Читать книгу: «Furze the Cruel», страница 12

"Come on, my love! Come along wi' I, and have a ride on the whirligig," shouted a drunken soldier with a big wart on his nose, staggering up to Thomasine, and grabbing at her arm. The girl trembled, but allowed the soldier to catch hold of her, because she did not know she had a legal right to resist. After all this was a form of courtship, though it was rather rough and sudden. Like many girls of her class Thomasine did not see anything strange in being embraced by a man before she knew what his name was. The soldier dragged her to the parapet of the bridge and kissed her savagely, heedless of the passers-by. Then he began to take her to the fair-ground, swearing at her when she hung back.

"I've got to bide here," she pleaded. "I'm waiting for a gentleman."

The drunken soldier declared he would smash the gentleman, or any one else, who tried to take his prize from him; but he proved to be a man whose words were mightier than his deeds, for when he saw a big policeman approaching with a question in his eye he abandoned Thomasine and fled. The girl dusted her clothes in a patient fashion and went on waiting.

The next local excitement was the arrival of Peter and Mary in a kind of whirlwind, both of them well warmed with excitement and Plymouth gin. Thomasine nodded to them, but they did not see her. Mary had been buying flower-seeds for her garden, a whole packet of sweet-peas and some mignonette. Peter had objected to such folly when he discovered that the produce would not be edible. Their garden was small, and they could not waste good soil for the purpose of growing useless flowers. But Mary was always insisting upon being as civilised as she could. "Miss Boodles du grow a brave lot o' flowers in her garden, and she'm a proper young lady," she said. Mary knew she could not become a proper lady, but she might do her best by trying to grow "a brave lot o' flowers" in her garden.

Later Thomasine saw Boodles and Aubrey pass over the bridge, walking solemnly for the first time that day. The little girl was about to be tried by ordeal, and she was getting anxious about her personal appearance. Her shoes were so dusty, and there was a tiny hole in her stocking right over her ankle, and her face was hot, and her hat was crooked. "You did it, Aubrey," she said. She wasn't looking at all nice, and her hair was tumbling, and threatening to be down her back any moment. "And I'm only seventeen, Aubrey. I know they'll hate me."

They went up the hill among the green trees; and beneath the wall, where nobody could see them, Aubrey dusted his sweetheart's shoes, and put her hat straight, and guided her hands to where hairpins were breaking loose from the radiant head, and told her she was sweetness itself down to the smallest freckle. "Well, if they are not nice I shall say I'm only a baby and can't help it. And then you must say it was all your fault, because you came and kissed me with your pretty girl's face and made me love it."

Thomasine watched Boodles as she went out of sight, trying to think, but not succeeding. She regarded Boodles as a young lady, a being made like herself, and belonging to her species, and yet as different from her as Pendoggat was different from old Weevil. Boodles could talk, and Thomasine could not; Boodles could walk prettily, while she could only slouch; Boodles adorned her clothes, while she could only hang them upon her in a misfitting kind of way. The life of the soul was in the eyes of Boodles; the life of the body in Thomasine's. It was all the difference between the rare bird which is costly, and the common one which any one may capture, had Thomasine known it. She knew nothing except that she was totally unlike the little girl of the radiant head. She did not know how debased she was, how utterly ignorant, and how vilely cheap. She had been accustomed to put a low price upon herself, because the market was overstocked with girls as debased, ignorant, and cheap, as herself; girls who might have been feminine, but had missed it somehow; girls whose bodies cost twopence, and whose souls a brass ring.

The Bellamies had a pretty home on the hill above Tavistock overlooking the moor. There was a verandah in front where every fine evening the mistress sat to watch the tors melting in the sunset. She and her husband were both artistic. Aubrey might have been said to be a proof of it. Tea was set out upon the verandah, where Mr. Bellamie was frowning at the crude noises of the fair, while his wife observed the old fashion of "mothering" the cups. They were a fragile couple, and everything about them seemed to suggest egg-shell porcelain – their faces, their furniture, and even the flowers in their garden. It was useless to look for passion there. It would have broken them as boiling water breaks a glass. They never lost their self-control. When they were angry they spoke and acted very much as they did when they were pleased.

