CHAPTER I
From Great Trowlesworthy's crown of rosy granite the world extended to the moor-edge, and thence, by mighty, dim, air-drenched passages of earth and sky, to the horizons of the sea. A clear May noon illuminated the waste, and Dartmoor, soaking her fill of sunshine, ran over with it, so that Devon's self spread little darker of bosom than the grey and silver of high clouds lifted above her, mountainous under the sun.
Hills and plains were still mottled with the winter coat of the heather, and the verdure of the spearing grasses suffered diminution under a far-flung pallor of dead blades above breaking green; but the face of Dartmoor began to glow and the spring gorse leapt like a running flame along it. At water's brink was starry silver of crow-foot, and the heath, still darkling, sheltered sky-blue milk-wort and violet and the budding gold of the tormentil.
One white road ran due north-east and south-west across the desert, and round about it, like the tents of the Anakim, rose huge snowy hillocks and ridges silver-bright in the sun. Here the venerable Archæan granites of Dartmoor, that on Trowlesworthy blush to a ruddy splendour, and elsewhere break beautifully in fair colour and fine grain through the coarser porphyritic stone, suffer a change, and out of their perishing constituents emerges kaolin, or china clay.
A river met this naked road, and at their junction the grey bridge of Cadworthy saddled Plym. Beyond, like the hogged back of a brown bear, Wigford Down rolled above the gorges of Dewerstone, and further yet, retreated fields and forests, great uplifted plains, and sudden elevations that glimmered along their crests with the tender green of distant larch and beech.
The atmosphere was opalescent, milky, sweet, as though earth's sap, leaping to the last tree-tip and bursting bud, exuded upon air the very visible incense and savour of life. Running water and lifting lark made the music of this hour; and at one spot on the desert a girl's voice mingled with them and enlarged the melody, for it was gentle and musical and belonged to the springtime.
She sat high on Trowlesworthy, where the rushes chatter and where, to their eternal treble, the wind strikes deep organ music from the forehead of the tor. From the clefts of the rocks around her, where foxes homed sometimes and the hawk made her nest, there hung now russet tassels and tufts of dead lady-fern; and above this rack of the old year sprang dark green aigrettes of the new.
Stonecrops and pennyworts also flourished amid the uncurling fronds; aloft, the heath and whortle made curls for the great tor's brow; below, to the girl's feet, there sloped up boulders that shone with fabric of golden-brown mosses and dappled lichens, jade-green and grey. The woodsorrel had climbed hither, and its frail bells and sparkling trefoils glittered on the earth.
The sun shone with a thready lustre over the million flattened dead rushes roundabout this place, and its light spread out upon them into a pool of pale gold. Thus a radiance as of water extended here and the wind, fretting all this death, heightened the deception; while the scattered rocks shone brilliantly against so much reflected light and looked like boulders half submerged at the fringe of a glittering sea.
The girl laughed and gazed down at her home. It was a squat grey building half-way between the red tor and the distant bridge. It stood amid bright green crofts, and beside it was a seemly hayrick and an unseemly patch of rufous light that stared—hideous as a bloodshot eye—from the harmonious textures of the waste. There a shippen under an iron roof sank to rusty dissolution.
Here was Trowlesworthy Farm and a great rabbit warren that extended round about it.
Milly Luscombe lived at Trowlesworthy with an uncle and aunt. She was accustomed to work very hard for her living, but for the moment she did not work. She only breathed the breath of spring and talked of love.
Beside her sat a sturdy youth with a red face and a little budding flaxen moustache. His countenance was not cast in a cheerful mould. Indeed, he frowned and gazed gloomily out of large grey eyes at the valley beneath him.
"I axed father in plain words if I might be tokened to you—of course, that was if you said 'yes'—and he answered as plainly that I might not. You see, he was terrible up in years afore he got married himself, and so he thinks a man's a fool to go into it young."
"How old was he then?"
"Forty-five to the day. And he's seventy next month, though he don't feel or look anything like so much. He's full of old, stale sayings about marrying in haste and repenting at leisure: and such like. So there it is, Milly."
The girl nodded. She was a dark maiden with brown eyes and a pretty mouth. She sniffed rather tearfully and wiped her eyes with the corner of her sun-bonnet.
