> + +<p>"He knows nothing," muttered Searell. "He thinks it is daylight where he +stands."</p> + +<p>"I come to give you information about the mission," he said aloud, and +then began; but the telling took some time. How troublesome, how paltry, +the details; and Father Damon was so dull. Everything had to be +repeated, explained so carefully; and was it worth the words? The +successor was very earnest, but not enthusiastic, that had been crushed +out of him; and Searell grew impatient at the wooden figure, with its +simple face and child-like questions. He spoke faster, almost angrily, +desiring to get away and smell the earth; and his eyes wandered about +the room, which was so unlovely, not bare, but filled with those things +that make for the nakedness of life. There was wanting something to +galvanise that sluggish Damon into passion, to destroy the machinery, +turn him into a strong animal with dilating nostrils. One little touch +would have done it. A portrait of a pretty woman upon the mantelshelf +would have gone far; but there was nothing except pictures of mythical +saints.</p> + +<p>"You are retiring. You seem strong and well," said Damon, when he had +obtained all the information that was required.</p> + +<p>Searell was in a hurry to be gone, as the sleeper struggles to awake +from a bad dream; but that voice and its stagnant repose aroused him.</p> + +<p>"I am old, I am sixty," he said. "I am beginning again, trying to find +what the Church has not shown me."</p> + +<p>"What is that?"</p> + +<p>"Light."</p> + +<p>Damon stared with the eyes of horror, and put out his peasant-like hands +as if to force away some weight that pressed against him; but he said +nothing.</p> + +<p>"I will not depart in the odour of hypocrisy. Listen," said Searell. "I +am far from saying that the Church does not lead towards a kind of +light; but it has not led me. And this do I say, that in the world at +large all religion is a failure; and I am going to find mine in the +solitudes."</p> + +<p>"The truth is in the Church. It is your fault if you have missed it," +said Damon, in a hollow voice, hoping that the other, for the sake of +his soul, was mad.</p> + +<p>"It is there for some, the minority. You will never realize how small +that minority is. We cannot hasten the dawn with juggling. True religion +is a thing of innocence, not a matter of spells and charms; and it is in +the innocence of Nature that I will search for it. I believe it exists +there, underneath the outward cruelty, and I shall find it among the +flowers. The flower alone does not struggle with violence, it sheds no +blood; the weed smothers, and the bindweed chokes; but without some +fault upon the surface, perfection might be obtained, which cannot be. +Look into the flower, and you will find a condition which is not +approached by man or other animals. There is a purity which brings tears +into your eyes. Eliminate violence, and you have innocence; obtain +innocence, and you see the light. At the beginning of things we are told +that the world was destroyed by water because the earth was filled with +violence. At the beginning of the new era we learn that the Kingdom of +Heaven suffereth violence. Will you say the Church does not rule by +violence, by threats, suppressions, rubrics, and by vows?"</p> + +<p>"I cannot understand you," said Damon.</p> + +<p>"Will you understand when I say that the God of life is to be found +among the flowers?"</p> + + +<p>The other shook his head and looked frightened. Free speech was not +allowed, and, if it had been, he would not have known how to use it. He +walked between rubrics, turning neither to the right hand nor to the +left; and the living lily was a thing for funeral wreaths. For the +altars, artificial flowers were good enough, as they did not require +renewing, and they looked real to the congregation, and how they were +regarded elsewhere did not concern him; and whether they had been made +by sweated labour did not concern him, because he was not allowed to +think, and he himself was artificial, neither man nor animal, but a +side-growth of supernaturalism.</p> + +<p>"Let me go on now I have begun," said Searell. "I am leaving here, and +my words will not live after me. I am a man who has tested life, who has +been through every experience, and I have discovered that what morality +calls bad is often good, and that which we call virtue sometimes springs +from vice. The purest water runs upon mud, only you must not rake it up. +In my youth I served as a soldier, and upon leaving the army I sought +the Church, partly to find a rest, chiefly, perhaps, because my mind was +mystical. But nothing was revealed, and nothing could be, for the mystic +must be free; and the priest is a soul in prison, and the book of his +captivity is always before him. Here he must join his hands; there he +must lift his eyes to Heaven, prostrate himself, kiss the altar, until +the time comes when he feels alone, cut off from the Creator of his +dreams by these mechanics, horribly alone among images; and he seems to +hear a voice asking sorrowfully, 'What is this rule you are following? +Who told you to do this? Go out upon the hills and into the woods, for I +am there.' But he cannot move, for the time has come to join his hands +again, and the revelation passes unseen, because he has to keep his eyes +shut. It is written so, and he must obey."</p> + +<p>"I cannot answer you," muttered Damon; and it was true, for these words +took him outside the well-worn groove and dropped him useless.</p> + +<p>"If I found the man who could, I would follow him," came the answer, and +the white-headed priest passed a hand across his eyes, as if trying to +brush the fog away. "I have been longing to escape for years. The iron +of the little mission-church has eaten into my soul. I ought to have +resigned? Why so, when I performed all my duties? Without means I could +not have faced the world, for the mystic is not a practical man, and +these hands," he said, frowning, "they are hands to be despised, for +they have done nothing. No, do not answer me, you cannot, you are bound. +I am free. A year ago I was left money—"</p> + +<p>"A curse."</p> + +<p>"If you will, a curse to buy a pathway to my Heaven. There was a place I +pined for, up on the heights of Dartmoor, a valley among mountains. I +have bought it. They call it Pixyland."</p> + +<p>"Paganism," cried the peasant-priest hoarsely, and crossed himself.</p> + +<p>"Purity," said Searell, in his sweet voice. "Pure air, pure hills, pure +loneliness. It is a place of rocks, of heather and large-rooted ferns, +and it is very steep, terrace rising upon terrace to the heights. At the +bottom of the valley are trees; here also is a wild path and a wild +stream broken upon the rocks, and becoming whole again at the foot of a +glen. For centuries the place has been haunted in men's imagination, and +they have avoided it because it is a garden of—angels. I am going now +to make it bloom, I am going to grasp that solitude and weave with it a +mantle of light. I am going to walk on my pixy-path and watch the +shadows creeping up and down my pixy-glen; and the growth will come, the +growth of knowledge, and of consciousness; and there I may meet my +Gardener, driven out of the world by violence, out of the Church by +violence, revealing Himself, not tortured, cross-laden, and frowning, +and not awful, but as the smiling Guardian of the flowers."</p> + +<p>There was hardly a sound in the cold room, stiff with the antique +pictures of quaint saints, dark with that dull peasant born to be ruled; +and yet Searell was going out with a haunted face, passing like a +phantom from the house of poverty, and the wet board with Mass notices, +and the waste of ground heaped up with rubbish. There was a pear-tree +leaning from the waste, a tree which the builders had forgotten, and +from the tree hung a broken branch, and at the end of that branch, +beneath the buds of spring, were two black leaves neglected by the +winter, side by side, struggling with one another; for there was wind +down the street which made them struggle; but neither dropped, and they +fought on silently while the wind lasted.</p> + +<p>"Violence even in dead things," Searell murmured; and, reaching up his +hand, he quieted those two restless leaves for ever.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h3> + + +<p>Oliver Vorse was lying among the wood-anemones, and he was drunk. He +would have looked like a monster had his condition been rare; but it was +common, therefore Vorse was not abnormal, only a fool. He did not know +where he was, in the pixy-path upon the wind-flowers, crushing so many +with his sodden carcase, while the pure pixy-water trickled underneath. +He had come the wrong way at the turning of the path; instead of +ascending to the house, which was the way of difficulty, he had stepped +downwards choosing the path of ease, as men will, even when sober. The +state of his body was nothing, as nobody would see him except Sibley, +his wife. The master was expected tomorrow, and then he would have to +pretend to be a man.</p> + +<p>The moon was young, a cradle of silver, and the stars were wrapped in +sleep-compelling clouds; and all the light that there was seemed to come +from the anemones which Vorse was defiling. The little white things were +lanterns, retaining light, but not giving it forth, and a stickle of +water shone like a shield. There was such a wonderful purity in Nature +apart from the man. Everything seemed to bear the mark of beauty and +holiness except him. It was out of the world in that fairy garden +hanging between the cities and the clouds, and the vices of the world +were out of place; and yet there was no barrier which they could not +leap across.</p> + +<p>A light appeared thick and heavy, putting out the eyes of the flowers. +It wobbled down the natural terraces, weather-hewn from granite, and +with it came a voice suggesting more violence, harsh and angry, not a +voice of the clouds, but of the street-corner, where faces are thin and +fierce, and the paving-stones seem cruel. Sibley was searching for her +husband, not because she loved him, nor requiring his company for any +reason except the selfish one that the loneliness above frightened her, +and her small spirit quailed before the heaving moorland. Any sort of a +brute was better than the God of the mountains. She stumbled over an +obstacle, lowered the lantern, but it was a mass of granite carved +cynically by centuries of rain into the semblance of a tombstone. Again +she stumbled, and now it was the trunk of a tree, phosphorescent with +rottenness. A third time she stumbled, and so found her master with the +rottenness of the fallen tree, without the strength of the granite.</p> + +<p>She kicked him, struck him with the greasy lantern, and swore.</p> + +<p>"Get up, dirty swine. Get up, will ye? Mind what the master told yew? +and he'm coming in the morning."</p> + +<p>Oliver only growled and snored. This was his form of mysticism, and it +was a kind of happiness. If master had dreams, why not he? Master could +dream at one end of creation, he at the other. There was plenty of time. +Sibley was only twenty-four, Oliver not much older. When life is young +the end of it is a myth, and passion is the god.</p> + +<p>There was another light down the pixy-path, very steady and soft. Had it +been blue it might have been a thing of the bog, looking for the body it +had thrown away, but it was white, and it flickered hardly at all, for +the night was smothered up and the winds were slumbering. It came up the +path with a kind of gliding rather terrible and there was not a sound +around it. The master was approaching in the night. Having completed the +last duty sooner than he had anticipated, he acted on the impulse. There +was time to escape, so why wait for the morning? And there would be the +glamour of passing through the dark towards clouds and mistland. The +preparations of a man in earnest take no time. He must put a taper in +his pocket, the last relic of the church he was leaving, as the night +would be heavy upon the pathway, and he must walk there and see the +wood-anemones in flower and feel the peace settling upon his eyelids. +There was no time to be lost, for he was old, and still a child, with +everything to learn.</p> + +<p>Sibley saw the figure, and screamed, supposing it to be a spirit doing +penance for past sins with the lighted candle; while her husband heaved +and called for drink.</p> + +<p>Searell stood upon the path. The wind-flowers were out, but their heads +were hanging in shame; there was no spiritual life in them, they were +already dead like the two black leaves upon the pear tree, and the +destroyed of life was that heap of flesh upon them. He had come away +from the world to forget its violence, and here it was upon his mystic +pathway. He had come to find his God upon the flowers, and had found a +drunken man instead.</p> + +<p>He was calm, to Sibley he looked divine, as he placed the candle in the +niche of a gaping boulder, and she wondered at his restraint. He was a +god, for he had made her, had saved her from street life, and might +still save Oliver if he could bear with him. They were not of his +religion, they were only devil-worshippers, and yet he had stooped down +and dragged them almost by violence from the rubbish-pit.</p> + +<p>"Forgive 'en this once, master," she cried. "I'll see he don't fall +again. Us didn't look vor ye till the morning, and Oliver went down, and +this be how he comed back."</p> + +<p>There was a flat rock above the pixy-water, and here Searell seated +himself, saying, "Do not speak. Your voice is harsh."</p> + +<p>For some moments the only sounds were the deep breathing of Vorse and +the tinkling of the stream. The flame of the candle did not flicker, and +Sibley remained as motionless, her hands clasped before her, looking +down. Then Searell spoke:</p> + +<p>"I walked along a street, and at a dark end of it a man and woman were +fighting. They were young and fierce. As I came near, the man threw the +woman down and thumped her in the back, I separated them by violence. +They respected my profession, and did not greatly resent my +interference. So there was good in them, but, like young beasts, they +had run wild, and no man had tamed them. You know of whom I am +speaking?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, master, I reckon," she whispered.</p> + +<p>"At that time they were living together, although unmarried. I told them +I should be requiring a couple to attend to me and my home, and I +promised to engage them if they would be legally wedded. But conditions +were imposed. One of them has been broken tonight."</p> + +<p>"It won't ever happen again, master."</p> + +<p>"I have myself to think of. There must be selfishness," said Searell. +"There is no escaping from it. If one condition is broken, another may +be. You remember the other?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, master—no children."</p> + +<p>The words sounded harsh, in that fairy place, and they seemed to agree +rather with the breathing of the drunken man than with the ringing of +the stream.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I am hard, but I have my peace of mind to consider. A child's +cry, a child's mischievous ways, would destroy it. There is no room in +my house for children, and this is not the place for them. I have a +search to make," he murmured. "The scream of infants would lead me far +astray. You will remember?"</p> + +<p>"Us ha' no other home, master."</p> + +<p>"You will remember?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, master."</p> + +<p>"I will forget what has happened tonight," said Searell, bending from +the rock, dipping his hand into the pixy-water. "Let this be a time of +regeneration for us all. Do you respect a ceremony?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, master, I reckon," she said again, though she could not understand +him.</p> + +<p>"We will lead a new life," he said, with a smile which was visible in +the light of candle and lantern.</p> + +<p>Sibley stepped forward as Oliver lifted himself with heavy movements, +and muttered a half-conscious "Ask your pardon, master."</p> + +<p>Searell brought up a little of the bright water, and sprinkled the +woman, then the man, without any other sign, and with the words in his +soft mystic voice, "I receive you into the new life."</p> + +<p>Then he picked up the taper and went, leaving the man and woman afraid +of him.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h3> + + +<p>After a year in Pixyland, what was there? A garden, a place of almost +unearthly beauty, and through it the master moved slowly, clad no longer +in the clothes of religion, nor even in the garments of respectability; +his coat sack-like, its pockets bulging with bulbs and tubers, and his +hair was in white ringlets, and his hands were often in the warm earth, +grubbing out furze-roots. The terrestrial paradise had been attained; +down the steep slopes poured a cascade of colour, the pixy-path was +alight all night with white, out of the pixy-water rose golden osmundas +and the ghostly spiræa; and Searell's face was also ghostly, it was +hungry, and the eyes were dull. It was not the face of the priest who +had built up the mission, for that had been eager. It was not the face +of the mystic who had walked up the path by candlelight, for that had +been happy. It was not the face of the spiritualist who feels he is +conquering the atmosphere, nor that of a dreamer. It was the face of one +who was sad.</p> + +<p>Searell had discovered, though he would not own it to himself, that +lonely happiness is impossible. What was a discovery if no friend could +be told of it? What was the loveliness of his garden when there was no +one to share it with? What would Heaven itself be if he was there alone? +There must be sympathy, and without it life is lost.</p> + +<p>Intellect was losing its edge. He almost forgot what he had come there +for. Instead of ascending towards more light he was falling into grosser +darkness. He did not even dream; he was sluggish, and oblivion was over +him; which must happen when a man cuts himself free from the hearts and +brains of others. His cry was no longer the triumphant one of strength +and self-confidence. It was the cry "Why hast Thou forgotten me?" as he +walked heavily, and the weight of his own presence oppressed him; and +then he would mutter aloud, "Come and see my garden. I must show you the +flowers," though there was nobody to hear. That was all: he was a +gardener; he wanted to show his flowers, shrubs, ferns, he wanted to +delight some one with his bogplants, he longed to see admiration dawning +upon a human face, love for the beautiful kindling in human eyes; and so +he came to crave for human life, human words and beauty, human sympathy, +even human sin and shame and violence rather than the innocence and +purity and gentleness of God among the flowers.</p> + +<p>"Master, where be I to plant this?" "Master, will ye pay these bills?" +Such were the almost brutal questions around him.</p> + +<p>He had asked for solitude; and now he longed for passion, earthly love.</p> + +<p>It was winter, when the nights were wild and the evenings intolerable; +and during one of them the sound of a quarrel reached his ears. Oliver +and Sibley had not been satisfactory. If they had abstained from the +vices, they had not learnt to love one another; and, as Searell listened +then, he saw the violent streets and that boy and girl tussle in the +dirt. He went down, and at the foot of the stairs heard the woman's +angry voice, "Yew ha' ruined me"; and then the growl of Oliver, "Shut +your noise. Master be moving over." Through the doorway Searell saw +them, like beasts half-tamed, longing to break into their natural +habits, but dreading the master's whip. Were they worse than they had +been? Was it the effect of solitude upon them? Sibley had no small +amusements such as women desire. Oliver had no love for his home life. +It seemed to Searell that indifference was settling upon them all. He +advanced into the kitchen, stood between them as he had done before, +looked at the man, and noticed something new, a kind of eagerness, which +he tried to suppress; then at the woman, and here too was a difference, +a softer face and eyes half ashamed. Perhaps, then, they could love, and +a word from him might kindle the spark into flame.</p> + +<p>"I interfered between you once before. It was for your good."</p> + +<p>"No, master," said Sibley.</p> + +<p>"I think so," he said, startled by her independence and rudeness.</p> + +<p>"It would ha' been better if yew had passed by and let we bide," she +went on; and when Oliver growled his "Shut your noise," it was with less +anger than usual.</p> + +<p>"Us could ha' done what us had a mind to then," she said. "This be a +prison."</p> + +<p>"We are all in prison, if you can understand me. The walls are all +round, and we cannot get over them."</p> + +<p>"'Tis best vor volk to live as 'em be meant to," said Sibley.</p> + +<p>And again Searell was amazed. How had this woman obtained the power and +the courage to answer him? And to beat him, for he was beaten. He had no +words to reply to that simple philosophy, and to the woman who appealed +from his decision. He had played the God with them, had brought them out +of chaos, and had given them his commandments; and he was no God, but a +weak man; and they were not his children.</p> + +<p>He went back to his books, there were no flowers except Christmas-roses +and snowdrops, shivering things of winter, and tried to dream. Nothing +came. It seemed to him there was less mysticism in his mistland than in +the dirty streets of Stonehouse; and, while he mused, that world came +knocking at his mind, calling in the dialect of Sibley, "'Tis best vor +volk to live as 'em be meant to." His own body, his sluggishness and +unhappiness, convicted him of error; but, if he was wrong, what of all +religion which tells of a God of mysticism, and of his own in +particular, which, at that very season of the year, rejoiced at the +birth of a Child-creator by mysticism not through Love? And at his mind +was hot, red-blooded passion, a crude and awful thing, love for those +things which make men horrible, love for dirt and the roots, not for bud +and bloom; and a contempt and hatred for cold morality and the spells +muttered by candlelight; and the message of the flowers was this: +"Through the agency of others, through the eyes of those who are loved +and loving, not by the confinement of self, souls find the dawn."</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Vorse," said Searell one day, the yellow aconites were out, the +first colour of the year, and he was going to look at them, "you have +changed."</p> + +<p>Sibley had her back towards him, engaged in cleaning, and she was +wearing, as she always did, the enveloping apron of the country, which +hung from her shoulders and surrounded her body like a sack. He could +not see the flush upon her face.</p> + +<p>"Your voice is softer. You sing at your work. You are happy."</p> + +<p>"I hain't, master," she whispered. "I feels, master, I wants to be +happy, but I be frightened."</p> + +<p>"Of the loneliness?"</p> + +<p>"Not that, master. I can't tell ye, but I be frightened."</p> + +<p>"You and your husband get along better. You are quieter. I have not +heard you quarrel for some time."</p> + +<p>"There's good in Oliver," she said.</p> + +<p>"I thought so," he murmured. "But I have not been able to bring it out."</p> + +<p>He went to see the aconites, but they were cold, and made him shiver. It +was warm innocence he wanted, not the purity which numbed; and, down +below, the slopes were naked, the path rustled with dead oakleaves, and +the pixy-water was in flood. The violence of the world was there, and +nothing could drive it out.</p> + +<p>"Is your wife well, Oliver?" he asked. "I heard a sound in your room +early this morning. It seemed to me she was ill."</p> + +<p>Vorse was uprooting bracken, which is hard labour, and he made no pause +when his master spoke.</p> + +<p>"I ha' never knowed she better," he answered.</p> + +<p>"She frets less. There is a womanliness about her now which is pleasant. +You, also, have very much improved. You speak to her gently. You do not +drink now?"</p> + +<p>"Her made me give it up."</p> + +<p>"Had I nothing to do with it?"</p> + + +<p>"No, master," said Oliver bluntly. "I couldn't ha' given it up vor yew. +I did try, but I couldn't, I promised to give it up vor Sibley."</p> + +<p>"When?"</p> + +<p>"Months ago. Her told me something, and 'twur then I promised to give it +up vor Sibley."</p> + +<p>"What did she tell you?"</p> + +<p>"Her had received a message from God."</p> + +<p>These were strange words from the mouth of Oliver Vorse.</p> + +<p>"Her took 'em from yew, master," he added apologetically.</p> + +<p>Searell moved aside, gazing at the black snakelike fern-roots. Then he +lifted up his eyes in torment. His creatures finding in the garden what +he had missed, taking his God away from him! the dull Sibley his +superior, reaping the harvest that he had sown! the dull Oliver +reforming for her, and not for him! And he had nothing, he was alone, as +much alone in his garden as in the mission-church, obeying the printed +rubrics and hearing the call, "Who told you to do this? Go out and find +Me, for I am in the solitudes."</p> + +<p>"You are educating yourselves," he suggested, turning back. "You and +Sibley are improving your minds by learning. I have done that much for +you."</p> + +<p>Oliver said nothing, his head was down, and his hands grubbed at the +great roots. There was no answer to make.</p> + +<p>It was evening, the time of restlessness, and Searell came downstairs; +his study was above, and he came down only to change his rooms, to get +into another atmosphere, that he might find rest for his mind. The +kitchen door was open. Oliver was seated in a low chair, and Sibley was +upon his knees, her arms around his neck, her head upon his shoulder. +Both were motionless as if asleep.</p> + +<p>Searell went away. This time he could not interfere, and the noise of +the wind became to him the cry of the wild world. "Men must be violent," +it cried. "Men were made for passion," it cried; "and with the strength +of the body, rather than by the gropings of the mind, they shall clear +the mists from their eyes, and by means of the act of creation find +Creator."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV</h3> + + +<p>A perfect evening is often the prelude to a stormy night. It was such an +evening in spring again, when the wind-flowers were out, and an old man +riding off the moor paused beside Searell's boundary-wall to prophesy a +tempest. This was a white old man with queer blue eyes, and he too was a +mystic under the spell of solitude; but, unlike Searell, he had his +ties, without which no man can be happy. By day he roamed, and at +evening, by the fireside, told the children small and great his own +weird tales of Dartmoor. There were no restless evenings for him. +Searell shook his head almost angrily. He lived upon the face of the +moor, wrapped himself in its secrets, yet he could not foretell its +weather. The passing cloud had no message, the river with its changing +cry told him nothing. He went into the house.</p> + +<p>"Where is your wife?" he said to Oliver.</p> + +<p>"Her bain't well, master." The man was nervous, and his eyes were large.</p> + +<p>"Who is that woman in the kitchen?"</p> + +<p>"I had to get she up to do the cooking."</p> + +<p>"You have neglected your work today."</p> + +<p>"I be cruel sorry, master."</p> + +<p>"What is the matter with your wife? Yesterday I heard her singing."</p> + +<p>"Nothing serious, master"; but the man was listening all the time, as if +dreading to hear a call, a cry of pain, or the voice of life coming +along the moor.</p> + +<p>The old man was right. So soon as night began, the Dartmoor tempest +broke; there was no rain, nor thunder, but a dry and mighty wind which +made the rocks shake; and through the storm came a weird light defying +the wind to blow it out, that light which does not enter the lowlands, +but lives upon mountains; and Searell stood at his high writing desk, +and sought out legends of the wind.</p> + +<p>If there were sounds in the house he could not hear them. Deep in +mysticism, he read on of the winged clouds which brought the tempests, +and of their symbols, the rock-shattering worm, the stone of wisdom +which tears open the secrets of life, the rosy flower which restores the +dead, the house-breaking hand of glory; and the eagle symbol of +lightning, and the rushing raven returning to Odin. And he read of the +voices in the wind, while boulders were grinding along the river-bed; of +Hulda in the forest singing for baby-souls; of the Elf maidens alluring +youths astray; of Thoth staggering into oblivion with brave men's +spirits; of Hermes with his winged talaria, playing the lyre and +shutting fast all the myriad eyes of the stars. And something more he +read about the storm-wind. It was not always taking away, it was giving; +it was a bringer of new life, coming in spring as a young god with +golden hair, breaking the spell of winter, bringing a magic pipe to make +folk dance.</p> + +<p>"At one time it lulls into a mystic sleep, at another it restores to new +life," said Searell, speaking loudly and strongly, partly to reassure +himself, because the tumult was frightening. "What is this wind bringing +to me, more of the mystic sleep, or the new life?"</p> + +<p>He paced up and down the room, which shook as if with earthquake; and +hidden from him by a partition of lath and plaster was the staring +horror of a dream, one small lamp, turned down, giving the half-light +which suggests terror more than darkness, and on the bed a woman +moaning, and against the wall a weak man groaning. Let them rave and +scream, no sound of theirs could have pierced that lath and plaster, for +the god of violence was fighting on their side.</p> + +<p>"There be only one way."</p> + +<p>That was how Oliver had been muttering the last hour.</p> + +<p>"No, no," she sobbed.</p> + +<p>"What can us do? Master be hard, he bides by his word. He ha' been good +to we in all else, but this be our ruin."</p> + +<p>"No, no." She could not hear him, but she knew what he was saying.</p> + +<p>"Back on them streets again. No home to cover we, no food. Us ha' lived +easy too long to stand it. 'Twould end in the river. Better to lose the +one than our two selves."</p> + +<p>"No, no," her lips made the words, but not the sounds.</p> + +<p>"'Tis only a matter o' two minutes," he cried fiercely. "Then us be free +again." He left the wall, crossed to the bed, bent down, cried into her +ear, "It be awful outside. The watter be roaring down under. Us mun +live, woman."</p> + +<p>Sibley lifted herself with a face of death, and screamed as if it had +been the last effort of her life, screamed again and again; but what was +that in the wind? Not even a whisper; while Searell read on of the Sons +of Kalew, and the miracle of their harps which changed winter into +summer and death into life.</p> + +<p>Oliver Vorse was staggering downstairs weeping; and outside the wind +caught him, dragged him hither and thither like a straw, stuffing his +mouth with vapour, and flung him against bellowing walls and into +shrieking bushes; and still he protected what he held by instinct, and +when he fell upon the steep descent he let his body be bruised and his +face torn by that same instinct which makes the timid beast a savage +thing.</p> + +<p>It took no time.... He was back in the ghastly lamplight, staring at a +ghastly face which was the reflection of his own; and the master was +still in his musing, and knew nothing.</p> + +<p>"Let me die, I'd sooner," Sibley muttered simply; but Oliver could not +hear. He was leaning against the wall again; then he went on his knees, +and then he turned his back upon the bed. That face, the black hair, a +blood-stain visible, they frightened him. He passed into a kind of +agony; he was so cold and his body was dry, and there was a lightness in +his limbs.</p> + +<p>"The watter wur roaring—roaring. There warn't no wind, not there. It +wur sheltered down under, and them little white flowers scarce shook."</p> + +<p>He turned his head and saw those staring eyes.</p> + +<p>"Bain't what yew thinks," he howled. "There wur moss, plenty on't. I +made a bed beside the rocks. It bain't cold, not very; but the watter be +rising—rising—rising."</p> + +<p>So was the tempest. It would be nearing its end, and would drop as +suddenly as it had arisen; and Searell was smiling as he read of the +beasts of the forest weeping as they listened to the song-wind of +Gunadhya.</p> + +<p>"I can't go out. Might see it crawling up-along, trying to come back, +little white thing in the dark."</p> + +<p>Oliver could see Sibley was speaking, making with her agonized mouth the +shape of words, "Go out." He could not, dared not, had not even the +courage to open the door and look down the dimly lighted horror of the +stairs. They were in the last stage of weakness, the one morally, the +other physically; and the almighty strength of the wind gave them +nothing except the security of its tumult.</p> + +<p>"It'll be over," he shuddered. "The watter wur coming up all white. I +couldn't bide there—there wur drops o' summat on my face, and 'twur so +helpless, and it looked up. Blue, warn't 'em blue, woman?'"</p> + +<p>Sibley could not have heard, but, with all those instincts quivering, +she recognized the word upon his lips and tried to nod.</p> + +<p>"Innocent. Hadn't done nought. Would ha' kep we good, made we man and +wife. I'll go down. I'd go down if I dared—the little chin wur agin my +cheek. I'll never face the dark. I'd see it move, and the little +drowning bubbles on the watter. Be it over now?"</p> + +<p>He glared at Sibley as if she could answer; and she stared back, asking, +pleading, imploring him to play the man and face the night again; but he +grovelled against the wall and shuddered, damp with an awful sweat, and +the weird light upon the mountain-tops went out, because other clouds +were coming up, having travelled far since evening, and the darkness +became real as the roarings of the dry wind decreased. It was getting on +towards midnight, and those mighty winds were tired.</p> + +<p>"Go!" came a sudden scream; and Searell heard the echo of it and +started. The cry seemed to have its origin in the storm. He closed his +book, listened, heard nothing more except the coherent bellowing, and +then he answered, "I will." Certainly the word had sounded, and as +certainly he was alone. The Vorses would have been asleep for hours.</p> + +<p>"I will walk along the path. It is sheltered down there," he murmured. +"This may be the night appointed, the time of revelation, the time of +young life. This is the mad music of the spring, the shattering of the +chains of winter. The growth follows. It is the birth-night."</p> + +<p>He wrapped a coat around him and went. During those few minutes the wind +had much decreased; in another hour it would be calm and clear; and then +the awful stillness of the sunrise and the perpetual wonder of the +daylight.</p> + +<p>There was again a kind of light, for the raven-clouds had gone by and +the swan-clouds were crossing; and the wind was now the magic piper who +drives away care, and with his merry music sets Nature capering. Searell +was on the pixy-path and the wind-flowers were jigging; it was ghostly, +but a dance, not a solemn marching as in autumn, when the leaves fall +processionally downwards. It was recessional spring, when the leaves +awoke, as it were, from their moon-loved sleep, preserved in unfading +youth and beauty by that sleep, and leapt back at the piper's music to +the branches, kissing their ancient oaks with the fervour of young love. +Every flower had a moist eye and a sweet heart; and the pixy-water rang +for festival.</p> + +<p>One turn Searell made, seeing nothing, because his eyes struggled with +the mist; another, and he stopped. There was a wonder, a miracle, a +revelation among his wind-flowers, upon the edge of the rising water, a +sleeping silent wonder which made him thrill.</p> + +<p>"It has no bodily existence. When I come back it will be gone."</p> + +<p>It was still there, and now the water was almost level with the bed of +moss, and some of the flowers were struggling to keep their pale heads +above; and it was silent, this child of the morning, lying upon its back +in the moss, numbed, perhaps, though the night was not cold, and there +was a beauty upon the small face, not the beauty which makes for +violence, but that which gives peace, the beauty of innocence; and there +was also upon it that perfect weakness, and the submission of weakness +which is one of the strongest things created. And it seemed to be +growing there like the wind-flowers, as fragile, but as hardy, and among +them; for white anemones had been blown across each eye and across the +mouth, and they gleamed from each ear, and the chin was another edged +with pink, and all of them seemed to be jealous of the child.</p> + +<p>"And it comes into the world by violence," Searell murmured.</p> + +<p>Even then he hardly knew what had happened. He could not think, for his +mind was full of the wonder, and commonplace ideas would not enter. He +picked up the child reverently; there was no motion, no sound, no +opening of bue eyes; had there been a shrill scream, the spell might +have been broken—the contact was dreadful to him. He was tending a +sacred mystery, elevating a sacrament newly consecrated, something which +a few hours ago had been leaping like a spark in the place of his +dreams, and had been flung as lightning upon his path to strike his +heart open. Here was the answer of the flowers. To men the Creator was +as a child, for the child is the only thing all-powerful and the only +thing all-pure.</p> + +<p>About the house Searell seemed to hear the sound of groaning like the +moan of the dying wind, and there were movements once or twice as of a +wounded body.</p> + +<p>A dusty prie-dieu stood in the comer of the study. This he placed near +the fire, a cushion upon it, and then the child; and lighted a candle +upon each side. He stood with his arms folded, the Omega of life +worshipping the Alpha of it, until all things seemed to be new and +strange, as upon a resurrection morning, and he awoke from the sleep of +death and felt the spring. The winter was over and past, the time of the +opening of flowers had come, and the voice of creation stirred upon the +garden; and the change had been wrought by violence.</p> + +<p>It was necessary to speak and find sympathy. He hated the solitude +because no one shared it with him; he had grown to hate the wonderful +garden because there was no one to wonder at it with him; he hated +himself because no one cared for him. "Oliver!" he called, breaking the +horrible quietness, forgetful of the time. "Sibley!"</p> + +<p>Movements followed, again like wounded bodies, and Searell remembered +that the woman was ill and he had done nothing for her. He went to the +door; it opened, and Vorse was cowering against the wall, his hand upon +his eyes. Searell hardly noticed the horrid smoking of the lamplight, +the eyes upon that bed, the guilty, frightened man. Still full of +himself, he cried:</p> + +<p>"Come and see what I have found."</p> + +<p>"I couldn't do it, master," moaned Oliver. "I took it down, but the eyes +opened. 'Don't ye hurt me,' it said. I be just come. Bain't time vor me +to go.'"</p> + +<p>Still Searell would not understand.</p> + +<p>"Come," he said impatiently. "She was upon my path, among my flowers."</p> + +<p>Then life stirred again upon the bed, and Sibley drew herself up with +ravenous eyes and muttered:</p> + +<p>"Alive—alive!"</p> + +<p>Soon the room was like a chapel. The smoky lamp had been extinguished, +the prie-dieu stood beside the bed, the candles cast a warm, soft light; +and outside upon the moor was peace. Even the merry piper had become +weary and had put all things to sleep till daybreak; while Oliver Vorse +upon his knees confessed the sin which had been forced upon him.</p> + +<p>"Us dared not keep she. Sibley dared, but not me. If a child wur born, +us must go, yew said. I couldn't face it, but her would ha' faced it. Us +be ready to go now," he said boldly. "I ha' these hands. I'll fight. I +ha' the maiden to fight vor."</p> + +<p>"Her lives. Her moves on my bosom," cried Sibley. "Look at 'em, master. +Did ye ever see the like?"</p> + +<p>"What made you kinder, Sibley, more attentive to me, soft and tender?"</p> + +<p>"'Twur the child coming, master."</p> + +<p>"What made you sober, Oliver, fond of your wife? What was it stopped the +quarelling?"</p> + +<p>"I minded the little child, master."</p> + +<p>There was something tender in their illiterate speech.</p> + +<p>"You cast her away. The sin is mine, so is the atonement. And she is +mine."</p> + +<p>"She'm mine, master," murmured Sibley.</p> + +<p>"I found her among my flowers, the reward of my searching. She is the +answer," he said. "Let her be to you the daughter of love, and to me the +daughter of violence. Oliver," he cried, turning, "bring up water from +the pixy-stream. As the sun rises I will baptise—my child."</p> + +<p>"Yew'm fond o' she, master?"</p> + +<p>"She is mine," he said, with the old impatience.</p> + +<p>"And we, master?"</p> + +<p>"I am old and you are young," said Searell. "But we are all beginning +life, we know nothing. We will try to find another and a better +pathway."</p> + +<p>He went back to his rooms to rest, but not to sleep, for there was +something burning inside him like a coal from the altar; and a new light +crept upon the moor, giving it form, changing it from black to purple. +It was the dawn.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="BUSINESS_IS_BUSINESS" id="BUSINESS_IS_BUSINESS"></a>BUSINESS IS BUSINESS</h2> + + +<p>Tavy river rises on Cranmere, flows down Tavy Cleave, divides the parish +of Mary Tavy from that of Peter Tavy, passes Tavy Mount, and leaves +Dartmoor at Tavystock, or Tavistock as it is now spelt. Each Dartmoor +river confers its name, or a portion of it, upon certain features of its +own district. The Okements meet at Okehampton, and one of them has Oke +Tor, which has been corrupted into Ock and even Hock. Even the tiny Lyd +has its Lydford. Each river also has its particular characteristic. The +East Okement is the river of ferns, the Teign the river of woods, the +Taw the river of noise, the Dart the river of silence, and the Tavy is +the river of rocks. Tavy Cleave from the top of Ger Tor, presents a +grand and solemn spectacle of rock masses piled one upon the other; it +is a valley of rocks, relieved only by the foaming little river.</p> + +<p>Mary Tavy is a straggling village of unredeemed ugliness, wild and bare. +It lies exposed on the side of the moor and is swept by every wind, for +not a bush or even a bramble will be found upon the rounded hills +adjoining. Once the place was a mining centre of some importance. The +black moor has been torn into pits and covered with mounds by the +tin-streamers in early days, and more recently by the copper-miners. All +around Mary Tavy appear the dismal ruins of these mines, or wheals as +they are called. Peter Tavy, across the river, is not so dreary, but is +equally exposed. This region during the winter is one of the most +inhospitable spots to be found in England.</p> + +<p>In Peter Tavy there lived, until quite recently, an elderly man, who +might have posed as the most incompetent creature in the West Country. +It is hardly necessary to say he did not do so; on the contrary, he +posed as a many-sided genius. He occupied a hideous little tin house, +which would have been condemned at a glance in those parts of the +country where building by-laws are in existence. At one time and another +he had borrowed the dregs of paint-pots, and had endeavoured to decorate +the exterior. As a result, one portion was black, another white, and +another blue. Over the door a board appeared setting forth the +accomplishments of Peter Tavy, as he may here be called. According to +his own showing he was a clock-maker; he was a photographer; he was a +Dartmoor guide; he was a dealer in antiquities; he was a Reeve attached +to the Manor of Lydford; and he was a purveyor of manure. This board was +in its way a masterpiece of fiction. Once upon a time a resident, +anxious to put Peter's powers to the test, sent him an old kitchen-clock +to repair. He examined and gave it as his opinion that the undertaking +would require time. When a year had passed the owner of the clock +requested Peter to report progress. He replied that the work was getting +on, but "'Twas a slow business and 'twould take another six months to +make a job of it." At the end of that period the clock was removed, +almost by force, and it was then discovered that Peter had sold most of +the interior mechanism to a singularly innocent tourist as Druidical +remains unearthed by him in one of the shafts of Wheal Betsy.</p> + +<p>As a photographer he carried his impudence still further. Some one had +given him an old camera and a few plates. He began at once to inveigle +visitors—chiefly elderly ladies, "half-dafty maidens" he impolitely +called them—down Tavy Cleave, where he would pose them on rocks and +pretend to photograph them with plates which had already been exposed +more than once. "If I doan't get a picture first time, I goes on till I +do," he explained. Once, when Peter announced "'twas a fine picture this +time," a gentleman of the party reminded him he had omitted to remove +the cap from the lens. Peter was not to be caught that way: "I took +'en," he said, "I took 'en, but yew was yawning."