"Here is the little girl," said Mr. Bellamie in his gentle way. "The red poppies in her hat go well with her hair. Did you see her turn then? A good deal of natural grace there. She does not offend at present. It is a pretty picture, I think."

"Beauty and love – like his name. He is always a pretty picture," murmured the lady, looking at her son. "I wish he would not wear that red tie."

"It suits on this occasion, with her strong colour. She is quite artistic. The only fault is that she knocks her ankles together while walking. That is said, though I know not why, to be a sign of innocence. She is Titianesque, a combination of rich surface with splendid tints. Not at all unfinished. Not in the least crude."

"Mother, here she is!" cried Aubrey, "I had to drag her up the hill. She is so shy."

"It's not true," said Boodles. She advanced to Mrs. Bellamie, her golden lashes drooping. Then she put up her mouth quite naturally, her eyes asking to be kissed; and it was done so tastefully that the lady complied, and said: "I have wanted to see you for a long time."

"A soft voice," murmured Mr. Bellamie. "I was afraid with that colour it might be loud."

"They are very young. It will not last," said the lady to herself. "But she will not do Aubrey any harm."

Boodles was soon talking in her pretty sing-song voice, describing all their fun, and saying what a jolly day it had been, and how nice it was to have Aubrey at home, and she hoped he would never be away for so long again, until Mr. Bellamie roused himself and began to question her. The child had to describe Lewside Cottage and her quiet dull life; and it came out gradually – for Boodles was perfectly honest – how poor they were, and the respectable Bellamies were shocked to hear of the numerous housekeeping difficulties, and the limited number of the little girl's frocks, and what was still worse, the fact that old Weevil was no relation; until Mr. Bellamie began to fear that things were getting inartistic, and his fragile wife asked gently whether the child's parents were still living.

"I don't know," said Boodles, flushing painfully because she felt somehow she had done wrong.

Aubrey could not stand that. He jumped up and tried to choke his sweetheart with small cakes, while Mr. Bellamie began to examine her concerning her favourite pictures, and found she hadn't any, as she had not been east of Exeter, and knew nothing whatever about the big town, which is chiefly in Middlesex and Surrey, and partly in most of the other counties. Mr. Bellamie was rather upset. No girl could be really artistic if she had not seen the picture galleries. He began to feel that it would be necessary either to check Aubrey's amorous propensities or to divert them into some more artistic channel. Mrs. Bellamie had already arrived at much the same conclusion. Girls who know nothing of their parents could not possibly be well-bred, and might easily become a source of danger to those who were. Aubrey, of course, was not of their opinion. While his father was weighing Boodles in the æsthetic balance and finding her wanting, he went round to his mother, passed his arm about her neck, and whispered fervently: "Isn't she sweet? I may get her a ring, mother, mayn't I?"

"Don't be foolish, Aubrey," she whispered back. "You are only children."

They went soon afterwards, but not back to the fair, which was beginning to be marred by the drunkard and his language; they went into the very different atmosphere of Tavy woods; and there picked up the thread of the story, with the trees and the kind weather about them. But it was not the same somehow. Boodles had been to the gate of Castle Dolorous, had looked inside, and thought she had seen the skulls and bones of the young men and maidens, who had wandered in the woods to hear nightingales and pick the tender grapes of passion, but had been caught instead by the ogre, that he might trim his mantle with their hearts. She began at last to wonder whether it could be a sin to have no recognised parents and no name. Even the mongrel can be faithful, and the hybrid flower beautiful; and in their way they are natural, and for themselves they are loved. But they have no names of their own. The plant may cast back in its seed to the weed stage, and the owner of the mongrel may grow ashamed of it at last. Such a splendid name as Bellamie could hardly be hyphened with a blank. Still Boodles was very young, only a baby, as she said; and she soon forgot the ogre; and they went down by the river and smeared their kisses with ripe blackberries.

Aubrey's parents strolled in their garden, and agreed that Miss Weevil's head was perfect. They also agreed that the boy had better fall in love with some one else.

"He is so constant. It is what I love in him," said the mother. "He has been devoted to the child always, and now that he is approaching the age when boys do foolish things without consulting their parents, he loves her more than ever. I thought the last time he went away he would come back cured. What a nose she has!"

"She is a perfect Romney," said, her husband.