"Belike your father only waited so long because the right one didn't come. When he found your mother, I'm sure he married her quick enough."
"No, he didn't. They was tokened when he was forty, and kept company for five years."
"That ban't loving," she said.
"Of course it ban't! And yet father isn't what you might call a hard man. Far from it, to all but me. A big-hearted, kindly creature and a good father, if he could only understand more. Like a boy in some things. I'm sure I feel a lot older than him sometimes. If 'twas Ned now, he'd be friendly and easy as you please."
"What does Mrs. Baskerville say?"
"She's on our side, and so's my sisters. Polly and May think the world of you. 'Tisn't as if I was like my brother Ned—a lazy chap that hates the sight of work. I stand to work same as father himself, and he knows that; and when there's anything calling to be done, 'tis always, 'Where be Rupert to?" But lazy as Ned is, he'd let him marry to-morrow."
"Mr. Baskerville's frighted of losing you from Cadworthy, Rupert."
The young man looked out where a wood rose south of the bridge, and his father's farm lifted its black chimneys above the trees.
"He tells me I'm his right hand; and yet refuses, though this is the first thing that ever I've asked him," he said.
"Wouldn't he suffer it if you promised him to do as he done, and not marry for five years?"
"I'll promise no such thing. Father seems to think 'tis all moonshine, but I shall have another go at him when he comes home next week. Till then I shan't see you no more, for I've promised myself to get through a mighty pile of work—just to astonish him."
"The harder you work, the more he'll want you to bide at home," she said. "Not that I mind you working. All the best sort work—I know that."
"I must work—no credit to me. I'm like father there. I ban't comfortable if I don't get through a good lump of work in the day."
She looked at him with large admiration.
"Where's Mr. Baskerville gone to?"
"To Bideford for the wrestlin' matches. He always stands stickler when there's a big wrestlin'. Such a famous man he was at it—champion of Devon for nine years. He retired after he was married. But now, just on his seventieth birthday, he's as clever as any of 'em. 'Twas his great trouble, I do believe, that neither me nor Ned ever shaped well at it. But we haven't got his weight. We take after my mother's people and be light built men—compared to father."
"Pity May weren't a boy," said Milly. "She's got weight enough."
"Yes," he admitted. "She's the very daps of father. She'll be a whacker when she grows up. 'Tis a nuisance for a woman being made so terrible beamy. But there 'tis—and a happier creature never had to walk slow up a hill."
Silence fell for a while between them.
"We must wait and hope," she declared at last. "I shan't change, Rupert—you know that."
"Right well I know it, and more shan't I."
"You're just turned twenty-three and I'm eighteen. After all, we've got plenty of time," said Milly.
"I hope so. But that's no reason why for we should waste it. 'Tis all wasted till I get you."
She put her hand out to him, and he caught it and held it.
"It might be a long sight worse," she said. "'Tis only a matter of patience."
"There's no need for patience, and there lies the cruelty. However, I'll push him hard when he comes home. Tokened I will be to 'e—not in secret, but afore the nation."
"Look!" she said. "Two men riding up over. Go a bit further off, there's a dear."
Rupert looked where she pointed, and then he showed no little astonishment and concern.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "If 'tisn't my Uncle Humphrey Baskerville; and Mark along with him. What the mischief sent them here, of all ways? Can't we hide?"
But no hiding-place offered. Therefore the young people rose and walked boldly forward.
"He's going out to Hen Tor to look at they ruins, I reckon," said Milly. "I met your cousin Mark a bit ago, and he told me his father was rather interested in that old rogues-roost of a place they call Hen Tor House. Why for I can't say; but that's where they be riding, I doubt."
Two men on ponies arrived as she spoke, and drew up beside the lovers.
The elder exhibited a cast of countenance somewhat remarkable. He was a thin, under-sized man with grey hair. His narrow, clean-shorn face sloped wedge-shaped to a pointed chin, and his mouth was lipless and very hard. Grotesquely large black eyebrows darkened his forehead, but they marked no arch. They were set in two patches or tufts, and moved freely up and down over a pair of rather dim grey eyes. The appearance of dimness, however, was not real, for Humphrey Baskerville possessed good sight. He was sixty-three years old, and a widower. He passed for a harsh, secretive man, and lived two miles from his elder brother, Vivian Baskerville, of Cadworthy. His household consisted of himself, his son Mark, and his housekeeper.