</p> + +<p>As a guide upon the moor Peter was an equal failure. He ought to have +known Dartmoor after living upon it all his life; the truth was, he +would have lost his way upon the road to Tavistock had he strayed from +it a moment. Visitors, lured by the notice-board, had approached him +from time to time with the request to be guided to Cranmere. Peter would +take them along Tavy Cleave for a mile, then assure them a storm was +coming up and it would be necessary to seek shelter as soon as possible, +hurry them back, and demand half-a-guinea in return for his services. +Peter had never been to Cranmere Pool, and had no idea how to get there. +Sometimes a party would insist upon proceeding, in spite of the guide's +warning, and in such cases the bewildered Peter would have to be shown +the way home by his victims. He would demand the half-guinea all the +same.</p> + +<p>As a dealer in antiquities nothing came amiss. Broken pipes, bits of +crockery, old mining-tools, any rubbish rotting or rusting upon the peat +were gathered and classified as Druidical remains. No one knew where +Peter had picked up the word Druidical; but it was certain he picked up +their supposed remains on the piece of black moor which surrounded his +house. Sometimes, it was said, he found a tourist foolish enough to +purchase a selection of this rubbish.</p> + +<p>What he meant by describing himself as an official receiving pay from +the Duchy of Cornwall nobody ever knew. As a Reeve (another word he had +picked up somewhere) of the Manor of Lydford he believed himself to be +intimately connected with the lord of that manor, who is the Prince of +Wales. He knew that august personage was interested somehow in three +feathers. The public-house in the neighbourhood called <i>The Plume of +Feathers</i> had something to do with it he was sure, though he had never +seen "goosey's feathers same as they on the sign-board." Once he thought +seriously of erecting three feathers above his own door, and for that +purpose captured a neighbor's goose and plucked three large quills from +one of its wings, accompanying his action with the bland request, "Now +bide still, goosey-gander, do' ye." He could not make his three +goose-quills graceful and drooping, like those upon the sign-board, and +that was probably why Peter refrained from doing the Lord of Dartmoor +the compliment of assuming his crest.'</p> + +<p>The village of Peter Tavy, like most spots upon Dartmoor, has its summer +visitors; and these were sure, sooner or later, to make the acquaintance +of Peter Tavy the man. They thought him a harmless idiot, and he +reciprocated. One summer a journalist came upon the moor for his health +and, desiring to combine business with pleasure, he wrote a descriptive +sketch of Peter, and this was published in due course in a paper which +by a curious accident reached Peter himself. The man was furious. He +went about the two villages with the paper in his hand, his scanty hair +bristling, his watery eyes bulging, his mouth twisted into a very ugly +shape. It was a good thing the journalist had departed, for just then +Peter was angry and vindictive enough for anything. Presently he met his +clergyman; he made towards him, held out the paper, and, regardless of +grammar, cried out, "That's me."</p> + +<p>"He does not mention you by name," said the clergyman.</p> + +<p>"He says the man in the iron house wi' notice-board atop. He's got down +the notice-board as 'tis," spluttered Peter. "He says a ginger-headed +man—that's me; face like a rabbit—that's me."</p> + +<p>It was as a purveyor of manure that Peter found his level, if not a +living. Probably he received financial assistance from his sister, who +lived across the river at Mary Tavy. She had been formerly a lady's maid +in Torquay; after more than thirty years' service her mistress had died, +and had bequeathed to her a modest income, and on this she lived +comfortably in retirement, crossing Tavy Cleave occasionally to visit +her eccentric brother. She, too, was said to be eccentric, but that was +only because she was fond of getting full value for a halfpenny. Mary +Tavy was a spinster, and Peter Tavy was a bachelor. On those occasions +when some ne'er-do-well attempted to annex Mary and her income, the good +woman's eccentricity had revealed itself very strongly; and as for +Peter, his own sister would remark, "Women never could abide he."</p> + +<p>The Tavies always passed Christmas together. One year Peter would go +across and stop with Mary for three days; the next, Mary would come +across and stop with Peter for three days. Their rule on this matter was +fixed; the visit never extended beyond three days, and Peter would not +have dreamed of going across to Mary if it were the turn of Mary to come +across to him.</p> + +<p>Peter had a little cart and a pony to draw it. How he came by the pony +nobody knew, but as it was never identified no hard questions were +asked. Every year a few Dartmoor ponies are missed when the drift takes +place; and at the same time certain individuals take to owning shaggy +little steeds which have no past history. When a brand has been +skilfully removed, one Dartmoor pony is very much like a score of +others. To drive Peter into a corner over his title to the pony which +pulled his shameful little cart—it was hardly better than a +packing-case on wheels—would have been impossible. He had hinted that +it was a present from the Prince of Wales as a slight return for +services rendered; and as no one else in the Tavy district was in the +habit of communicating with the lord of the manor, his statement could +not easily be refuted.</p> + +<p>With this pony and unlicensed cart Peter would convey people from time +to time to the station at Mary Tavy, making a charge of eighteen pence, +which was not exorbitant considering the dangers and difficulties of the +road. For conveying his sister from her home to his at Christmas he made +a charge of one shilling; when she expostulated, as she always did, and +quoted the proverb "Charity begins at home," Peter invariably replied +with another proverb, "Business is business."</p> + +<p>Few will have forgotten the winter of 1881, when snow fell for over a +week, and every road was lost and every cleave choked. Snow was lurking +in sheltered nooks upon the tops of Ger Tor and the High Willhays range +as late as the following May. Snow upon Dartmoor does not always mean +snow elsewhere. It is possible sometimes to stand knee-deep upon the +high moor and look down upon a stretch of country without a flake upon +it, and so on to the sugared and frosted hills of Exmoor; but no part of +the country escaped the great fall of 1881. Every one on the moor can +tell of some incident in connection with that Christmas. At the two +Tavies they tell how Peter tried to drive Mary from his village to hers, +how he failed in the attempt, and how both of them remained good +business people to the end.</p> + +<p>It was Mary's turn to visit Peter that year, and she arrived upon +Christmas Eve, quaintly but warmly dressed, a small boy carrying her +basket, which contained the articles that she deemed necessary for her +visit, together with a bottle of spiced wine, some cream cakes, and a +plum-pudding as big as her head. The boy said a good many +uncomplimentary things about that pudding as they climbed up from the +Tavy, comparing it to the Giant's Pebble higher up the cleave. When Mary +raised her black-mittened hand and threatened him with chastisement, the +urchin lifted out the pudding in its cloth, set it at her feet, and told +her to carry it herself, as it was "enough to pinch a strong man +dragging that great thing up the cleave"; so Mary had to finish the +journey hugging the pudding like a baby. She was walking to save herself +sixpence. Peter had offered to come for her with his pony and cart, the +charge to be one shilling, payable as follows—sixpence when she got +into the cart and sixpence when she got out; but Mary had told him that +she could get a boy to carry her basket for half that amount; when he +protested she reminded him that business was business.</p> + +<p>A light sprinkle of snow had fallen, just enough to dust over the rocks +and furze-bushes; but it was very cold, the clouds were low and +wood-like, and there was in the air that feel of snow which animals can +nearly always detect, and men who live on the moors can sometimes.</p> + +<p>Peter and Mary spent the evening in simple style. Peter sat on one side +of the fire, Mary on the other; sometimes Peter stirred to get fresh +turves for the fire; sometimes Mary got up to heap the little table with +good cheer and place it midway between the old-fashioned chairs. They +both smoked, they both took snuff, they both drank spiced wine. Towards +evening they talked of old times and became merry. Then they talked of +old people and grew sentimental, dropping tears into their hot wine. +Peter got up and kissed Mary, but Mary did not care for Peter's caresses +and told him so, whereupon Peter advised her to "get along home then." +Mary declared she would, but changed her mind when she thought of the +gloomy cleave and the Tavy in winter flood; so they went on smoking, +taking snuff, and drinking spiced wine.</p> + +<p>The next day was fine, and Peter and Mary went to chapel. Mary gave her +brother a penny to put into the plate, but he put it into his pocket +instead; he was always a man of business. She also gave him a bright new +florin as a Christmas present. He had made her understand, when the coin +was safe in his possession, that he should still demand a shilling for +driving her home, and over that point they wrangled for some time. In +the evening, when Peter had fallen asleep over the fire, Mary repented +of her kindness and sought to regain the florin; but Peter had it hidden +away safely in his boot.</p> + +<p>When the time came for Mary to start homewards it was snowing fast, and +she did not like the prospect. Although it was not much after three +o'clock, the outlook was exceedingly dark; there was an unpleasant +silence upon the moor, and the snowflakes were larger and falling +thickly. But the pony was harnessed to the unsteady conveyance, and +Peter was waiting; before Mary could utter a word of protest, he had +bundled her in and they were off.</p> + +<p>"Twould have paid me better to bide home," said Mary.</p> + +<p>"Do'ye sit quiet," Peter growled. Then he added, "Where's the shillun?"</p> + +<p>"There now, doan't ye worry about the shillun," said Mary; "I'll give it +ye when I'm safe and sound to home wi' no bones broke."</p> + +<p>"Shillun be poor pay vor driving this weather," said her business-like +brother.</p> + +<p>Now and again a light appeared from one of the cottages. The pony +struggled on with its head down, while the silence seemed to grow more +unearthly, and the darkness increased, and the snow became a solid +descending mass. The road between the two Tavies is not easy in winter +under favorable conditions, and on that night it was to become +practically impassable. When the last light of Peter Tavy the village +had vanished, Peter Tavy the man had about as much idea where he was as +if he had just dropped out of the moon.</p> + +<p>"Where be'st going?" shrieked Mary, as the cart swerved violently to the +right.</p> + +<p>"Taking a short cut," explained Peter.</p> + +<p>"Dear life!" gasped Mary, "he'm pixy-led."</p> + +<p>"I b'ain't," said Peter; "I be driving straight vor Mary Tavy."</p> + +<p>Had he said straight for the edge of Tavy Cleave he would have spoken the +truth. The pony knew perfectly well that they were off the road, and the +sensible beast would have returned to the right way had it not been for +Peter, who kept pulling its head towards the cleave. Left to itself the +pony would have returned to Peter Tavy, having quite enough sense to +know that it was impossible to reach the sister village on such a night. +Its master, with his fatal knack of blundering, tugged at the reins with +one hand and plied the whip with the other. The snow was like a wall on +every side; the clouds seemed to be dissolving upon them; suddenly the +silence was broken by the roaring of the Tavy below.</p> + +<p>"Us be going to kingdom come," shrieked Mary.</p> + +<p>"Us b'ain't," said Peter; "us be going to Mary Tavy."</p> + +<p>The pony stopped. Peter used his whip, and the next instant the snow +appeared to rush towards them, open, and swallow them up. They had +struck a boulder and gone over the cleave. The body of the cart was in +one spot, its wheels were in another; and wallowing in the sea and snow +were Peter and Mary and the pony. The animal was the first to regain its +feet, and made off at once, with the broken harness trailing behind. +Mary was the next to rise, plastered over with snow from head to foot; +but she was soon down again, because her legs refused to support her. +Presently she heard her brother's voice. He was invisible, because he +had been thrown several feet lower, and had landed among rocks somewhat +bruised and sprained; had it not been for the soft snow he would +probably have been killed.</p> + +<p>"I be broke to bits," he wailed.</p> + +<p>"So be I," cried Mary; "So be the cart."</p> + +<p>"Be the cart broke?" said Peter; and when Mary had replied it was only +fit for firewood (it had not been fit for much else before the +accident), he went on, "'Twill cost ye a lot o' money to buy me a new +one."</p> + +<p>"Buy ye a new one? The man be dafty!" screamed Mary.</p> + +<p>"'Twas taking yew home what broke it," Peter explained.</p> + +<p>"Call this taking me home?" Mary shouted.</p> + +<p>"I done my best," said Peter; "'twas your weight what sent it over. +There'll be the cart, and the harness and the doctor's bill; 'twill cost +ye a heap o' money."</p> + +<p>"Dear life, hear the man talk!" said Mary, appealing to the snow which +was piled upon her ample form.</p> + +<p>"Mayhap there'll be funeral expenses," said Peter lugubriously; "I be +hurt dreadful."</p> + +<p>"Yew won't want the cart then," his sister muttered; "and I'll have the +pony."</p> + +<p>"Where be the pony?" Peter demanded.</p> + +<p>"Gone home likely; got more sense than we," said Mary. "Why doan't ye +get up, Peter?"</p> + +<p>"Get up wi' my two legs broke!" Peter replied in disgust.</p> + +<p>"Dear life, man, get up!" Mary went on, with real alarm. "If us doan't +get up soon us'll be stone dead carpses when us gets home."</p> + +<p>"I'll try, Mary, I'll try," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"Come up here, Peter; there be a sheltered spot over agin them rocks," +said Mary.</p> + +<p>"There be a sheltered spot down here," Peter answered; "'tis easier vor +yew to roll down than vor me to climb up."</p> + +<p>When the question had been argued, Mary went down; that is to say, she +groped and grovelled through the snow, half-rolling, half-sliding, until +she reached the shelter to which Peter had dragged himself. It was a +small cleft, a chimney, mountaineers would have called it, in the centre +of a rock-mass which made a small tor on the side of the cleave. +Normally, this chimney acted as a drain for the rock-basin above, but it +was then frozen up and dry. Peter was right at the back, huddled up as +he could never have been had any bones been broken. When Mary appeared +he dragged her in; she was almost too stout to pass inside, but as he +placed her she made an excellent protection for him against the storm. +Mary realised this, and suggested they should change places; but Peter +pointed out that in his shattered condition any movement might prove +fatal.</p> + +<p>Presently Mary began to cry, realizing the gravity of their position. +The snow was descending more thickly than ever, drifting up the side of +the cleave and choking the entrance to their cleft. Fortunately the +night was not very cold, and they were both warmly clad, while the snow +which was threatening to bury them was itself a protection. Help could +not possibly reach them while the night lasted; no one would know what +had befallen them, and they were unable to walk. When Mary began to cry +Peter abused her, until his thoughts also began to trouble him.</p> + +<p>"Think they'll put what's on my notice-board on my tombstone?" he +inquired.</p> + +<p>"Now doan't ye talk about tombstoanes, doan't ye now," implored Mary +tearfully.</p> + +<p>"Business is business," said Peter. "I told 'em to give me a great big +tombstone, and to put upon him, <i>Peter Tavy, Clock-maker, Photographer, +Dealer in Antiquities, Dartmoor Guide, Reeve of the Manor of Lydford, +Purveyor of Manure, and et cetera</i>."</p> + +<p>"Doan't ye worry about it; they'll put it all down," said Mary.</p> + +<p>"Us'll be buried together, same afternoon, half-past two likely," Peter +went on.</p> + +<p>"Doan't ye talk about funerals and tombstoanes," Mary implored. "Talk +about spicy wine, and goosey fair, and them wooden horses that go round +and round, and hurdy-gurdy music; talk about they, Peter."</p> + +<p>"It ain't the time," said Peter bitterly.</p> + +<p>A long dreary period of silence followed. Peter Tavy the village and +Mary Tavy its sister were completely snowed up; and in the cleave of the +river which divided the parishes Peter Tavy the man was snowed up with +Mary Tavy his sister. They were miserably cold and drowsy. The snow was +piled up in front of the chimney like a wall; there was hardly room for +Mary to move, and Peter kept on groaning. At length he roused himself to +remark: "Yew owes me a shillun."</p> + +<p>"What would I owe ye a shillun vor?" said Mary sharply, wide-awake +immediately at any suggestion of parting with money.</p> + +<p>"Vor the drive," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"I was to give ye a shillun vor taking me home, not vor breaking me +bones and leaving me to perish in Tavy Cleave," said Mary. "Yew ain't +earned the shillun, and I doan't see how yew'm going to."</p> + +<p>"Yew owes me a shillun," repeated her brother doggedly. "I done my best +to tak' ye home, and there was naught in your agreement wi' me about +accidents. I never contracted to tak' ye home neither."</p> + +<p>"Yew never promised to starve me wi' ice and snow on Tavy Cleave +neither," replied Mary.</p> + +<p>"I didn't promise nothing. I meant to tak' ye home, reasonable wear and +tear excepted; this here is reasonable wear and tear. Yew promised to +give me a shillun."</p> + +<p>"When yew put me down," added Mary.</p> + +<p>"Yew wur put down," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"Not to my door."</p> + +<p>"That warn't my fault," said Peter. "Twas your worriting what done it; +if yew hadn't worrited I'd have put ye out to Mary Tavy. Yew worrited +and upset the cart, and now we'm dying."</p> + +<p>"I b'ain't dying," said Mary stoutly.</p> + +<p>"I be," said Peter drearily. "I be all cold and nohow inside. I be a +going to die; I'd like to die wi' that shillun in my pocket."</p> + +<p>"Doan't ye go on about it, Peter. If yew'm dying yew'll soon be in a +place where yew won't want shilluns."</p> + +<p>"While I be here I want 'en," said Peter. "Yew'll be fearful sorry when +yew see me lying a cold carpse wi'out a shillun in my pocket."</p> + +<p>"Give over, can't ye," cried Mary. "You'll be giving me the creepies. If +yew wur to turn carpsy I wouldn't bide wi' ye."</p> + +<p>There was no reply. Silence fell again, and the only sound was the +moaning of the wind and the roaring of the Tavy; the snow went on +falling and drifting. Another hour passed, and then Mary shook off her +drowsiness, and called timidly, "Peter." There was no answer; she could +see nothing; her fear returned and she shuddered. "Peter," she called +again; there was still no reply. Mary pressed her stout figure forward +and reached out fearfully; she heard a groan. "Ah, doan't ye die," she +implored; "wait till us gets out o' this. What's the matter, Peter?"</p> + +<p>"Yew owes me a shillun," whispered a voice.</p> + +<p>"I doan't owe it, Peter, I doan't," cried Mary. "If yew had drove me +across the river I'd have paid ye, I would; but us be still in the +parish of Peter Tavy——"</p> + +<p>She was interrupted by another and a deeper groan. "Be yew that bad?" +she asked earnestly.</p> + +<p>"I be like an old clock past mending," Peter answered. "My mainspring be +broke; I be about to depart this life, December the twenty-seventh, +eighteen hundred and eighty-one, aged fifty-eight, in hopes of being +thoroughly cleaned and repaired and set a going in the world to come."</p> + +<p>"Can't I do anything vor ye, Peter?" asked Mary gently.</p> + +<p>"Yew can give me the shillun yew owes me," replied Peter.</p> + +<p>"'Tis hard of ye to want a shillun if yew'm dying."</p> + +<p>"Business is business," Peter moaned.</p> + +<p>Fumbling in the little black bag she carried beneath her skirt, Mary +produced a coin and held it out, saying sadly: "Here 'tis, Peter; I +doan't want to give it to ye, but if 'twill make yew die happy, I must."</p> + +<p>With singular agility Peter reached out his hand, and after groping a +little in the darkness secured the precious coin. He felt it, he bit it, +and he asked with suspicion: "How I be to know 'tis a shillun? He tastes +like a halfpenny."</p> + +<p>"I know 'tis a shillun; I ain't got no coppers," Mary answered.</p> + +<p>Peter's groans ceased from that moment; he pocketed the coin and +chuckled.</p> + +<p>"I be a lot better," he said; "my legs b'ain't quite broke, I reckon, +and I ain't so cold inside, neither."</p> + +<p>Mary's reply was too eccentric to mention.</p> + +<p>So soon as it was day a party of villagers set out from Peter Tavy well +supplied with blankets and stimulants; Peter and Mary were not the only +ones missing that fateful morning. The pony had returned to its stable +the evening before, and had been seen by the local constable trailing +its broken harness past the beer-house. An attempt had been made to find +the couple then, but their tracks were completely hidden. Snow was still +descending as the relief party waded through the drifts upon the edge of +the cleave. The moor had disappeared during the night, and a strange +region of white mountains had risen in its stead. The searchers worked +their way on, with a hopeless feeling that they were only wasting their +time, when they thought they heard a whistle. They stopped and argued +the matter like the three jolly huntsmen; one said it was a man, another +said it was a bird, and another it was the wind. They were all wrong; it +was a woman. Out of the centre of a huge white mass down the cleave +appeared a black scarf tied to the end of an umbrella.</p> + +<p>Peter and Mary were rescued, not without difficulty, because the snow +was four feet in depth on the side of the cleave, and were conveyed in +due course to their respective villages. Being a hardy couple they were +little the worse for their adventure, although Peter posed as an invalid +to the end of his days, and sought parish relief in consequence; that +was simply a matter of business.</p> + +<p>So soon as the roads became passable and he was able to walk, Peter +tramped across to Mary Tavy, to pay his sister a friendly, and a +business, visit. "There be ten shilluns yew owes vor breaking my cart +and harness," he explained. "When be yew a going to pay?"</p> + +<p>"Never," replied Mary decidedly.</p> + +<p>"Then I'll tak' ye into court," said Peter.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_CHRISTENING_OF_THE_FIFTEEN_PRINCESSES" id="THE_CHRISTENING_OF_THE_FIFTEEN_PRINCESSES"></a>THE CHRISTENING OF THE FIFTEEN PRINCESSES</h2> + +<h3>A MODERN FAIRY TALE</h3> + + +<p>Once upon a time there was a village called Lew, and it was perched on +the top of a hill 999 feet, 11 inches high. That is the way fairy-tales +have to begin; they insist upon going back into the remote past; but +unfortunately the village of Lew has come down to our own days, and so +has the big hill on which it stands. If we start over again with, "Once +upon a time there was a man of Lew who had fifteen daughters," we are +confronted by exactly the same difficulty; for the man is still alive, +and the fifteen daughters look as if they never would, nor could, belong +to the period when little pixy maids were to be seen any night running +round and round the furze-bushes. The only way out of the difficulty is +to be courageous, to tell the truth, and say: At the top of a hill 999 +feet, 11 inches high—some say it is 1,000 feet, but that is not +true—stands the village of Lew, where dwells a man named Heathman, who +has fifteen daughters and not a single son; and the daughters are all +princesses, although it is not easy to say why; but as they are pretty, +and this is a fairy-tale, they must be.</p> + +<p>The little village lies within a kind of ring-fence of ash and +sycamores, which shelter the cob houses from the furious gales which +boom and bluster over the Dartmoor tors. The wind is always sighing and +moaning. It is cool upon the hottest day in August, and probably that is +why Lew imports weak-chested people in some quantity. A regular business +is done with big, smoky Bristol. Lew says to Bristol in its own +language, "Us ha' butiful air up over in Demshur, and us ha' a proper +plenty o' cream and butter and suchlike, but us ain't got much golden +money. If yew sends us sickly volk, they can buy our cream and butter, +and us will send 'em back strong." Bristol sees the force of this +argument, and packs up and sends off its weak-chested folk, who reason, +quite sensibly, "What's the use of being ill when we can go to the top +of Lew hill and get well?" There is a tariff, of course, for Lew does +not believe in free imports. The weak-chested folk must buy cream and +butter and suchlike in vast quantities, or they would be promptly +deported under the local Aliens Act. As a matter of fact, they buy Lew +produce without any grumbling; they do even more than they are wanted +to, and are actually spoiling Lew—where tips are unknown and a man will +do an extraordinary lot of work for two shillings—by raising the +prices. They get absurdly grateful, these visitors, who enter Lew weak +and thin, and are exported brown and fat and sleek, like porpoises.</p> + +<p>It is the importation of so much foreign raw material that has built up +the fortunes of the fairy family called Heathman. His Majesty, the +father—hereinafter called King Heathman—was village cobbler before he +came to the throne. After his accession he procured a horse and cart, +and conveyed people to and from the distant station. He also annexed +several acres of grass territory, by a process of peaceful penetration, +and went in for cows and dairy produce. These two businesses developed +so wonderfully that he dropped the cobbling, at which it must be owned +he was always rather a poor hand. The weak-chested imports have to be +brought up from the station ill, and taken back well; and while they are +on the top of Lew hill they pass the time consuming cream, butter, milk, +and eggs, which are provided by King Heathman, and delivered morning and +evening by the golden-haired princesses. Their Majesties of the +Palace—two cottages of red cob knocked into one—are busy people, and +have no time for boasting; nor do they appear to think they have done +anything out of the way in bringing up fifteen model princesses, not one +of whom has ever given her parents an hour's anxiety. Sickness, some one +will suggest; but that is a ridiculous idea, for the residents of Lew +are never ill, and they live just as long as they like. Mrs. +Heathman—hereinafter called Queen Heathman—looks the picture of health +and strength, and only last Revel Week was footing it merrily after a +long day's work, and dancing one or two anæmic young maids from foreign +lands like Plymouth to a standstill. Old Grandfather Heathman, His +Majesty's father, who is so much addicted to Lew that he won't die, had +the impertinence to be dancing too. He must be nearly a hundred, though +he neither knows nor cares about his age, and will merely state in the +course of conversation that he intends to live out the present century, +because he is so fond of the place. Old Grandfather Heathman is probably +the only man now living in England who has witnessed a fatal duel, which +was fought some time in the dark ages between the son of the then rector +of Lew and a young doctor, a lady being of course the cause. The +unfortunate young doctor, who very likely had never handled a sword +before, was quickly killed by his opponent, who was an army officer. A +stone still marks the spot, but it has become so overgrown with brambles +that only Grandfather Heathman knows where to look for it.</p> + +<p>The crown princess is just twenty-three. The girls are nicely dressed, +well educated, and speak and behave like little angels. If Romney were +alive, he would want to paint them all. They are so pretty, these +fifteen princesses of Lew. Each has a slender figure, wild-rose +complexion, shy eyes, and fair hair. But it must not be imagined they +are dancing princesses. One plays the American organ (which was alluded +to with less respect as the harmonium twenty years ago) in the church; +another is pupil-teacher; another manages the Sunday-school. They milk +the cows and attend to the dairy work. All of them love animals; each +has her dog, or cat, or bird, generally with her in work or in play. +When you meet a pretty, well-dressed girl in Lew, you will not—unless +you are the latest importation—ask her name. You will say, "And what is +your number?" She will blush delightfully, lower her shy eyes, put her +hands behind her back, and tell you.</p> + +<p>When the first child was born the neighbours offered their +congratulations, and said, "Of course you will call her Annie." In this +part of the country it is absolutely necessary to have a girl in the +family of that name, and it is most unorthodox to call the first girl +anything else. But King Heathman rebelled against custom. He did not +care for the name Annie. He liked something daintier, something more +unusual and fanciful. No doubt there is a vein of poetry somewhere in +His Majesty's system. King Heathman stated plainly he would not hare his +daughter named Annie. He would go to the rector and ask him to supply a +name. The good people of Lew were horrified at such heresy. They pointed +out what a great risk he was running. It was quite possible he would not +have another daughter, and thus his family would be branded with the +disgrace of having no Annie. But King Heathman hardened his heart yet +more, and tramped off to the rectory.</p> + +<p>The rector of Lew is a scholar of the old type, an unconscious pedant +who can hardly open his lips without quoting Latin or Greek, a type +which before another twenty years have gone will be as extinct as the +pixies. The rector of Lew is almost as much a curiosity of the past as +Grandfather Heathman, only when people plant themselves on the top of +the big hill 999 feet, 11 inches high, it never seems to occur to them +that they are mortal. The rector solved the royal difficulty at once, +and in the most natural way possible. "She is the first child. Let us +call her either Prima or Una," he said. "Una is a pretty name."</p> + +<p>"That 'tis, sir—that 'tis." For reasons of his own King Heathman always +prefers to use the dialect of his country.</p> + +<p>"You will find the name in the <i>Faerie Queene</i> written by Spenser," the +rector continued.</p> + +<p>"Old John Spencer over to Treedown?" suggested His Majesty, who had not +dabbled much in classics.</p> + +<p>"No; Edmund Spenser, who lived in the reign of Queen Elizabeth."</p> + +<p>"Aw, yes, sir, I knows 'en," said King Heathman.</p> + +<p>Of course he didn't, but perhaps he was referring to the queen. Every +one in Lew knows Queen Elizabeth intimately, because there is a little +old house in the village where she was fond of putting up for the night +occasionally. This house is still furnished very much as it was in the +sixteenth century, but whether the Maiden Lady ever saw or heard of Lew +is another matter. It is certain, however, that Queen Elizabeth occupied +most of her long reign travelling about the country in order that she +might sleep in out-of-the-way manor-houses. Whenever you visit any old +house in this neighbourhood it is only polite to say, "Queen Elizabeth +slept here, of course?" And then you will be shown the room and the bed, +and if you go on being polite you may very possibly see the sheets and +blankets and pillow-slips also, with the pillow itself still marked with +the impression of Queen Elizabeth's head.</p> + +<p>Princess Heathman was duly christened Una, to the delight of her father, +and the horror of the inhabitants. Every one breathed a sigh of relief +when a second princess favoured Lew with her appearance. After all, the +Heathmans would not be disgraced. There would be an Annie in the family, +though they hardly deserved it after letting the first chance slip. King +Heathman remained as silent as the Sphinx, and about as mysterious. When +the time came for the royal christening, the church was filled. The +rector received a particularly plump bundle from Queen Heathman, and +placed it snugly into the hollow of his arm. He dipped his hand into the +font, and the whisper of "Annie" went about the church. The next moment +they heard, "Secunda, I baptise thee...."</p> + +<p>The next year Princess Tertia was christened, and then Princess Quarta. +Even the rector admitted Quarta was rather an unusual name, but His +Majesty revelled in it, and would hear of nothing else. Every one said Q +was such an awkward initial; and they had to make the same remark next +year when Princess Quinta was brought to the font. "Sounds like squint," +said one of the grumblers; but not one would venture to suggest such a +thing now. By this time the gossips of Lew had pretty well accommodated +themselves to the idea that King Heathman was irreclaimable. Annie, +Bessie, and Lucy were the orthodox village names for young ladies; and +it was perfectly clear he would have none of them.</p> + +<p>In quick succession princesses were hurried to the font, and the +unromantic ears of the congregation were astonished by a list of +beautiful names—Sexta, Septima, Octava, Nona of the wonderful eyes, and +Decima of the sunny hair. But when the eleventh princess was brought to +church a serious difficulty arose. A perfect understanding existed +between His Majesty and the court chaplain. The father had no idea what +the name of his new daughter was to be when she was handed into the +scholar's arms. The rector did not use the formula, "Name this child," +but substituted the question, "What is her number?" or words to that +effect. On this occasion, when the question was put, and King Heathman +had answered, "Eleven, sir," the rector paused. Then he whispered, +"Would you like Undecima?"</p> + +<p>"Aw, sir, proper. Let's ha' 'en," was the eager answer.</p> + +<p>The rector hesitated. Across his classical mind flashed the Latin +numbers ahead. The twelfth princess would have to be christened +Duodecima, and after that such names became impossible. So he whispered, +"Undecima is too much like Decima. We must think of something else."</p> + +<p>"As yew like, sir," said his accommodating Majesty, although in +distinctly disappointed tones.</p> + +<p>"Now there will be an Annie," murmured those villagers who were nearest +the font and had overheard the discussion.</p> + +<p>While the rector was deliberating his eyes fell among flowers, the +church happening to be decorated for a festival, and bunches of the +white cluster-rose known as the Seven Sisters being twined about the +font; and he suggested that, if King Heathman was agreeable, a bevy of +flower-named princesses would be a pleasing relief after the dull +monotony of numbers.</p> + +<p>"Twill do fine, sir," said King Heathman.</p> + +<p>And that is how the Princess Rosa came to be christened.</p> + +<p>But princesses went on filling the palace, and names were soon running +short again. Rosa had been followed by Lilia, Viola, and Veronica. King +Heathman was becoming fastidious. He had imbibed so much raw material of +knowledge from the court chaplain that he was beginning to regard +himself as a scholar of some importance. Then his royalty was increasing +in Lew; and he always wore a hard hat, which, in this part of the +country, is a sign, not exactly of majesty, but of stability and +respectability. He still hankered after the numbers, and was looking +forward to the birth of a twentieth princess who could be called +Vicesima. The fifteenth princess had just made her appearance, and the +father continued to disregard the petition of the neighbours praying him +to call her Annie before it was too late. It happened one day that he +cast his eyes upon two flowering shrubs which grew in pots, one at each +side of the palace gates. King Heathman could not remember the name of +these shrubs, though he had been told often enough, so he called Tertia, +and asked her to enlighten him.</p> + +<p>"The name is on the tip of my tongue, but I can't get it out," said +Tertia. "I'll call Una."</p> + +<p>Una is court encyclopædia. She appeared with her beautiful hair ruffled, +for she had been deep in arithmetic when Tertia called her, trying to +paper an imaginary room, having most impossible angles, with imaginary +wall-paper at the ridiculous price of one penny three-farthings a yard.</p> + +<p>"What be the name o' that plant?" asked His Majesty.</p> + +<p>"That is a hydrangea," said Una, in a delightfully prim and pedantic +fashion; and then she slipped back to her wall-papering at a penny +three-farthings a yard.</p> + +<p>"What b'est going to call the new maiden?" shouted the blacksmith a few +moments later over the palace gates.</p> + +<p>"Hydrangea," answered King Heathman grimly. Then he went into the state +apartments to break the news to his wife, leaving the blacksmith to have +a fit upon the road, or to go on to his smithy and have it there.</p> + +<p>For the first time Queen Heathman rebelled. She said it was ridiculous +to give the child a name like that: she was surprised that the rector +should have thought of it, and she—</p> + +<p>But at that point her husband interrupted with the famous remark of the +White Knight to Alice "'Tis my own invention."</p> + +<p>This gave Queen Heathman free licence to exercise her tongue. She talked +botany for some time, and concluded with such words as: "You'll call the +poor maids vegetables next. If us ha' another maiden you'll call her +Broad Bean, I reckon, and the next Scarlet Runner."</p> + +<p>"One Scarlet Runner be plenty, my dear," said her husband, with regal +pleasantry.</p> + +<p>"What do ye mean?"</p> + +<p>"Bain't your tongue one, my dear?"</p> + +<p>This was a libel, for Queen Heathman is remarkably silent—for a woman. +She had to laugh at her husband's little Joke. They have always been a +devoted couple, and this little tiff was in perfect good-humour. +Finally, King Heathman went off to the rectory, where he discovered the +court chaplain and the Home Secretary chatting upon the lawn. Without +any preamble he disclosed his difficulty, and proposed that the +fifteenth princess should be named Hydrangea. There was no seconder. The +motion was declared lost, and the subject was thrown open for +discussion.</p> + +<p>The Home Secretary suggested that the princess just born and her eleven +successors should be given the names of the months; and when he rolled +forth such stately titles as Januaria, Februaria, Martia, His Majesty +trembled. However, it occurred to him there might not be sufficient +princesses to exhaust the months, and he stated with much dignity of +language that he should not like to have an incomplete set. Then the +Christian virtues were suggested, Faith, Patience, Charity, Mercy, Hope; +but King Heathman would have none of them, not because he despised the +virtues, but because he considered that his daughters had them all.</p> + +<p>Then the rector interposed in his quiet manner:</p> + +<p>"The child shall be called Serena."</p> + +<p>"What do 'en mean, sir?" asked King Heathman eagerly.</p> + +<p>"It means free from care."</p> + +<p>"That's it, sir—that's it," said His Majesty, expressing satisfaction +in his usual way.</p> + +<p>"It is an appropriate name," the rector went on. "It implies a perfectly +happy condition. There may be dangers, but the girl shall not know of +them. There may be difficulties, but they shall not trouble her—at +least, we will hope so," he added with a smile.</p> + +<p>"Thank ye, sir," said King Heathman. "And what will be the next name?" +he asked hopefully.</p> + +<p>"The next?" said the rector, still in his classical musings. "Why, the +next child shall be called Placida."</p> + +<p>But for some reason or other the Princess Placida has never come to +claim her name. Serena appears to be the last. She is still a toddler. +Almost any day of the week you may see her, fat and jolly, and extremely +free from care, staggering between Septima and Octava as they go +a-milking. She is generally embracing a yellow and very ugly cat, in +lieu of a doll. If you ask her name, she is just able to lisp, "I'se +Swena."</p> + +<p>The gossips of Lew have revenged themselves upon King Heathman. They +refuse to call the baby Serena. They call her Annie.</p> + +<p>And they are all living happily ever afterwards.