CHAPTER IX
At high summer two men and two maids kept public holiday and wove romance under the great crown of Pen Beacon. From this border height the South Hams spread in a mighty vision of rounded hills and plains; whole forests were reduced to squat, green cushions laid upon the broad earth's bosom; and amid them glimmered wedges and squares of ripening corn, shone root crops, smiled water meadows, and spread the emerald faces of shorn hayfields.
It was a day of lowering clouds and illumination breaking through them. Fans of light fell between the piled-up cumuli, and the earth was mottled with immense, alternate patches of shadow and sunshine. Thick and visible strata of air hung heavy between earth and sky at this early hour. They presaged doubt, and comprehended a condition that might presently diffuse and lift into unclouded glory of August light, or darken to thunderstorm. Southerly the nakedness of Hanger Down and the crags of Eastern and Western Beacons towered; while to the east were Quickbeam Hill, Three Barrows, and the featureless expanses of Stall Moor. Northerly towered Penshiel, and the waste spread beyond it in long leagues, whose planes were flattened out by distance and distinguished against each other by sleeping darkness and waking light.
A fuliginous heaviness, that stained air at earth's surface, persisted even on this lofty ground, and the highest passages of aerial radiance were not about the sun, but far beneath it upon the horizon.
Rupert Baskerville trudged doubtfully forward, sniffing the air and watching the sky, while beside him came Milly Luscombe; and a quarter of a mile behind them walked Mark and Cora Lintern. The men had arranged to spend their holiday up aloft, and Milly was well pleased; but Cora held the expedition vain save for what it should accomplish. To dawdle in the Moor when she might have been at a holiday revel was not her idea of pleasure; but as soon as Mark issued his invitation she guessed that he did so with an object, and promised to join him.
As yet the definite word had not passed his lips, though it had hovered there; but to-day Miss Lintern was resolved to return from Pen Beacon betrothed. As for Mark, his hope chimed with her intention. Cora was always gracious and free of her time, while he played the devout lover and sincerely held her above him every way. Only the week before Heathman, obviously inspired to do so, had asked him why he kept off, and declared that it would better become him to speak. And now, feeling that the meal presently to be taken would be of a more joyous character after than before the deed, he stopped Cora while yet a mile remained to trudge before they should reach the top of the tor.
"Rest a bit," he said. "Let Rupert and Milly go forward. They don't want us, and we shall all meet in the old roundy-poundies up over, where we're going to eat our dinner."
"Looks as if 'twas offering for bad weather," she answered, lifting her eyes to the sky. "I'm glad I didn't put on my new muslin."
She sat on a stone and felt that he was now going to ask her to marry him. She was not enthusiastic about him at the bottom of her heart; but she knew that he would be rich and a good match for a girl in her position. She was prone to exaggerate her beauty, and had hoped better things from it than Mark Baskerville; but certain minor romances with more important men had come to nothing. She was practical and made herself see the bright side of the contract. He was humble and she could influence him as she pleased. He worshipped her and would doubtless continue to do so.
Once his wife she proposed to waken in him a better conceit of himself and, when his father died, she would be able to 'blossom out,' as she put it to her sister, and hold her head high in the land. There were prospects. Nathan Baskerville was rich also, and he was childless. He liked Mark well, and on one occasion, when she came into the farm kitchen at Undershaugh suddenly, she overheard Nathan say to her mother, "No objection—none at all—a capital match for her."
Mark put down the basket that carried their meal and took a seat beside Cora.
"'Tisn't going to rain," he said. "I always know by my head if there's thunder in the elements. It gets a sort of heavy, aching feeling. Look yonder, the clouds are levelling off above the Moor so true as if they'd been planed. That's the wind's work. Why, there's enough blue showing to make you a new dress a'ready, Cora."
"I'd love a dress of such blue as that. Blue's my colour," she said.
"Yes, it is—though you look lovely enough in any colour."
"I like to please you, Mark."
"Oh, Cora, and don't you please me? Little you know—little you know. I've had it on my tongue a thousand times—yet it seems too bold—from such as me to you. Why, there's none you mightn't look to; and if you'd come of a higher havage, you'd have been among the loveliest ladies in the land. And so you are now, for that matter—only you're hid away in this savage old place—like a beautiful pearl under the wild sea."
This had long been Cora's own opinion. She smiled and touched the hair on her hot forehead.
"If there comes on a fog, I shall go out of curl in a minute," she said. Then, seeing that this prophecy silenced him, she spoke again.
"I love to hear you tell these kind things, Mark. I'd sooner please you than any man living. Perhaps 'tis over-bold in me to say so; but I'm telling nought but truth."
"Truth ban't often so beautiful as that," he said slowly. "And 'tis like your brave heart to say it out; and here's truth for your truth, Cora. If you care to hear me say I think well of you, then I care to hear you speak well of me; and more: nobody else's good word is better than wind in the trees against your slightest whisper. So that I please you, I care nothing for all the world; and if you'll let me, I'll live for you and die for you. For that matter I've lived for only you these many days, and if you'll marry me—there—'tis out. I'm a vain chap even to dare to say it; but 'tis you have made me so—'tis your kind words and thoughts for me—little thoughts that peep out and dear little kind things done by you and forgotten by you; but never by me, Cora. Can you do it? Can you sink down to me, or is it too much of a drop? Others have lowered themselves for love and never regretted it. 'Tis a fall for such a bright, lovely star as you; but my love's ready to catch you, so you shan't hurt yourself. I—I——"
He broke off and she seemed really moved. She put her hand on his two, which were knotted together; and then she looked love into his straining eyes and nodded.