"I don't believe she knows her name. Boodles, she told me, means beautiful, and her foster-father is called Weevil. Boodles Weevil does not go at all with Aubrey Bellamie," said the lady.

The fragile gentleman agreed that the girl's name violated every canon of art. "If Aubrey will not give her up – " he began, breaking off a twig which threatened to mar the symmetry of the border.

"I shall not influence him. It is foolish to oppose young people. Leave them alone, and they usually get tired of each other as they get older. She is a good child. Aubrey is perfectly safe. He may go about with her as much as he likes, but we must see he does not run off with her and marry her."

"We had better find out everything that is to be known," said Mr. Bellamie. "I will go and see this old Weevil. He may be a fine old gentleman with a Rembrandt head for all we know. She may be well-born, only it is remarkable that she remembers nothing about her parents. She would be a daughter to be proud of, if she had studied art. She offended slightly in the matter of drapery. I noticed a hole in her stocking, but it might have been caused during the day."

"You did not kiss her, I think?" said his wife quickly.

"No, certainly not," came the answer.

"I don't want you to. Her mouth is pretty."

"We must go in," said Mr. Bellamie decisively. "They are beginning to light up the fair. How horribly inartistic it all is!"

Peter and Mary were being pushed about in the crowd below, still enjoying themselves, although somewhat past riding on wooden horses, for Mary was stupid and Peter was sleepy and absent-minded. They had followed custom and done the fair thoroughly, and had not forgotten the liquor. It was an unusual thing for Mary to have a head like a swing and a body like a roundabout, but Peter was used to it. He had been throwing at cocoa-nuts, without hitting anything except a man's knee; and for some time he had admired the ladies dancing in very short skirts to the tune of a merry music-hall melody until Mary, who was terribly hampered by her big umbrella, dragged him away from a spectacle so degrading. It was time for them to return home. They got clear of the crowd, and set their faces, as they supposed, towards the station.

Thomasine was upon the bridge no longer. She had been joined by Will Pugsley, who had lost sight of his new sweetheart, as they had managed to drift apart in the crowd, and were not likely to meet again. She had probably been picked up by some one and would be perfectly happy with her new partner. Thomasine went off with young Pugsley, and it was only in the natural order of things that she should meet Pendoggat at last, not alone, but accompanied by Annie Crocker. It was unfortunate for Thomasine that she should have Pugsley's arm round her waist, although it was not her fault, as he had placed it there, and she supposed her waist had been made for that sort of thing. It was impossible to tell whether Pendoggat had seen her, as he never looked at any one. It was not a happy holiday for Thomasine, although she did go home between Pugsley and another drunken man, a young friend of his, who ought to have made her feel common, had she been capable of self-examination.

It was at the bridge that Peter and Mary went wrong. They ought to have crossed it, only they were so confused they hardly knew what they were doing. It was another bridge of sighs. Lovers, who had probably met for the first time that day, were embracing upon it; and a couple of young soldiers were outraging the clear water of the Tavy by being sick over the parapet. Peter and Mary stumbled on, found themselves in darkness and a lonely road, and soon began to wonder what had become of the town and the station. They had no idea they were walking straight away from Tavistock in the direction of Yelverton.

"Here us be!" cried Mary at length. "A lot o' gals in white dresses biding for the train. Us be in time."

"There be hundreds and millions of 'em," said Peter sleepily.

The road was very dark, but they could see a low wall, and upon the other side what appeared to be a host of dim white figures waiting patiently. They went up to a building and found an iron gate, but the gate was locked, and the house was in darkness. It looked as if the last train had gone, and the station was closed for the night.

"Us mun climb the wall," said Mary. She began to shout at the girls in the white dresses: "Open the gate, some of ye. Open the gate."

There was no reply from the white figures; only the murmuring of the river, and a dreary rustling of dry autumnal foliage. Peter rubbed his eyes and stared, and put his little peg-nose over the wall.

"It bain't the station," he muttered, with a violent belch. "It be a gentleman's garden."

"Aw, Peter, don't ye be so vulish. It be vull o' volks biding to go home."

They climbed the wall, far too sleepy and intoxicated to know they were in the cemetery; and finding themselves upon soft grass they went to sleep, using the mound of a young girl's grave for their bolster, adding their drunken slumbers to the heavier sleep of those who Mary thought were "biding to go home."