</p> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 34576 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..de390ed --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #34576 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34576) diff --git a/old/34576-8.txt b/old/34576-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..04f1014 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/34576-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2212 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of By Violence, by John Trevena + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: By Violence + +Author: John Trevena + +Release Date: December 5, 2010 [EBook #34576] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BY VIOLENCE *** + + + + +Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org + + + + + + + + +BY VIOLENCE + +By + +JOHN TREVENA + +Author of "Bracken", "Sleeping Waters", etc. + + +With an Introduction by + +EDWARD O'BRIEN + + +BOSTON + +THE FOUR SEES COMPANY + +PUBLISHERS + +1918 + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +For eight years or more, since I first became acquainted with the novels +and tales of John Trevena it has been my firm conviction that only +Thomas Hardy and George Moore among contemporary novelists rival his art +at its best. Like Meredith, he has written for twenty years in +obscurity, and like Meredith also he has been content with a small +discriminating audience. I suppose that in 1950 our grandchildren will +be electing college courses on his literary method, but meanwhile it +would be more gratifying if there were even a slight public response to +the quality of his individual talent. + +Trevena's novels are the expression of a passionate feeling for Nature, +regarded as the sum of human personality and experience, in all its +moods,--benign and malign, as man is benign and malign, and faithful to +life in the stone as well as the flower. What a gallery of memorable +characters they are, Mary and Peter Tavy, Brightly, Cuthbert Orton, +Jasper Ramrige, Anthonie and Petronel, William and Yellow Leaf, Captain +Drake and dark Pendoggat, Ann Code, Cyril Rossingall, and a hundred +others, passionate and gentle, with wind and water and earth and sky for +a chorus, and the shifting pageantry of Nature as a stage. + +His fourteen volumes reveal a gift for characterization equalled by none +of the contemporary English realists, and a Shakespearian humor +elsewhere gone from our day. In _Furze the Cruel_, _Bracken_, _Wintering +Hay_, and _Sleeping Waters_, to name no others, John Trevena has written +novels of Dartmoor that will take their rightful place in the great +English line, when the honest carpentering of Phillpotts that now +overshadows them is totally forgotten. + +The feeling has spread among Trevena's few critical American admirers +who have written about him, that he is fundamentally morbid and +one-sided. On the contrary, I know of few novelists who are more +recklessly and irresistibly gay, in whom sheer fun bubbles over so +spontaneously and wholeheartedly. To ignore life's harshness is simply +to ignore life. Trevena's many-sidedness will be apparent only when +there is a definitive edition of his work. His habit of confining a +novel to a single mood or passion of nature, together with the fact that +Americans have only had an opportunity to read those novels by him which +deal with nature's most cruel moods, have done the reputation of Trevena +a grave injustice. + +_By Violence_ and _Matrimony_ are Trevena's most beautiful short tales, +and I hardly know which is the finer revelation of poetic grace and +gentle vision. Their message is conveyed so quietly that they may be +read for their sensuous beauty only, and yet convey a rare pleasure. If +their feeling is veiled and somewhat aloof from the common ways of men, +there is none the less a fine human sympathy concealed in them, and a +golden radiance indissolubly woven into their pages. + +If Nature's power is inevitable in these stories, it is also kind, and I +like to think that from _By Violence_ as a text a new reading of earth +may be deciphered. Trevena has written the books of furze and heather +and granite and bracken, which outlast time on the hills of Dartmoor. +But this tale hints at a fifth force which survives all the others. Some +day, when the wind is strong, John Trevena will write the book of "The +Rain-drop," which is the gentlest of all elements, and yet outlasts the +stone. + + Edward J. O'Brien + +_South Yarmouth, Mass._ + _February 26, 1918_ + + + + +BY VIOLENCE + + +"Dear Sir,-- + "The wooden enemies are out. + "Yours obediently, + "Oliver Vorse." + +Simon Searell read this short message as he tramped the streets of +Stonehouse, which were full of fog, from the sea on one side and the +river on the other. Vorse was an uneducated man; the mysticism of +flowers was nothing to him, the time of spring was merely a change of +season, and the most spiritual of blooms were only "wooden enemies." +Searell frowned a little, not at the lack of education, which was rather +a peace to be desired, but at the harshness of the words, and went on, +wondering if the wood-anemones were to be his friends, or little cups of +poison. + +He climbed streets of poor houses, their unhappy windows curtained with +mist, and came out near a small church made of iron, a cheap and gaudy +thing, almost as squalid on the outside as the houses. The backslider +looked at it with a shudder. It was his no longer; he had given it up; +he was forgetting those toy-like altars, the cheap brass candlesticks, +the artificial flowers, and all the images. They were wooden and stone +enemies to him now. He was going deeper to find the throbbing heart of +religion, putting aside dolls and tapers and the sham of sentimentality. +Solitude and mysticism were to be his stars through the night, and he +trusted, with their aid, to reach the dawn. He turned from the church, +stopped at a house, and that was squalid too, knocked, then wiped his +boots, as if certain of being admitted. + +"Father Damon?" he asked shortly. Searell's voice was sweet; he had +helped people "home," as they called it, with his tongue, not with his +soul, just as a sweet-toned organ calls for tears with the beauty of its +sounds, though the instrument itself is dead. + +"Yes, your reverence," the housekeeper answered, as shortly; and Searell +walked up the foggy stairs murmuring to himself, "The wind-flowers are +out, and I am free." + +Father Damon stood in a little square room hideously papered. He was +small, dark, heavy-featured, peasant-like; and Searell saw at a glance +that his successor was as dull in many ways as Oliver Vorse. All that he +knew had been forced upon him almost violently; he had not gone forth +gathering for himself, he dared not, his mind had been tilled by careful +teachers, kept under restraint, all his side-growths pruned away, in +order that orthodoxy might develop in one large unlovely head. When the +order went forth to kneel, he knelt, and when it was time to lift his +eyes to Heaven, he lifted them. It was a life of prison, and he could +never smell the woodland through the fog of incense. + +"He knows nothing," muttered Searell. "He thinks it is daylight where he +stands." + +"I come to give you information about the mission," he said aloud, and +then began; but the telling took some time. How troublesome, how paltry, +the details; and Father Damon was so dull. Everything had to be +repeated, explained so carefully; and was it worth the words? The +successor was very earnest, but not enthusiastic, that had been crushed +out of him; and Searell grew impatient at the wooden figure, with its +simple face and child-like questions. He spoke faster, almost angrily, +desiring to get away and smell the earth; and his eyes wandered about +the room, which was so unlovely, not bare, but filled with those things +that make for the nakedness of life. There was wanting something to +galvanise that sluggish Damon into passion, to destroy the machinery, +turn him into a strong animal with dilating nostrils. One little touch +would have done it. A portrait of a pretty woman upon the mantelshelf +would have gone far; but there was nothing except pictures of mythical +saints. + +"You are retiring. You seem strong and well," said Damon, when he had +obtained all the information that was required. + +Searell was in a hurry to be gone, as the sleeper struggles to awake +from a bad dream; but that voice and its stagnant repose aroused him. + +"I am old, I am sixty," he said. "I am beginning again, trying to find +what the Church has not shown me." + +"What is that?" + +"Light." + +Damon stared with the eyes of horror, and put out his peasant-like hands +as if to force away some weight that pressed against him; but he said +nothing. + +"I will not depart in the odour of hypocrisy. Listen," said Searell. "I +am far from saying that the Church does not lead towards a kind of +light; but it has not led me. And this do I say, that in the world at +large all religion is a failure; and I am going to find mine in the +solitudes." + +"The truth is in the Church. It is your fault if you have missed it," +said Damon, in a hollow voice, hoping that the other, for the sake of +his soul, was mad. + +"It is there for some, the minority. You will never realize how small +that minority is. We cannot hasten the dawn with juggling. True religion +is a thing of innocence, not a matter of spells and charms; and it is in +the innocence of Nature that I will search for it. I believe it exists +there, underneath the outward cruelty, and I shall find it among the +flowers. The flower alone does not struggle with violence, it sheds no +blood; the weed smothers, and the bindweed chokes; but without some +fault upon the surface, perfection might be obtained, which cannot be. +Look into the flower, and you will find a condition which is not +approached by man or other animals. There is a purity which brings tears +into your eyes. Eliminate violence, and you have innocence; obtain +innocence, and you see the light. At the beginning of things we are told +that the world was destroyed by water because the earth was filled with +violence. At the beginning of the new era we learn that the Kingdom of +Heaven suffereth violence. Will you say the Church does not rule by +violence, by threats, suppressions, rubrics, and by vows?" + +"I cannot understand you," said Damon. + +"Will you understand when I say that the God of life is to be found +among the flowers?" + +The other shook his head and looked frightened. Free speech was not +allowed, and, if it had been, he would not have known how to use it. He +walked between rubrics, turning neither to the right hand nor to the +left; and the living lily was a thing for funeral wreaths. For the +altars, artificial flowers were good enough, as they did not require +renewing, and they looked real to the congregation, and how they were +regarded elsewhere did not concern him; and whether they had been made +by sweated labour did not concern him, because he was not allowed to +think, and he himself was artificial, neither man nor animal, but a +side-growth of supernaturalism. + +"Let me go on now I have begun," said Searell. "I am leaving here, and +my words will not live after me. I am a man who has tested life, who has +been through every experience, and I have discovered that what morality +calls bad is often good, and that which we call virtue sometimes springs +from vice. The purest water runs upon mud, only you must not rake it up. +In my youth I served as a soldier, and upon leaving the army I sought +the Church, partly to find a rest, chiefly, perhaps, because my mind was +mystical. But nothing was revealed, and nothing could be, for the mystic +must be free; and the priest is a soul in prison, and the book of his +captivity is always before him. Here he must join his hands; there he +must lift his eyes to Heaven, prostrate himself, kiss the altar, until +the time comes when he feels alone, cut off from the Creator of his +dreams by these mechanics, horribly alone among images; and he seems to +hear a voice asking sorrowfully, 'What is this rule you are following? +Who told you to do this? Go out upon the hills and into the woods, for I +am there.' But he cannot move, for the time has come to join his hands +again, and the revelation passes unseen, because he has to keep his eyes +shut. It is written so, and he must obey." + +"I cannot answer you," muttered Damon; and it was true, for these words +took him outside the well-worn groove and dropped him useless. + +"If I found the man who could, I would follow him," came the answer, and +the white-headed priest passed a hand across his eyes, as if trying to +brush the fog away. "I have been longing to escape for years. The iron +of the little mission-church has eaten into my soul. I ought to have +resigned? Why so, when I performed all my duties? Without means I could +not have faced the world, for the mystic is not a practical man, and +these hands," he said, frowning, "they are hands to be despised, for +they have done nothing. No, do not answer me, you cannot, you are bound. +I am free. A year ago I was left money--" + +"A curse." + +"If you will, a curse to buy a pathway to my Heaven. There was a place I +pined for, up on the heights of Dartmoor, a valley among mountains. I +have bought it. They call it Pixyland." + +"Paganism," cried the peasant-priest hoarsely, and crossed himself. + +"Purity," said Searell, in his sweet voice. "Pure air, pure hills, pure +loneliness. It is a place of rocks, of heather and large-rooted ferns, +and it is very steep, terrace rising upon terrace to the heights. At the +bottom of the valley are trees; here also is a wild path and a wild +stream broken upon the rocks, and becoming whole again at the foot of a +glen. For centuries the place has been haunted in men's imagination, and +they have avoided it because it is a garden of--angels. I am going now +to make it bloom, I am going to grasp that solitude and weave with it a +mantle of light. I am going to walk on my pixy-path and watch the +shadows creeping up and down my pixy-glen; and the growth will come, the +growth of knowledge, and of consciousness; and there I may meet my +Gardener, driven out of the world by violence, out of the Church by +violence, revealing Himself, not tortured, cross-laden, and frowning, +and not awful, but as the smiling Guardian of the flowers." + +There was hardly a sound in the cold room, stiff with the antique +pictures of quaint saints, dark with that dull peasant born to be ruled; +and yet Searell was going out with a haunted face, passing like a +phantom from the house of poverty, and the wet board with Mass notices, +and the waste of ground heaped up with rubbish. There was a pear-tree +leaning from the waste, a tree which the builders had forgotten, and +from the tree hung a broken branch, and at the end of that branch, +beneath the buds of spring, were two black leaves neglected by the +winter, side by side, struggling with one another; for there was wind +down the street which made them struggle; but neither dropped, and they +fought on silently while the wind lasted. + +"Violence even in dead things," Searell murmured; and, reaching up his +hand, he quieted those two restless leaves for ever. + + + + +II + + +Oliver Vorse was lying among the wood-anemones, and he was drunk. He +would have looked like a monster had his condition been rare; but it was +common, therefore Vorse was not abnormal, only a fool. He did not know +where he was, in the pixy-path upon the wind-flowers, crushing so many +with his sodden carcase, while the pure pixy-water trickled underneath. +He had come the wrong way at the turning of the path; instead of +ascending to the house, which was the way of difficulty, he had stepped +downwards choosing the path of ease, as men will, even when sober. The +state of his body was nothing, as nobody would see him except Sibley, +his wife. The master was expected tomorrow, and then he would have to +pretend to be a man. + +The moon was young, a cradle of silver, and the stars were wrapped in +sleep-compelling clouds; and all the light that there was seemed to come +from the anemones which Vorse was defiling. The little white things were +lanterns, retaining light, but not giving it forth, and a stickle of +water shone like a shield. There was such a wonderful purity in Nature +apart from the man. Everything seemed to bear the mark of beauty and +holiness except him. It was out of the world in that fairy garden +hanging between the cities and the clouds, and the vices of the world +were out of place; and yet there was no barrier which they could not +leap across. + +A light appeared thick and heavy, putting out the eyes of the flowers. +It wobbled down the natural terraces, weather-hewn from granite, and +with it came a voice suggesting more violence, harsh and angry, not a +voice of the clouds, but of the street-corner, where faces are thin and +fierce, and the paving-stones seem cruel. Sibley was searching for her +husband, not because she loved him, nor requiring his company for any +reason except the selfish one that the loneliness above frightened her, +and her small spirit quailed before the heaving moorland. Any sort of a +brute was better than the God of the mountains. She stumbled over an +obstacle, lowered the lantern, but it was a mass of granite carved +cynically by centuries of rain into the semblance of a tombstone. Again +she stumbled, and now it was the trunk of a tree, phosphorescent with +rottenness. A third time she stumbled, and so found her master with the +rottenness of the fallen tree, without the strength of the granite. + +She kicked him, struck him with the greasy lantern, and swore. + +"Get up, dirty swine. Get up, will ye? Mind what the master told yew? +and he'm coming in the morning." + +Oliver only growled and snored. This was his form of mysticism, and it +was a kind of happiness. If master had dreams, why not he? Master could +dream at one end of creation, he at the other. There was plenty of time. +Sibley was only twenty-four, Oliver not much older. When life is young +the end of it is a myth, and passion is the god. + +There was another light down the pixy-path, very steady and soft. Had it +been blue it might have been a thing of the bog, looking for the body it +had thrown away, but it was white, and it flickered hardly at all, for +the night was smothered up and the winds were slumbering. It came up the +path with a kind of gliding rather terrible and there was not a sound +around it. The master was approaching in the night. Having completed the +last duty sooner than he had anticipated, he acted on the impulse. There +was time to escape, so why wait for the morning? And there would be the +glamour of passing through the dark towards clouds and mistland. The +preparations of a man in earnest take no time. He must put a taper in +his pocket, the last relic of the church he was leaving, as the night +would be heavy upon the pathway, and he must walk there and see the +wood-anemones in flower and feel the peace settling upon his eyelids. +There was no time to be lost, for he was old, and still a child, with +everything to learn. + +Sibley saw the figure, and screamed, supposing it to be a spirit doing +penance for past sins with the lighted candle; while her husband heaved +and called for drink. + +Searell stood upon the path. The wind-flowers were out, but their heads +were hanging in shame; there was no spiritual life in them, they were +already dead like the two black leaves upon the pear tree, and the +destroyed of life was that heap of flesh upon them. He had come away +from the world to forget its violence, and here it was upon his mystic +pathway. He had come to find his God upon the flowers, and had found a +drunken man instead. + +He was calm, to Sibley he looked divine, as he placed the candle in the +niche of a gaping boulder, and she wondered at his restraint. He was a +god, for he had made her, had saved her from street life, and might +still save Oliver if he could bear with him. They were not of his +religion, they were only devil-worshippers, and yet he had stooped down +and dragged them almost by violence from the rubbish-pit. + +"Forgive 'en this once, master," she cried. "I'll see he don't fall +again. Us didn't look vor ye till the morning, and Oliver went down, and +this be how he comed back." + +There was a flat rock above the pixy-water, and here Searell seated +himself, saying, "Do not speak. Your voice is harsh." + +For some moments the only sounds were the deep breathing of Vorse and +the tinkling of the stream. The flame of the candle did not flicker, and +Sibley remained as motionless, her hands clasped before her, looking +down. Then Searell spoke: + +"I walked along a street, and at a dark end of it a man and woman were +fighting. They were young and fierce. As I came near, the man threw the +woman down and thumped her in the back, I separated them by violence. +They respected my profession, and did not greatly resent my +interference. So there was good in them, but, like young beasts, they +had run wild, and no man had tamed them. You know of whom I am +speaking?" + +"Yes, master, I reckon," she whispered. + +"At that time they were living together, although unmarried. I told them +I should be requiring a couple to attend to me and my home, and I +promised to engage them if they would be legally wedded. But conditions +were imposed. One of them has been broken tonight." + +"It won't ever happen again, master." + +"I have myself to think of. There must be selfishness," said Searell. +"There is no escaping from it. If one condition is broken, another may +be. You remember the other?" + +"Yes, master--no children." + +The words sounded harsh, in that fairy place, and they seemed to agree +rather with the breathing of the drunken man than with the ringing of +the stream. + +"Perhaps I am hard, but I have my peace of mind to consider. A child's +cry, a child's mischievous ways, would destroy it. There is no room in +my house for children, and this is not the place for them. I have a +search to make," he murmured. "The scream of infants would lead me far +astray. You will remember?" + +"Us ha' no other home, master." + +"You will remember?" + +"Yes, master." + +"I will forget what has happened tonight," said Searell, bending from +the rock, dipping his hand into the pixy-water. "Let this be a time of +regeneration for us all. Do you respect a ceremony?" + +"Yes, master, I reckon," she said again, though she could not understand +him. + +"We will lead a new life," he said, with a smile which was visible in +the light of candle and lantern. + +Sibley stepped forward as Oliver lifted himself with heavy movements, +and muttered a half-conscious "Ask your pardon, master." + +Searell brought up a little of the bright water, and sprinkled the +woman, then the man, without any other sign, and with the words in his +soft mystic voice, "I receive you into the new life." + +Then he picked up the taper and went, leaving the man and woman afraid +of him. + + + + +III + + +After a year in Pixyland, what was there? A garden, a place of almost +unearthly beauty, and through it the master moved slowly, clad no longer +in the clothes of religion, nor even in the garments of respectability; +his coat sack-like, its pockets bulging with bulbs and tubers, and his +hair was in white ringlets, and his hands were often in the warm earth, +grubbing out furze-roots. The terrestrial paradise had been attained; +down the steep slopes poured a cascade of colour, the pixy-path was +alight all night with white, out of the pixy-water rose golden osmundas +and the ghostly spiræa; and Searell's face was also ghostly, it was +hungry, and the eyes were dull. It was not the face of the priest who +had built up the mission, for that had been eager. It was not the face +of the mystic who had walked up the path by candlelight, for that had +been happy. It was not the face of the spiritualist who feels he is +conquering the atmosphere, nor that of a dreamer. It was the face of one +who was sad. + +Searell had discovered, though he would not own it to himself, that +lonely happiness is impossible. What was a discovery if no friend could +be told of it? What was the loveliness of his garden when there was no +one to share it with? What would Heaven itself be if he was there alone? +There must be sympathy, and without it life is lost. + +Intellect was losing its edge. He almost forgot what he had come there +for. Instead of ascending towards more light he was falling into grosser +darkness. He did not even dream; he was sluggish, and oblivion was over +him; which must happen when a man cuts himself free from the hearts and +brains of others. His cry was no longer the triumphant one of strength +and self-confidence. It was the cry "Why hast Thou forgotten me?" as he +walked heavily, and the weight of his own presence oppressed him; and +then he would mutter aloud, "Come and see my garden. I must show you the +flowers," though there was nobody to hear. That was all: he was a +gardener; he wanted to show his flowers, shrubs, ferns, he wanted to +delight some one with his bogplants, he longed to see admiration dawning +upon a human face, love for the beautiful kindling in human eyes; and so +he came to crave for human life, human words and beauty, human sympathy, +even human sin and shame and violence rather than the innocence and +purity and gentleness of God among the flowers. + +"Master, where be I to plant this?" "Master, will ye pay these bills?" +Such were the almost brutal questions around him. + +He had asked for solitude; and now he longed for passion, earthly love. + +It was winter, when the nights were wild and the evenings intolerable; +and during one of them the sound of a quarrel reached his ears. Oliver +and Sibley had not been satisfactory. If they had abstained from the +vices, they had not learnt to love one another; and, as Searell listened +then, he saw the violent streets and that boy and girl tussle in the +dirt. He went down, and at the foot of the stairs heard the woman's +angry voice, "Yew ha' ruined me"; and then the growl of Oliver, "Shut +your noise. Master be moving over." Through the doorway Searell saw +them, like beasts half-tamed, longing to break into their natural +habits, but dreading the master's whip. Were they worse than they had +been? Was it the effect of solitude upon them? Sibley had no small +amusements such as women desire. Oliver had no love for his home life. +It seemed to Searell that indifference was settling upon them all. He +advanced into the kitchen, stood between them as he had done before, +looked at the man, and noticed something new, a kind of eagerness, which +he tried to suppress; then at the woman, and here too was a difference, +a softer face and eyes half ashamed. Perhaps, then, they could love, and +a word from him might kindle the spark into flame. + +"I interfered between you once before. It was for your good." + +"No, master," said Sibley. + +"I think so," he said, startled by her independence and rudeness. + +"It would ha' been better if yew had passed by and let we bide," she +went on; and when Oliver growled his "Shut your noise," it was with less +anger than usual. + +"Us could ha' done what us had a mind to then," she said. "This be a +prison." + +"We are all in prison, if you can understand me. The walls are all +round, and we cannot get over them." + +"'Tis best vor volk to live as 'em be meant to," said Sibley. + +And again Searell was amazed. How had this woman obtained the power and +the courage to answer him? And to beat him, for he was beaten. He had no +words to reply to that simple philosophy, and to the woman who appealed +from his decision. He had played the God with them, had brought them out +of chaos, and had given them his commandments; and he was no God, but a +weak man; and they were not his children. + +He went back to his books, there were no flowers except Christmas-roses +and snowdrops, shivering things of winter, and tried to dream. Nothing +came. It seemed to him there was less mysticism in his mistland than in +the dirty streets of Stonehouse; and, while he mused, that world came +knocking at his mind, calling in the dialect of Sibley, "'Tis best vor +volk to live as 'em be meant to." His own body, his sluggishness and +unhappiness, convicted him of error; but, if he was wrong, what of all +religion which tells of a God of mysticism, and of his own in +particular, which, at that very season of the year, rejoiced at the +birth of a Child-creator by mysticism not through Love? And at his mind +was hot, red-blooded passion, a crude and awful thing, love for those +things which make men horrible, love for dirt and the roots, not for bud +and bloom; and a contempt and hatred for cold morality and the spells +muttered by candlelight; and the message of the flowers was this: +"Through the agency of others, through the eyes of those who are loved +and loving, not by the confinement of self, souls find the dawn." + +"Mrs. Vorse," said Searell one day, the yellow aconites were out, the +first colour of the year, and he was going to look at them, "you have +changed." + +Sibley had her back towards him, engaged in cleaning, and she was +wearing, as she always did, the enveloping apron of the country, which +hung from her shoulders and surrounded her body like a sack. He could +not see the flush upon her face. + +"Your voice is softer. You sing at your work. You are happy." + +"I hain't, master," she whispered. "I feels, master, I wants to be +happy, but I be frightened." + +"Of the loneliness?" + +"Not that, master. I can't tell ye, but I be frightened." + +"You and your husband get along better. You are quieter. I have not +heard you quarrel for some time." + +"There's good in Oliver," she said. + +"I thought so," he murmured. "But I have not been able to bring it out." + +He went to see the aconites, but they were cold, and made him shiver. It +was warm innocence he wanted, not the purity which numbed; and, down +below, the slopes were naked, the path rustled with dead oakleaves, and +the pixy-water was in flood. The violence of the world was there, and +nothing could drive it out. + +"Is your wife well, Oliver?" he asked. "I heard a sound in your room +early this morning. It seemed to me she was ill." + +Vorse was uprooting bracken, which is hard labour, and he made no pause +when his master spoke. + +"I ha' never knowed she better," he answered. + +"She frets less. There is a womanliness about her now which is pleasant. +You, also, have very much improved. You speak to her gently. You do not +drink now?" + +"Her made me give it up." + +"Had I nothing to do with it?" + + +"No, master," said Oliver bluntly. "I couldn't ha' given it up vor yew. +I did try, but I couldn't, I promised to give it up vor Sibley." + +"When?" + +"Months ago. Her told me something, and 'twur then I promised to give it +up vor Sibley." + +"What did she tell you?" + +"Her had received a message from God." + +These were strange words from the mouth of Oliver Vorse. + +"Her took 'em from yew, master," he added apologetically. + +Searell moved aside, gazing at the black snakelike fern-roots. Then he +lifted up his eyes in torment. His creatures finding in the garden what +he had missed, taking his God away from him! the dull Sibley his +superior, reaping the harvest that he had sown! the dull Oliver +reforming for her, and not for him! And he had nothing, he was alone, as +much alone in his garden as in the mission-church, obeying the printed +rubrics and hearing the call, "Who told you to do this? Go out and find +Me, for I am in the solitudes." + +"You are educating yourselves," he suggested, turning back. "You and +Sibley are improving your minds by learning. I have done that much for +you." + +Oliver said nothing, his head was down, and his hands grubbed at the +great roots. There was no answer to make. + +It was evening, the time of restlessness, and Searell came downstairs; +his study was above, and he came down only to change his rooms, to get +into another atmosphere, that he might find rest for his mind. The +kitchen door was open. Oliver was seated in a low chair, and Sibley was +upon his knees, her arms around his neck, her head upon his shoulder. +Both were motionless as if asleep. + +Searell went away. This time he could not interfere, and the noise of +the wind became to him the cry of the wild world. "Men must be violent," +it cried. "Men were made for passion," it cried; "and with the strength +of the body, rather than by the gropings of the mind, they shall clear +the mists from their eyes, and by means of the act of creation find +Creator." + + + + +IV + + +A perfect evening is often the prelude to a stormy night. It was such an +evening in spring again, when the wind-flowers were out, and an old man +riding off the moor paused beside Searell's boundary-wall to prophesy a +tempest. This was a white old man with queer blue eyes, and he too was a +mystic under the spell of solitude; but, unlike Searell, he had his +ties, without which no man can be happy. By day he roamed, and at +evening, by the fireside, told the children small and great his own +weird tales of Dartmoor. There were no restless evenings for him. +Searell shook his head almost angrily. He lived upon the face of the +moor, wrapped himself in its secrets, yet he could not foretell its +weather. The passing cloud had no message, the river with its changing +cry told him nothing. He went into the house. + +"Where is your wife?" he said to Oliver. + +"Her bain't well, master." The man was nervous, and his eyes were large. + +"Who is that woman in the kitchen?" + +"I had to get she up to do the cooking." + +"You have neglected your work today." + +"I be cruel sorry, master." + +"What is the matter with your wife? Yesterday I heard her singing." + +"Nothing serious, master"; but the man was listening all the time, as if +dreading to hear a call, a cry of pain, or the voice of life coming +along the moor. + +The old man was right. So soon as night began, the Dartmoor tempest +broke; there was no rain, nor thunder, but a dry and mighty wind which +made the rocks shake; and through the storm came a weird light defying +the wind to blow it out, that light which does not enter the lowlands, +but lives upon mountains; and Searell stood at his high writing desk, +and sought out legends of the wind. + +If there were sounds in the house he could not hear them. Deep in +mysticism, he read on of the winged clouds which brought the tempests, +and of their symbols, the rock-shattering worm, the stone of wisdom +which tears open the secrets of life, the rosy flower which restores the +dead, the house-breaking hand of glory; and the eagle symbol of +lightning, and the rushing raven returning to Odin. And he read of the +voices in the wind, while boulders were grinding along the river-bed; of +Hulda in the forest singing for baby-souls; of the Elf maidens alluring +youths astray; of Thoth staggering into oblivion with brave men's +spirits; of Hermes with his winged talaria, playing the lyre and +shutting fast all the myriad eyes of the stars. And something more he +read about the storm-wind. It was not always taking away, it was giving; +it was a bringer of new life, coming in spring as a young god with +golden hair, breaking the spell of winter, bringing a magic pipe to make +folk dance. + +"At one time it lulls into a mystic sleep, at another it restores to new +life," said Searell, speaking loudly and strongly, partly to reassure +himself, because the tumult was frightening. "What is this wind bringing +to me, more of the mystic sleep, or the new life?" + +He paced up and down the room, which shook as if with earthquake; and +hidden from him by a partition of lath and plaster was the staring +horror of a dream, one small lamp, turned down, giving the half-light +which suggests terror more than darkness, and on the bed a woman +moaning, and against the wall a weak man groaning. Let them rave and +scream, no sound of theirs could have pierced that lath and plaster, for +the god of violence was fighting on their side. + +"There be only one way." + +That was how Oliver had been muttering the last hour. + +"No, no," she sobbed. + +"What can us do? Master be hard, he bides by his word. He ha' been good +to we in all else, but this be our ruin." + +"No, no." She could not hear him, but she knew what he was saying. + +"Back on them streets again. No home to cover we, no food. Us ha' lived +easy too long to stand it. 'Twould end in the river. Better to lose the +one than our two selves." + +"No, no," her lips made the words, but not the sounds. + +"'Tis only a matter o' two minutes," he cried fiercely. "Then us be free +again." He left the wall, crossed to the bed, bent down, cried into her +ear, "It be awful outside. The watter be roaring down under. Us mun +live, woman." + +Sibley lifted herself with a face of death, and screamed as if it had +been the last effort of her life, screamed again and again; but what was +that in the wind? Not even a whisper; while Searell read on of the Sons +of Kalew, and the miracle of their harps which changed winter into +summer and death into life. + +Oliver Vorse was staggering downstairs weeping; and outside the wind +caught him, dragged him hither and thither like a straw, stuffing his +mouth with vapour, and flung him against bellowing walls and into +shrieking bushes; and still he protected what he held by instinct, and +when he fell upon the steep descent he let his body be bruised and his +face torn by that same instinct which makes the timid beast a savage +thing. + +It took no time.... He was back in the ghastly lamplight, staring at a +ghastly face which was the reflection of his own; and the master was +still in his musing, and knew nothing. + +"Let me die, I'd sooner," Sibley muttered simply; but Oliver could not +hear. He was leaning against the wall again; then he went on his knees, +and then he turned his back upon the bed. That face, the black hair, a +blood-stain visible, they frightened him. He passed into a kind of +agony; he was so cold and his body was dry, and there was a lightness in +his limbs. + +"The watter wur roaring--roaring. There warn't no wind, not there. It +wur sheltered down under, and them little white flowers scarce shook." + +He turned his head and saw those staring eyes. + +"Bain't what yew thinks," he howled. "There wur moss, plenty on't. I +made a bed beside the rocks. It bain't cold, not very; but the watter be +rising--rising--rising." + +So was the tempest. It would be nearing its end, and would drop as +suddenly as it had arisen; and Searell was smiling as he read of the +beasts of the forest weeping as they listened to the song-wind of +Gunadhya. + +"I can't go out. Might see it crawling up-along, trying to come back, +little white thing in the dark." + +Oliver could see Sibley was speaking, making with her agonized mouth the +shape of words, "Go out." He could not, dared not, had not even the +courage to open the door and look down the dimly lighted horror of the +stairs. They were in the last stage of weakness, the one morally, the +other physically; and the almighty strength of the wind gave them +nothing except the security of its tumult. + +"It'll be over," he shuddered. "The watter wur coming up all white. I +couldn't bide there--there wur drops o' summat on my face, and 'twur so +helpless, and it looked up. Blue, warn't 'em blue, woman?'" + +Sibley could not have heard, but, with all those instincts quivering, +she recognized the word upon his lips and tried to nod. + +"Innocent. Hadn't done nought. Would ha' kep we good, made we man and +wife. I'll go down. I'd go down if I dared--the little chin wur agin my +cheek. I'll never face the dark. I'd see it move, and the little +drowning bubbles on the watter. Be it over now?" + +He glared at Sibley as if she could answer; and she stared back, asking, +pleading, imploring him to play the man and face the night again; but he +grovelled against the wall and shuddered, damp with an awful sweat, and +the weird light upon the mountain-tops went out, because other clouds +were coming up, having travelled far since evening, and the darkness +became real as the roarings of the dry wind decreased. It was getting on +towards midnight, and those mighty winds were tired. + +"Go!" came a sudden scream; and Searell heard the echo of it and +started. The cry seemed to have its origin in the storm. He closed his +book, listened, heard nothing more except the coherent bellowing, and +then he answered, "I will." Certainly the word had sounded, and as +certainly he was alone. The Vorses would have been asleep for hours. + +"I will walk along the path. It is sheltered down there," he murmured. +"This may be the night appointed, the time of revelation, the time of +young life. This is the mad music of the spring, the shattering of the +chains of winter. The growth follows. It is the birth-night." + +He wrapped a coat around him and went. During those few minutes the wind +had much decreased; in another hour it would be calm and clear; and then +the awful stillness of the sunrise and the perpetual wonder of the +daylight. + +There was again a kind of light, for the raven-clouds had gone by and +the swan-clouds were crossing; and the wind was now the magic piper who +drives away care, and with his merry music sets Nature capering. Searell +was on the pixy-path and the wind-flowers were jigging; it was ghostly, +but a dance, not a solemn marching as in autumn, when the leaves fall +processionally downwards. It was recessional spring, when the leaves +awoke, as it were, from their moon-loved sleep, preserved in unfading +youth and beauty by that sleep, and leapt back at the piper's music to +the branches, kissing their ancient oaks with the fervour of young love. +Every flower had a moist eye and a sweet heart; and the pixy-water rang +for festival. + +One turn Searell made, seeing nothing, because his eyes struggled with +the mist; another, and he stopped. There was a wonder, a miracle, a +revelation among his wind-flowers, upon the edge of the rising water, a +sleeping silent wonder which made him thrill. + +"It has no bodily existence. When I come back it will be gone." + +It was still there, and now the water was almost level with the bed of +moss, and some of the flowers were struggling to keep their pale heads +above; and it was silent, this child of the morning, lying upon its back +in the moss, numbed, perhaps, though the night was not cold, and there +was a beauty upon the small face, not the beauty which makes for +violence, but that which gives peace, the beauty of innocence; and there +was also upon it that perfect weakness, and the submission of weakness +which is one of the strongest things created. And it seemed to be +growing there like the wind-flowers, as fragile, but as hardy, and among +them; for white anemones had been blown across each eye and across the +mouth, and they gleamed from each ear, and the chin was another edged +with pink, and all of them seemed to be jealous of the child. + +"And it comes into the world by violence," Searell murmured. + +Even then he hardly knew what had happened. He could not think, for his +mind was full of the wonder, and commonplace ideas would not enter. He +picked up the child reverently; there was no motion, no sound, no +opening of bue eyes; had there been a shrill scream, the spell might +have been broken--the contact was dreadful to him. He was tending a +sacred mystery, elevating a sacrament newly consecrated, something which +a few hours ago had been leaping like a spark in the place of his +dreams, and had been flung as lightning upon his path to strike his +heart open. Here was the answer of the flowers. To men the Creator was +as a child, for the child is the only thing all-powerful and the only +thing all-pure. + +About the house Searell seemed to hear the sound of groaning like the +moan of the dying wind, and there were movements once or twice as of a +wounded body. + +A dusty prie-dieu stood in the comer of the study. This he placed near +the fire, a cushion upon it, and then the child; and lighted a candle +upon each side. He stood with his arms folded, the Omega of life +worshipping the Alpha of it, until all things seemed to be new and +strange, as upon a resurrection morning, and he awoke from the sleep of +death and felt the spring. The winter was over and past, the time of the +opening of flowers had come, and the voice of creation stirred upon the +garden; and the change had been wrought by violence. + +It was necessary to speak and find sympathy. He hated the solitude +because no one shared it with him; he had grown to hate the wonderful +garden because there was no one to wonder at it with him; he hated +himself because no one cared for him. "Oliver!" he called, breaking the +horrible quietness, forgetful of the time. "Sibley!" + +Movements followed, again like wounded bodies, and Searell remembered +that the woman was ill and he had done nothing for her. He went to the +door; it opened, and Vorse was cowering against the wall, his hand upon +his eyes. Searell hardly noticed the horrid smoking of the lamplight, +the eyes upon that bed, the guilty, frightened man. Still full of +himself, he cried: + +"Come and see what I have found." + +"I couldn't do it, master," moaned Oliver. "I took it down, but the eyes +opened. 