"Good morning, Uncle Humphrey," said Rupert, taking the bull by the horns. "You know Milly Luscombe, don't you? Morning, Mark."
Mr. Baskerville's black tufts went up and his slit of a mouth elongated.
"What's this then?" he asked. "Fooling up here with a girl—you? I hope you're not taking after your good-for-nothing brother?"
"Needn't fear that, uncle."
"How's Mr. Luscombe?" asked the old man abruptly, turning to the girl.
Milly feared nobody—not even this much-feared and mysterious person—and now she turned to him and patted his old pony's neck as she answered—
"Very well, thank you, Mr. Baskerville, and I'm sure he'd hope you are the same."
The tufts came down and he looked closely at her.
"You playing truant too—eh? Well, why not? 'Tis too fine a day for work, perhaps."
"So it is, then. Even your old blind pony knows that."
"Only blind the near side," he answered. "He can see more with one eye than many humans can with both."
"What's his name, please?"
"I don't know. Never gave him one."
They walked a little way forward, while Rupert stopped behind and spoke to his cousin Mark.
"So you like that boy very much—eh?" said the old man drily and suddenly to Milly.
She coloured up and nodded.
"Nonsense and foolery!"
"If 'tis, I wouldn't exchange it for your sense, Mr. Baskerville."
He made a deep grunt, like a bear.
"That's the pert way childer speak to the old folk now—is it?"
"Even you was in love once?"
"Nonsense and foolery—nonsense and foolery!"
"Would you do different if you could go back?"
He did not answer the question.
"I doubt you're too good for Rupert Baskerville," he said.
"He's too good for me."
"He stands to work—I grant that. But he's young, and he's foolish, like all young things. Think better of it. Keep away from the young men. Work—work—work your fingers to the bone. That's the only wise way. I'm going to look at yonder ruin on the side of Hen Tor. I may build it up again and live there and die there."
"What! Leave Hawk House, Mr. Baskerville?"
"Why not? 'Tis too much in the world for me and Mark."
"'Tis the loneliest house in these parts."
"Too much in the world," he repeated.
"That's nonsense and foolery, if you like," she said calmly; "I'm sure love-making be all plain common-sense compared to that."
He pulled up and regarded her with a grim stare.
"I've found somebody to-day that isn't afraid of me, seemingly."
"Why for should I be?"
"For no reason, except that most others are. What do they all think? I'll tell you; they think I'm wrong here."
He tilted up his black wide-awake hat and tapped his forehead.
"Surely never! The folk only be frightened of your great wittiness—so I believe. Rupert always says that you are terrible clever."
"That shows he's a terrible fool. Don't you mate with a fool, Milly."
"I'll promise that anyway, sir."
She spoke with perfect self-possession and interested the old man. Then he found that he was interested, and turned upon himself impatiently and shouted to his son.
"Come on, boy! What are you dawdling there for?"
Mark instantly dug his heels into his pony and followed his father. He was a youthful edition of the elder, with a difference. Humphrey was ill-clad, and Mark was neat. Humphrey's voice was harsh and disagreeable; Mark's was soft and almost womanly. Mark also had a smooth face and heavy eyebrows; but his features were clearer cut, more delicate; his eyes were blue and beautiful. He had a manner somewhat timid and retiring. He was not a cringing man, but a native deference guided him in all dealings with his kind.
Before starting, Mr. Baskerville stopped, drew a letter from his pocket, and called to Rupert.
"Take this to my brother Vivian, will you? I was going to leave it on the way back, but I'll not waste his time."
The youth came forward and took the letter.
"Father's away to Bideford—standing stickler for the wrestlin'," he said.
"Good God! At his age! Can't an old man of seventy find nothing better and wiser to do than run after childish things like that?"
The son was silent, and his uncle, with a snort of deep disdain, rode forward.