About the middle of the night Peter awoke, much refreshed and less absent-minded, and discovered the nature and the dampness of their resting-place. The little man was not in the least dismayed. He aroused Mary with his fist and facetious remarks. "Us be only lodgers. Us bain't come to bide," he said cheerfully.

Mary also saw the fun of the thing. It was a fitting climax to her travelling experiences. Without being at all depressed by her surroundings she said: "Aw, Peter! To think us be sleeping among the corpses like." To the novelty of this experience was to be added the fact that she had slept at last outside her native parish.

They went back to Tavistock, to find the town at rest, and the fair dark and silent. Returning to the house where they had eaten at midday, they banged upon the door and shouted for sleeping accommodation, which was at last provided. Peter felt a thrill of satisfaction when he comprehended that he was putting up at what he was pleased to style an hotel. While he was examining the furniture, the insecure bed, the chair without a back, the cracked crockery, and all the other essentials of the civilised bedroom, Mary began to shout violently —

"Aw, Peter, du'ye come along and see the light! 'Tis a hot hair-pin in a bottle on a bit o' rope, and yew turns 'en on and off wi' a tap like cider."

Peter had to admit that electric light was something startling. He perceived that the same phenomenon occurred in his bedroom, and he was at a loss to account for it. Mary's shouts had alarmed the young slut of a maid who had introduced them to their rooms, and she hurried up to see what was wrong, well accustomed, poor wench, to be on her feet most of the day and night. She found Peter and Mary regarding their luminous bottles with fear and amazement, not venturing to go too close lest some evil should befall them.

"Where be the oil?" asked Mary.

The ignorant little wench said there wasn't any oil; at least she thought not. She knew nothing about the light, except how to turn it on and off. It had only been put into the house lately, and she confessed it saved her a lot of work. She believed it was expensive, as her master had told her not to waste it. A man had come in one day and hung the little bottles in the rooms, and they had given light ever since when they were wanted. They did not seem to wear out, and nothing was ever put into them. Some telegraph-wires had been put about the house at the same time, but she didn't know what they were for, as they did not appear to have anything to do with the post-office. That was all the little slut could tell them. She demonstrated how easy it was to turn the light on and off. She plunged them into darkness, and restored them to light. She couldn't tell them how it was done, but there was a big barrel in the top attic, and perhaps the light was kept in that.

Peter was unable to concur. He had recovered from his first bewilderment, and his learning asserted itself. He considered that the light was natural, like that of the sun. It was merely a matter of imprisoning it within an air-tight bottle; but what he could not understand was where the light went to when the tap was turned. This, however, was nothing but a little engineering problem, which a certain amount of application on his part would inevitably solve. He could make clocks and watches; at least he thought he could, though he had never tried; and the lighting of Ger Cottage with luminous bottles would, he considered, be an undertaking quite within his powers.

"Us wun't have no more lamps," he said. "Us will hang up thikky bottles. Can us buy 'em?" he asked the little slut.

"There be a shop where they sells 'em, bits o' rope and all. I seed 'em in the window," said the girl.

"Us will buy two or dree in the morning," declared Mary. "Can us hang 'em up, du'ye reckon, Peter?"

Her brother replied that the task would be altogether beyond her; but it was not likely to present any serious difficulties to him. He promised to hang up one light-giving bottle in his own hut-circle, and another in Mary's. She would pay for the fittings, and he would in return charge her a reasonable sum for his services.

The proprietor of the lodging-house made a poor bargain when he took in Peter and Mary. They spent most of the remainder of the night turning the wonderful light on and off, "like cider," as Mary said.

CHAPTER XII
ABOUT THE OCTAVE OF ST. GOOSE

Things had gone wrong with Peter and Mary ever since the festival. Excitement, Plymouth liquors, and ignorance were largely to blame for the general "contrairiness" of things; but the root of the trouble lay in the fact of their refusal to be decent savages; of Peter's claims to be a handy man, and of Mary's desire to be civilised.