'Don't ye hurt me,' it said. I be just come. Bain't time vor me +to go.'" + +Still Searell would not understand. + +"Come," he said impatiently. "She was upon my path, among my flowers." + +Then life stirred again upon the bed, and Sibley drew herself up with +ravenous eyes and muttered: + +"Alive--alive!" + +Soon the room was like a chapel. The smoky lamp had been extinguished, +the prie-dieu stood beside the bed, the candles cast a warm, soft light; +and outside upon the moor was peace. Even the merry piper had become +weary and had put all things to sleep till daybreak; while Oliver Vorse +upon his knees confessed the sin which had been forced upon him. + +"Us dared not keep she. Sibley dared, but not me. If a child wur born, +us must go, yew said. I couldn't face it, but her would ha' faced it. Us +be ready to go now," he said boldly. "I ha' these hands. I'll fight. I +ha' the maiden to fight vor." + +"Her lives. Her moves on my bosom," cried Sibley. "Look at 'em, master. +Did ye ever see the like?" + +"What made you kinder, Sibley, more attentive to me, soft and tender?" + +"'Twur the child coming, master." + +"What made you sober, Oliver, fond of your wife? What was it stopped the +quarelling?" + +"I minded the little child, master." + +There was something tender in their illiterate speech. + +"You cast her away. The sin is mine, so is the atonement. And she is +mine." + +"She'm mine, master," murmured Sibley. + +"I found her among my flowers, the reward of my searching. She is the +answer," he said. "Let her be to you the daughter of love, and to me the +daughter of violence. Oliver," he cried, turning, "bring up water from +the pixy-stream. As the sun rises I will baptise--my child." + +"Yew'm fond o' she, master?" + +"She is mine," he said, with the old impatience. + +"And we, master?" + +"I am old and you are young," said Searell. "But we are all beginning +life, we know nothing. We will try to find another and a better +pathway." + +He went back to his rooms to rest, but not to sleep, for there was +something burning inside him like a coal from the altar; and a new light +crept upon the moor, giving it form, changing it from black to purple. +It was the dawn. + + + * * * * * + + +BUSINESS IS BUSINESS + + +Tavy river rises on Cranmere, flows down Tavy Cleave, divides the parish +of Mary Tavy from that of Peter Tavy, passes Tavy Mount, and leaves +Dartmoor at Tavystock, or Tavistock as it is now spelt. Each Dartmoor +river confers its name, or a portion of it, upon certain features of its +own district. The Okements meet at Okehampton, and one of them has Oke +Tor, which has been corrupted into Ock and even Hock. Even the tiny Lyd +has its Lydford. Each river also has its particular characteristic. The +East Okement is the river of ferns, the Teign the river of woods, the +Taw the river of noise, the Dart the river of silence, and the Tavy is +the river of rocks. Tavy Cleave from the top of Ger Tor, presents a +grand and solemn spectacle of rock masses piled one upon the other; it +is a valley of rocks, relieved only by the foaming little river. + +Mary Tavy is a straggling village of unredeemed ugliness, wild and bare. +It lies exposed on the side of the moor and is swept by every wind, for +not a bush or even a bramble will be found upon the rounded hills +adjoining. Once the place was a mining centre of some importance. The +black moor has been torn into pits and covered with mounds by the +tin-streamers in early days, and more recently by the copper-miners. All +around Mary Tavy appear the dismal ruins of these mines, or wheals as +they are called. Peter Tavy, across the river, is not so dreary, but is +equally exposed. This region during the winter is one of the most +inhospitable spots to be found in England. + +In Peter Tavy there lived, until quite recently, an elderly man, who +might have posed as the most incompetent creature in the West Country. +It is hardly necessary to say he did not do so; on the contrary, he +posed as a many-sided genius. He occupied a hideous little tin house, +which would have been condemned at a glance in those parts of the +country where building by-laws are in existence. At one time and another +he had borrowed the dregs of paint-pots, and had endeavoured to decorate +the exterior. As a result, one portion was black, another white, and +another blue. Over the door a board appeared setting forth the +accomplishments of Peter Tavy, as he may here be called. According to +his own showing he was a clock-maker; he was a photographer; he was a +Dartmoor guide; he was a dealer in antiquities; he was a Reeve attached +to the Manor of Lydford; and he was a purveyor of manure. This board was +in its way a masterpiece of fiction. Once upon a time a resident, +anxious to put Peter's powers to the test, sent him an old kitchen-clock +to repair. He examined and gave it as his opinion that the undertaking +would require time. When a year had passed the owner of the clock +requested Peter to report progress. He replied that the work was getting +on, but "'Twas a slow business and 'twould take another six months to +make a job of it." At the end of that period the clock was removed, +almost by force, and it was then discovered that Peter had sold most of +the interior mechanism to a singularly innocent tourist as Druidical +remains unearthed by him in one of the shafts of Wheal Betsy. + +As a photographer he carried his impudence still further. Some one had +given him an old camera and a few plates. He began at once to inveigle +visitors--chiefly elderly ladies, "half-dafty maidens" he impolitely +called them--down Tavy Cleave, where he would pose them on rocks and +pretend to photograph them with plates which had already been exposed +more than once. "If I doan't get a picture first time, I goes on till I +do," he explained. Once, when Peter announced "'twas a fine picture this +time," a gentleman of the party reminded him he had omitted to remove +the cap from the lens. Peter was not to be caught that way: "I took +'en," he said, "I took 'en, but yew was yawning." + +As a guide upon the moor Peter was an equal failure. He ought to have +known Dartmoor after living upon it all his life; the truth was, he +would have lost his way upon the road to Tavistock had he strayed from +it a moment. Visitors, lured by the notice-board, had approached him +from time to time with the request to be guided to Cranmere. Peter would +take them along Tavy Cleave for a mile, then assure them a storm was +coming up and it would be necessary to seek shelter as soon as possible, +hurry them back, and demand half-a-guinea in return for his services. +Peter had never been to Cranmere Pool, and had no idea how to get there. +Sometimes a party would insist upon proceeding, in spite of the guide's +warning, and in such cases the bewildered Peter would have to be shown +the way home by his victims. He would demand the half-guinea all the +same. + +As a dealer in antiquities nothing came amiss. Broken pipes, bits of +crockery, old mining-tools, any rubbish rotting or rusting upon the peat +were gathered and classified as Druidical remains. No one knew where +Peter had picked up the word Druidical; but it was certain he picked up +their supposed remains on the piece of black moor which surrounded his +house. Sometimes, it was said, he found a tourist foolish enough to +purchase a selection of this rubbish. + +What he meant by describing himself as an official receiving pay from +the Duchy of Cornwall nobody ever knew. As a Reeve (another word he had +picked up somewhere) of the Manor of Lydford he believed himself to be +intimately connected with the lord of that manor, who is the Prince of +Wales. He knew that august personage was interested somehow in three +feathers. The public-house in the neighbourhood called _The Plume of +Feathers_ had something to do with it he was sure, though he had never +seen "goosey's feathers same as they on the sign-board." Once he thought +seriously of erecting three feathers above his own door, and for that +purpose captured a neighbor's goose and plucked three large quills from +one of its wings, accompanying his action with the bland request, "Now +bide still, goosey-gander, do' ye." He could not make his three +goose-quills graceful and drooping, like those upon the sign-board, and +that was probably why Peter refrained from doing the Lord of Dartmoor +the compliment of assuming his crest.' + +The village of Peter Tavy, like most spots upon Dartmoor, has its summer +visitors; and these were sure, sooner or later, to make the acquaintance +of Peter Tavy the man. They thought him a harmless idiot, and he +reciprocated. One summer a journalist came upon the moor for his health +and, desiring to combine business with pleasure, he wrote a descriptive +sketch of Peter, and this was published in due course in a paper which +by a curious accident reached Peter himself. The man was furious. He +went about the two villages with the paper in his hand, his scanty hair +bristling, his watery eyes bulging, his mouth twisted into a very ugly +shape. It was a good thing the journalist had departed, for just then +Peter was angry and vindictive enough for anything. Presently he met his +clergyman; he made towards him, held out the paper, and, regardless of +grammar, cried out, "That's me." + +"He does not mention you by name," said the clergyman. + +"He says the man in the iron house wi' notice-board atop. He's got down +the notice-board as 'tis," spluttered Peter. "He says a ginger-headed +man--that's me; face like a rabbit--that's me." + +It was as a purveyor of manure that Peter found his level, if not a +living. Probably he received financial assistance from his sister, who +lived across the river at Mary Tavy. She had been formerly a lady's maid +in Torquay; after more than thirty years' service her mistress had died, +and had bequeathed to her a modest income, and on this she lived +comfortably in retirement, crossing Tavy Cleave occasionally to visit +her eccentric brother. She, too, was said to be eccentric, but that was +only because she was fond of getting full value for a halfpenny. Mary +Tavy was a spinster, and Peter Tavy was a bachelor. On those occasions +when some ne'er-do-well attempted to annex Mary and her income, the good +woman's eccentricity had revealed itself very strongly; and as for +Peter, his own sister would remark, "Women never could abide he." + +The Tavies always passed Christmas together. One year Peter would go +across and stop with Mary for three days; the next, Mary would come +across and stop with Peter for three days. Their rule on this matter was +fixed; the visit never extended beyond three days, and Peter would not +have dreamed of going across to Mary if it were the turn of Mary to come +across to him. + +Peter had a little cart and a pony to draw it. How he came by the pony +nobody knew, but as it was never identified no hard questions were +asked. Every year a few Dartmoor ponies are missed when the drift takes +place; and at the same time certain individuals take to owning shaggy +little steeds which have no past history. When a brand has been +skilfully removed, one Dartmoor pony is very much like a score of +others. To drive Peter into a corner over his title to the pony which +pulled his shameful little cart--it was hardly better than a +packing-case on wheels--would have been impossible. He had hinted that +it was a present from the Prince of Wales as a slight return for +services rendered; and as no one else in the Tavy district was in the +habit of communicating with the lord of the manor, his statement could +not easily be refuted. + +With this pony and unlicensed cart Peter would convey people from time +to time to the station at Mary Tavy, making a charge of eighteen pence, +which was not exorbitant considering the dangers and difficulties of the +road. For conveying his sister from her home to his at Christmas he made +a charge of one shilling; when she expostulated, as she always did, and +quoted the proverb "Charity begins at home," Peter invariably replied +with another proverb, "Business is business." + +Few will have forgotten the winter of 1881, when snow fell for over a +week, and every road was lost and every cleave choked. Snow was lurking +in sheltered nooks upon the tops of Ger Tor and the High Willhays range +as late as the following May. Snow upon Dartmoor does not always mean +snow elsewhere. It is possible sometimes to stand knee-deep upon the +high moor and look down upon a stretch of country without a flake upon +it, and so on to the sugared and frosted hills of Exmoor; but no part of +the country escaped the great fall of 1881. Every one on the moor can +tell of some incident in connection with that Christmas. At the two +Tavies they tell how Peter tried to drive Mary from his village to hers, +how he failed in the attempt, and how both of them remained good +business people to the end. + +It was Mary's turn to visit Peter that year, and she arrived upon +Christmas Eve, quaintly but warmly dressed, a small boy carrying her +basket, which contained the articles that she deemed necessary for her +visit, together with a bottle of spiced wine, some cream cakes, and a +plum-pudding as big as her head. The boy said a good many +uncomplimentary things about that pudding as they climbed up from the +Tavy, comparing it to the Giant's Pebble higher up the cleave. When Mary +raised her black-mittened hand and threatened him with chastisement, the +urchin lifted out the pudding in its cloth, set it at her feet, and told +her to carry it herself, as it was "enough to pinch a strong man +dragging that great thing up the cleave"; so Mary had to finish the +journey hugging the pudding like a baby. She was walking to save herself +sixpence. Peter had offered to come for her with his pony and cart, the +charge to be one shilling, payable as follows--sixpence when she got +into the cart and sixpence when she got out; but Mary had told him that +she could get a boy to carry her basket for half that amount; when he +protested she reminded him that business was business. + +A light sprinkle of snow had fallen, just enough to dust over the rocks +and furze-bushes; but it was very cold, the clouds were low and +wood-like, and there was in the air that feel of snow which animals can +nearly always detect, and men who live on the moors can sometimes. + +Peter and Mary spent the evening in simple style. Peter sat on one side +of the fire, Mary on the other; sometimes Peter stirred to get fresh +turves for the fire; sometimes Mary got up to heap the little table with +good cheer and place it midway between the old-fashioned chairs. They +both smoked, they both took snuff, they both drank spiced wine. Towards +evening they talked of old times and became merry. Then they talked of +old people and grew sentimental, dropping tears into their hot wine. +Peter got up and kissed Mary, but Mary did not care for Peter's caresses +and told him so, whereupon Peter advised her to "get along home then." +Mary declared she would, but changed her mind when she thought of the +gloomy cleave and the Tavy in winter flood; so they went on smoking, +taking snuff, and drinking spiced wine. + +The next day was fine, and Peter and Mary went to chapel. Mary gave her +brother a penny to put into the plate, but he put it into his pocket +instead; he was always a man of business. She also gave him a bright new +florin as a Christmas present. He had made her understand, when the coin +was safe in his possession, that he should still demand a shilling for +driving her home, and over that point they wrangled for some time. In +the evening, when Peter had fallen asleep over the fire, Mary repented +of her kindness and sought to regain the florin; but Peter had it hidden +away safely in his boot. + +When the time came for Mary to start homewards it was snowing fast, and +she did not like the prospect. Although it was not much after three +o'clock, the outlook was exceedingly dark; there was an unpleasant +silence upon the moor, and the snowflakes were larger and falling +thickly. But the pony was harnessed to the unsteady conveyance, and +Peter was waiting; before Mary could utter a word of protest, he had +bundled her in and they were off. + +"Twould have paid me better to bide home," said Mary. + +"Do'ye sit quiet," Peter growled. Then he added, "Where's the shillun?" + +"There now, doan't ye worry about the shillun," said Mary; "I'll give it +ye when I'm safe and sound to home wi' no bones broke." + +"Shillun be poor pay vor driving this weather," said her business-like +brother. + +Now and again a light appeared from one of the cottages. The pony +struggled on with its head down, while the silence seemed to grow more +unearthly, and the darkness increased, and the snow became a solid +descending mass. The road between the two Tavies is not easy in winter +under favorable conditions, and on that night it was to become +practically impassable. When the last light of Peter Tavy the village +had vanished, Peter Tavy the man had about as much idea where he was as +if he had just dropped out of the moon. + +"Where be'st going?" shrieked Mary, as the cart swerved violently to the +right. + +"Taking a short cut," explained Peter. + +"Dear life!" gasped Mary, "he'm pixy-led." + +"I b'ain't," said Peter; "I be driving straight vor Mary Tavy." + +Had he said straight for the edge of Tavy Cleave he would have spoken the +truth. The pony knew perfectly well that they were off the road, and the +sensible beast would have returned to the right way had it not been for +Peter, who kept pulling its head towards the cleave. Left to itself the +pony would have returned to Peter Tavy, having quite enough sense to +know that it was impossible to reach the sister village on such a night. +Its master, with his fatal knack of blundering, tugged at the reins with +one hand and plied the whip with the other. The snow was like a wall on +every side; the clouds seemed to be dissolving upon them; suddenly the +silence was broken by the roaring of the Tavy below. + +"Us be going to kingdom come," shrieked Mary. + +"Us b'ain't," said Peter; "us be going to Mary Tavy." + +The pony stopped. Peter used his whip, and the next instant the snow +appeared to rush towards them, open, and swallow them up. They had +struck a boulder and gone over the cleave. The body of the cart was in +one spot, its wheels were in another; and wallowing in the sea and snow +were Peter and Mary and the pony. The animal was the first to regain its +feet, and made off at once, with the broken harness trailing behind. +Mary was the next to rise, plastered over with snow from head to foot; +but she was soon down again, because her legs refused to support her. +Presently she heard her brother's voice. He was invisible, because he +had been thrown several feet lower, and had landed among rocks somewhat +bruised and sprained; had it not been for the soft snow he would +probably have been killed. + +"I be broke to bits," he wailed. + +"So be I," cried Mary; "So be the cart." + +"Be the cart broke?" said Peter; and when Mary had replied it was only +fit for firewood (it had not been fit for much else before the +accident), he went on, "'Twill cost ye a lot o' money to buy me a new +one." + +"Buy ye a new one? The man be dafty!" screamed Mary. + +"'Twas taking yew home what broke it," Peter explained. + +"Call this taking me home?" Mary shouted. + +"I done my best," said Peter; "'twas your weight what sent it over. +There'll be the cart, and the harness and the doctor's bill; 'twill cost +ye a heap o' money." + +"Dear life, hear the man talk!" said Mary, appealing to the snow which +was piled upon her ample form. + +"Mayhap there'll be funeral expenses," said Peter lugubriously; "I be +hurt dreadful." + +"Yew won't want the cart then," his sister muttered; "and I'll have the +pony." + +"Where be the pony?" Peter demanded. + +"Gone home likely; got more sense than we," said Mary. "Why doan't ye +get up, Peter?" + +"Get up wi' my two legs broke!" Peter replied in disgust. + +"Dear life, man, get up!" Mary went on, with real alarm. "If us doan't +get up soon us'll be stone dead carpses when us gets home." + +"I'll try, Mary, I'll try," said Peter. + +"Come up here, Peter; there be a sheltered spot over agin them rocks," +said Mary. + +"There be a sheltered spot down here," Peter answered; "'tis easier vor +yew to roll down than vor me to climb up." + +When the question had been argued, Mary went down; that is to say, she +groped and grovelled through the snow, half-rolling, half-sliding, until +she reached the shelter to which Peter had dragged himself. It was a +small cleft, a chimney, mountaineers would have called it, in the centre +of a rock-mass which made a small tor on the side of the cleave. +Normally, this chimney acted as a drain for the rock-basin above, but it +was then frozen up and dry. Peter was right at the back, huddled up as +he could never have been had any bones been broken. When Mary appeared +he dragged her in; she was almost too stout to pass inside, but as he +placed her she made an excellent protection for him against the storm. +Mary realised this, and suggested they should change places; but Peter +pointed out that in his shattered condition any movement might prove +fatal. + +Presently Mary began to cry, realizing the gravity of their position. +The snow was descending more thickly than ever, drifting up the side of +the cleave and choking the entrance to their cleft. Fortunately the +night was not very cold, and they were both warmly clad, while the snow +which was threatening to bury them was itself a protection. Help could +not possibly reach them while the night lasted; no one would know what +had befallen them, and they were unable to walk. When Mary began to cry +Peter abused her, until his thoughts also began to trouble him. + +"Think they'll put what's on my notice-board on my tombstone?" he +inquired. + +"Now doan't ye talk about tombstoanes, doan't ye now," implored Mary +tearfully. + +"Business is business," said Peter. "I told 'em to give me a great big +tombstone, and to put upon him, _Peter Tavy, Clock-maker, Photographer, +Dealer in Antiquities, Dartmoor Guide, Reeve of the Manor of Lydford, +Purveyor of Manure, and et cetera_." + +"Doan't ye worry about it; they'll put it all down," said Mary. + +"Us'll be buried together, same afternoon, half-past two likely," Peter +went on. + +"Doan't ye talk about funerals and tombstoanes," Mary implored. "Talk +about spicy wine, and goosey fair, and them wooden horses that go round +and round, and hurdy-gurdy music; talk about they, Peter." + +"It ain't the time," said Peter bitterly. + +A long dreary period of silence followed. Peter Tavy the village and +Mary Tavy its sister were completely snowed up; and in the cleave of the +river which divided the parishes Peter Tavy the man was snowed up with +Mary Tavy his sister. They were miserably cold and drowsy. The snow was +piled up in front of the chimney like a wall; there was hardly room for +Mary to move, and Peter kept on groaning. At length he roused himself to +remark: "Yew owes me a shillun." + +"What would I owe ye a shillun vor?" said Mary sharply, wide-awake +immediately at any suggestion of parting with money. + +"Vor the drive," said Peter. + +"I was to give ye a shillun vor taking me home, not vor breaking me +bones and leaving me to perish in Tavy Cleave," said Mary. "Yew ain't +earned the shillun, and I doan't see how yew'm going to." + +"Yew owes me a shillun," repeated her brother doggedly. "I done my best +to tak' ye home, and there was naught in your agreement wi' me about +accidents. I never contracted to tak' ye home neither." + +"Yew never promised to starve me wi' ice and snow on Tavy Cleave +neither," replied Mary. + +"I didn't promise nothing. I meant to tak' ye home, reasonable wear and +tear excepted; this here is reasonable wear and tear. Yew promised to +give me a shillun." + +"When yew put me down," added Mary. + +"Yew wur put down," said Peter. + +"Not to my door." + +"That warn't my fault," said Peter. "Twas your worriting what done it; +if yew hadn't worrited I'd have put ye out to Mary Tavy. Yew worrited +and upset the cart, and now we'm dying." + +"I b'ain't dying," said Mary stoutly. + +"I be," said Peter drearily. "I be all cold and nohow inside. I be a +going to die; I'd like to die wi' that shillun in my pocket." + +"Doan't ye go on about it, Peter. If yew'm dying yew'll soon be in a +place where yew won't want shilluns." + +"While I be here I want 'en," said Peter. "Yew'll be fearful sorry when +yew see me lying a cold carpse wi'out a shillun in my pocket." + +"Give over, can't ye," cried Mary. "You'll be giving me the creepies. If +yew wur to turn carpsy I wouldn't bide wi' ye." + +There was no reply. Silence fell again, and the only sound was the +moaning of the wind and the roaring of the Tavy; the snow went on +falling and drifting. Another hour passed, and then Mary shook off her +drowsiness, and called timidly, "Peter." There was no answer; she could +see nothing; her fear returned and she shuddered. "Peter," she called +again; there was still no reply. Mary pressed her stout figure forward +and reached out fearfully; she heard a groan. "Ah, doan't ye die," she +implored; "wait till us gets out o' this. What's the matter, Peter?" + +"Yew owes me a shillun," whispered a voice. + +"I doan't owe it, Peter, I doan't," cried Mary. "If yew had drove me +across the river I'd have paid ye, I would; but us be still in the +parish of Peter Tavy----" + +She was interrupted by another and a deeper groan. "Be yew that bad?" +she asked earnestly. + +"I be like an old clock past mending," Peter answered. "My mainspring be +broke; I be about to depart this life, December the twenty-seventh, +eighteen hundred and eighty-one, aged fifty-eight, in hopes of being +thoroughly cleaned and repaired and set a going in the world to come." + +"Can't I do anything vor ye, Peter?" asked Mary gently. + +"Yew can give me the shillun yew owes me," replied Peter. + +"'Tis hard of ye to want a shillun if yew'm dying." + +"Business is business," Peter moaned. + +Fumbling in the little black bag she carried beneath her skirt, Mary +produced a coin and held it out, saying sadly: "Here 'tis, Peter; I +doan't want to give it to ye, but if 'twill make yew die happy, I must." + +With singular agility Peter reached out his hand, and after groping a +little in the darkness secured the precious coin. He felt it, he bit it, +and he asked with suspicion: "How I be to know 'tis a shillun? He tastes +like a halfpenny." + +"I know 'tis a shillun; I ain't got no coppers," Mary answered. + +Peter's groans ceased from that moment; he pocketed the coin and +chuckled. + +"I be a lot better," he said; "my legs b'ain't quite broke, I reckon, +and I ain't so cold inside, neither." + +Mary's reply was too eccentric to mention. + +So soon as it was day a party of villagers set out from Peter Tavy well +supplied with blankets and stimulants; Peter and Mary were not the only +ones missing that fateful morning. The pony had returned to its stable +the evening before, and had been seen by the local constable trailing +its broken harness past the beer-house. An attempt had been made to find +the couple then, but their tracks were completely hidden. Snow was still +descending as the relief party waded through the drifts upon the edge of +the cleave. The moor had disappeared during the night, and a strange +region of white mountains had risen in its stead. The searchers worked +their way on, with a hopeless feeling that they were only wasting their +time, when they thought they heard a whistle. They stopped and argued +the matter like the three jolly huntsmen; one said it was a man, another +said it was a bird, and another it was the wind. They were all wrong; it +was a woman. Out of the centre of a huge white mass down the cleave +appeared a black scarf tied to the end of an umbrella. + +Peter and Mary were rescued, not without difficulty, because the snow +was four feet in depth on the side of the cleave, and were conveyed in +due course to their respective villages. Being a hardy couple they were +little the worse for their adventure, although Peter posed as an invalid +to the end of his days, and sought parish relief in consequence; that +was simply a matter of business. + +So soon as the roads became passable and he was able to walk, Peter +tramped across to Mary Tavy, to pay his sister a friendly, and a +business, visit. "There be ten shilluns yew owes vor breaking my cart +and harness," he explained. "When be yew a going to pay?" + +"Never," replied Mary decidedly. + +"Then I'll tak' ye into court," said Peter. + + + * * * * * + + +THE CHRISTENING OF THE FIFTEEN PRINCESSES + +A MODERN FAIRY TALE + + +Once upon a time there was a village called Lew, and it was perched on +the top of a hill 999 feet, 11 inches high. That is the way fairy-tales +have to begin; they insist upon going back into the remote past; but +unfortunately the village of Lew has come down to our own days, and so +has the big hill on which it stands. If we start over again with, "Once +upon a time there was a man of Lew who had fifteen daughters," we are +confronted by exactly the same difficulty; for the man is still alive, +and the fifteen daughters look as if they never would, nor could, belong +to the period when little pixy maids were to be seen any night running +round and round the furze-bushes. The only way out of the difficulty is +to be courageous, to tell the truth, and say: At the top of a hill 999 +feet, 11 inches high--some say it is 1,000 feet, but that is not +true--stands the village of Lew, where dwells a man named Heathman, who +has fifteen daughters and not a single son; and the daughters are all +princesses, although it is not easy to say why; but as they are pretty, +and this is a fairy-tale, they must be. + +The little village lies within a kind of ring-fence of ash and +sycamores, which shelter the cob houses from the furious gales which +boom and bluster over the Dartmoor tors. The wind is always sighing and +moaning. It is cool upon the hottest day in August, and probably that is +why Lew imports weak-chested people in some quantity. A regular business +is done with big, smoky Bristol. Lew says to Bristol in its own +language, "Us ha' butiful air up over in Demshur, and us ha' a proper +plenty o' cream and butter and suchlike, but us ain't got much golden +money. If yew sends us sickly volk, they can buy our cream and butter, +and us will send 'em back strong." Bristol sees the force of this +argument, and packs up and sends off its weak-chested folk, who reason, +quite sensibly, "What's the use of being ill when we can go to the top +of Lew hill and get well?" There is a tariff, of course, for Lew does +not believe in free imports. The weak-chested folk must buy cream and +butter and suchlike in vast quantities, or they would be promptly +deported under the local Aliens Act. As a matter of fact, they buy Lew +produce without any grumbling; they do even more than they are wanted +to, and are actually spoiling Lew--where tips are unknown and a man will +do an extraordinary lot of work for two shillings--by raising the +prices. They get absurdly grateful, these visitors, who enter Lew weak +and thin, and are exported brown and fat and sleek, like porpoises. + +It is the importation of so much foreign raw material that has built up +the fortunes of the fairy family called Heathman. His Majesty, the +father--hereinafter called King Heathman--was village cobbler before he +came to the throne. After his accession he procured a horse and cart, +and conveyed people to and from the distant station. He also annexed +several acres of grass territory, by a process of peaceful penetration, +and went in for cows and dairy produce. These two businesses developed +so wonderfully that he dropped the cobbling, at which it must be owned +he was always rather a poor hand. The weak-chested imports have to be +brought up from the station ill, and taken back well; and while they are +on the top of Lew hill they pass the time consuming cream, butter, milk, +and eggs, which are provided by King Heathman, and delivered morning and +evening by the golden-haired princesses. Their Majesties of the +Palace--two cottages of red cob knocked into one--are busy people, and +have no time for boasting; nor do they appear to think they have done +anything out of the way in bringing up fifteen model princesses, not one +of whom has ever given her parents an hour's anxiety. Sickness, some one +will suggest; but that is a ridiculous idea, for the residents of Lew +are never ill, and they live just as long as they like. Mrs. +Heathman--hereinafter called Queen Heathman--looks the picture of health +and strength, and only last Revel Week was footing it merrily after a +long day's work, and dancing one or two anæmic young maids from foreign +lands like Plymouth to a standstill. Old Grandfather Heathman, His +Majesty's father, who is so much addicted to Lew that he won't die, had +the impertinence to be dancing too. He must be nearly a hundred, though +he neither knows nor cares about his age, and will merely state in the +course of conversation that he intends to live out the present century, +because he is so fond of the place. Old Grandfather Heathman is probably +the only man now living in England who has witnessed a fatal duel, which +was fought some time in the dark ages between the son of the then rector +of Lew and a young doctor, a lady being of course the cause. The +unfortunate young doctor, who very likely had never handled a sword +before, was quickly killed by his opponent, who was an army officer. A +stone still marks the spot, but it has become so overgrown with brambles +that only Grandfather Heathman knows where to look for it. + +The crown princess is just twenty-three. The girls are nicely dressed, +well educated, and speak and behave like little angels. If Romney were +alive, he would want to paint them all. They are so pretty, these +fifteen princesses of Lew. Each has a slender figure, wild-rose +complexion, shy eyes, and fair hair. But it must not be imagined they +are dancing princesses. One plays the American organ (which was alluded +to with less respect as the harmonium twenty years ago) in the church; +another is pupil-teacher; another manages the Sunday-school. They milk +the cows and attend to the dairy work. All of them love animals; each +has her dog, or cat, or bird, generally with her in work or in play. +When you meet a pretty, well-dressed girl in Lew, you will not--unless +you are the latest importation--ask her name. You will say, "And what is +your number?" She will blush delightfully, lower her shy eyes, put her +hands behind her back, and tell you. + +When the first child was born the neighbours offered their +congratulations, and said, "Of course you will call her Annie." In this +part of the country it is absolutely necessary to have a girl in the +family of that name, and it is most unorthodox to call the first girl +anything else. But King Heathman rebelled against custom. He did not +care for the name Annie. He liked something daintier, something more +unusual and fanciful. No doubt there is a vein of poetry somewhere in +His Majesty's system. King Heathman stated plainly he would not hare his +daughter named Annie. He would go to the rector and ask him to supply a +name. The good people of Lew were horrified at such heresy. They pointed +out what a great risk he was running. It was quite possible he would not +have another daughter, and thus his family would be branded with the +disgrace of having no Annie. But King Heathman hardened his heart yet +more, and tramped off to the rectory. + +The rector of Lew is a scholar of the old type, an unconscious pedant +who can hardly open his lips without quoting Latin or Greek, a type +which before another twenty years have gone will be as extinct as the +pixies. The rector of Lew is almost as much a curiosity of the past as +Grandfather Heathman, only when people plant themselves on the top of +the big hill 999 feet, 11 inches high, it never seems to occur to them +that they are mortal. The rector solved the royal difficulty at once, +and in the most natural way possible. "She is the first child. Let us +call her either Prima or Una," he said. "Una is a pretty name." + +"That 'tis, sir--that 'tis." For reasons of his own King Heathman always +prefers to use the dialect of his country. + +"You will find the name in the _Faerie Queene_ written by Spenser," the +rector continued. + +"Old John Spencer over to Treedown?" suggested His Majesty, who had not +dabbled much in classics. + +"No; Edmund Spenser, who lived in the reign of Queen Elizabeth." + +"Aw, yes, sir, I knows 'en," said King Heathman. + +Of course he didn't, but perhaps he was referring to the queen. Every +one in Lew knows Queen Elizabeth intimately, because there is a little +old house in the village where she was fond of putting up for the night +occasionally. This house is still furnished very much as it was in the +sixteenth century, but whether the Maiden Lady ever saw or heard of Lew +is another matter. It is certain, however, that Queen Elizabeth occupied +most of her long reign travelling about the country in order that she +might sleep in out-of-the-way manor-houses. Whenever you visit any old +house in this neighbourhood it is only polite to say, "Queen Elizabeth +slept here, of course?" And then you will be shown the room and the bed, +and if you go on being polite you may very possibly see the sheets and +blankets and pillow-slips also, with the pillow itself still marked with +the impression of Queen Elizabeth's head. + +Princess Heathman was duly christened Una, to the delight of her father, +and the horror of the inhabitants. Every one breathed a sigh of relief +when a second princess favoured Lew with her appearance. After all, the +Heathmans would not be disgraced. There would be an Annie in the family, +though they hardly deserved it after letting the first chance slip. King +Heathman remained as silent as the Sphinx, and about as mysterious. When +the time came for the royal christening, the church was filled. The +rector received a particularly plump bundle from Queen Heathman, and +placed it snugly into the hollow of his arm. He dipped his hand into the +font, and the whisper of "Annie" went about the church. The next moment +they heard, "Secunda, I baptise thee...." + +The next year Princess Tertia was christened, and then Princess Quarta. +Even the rector admitted Quarta was rather an unusual name, but His +Majesty revelled in it, and would hear of nothing else. Every one said Q +was such an awkward initial; and they had to make the same remark next +year when Princess Quinta was brought to the font. "Sounds like squint," +said one of the grumblers; but not one would venture to suggest such a +thing now. By this time the gossips of Lew had pretty well accommodated +themselves to the idea that King Heathman was irreclaimable. Annie, +Bessie, and Lucy were the orthodox village names for young ladies; and +it was perfectly clear he would have none of them. + +In quick succession princesses were hurried to the font, and the +unromantic ears of the congregation were astonished by a list of +beautiful names--Sexta, Septima, Octava, Nona of the wonderful eyes, and +Decima of the sunny hair. But when the eleventh princess was brought to +church a serious difficulty arose. A perfect understanding existed +between His Majesty and the court chaplain. The father had no idea what +the name of his new daughter was to be when she was handed into the +scholar's arms. The rector did not use the formula, "Name this child," +but substituted the question, "What is her number?" or words to that +effect. On this occasion, when the question was put, and King Heathman +had answered, "Eleven, sir," the rector paused. Then he whispered, +"Would you like Undecima?" + +"Aw, sir, proper. Let's ha' 'en," was the eager answer. + +The rector hesitated. Across his classical mind flashed the Latin +numbers ahead. The twelfth princess would have to be christened +Duodecima, and after that such names became impossible. So he whispered, +"Undecima is too much like Decima. We must think of something else." + +"As yew like, sir," said his accommodating Majesty, although in +distinctly disappointed tones. + +"Now there will be an Annie," murmured those villagers who were nearest +the font and had overheard the discussion. + +While the rector was deliberating his eyes fell among flowers, the +church happening to be decorated for a festival, and bunches of the +white cluster-rose known as the Seven Sisters being twined about the +font; and he suggested that, if King Heathman was agreeable, a bevy of +flower-named princesses would be a pleasing relief after the dull +monotony of numbers. + +"Twill do fine, sir," said King Heathman. + +And that is how the Princess Rosa came to be christened. + +But princesses went on filling the palace, and names were soon running +short again. Rosa had been followed by Lilia, Viola, and Veronica. King +Heathman was becoming fastidious. He had imbibed so much raw material of +knowledge from the court chaplain that he was beginning to regard +himself as a scholar of some importance. Then his royalty was increasing +in Lew; and he always wore a hard hat, which, in this part of the +country, is a sign, not exactly of majesty, but of stability and +respectability. He still hankered after the numbers, and was looking +forward to the birth of a twentieth princess who could be called +Vicesima. The fifteenth princess had just made her appearance, and the +father continued to disregard the petition of the neighbours praying him +to call her Annie before it was too late. It happened one day that he +cast his eyes upon two flowering shrubs which grew in pots, one at each +side of the palace gates. King Heathman could not remember the name of +these shrubs, though he had been told often enough, so he called Tertia, +and asked her to enlighten him. + +"The name is on the tip of my tongue, but I can't get it out," said +Tertia. "I'll call Una." + +Una is court encyclopædia. She appeared with her beautiful hair ruffled, +for she had been deep in arithmetic when Tertia called her, trying to +paper an imaginary room, having most impossible angles, with imaginary +wall-paper at the ridiculous price of one penny three-farthings a yard. + +"What be the name o' that plant?" asked His Majesty. + +"That is a hydrangea," said Una, in a delightfully prim and pedantic +fashion; and then she slipped back to her wall-papering at a penny +three-farthings a yard. + +"What b'est going to call the new maiden?" shouted the blacksmith a few +moments later over the palace gates. + +"Hydrangea," answered King Heathman grimly. Then he went into the state +apartments to break the news to his wife, leaving the blacksmith to have +a fit upon the road, or to go on to his smithy and have it there. + +For the first time Queen Heathman rebelled. She said it was ridiculous +to give the child a name like that: she was surprised that the rector +should have thought of it, and she-- + +But at that point her husband interrupted with the famous remark of the +White Knight to Alice "'Tis my own invention." + +This gave Queen Heathman free licence to exercise her tongue. She talked +botany for some time, and concluded with such words as: "You'll call the +poor maids vegetables next. If us ha' another maiden you'll call her +Broad Bean, I reckon, and the next Scarlet Runner." + +"One Scarlet Runner be plenty, my dear," said her husband, with regal +pleasantry. + +"What do ye mean?" + +"Bain't your tongue one, my dear?" + +This was a libel, for Queen Heathman is remarkably silent--for a woman. +She had to laugh at her husband's little Joke. They have always been a +devoted couple, and this little tiff was in perfect good-humour. +Finally, King Heathman went off to the rectory, where he discovered the +court chaplain and the Home Secretary chatting upon the lawn. Without +any preamble he disclosed his difficulty, and proposed that the +fifteenth princess should be named Hydrangea. There was no seconder. The +motion was declared lost, and the subject was thrown open for +discussion. + +The Home Secretary suggested that the princess just born and her eleven +successors should be given the names of the months; and when he rolled +forth such stately titles as Januaria, Februaria, Martia, His Majesty +trembled. However, it occurred to him there might not be sufficient +princesses to exhaust the months, and he stated with much dignity of +language that he should not like to have an incomplete set. Then the +Christian virtues were suggested, Faith, Patience, Charity, Mercy, Hope; +but King Heathman would have none of them, not because he despised the +virtues, but because he considered that his daughters had them all. + +Then the rector interposed in his quiet manner: + +"The child shall be called Serena." + +"What do 'en mean, sir?" asked King Heathman eagerly. + +"It means free from care." + +"That's it, sir--that's it," said His Majesty, expressing satisfaction +in his usual way. + +"It is an appropriate name," the rector went on. "It implies a perfectly +happy condition. There may be dangers, but the girl shall not know of +them. There may be difficulties, but they shall not trouble her--at +least, we will hope so," he added with a smile. + +"Thank ye, sir," said King Heathman. "And what will be the next name?" +he asked hopefully. + +"The next?" said the rector, still in his classical musings. "Why, the +next child shall be called Placida." + +But for some reason or other the Princess Placida has never come to +claim her name. Serena appears to be the last. She is still a toddler. +Almost any day of the week you may see her, fat and jolly, and extremely +free from care, staggering between Septima and Octava as they go +a-milking. She is generally embracing a yellow and very ugly cat, in +lieu of a doll. If you ask her name, she is just able to lisp, "I'se +Swena." + +The gossips of Lew have revenged themselves upon King Heathman. They +refuse to call the baby Serena. They call her Annie. + +And they are all living happily ever afterwards. + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of By Violence, by John Trevena + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BY VIOLENCE *** + +***** This file should be named 34576-8.txt or 34576-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/5/7/34576/ + +Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: By Violence + +Author: John Trevena + +Release Date: December 5, 2010 [EBook #34576] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BY VIOLENCE *** + + + + +Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org + + + + + +</pre> + + +<hr style="width: 95%;" /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p class="center"> +<a href="#INTRODUCTION"><b>INTRODUCTION</b></a><br /> +<a href="#BY_VIOLENCE"><b>BY VIOLENCE</b></a><br /> +<a href="#II"><b>II</b></a><br /> +<a href="#III"><b>III</b></a><br /> +<a href="#IV"><b>IV</b></a><br /> +<a href="#BUSINESS_IS_BUSINESS"><b>BUSINESS IS BUSINESS</b></a><br /> +<a href="#THE_CHRISTENING_OF_THE_FIFTEEN_PRINCESSES"><b>THE CHRISTENING OF THE FIFTEEN PRINCESSES</b></a><br /> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + +<h1>BY VIOLENCE</h1> + +<h3>By</h3> + +<h2>JOHN TREVENA</h2> + +<h3>Author of "Bracken", "Sleeping Waters", etc.</h3> + + +<h3>With an Introduction by</h3> + +<h3>EDWARD O'BRIEN</h3> + + +<h4>BOSTON</h4> + +<h4>THE FOUR SEES COMPANY</h4> + +<h4>PUBLISHERS</h4> + +<h4>1918</h4> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="INTRODUCTION" id="INTRODUCTION"></a>INTRODUCTION</h2> + + +<p>For eight years or more, since I first became acquainted with the novels +and tales of John Trevena it has been my firm conviction that only +Thomas Hardy and George Moore among contemporary novelists rival his art +at its best. Like Meredith, he has written for twenty years in +obscurity, and like Meredith also he has been content with a small +discriminating audience. I suppose that in 1950 our grandchildren will +be electing college courses on his literary method, but meanwhile it +would be more gratifying if there were even a slight public response to +the quality of his individual talent.</p> + +<p>Trevena's novels are the expression of a passionate feeling for Nature, +regarded as the sum of human personality and experience, in all its +moods,—benign and malign, as man is benign and malign, and faithful to +life in the stone as well as the flower. What a gallery of memorable +characters they are, Mary and Peter Tavy, Brightly, Cuthbert Orton, +Jasper Ramrige, Anthonie and Petronel, William and Yellow Leaf, Captain +Drake and dark Pendoggat, Ann Code, Cyril Rossingall, and a hundred +others, passionate and gentle, with wind and water and earth and sky for +a chorus, and the shifting pageantry of Nature as a stage.</p> + +<p>His fourteen volumes reveal a gift for characterization equalled by none +of the contemporary English realists, and a Shakespearian humor +elsewhere gone from our day. In <i>Furze the Cruel</i>, <i>Bracken</i>, <i>Wintering +Hay</i>, and <i>Sleeping Waters</i>, to name no others, John Trevena has written +novels of Dartmoor that will take their rightful place in the great +English line, when the honest carpentering of Phillpotts that now +overshadows them is totally forgotten.</p> + +<p>The feeling has spread among Trevena's few critical American admirers +who have written about him, that he is fundamentally morbid and +one-sided. On the contrary, I know of few novelists who are more +recklessly and irresistibly gay, in whom sheer fun bubbles over so +spontaneously and wholeheartedly. To ignore life's harshness is simply +to ignore life. Trevena's many-sidedness will be apparent only when +there is a definitive edition of his work. His habit of confining a +novel to a single mood or passion of nature, together with the fact that +Americans have only had an opportunity to read those novels by him which +deal with nature's most cruel moods, have done the reputation of Trevena +a grave injustice.