"'Tis about the birthday," Rupert explained to Milly. "In June father will turn seventy, and there is to be a rare fuss made, and a spread, and all the family to come round him at Cadworthy. Of course, Uncle Nat will come. In fact, 'twas his idea that we should have a celebration about it; but I doubt if Uncle Humphrey will. He'd think such a thing all rubbish, no doubt, for he's against every sort of merry-making. You see how he went just now when I told him father was gone to the wrestlin' matches."
"Don't you mind him too much, all the same," said Milly. "He looks terrible grim and says dreadful things, but I don't believe he's half in earnest. I ban't feared of him, and never will be. Don't you be neither."
They left the tor and proceeded to the girl's home beneath. The close-cropped turf of the warrens spread in a green and resilient carpet under their feet; and, flung in a mighty pattern upon it, young red leaves of whortleberry broke through and spattered the miles of turf with a haze of russet.
Rupert said farewell at the entrance; then he hastened homeward and presently reached his family circle as it was preparing to dine.
Hester Baskerville, the wife of Vivian, was a quiet, fair woman of fine bearing and above middle height. She was twenty years younger than her husband, but the union had been a happy and successful one in every respect, and the woman's mild nature and large patience had chimed well with the man's strong self-assertion, narrow outlook, and immovable opinions. Kindness of heart and generosity of spirit distinguished them both; and these precious traits were handed to the children of the marriage, six in number.
Ned Baskerville, the eldest son, was considered the least satisfactory and the best looking. Then came Rupert, a commonplace edition of Ned, but worth far more as a responsible being. These men resembled their mother and both lived at home. Young Nathan Baskerville followed. He was a sailor and seldom seen at Cadworthy. The two girls of this family succeeded Nathan. May and Polly were like their father—of dark complexion and inclined to stoutness; while the baby of the household was Humphrey, a youngster of thirteen, called after the dreaded uncle.
All save Nat, the sailor, were at table when Rupert entered with his letter, and all showed keenest interest to learn whether Mr. Baskerville of Hawk House had accepted his invitation.
Rupert handed the letter to his mother, and she was about to put it aside until her husband's return; but her children persuaded her to open it.
"Such a terrible exciting thing, mother," said stout May. "Us never won't sleep a wink till us knows."
"I hope to the Lord he isn't coming," declared Ned. "'Twill spoil all—a regular death's head he'll be, and us shan't dare to have an extra drop of beer or a bit of fun after with the girls."
Beer and a bit of fun with the girls' represented the limit of Edward Baskerville's ambitions; and he gratified them with determination when opportunity offered. His father was blind to his faults and set him on a pedestal above the rest of the family; but his mother felt concern that her eldest son should be so slight a man. She lived in hope that he might waken to his responsibilities and justify existence. Ned was unusually well-educated, and would do great things some day in his father's opinion; but the years passed, he was now twenty-five, and the only great thing that he had done was twice to become engaged to marry and twice to change his mind. None denied him a rare gift of good looks; and his fine figure, his curly hair, his twinkling eyes and his mouth, when it smiled, proved attractive to many maidens.
Mrs. Baskerville left a spoon in the large beef-steak pudding and read her brother-in-law's letter, while a cloud of steam ascended to the kitchen ceiling.
"DEAR BROTHER VIVIAN,
"You ask me to come and eat my dinner with you on the twenty-eighth day of June next, because on that day you will be up home seventy years old. If you think 'tis a fine thing to find yourself past three score and ten—well, perhaps it is. You can't go on much longer, anyway, and journey's end is no hardship. At a first thought I should have reckoned such a birthday wasn't much to rejoice over; but you're right and I'm wrong. A man may pride himself on getting so well through with the bulk of his life and reaching nigh the finish with so few thorns in his feet and aches in his heart as what you have. I'll come.
"Yours faithfully,
"HUMPHREY BASKERVILLE."
A mournful sound like the wind in the trees went up from Uncle Humphrey's nephews and nieces.
"Be damned to him!" said Ned.
"Perhaps he won't come after all, when he hears Uncle Nat is coming," suggested May. She was always hopeful.
Mrs. Baskerville turned and put the letter on the mantel-shelf behind an eight-day clock. Then she sat down and began to help the pudding.
"We must make him as welcome as we can, for father's sake," she said.