Old Sal had last been seen wandering towards Helmen Barton; that was the principal grievance. Others were the complete failure of Peter as an electrical engineer; the discovery that nearly a pound's worth of precious shillings had been dissipated at the fair in idle pleasures alone; and the loss of a number of little packages containing such things as tea, sugar, and rice, which Mary had bought in Tavistock and placed, as she thought, in a position of safety. The pills and flower-seeds had proved also a source of trouble. A bottle of almighty pills had been thrust upon Peter for his liver's sake, and Mary had later on acquired packets of sweet-peas and mignonette in order that her garden might be made glorious.

The loss of the groceries caused the first lamentation. Mary had a clear recollection of buying them, or at least she remembered paying for them, but beyond that memory did nothing for her. She had no impression of walking about the streets with her arms full of packages; they were not in her pocket, nor had they ever been in Peter's; she could not have left them in the shop; she was ready to swear she had not dropped them. The only possible conclusion was that the pixies had stolen them. Peter the hypocrite grunted at that. Although he offered sacrifice continually to the pixies that dwelt in Grandfather's bosom, he declared there were no such things. School-master had told him they were all dead. Education had in some obscure way shot, trapped, or poisoned the lot.

"You'm a gurt vule," was Mary's retort. "Dartmoor be vull o' piskies, allus was, and allus will be. When I was a little maid and went to schule wi' Master, though he never larnt I more than ten fingers and ten toes be twenty, though I allus remembered it, for Master had a brave way of larning young volks – What was I telling, Peter? Aw ees, I mind now. 'Twas when I went to schule wi' Ann Middleweek, her picked up a pisky oven and broke 'en all to bits, 'cause her said the piskies were proper little brutes, and her was beat cruel that night wi' brimmles and vuzzy-bushes 'cause her'd broke the oven, and her was green and blue next day. 'Twas the piskies stole my tea and sugar, sure 'nuff. If I'd ha' spat on 'em, and marked 'em proper wi' a cross betwixt two hearts, they'd ha' been here now."

Mary worried so much over her lost groceries that she felt quite ill. As Peter also became apprehensive of the state of his health every time that he looked at the bottle of pills, they decided to take a few. Then Peter went out into the garden to sow the flower-seeds, while Mary tramped over the moor to search for her missing goose.

Peter imagined that he had mastered the science of horticulture. At least he would not have accepted advice upon the subject from any one. Vegetables he had grown all his life, and in exactly the same way as they had been grown in his boyhood, and he was quite as successful as his neighbours. He was a ridiculous little man, and in several ways as much of a savage as his ancestors, but he had inherited something from them besides their unpleasant ways. His pretensions to being skilled with his hands and clever with his brain were grotesque enough; but he possessed a faculty which is owned by few, because it is not required by civilised beings, a faculty which to strangers appeared incredible. When a bullock or a pony was pointed out to him, as it stood outlined against the sky on the top of some distant tor, or even as it walked against the dull background of the moor, he would put his hand to his eyes, and almost at once, and always correctly, give the owner's name. He earned several shillings at certain seasons of the year, and could have earned more had he not been lazy, by going out to search for missing animals. Peter was always in demand by the commoners about the time of the drift.

Flowers were useless things according to Peter, and concerning their culture he knew nothing. However, Mary insisted upon the seeds being planted, to give her garden a civilised appearance, so Peter set about the task. The packet of sweet-peas had broken in his pocket during the fair, and upon returning he had placed them in a small bottle. The mignonette was his first care. The instructions outside stated that the seed was to be sown "in February, under glass." Peter shook his head at that. February was a long way off, but he went on to argue that if the seed would grow during the winter it was certainly safe to sow it during the far warmer month of October. It was the "under glass" that puzzled him. This was evidently something new in gardening, and Peter objected to new-fangled methods. It occurred to him that the expression might have been intended for "under grass," but that seemed equally absurd. School-master would know, but Peter was not going to expose his ignorance by asking questions. Besides, it would mean a long walk, and Master's cottage possessed the distinct disadvantage of being a considerable distance from the inn. Peter had no idea what sort of a plant mignonette might be, but he supposed it was a foreign growth which managed to flourish upon certain nutritive qualities possessed by glass. There were plenty of bottles in the linhay. Peter broke up a couple with the crowbar, collected the fragments – the instructions omitted to state how much glass – scattered the seeds in an unimportant corner of the garden, strewed the pieces of glass over them, and trod the whole down firmly. Then he dug a trench and buried the sweet-peas.