</p> + +<p><i>By Violence</i> and <i>Matrimony</i> are Trevena's most beautiful short tales, +and I hardly know which is the finer revelation of poetic grace and +gentle vision. Their message is conveyed so quietly that they may be +read for their sensuous beauty only, and yet convey a rare pleasure. If +their feeling is veiled and somewhat aloof from the common ways of men, +there is none the less a fine human sympathy concealed in them, and a +golden radiance indissolubly woven into their pages.</p> + +<p>If Nature's power is inevitable in these stories, it is also kind, and I +like to think that from <i>By Violence</i> as a text a new reading of earth +may be deciphered. Trevena has written the books of furze and heather +and granite and bracken, which outlast time on the hills of Dartmoor. +But this tale hints at a fifth force which survives all the others. Some +day, when the wind is strong, John Trevena will write the book of "The +Rain-drop," which is the gentlest of all elements, and yet outlasts the +stone.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 21.5em;">Edward J. O'Brien</span><br /> +</p> + +<p><i>South Yarmouth, Mass.</i></p> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>February 26, 1918</i></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="BY_VIOLENCE" id="BY_VIOLENCE"></a>BY VIOLENCE</h2> + + +<p> +"Dear Sir,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">"The wooden enemies are out.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8.5em;">"Yours obediently,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 12.5em;">"Oliver Vorse."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Simon Searell read this short message as he tramped the streets of +Stonehouse, which were full of fog, from the sea on one side and the +river on the other. Vorse was an uneducated man; the mysticism of +flowers was nothing to him, the time of spring was merely a change of +season, and the most spiritual of blooms were only "wooden enemies." +Searell frowned a little, not at the lack of education, which was rather +a peace to be desired, but at the harshness of the words, and went on, +wondering if the wood-anemones were to be his friends, or little cups of +poison.</p> + +<p>He climbed streets of poor houses, their unhappy windows curtained with +mist, and came out near a small church made of iron, a cheap and gaudy +thing, almost as squalid on the outside as the houses. The backslider +looked at it with a shudder. It was his no longer; he had given it up; +he was forgetting those toy-like altars, the cheap brass candlesticks, +the artificial flowers, and all the images. They were wooden and stone +enemies to him now. He was going deeper to find the throbbing heart of +religion, putting aside dolls and tapers and the sham of sentimentality. +Solitude and mysticism were to be his stars through the night, and he +trusted, with their aid, to reach the dawn. He turned from the church, +stopped at a house, and that was squalid too, knocked, then wiped his +boots, as if certain of being admitted.</p> + +<p>"Father Damon?" he asked shortly. Searell's voice was sweet; he had +helped people "home," as they called it, with his tongue, not with his +soul, just as a sweet-toned organ calls for tears with the beauty of its +sounds, though the instrument itself is dead.</p> + +<p>"Yes, your reverence," the housekeeper answered, as shortly; and Searell +walked up the foggy stairs murmuring to himself, "The wind-flowers are +out, and I am free."</p> + +<p>Father Damon stood in a little square room hideously papered. He was +small, dark, heavy-featured, peasant-like; and Searell saw at a glance +that his successor was as dull in many ways as Oliver Vorse. All that he +knew had been forced upon him almost violently; he had not gone forth +gathering for himself, he dared not, his mind had been tilled by careful +teachers, kept under restraint, all his side-growths pruned away, in +order that orthodoxy might develop in one large unlovely head. When the +order went forth to kneel, he knelt, and when it was time to lift his +eyes to Heaven, he lifted them. It was a life of prison, and he could +never smell the woodland through the fog of incense.</p> + +<p>"He knows nothing," muttered Searell. "He thinks it is daylight where he +stands."</p> + +<p>"I come to give you information about the mission," he said aloud, and +then began; but the telling took some time. How troublesome, how paltry, +the details; and Father Damon was so dull. Everything had to be +repeated, explained so carefully; and was it worth the words? The +successor was very earnest, but not enthusiastic, that had been crushed +out of him; and Searell grew impatient at the wooden figure, with its +simple face and child-like questions. He spoke faster, almost angrily, +desiring to get away and smell the earth; and his eyes wandered about +the room, which was so unlovely, not bare, but filled with those things +that make for the nakedness of life. There was wanting something to +galvanise that sluggish Damon into passion, to destroy the machinery, +turn him into a strong animal with dilating nostrils. One little touch +would have done it. A portrait of a pretty woman upon the mantelshelf +would have gone far; but there was nothing except pictures of mythical +saints.</p> + +<p>"You are retiring. You seem strong and well," said Damon, when he had +obtained all the information that was required.</p> + +<p>Searell was in a hurry to be gone, as the sleeper struggles to awake +from a bad dream; but that voice and its stagnant repose aroused him.</p> + +<p>"I am old, I am sixty," he said. "I am beginning again, trying to find +what the Church has not shown me."</p> + +<p>"What is that?"</p> + +<p>"Light."</p> + +<p>Damon stared with the eyes of horror, and put out his peasant-like hands +as if to force away some weight that pressed against him; but he said +nothing.</p> + +<p>"I will not depart in the odour of hypocrisy. Listen," said Searell. "I +am far from saying that the Church does not lead towards a kind of +light; but it has not led me. And this do I say, that in the world at +large all religion is a failure; and I am going to find mine in the +solitudes."</p> + +<p>"The truth is in the Church. It is your fault if you have missed it," +said Damon, in a hollow voice, hoping that the other, for the sake of +his soul, was mad.</p> + +<p>"It is there for some, the minority. You will never realize how small +that minority is. We cannot hasten the dawn with juggling. True religion +is a thing of innocence, not a matter of spells and charms; and it is in +the innocence of Nature that I will search for it. I believe it exists +there, underneath the outward cruelty, and I shall find it among the +flowers. The flower alone does not struggle with violence, it sheds no +blood; the weed smothers, and the bindweed chokes; but without some +fault upon the surface, perfection might be obtained, which cannot be. +Look into the flower, and you will find a condition which is not +approached by man or other animals. There is a purity which brings tears +into your eyes. Eliminate violence, and you have innocence; obtain +innocence, and you see the light. At the beginning of things we are told +that the world was destroyed by water because the earth was filled with +violence. At the beginning of the new era we learn that the Kingdom of +Heaven suffereth violence. Will you say the Church does not rule by +violence, by threats, suppressions, rubrics, and by vows?"</p> + +<p>"I cannot understand you," said Damon.</p> + +<p>"Will you understand when I say that the God of life is to be found +among the flowers?"</p> + + +<p>The other shook his head and looked frightened. Free speech was not +allowed, and, if it had been, he would not have known how to use it. He +walked between rubrics, turning neither to the right hand nor to the +left; and the living lily was a thing for funeral wreaths. For the +altars, artificial flowers were good enough, as they did not require +renewing, and they looked real to the congregation, and how they were +regarded elsewhere did not concern him; and whether they had been made +by sweated labour did not concern him, because he was not allowed to +think, and he himself was artificial, neither man nor animal, but a +side-growth of supernaturalism.</p> + +<p>"Let me go on now I have begun," said Searell. "I am leaving here, and +my words will not live after me. I am a man who has tested life, who has +been through every experience, and I have discovered that what morality +calls bad is often good, and that which we call virtue sometimes springs +from vice. The purest water runs upon mud, only you must not rake it up. +In my youth I served as a soldier, and upon leaving the army I sought +the Church, partly to find a rest, chiefly, perhaps, because my mind was +mystical. But nothing was revealed, and nothing could be, for the mystic +must be free; and the priest is a soul in prison, and the book of his +captivity is always before him. Here he must join his hands; there he +must lift his eyes to Heaven, prostrate himself, kiss the altar, until +the time comes when he feels alone, cut off from the Creator of his +dreams by these mechanics, horribly alone among images; and he seems to +hear a voice asking sorrowfully, 'What is this rule you are following? +Who told you to do this? Go out upon the hills and into the woods, for I +am there.' But he cannot move, for the time has come to join his hands +again, and the revelation passes unseen, because he has to keep his eyes +shut. It is written so, and he must obey."</p> + +<p>"I cannot answer you," muttered Damon; and it was true, for these words +took him outside the well-worn groove and dropped him useless.</p> + +<p>"If I found the man who could, I would follow him," came the answer, and +the white-headed priest passed a hand across his eyes, as if trying to +brush the fog away. "I have been longing to escape for years. The iron +of the little mission-church has eaten into my soul. I ought to have +resigned? Why so, when I performed all my duties? Without means I could +not have faced the world, for the mystic is not a practical man, and +these hands," he said, frowning, "they are hands to be despised, for +they have done nothing. No, do not answer me, you cannot, you are bound. +I am free. A year ago I was left money—"</p> + +<p>"A curse."</p> + +<p>"If you will, a curse to buy a pathway to my Heaven. There was a place I +pined for, up on the heights of Dartmoor, a valley among mountains. I +have bought it. They call it Pixyland."</p> + +<p>"Paganism," cried the peasant-priest hoarsely, and crossed himself.</p> + +<p>"Purity," said Searell, in his sweet voice. "Pure air, pure hills, pure +loneliness. It is a place of rocks, of heather and large-rooted ferns, +and it is very steep, terrace rising upon terrace to the heights. At the +bottom of the valley are trees; here also is a wild path and a wild +stream broken upon the rocks, and becoming whole again at the foot of a +glen. For centuries the place has been haunted in men's imagination, and +they have avoided it because it is a garden of—angels. I am going now +to make it bloom, I am going to grasp that solitude and weave with it a +mantle of light. I am going to walk on my pixy-path and watch the +shadows creeping up and down my pixy-glen; and the growth will come, the +growth of knowledge, and of consciousness; and there I may meet my +Gardener, driven out of the world by violence, out of the Church by +violence, revealing Himself, not tortured, cross-laden, and frowning, +and not awful, but as the smiling Guardian of the flowers."</p> + +<p>There was hardly a sound in the cold room, stiff with the antique +pictures of quaint saints, dark with that dull peasant born to be ruled; +and yet Searell was going out with a haunted face, passing like a +phantom from the house of poverty, and the wet board with Mass notices, +and the waste of ground heaped up with rubbish. There was a pear-tree +leaning from the waste, a tree which the builders had forgotten, and +from the tree hung a broken branch, and at the end of that branch, +beneath the buds of spring, were two black leaves neglected by the +winter, side by side, struggling with one another; for there was wind +down the street which made them struggle; but neither dropped, and they +fought on silently while the wind lasted.</p> + +<p>"Violence even in dead things," Searell murmured; and, reaching up his +hand, he quieted those two restless leaves for ever.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h3> + + +<p>Oliver Vorse was lying among the wood-anemones, and he was drunk. He +would have looked like a monster had his condition been rare; but it was +common, therefore Vorse was not abnormal, only a fool. He did not know +where he was, in the pixy-path upon the wind-flowers, crushing so many +with his sodden carcase, while the pure pixy-water trickled underneath. +He had come the wrong way at the turning of the path; instead of +ascending to the house, which was the way of difficulty, he had stepped +downwards choosing the path of ease, as men will, even when sober. The +state of his body was nothing, as nobody would see him except Sibley, +his wife. The master was expected tomorrow, and then he would have to +pretend to be a man.</p> + +<p>The moon was young, a cradle of silver, and the stars were wrapped in +sleep-compelling clouds; and all the light that there was seemed to come +from the anemones which Vorse was defiling. The little white things were +lanterns, retaining light, but not giving it forth, and a stickle of +water shone like a shield. There was such a wonderful purity in Nature +apart from the man. Everything seemed to bear the mark of beauty and +holiness except him. It was out of the world in that fairy garden +hanging between the cities and the clouds, and the vices of the world +were out of place; and yet there was no barrier which they could not +leap across.</p> + +<p>A light appeared thick and heavy, putting out the eyes of the flowers. +It wobbled down the natural terraces, weather-hewn from granite, and +with it came a voice suggesting more violence, harsh and angry, not a +voice of the clouds, but of the street-corner, where faces are thin and +fierce, and the paving-stones seem cruel. Sibley was searching for her +husband, not because she loved him, nor requiring his company for any +reason except the selfish one that the loneliness above frightened her, +and her small spirit quailed before the heaving moorland. Any sort of a +brute was better than the God of the mountains. She stumbled over an +obstacle, lowered the lantern, but it was a mass of granite carved +cynically by centuries of rain into the semblance of a tombstone. Again +she stumbled, and now it was the trunk of a tree, phosphorescent with +rottenness. A third time she stumbled, and so found her master with the +rottenness of the fallen tree, without the strength of the granite.</p> + +<p>She kicked him, struck him with the greasy lantern, and swore.</p> + +<p>"Get up, dirty swine. Get up, will ye? Mind what the master told yew? +and he'm coming in the morning."</p> + +<p>Oliver only growled and snored. This was his form of mysticism, and it +was a kind of happiness. If master had dreams, why not he? Master could +dream at one end of creation, he at the other. There was plenty of time. +Sibley was only twenty-four, Oliver not much older. When life is young +the end of it is a myth, and passion is the god.</p> + +<p>There was another light down the pixy-path, very steady and soft. Had it +been blue it might have been a thing of the bog, looking for the body it +had thrown away, but it was white, and it flickered hardly at all, for +the night was smothered up and the winds were slumbering. It came up the +path with a kind of gliding rather terrible and there was not a sound +around it. The master was approaching in the night. Having completed the +last duty sooner than he had anticipated, he acted on the impulse. There +was time to escape, so why wait for the morning? And there would be the +glamour of passing through the dark towards clouds and mistland. The +preparations of a man in earnest take no time. He must put a taper in +his pocket, the last relic of the church he was leaving, as the night +would be heavy upon the pathway, and he must walk there and see the +wood-anemones in flower and feel the peace settling upon his eyelids. +There was no time to be lost, for he was old, and still a child, with +everything to learn.</p> + +<p>Sibley saw the figure, and screamed, supposing it to be a spirit doing +penance for past sins with the lighted candle; while her husband heaved +and called for drink.</p> + +<p>Searell stood upon the path. The wind-flowers were out, but their heads +were hanging in shame; there was no spiritual life in them, they were +already dead like the two black leaves upon the pear tree, and the +destroyed of life was that heap of flesh upon them. He had come away +from the world to forget its violence, and here it was upon his mystic +pathway. He had come to find his God upon the flowers, and had found a +drunken man instead.</p> + +<p>He was calm, to Sibley he looked divine, as he placed the candle in the +niche of a gaping boulder, and she wondered at his restraint. He was a +god, for he had made her, had saved her from street life, and might +still save Oliver if he could bear with him. They were not of his +religion, they were only devil-worshippers, and yet he had stooped down +and dragged them almost by violence from the rubbish-pit.</p> + +<p>"Forgive 'en this once, master," she cried. "I'll see he don't fall +again. Us didn't look vor ye till the morning, and Oliver went down, and +this be how he comed back."</p> + +<p>There was a flat rock above the pixy-water, and here Searell seated +himself, saying, "Do not speak. Your voice is harsh."</p> + +<p>For some moments the only sounds were the deep breathing of Vorse and +the tinkling of the stream. The flame of the candle did not flicker, and +Sibley remained as motionless, her hands clasped before her, looking +down. Then Searell spoke:</p> + +<p>"I walked along a street, and at a dark end of it a man and woman were +fighting. They were young and fierce. As I came near, the man threw the +woman down and thumped her in the back, I separated them by violence. +They respected my profession, and did not greatly resent my +interference. So there was good in them, but, like young beasts, they +had run wild, and no man had tamed them. You know of whom I am +speaking?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, master, I reckon," she whispered.</p> + +<p>"At that time they were living together, although unmarried. I told them +I should be requiring a couple to attend to me and my home, and I +promised to engage them if they would be legally wedded. But conditions +were imposed. One of them has been broken tonight."</p> + +<p>"It won't ever happen again, master."</p> + +<p>"I have myself to think of. There must be selfishness," said Searell. +"There is no escaping from it. If one condition is broken, another may +be. You remember the other?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, master—no children."</p> + +<p>The words sounded harsh, in that fairy place, and they seemed to agree +rather with the breathing of the drunken man than with the ringing of +the stream.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I am hard, but I have my peace of mind to consider. A child's +cry, a child's mischievous ways, would destroy it. There is no room in +my house for children, and this is not the place for them. I have a +search to make," he murmured. "The scream of infants would lead me far +astray. You will remember?"</p> + +<p>"Us ha' no other home, master."</p> + +<p>"You will remember?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, master."</p> + +<p>"I will forget what has happened tonight," said Searell, bending from +the rock, dipping his hand into the pixy-water. "Let this be a time of +regeneration for us all. Do you respect a ceremony?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, master, I reckon," she said again, though she could not understand +him.</p> + +<p>"We will lead a new life," he said, with a smile which was visible in +the light of candle and lantern.</p> + +<p>Sibley stepped forward as Oliver lifted himself with heavy movements, +and muttered a half-conscious "Ask your pardon, master."</p> + +<p>Searell brought up a little of the bright water, and sprinkled the +woman, then the man, without any other sign, and with the words in his +soft mystic voice, "I receive you into the new life."</p> + +<p>Then he picked up the taper and went, leaving the man and woman afraid +of him.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h3> + + +<p>After a year in Pixyland, what was there? A garden, a place of almost +unearthly beauty, and through it the master moved slowly, clad no longer +in the clothes of religion, nor even in the garments of respectability; +his coat sack-like, its pockets bulging with bulbs and tubers, and his +hair was in white ringlets, and his hands were often in the warm earth, +grubbing out furze-roots. The terrestrial paradise had been attained; +down the steep slopes poured a cascade of colour, the pixy-path was +alight all night with white, out of the pixy-water rose golden osmundas +and the ghostly spiræa; and Searell's face was also ghostly, it was +hungry, and the eyes were dull. It was not the face of the priest who +had built up the mission, for that had been eager. It was not the face +of the mystic who had walked up the path by candlelight, for that had +been happy. It was not the face of the spiritualist who feels he is +conquering the atmosphere, nor that of a dreamer. It was the face of one +who was sad.</p> + +<p>Searell had discovered, though he would not own it to himself, that +lonely happiness is impossible. What was a discovery if no friend could +be told of it? What was the loveliness of his garden when there was no +one to share it with? What would Heaven itself be if he was there alone? +There must be sympathy, and without it life is lost.</p> + +<p>Intellect was losing its edge. He almost forgot what he had come there +for. Instead of ascending towards more light he was falling into grosser +darkness. He did not even dream; he was sluggish, and oblivion was over +him; which must happen when a man cuts himself free from the hearts and +brains of others. His cry was no longer the triumphant one of strength +and self-confidence. It was the cry "Why hast Thou forgotten me?" as he +walked heavily, and the weight of his own presence oppressed him; and +then he would mutter aloud, "Come and see my garden. I must show you the +flowers," though there was nobody to hear. That was all: he was a +gardener; he wanted to show his flowers, shrubs, ferns, he wanted to +delight some one with his bogplants, he longed to see admiration dawning +upon a human face, love for the beautiful kindling in human eyes; and so +he came to crave for human life, human words and beauty, human sympathy, +even human sin and shame and violence rather than the innocence and +purity and gentleness of God among the flowers.</p> + +<p>"Master, where be I to plant this?" "Master, will ye pay these bills?" +Such were the almost brutal questions around him.</p> + +<p>He had asked for solitude; and now he longed for passion, earthly love.</p> + +<p>It was winter, when the nights were wild and the evenings intolerable; +and during one of them the sound of a quarrel reached his ears. Oliver +and Sibley had not been satisfactory. If they had abstained from the +vices, they had not learnt to love one another; and, as Searell listened +then, he saw the violent streets and that boy and girl tussle in the +dirt. He went down, and at the foot of the stairs heard the woman's +angry voice, "Yew ha' ruined me"; and then the growl of Oliver, "Shut +your noise. Master be moving over." Through the doorway Searell saw +them, like beasts half-tamed, longing to break into their natural +habits, but dreading the master's whip. Were they worse than they had +been? Was it the effect of solitude upon them? Sibley had no small +amusements such as women desire. Oliver had no love for his home life. +It seemed to Searell that indifference was settling upon them all. He +advanced into the kitchen, stood between them as he had done before, +looked at the man, and noticed something new, a kind of eagerness, which +he tried to suppress; then at the woman, and here too was a difference, +a softer face and eyes half ashamed. Perhaps, then, they could love, and +a word from him might kindle the spark into flame.</p> + +<p>"I interfered between you once before. It was for your good."</p> + +<p>"No, master," said Sibley.</p> + +<p>"I think so," he said, startled by her independence and rudeness.</p> + +<p>"It would ha' been better if yew had passed by and let we bide," she +went on; and when Oliver growled his "Shut your noise," it was with less +anger than usual.</p> + +<p>"Us could ha' done what us had a mind to then," she said. "This be a +prison."</p> + +<p>"We are all in prison, if you can understand me. The walls are all +round, and we cannot get over them."</p> + +<p>"'Tis best vor volk to live as 'em be meant to," said Sibley.</p> + +<p>And again Searell was amazed. How had this woman obtained the power and +the courage to answer him? And to beat him, for he was beaten. He had no +words to reply to that simple philosophy, and to the woman who appealed +from his decision. He had played the God with them, had brought them out +of chaos, and had given them his commandments; and he was no God, but a +weak man; and they were not his children.</p> + +<p>He went back to his books, there were no flowers except Christmas-roses +and snowdrops, shivering things of winter, and tried to dream. Nothing +came. It seemed to him there was less mysticism in his mistland than in +the dirty streets of Stonehouse; and, while he mused, that world came +knocking at his mind, calling in the dialect of Sibley, "'Tis best vor +volk to live as 'em be meant to." His own body, his sluggishness and +unhappiness, convicted him of error; but, if he was wrong, what of all +religion which tells of a God of mysticism, and of his own in +particular, which, at that very season of the year, rejoiced at the +birth of a Child-creator by mysticism not through Love? And at his mind +was hot, red-blooded passion, a crude and awful thing, love for those +things which make men horrible, love for dirt and the roots, not for bud +and bloom; and a contempt and hatred for cold morality and the spells +muttered by candlelight; and the message of the flowers was this: +"Through the agency of others, through the eyes of those who are loved +and loving, not by the confinement of self, souls find the dawn."</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Vorse," said Searell one day, the yellow aconites were out, the +first colour of the year, and he was going to look at them, "you have +changed."</p> + +<p>Sibley had her back towards him, engaged in cleaning, and she was +wearing, as she always did, the enveloping apron of the country, which +hung from her shoulders and surrounded her body like a sack. He could +not see the flush upon her face.</p> + +<p>"Your voice is softer. You sing at your work. You are happy."</p> + +<p>"I hain't, master," she whispered. "I feels, master, I wants to be +happy, but I be frightened."</p> + +<p>"Of the loneliness?"</p> + +<p>"Not that, master. I can't tell ye, but I be frightened."</p> + +<p>"You and your husband get along better. You are quieter. I have not +heard you quarrel for some time."</p> + +<p>"There's good in Oliver," she said.</p> + +<p>"I thought so," he murmured. "But I have not been able to bring it out."</p> + +<p>He went to see the aconites, but they were cold, and made him shiver. It +was warm innocence he wanted, not the purity which numbed; and, down +below, the slopes were naked, the path rustled with dead oakleaves, and +the pixy-water was in flood. The violence of the world was there, and +nothing could drive it out.</p> + +<p>"Is your wife well, Oliver?" he asked. "I heard a sound in your room +early this morning. It seemed to me she was ill."</p> + +<p>Vorse was uprooting bracken, which is hard labour, and he made no pause +when his master spoke.</p> + +<p>"I ha' never knowed she better," he answered.</p> + +<p>"She frets less. There is a womanliness about her now which is pleasant. +You, also, have very much improved. You speak to her gently. You do not +drink now?"</p> + +<p>"Her made me give it up."</p> + +<p>"Had I nothing to do with it?"</p> + + +<p>"No, master," said Oliver bluntly. "I couldn't ha' given it up vor yew. +I did try, but I couldn't, I promised to give it up vor Sibley."</p> + +<p>"When?"</p> + +<p>"Months ago. Her told me something, and 'twur then I promised to give it +up vor Sibley."</p> + +<p>"What did she tell you?"</p> + +<p>"Her had received a message from God."</p> + +<p>These were strange words from the mouth of Oliver Vorse.</p> + +<p>"Her took 'em from yew, master," he added apologetically.</p> + +<p>Searell moved aside, gazing at the black snakelike fern-roots. Then he +lifted up his eyes in torment. His creatures finding in the garden what +he had missed, taking his God away from him! the dull Sibley his +superior, reaping the harvest that he had sown! the dull Oliver +reforming for her, and not for him! And he had nothing, he was alone, as +much alone in his garden as in the mission-church, obeying the printed +rubrics and hearing the call, "Who told you to do this? Go out and find +Me, for I am in the solitudes."</p> + +<p>"You are educating yourselves," he suggested, turning back. "You and +Sibley are improving your minds by learning. I have done that much for +you."</p> + +<p>Oliver said nothing, his head was down, and his hands grubbed at the +great roots. There was no answer to make.</p> + +<p>It was evening, the time of restlessness, and Searell came downstairs; +his study was above, and he came down only to change his rooms, to get +into another atmosphere, that he might find rest for his mind. The +kitchen door was open. Oliver was seated in a low chair, and Sibley was +upon his knees, her arms around his neck, her head upon his shoulder. +Both were motionless as if asleep.</p> + +<p>Searell went away. This time he could not interfere, and the noise of +the wind became to him the cry of the wild world. "Men must be violent," +it cried. "Men were made for passion," it cried; "and with the strength +of the body, rather than by the gropings of the mind, they shall clear +the mists from their eyes, and by means of the act of creation find +Creator."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV</h3> + + +<p>A perfect evening is often the prelude to a stormy night. It was such an +evening in spring again, when the wind-flowers were out, and an old man +riding off the moor paused beside Searell's boundary-wall to prophesy a +tempest. This was a white old man with queer blue eyes, and he too was a +mystic under the spell of solitude; but, unlike Searell, he had his +ties, without which no man can be happy. By day he roamed, and at +evening, by the fireside, told the children small and great his own +weird tales of Dartmoor. There were no restless evenings for him. +Searell shook his head almost angrily. He lived upon the face of the +moor, wrapped himself in its secrets, yet he could not foretell its +weather. The passing cloud had no message, the river with its changing +cry told him nothing. He went into the house.</p> + +<p>"Where is your wife?" he said to Oliver.</p> + +<p>"Her bain't well, master." The man was nervous, and his eyes were large.</p> + +<p>"Who is that woman in the kitchen?"</p> + +<p>"I had to get she up to do the cooking."</p> + +<p>"You have neglected your work today."</p> + +<p>"I be cruel sorry, master."</p> + +<p>"What is the matter with your wife? Yesterday I heard her singing."</p> + +<p>"Nothing serious, master"; but the man was listening all the time, as if +dreading to hear a call, a cry of pain, or the voice of life coming +along the moor.</p> + +<p>The old man was right. So soon as night began, the Dartmoor tempest +broke; there was no rain, nor thunder, but a dry and mighty wind which +made the rocks shake; and through the storm came a weird light defying +the wind to blow it out, that light which does not enter the lowlands, +but lives upon mountains; and Searell stood at his high writing desk, +and sought out legends of the wind.</p> + +<p>If there were sounds in the house he could not hear them. Deep in +mysticism, he read on of the winged clouds which brought the tempests, +and of their symbols, the rock-shattering worm, the stone of wisdom +which tears open the secrets of life, the rosy flower which restores the +dead, the house-breaking hand of glory; and the eagle symbol of +lightning, and the rushing raven returning to Odin. And he read of the +voices in the wind, while boulders were grinding along the river-bed; of +Hulda in the forest singing for baby-souls; of the Elf maidens alluring +youths astray; of Thoth staggering into oblivion with brave men's +spirits; of Hermes with his winged talaria, playing the lyre and +shutting fast all the myriad eyes of the stars. And something more he +read about the storm-wind. It was not always taking away, it was giving; +it was a bringer of new life, coming in spring as a young god with +golden hair, breaking the spell of winter, bringing a magic pipe to make +folk dance.</p> + +<p>"At one time it lulls into a mystic sleep, at another it restores to new +life," said Searell, speaking loudly and strongly, partly to reassure +himself, because the tumult was frightening. "What is this wind bringing +to me, more of the mystic sleep, or the new life?"</p> + +<p>He paced up and down the room, which shook as if with earthquake; and +hidden from him by a partition of lath and plaster was the staring +horror of a dream, one small lamp, turned down, giving the half-light +which suggests terror more than darkness, and on the bed a woman +moaning, and against the wall a weak man groaning. Let them rave and +scream, no sound of theirs could have pierced that lath and plaster, for +the god of violence was fighting on their side.</p> + +<p>"There be only one way."</p> + +<p>That was how Oliver had been muttering the last hour.</p> + +<p>"No, no," she sobbed.</p> + +<p>"What can us do? Master be hard, he bides by his word. He ha' been good +to we in all else, but this be our ruin."</p> + +<p>"No, no." She could not hear him, but she knew what he was saying.</p> + +<p>"Back on them streets again. No home to cover we, no food. Us ha' lived +easy too long to stand it. 'Twould end in the river. Better to lose the +one than our two selves."</p> + +<p>"No, no," her lips made the words, but not the sounds.</p> + +<p>"'Tis only a matter o' two minutes," he cried fiercely. "Then us be free +again." He left the wall, crossed to the bed, bent down, cried into her +ear, "It be awful outside. The watter be roaring down under. Us mun +live, woman."</p> + +<p>Sibley lifted herself with a face of death, and screamed as if it had +been the last effort of her life, screamed again and again; but what was +that in the wind? Not even a whisper; while Searell read on of the Sons +of Kalew, and the miracle of their harps which changed winter into +summer and death into life.</p> + +<p>Oliver Vorse was staggering downstairs weeping; and outside the wind +caught him, dragged him hither and thither like a straw, stuffing his +mouth with vapour, and flung him against bellowing walls and into +shrieking bushes; and still he protected what he held by instinct, and +when he fell upon the steep descent he let his body be bruised and his +face torn by that same instinct which makes the timid beast a savage +thing.</p> + +<p>It took no time.... He was back in the ghastly lamplight, staring at a +ghastly face which was the reflection of his own; and the master was +still in his musing, and knew nothing.</p> + +<p>"Let me die, I'd sooner," Sibley muttered simply; but Oliver could not +hear. He was leaning against the wall again; then he went on his knees, +and then he turned his back upon the bed. That face, the black hair, a +blood-stain visible, they frightened him. He passed into a kind of +agony; he was so cold and his body was dry, and there was a lightness in +his limbs.</p> + +<p>"The watter wur roaring—roaring. There warn't no wind, not there. It +wur sheltered down under, and them little white flowers scarce shook."</p> + +<p>He turned his head and saw those staring eyes.</p> + +<p>"Bain't what yew thinks," he howled. "There wur moss, plenty on't. I +made a bed beside the rocks. It bain't cold, not very; but the watter be +rising—rising—rising."</p> + +<p>So was the tempest. It would be nearing its end, and would drop as +suddenly as it had arisen; and Searell was smiling as he read of the +beasts of the forest weeping as they listened to the song-wind of +Gunadhya.</p> + +<p>"I can't go out. Might see it crawling up-along, trying to come back, +little white thing in the dark."</p> + +<p>Oliver could see Sibley was speaking, making with her agonized mouth the +shape of words, "Go out." He could not, dared not, had not even the +courage to open the door and look down the dimly lighted horror of the +stairs. They were in the last stage of weakness, the one morally, the +other physically; and the almighty strength of the wind gave them +nothing except the security of its tumult.</p> + +<p>"It'll be over," he shuddered. "The watter wur coming up all white. I +couldn't bide there—there wur drops o' summat on my face, and 'twur so +helpless, and it looked up. Blue, warn't 'em blue, woman?'"</p> + +<p>Sibley could not have heard, but, with all those instincts quivering, +she recognized the word upon his lips and tried to nod.</p> + +<p>"Innocent. Hadn't done nought. Would ha' kep we good, made we man and +wife. I'll go down. I'd go down if I dared—the little chin wur agin my +cheek. I'll never face the dark. I'd see it move, and the little +drowning bubbles on the watter. Be it over now?"</p> + +<p>He glared at Sibley as if she could answer; and she stared back, asking, +pleading, imploring him to play the man and face the night again; but he +grovelled against the wall and shuddered, damp with an awful sweat, and +the weird light upon the mountain-tops went out, because other clouds +were coming up, having travelled far since evening, and the darkness +became real as the roarings of the dry wind decreased. It was getting on +towards midnight, and those mighty winds were tired.</p> + +<p>"Go!" came a sudden scream; and Searell heard the echo of it and +started. The cry seemed to have its origin in the storm. He closed his +book, listened, heard nothing more except the coherent bellowing, and +then he answered, "I will." Certainly the word had sounded, and as +certainly he was alone. The Vorses would have been asleep for hours.</p> + +<p>"I will walk along the path. It is sheltered down there," he murmured. +"This may be the night appointed, the time of revelation, the time of +young life. This is the mad music of the spring, the shattering of the +chains of winter. The growth follows. It is the birth-night."</p> + +<p>He wrapped a coat around him and went. During those few minutes the wind +had much decreased; in another hour it would be calm and clear; and then +the awful stillness of the sunrise and the perpetual wonder of the +daylight.</p> + +<p>There was again a kind of light, for the raven-clouds had gone by and +the swan-clouds were crossing; and the wind was now the magic piper who +drives away care, and with his merry music sets Nature capering. Searell +was on the pixy-path and the wind-flowers were jigging; it was ghostly, +but a dance, not a solemn marching as in autumn, when the leaves fall +processionally downwards. It was recessional spring, when the leaves +awoke, as it were, from their moon-loved sleep, preserved in unfading +youth and beauty by that sleep, and leapt back at the piper's music to +the branches, kissing their ancient oaks with the fervour of young love. +Every flower had a moist eye and a sweet heart; and the pixy-water rang +for festival.</p> + +<p>One turn Searell made, seeing nothing, because his eyes struggled with +the mist; another, and he stopped. There was a wonder, a miracle, a +revelation among his wind-flowers, upon the edge of the rising water, a +sleeping silent wonder which made him thrill.</p> + +<p>"It has no bodily existence. When I come back it will be gone."</p> + +<p>It was still there, and now the water was almost level with the bed of +moss, and some of the flowers were struggling to keep their pale heads +above; and it was silent, this child of the morning, lying upon its back +in the moss, numbed, perhaps, though the night was not cold, and there +was a beauty upon the small face, not the beauty which makes for +violence, but that which gives peace, the beauty of innocence; and there +was also upon it that perfect weakness, and the submission of weakness +which is one of the strongest things created. And it seemed to be +growing there like the wind-flowers, as fragile, but as hardy, and among +them; for white anemones had been blown across each eye and across the +mouth, and they gleamed from each ear, and the chin was another edged +with pink, and all of them seemed to be jealous of the child.</p> + +<p>"And it comes into the world by violence," Searell murmured.</p> + +<p>Even then he hardly knew what had happened. He could not think, for his +mind was full of the wonder, and commonplace ideas would not enter. He +picked up the child reverently; there was no motion, no sound, no +opening of bue eyes; had there been a shrill scream, the spell might +have been broken—the contact was dreadful to him. He was tending a +sacred mystery, elevating a sacrament newly consecrated, something which +a few hours ago had been leaping like a spark in the place of his +dreams, and had been flung as lightning upon his path to strike his +heart open. Here was the answer of the flowers. To men the Creator was +as a child, for the child is the only thing all-powerful and the only +thing all-pure.</p> + +<p>About the house Searell seemed to hear the sound of groaning like the +moan of the dying wind, and there were movements once or twice as of a +wounded body.</p> + +<p>A dusty prie-dieu stood in the comer of the study. This he placed near +the fire, a cushion upon it, and then the child; and lighted a candle +upon each side. He stood with his arms folded, the Omega of life +worshipping the Alpha of it, until all things seemed to be new and +strange, as upon a resurrection morning, and he awoke from the sleep of +death and felt the spring. The winter was over and past, the time of the +opening of flowers had come, and the voice of creation stirred upon the +garden; and the change had been wrought by violence.</p> + +<p>It was necessary to speak and find sympathy. He hated the solitude +because no one shared it with him; he had grown to hate the wonderful +garden because there was no one to wonder at it with him; he hated +himself because no one cared for him. "Oliver!" he called, breaking the +horrible quietness, forgetful of the time. "Sibley!"</p> + +<p>Movements followed, again like wounded bodies, and Searell remembered +that the woman was ill and he had done nothing for her. He went to the +door; it opened, and Vorse was cowering against the wall, his hand upon +his eyes. Searell hardly noticed the horrid smoking of the lamplight, +the eyes upon that bed, the guilty, frightened man. Still full of +himself, he cried:</p> + +<p>"Come and see what I have found."</p> + +<p>"I couldn't do it, master," moaned Oliver. "I took it down, but the eyes +opened. 'Don't ye hurt me,' it said. I be just come. Bain't time vor me +to go.'"</p> + +<p>Still Searell would not understand.</p> + +<p>"Come," he said impatiently. "She was upon my path, among my flowers."</p> + +<p>Then life stirred again upon the bed, and Sibley drew herself up with +ravenous eyes and muttered:</p> + +<p>"Alive—alive!"</p> + +<p>Soon the room was like a chapel. The smoky lamp had been extinguished, +the prie-dieu stood beside the bed, the candles cast a warm, soft light; +and outside upon the moor was peace. Even the merry piper had become +weary and had put all things to sleep till daybreak; while Oliver Vorse +upon his knees confessed the sin which had been forced upon him.</p> + +<p>"Us dared not keep she. Sibley dared, but not me. If a child wur born, +us must go, yew said. I couldn't face it, but her would ha' faced it. Us +be ready to go now," he said boldly. "I ha' these hands. I'll fight. I +ha' the maiden to fight vor."</p> + +<p>"Her lives. Her moves on my bosom," cried Sibley. "Look at 'em, master. +Did ye ever see the like?"</p> + +<p>"What made you kinder, Sibley, more attentive to me, soft and tender?"</p> + +<p>"'Twur the child coming, master."</p> + +<p>"What made you sober, Oliver, fond of your wife? What was it stopped the +quarelling?"</p> + +<p>"I minded the little child, master."</p> + +<p>There was something tender in their illiterate speech.</p> + +<p>"You cast her away. The sin is mine, so is the atonement. And she is +mine."</p> + +<p>"She'm mine, master," murmured Sibley.</p> + +<p>"I found her among my flowers, the reward of my searching. She is the +answer," he said. "Let her be to you the daughter of love, and to me the +daughter of violence. Oliver," he cried, turning, "bring up water from +the pixy-stream. As the sun rises I will baptise—my child."</p> + +<p>"Yew'm fond o' she, master?"</p> + +<p>"She is mine," he said, with the old impatience.</p> + +<p>"And we, master?"</p> + +<p>"I am old and you are young," said Searell. "But we are all beginning +life, we know nothing. We will try to find another and a better +pathway."</p> + +<p>He went back to his rooms to rest, but not to sleep, for there was +something burning inside him like a coal from the altar; and a new light +crept upon the moor, giving it form, changing it from black to purple. +It was the dawn.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="BUSINESS_IS_BUSINESS" id="BUSINESS_IS_BUSINESS"></a>BUSINESS IS BUSINESS</h2> + + +<p>Tavy river rises on Cranmere, flows down Tavy Cleave, divides the parish +of Mary Tavy from that of Peter Tavy, passes Tavy Mount, and leaves +Dartmoor at Tavystock, or Tavistock as it is now spelt. Each Dartmoor +river confers its name, or a portion of it, upon certain features of its +own district. The Okements meet at Okehampton, and one of them has Oke +Tor, which has been corrupted into Ock and even Hock. Even the tiny Lyd +has its Lydford. Each river also has its particular characteristic. The +East Okement is the river of ferns, the Teign the river of woods, the +Taw the river of noise, the Dart the river of silence, and the Tavy is +the river of rocks. Tavy Cleave from the top of Ger Tor, presents a +grand and solemn spectacle of rock masses piled one upon the other; it +is a valley of rocks, relieved only by the foaming little river.</p> + +<p>Mary Tavy is a straggling village of unredeemed ugliness, wild and bare. +It lies exposed on the side of the moor and is swept by every wind, for +not a bush or even a bramble will be found upon the rounded hills +adjoining. Once the place was a mining centre of some importance. The +black moor has been torn into pits and covered with mounds by the +tin-streamers in early days, and more recently by the copper-miners. All +around Mary Tavy appear the dismal ruins of these mines, or wheals as +they are called. Peter Tavy, across the river, is not so dreary, but is +equally exposed. This region during the winter is one of the most +inhospitable spots to be found in England.</p> + +<p>In Peter Tavy there lived, until quite recently, an elderly man, who +might have posed as the most incompetent creature in the West Country. +It is hardly necessary to say he did not do so; on the contrary, he +posed as a many-sided genius. He occupied a hideous little tin house, +which would have been condemned at a glance in those parts of the +country where building by-laws are in existence. At one time and another +he had borrowed the dregs of paint-pots, and had endeavoured to decorate +the exterior. As a result, one portion was black, another white, and +another blue. Over the door a board appeared setting forth the +accomplishments of Peter Tavy, as he may here be called. According to +his own showing he was a clock-maker; he was a photographer; he was a +Dartmoor guide; he was a dealer in antiquities; he was a Reeve attached +to the Manor of Lydford; and he was a purveyor of manure. This board was +in its way a masterpiece of fiction. Once upon a time a resident, +anxious to put Peter's powers to the test, sent him an old kitchen-clock +to repair. He examined and gave it as his opinion that the undertaking +would require time. When a year had passed the owner of the clock +requested Peter to report progress. He replied that the work was getting +on, but "'Twas a slow business and 'twould take another six months to +make a job of it." At the end of that period the clock was removed, +almost by force, and it was then discovered that Peter had sold most of +the interior mechanism to a singularly innocent tourist as Druidical +remains unearthed by him in one of the shafts of Wheal Betsy.</p> + +<p>As a photographer he carried his impudence still further. Some one had +given him an old camera and a few plates. He began at once to inveigle +visitors—chiefly elderly ladies, "half-dafty maidens" he impolitely +called them—down Tavy Cleave, where he would pose them on rocks and +pretend to photograph them with plates which had already been exposed +more than once. "If I doan't get a picture first time, I goes on till I +do," he explained. Once, when Peter announced "'twas a fine picture this +time," a gentleman of the party reminded him he had omitted to remove +the cap from the lens. Peter was not to be caught that way: "I took +'en," he said, "I took 'en, but yew was yawning."</p> + +<p>As a guide upon the moor Peter was an equal failure. He ought to have +known Dartmoor after living upon it all his life; the truth was, he +would have lost his way upon the road to Tavistock had he strayed from +it a moment. Visitors, lured by the notice-board, had approached him +from time to time with the request to be guided to Cranmere. Peter would +take them along Tavy Cleave for a mile, then assure them a storm was +coming up and it would be necessary to seek shelter as soon as possible, +hurry them back, and demand half-a-guinea in return for his services. +Peter had never been to Cranmere Pool, and had no idea how to get there. +Sometimes a party would insist upon proceeding, in spite of the guide's +warning, and in such cases the bewildered Peter would have to be shown +the way home by his victims. He would demand the half-guinea all the +same.</p> + +<p>As a dealer in antiquities nothing came amiss. Broken pipes, bits of +crockery, old mining-tools, any rubbish rotting or rusting upon the peat +were gathered and classified as Druidical remains. No one knew where +Peter had picked up the word Druidical; but it was certain he picked up +their supposed remains on the piece of black moor which surrounded his +house. Sometimes, it was said, he found a tourist foolish enough to +purchase a selection of this rubbish.</p> + +<p>What he meant by describing himself as an official receiving pay from +the Duchy of Cornwall nobody ever knew. As a Reeve (another word he had +picked up somewhere) of the Manor of Lydford he believed himself to be +intimately connected with the lord of that manor, who is the Prince of +Wales. He knew that august personage was interested somehow in three +feathers. The public-house in the neighbourhood called <i>The Plume of +Feathers</i> had something to do with it he was sure, though he had never +seen "goosey's feathers same as they on the sign-board." Once he thought +seriously of erecting three feathers above his own door, and for that +purpose captured a neighbor's goose and plucked three large quills from +one of its wings, accompanying his action with the bland request, "Now +bide still, goosey-gander, do' ye." He could not make his three +goose-quills graceful and drooping, like those upon the sign-board, and +that was probably why Peter refrained from doing the Lord of Dartmoor +the compliment of assuming his crest.'</p> + +<p>The village of Peter Tavy, like most spots upon Dartmoor, has its summer +visitors; and these were sure, sooner or later, to make the acquaintance +of Peter Tavy the man. They thought him a harmless idiot, and he +reciprocated. One summer a journalist came upon the moor for his health +and, desiring to combine business with pleasure, he wrote a descriptive +sketch of Peter, and this was published in due course in a paper which +by a curious accident reached Peter himself. The man was furious. He +went about the two villages with the paper in his hand, his scanty hair +bristling, his watery eyes bulging, his mouth twisted into a very ugly +shape. It was a good thing the journalist had departed, for just then +Peter was angry and vindictive enough for anything. Presently he met his +clergyman; he made towards him, held out the paper, and, regardless of +grammar, cried out, "That's me."</p> + +<p>"He does not mention you by name," said the clergyman.</p> + +<p>"He says the man in the iron house wi' notice-board atop. He's got down +the notice-board as 'tis," spluttered Peter. "He says a ginger-headed +man—that's me; face like a rabbit—that's me."</p> + +<p>It was as a purveyor of manure that Peter found his level, if not a +living. Probably he received financial assistance from his sister, who +lived across the river at Mary Tavy. She had been formerly a lady's maid +in Torquay; after more than thirty years' service her mistress had died, +and had bequeathed to her a modest income, and on this she lived +comfortably in retirement, crossing Tavy Cleave occasionally to visit +her eccentric brother. She, too, was said to be eccentric, but that was +only because she was fond of getting full value for a halfpenny. Mary +Tavy was a spinster, and Peter Tavy was a bachelor. On those occasions +when some ne'er-do-well attempted to annex Mary and her income, the good +woman's eccentricity had revealed itself very strongly; and as for +Peter, his own sister would remark, "Women never could abide he."</p> + +<p>The Tavies always passed Christmas together. One year Peter would go +across and stop with Mary for three days; the next, Mary would come +across and stop with Peter for three days. Their rule on this matter was +fixed; the visit never extended beyond three days, and Peter would not +have dreamed of going across to Mary if it were the turn of Mary to come +across to him.</p> + +<p>Peter had a little cart and a pony to draw it. How he came by the pony +nobody knew, but as it was never identified no hard questions were +asked. Every year a few Dartmoor ponies are missed when the drift takes +place; and at the same time certain individuals take to owning shaggy +little steeds which have no past history. When a brand has been +skilfully removed, one Dartmoor pony is very much like a score of +others. To drive Peter into a corner over his title to the pony which +pulled his shameful little cart—it was hardly better than a +packing-case on wheels—would have been impossible. He had hinted that +it was a present from the Prince of Wales as a slight return for +services rendered; and as no one else in the Tavy district was in the +habit of communicating with the lord of the manor, his statement could +not easily be refuted.</p> + +<p>With this pony and unlicensed cart Peter would convey people from time +to time to the station at Mary Tavy, making a charge of eighteen pence, +which was not exorbitant considering the dangers and difficulties of the +road. For conveying his sister from her home to his at Christmas he made +a charge of one shilling; when she expostulated, as she always did, and +quoted the proverb "Charity begins at home," Peter invariably replied +with another proverb, "Business is business."</p> + +<p>Few will have forgotten the winter of 1881, when snow fell for over a +week, and every road was lost and every cleave choked. Snow was lurking +in sheltered nooks upon the tops of Ger Tor and the High Willhays range +as late as the following May. Snow upon Dartmoor does not always mean +snow elsewhere. It is possible sometimes to stand knee-deep upon the +high moor and look down upon a stretch of country without a flake upon +it, and so on to the sugared and frosted hills of Exmoor; but no part of +the country escaped the great fall of 1881. Every one on the moor can +tell of some incident in connection with that Christmas. At the two +Tavies they tell how Peter tried to drive Mary from his village to hers, +how he failed in the attempt, and how both of them remained good +business people to the end.</p> + +<p>It was Mary's turn to visit Peter that year, and she arrived upon +Christmas Eve, quaintly but warmly dressed, a small boy carrying her +basket, which contained the articles that she deemed necessary for her +visit, together with a bottle of spiced wine, some cream cakes, and a +plum-pudding as big as her head. The boy said a good many +uncomplimentary things about that pudding as they climbed up from the +Tavy, comparing it to the Giant's Pebble higher up the cleave. When Mary +raised her black-mittened hand and threatened him with chastisement, the +urchin lifted out the pudding in its cloth, set it at her feet, and told +her to carry it herself, as it was "enough to pinch a strong man +dragging that great thing up the cleave"; so Mary had to finish the +journey hugging the pudding like a baby. She was walking to save herself +sixpence. Peter had offered to come for her with his pony and cart, the +charge to be one shilling, payable as follows—sixpence when she got +into the cart and sixpence when she got out; but Mary had told him that +she could get a boy to carry her basket for half that amount; when he +protested she reminded him that business was business.</p> + +<p>A light sprinkle of snow had fallen, just enough to dust over the rocks +and furze-bushes; but it was very cold, the clouds were low and +wood-like, and there was in the air that feel of snow which animals can +nearly always detect, and men who live on the moors can sometimes.</p> + +<p>Peter and Mary spent the evening in simple style. Peter sat on one side +of the fire, Mary on the other; sometimes Peter stirred to get fresh +turves for the fire; sometimes Mary got up to heap the little table with +good cheer and place it midway between the old-fashioned chairs. They +both smoked, they both took snuff, they both drank spiced wine. Towards +evening they talked of old times and became merry. Then they talked of +old people and grew sentimental, dropping tears into their hot wine. +Peter got up and kissed Mary, but Mary did not care for Peter's caresses +and told him so, whereupon Peter advised her to "get along home then." +Mary declared she would, but changed her mind when she thought of the +gloomy cleave and the Tavy in winter flood; so they went on smoking, +taking snuff, and drinking spiced wine.</p> + +<p>The next day was fine, and Peter and Mary went to chapel. Mary gave her +brother a penny to put into the plate, but he put it into his pocket +instead; he was always a man of business. She also gave him a bright new +florin as a Christmas present. He had made her understand, when the coin +was safe in his possession, that he should still demand a shilling for +driving her home, and over that point they wrangled for some time. In +the evening, when Peter had fallen asleep over the fire, Mary repented +of her kindness and sought to regain the florin; but Peter had it hidden +away safely in his boot.</p> + +<p>When the time came for Mary to start homewards it was snowing fast, and +she did not like the prospect. Although it was not much after three +o'clock, the outlook was exceedingly dark; there was an unpleasant +silence upon the moor, and the snowflakes were larger and falling +thickly. But the pony was harnessed to the unsteady conveyance, and +Peter was waiting; before Mary could utter a word of protest, he had +bundled her in and they were off.</p> + +<p>"Twould have paid me better to bide home," said Mary.</p> + +<p>"Do'ye sit quiet," Peter growled. Then he added, "Where's the shillun?"</p> + +<p>"There now, doan't ye worry about the shillun," said Mary; "I'll give it +ye when I'm safe and sound to home wi' no bones broke."</p> + +<p>"Shillun be poor pay vor driving this weather," said her business-like +brother.</p> + +<p>Now and again a light appeared from one of the cottages. The pony +struggled on with its head down, while the silence seemed to grow more +unearthly, and the darkness increased, and the snow became a solid +descending mass. The road between the two Tavies is not easy in winter +under favorable conditions, and on that night it was to become +practically impassable. When the last light of Peter Tavy the village +had vanished, Peter Tavy the man had about as much idea where he was as +if he had just dropped out of the moon.</p> + +<p>"Where be'st going?" shrieked Mary, as the cart swerved violently to the +right.</p> + +<p>"Taking a short cut," explained Peter.</p> + +<p>"Dear life!" gasped Mary, "he'm pixy-led."</p> + +<p>"I b'ain't," said Peter; "I be driving straight vor Mary Tavy."</p> + +<p>Had he said straight for the edge of Tavy Cleave he would have spoken the +truth. The pony knew perfectly well that they were off the road, and the +sensible beast would have returned to the right way had it not been for +Peter, who kept pulling its head towards the cleave. Left to itself the +pony would have returned to Peter Tavy, having quite enough sense to +know that it was impossible to reach the sister village on such a night. +Its master, with his fatal knack of blundering, tugged at the reins with +one hand and plied the whip with the other. The snow was like a wall on +every side; the clouds seemed to be dissolving upon them; suddenly the +silence was broken by the roaring of the Tavy below.</p> + +<p>"Us be going to kingdom come," shrieked Mary.</p> + +<p>"Us b'ain't," said Peter; "us be going to Mary Tavy."</p> + +<p>The pony stopped. Peter used his whip, and the next instant the snow +appeared to rush towards them, open, and swallow them up. They had +struck a boulder and gone over the cleave. The body of the cart was in +one spot, its wheels were in another; and wallowing in the sea and snow +were Peter and Mary and the pony. The animal was the first to regain its +feet, and made off at once, with the broken harness trailing behind. +Mary was the next to rise, plastered over with snow from head to foot; +but she was soon down again, because her legs refused to support her. +Presently she heard her brother's voice. He was invisible, because he +had been thrown several feet lower, and had landed among rocks somewhat +bruised and sprained; had it not been for the soft snow he would +probably have been killed.</p> + +<p>"I be broke to bits," he wailed.</p> + +<p>"So be I," cried Mary; "So be the cart."</p> + +<p>"Be the cart broke?" said Peter; and when Mary had replied it was only +fit for firewood (it had not been fit for much else before the +accident), he went on, "'Twill cost ye a lot o' money to buy me a new +one."</p> + +<p>"Buy ye a new one? The man be dafty!" screamed Mary.</p> + +<p>"'Twas taking yew home what broke it," Peter explained.</p> + +<p>"Call this taking me home?" Mary shouted.</p> + +<p>"I done my best," said Peter; "'twas your weight what sent it over. +There'll be the cart, and the harness and the doctor's bill; 'twill cost +ye a heap o' money."</p> + +<p>"Dear life, hear the man talk!" said Mary, appealing to the snow which +was piled upon her ample form.</p> + +<p>"Mayhap there'll be funeral expenses," said Peter lugubriously; "I be +hurt dreadful."</p> + +<p>"Yew won't want the cart then," his sister muttered; "and I'll have the +pony."</p> + +<p>"Where be the pony?" Peter demanded.</p> + +<p>"Gone home likely; got more sense than we," said Mary. "Why doan't ye +get up, Peter?"</p> + +<p>"Get up wi' my two legs broke!" Peter replied in disgust.</p> + +<p>"Dear life, man, get up!" Mary went on, with real alarm. "If us doan't +get up soon us'll be stone dead carpses when us gets home."</p> + +<p>"I'll try, Mary, I'll try," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"Come up here, Peter; there be a sheltered spot over agin them rocks," +said Mary.</p> + +<p>"There be a sheltered spot down here," Peter answered; "'tis easier vor +yew to roll down than vor me to climb up."</p> + +<p>When the question had been argued, Mary went down; that is to say, she +groped and grovelled through the snow, half-rolling, half-sliding, until +she reached the shelter to which Peter had dragged himself. It was a +small cleft, a chimney, mountaineers would have called it, in the centre +of a rock-mass which made a small tor on the side of the cleave. +Normally, this chimney acted as a drain for the rock-basin above, but it +was then frozen up and dry. Peter was right at the back, huddled up as +he could never have been had any bones been broken. When Mary appeared +he dragged her in; she was almost too stout to pass inside, but as he +placed her she made an excellent protection for him against the storm. +Mary realised this, and suggested they should change places; but Peter +pointed out that in his shattered condition any movement might prove +fatal.</p> + +<p>Presently Mary began to cry, realizing the gravity of their position. +The snow was descending more thickly than ever, drifting up the side of +the cleave and choking the entrance to their cleft. Fortunately the +night was not very cold, and they were both warmly clad, while the snow +which was threatening to bury them was itself a protection. Help could +not possibly reach them while the night lasted; no one would know what +had befallen them, and they were unable to walk. When Mary began to cry +Peter abused her, until his thoughts also began to trouble him.</p> + +<p>"Think they'll put what's on my notice-board on my tombstone?" he +inquired.</p> + +<p>"Now doan't ye talk about tombstoanes, doan't ye now," implored Mary +tearfully.</p> + +<p>"Business is business," said Peter. "I told 'em to give me a great big +tombstone, and to put upon him, <i>Peter Tavy, Clock-maker, Photographer, +Dealer in Antiquities, Dartmoor Guide, Reeve of the Manor of Lydford, +Purveyor of Manure, and et cetera</i>."</p> + +<p>"Doan't ye worry about it; they'll put it all down," said Mary.</p> + +<p>"Us'll be buried together, same afternoon, half-past two likely," Peter +went on.</p> + +<p>"Doan't ye talk about funerals and tombstoanes," Mary implored. "Talk +about spicy wine, and goosey fair, and them wooden horses that go round +and round, and hurdy-gurdy music; talk about they, Peter."</p> + +<p>"It ain't the time," said Peter bitterly.</p> + +<p>A long dreary period of silence followed. Peter Tavy the village and +Mary Tavy its sister were completely snowed up; and in the cleave of the +river which divided the parishes Peter Tavy the man was snowed up with +Mary Tavy his sister. They were miserably cold and drowsy. The snow was +piled up in front of the chimney like a wall; there was hardly room for +Mary to move, and Peter kept on groaning. At length he roused himself to +remark: "Yew owes me a shillun."</p> + +<p>"What would I owe ye a shillun vor?" said Mary sharply, wide-awake +immediately at any suggestion of parting with money.</p> + +<p>"Vor the drive," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"I was to give ye a shillun vor taking me home, not vor breaking me +bones and leaving me to perish in Tavy Cleave," said Mary. "Yew ain't +earned the shillun, and I doan't see how yew'm going to."</p> + +<p>"Yew owes me a shillun," repeated her brother doggedly. "I done my best +to tak' ye home, and there was naught in your agreement wi' me about +accidents. I never contracted to tak' ye home neither."</p> + +<p>"Yew never promised to starve me wi' ice and snow on Tavy Cleave +neither," replied Mary.</p> + +<p>"I didn't promise nothing. I meant to tak' ye home, reasonable wear and +tear excepted; this here is reasonable wear and tear. Yew promised to +give me a shillun."</p> + +<p>"When yew put me down," added Mary.</p> + +<p>"Yew wur put down," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"Not to my door."</p> + +<p>"That warn't my fault," said Peter. "Twas your worriting what done it; +if yew hadn't worrited I'd have put ye out to Mary Tavy. Yew worrited +and upset the cart, and now we'm dying."</p> + +<p>"I b'ain't dying," said Mary stoutly.</p> + +<p>"I be," said Peter drearily. "I be all cold and nohow inside. I be a +going to die; I'd like to die wi' that shillun in my pocket."</p> + +<p>"Doan't ye go on about it, Peter. If yew'm dying yew'll soon be in a +place where yew won't want shilluns."</p> + +<p>"While I be here I want 'en," said Peter. "Yew'll be fearful sorry when +yew see me lying a cold carpse wi'out a shillun in my pocket."</p> + +<p>"Give over, can't ye," cried Mary. "You'll be giving me the creepies. If +yew wur to turn carpsy I wouldn't bide wi' ye."</p> + +<p>There was no reply. Silence fell again, and the only sound was the +moaning of the wind and the roaring of the Tavy; the snow went on +falling and drifting. Another hour passed, and then Mary shook off her +drowsiness, and called timidly, "Peter." There was no answer; she could +see nothing; her fear returned and she shuddered. "Peter," she called +again; there was still no reply. Mary pressed her stout figure forward +and reached out fearfully; she heard a groan. "Ah, doan't ye die," she +implored; "wait till us gets out o' this. What's the matter, Peter?"</p> + +<p>"Yew owes me a shillun," whispered a voice.</p> + +<p>"I doan't owe it, Peter, I doan't," cried Mary. "If yew had drove me +across the river I'd have paid ye, I would; but us be still in the +parish of Peter Tavy——"</p> + +<p>She was interrupted by another and a deeper groan. "Be yew that bad?" +she asked earnestly.</p> + +<p>"I be like an old clock past mending," Peter answered. "My mainspring be +broke; I be about to depart this life, December the twenty-seventh, +eighteen hundred and eighty-one, aged fifty-eight, in hopes of being +thoroughly cleaned and repaired and set a going in the world to come."</p> + +<p>"Can't I do anything vor ye, Peter?" asked Mary gently.</p> + +<p>"Yew can give me the shillun yew owes me," replied Peter.</p> + +<p>"'Tis hard of ye to want a shillun if yew'm dying."</p> + +<p>"Business is business," Peter moaned.</p> + +<p>Fumbling in the little black bag she carried beneath her skirt, Mary +produced a coin and held it out, saying sadly: "Here 'tis, Peter; I +doan't want to give it to ye, but if 'twill make yew die happy, I must."</p> + +<p>With singular agility Peter reached out his hand, and after groping a +little in the darkness secured the precious coin. He felt it, he bit it, +and he asked with suspicion: "How I be to know 'tis a shillun? He tastes +like a halfpenny."</p> + +<p>"I know 'tis a shillun; I ain't got no coppers," Mary answered.</p> + +<p>Peter's groans ceased from that moment; he pocketed the coin and +chuckled.</p> + +<p>"I be a lot better," he said; "my legs b'ain't quite broke, I reckon, +and I ain't so cold inside, neither."</p> + +<p>Mary's reply was too eccentric to mention.</p> + +<p>So soon as it was day a party of villagers set out from Peter Tavy well +supplied with blankets and stimulants; Peter and Mary were not the only +ones missing that fateful morning. The pony had returned to its stable +the evening before, and had been seen by the local constable trailing +its broken harness past the beer-house. An attempt had been made to find +the couple then, but their tracks were completely hidden. Snow was still +descending as the relief party waded through the drifts upon the edge of +the cleave. The moor had disappeared during the night, and a strange +region of white mountains had risen in its stead. The searchers worked +their way on, with a hopeless feeling that they were only wasting their +time, when they thought they heard a whistle. They stopped and argued +the matter like the three jolly huntsmen; one said it was a man, another +said it was a bird, and another it was the wind. They were all wrong; it +was a woman. Out of the centre of a huge white mass down the cleave +appeared a black scarf tied to the end of an umbrella.</p> + +<p>Peter and Mary were rescued, not without difficulty, because the snow +was four feet in depth on the side of the cleave, and were conveyed in +due course to their respective villages. Being a hardy couple they were +little the worse for their adventure, although Peter posed as an invalid +to the end of his days, and sought parish relief in consequence; that +was simply a matter of business.</p> + +<p>So soon as the roads became passable and he was able to walk, Peter +tramped across to Mary Tavy, to pay his sister a friendly, and a +business, visit. "There be ten shilluns yew owes vor breaking my cart +and harness," he explained. "When be yew a going to pay?"</p> + +<p>"Never," replied Mary decidedly.</p> + +<p>"Then I'll tak' ye into court," said Peter.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_CHRISTENING_OF_THE_FIFTEEN_PRINCESSES" id="THE_CHRISTENING_OF_THE_FIFTEEN_PRINCESSES"></a>THE CHRISTENING OF THE FIFTEEN PRINCESSES</h2> + +<h3>A MODERN FAIRY TALE</h3> + + +<p>Once upon a time there was a village called Lew, and it was perched on +the top of a hill 999 feet, 11 inches high. That is the way fairy-tales +have to begin; they insist upon going back into the remote past; but +unfortunately the village of Lew has come down to our own days, and so +has the big hill on which it stands. If we start over again with, "Once +upon a time there was a man of Lew who had fifteen daughters," we are +confronted by exactly the same difficulty; for the man is still alive, +and the fifteen daughters look as if they never would, nor could, belong +to the period when little pixy maids were to be seen any night running +round and round the furze-bushes. The only way out of the difficulty is +to be courageous, to tell the truth, and say: At the top of a hill 999 +feet, 11 inches high—some say it is 1,000 feet, but that is not +true—stands the village of Lew, where dwells a man named Heathman, who +has fifteen daughters and not a single son; and the daughters are all +princesses, although it is not easy to say why; but as they are pretty, +and this is a fairy-tale, they must be.</p> + +<p>The little village lies within a kind of ring-fence of ash and +sycamores, which shelter the cob houses from the furious gales which +boom and bluster over the Dartmoor tors. The wind is always sighing and +moaning. It is cool upon the hottest day in August, and probably that is +why Lew imports weak-chested people in some quantity. A regular business +is done with big, smoky Bristol. Lew says to Bristol in its own +language, "Us ha' butiful air up over in Demshur, and us ha' a proper +plenty o' cream and butter and suchlike, but us ain't got much golden +money. If yew sends us sickly volk, they can buy our cream and butter, +and us will send 'em back strong." Bristol sees the force of this +argument, and packs up and sends off its weak-chested folk, who reason, +quite sensibly, "What's the use of being ill when we can go to the top +of Lew hill and get well?" There is a tariff, of course, for Lew does +not believe in free imports. The weak-chested folk must buy cream and +butter and suchlike in vast quantities, or they would be promptly +deported under the local Aliens Act. As a matter of fact, they buy Lew +produce without any grumbling; they do even more than they are wanted +to, and are actually spoiling Lew—where tips are unknown and a man will +do an extraordinary lot of work for two shillings—by raising the +prices. They get absurdly grateful, these visitors, who enter Lew weak +and thin, and are exported brown and fat and sleek, like porpoises.</p> + +<p>It is the importation of so much foreign raw material that has built up +the fortunes of the fairy family called Heathman. His Majesty, the +father—hereinafter called King Heathman—was village cobbler before he +came to the throne. After his accession he procured a horse and cart, +and conveyed people to and from the distant station. He also annexed +several acres of grass territory, by a process of peaceful penetration, +and went in for cows and dairy produce. These two businesses developed +so wonderfully that he dropped the cobbling, at which it must be owned +he was always rather a poor hand. The weak-chested imports have to be +brought up from the station ill, and taken back well; and while they are +on the top of Lew hill they pass the time consuming cream, butter, milk, +and eggs, which are provided by King Heathman, and delivered morning and +evening by the golden-haired princesses. Their Majesties of the +Palace—two cottages of red cob knocked into one—are busy people, and +have no time for boasting; nor do they appear to think they have done +anything out of the way in bringing up fifteen model princesses, not one +of whom has ever given her parents an hour's anxiety. Sickness, some one +will suggest; but that is a ridiculous idea, for the residents of Lew +are never ill, and they live just as long as they like. Mrs. +Heathman—hereinafter called Queen Heathman—looks the picture of health +and strength, and only last Revel Week was footing it merrily after a +long day's work, and dancing one or two anæmic young maids from foreign +lands like Plymouth to a standstill. Old Grandfather Heathman, His +Majesty's father, who is so much addicted to Lew that he won't die, had +the impertinence to be dancing too. He must be nearly a hundred, though +he neither knows nor cares about his age, and will merely state in the +course of conversation that he intends to live out the present century, +because he is so fond of the place. Old Grandfather Heathman is probably +the only man now living in England who has witnessed a fatal duel, which +was fought some time in the dark ages between the son of the then rector +of Lew and a young doctor, a lady being of course the cause. The +unfortunate young doctor, who very likely had never handled a sword +before, was quickly killed by his opponent, who was an army officer. A +stone still marks the spot, but it has become so overgrown with brambles +that only Grandfather Heathman knows where to look for it.</p> + +<p>The crown princess is just twenty-three. The girls are nicely dressed, +well educated, and speak and behave like little angels. If Romney were +alive, he would want to paint them all. They are so pretty, these +fifteen princesses of Lew. Each has a slender figure, wild-rose +complexion, shy eyes, and fair hair. But it must not be imagined they +are dancing princesses. One plays the American organ (which was alluded +to with less respect as the harmonium twenty years ago) in the church; +another is pupil-teacher; another manages the Sunday-school. They milk +the cows and attend to the dairy work. All of them love animals; each +has her dog, or cat, or bird, generally with her in work or in play. +When you meet a pretty, well-dressed girl in Lew, you will not—unless +you are the latest importation—ask her name. You will say, "And what is +your number?" She will blush delightfully, lower her shy eyes, put her +hands behind her back, and tell you.</p> + +<p>When the first child was born the neighbours offered their +congratulations, and said, "Of course you will call her Annie." In this +part of the country it is absolutely necessary to have a girl in the +family of that name, and it is most unorthodox to call the first girl +anything else. But King Heathman rebelled against custom. He did not +care for the name Annie. He liked something daintier, something more +unusual and fanciful. No doubt there is a vein of poetry somewhere in +His Majesty's system. King Heathman stated plainly he would not hare his +daughter named Annie. He would go to the rector and ask him to supply a +name. The good people of Lew were horrified at such heresy. They pointed +out what a great risk he was running. It was quite possible he would not +have another daughter, and thus his family would be branded with the +disgrace of having no Annie. But King Heathman hardened his heart yet +more, and tramped off to the rectory.</p> + +<p>The rector of Lew is a scholar of the old type, an unconscious pedant +who can hardly open his lips without quoting Latin or Greek, a type +which before another twenty years have gone will be as extinct as the +pixies. The rector of Lew is almost as much a curiosity of the past as +Grandfather Heathman, only when people plant themselves on the top of +the big hill 999 feet, 11 inches high, it never seems to occur to them +that they are mortal. The rector solved the royal difficulty at once, +and in the most natural way possible. "She is the first child. Let us +call her either Prima or Una," he said. "Una is a pretty name."</p> + +<p>"That 'tis, sir—that 'tis." For reasons of his own King Heathman always +prefers to use the dialect of his country.</p> + +<p>"You will find the name in the <i>Faerie Queene</i> written by Spenser," the +rector continued.</p> + +<p>"Old John Spencer over to Treedown?" suggested His Majesty, who had not +dabbled much in classics.</p> + +<p>"No; Edmund Spenser, who lived in the reign of Queen Elizabeth."</p> + +<p>"Aw, yes, sir, I knows 'en," said King Heathman.</p> + +<p>Of course he didn't, but perhaps he was referring to the queen. Every +one in Lew knows Queen Elizabeth intimately, because there is a little +old house in the village where she was fond of putting up for the night +occasionally. This house is still furnished very much as it was in the +sixteenth century, but whether the Maiden Lady ever saw or heard of Lew +is another matter. It is certain, however, that Queen Elizabeth occupied +most of her long reign travelling about the country in order that she +might sleep in out-of-the-way manor-houses. Whenever you visit any old +house in this neighbourhood it is only polite to say, "Queen Elizabeth +slept here, of course?" And then you will be shown the room and the bed, +and if you go on being polite you may very possibly see the sheets and +blankets and pillow-slips also, with the pillow itself still marked with +the impression of Queen Elizabeth's head.</p> + +<p>Princess Heathman was duly christened Una, to the delight of her father, +and the horror of the inhabitants. Every one breathed a sigh of relief +when a second princess favoured Lew with her appearance. After all, the +Heathmans would not be disgraced. There would be an Annie in the family, +though they hardly deserved it after letting the first chance slip. King +Heathman remained as silent as the Sphinx, and about as mysterious. When +the time came for the royal christening, the church was filled. The +rector received a particularly plump bundle from Queen Heathman, and +placed it snugly into the hollow of his arm. He dipped his hand into the +font, and the whisper of "Annie" went about the church. The next moment +they heard, "Secunda, I baptise thee...."</p> + +<p>The next year Princess Tertia was christened, and then Princess Quarta. +Even the rector admitted Quarta was rather an unusual name, but His +Majesty revelled in it, and would hear of nothing else. Every one said Q +was such an awkward initial; and they had to make the same remark next +year when Princess Quinta was brought to the font. "Sounds like squint," +said one of the grumblers; but not one would venture to suggest such a +thing now. By this time the gossips of Lew had pretty well accommodated +themselves to the idea that King Heathman was irreclaimable. Annie, +Bessie, and Lucy were the orthodox village names for young ladies; and +it was perfectly clear he would have none of them.</p> + +<p>In quick succession princesses were hurried to the font, and the +unromantic ears of the congregation were astonished by a list of +beautiful names—Sexta, Septima, Octava, Nona of the wonderful eyes, and +Decima of the sunny hair. But when the eleventh princess was brought to +church a serious difficulty arose. A perfect understanding existed +between His Majesty and the court chaplain. The father had no idea what +the name of his new daughter was to be when she was handed into the +scholar's arms. The rector did not use the formula, "Name this child," +but substituted the question, "What is her number?" or words to that +effect. On this occasion, when the question was put, and King Heathman +had answered, "Eleven, sir," the rector paused. Then he whispered, +"Would you like Undecima?"</p> + +<p>"Aw, sir, proper. Let's ha' 'en," was the eager answer.</p> + +<p>The rector hesitated. Across his classical mind flashed the Latin +numbers ahead. The twelfth princess would have to be christened +Duodecima, and after that such names became impossible. So he whispered, +"Undecima is too much like Decima. We must think of something else."</p> + +<p>"As yew like, sir," said his accommodating Majesty, although in +distinctly disappointed tones.</p> + +<p>"Now there will be an Annie," murmured those villagers who were nearest +the font and had overheard the discussion.</p> + +<p>While the rector was deliberating his eyes fell among flowers, the +church happening to be decorated for a festival, and bunches of the +white cluster-rose known as the Seven Sisters being twined about the +font; and he suggested that, if King Heathman was agreeable, a bevy of +flower-named princesses would be a pleasing relief after the dull +monotony of numbers.</p> + +<p>"Twill do fine, sir," said King Heathman.</p> + +<p>And that is how the Princess Rosa came to be christened.</p> + +<p>But princesses went on filling the palace, and names were soon running +short again. Rosa had been followed by Lilia, Viola, and Veronica. King +Heathman was becoming fastidious. He had imbibed so much raw material of +knowledge from the court chaplain that he was beginning to regard +himself as a scholar of some importance. Then his royalty was increasing +in Lew; and he always wore a hard hat, which, in this part of the +country, is a sign, not exactly of majesty, but of stability and +respectability. He still hankered after the numbers, and was looking +forward to the birth of a twentieth princess who could be called +Vicesima. The fifteenth princess had just made her appearance, and the +father continued to disregard the petition of the neighbours praying him +to call her Annie before it was too late. It happened one day that he +cast his eyes upon two flowering shrubs which grew in pots, one at each +side of the palace gates. King Heathman could not remember the name of +these shrubs, though he had been told often enough, so he called Tertia, +and asked her to enlighten him.</p> + +<p>"The name is on the tip of my tongue, but I can't get it out," said +Tertia. "I'll call Una."</p> + +<p>Una is court encyclopædia. She appeared with her beautiful hair ruffled, +for she had been deep in arithmetic when Tertia called her, trying to +paper an imaginary room, having most impossible angles, with imaginary +wall-paper at the ridiculous price of one penny three-farthings a yard.</p> + +<p>"What be the name o' that plant?" asked His Majesty.</p> + +<p>"That is a hydrangea," said Una, in a delightfully prim and pedantic +fashion; and then she slipped back to her wall-papering at a penny +three-farthings a yard.</p> + +<p>"What b'est going to call the new maiden?" shouted the blacksmith a few +moments later over the palace gates.</p> + +<p>"Hydrangea," answered King Heathman grimly. Then he went into the state +apartments to break the news to his wife, leaving the blacksmith to have +a fit upon the road, or to go on to his smithy and have it there.</p> + +<p>For the first time Queen Heathman rebelled. She said it was ridiculous +to give the child a name like that: she was surprised that the rector +should have thought of it, and she—</p> + +<p>But at that point her husband interrupted with the famous remark of the +White Knight to Alice "'Tis my own invention."</p> + +<p>This gave Queen Heathman free licence to exercise her tongue. She talked +botany for some time, and concluded with such words as: "You'll call the +poor maids vegetables next. If us ha' another maiden you'll call her +Broad Bean, I reckon, and the next Scarlet Runner."</p> + +<p>"One Scarlet Runner be plenty, my dear," said her husband, with regal +pleasantry.</p> + +<p>"What do ye mean?"</p> + +<p>"Bain't your tongue one, my dear?"</p> + +<p>This was a libel, for Queen Heathman is remarkably silent—for a woman. +She had to laugh at her husband's little Joke. They have always been a +devoted couple, and this little tiff was in perfect good-humour. +Finally, King Heathman went off to the rectory, where he discovered the +court chaplain and the Home Secretary chatting upon the lawn. Without +any preamble he disclosed his difficulty, and proposed that the +fifteenth princess should be named Hydrangea. There was no seconder. The +motion was declared lost, and the subject was thrown open for +discussion.</p> + +<p>The Home Secretary suggested that the princess just born and her eleven +successors should be given the names of the months; and when he rolled +forth such stately titles as Januaria, Februaria, Martia, His Majesty +trembled. However, it occurred to him there might not be sufficient +princesses to exhaust the months, and he stated with much dignity of +language that he should not like to have an incomplete set. Then the +Christian virtues were suggested, Faith, Patience, Charity, Mercy, Hope; +but King Heathman would have none of them, not because he despised the +virtues, but because he considered that his daughters had them all.</p> + +<p>Then the rector interposed in his quiet manner:</p> + +<p>"The child shall be called Serena."</p> + +<p>"What do 'en mean, sir?" asked King Heathman eagerly.</p> + +<p>"It means free from care."</p> + +<p>"That's it, sir—that's it," said His Majesty, expressing satisfaction +in his usual way.</p> + +<p>"It is an appropriate name," the rector went on. "It implies a perfectly +happy condition. There may be dangers, but the girl shall not know of +them. There may be difficulties, but they shall not trouble her—at +least, we will hope so," he added with a smile.</p> + +<p>"Thank ye, sir," said King Heathman. "And what will be the next name?" +he asked hopefully.</p> + +<p>"The next?" said the rector, still in his classical musings. "Why, the +next child shall be called Placida."</p> + +<p>But for some reason or other the Princess Placida has never come to +claim her name. Serena appears to be the last. She is still a toddler. +Almost any day of the week you may see her, fat and jolly, and extremely +free from care, staggering between Septima and Octava as they go +a-milking. She is generally embracing a yellow and very ugly cat, in +lieu of a doll. If you ask her name, she is just able to lisp, "I'se +Swena."</p> + +<p>The gossips of Lew have revenged themselves upon King Heathman. They +refuse to call the baby Serena. They call her Annie.</p> + +<p>And they are all living happily ever afterwards.