Soon afterwards he began to feel ill; and when Mary returned without news of Old Sal she said she was "cruel sick-like tu." They conferred together, agreed that the trouble was caused by "the oil in their livers," and concluded they had better go on with the pills. Presently they were suffering torments; the night was a sleepless time of groans and invocations; and in the morning they were worse. Peter was the most grievously afflicted, at least he said he was; and described the state of his feelings with the expressive phrase: "My belly be filled wi' little hot things jumping up and down."

"So be mine. Whatever be the matter wi' us?" groaned Mary.

"They pills. Us ha' took tu many."

"Mebbe us didn't tak' enough. Us ha' only took half the bottle, and he said dree bottles for a cure."

"Us wun't tak' no more. I'll smash that old bottle on they seeds. 'Twill dung 'em proper," said Peter, shuffling painfully across the floor and reaching for the bottle.

A moment later he began to howl. He had discovered something, and terror made him own to it.

"Us be dead corpses! Us be pizened! Us ha' swallowed they peas!" he shouted.

"Aw, my dear life! Where be the pills, then?" cried Mary.

"I've tilled 'em," said Peter. "They be in the garden, and them peas be growing in our bellies."

"Aw, Peter, us will die! I be a-going to see Master," groaned Mary.

Peter said he should come too. He was afraid to be left alone, with Grandfather ticking sardonically at him, and sweet-peas germinating in his bowels. If it had been only Mary who was suffering he would have prescribed for her; but as he was himself in pain he argued that it would be advisable to seek outside assistance. Master was a "brave larned man," and he would know what ought to be done to save their lives. They made themselves presentable, and laboured bitterly across the moor to St. Mary Tavy village.

Master was never out. He lived in a little whitewashed cottage near the road, gazing out of his front window all day, with a heap of books on a little table beside him, and pedantic spectacles upon his nose. He was nearly eighty, and belonged to the old school of dames and masters now practically extinct, an entirely ignorant class, who taught the children nothing because they were perfectly illiterate themselves. Master was held in reverence by the villagers. That pile of books, and the wonderful silver spectacles which he was always polishing with knowing glances, were to them symbols of unbounded knowledge. They brought their letters to the old man that he might read them aloud and explain obscure passages. Not a pig was killed without Master's knowledge, and not a child was christened until the Nestor of the neighbourhood had been consulted.

"Please to come in, varmer. Please to sot down, Mary," said Master, as he received the groaning pilgrims into his tiny owlery, "varmer" being the correct and lawful title of every commoner. "Have a drop o' cider, will ye? You'm welcome. I knows you be main cruel fond of a drop o' cider, varmer."

Peter was past cider just then. He groaned and Mary moaned, and they both doubled up in their chairs; while Master arranged his beautiful spectacles, and looked at them in a learned fashion, and at last hit upon the brilliant idea that they were afflicted with spasms of the abdomen.

"You've been yetting too many worts?" he suggested with kindly sympathy.

"Us be tilling peas in our bellies," explained Mary.

Master had not much sense of humour. He thought at first the remark was made seriously, and he began to upbraid them for venturing on such daring experiments. But Mary went on: "Us bought pills to Goosie Vair, 'cause us ha' got too much oil in our livers, and us bought stinking-peas tu. Us ha' swallowed the peas, and tilled the pills. Us be gripped proper, so us ha' come right to wance to yew."

Master replied that they had done wisely. He played with his books, wiped his spectacles, and dusted the snuff from his nose with a handkerchief as big as a bath-towel. Then he folded his gnarled hands peacefully across his brass watch-chain, and talked to them like a good physician.

"I'll tell ye why you'm gripped," he said. "'Tis because you swallowed them peas instead o' the pills. Du'ye understand what I be telling?"

Peter and Mary answered that so far they were quite able to follow him, and Mary added: "A cruel kind larned man be Master. Sees a thing to wance, he du."

"Us ha' got innards, and they'm called vowels," Master went on. "Some calls 'em intestates, but that be just another name for the same thing. Us ha' got five large vowels, and two small ones. The large ones be called a, e, i, o, u, and the small ones be called w and y. I can't tell ye why, but 'tis so. Some of them peas yew ha' swallowed have got into a, and some ha' got into o, and mebbe some ha' got into w and y. Du'ye understand what I mean?"