</p> + + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of By Violence, by John Trevena + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BY VIOLENCE *** + +***** This file should be named 34576-h.htm or 34576-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/5/7/34576/ + +Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: By Violence + +Author: John Trevena + +Release Date: December 5, 2010 [EBook #34576] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BY VIOLENCE *** + + + + +Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org + + + + + + + + +BY VIOLENCE + +By + +JOHN TREVENA + +Author of "Bracken", "Sleeping Waters", etc. + + +With an Introduction by + +EDWARD O'BRIEN + + +BOSTON + +THE FOUR SEES COMPANY + +PUBLISHERS + +1918 + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +For eight years or more, since I first became acquainted with the novels +and tales of John Trevena it has been my firm conviction that only +Thomas Hardy and George Moore among contemporary novelists rival his art +at its best. Like Meredith, he has written for twenty years in +obscurity, and like Meredith also he has been content with a small +discriminating audience. I suppose that in 1950 our grandchildren will +be electing college courses on his literary method, but meanwhile it +would be more gratifying if there were even a slight public response to +the quality of his individual talent. + +Trevena's novels are the expression of a passionate feeling for Nature, +regarded as the sum of human personality and experience, in all its +moods,--benign and malign, as man is benign and malign, and faithful to +life in the stone as well as the flower. What a gallery of memorable +characters they are, Mary and Peter Tavy, Brightly, Cuthbert Orton, +Jasper Ramrige, Anthonie and Petronel, William and Yellow Leaf, Captain +Drake and dark Pendoggat, Ann Code, Cyril Rossingall, and a hundred +others, passionate and gentle, with wind and water and earth and sky for +a chorus, and the shifting pageantry of Nature as a stage. + +His fourteen volumes reveal a gift for characterization equalled by none +of the contemporary English realists, and a Shakespearian humor +elsewhere gone from our day. In _Furze the Cruel_, _Bracken_, _Wintering +Hay_, and _Sleeping Waters_, to name no others, John Trevena has written +novels of Dartmoor that will take their rightful place in the great +English line, when the honest carpentering of Phillpotts that now +overshadows them is totally forgotten. + +The feeling has spread among Trevena's few critical American admirers +who have written about him, that he is fundamentally morbid and +one-sided. On the contrary, I know of few novelists who are more +recklessly and irresistibly gay, in whom sheer fun bubbles over so +spontaneously and wholeheartedly. To ignore life's harshness is simply +to ignore life. Trevena's many-sidedness will be apparent only when +there is a definitive edition of his work. His habit of confining a +novel to a single mood or passion of nature, together with the fact that +Americans have only had an opportunity to read those novels by him which +deal with nature's most cruel moods, have done the reputation of Trevena +a grave injustice. + +_By Violence_ and _Matrimony_ are Trevena's most beautiful short tales, +and I hardly know which is the finer revelation of poetic grace and +gentle vision. Their message is conveyed so quietly that they may be +read for their sensuous beauty only, and yet convey a rare pleasure. If +their feeling is veiled and somewhat aloof from the common ways of men, +there is none the less a fine human sympathy concealed in them, and a +golden radiance indissolubly woven into their pages. + +If Nature's power is inevitable in these stories, it is also kind, and I +like to think that from _By Violence_ as a text a new reading of earth +may be deciphered. Trevena has written the books of furze and heather +and granite and bracken, which outlast time on the hills of Dartmoor. +But this tale hints at a fifth force which survives all the others. Some +day, when the wind is strong, John Trevena will write the book of "The +Rain-drop," which is the gentlest of all elements, and yet outlasts the +stone. + + Edward J. O'Brien + +_South Yarmouth, Mass._ + _February 26, 1918_ + + + + +BY VIOLENCE + + +"Dear Sir,-- + "The wooden enemies are out. + "Yours obediently, + "Oliver Vorse." + +Simon Searell read this short message as he tramped the streets of +Stonehouse, which were full of fog, from the sea on one side and the +river on the other. Vorse was an uneducated man; the mysticism of +flowers was nothing to him, the time of spring was merely a change of +season, and the most spiritual of blooms were only "wooden enemies." +Searell frowned a little, not at the lack of education, which was rather +a peace to be desired, but at the harshness of the words, and went on, +wondering if the wood-anemones were to be his friends, or little cups of +poison. + +He climbed streets of poor houses, their unhappy windows curtained with +mist, and came out near a small church made of iron, a cheap and gaudy +thing, almost as squalid on the outside as the houses. The backslider +looked at it with a shudder. It was his no longer; he had given it up; +he was forgetting those toy-like altars, the cheap brass candlesticks, +the artificial flowers, and all the images. They were wooden and stone +enemies to him now. He was going deeper to find the throbbing heart of +religion, putting aside dolls and tapers and the sham of sentimentality. +Solitude and mysticism were to be his stars through the night, and he +trusted, with their aid, to reach the dawn. He turned from the church, +stopped at a house, and that was squalid too, knocked, then wiped his +boots, as if certain of being admitted. + +"Father Damon?" he asked shortly. Searell's voice was sweet; he had +helped people "home," as they called it, with his tongue, not with his +soul, just as a sweet-toned organ calls for tears with the beauty of its +sounds, though the instrument itself is dead. + +"Yes, your reverence," the housekeeper answered, as shortly; and Searell +walked up the foggy stairs murmuring to himself, "The wind-flowers are +out, and I am free." + +Father Damon stood in a little square room hideously papered. He was +small, dark, heavy-featured, peasant-like; and Searell saw at a glance +that his successor was as dull in many ways as Oliver Vorse. All that he +knew had been forced upon him almost violently; he had not gone forth +gathering for himself, he dared not, his mind had been tilled by careful +teachers, kept under restraint, all his side-growths pruned away, in +order that orthodoxy might develop in one large unlovely head. When the +order went forth to kneel, he knelt, and when it was time to lift his +eyes to Heaven, he lifted them. It was a life of prison, and he could +never smell the woodland through the fog of incense. + +"He knows nothing," muttered Searell. "He thinks it is daylight where he +stands." + +"I come to give you information about the mission," he said aloud, and +then began; but the telling took some time. How troublesome, how paltry, +the details; and Father Damon was so dull. Everything had to be +repeated, explained so carefully; and was it worth the words? The +successor was very earnest, but not enthusiastic, that had been crushed +out of him; and Searell grew impatient at the wooden figure, with its +simple face and child-like questions. He spoke faster, almost angrily, +desiring to get away and smell the earth; and his eyes wandered about +the room, which was so unlovely, not bare, but filled with those things +that make for the nakedness of life. There was wanting something to +galvanise that sluggish Damon into passion, to destroy the machinery, +turn him into a strong animal with dilating nostrils. One little touch +would have done it. A portrait of a pretty woman upon the mantelshelf +would have gone far; but there was nothing except pictures of mythical +saints. + +"You are retiring. You seem strong and well," said Damon, when he had +obtained all the information that was required. + +Searell was in a hurry to be gone, as the sleeper struggles to awake +from a bad dream; but that voice and its stagnant repose aroused him. + +"I am old, I am sixty," he said. "I am beginning again, trying to find +what the Church has not shown me." + +"What is that?" + +"Light." + +Damon stared with the eyes of horror, and put out his peasant-like hands +as if to force away some weight that pressed against him; but he said +nothing. + +"I will not depart in the odour of hypocrisy. Listen," said Searell. "I +am far from saying that the Church does not lead towards a kind of +light; but it has not led me. And this do I say, that in the world at +large all religion is a failure; and I am going to find mine in the +solitudes." + +"The truth is in the Church. It is your fault if you have missed it," +said Damon, in a hollow voice, hoping that the other, for the sake of +his soul, was mad. + +"It is there for some, the minority. You will never realize how small +that minority is. We cannot hasten the dawn with juggling. True religion +is a thing of innocence, not a matter of spells and charms; and it is in +the innocence of Nature that I will search for it. I believe it exists +there, underneath the outward cruelty, and I shall find it among the +flowers. The flower alone does not struggle with violence, it sheds no +blood; the weed smothers, and the bindweed chokes; but without some +fault upon the surface, perfection might be obtained, which cannot be. +Look into the flower, and you will find a condition which is not +approached by man or other animals. There is a purity which brings tears +into your eyes. Eliminate violence, and you have innocence; obtain +innocence, and you see the light. At the beginning of things we are told +that the world was destroyed by water because the earth was filled with +violence. At the beginning of the new era we learn that the Kingdom of +Heaven suffereth violence. Will you say the Church does not rule by +violence, by threats, suppressions, rubrics, and by vows?" + +"I cannot understand you," said Damon. + +"Will you understand when I say that the God of life is to be found +among the flowers?" + +The other shook his head and looked frightened. Free speech was not +allowed, and, if it had been, he would not have known how to use it. He +walked between rubrics, turning neither to the right hand nor to the +left; and the living lily was a thing for funeral wreaths. For the +altars, artificial flowers were good enough, as they did not require +renewing, and they looked real to the congregation, and how they were +regarded elsewhere did not concern him; and whether they had been made +by sweated labour did not concern him, because he was not allowed to +think, and he himself was artificial, neither man nor animal, but a +side-growth of supernaturalism. + +"Let me go on now I have begun," said Searell. "I am leaving here, and +my words will not live after me. I am a man who has tested life, who has +been through every experience, and I have discovered that what morality +calls bad is often good, and that which we call virtue sometimes springs +from vice. The purest water runs upon mud, only you must not rake it up. +In my youth I served as a soldier, and upon leaving the army I sought +the Church, partly to find a rest, chiefly, perhaps, because my mind was +mystical. But nothing was revealed, and nothing could be, for the mystic +must be free; and the priest is a soul in prison, and the book of his +captivity is always before him. Here he must join his hands; there he +must lift his eyes to Heaven, prostrate himself, kiss the altar, until +the time comes when he feels alone, cut off from the Creator of his +dreams by these mechanics, horribly alone among images; and he seems to +hear a voice asking sorrowfully, 'What is this rule you are following? +Who told you to do this? Go out upon the hills and into the woods, for I +am there.' But he cannot move, for the time has come to join his hands +again, and the revelation passes unseen, because he has to keep his eyes +shut. It is written so, and he must obey." + +"I cannot answer you," muttered Damon; and it was true, for these words +took him outside the well-worn groove and dropped him useless. + +"If I found the man who could, I would follow him," came the answer, and +the white-headed priest passed a hand across his eyes, as if trying to +brush the fog away. "I have been longing to escape for years. The iron +of the little mission-church has eaten into my soul. I ought to have +resigned? Why so, when I performed all my duties? Without means I could +not have faced the world, for the mystic is not a practical man, and +these hands," he said, frowning, "they are hands to be despised, for +they have done nothing. No, do not answer me, you cannot, you are bound. +I am free. A year ago I was left money--" + +"A curse." + +"If you will, a curse to buy a pathway to my Heaven. There was a place I +pined for, up on the heights of Dartmoor, a valley among mountains. I +have bought it. They call it Pixyland." + +"Paganism," cried the peasant-priest hoarsely, and crossed himself. + +"Purity," said Searell, in his sweet voice. "Pure air, pure hills, pure +loneliness. It is a place of rocks, of heather and large-rooted ferns, +and it is very steep, terrace rising upon terrace to the heights. At the +bottom of the valley are trees; here also is a wild path and a wild +stream broken upon the rocks, and becoming whole again at the foot of a +glen. For centuries the place has been haunted in men's imagination, and +they have avoided it because it is a garden of--angels. I am going now +to make it bloom, I am going to grasp that solitude and weave with it a +mantle of light. I am going to walk on my pixy-path and watch the +shadows creeping up and down my pixy-glen; and the growth will come, the +growth of knowledge, and of consciousness; and there I may meet my +Gardener, driven out of the world by violence, out of the Church by +violence, revealing Himself, not tortured, cross-laden, and frowning, +and not awful, but as the smiling Guardian of the flowers." + +There was hardly a sound in the cold room, stiff with the antique +pictures of quaint saints, dark with that dull peasant born to be ruled; +and yet Searell was going out with a haunted face, passing like a +phantom from the house of poverty, and the wet board with Mass notices, +and the waste of ground heaped up with rubbish. There was a pear-tree +leaning from the waste, a tree which the builders had forgotten, and +from the tree hung a broken branch, and at the end of that branch, +beneath the buds of spring, were two black leaves neglected by the +winter, side by side, struggling with one another; for there was wind +down the street which made them struggle; but neither dropped, and they +fought on silently while the wind lasted. + +"Violence even in dead things," Searell murmured; and, reaching up his +hand, he quieted those two restless leaves for ever. + + + + +II + + +Oliver Vorse was lying among the wood-anemones, and he was drunk. He +would have looked like a monster had his condition been rare; but it was +common, therefore Vorse was not abnormal, only a fool. He did not know +where he was, in the pixy-path upon the wind-flowers, crushing so many +with his sodden carcase, while the pure pixy-water trickled underneath. +He had come the wrong way at the turning of the path; instead of +ascending to the house, which was the way of difficulty, he had stepped +downwards choosing the path of ease, as men will, even when sober. The +state of his body was nothing, as nobody would see him except Sibley, +his wife. The master was expected tomorrow, and then he would have to +pretend to be a man. + +The moon was young, a cradle of silver, and the stars were wrapped in +sleep-compelling clouds; and all the light that there was seemed to come +from the anemones which Vorse was defiling. The little white things were +lanterns, retaining light, but not giving it forth, and a stickle of +water shone like a shield. There was such a wonderful purity in Nature +apart from the man. Everything seemed to bear the mark of beauty and +holiness except him. It was out of the world in that fairy garden +hanging between the cities and the clouds, and the vices of the world +were out of place; and yet there was no barrier which they could not +leap across. + +A light appeared thick and heavy, putting out the eyes of the flowers. +It wobbled down the natural terraces, weather-hewn from granite, and +with it came a voice suggesting more violence, harsh and angry, not a +voice of the clouds, but of the street-corner, where faces are thin and +fierce, and the paving-stones seem cruel. Sibley was searching for her +husband, not because she loved him, nor requiring his company for any +reason except the selfish one that the loneliness above frightened her, +and her small spirit quailed before the heaving moorland. Any sort of a +brute was better than the God of the mountains. She stumbled over an +obstacle, lowered the lantern, but it was a mass of granite carved +cynically by centuries of rain into the semblance of a tombstone. Again +she stumbled, and now it was the trunk of a tree, phosphorescent with +rottenness. A third time she stumbled, and so found her master with the +rottenness of the fallen tree, without the strength of the granite. + +She kicked him, struck him with the greasy lantern, and swore. + +"Get up, dirty swine. Get up, will ye? Mind what the master told yew? +and he'm coming in the morning." + +Oliver only growled and snored. This was his form of mysticism, and it +was a kind of happiness. If master had dreams, why not he? Master could +dream at one end of creation, he at the other. There was plenty of time. +Sibley was only twenty-four, Oliver not much older. When life is young +the end of it is a myth, and passion is the god. + +There was another light down the pixy-path, very steady and soft. Had it +been blue it might have been a thing of the bog, looking for the body it +had thrown away, but it was white, and it flickered hardly at all, for +the night was smothered up and the winds were slumbering. It came up the +path with a kind of gliding rather terrible and there was not a sound +around it. The master was approaching in the night. Having completed the +last duty sooner than he had anticipated, he acted on the impulse. There +was time to escape, so why wait for the morning? And there would be the +glamour of passing through the dark towards clouds and mistland. The +preparations of a man in earnest take no time. He must put a taper in +his pocket, the last relic of the church he was leaving, as the night +would be heavy upon the pathway, and he must walk there and see the +wood-anemones in flower and feel the peace settling upon his eyelids. +There was no time to be lost, for he was old, and still a child, with +everything to learn. + +Sibley saw the figure, and screamed, supposing it to be a spirit doing +penance for past sins with the lighted candle; while her husband heaved +and called for drink. + +Searell stood upon the path. The wind-flowers were out, but their heads +were hanging in shame; there was no spiritual life in them, they were +already dead like the two black leaves upon the pear tree, and the +destroyed of life was that heap of flesh upon them. He had come away +from the world to forget its violence, and here it was upon his mystic +pathway. He had come to find his God upon the flowers, and had found a +drunken man instead. + +He was calm, to Sibley he looked divine, as he placed the candle in the +niche of a gaping boulder, and she wondered at his restraint. He was a +god, for he had made her, had saved her from street life, and might +still save Oliver if he could bear with him. They were not of his +religion, they were only devil-worshippers, and yet he had stooped down +and dragged them almost by violence from the rubbish-pit. + +"Forgive 'en this once, master," she cried. "I'll see he don't fall +again. Us didn't look vor ye till the morning, and Oliver went down, and +this be how he comed back." + +There was a flat rock above the pixy-water, and here Searell seated +himself, saying, "Do not speak. Your voice is harsh." + +For some moments the only sounds were the deep breathing of Vorse and +the tinkling of the stream. The flame of the candle did not flicker, and +Sibley remained as motionless, her hands clasped before her, looking +down. Then Searell spoke: + +"I walked along a street, and at a dark end of it a man and woman were +fighting. They were young and fierce. As I came near, the man threw the +woman down and thumped her in the back, I separated them by violence. +They respected my profession, and did not greatly resent my +interference. So there was good in them, but, like young beasts, they +had run wild, and no man had tamed them. You know of whom I am +speaking?" + +"Yes, master, I reckon," she whispered. + +"At that time they were living together, although unmarried. I told them +I should be requiring a couple to attend to me and my home, and I +promised to engage them if they would be legally wedded. But conditions +were imposed. One of them has been broken tonight." + +"It won't ever happen again, master." + +"I have myself to think of. There must be selfishness," said Searell. +"There is no escaping from it. If one condition is broken, another may +be. You remember the other?" + +"Yes, master--no children." + +The words sounded harsh, in that fairy place, and they seemed to agree +rather with the breathing of the drunken man than with the ringing of +the stream. + +"Perhaps I am hard, but I have my peace of mind to consider. A child's +cry, a child's mischievous ways, would destroy it. There is no room in +my house for children, and this is not the place for them. I have a +search to make," he murmured. "The scream of infants would lead me far +astray. You will remember?" + +"Us ha' no other home, master." + +"You will remember?" + +"Yes, master." + +"I will forget what has happened tonight," said Searell, bending from +the rock, dipping his hand into the pixy-water. "Let this be a time of +regeneration for us all. Do you respect a ceremony?" + +"Yes, master, I reckon," she said again, though she could not understand +him. + +"We will lead a new life," he said, with a smile which was visible in +the light of candle and lantern. + +Sibley stepped forward as Oliver lifted himself with heavy movements, +and muttered a half-conscious "Ask your pardon, master." + +Searell brought up a little of the bright water, and sprinkled the +woman, then the man, without any other sign, and with the words in his +soft mystic voice, "I receive you into the new life." + +Then he picked up the taper and went, leaving the man and woman afraid +of him. + + + + +III + + +After a year in Pixyland, what was there? A garden, a place of almost +unearthly beauty, and through it the master moved slowly, clad no longer +in the clothes of religion, nor even in the garments of respectability; +his coat sack-like, its pockets bulging with bulbs and tubers, and his +hair was in white ringlets, and his hands were often in the warm earth, +grubbing out furze-roots. The terrestrial paradise had been attained; +down the steep slopes poured a cascade of colour, the pixy-path was +alight all night with white, out of the pixy-water rose golden osmundas +and the ghostly spiraea; and Searell's face was also ghostly, it was +hungry, and the eyes were dull. It was not the face of the priest who +had built up the mission, for that had been eager. It was not the face +of the mystic who had walked up the path by candlelight, for that had +been happy. It was not the face of the spiritualist who feels he is +conquering the atmosphere, nor that of a dreamer. It was the face of one +who was sad. + +Searell had discovered, though he would not own it to himself, that +lonely happiness is impossible. What was a discovery if no friend could +be told of it? What was the loveliness of his garden when there was no +one to share it with? What would Heaven itself be if he was there alone? +There must be sympathy, and without it life is lost. + +Intellect was losing its edge. He almost forgot what he had come there +for. Instead of ascending towards more light he was falling into grosser +darkness. He did not even dream; he was sluggish, and oblivion was over +him; which must happen when a man cuts himself free from the hearts and +brains of others. His cry was no longer the triumphant one of strength +and self-confidence. It was the cry "Why hast Thou forgotten me?" as he +walked heavily, and the weight of his own presence oppressed him; and +then he would mutter aloud, "Come and see my garden. I must show you the +flowers," though there was nobody to hear. That was all: he was a +gardener; he wanted to show his flowers, shrubs, ferns, he wanted to +delight some one with his bogplants, he longed to see admiration dawning +upon a human face, love for the beautiful kindling in human eyes; and so +he came to crave for human life, human words and beauty, human sympathy, +even human sin and shame and violence rather than the innocence and +purity and gentleness of God among the flowers. + +"Master, where be I to plant this?" "Master, will ye pay these bills?" +Such were the almost brutal questions around him. + +He had asked for solitude; and now he longed for passion, earthly love. + +It was winter, when the nights were wild and the evenings intolerable; +and during one of them the sound of a quarrel reached his ears. Oliver +and Sibley had not been satisfactory. If they had abstained from the +vices, they had not learnt to love one another; and, as Searell listened +then, he saw the violent streets and that boy and girl tussle in the +dirt. He went down, and at the foot of the stairs heard the woman's +angry voice, "Yew ha' ruined me"; and then the growl of Oliver, "Shut +your noise. Master be moving over." Through the doorway Searell saw +them, like beasts half-tamed, longing to break into their natural +habits, but dreading the master's whip. Were they worse than they had +been? Was it the effect of solitude upon them? Sibley had no small +amusements such as women desire. Oliver had no love for his home life. +It seemed to Searell that indifference was settling upon them all. He +advanced into the kitchen, stood between them as he had done before, +looked at the man, and noticed something new, a kind of eagerness, which +he tried to suppress; then at the woman, and here too was a difference, +a softer face and eyes half ashamed. Perhaps, then, they could love, and +a word from him might kindle the spark into flame. + +"I interfered between you once before. It was for your good." + +"No, master," said Sibley. + +"I think so," he said, startled by her independence and rudeness. + +"It would ha' been better if yew had passed by and let we bide," she +went on; and when Oliver growled his "Shut your noise," it was with less +anger than usual. + +"Us could ha' done what us had a mind to then," she said. "This be a +prison." + +"We are all in prison, if you can understand me. The walls are all +round, and we cannot get over them." + +"'Tis best vor volk to live as 'em be meant to," said Sibley. + +And again Searell was amazed. How had this woman obtained the power and +the courage to answer him? And to beat him, for he was beaten. He had no +words to reply to that simple philosophy, and to the woman who appealed +from his decision. He had played the God with them, had brought them out +of chaos, and had given them his commandments; and he was no God, but a +weak man; and they were not his children. + +He went back to his books, there were no flowers except Christmas-roses +and snowdrops, shivering things of winter, and tried to dream. Nothing +came. It seemed to him there was less mysticism in his mistland than in +the dirty streets of Stonehouse; and, while he mused, that world came +knocking at his mind, calling in the dialect of Sibley, "'Tis best vor +volk to live as 'em be meant to." His own body, his sluggishness and +unhappiness, convicted him of error; but, if he was wrong, what of all +religion which tells of a God of mysticism, and of his own in +particular, which, at that very season of the year, rejoiced at the +birth of a Child-creator by mysticism not through Love? And at his mind +was hot, red-blooded passion, a crude and awful thing, love for those +things which make men horrible, love for dirt and the roots, not for bud +and bloom; and a contempt and hatred for cold morality and the spells +muttered by candlelight; and the message of the flowers was this: +"Through the agency of others, through the eyes of those who are loved +and loving, not by the confinement of self, souls find the dawn." + +"Mrs. Vorse," said Searell one day, the yellow aconites were out, the +first colour of the year, and he was going to look at them, "you have +changed." + +Sibley had her back towards him, engaged in cleaning, and she was +wearing, as she always did, the enveloping apron of the country, which +hung from her shoulders and surrounded her body like a sack. He could +not see the flush upon her face. + +"Your voice is softer. You sing at your work. You are happy." + +"I hain't, master," she whispered. "I feels, master, I wants to be +happy, but I be frightened." + +"Of the loneliness?" + +"Not that, master. I can't tell ye, but I be frightened." + +"You and your husband get along better. You are quieter. I have not +heard you quarrel for some time." + +"There's good in Oliver," she said. + +"I thought so," he murmured. "But I have not been able to bring it out." + +He went to see the aconites, but they were cold, and made him shiver. It +was warm innocence he wanted, not the purity which numbed; and, down +below, the slopes were naked, the path rustled with dead oakleaves, and +the pixy-water was in flood. The violence of the world was there, and +nothing could drive it out. + +"Is your wife well, Oliver?" he asked. "I heard a sound in your room +early this morning. It seemed to me she was ill." + +Vorse was uprooting bracken, which is hard labour, and he made no pause +when his master spoke. + +"I ha' never knowed she better," he answered. + +"She frets less. There is a womanliness about her now which is pleasant. +You, also, have very much improved. You speak to her gently. You do not +drink now?" + +"Her made me give it up." + +"Had I nothing to do with it?" + + +"No, master," said Oliver bluntly. "I couldn't ha' given it up vor yew. +I did try, but I couldn't, I promised to give it up vor Sibley." + +"When?" + +"Months ago. Her told me something, and 'twur then I promised to give it +up vor Sibley." + +"What did she tell you?" + +"Her had received a message from God." + +These were strange words from the mouth of Oliver Vorse. + +"Her took 'em from yew, master," he added apologetically. + +Searell moved aside, gazing at the black snakelike fern-roots. Then he +lifted up his eyes in torment. His creatures finding in the garden what +he had missed, taking his God away from him! the dull Sibley his +superior, reaping the harvest that he had sown! the dull Oliver +reforming for her, and not for him! And he had nothing, he was alone, as +much alone in his garden as in the mission-church, obeying the printed +rubrics and hearing the call, "Who told you to do this? Go out and find +Me, for I am in the solitudes." + +"You are educating yourselves," he suggested, turning back. "You and +Sibley are improving your minds by learning. I have done that much for +you." + +Oliver said nothing, his head was down, and his hands grubbed at the +great roots. There was no answer to make. + +It was evening, the time of restlessness, and Searell came downstairs; +his study was above, and he came down only to change his rooms, to get +into another atmosphere, that he might find rest for his mind. The +kitchen door was open. Oliver was seated in a low chair, and Sibley was +upon his knees, her arms around his neck, her head upon his shoulder. +Both were motionless as if asleep. + +Searell went away. This time he could not interfere, and the noise of +the wind became to him the cry of the wild world. "Men must be violent," +it cried. "Men were made for passion," it cried; "and with the strength +of the body, rather than by the gropings of the mind, they shall clear +the mists from their eyes, and by means of the act of creation find +Creator." + + + + +IV + + +A perfect evening is often the prelude to a stormy night. It was such an +evening in spring again, when the wind-flowers were out, and an old man +riding off the moor paused beside Searell's boundary-wall to prophesy a +tempest. This was a white old man with queer blue eyes, and he too was a +mystic under the spell of solitude; but, unlike Searell, he had his +ties, without which no man can be happy. By day he roamed, and at +evening, by the fireside, told the children small and great his own +weird tales of Dartmoor. There were no restless evenings for him. +Searell shook his head almost angrily. He lived upon the face of the +moor, wrapped himself in its secrets, yet he could not foretell its +weather. The passing cloud had no message, the river with its changing +cry told him nothing. He went into the house. + +"Where is your wife?" he said to Oliver. + +"Her bain't well, master." The man was nervous, and his eyes were large. + +"Who is that woman in the kitchen?" + +"I had to get she up to do the cooking." + +"You have neglected your work today." + +"I be cruel sorry, master." + +"What is the matter with your wife? Yesterday I heard her singing." + +"Nothing serious, master"; but the man was listening all the time, as if +dreading to hear a call, a cry of pain, or the voice of life coming +along the moor. + +The old man was right. So soon as night began, the Dartmoor tempest +broke; there was no rain, nor thunder, but a dry and mighty wind which +made the rocks shake; and through the storm came a weird light defying +the wind to blow it out, that light which does not enter the lowlands, +but lives upon mountains; and Searell stood at his high writing desk, +and sought out legends of the wind. + +If there were sounds in the house he could not hear them. Deep in +mysticism, he read on of the winged clouds which brought the tempests, +and of their symbols, the rock-shattering worm, the stone of wisdom +which tears open the secrets of life, the rosy flower which restores the +dead, the house-breaking hand of glory; and the eagle symbol of +lightning, and the rushing raven returning to Odin. And he read of the +voices in the wind, while boulders were grinding along the river-bed; of +Hulda in the forest singing for baby-souls; of the Elf maidens alluring +youths astray; of Thoth staggering into oblivion with brave men's +spirits; of Hermes with his winged talaria, playing the lyre and +shutting fast all the myriad eyes of the stars. And something more he +read about the storm-wind. It was not always taking away, it was giving; +it was a bringer of new life, coming in spring as a young god with +golden hair, breaking the spell of winter, bringing a magic pipe to make +folk dance. + +"At one time it lulls into a mystic sleep, at another it restores to new +life," said Searell, speaking loudly and strongly, partly to reassure +himself, because the tumult was frightening. "What is this wind bringing +to me, more of the mystic sleep, or the new life?" + +He paced up and down the room, which shook as if with earthquake; and +hidden from him by a partition of lath and plaster was the staring +horror of a dream, one small lamp, turned down, giving the half-light +which suggests terror more than darkness, and on the bed a woman +moaning, and against the wall a weak man groaning. Let them rave and +scream, no sound of theirs could have pierced that lath and plaster, for +the god of violence was fighting on their side. + +"There be only one way." + +That was how Oliver had been muttering the last hour. + +"No, no," she sobbed. + +"What can us do? Master be hard, he bides by his word. He ha' been good +to we in all else, but this be our ruin." + +"No, no." She could not hear him, but she knew what he was saying. + +"Back on them streets again. No home to cover we, no food. Us ha' lived +easy too long to stand it. 'Twould end in the river. Better to lose the +one than our two selves." + +"No, no," her lips made the words, but not the sounds. + +"'Tis only a matter o' two minutes," he cried fiercely. "Then us be free +again." He left the wall, crossed to the bed, bent down, cried into her +ear, "It be awful outside. The watter be roaring down under. Us mun +live, woman." + +Sibley lifted herself with a face of death, and screamed as if it had +been the last effort of her life, screamed again and again; but what was +that in the wind? Not even a whisper; while Searell read on of the Sons +of Kalew, and the miracle of their harps which changed winter into +summer and death into life. + +Oliver Vorse was staggering downstairs weeping; and outside the wind +caught him, dragged him hither and thither like a straw, stuffing his +mouth with vapour, and flung him against bellowing walls and into +shrieking bushes; and still he protected what he held by instinct, and +when he fell upon the steep descent he let his body be bruised and his +face torn by that same instinct which makes the timid beast a savage +thing. + +It took no time.... He was back in the ghastly lamplight, staring at a +ghastly face which was the reflection of his own; and the master was +still in his musing, and knew nothing. + +"Let me die, I'd sooner," Sibley muttered simply; but Oliver could not +hear. He was leaning against the wall again; then he went on his knees, +and then he turned his back upon the bed. That face, the black hair, a +blood-stain visible, they frightened him. He passed into a kind of +agony; he was so cold and his body was dry, and there was a lightness in +his limbs. + +"The watter wur roaring--roaring. There warn't no wind, not there. It +wur sheltered down under, and them little white flowers scarce shook." + +He turned his head and saw those staring eyes. + +"Bain't what yew thinks," he howled. "There wur moss, plenty on't. I +made a bed beside the rocks. It bain't cold, not very; but the watter be +rising--rising--rising." + +So was the tempest. It would be nearing its end, and would drop as +suddenly as it had arisen; and Searell was smiling as he read of the +beasts of the forest weeping as they listened to the song-wind of +Gunadhya. + +"I can't go out. Might see it crawling up-along, trying to come back, +little white thing in the dark." + +Oliver could see Sibley was speaking, making with her agonized mouth the +shape of words, "Go out." He could not, dared not, had not even the +courage to open the door and look down the dimly lighted horror of the +stairs. They were in the last stage of weakness, the one morally, the +other physically; and the almighty strength of the wind gave them +nothing except the security of its tumult. + +"It'll be over," he shuddered. "The watter wur coming up all white. I +couldn't bide there--there wur drops o' summat on my face, and 'twur so +helpless, and it looked up. Blue, warn't 'em blue, woman?'" + +Sibley could not have heard, but, with all those instincts quivering, +she recognized the word upon his lips and tried to nod. + +"Innocent. Hadn't done nought. Would ha' kep we good, made we man and +wife. I'll go down. I'd go down if I dared--the little chin wur agin my +cheek. I'll never face the dark. I'd see it move, and the little +drowning bubbles on the watter. Be it over now?" + +He glared at Sibley as if she could answer; and she stared back, asking, +pleading, imploring him to play the man and face the night again; but he +grovelled against the wall and shuddered, damp with an awful sweat, and +the weird light upon the mountain-tops went out, because other clouds +were coming up, having travelled far since evening, and the darkness +became real as the roarings of the dry wind decreased. It was getting on +towards midnight, and those mighty winds were tired. + +"Go!" came a sudden scream; and Searell heard the echo of it and +started. The cry seemed to have its origin in the storm. He closed his +book, listened, heard nothing more except the coherent bellowing, and +then he answered, "I will." Certainly the word had sounded, and as +certainly he was alone. The Vorses would have been asleep for hours. + +"I will walk along the path. It is sheltered down there," he murmured. +"This may be the night appointed, the time of revelation, the time of +young life. This is the mad music of the spring, the shattering of the +chains of winter. The growth follows. It is the birth-night." + +He wrapped a coat around him and went. During those few minutes the wind +had much decreased; in another hour it would be calm and clear; and then +the awful stillness of the sunrise and the perpetual wonder of the +daylight. + +There was again a kind of light, for the raven-clouds had gone by and +the swan-clouds were crossing; and the wind was now the magic piper who +drives away care, and with his merry music sets Nature capering. Searell +was on the pixy-path and the wind-flowers were jigging; it was ghostly, +but a dance, not a solemn marching as in autumn, when the leaves fall +processionally downwards. It was recessional spring, when the leaves +awoke, as it were, from their moon-loved sleep, preserved in unfading +youth and beauty by that sleep, and leapt back at the piper's music to +the branches, kissing their ancient oaks with the fervour of young love. +Every flower had a moist eye and a sweet heart; and the pixy-water rang +for festival. + +One turn Searell made, seeing nothing, because his eyes struggled with +the mist; another, and he stopped. There was a wonder, a miracle, a +revelation among his wind-flowers, upon the edge of the rising water, a +sleeping silent wonder which made him thrill. + +"It has no bodily existence. When I come back it will be gone." + +It was still there, and now the water was almost level with the bed of +moss, and some of the flowers were struggling to keep their pale heads +above; and it was silent, this child of the morning, lying upon its back +in the moss, numbed, perhaps, though the night was not cold, and there +was a beauty upon the small face, not the beauty which makes for +violence, but that which gives peace, the beauty of innocence; and there +was also upon it that perfect weakness, and the submission of weakness +which is one of the strongest things created. And it seemed to be +growing there like the wind-flowers, as fragile, but as hardy, and among +them; for white anemones had been blown across each eye and across the +mouth, and they gleamed from each ear, and the chin was another edged +with pink, and all of them seemed to be jealous of the child. + +"And it comes into the world by violence," Searell murmured. + +Even then he hardly knew what had happened. He could not think, for his +mind was full of the wonder, and commonplace ideas would not enter. He +picked up the child reverently; there was no motion, no sound, no +opening of bue eyes; had there been a shrill scream, the spell might +have been broken--the contact was dreadful to him. He was tending a +sacred mystery, elevating a sacrament newly consecrated, something which +a few hours ago had been leaping like a spark in the place of his +dreams, and had been flung as lightning upon his path to strike his +heart open. Here was the answer of the flowers. To men the Creator was +as a child, for the child is the only thing all-powerful and the only +thing all-pure. + +About the house Searell seemed to hear the sound of groaning like the +moan of the dying wind, and there were movements once or twice as of a +wounded body. + +A dusty prie-dieu stood in the comer of the study. This he placed near +the fire, a cushion upon it, and then the child; and lighted a candle +upon each side. He stood with his arms folded, the Omega of life +worshipping the Alpha of it, until all things seemed to be new and +strange, as upon a resurrection morning, and he awoke from the sleep of +death and felt the spring. The winter was over and past, the time of the +opening of flowers had come, and the voice of creation stirred upon the +garden; and the change had been wrought by violence. + +It was necessary to speak and find sympathy. He hated the solitude +because no one shared it with him; he had grown to hate the wonderful +garden because there was no one to wonder at it with him; he hated +himself because no one cared for him. "Oliver!" he called, breaking the +horrible quietness, forgetful of the time. "Sibley!" + +Movements followed, again like wounded bodies, and Searell remembered +that the woman was ill and he had done nothing for her. He went to the +door; it opened, and Vorse was cowering against the wall, his hand upon +his eyes. Searell hardly noticed the horrid smoking of the lamplight, +the eyes upon that bed, the guilty, frightened man. Still full of +himself, he cried: + +"Come and see what I have found." + +"I couldn't do it, master," moaned Oliver. "I took it down, but the eyes +opened. 'Don't ye hurt me,' it said. I be just come. Bain't time vor me +to go.'" + +Still Searell would not understand. + +"Come," he said impatiently. "She was upon my path, among my flowers." + +Then life stirred again upon the bed, and Sibley drew herself up with +ravenous eyes and muttered: + +"Alive--alive!" + +Soon the room was like a chapel. The smoky lamp had been extinguished, +the prie-dieu stood beside the bed, the candles cast a warm, soft light; +and outside upon the moor was peace. Even the merry piper had become +weary and had put all things to sleep till daybreak; while Oliver Vorse +upon his knees confessed the sin which had been forced upon him. + +"Us dared not keep she. Sibley dared, but not me. If a child wur born, +us must go, yew said. I couldn't face it, but her would ha' faced it. Us +be ready to go now," he said boldly. "I ha' these hands. I'll fight. I +ha' the maiden to fight vor." + +"Her lives. Her moves on my bosom," cried Sibley. "Look at 'em, master. +Did ye ever see the like?" + +"What made you kinder, Sibley, more attentive to me, soft and tender?" + +"'Twur the child coming, master." + +"What made you sober, Oliver, fond of your wife? What was it stopped the +quarelling?" + +"I minded the little child, master." + +There was something tender in their illiterate speech. + +"You cast her away. The sin is mine, so is the atonement. And she is +mine." + +"She'm mine, master," murmured Sibley. + +"I found her among my flowers, the reward of my searching. She is the +answer," he said. "Let her be to you the daughter of love, and to me the +daughter of violence. Oliver," he cried, turning, "bring up water from +the pixy-stream. As the sun rises I will baptise--my child." + +"Yew'm fond o' she, master?" + +"She is mine," he said, with the old impatience. + +"And we, master?" + +"I am old and you are young," said Searell. "But we are all beginning +life, we know nothing. We will try to find another and a better +pathway." + +He went back to his rooms to rest, but not to sleep, for there was +something burning inside him like a coal from the altar; and a new light +crept upon the moor, giving it form, changing it from black to purple. +It was the dawn. + + + * * * * * + + +BUSINESS IS BUSINESS + + +Tavy river rises on Cranmere, flows down Tavy Cleave, divides the parish +of Mary Tavy from that of Peter Tavy, passes Tavy Mount, and leaves +Dartmoor at Tavystock, or Tavistock as it is now spelt. Each Dartmoor +river confers its name, or a portion of it, upon certain features of its +own district. The Okements meet at Okehampton, and one of them has Oke +Tor, which has been corrupted into Ock and even Hock. Even the tiny Lyd +has its Lydford. Each river also has its particular characteristic. The +East Okement is the river of ferns, the Teign the river of woods, the +Taw the river of noise, the Dart the river of silence, and the Tavy is +the river of rocks. Tavy Cleave from the top of Ger Tor, presents a +grand and solemn spectacle of rock masses piled one upon the other; it +is a valley of rocks, relieved only by the foaming little river. + +Mary Tavy is a straggling village of unredeemed ugliness, wild and bare. +It lies exposed on the side of the moor and is swept by every wind, for +not a bush or even a bramble will be found upon the rounded hills +adjoining. Once the place was a mining centre of some importance. The +black moor has been torn into pits and covered with mounds by the +tin-streamers in early days, and more recently by the copper-miners. All +around Mary Tavy appear the dismal ruins of these mines, or wheals as +they are called. Peter Tavy, across the river, is not so dreary, but is +equally exposed. This region during the winter is one of the most +inhospitable spots to be found in England. + +In Peter Tavy there lived, until quite recently, an elderly man, who +might have posed as the most incompetent creature in the West Country. +It is hardly necessary to say he did not do so; on the contrary, he +posed as a many-sided genius. He occupied a hideous little tin house, +which would have been condemned at a glance in those parts of the +country where building by-laws are in existence. At one time and another +he had borrowed the dregs of paint-pots, and had endeavoured to decorate +the exterior. As a result, one portion was black, another white, and +another blue. Over the door a board appeared setting forth the +accomplishments of Peter Tavy, as he may here be called. According to +his own showing he was a clock-maker; he was a photographer; he was a +Dartmoor guide; he was a dealer in antiquities; he was a Reeve attached +to the Manor of Lydford; and he was a purveyor of manure. This board was +in its way a masterpiece of fiction. Once upon a time a resident, +anxious to put Peter's powers to the test, sent him an old kitchen-clock +to repair. He examined and gave it as his opinion that the undertaking +would require time. When a year had passed the owner of the clock +requested Peter to report progress. He replied that the work was getting +on, but "'Twas a slow business and 'twould take another six months to +make a job of it." At the end of that period the clock was removed, +almost by force, and it was then discovered that Peter had sold most of +the interior mechanism to a singularly innocent tourist as Druidical +remains unearthed by him in one of the shafts of Wheal Betsy. + +As a photographer he carried his impudence still further. Some one had +given him an old camera and a few plates. He began at once to inveigle +visitors--chiefly elderly ladies, "half-dafty maidens" he impolitely +called them--down Tavy Cleave, where he would pose them on rocks and +pretend to photograph them with plates which had already been exposed +more than once. "If I doan't get a picture first time, I goes on till I +do," he explained. Once, when Peter announced "'twas a fine picture this +time," a gentleman of the party reminded him he had omitted to remove +the cap from the lens. Peter was not to be caught that way: "I took +'en," he said, "I took 'en, but yew was yawning." + +As a guide upon the moor Peter was an equal failure. He ought to have +known Dartmoor after living upon it all his life; the truth was, he +would have lost his way upon the road to Tavistock had he strayed from +it a moment. Visitors, lured by the notice-board, had approached him +from time to time with the request to be guided to Cranmere. Peter would +take them along Tavy Cleave for a mile, then assure them a storm was +coming up and it would be necessary to seek shelter as soon as possible, +hurry them back, and demand half-a-guinea in return for his services. +Peter had never been to Cranmere Pool, and had no idea how to get there. +Sometimes a party would insist upon proceeding, in spite of the guide's +warning, and in such cases the bewildered Peter would have to be shown +the way home by his victims. He would demand the half-guinea all the +same. + +As a dealer in antiquities nothing came amiss. Broken pipes, bits of +crockery, old mining-tools, any rubbish rotting or rusting upon the peat +were gathered and classified as Druidical remains. No one knew where +Peter had picked up the word Druidical; but it was certain he picked up +their supposed remains on the piece of black moor which surrounded his +house. Sometimes, it was said, he found a tourist foolish enough to +purchase a selection of this rubbish. + +What he meant by describing himself as an official receiving pay from +the Duchy of Cornwall nobody ever knew. As a Reeve (another word he had +picked up somewhere) of the Manor of Lydford he believed himself to be +intimately connected with the lord of that manor, who is the Prince of +Wales. He knew that august personage was interested somehow in three +feathers. The public-house in the neighbourhood called _The Plume of +Feathers_ had something to do with it he was sure, though he had never +seen "goosey's feathers same as they on the sign-board." Once he thought +seriously of erecting three feathers above his own door, and for that +purpose captured a neighbor's goose and plucked three large quills from +one of its wings, accompanying his action with the bland request, "Now +bide still, goosey-gander, do' ye." He could not make his three +goose-quills graceful and drooping, like those upon the sign-board, and +that was probably why Peter refrained from doing the Lord of Dartmoor +the compliment of assuming his crest.' + +The village of Peter Tavy, like most spots upon Dartmoor, has its summer +visitors; and these were sure, sooner or later, to make the acquaintance +of Peter Tavy the man. They thought him a harmless idiot, and he +reciprocated. One summer a journalist came upon the moor for his health +and, desiring to combine business with pleasure, he wrote a descriptive +sketch of Peter, and this was published in due course in a paper which +by a curious accident reached Peter himself. The man was furious. He +went about the two villages with the paper in his hand, his scanty hair +bristling, his watery eyes bulging, his mouth twisted into a very ugly +shape. It was a good thing the journalist had departed, for just then +Peter was angry and vindictive enough for anything. Presently he met his +clergyman; he made towards him, held out the paper, and, regardless of +grammar, cried out, "That's me." + +"He does not mention you by name," said the clergyman. + +"He says the man in the iron house wi' notice-board atop. He's got down +the notice-board as 'tis," spluttered Peter. "He says a ginger-headed +man--that's me; face like a rabbit--that's me." + +It was as a purveyor of manure that Peter found his level, if not a +living. Probably he received financial assistance from his sister, who +lived across the river at Mary Tavy. She had been formerly a lady's maid +in Torquay; after more than thirty years' service her mistress had died, +and had bequeathed to her a modest income, and on this she lived +comfortably in retirement, crossing Tavy Cleave occasionally to visit +her eccentric brother. She, too, was said to be eccentric, but that was +only because she was fond of getting full value for a halfpenny. Mary +Tavy was a spinster, and Peter Tavy was a bachelor. On those occasions +when some ne'er-do-well attempted to annex Mary and her income, the good +woman's eccentricity had revealed itself very strongly; and as for +Peter, his own sister would remark, "Women never could abide he." + +The Tavies always passed Christmas together. One year Peter would go +across and stop with Mary for three days; the next, Mary would come +across and stop with Peter for three days. Their rule on this matter was +fixed; the visit never extended beyond three days, and Peter would not +have dreamed of going across to Mary if it were the turn of Mary to come +across to him. + +Peter had a little cart and a pony to draw it. How he came by the pony +nobody knew, but as it was never identified no hard questions were +asked. Every year a few Dartmoor ponies are missed when the drift takes +place; and at the same time certain individuals take to owning shaggy +little steeds which have no past history. When a brand has been +skilfully removed, one Dartmoor pony is very much like a score of +others. To drive Peter into a corner over his title to the pony which +pulled his shameful little cart--it was hardly better than a +packing-case on wheels--would have been impossible. He had hinted that +it was a present from the Prince of Wales as a slight return for +services rendered; and as no one else in the Tavy district was in the +habit of communicating with the lord of the manor, his statement could +not easily be refuted. + +With this pony and unlicensed cart Peter would convey people from time +to time to the station at Mary Tavy, making a charge of eighteen pence, +which was not exorbitant considering the dangers and difficulties of the +road. For conveying his sister from her home to his at Christmas he made +a charge of one shilling; when she expostulated, as she always did, and +quoted the proverb "Charity begins at home," Peter invariably replied +with another proverb, "Business is business." + +Few will have forgotten the winter of 1881, when snow fell for over a +week, and every road was lost and every cleave choked. Snow was lurking +in sheltered nooks upon the tops of Ger Tor and the High Willhays range +as late as the following May. Snow upon Dartmoor does not always mean +snow elsewhere. It is possible sometimes to stand knee-deep upon the +high moor and look down upon a stretch of country without a flake upon +it, and so on to the sugared and frosted hills of Exmoor; but no part of +the country escaped the great fall of 1881. Every one on the moor can +tell of some incident in connection with that Christmas. At the two +Tavies they tell how Peter tried to drive Mary from his village to hers, +how he failed in the attempt, and how both of them remained good +business people to the end. + +It was Mary's turn to visit Peter that year, and she arrived upon +Christmas Eve, quaintly but warmly dressed, a small boy carrying her +basket, which contained the articles that she deemed necessary for her +visit, together with a bottle of spiced wine, some cream cakes, and a +plum-pudding as big as her head. The boy said a good many +uncomplimentary things about that pudding as they climbed up from the +Tavy, comparing it to the Giant's Pebble higher up the cleave. When Mary +raised her black-mittened hand and threatened him with chastisement, the +urchin lifted out the pudding in its cloth, set it at her feet, and told +her to carry it herself, as it was "enough to pinch a strong man +dragging that great thing up the cleave"; so Mary had to finish the +journey hugging the pudding like a baby. She was walking to save herself +sixpence. Peter had offered to come for her with his pony and cart, the +charge to be one shilling, payable as follows--sixpence when she got +into the cart and sixpence when she got out; but Mary had told him that +she could get a boy to carry her basket for half that amount; when he +protested she reminded him that business was business. + +A light sprinkle of snow had fallen, just enough to dust over the rocks +and furze-bushes; but it was very cold, the clouds were low and +wood-like, and there was in the air that feel of snow which animals can +nearly always detect, and men who live on the moors can sometimes. + +Peter and Mary spent the evening in simple style. Peter sat on one side +of the fire, Mary on the other; sometimes Peter stirred to get fresh +turves for the fire; sometimes Mary got up to heap the little table with +good cheer and place it midway between the old-fashioned chairs. They +both smoked, they both took snuff, they both drank spiced wine. Towards +evening they talked of old times and became merry. Then they talked of +old people and grew sentimental, dropping tears into their hot wine. +Peter got up and kissed Mary, but Mary did not care for Peter's caresses +and told him so, whereupon Peter advised her to "get along home then." +Mary declared she would, but changed her mind when she thought of the +gloomy cleave and the Tavy in winter flood; so they went on smoking, +taking snuff, and drinking spiced wine. + +The next day was fine, and Peter and Mary went to chapel. Mary gave her +brother a penny to put into the plate, but he put it into his pocket +instead; he was always a man of business. She also gave him a bright new +florin as a Christmas present. He had made her understand, when the coin +was safe in his possession, that he should still demand a shilling for +driving her home, and over that point they wrangled for some time. In +the evening, when Peter had fallen asleep over the fire, Mary repented +of her kindness and sought to regain the florin; but Peter had it hidden +away safely in his boot. + +When the time came for Mary to start homewards it was snowing fast, and +she did not like the prospect. Although it was not much after three +o'clock, the outlook was exceedingly dark; there was an unpleasant +silence upon the moor, and the snowflakes were larger and falling +thickly. But the pony was harnessed to the unsteady conveyance, and +Peter was waiting; before Mary could utter a word of protest, he had +bundled her in and they were off. + +"Twould have paid me better to bide home," said Mary. + +"Do'ye sit quiet," Peter growled. Then he added, "Where's the shillun?" + +"There now, doan't ye worry about the shillun," said Mary; "I'll give it +ye when I'm safe and sound to home wi' no bones broke." + +"Shillun be poor pay vor driving this weather," said her business-like +brother. + +Now and again a light appeared from one of the cottages. The pony +struggled on with its head down, while the silence seemed to grow more +unearthly, and the darkness increased, and the snow became a solid +descending mass. The road between the two Tavies is not easy in winter +under favorable conditions, and on that night it was to become +practically impassable. When the last light of Peter Tavy the village +had vanished, Peter Tavy the man had about as much idea where he was as +if he had just dropped out of the moon. + +"Where be'st going?" shrieked Mary, as the cart swerved violently to the +right. + +"Taking a short cut," explained Peter. + +"Dear life!" gasped Mary, "he'm pixy-led." + +"I b'ain't," said Peter; "I be driving straight vor Mary Tavy." + +Had he said straight for the edge of Tavy Cleave he would have spoken the +truth. The pony knew perfectly well that they were off the road, and the +sensible beast would have returned to the right way had it not been for +Peter, who kept pulling its head towards the cleave. Left to itself the +pony would have returned to Peter Tavy, having quite enough sense to +know that it was impossible to reach the sister village on such a night. +Its master, with his fatal knack of blundering, tugged at the reins with +one hand and plied the whip with the other. The snow was like a wall on +every side; the clouds seemed to be dissolving upon them; suddenly the +silence was broken by the roaring of the Tavy below. + +"Us be going to kingdom come," shrieked Mary. + +"Us b'ain't," said Peter; "us be going to Mary Tavy." + +The pony stopped. Peter used his whip, and the next instant the snow +appeared to rush towards them, open, and swallow them up. They had +struck a boulder and gone over the cleave. The body of the cart was in +one spot, its wheels were in another; and wallowing in the sea and snow +were Peter and Mary and the pony. The animal was the first to regain its +feet, and made off at once, with the broken harness trailing behind. +Mary was the next to rise, plastered over with snow from head to foot; +but she was soon down again, because her legs refused to support her. +Presently she heard her brother's voice. He was invisible, because he +had been thrown several feet lower, and had landed among rocks somewhat +bruised and sprained; had it not been for the soft snow he would +probably have been killed. + +"I be broke to bits," he wailed. + +"So be I," cried Mary; "So be the cart." + +"Be the cart broke?" said Peter; and when Mary had replied it was only +fit for firewood (it had not been fit for much else before the +accident), he went on, "'Twill cost ye a lot o' money to buy me a new +one." + +"Buy ye a new one? The man be dafty!" screamed Mary. + +"'Twas taking yew home what broke it," Peter explained. + +"Call this taking me home?" Mary shouted. + +"I done my best," said Peter; "'twas your weight what sent it over. +There'll be the cart, and the harness and the doctor's bill; 'twill cost +ye a heap o' money." + +"Dear life, hear the man talk!" said Mary, appealing to the snow which +was piled upon her ample form. + +"Mayhap there'll be funeral expenses," said Peter lugubriously; "I be +hurt dreadful." + +"Yew won't want the cart then," his sister muttered; "and I'll have the +pony." + +"Where be the pony?" Peter demanded. + +"Gone home likely; got more sense than we," said Mary. "Why doan't ye +get up, Peter?" + +"Get up wi' my two legs broke!" Peter replied in disgust. + +"Dear life, man, get up!" Mary went on, with real alarm. "If us doan't +get up soon us'll be stone dead carpses when us gets home." + +"I'll try, Mary, I'll try," said Peter. + +"Come up here, Peter; there be a sheltered spot over agin them rocks," +said Mary. + +"There be a sheltered spot down here," Peter answered; "'tis easier vor +yew to roll down than vor me to climb up." + +When the question had been argued, Mary went down; that is to say, she +groped and grovelled through the snow, half-rolling, half-sliding, until +she reached the shelter to which Peter had dragged himself. It was a +small cleft, a chimney, mountaineers would have called it, in the centre +of a rock-mass which made a small tor on the side of the cleave. +Normally, this chimney acted as a drain for the rock-basin above, but it +was then frozen up and dry. Peter was right at the back, huddled up as +he could never have been had any bones been broken. When Mary appeared +he dragged her in; she was almost too stout to pass inside, but as he +placed her she made an excellent protection for him against the storm. +Mary realised this, and suggested they should change places; but Peter +pointed out that in his shattered condition any movement might prove +fatal. + +Presently Mary began to cry, realizing the gravity of their position. +The snow was descending more thickly than ever, drifting up the side of +the cleave and choking the entrance to their cleft. Fortunately the +night was not very cold, and they were both warmly clad, while the snow +which was threatening to bury them was itself a protection. Help could +not possibly reach them while the night lasted; no one would know what +had befallen them, and they were unable to walk. When Mary began to cry +Peter abused her, until his thoughts also began to trouble him. + +"Think they'll put what's on my notice-board on my tombstone?" he +inquired. + +"Now doan't ye talk about tombstoanes, doan't ye now," implored Mary +tearfully. + +"Business is business," said Peter. "I told 'em to give me a great big +tombstone, and to put upon him, _Peter Tavy, Clock-maker, Photographer, +Dealer in Antiquities, Dartmoor Guide, Reeve of the Manor of Lydford, +Purveyor of Manure, and et cetera_." + +"Doan't ye worry about it; they'll put it all down," said Mary. + +"Us'll be buried together, same afternoon, half-past two likely," Peter +went on. + +"Doan't ye talk about funerals and tombstoanes," Mary implored. "Talk +about spicy wine, and goosey fair, and them wooden horses that go round +and round, and hurdy-gurdy music; talk about they, Peter." + +"It ain't the time," said Peter bitterly. + +A long dreary period of silence followed. Peter Tavy the village and +Mary Tavy its sister were completely snowed up; and in the cleave of the +river which divided the parishes Peter Tavy the man was snowed up with +Mary Tavy his sister. They were miserably cold and drowsy. The snow was +piled up in front of the chimney like a wall; there was hardly room for +Mary to move, and Peter kept on groaning. At length he roused himself to +remark: "Yew owes me a shillun." + +"What would I owe ye a shillun vor?" said Mary sharply, wide-awake +immediately at any suggestion of parting with money. + +"Vor the drive," said Peter. + +"I was to give ye a shillun vor taking me home, not vor breaking me +bones and leaving me to perish in Tavy Cleave," said Mary. "Yew ain't +earned the shillun, and I doan't see how yew'm going to." + +"Yew owes me a shillun," repeated her brother doggedly. "I done my best +to tak' ye home, and there was naught in your agreement wi' me about +accidents. I never contracted to tak' ye home neither." + +"Yew never promised to starve me wi' ice and snow on Tavy Cleave +neither," replied Mary. + +"I didn't promise nothing. I meant to tak' ye home, reasonable wear and +tear excepted; this here is reasonable wear and tear. Yew promised to +give me a shillun." + +"When yew put me down," added Mary. + +"Yew wur put down," said Peter. + +"Not to my door." + +"That warn't my fault," said Peter. "Twas your worriting what done it; +if yew hadn't worrited I'd have put ye out to Mary Tavy. Yew worrited +and upset the cart, and now we'm dying." + +"I b'ain't dying," said Mary stoutly. + +"I be," said Peter drearily. "I be all cold and nohow inside. I be a +going to die; I'd like to die wi' that shillun in my pocket." + +"Doan't ye go on about it, Peter. If yew'm dying yew'll soon be in a +place where yew won't want shilluns." + +"While I be here I want 'en," said Peter. "Yew'll be fearful sorry when +yew see me lying a cold carpse wi'out a shillun in my pocket." + +"Give over, can't ye," cried Mary. "You'll be giving me the creepies. If +yew wur to turn carpsy I wouldn't bide wi' ye." + +There was no reply. Silence fell again, and the only sound was the +moaning of the wind and the roaring of the Tavy; the snow went on +falling and drifting. Another hour passed, and then Mary shook off her +drowsiness, and called timidly, "Peter." There was no answer; she could +see nothing; her fear returned and she shuddered. "Peter," she called +again; there was still no reply. Mary pressed her stout figure forward +and reached out fearfully; she heard a groan. "Ah, doan't ye die," she +implored; "wait till us gets out o' this. What's the matter, Peter?" + +"Yew owes me a shillun," whispered a voice. + +"I doan't owe it, Peter, I doan't," cried Mary. "If yew had drove me +across the river I'd have paid ye, I would; but us be still in the +parish of Peter Tavy----" + +She was interrupted by another and a deeper groan. "Be yew that bad?" +she asked earnestly. + +"I be like an old clock past mending," Peter answered. "My mainspring be +broke; I be about to depart this life, December the twenty-seventh, +eighteen hundred and eighty-one, aged fifty-eight, in hopes of being +thoroughly cleaned and repaired and set a going in the world to come." + +"Can't I do anything vor ye, Peter?" asked Mary gently. + +"Yew can give me the shillun yew owes me," replied Peter. + +"'Tis hard of ye to want a shillun if yew'm dying." + +"Business is business," Peter moaned. + +Fumbling in the little black bag she carried beneath her skirt, Mary +produced a coin and held it out, saying sadly: "Here 'tis, Peter; I +doan't want to give it to ye, but if 'twill make yew die happy, I must." + +With singular agility Peter reached out his hand, and after groping a +little in the darkness secured the precious coin. He felt it, he bit it, +and he asked with suspicion: "How I be to know 'tis a shillun? He tastes +like a halfpenny." + +"I know 'tis a shillun; I ain't got no coppers," Mary answered. + +Peter's groans ceased from that moment; he pocketed the coin and +chuckled. + +"I be a lot better," he said; "my legs b'ain't quite broke, I reckon, +and I ain't so cold inside, neither." + +Mary's reply was too eccentric to mention. + +So soon as it was day a party of villagers set out from Peter Tavy well +supplied with blankets and stimulants; Peter and Mary were not the only +ones missing that fateful morning. The pony had returned to its stable +the evening before, and had been seen by the local constable trailing +its broken harness past the beer-house. An attempt had been made to find +the couple then, but their tracks were completely hidden. Snow was still +descending as the relief party waded through the drifts upon the edge of +the cleave. The moor had disappeared during the night, and a strange +region of white mountains had risen in its stead. The searchers worked +their way on, with a hopeless feeling that they were only wasting their +time, when they thought they heard a whistle. They stopped and argued +the matter like the three jolly huntsmen; one said it was a man, another +said it was a bird, and another it was the wind. They were all wrong; it +was a woman. Out of the centre of a huge white mass down the cleave +appeared a black scarf tied to the end of an umbrella. + +Peter and Mary were rescued, not without difficulty, because the snow +was four feet in depth on the side of the cleave, and were conveyed in +due course to their respective villages. Being a hardy couple they were +little the worse for their adventure, although Peter posed as an invalid +to the end of his days, and sought parish relief in consequence; that +was simply a matter of business. + +So soon as the roads became passable and he was able to walk, Peter +tramped across to Mary Tavy, to pay his sister a friendly, and a +business, visit. "There be ten shilluns yew owes vor breaking my cart +and harness," he explained. "When be yew a going to pay?" + +"Never," replied Mary decidedly. + +"Then I'll tak' ye into court," said Peter. + + + * * * * * + + +THE CHRISTENING OF THE FIFTEEN PRINCESSES + +A MODERN FAIRY TALE + + +Once upon a time there was a village called Lew, and it was perched on +the top of a hill 999 feet, 11 inches high. That is the way fairy-tales +have to begin; they insist upon going back into the remote past; but +unfortunately the village of Lew has come down to our own days, and so +has the big hill on which it stands. If we start over again with, "Once +upon a time there was a man of Lew who had fifteen daughters," we are +confronted by exactly the same difficulty; for the man is still alive, +and the fifteen daughters look as if they never would, nor could, belong +to the period when little pixy maids were to be seen any night running +round and round the furze-bushes. The only way out of the difficulty is +to be courageous, to tell the truth, and say: At the top of a hill 999 +feet, 11 inches high--some say it is 1,000 feet, but that is not +true--stands the village of Lew, where dwells a man named Heathman, who +has fifteen daughters and not a single son; and the daughters are all +princesses, although it is not easy to say why; but as they are pretty, +and this is a fairy-tale, they must be. + +The little village lies within a kind of ring-fence of ash and +sycamores, which shelter the cob houses from the furious gales which +boom and bluster over the Dartmoor tors. The wind is always sighing and +moaning. It is cool upon the hottest day in August, and probably that is +why Lew imports weak-chested people in some quantity. A regular business +is done with big, smoky Bristol. Lew says to Bristol in its own +language, "Us ha' butiful air up over in Demshur, and us ha' a proper +plenty o' cream and butter and suchlike, but us ain't got much golden +money. If yew sends us sickly volk, they can buy our cream and butter, +and us will send 'em back strong." Bristol sees the force of this +argument, and packs up and sends off its weak-chested folk, who reason, +quite sensibly, "What's the use of being ill when we can go to the top +of Lew hill and get well?" There is a tariff, of course, for Lew does +not believe in free imports. The weak-chested folk must buy cream and +butter and suchlike in vast quantities, or they would be promptly +deported under the local Aliens Act. As a matter of fact, they buy Lew +produce without any grumbling; they do even more than they are wanted +to, and are actually spoiling Lew--where tips are unknown and a man will +do an extraordinary lot of work for two shillings--by raising the +prices. They get absurdly grateful, these visitors, who enter Lew weak +and thin, and are exported brown and fat and sleek, like porpoises. + +It is the importation of so much foreign raw material that has built up +the fortunes of the fairy family called Heathman. His Majesty, the +father--hereinafter called King Heathman--was village cobbler before he +came to the throne. After his accession he procured a horse and cart, +and conveyed people to and from the distant station. He also annexed +several acres of grass territory, by a process of peaceful penetration, +and went in for cows and dairy produce. These two businesses developed +so wonderfully that he dropped the cobbling, at which it must be owned +he was always rather a poor hand. The weak-chested imports have to be +brought up from the station ill, and taken back well; and while they are +on the top of Lew hill they pass the time consuming cream, butter, milk, +and eggs, which are provided by King Heathman, and delivered morning and +evening by the golden-haired princesses. Their Majesties of the +Palace--two cottages of red cob knocked into one--are busy people, and +have no time for boasting; nor do they appear to think they have done +anything out of the way in bringing up fifteen model princesses, not one +of whom has ever given her parents an hour's anxiety. Sickness, some one +will suggest; but that is a ridiculous idea, for the residents of Lew +are never ill, and they live just as long as they like. Mrs. +Heathman--hereinafter called Queen Heathman--looks the picture of health +and strength, and only last Revel Week was footing it merrily after a +long day's work, and dancing one or two anaemic young maids from foreign +lands like Plymouth to a standstill. Old Grandfather Heathman, His +Majesty's father, who is so much addicted to Lew that he won't die, had +the impertinence to be dancing too. He must be nearly a hundred, though +he neither knows nor cares about his age, and will merely state in the +course of conversation that he intends to live out the present century, +because he is so fond of the place. Old Grandfather Heathman is probably +the only man now living in England who has witnessed a fatal duel, which +was fought some time in the dark ages between the son of the then rector +of Lew and a young doctor, a lady being of course the cause. The +unfortunate young doctor, who very likely had never handled a sword +before, was quickly killed by his opponent, who was an army officer. A +stone still marks the spot, but it has become so overgrown with brambles +that only Grandfather Heathman knows where to look for it. + +The crown princess is just twenty-three. The girls are nicely dressed, +well educated, and speak and behave like little angels. If Romney were +alive, he would want to paint them all. They are so pretty, these +fifteen princesses of Lew. Each has a slender figure, wild-rose +complexion, shy eyes, and fair hair. But it must not be imagined they +are dancing princesses. One plays the American organ (which was alluded +to with less respect as the harmonium twenty years ago) in the church; +another is pupil-teacher; another manages the Sunday-school. They milk +the cows and attend to the dairy work. All of them love animals; each +has her dog, or cat, or bird, generally with her in work or in play. +When you meet a pretty, well-dressed girl in Lew, you will not--unless +you are the latest importation--ask her name. You will say, "And what is +your number?" She will blush delightfully, lower her shy eyes, put her +hands behind her back, and tell you. + +When the first child was born the neighbours offered their +congratulations, and said, "Of course you will call her Annie." In this +part of the country it is absolutely necessary to have a girl in the +family of that name, and it is most unorthodox to call the first girl +anything else. But King Heathman rebelled against custom. He did not +care for the name Annie. He liked something daintier, something more +unusual and fanciful. No doubt there is a vein of poetry somewhere in +His Majesty's system. King Heathman stated plainly he would not hare his +daughter named Annie. He would go to the rector and ask him to supply a +name. The good people of Lew were horrified at such heresy. They pointed +out what a great risk he was running. It was quite possible he would not +have another daughter, and thus his family would be branded with the +disgrace of having no Annie. But King Heathman hardened his heart yet +more, and tramped off to the rectory. + +The rector of Lew is a scholar of the old type, an unconscious pedant +who can hardly open his lips without quoting Latin or Greek, a type +which before another twenty years have gone will be as extinct as the +pixies. The rector of Lew is almost as much a curiosity of the past as +Grandfather Heathman, only when people plant themselves on the top of +the big hill 999 feet, 11 inches high, it never seems to occur to them +that they are mortal. The rector solved the royal difficulty at once, +and in the most natural way possible. "She is the first child. Let us +call her either Prima or Una," he said. "Una is a pretty name." + +"That 'tis, sir--that 'tis." For reasons of his own King Heathman always +prefers to use the dialect of his country. + +"You will find the name in the _Faerie Queene_ written by Spenser," the +rector continued. + +"Old John Spencer over to Treedown?" suggested His Majesty, who had not +dabbled much in classics. + +"No; Edmund Spenser, who lived in the reign of Queen Elizabeth." + +"Aw, yes, sir, I knows 'en," said King Heathman. + +Of course he didn't, but perhaps he was referring to the queen. Every +one in Lew knows Queen Elizabeth intimately, because there is a little +old house in the village where she was fond of putting up for the night +occasionally. This house is still furnished very much as it was in the +sixteenth century, but whether the Maiden Lady ever saw or heard of Lew +is another matter. It is certain, however, that Queen Elizabeth occupied +most of her long reign travelling about the country in order that she +might sleep in out-of-the-way manor-houses. Whenever you visit any old +house in this neighbourhood it is only polite to say, "Queen Elizabeth +slept here, of course?" And then you will be shown the room and the bed, +and if you go on being polite you may very possibly see the sheets and +blankets and pillow-slips also, with the pillow itself still marked with +the impression of Queen Elizabeth's head. + +Princess Heathman was duly christened Una, to the delight of her father, +and the horror of the inhabitants. Every one breathed a sigh of relief +when a second princess favoured Lew with her appearance. After all, the +Heathmans would not be disgraced. There would be an Annie in the family, +though they hardly deserved it after letting the first chance slip. King +Heathman remained as silent as the Sphinx, and about as mysterious. When +the time came for the royal christening, the church was filled. The +rector received a particularly plump bundle from Queen Heathman, and +placed it snugly into the hollow of his arm. He dipped his hand into the +font, and the whisper of "Annie" went about the church. The next moment +they heard, "Secunda, I baptise thee...." + +The next year Princess Tertia was christened, and then Princess Quarta. +Even the rector admitted Quarta was rather an unusual name, but His +Majesty revelled in it, and would hear of nothing else. Every one said Q +was such an awkward initial; and they had to make the same remark next +year when Princess Quinta was brought to the font. "Sounds like squint," +said one of the grumblers; but not one would venture to suggest such a +thing now. By this time the gossips of Lew had pretty well accommodated +themselves to the idea that King Heathman was irreclaimable. Annie, +Bessie, and Lucy were the orthodox village names for young ladies; and +it was perfectly clear he would have none of them. + +In quick succession princesses were hurried to the font, and the +unromantic ears of the congregation were astonished by a list of +beautiful names--Sexta, Septima, Octava, Nona of the wonderful eyes, and +Decima of the sunny hair. But when the eleventh princess was brought to +church a serious difficulty arose. A perfect understanding existed +between His Majesty and the court chaplain. The father had no idea what +the name of his new daughter was to be when she was handed into the +scholar's arms. The rector did not use the formula, "Name this child," +but substituted the question, "What is her number?" or words to that +effect. On this occasion, when the question was put, and King Heathman +had answered, "Eleven, sir," the rector paused. Then he whispered, +"Would you like Undecima?" + +"Aw, sir, proper. Let's ha' 'en," was the eager answer. + +The rector hesitated. Across his classical mind flashed the Latin +numbers ahead. The twelfth princess would have to be christened +Duodecima, and after that such names became impossible. So he whispered, +"Undecima is too much like Decima. We must think of something else." + +"As yew like, sir," said his accommodating Majesty, although in +distinctly disappointed tones. + +"Now there will be an Annie," murmured those villagers who were nearest +the font and had overheard the discussion. + +While the rector was deliberating his eyes fell among flowers, the +church happening to be decorated for a festival, and bunches of the +white cluster-rose known as the Seven Sisters being twined about the +font; and he suggested that, if King Heathman was agreeable, a bevy of +flower-named princesses would be a pleasing relief after the dull +monotony of numbers. + +"Twill do fine, sir," said King Heathman. + +And that is how the Princess Rosa came to be christened. + +But princesses went on filling the palace, and names were soon running +short again. Rosa had been followed by Lilia, Viola, and Veronica. King +Heathman was becoming fastidious. He had imbibed so much raw material of +knowledge from the court chaplain that he was beginning to regard +himself as a scholar of some importance. Then his royalty was increasing +in Lew; and he always wore a hard hat, which, in this part of the +country, is a sign, not exactly of majesty, but of stability and +respectability. He still hankered after the numbers, and was looking +forward to the birth of a twentieth princess who could be called +Vicesima. The fifteenth princess had just made her appearance, and the +father continued to disregard the petition of the neighbours praying him +to call her Annie before it was too late. It happened one day that he +cast his eyes upon two flowering shrubs which grew in pots, one at each +side of the palace gates. King Heathman could not remember the name of +these shrubs, though he had been told often enough, so he called Tertia, +and asked her to enlighten him. + +"The name is on the tip of my tongue, but I can't get it out," said +Tertia. "I'll call Una." + +Una is court encyclopaedia. She appeared with her beautiful hair ruffled, +for she had been deep in arithmetic when Tertia called her, trying to +paper an imaginary room, having most impossible angles, with imaginary +wall-paper at the ridiculous price of one penny three-farthings a yard. + +"What be the name o' that plant?" asked His Majesty. + +"That is a hydrangea," said Una, in a delightfully prim and pedantic +fashion; and then she slipped back to her wall-papering at a penny +three-farthings a yard. + +"What b'est going to call the new maiden?" shouted the blacksmith a few +moments later over the palace gates. + +"Hydrangea," answered King Heathman grimly. Then he went into the state +apartments to break the news to his wife, leaving the blacksmith to have +a fit upon the road, or to go on to his smithy and have it there. + +For the first time Queen Heathman rebelled. She said it was ridiculous +to give the child a name like that: she was surprised that the rector +should have thought of it, and she-- + +But at that point her husband interrupted with the famous remark of the +White Knight to Alice "'Tis my own invention." + +This gave Queen Heathman free licence to exercise her tongue. She talked +botany for some time, and concluded with such words as: "You'll call the +poor maids vegetables next. If us ha' another maiden you'll call her +Broad Bean, I reckon, and the next Scarlet Runner." + +"One Scarlet Runner be plenty, my dear," said her husband, with regal +pleasantry. + +"What do ye mean?" + +"Bain't your tongue one, my dear?" + +This was a libel, for Queen Heathman is remarkably silent--for a woman. +She had to laugh at her husband's little Joke. They have always been a +devoted couple, and this little tiff was in perfect good-humour. +Finally, King Heathman went off to the rectory, where he discovered the +court chaplain and the Home Secretary chatting upon the lawn. Without +any preamble he disclosed his difficulty, and proposed that the +fifteenth princess should be named Hydrangea. There was no seconder. The +motion was declared lost, and the subject was thrown open for +discussion. + +The Home Secretary suggested that the princess just born and her eleven +successors should be given the names of the months; and when he rolled +forth such stately titles as Januaria, Februaria, Martia, His Majesty +trembled. However, it occurred to him there might not be sufficient +princesses to exhaust the months, and he stated with much dignity of +language that he should not like to have an incomplete set. Then the +Christian virtues were suggested, Faith, Patience, Charity, Mercy, Hope; +but King Heathman would have none of them, not because he despised the +virtues, but because he considered that his daughters had them all. + +Then the rector interposed in his quiet manner: + +"The child shall be called Serena." + +"What do 'en mean, sir?" asked King Heathman eagerly. + +"It means free from care." + +"That's it, sir--that's it," said His Majesty, expressing satisfaction +in his usual way. + +"It is an appropriate name," the rector went on. "It implies a perfectly +happy condition. There may be dangers, but the girl shall not know of +them. There may be difficulties, but they shall not trouble her--at +least, we will hope so," he added with a smile. + +"Thank ye, sir," said King Heathman. "And what will be the next name?" +he asked hopefully. + +"The next?" said the rector, still in his classical musings. "Why, the +next child shall be called Placida." + +But for some reason or other the Princess Placida has never come to +claim her name. Serena appears to be the last. She is still a toddler. +Almost any day of the week you may see her, fat and jolly, and extremely +free from care, staggering between Septima and Octava as they go +a-milking. She is generally embracing a yellow and very ugly cat, in +lieu of a doll. If you ask her name, she is just able to lisp, "I'se +Swena." + +The gossips of Lew have revenged themselves upon King Heathman. They +refuse to call the baby Serena. They call her Annie. + +And they are all living happily ever afterwards. + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of By Violence, by John Trevena + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BY VIOLENCE *** + +***** This file should be named 34576.txt or 34576.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/5/7/34576/ + +Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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