His hands opened and seized hers and squeezed them till she drew in her breath. Then he put his arms round her and kissed her.
"Don't move, for God's sake!" he said. "D'you know what you've done?"
"Given myself to a dear good chap," she answered.
In her heart she was thanking heaven that she had not worn the new muslin dress.
"Weather or no weather, he'd have creased it and mangled it all over and ruined it for ever," she thought.
They proceeded presently, but made no haste to overtake their companions. Their talk was of the future and marriage. He pressed for an early union; she was in no hurry.
"You must learn a bit more about me first," she told him. "Maybe I'm not half as nice as you think. And there's your father. I'm terrible frightened of him."
"You need not be, Cora. He's not against early marriage. You must come and see him pretty soon. He'll be right glad for my sake, though he'll be sure to tell me I've had better luck than I deserve."
She considered awhile without speaking.
"I'm afraid I shan't bring you much money," she said.
"What's money? That's the least thing. I shall have plenty enough, no doubt."
"What will your father do? Then there's your uncle, Mr. Nathan. He's terrible rich, by all accounts, and he thinks very well of you."
"I shall be all right. But I'm a lazy man—too lazy. I shall turn my hand to something steady when we're married."
"Such a dreamer you are. Not but what, with all your great cleverness, you ban't worth all the young men put together for brains."
"I'm going to set to. My father's often at me about wasting my life. But, though he'd scorn the word, he's a bit of a dreamer too—in his way. You'd never guess it; but he spends many long hours all alone, brooding about things. And he's a very sharp-eyed, clever man. He marks the seasons by the things that happen out of doors. He'll come down off our tor that cheerful sometimes, you wouldn't believe 'twas him. 'Curlew's back on the Moor,' he'll say one day; then another day, 'Oaks are budding'; then again, 'First frost to-night,' or 'Thunder's coming.' His bark is worse than his bite, really."
"'Tis his terrible eyes I fear. They look through you. He makes me feel small, and I always hate anybody that does that."
"You mustn't hate him. Too many do already. But 'twould be better to feel sorry for him. He's often a very unhappy old man. I feel it, but I can't see the reason, and he says nothing."
She pouted.
"I wish I hadn't got to see him. Why, his own brother—your Uncle Nathan—even he can't hit it off with him. And I'm sure there must be something wrong with a man that can't get on with Mr. Nathan. Everybody is fond of him; but I've often heard him say——"
"Leave it," interrupted Mark. "I know all that, Cora. 'Tis just one of those puzzles that happen. 'Tis no good fretting about anybody else: what you've got to do is to make my father love you. And you've only got to be yourself and he must love you."
"Of course I'll do my best."
"Give me just one more lovely kiss, before we get over the hill-top and come in sight of them. We're to meet at the 'old men's' camp."
She kissed him and then silence fell between them. It lasted a long while until he broke it.
"Don't fancy because I'm so still that I'm not bursting with joy," he said. "But when I think of what's happened to me this minute, I feel 'tis too big for words. The thoughts in me can't be spoken, Cora. They are too large to cram into little pitiful speeches."
"I'm getting hungry; and there's Milly waving," she answered.
"Milly's hungry too, belike."
Eastward, under Pen Beacon, lay an ancient lodge of the neolithic people. The circles of scattered granite shone grey, set in foliage and fruit of the bilberry, with lichens on the stone and mosses woven into the grass about them. A semicircle of hills extended beyond and formed a mighty theatre where dawn and storm played their parts, where falling night was pictured largely and moonshine slept upon lonely heights and valleys. In the glen beneath spread Dendles Wood, with fringes of larch and pine hiding the River Yealm and spreading a verdant medley of deep summer green in the lap of the grey hills. Gold autumn furzes flashed along the waste, and the pink ling broke into her first tremble of colourless light that precedes the blush of fulness.
The party of four sat in a hut circle and spoke little while they ate and drank. Rupert, unknown to the rest, and much to his own inconvenience, had dragged up six stone bottles of ginger-beer hidden under his coat. These he produced and was much applauded. A spring broke at hand, and the bottles were sunk therein to cool them.
They talked together after a very practical and businesslike fashion. Milly and Rupert were definitely engaged in their own opinion, and now when Mark, who could not keep in the stupendous event of the moment, announced it, they congratulated the newly engaged couple with the wisdom and experience of those who had long entered that state.
"'Tis a devilish unrestful condition, I can promise you," said Rupert, "and the man always finds it so if the girl don't. Hanging on is just hell—especially in my case, where I can't get father to see with my eyes. But, thank God, Milly's jonic. She won't change."
"No," said Milly, "I shan't change. 'Tis you have got to change. I respect your father very much, like the rest of the world, but because he didn't marry till he was turned forty-five, that's no reason why you should wait twenty years for it. Anyway, if you must, so will I—only I shall be a thought elderly for the business by that time. However, it rests with you."
"I'm going—that's what she means," explained Rupert. "Jack Head and me have had a talk, and he's thrown a lot of light on things in general. I can't be bound hand and foot to my father like this; and if he won't meet me, I must take things into my own hands and leave home."
Mark was staggered at the enormity of such a plan.
"Don't do anything in a hurry and without due thought."
"Very well for you to talk," said Milly. "You do nought but ring the bells on Sundays, and play at work the rest of the week. Mr. Humphrey won't stand in your way. I suppose you could be married afore Christmas, if you pleased."
She sighed at the glorious possibility.
"I hope we shall be; but Cora's in no hurry, I'm afraid."
"And when I've got work," continued Rupert, "then I shall just look round and take a house and marry; and why not?"
"Your father will never let you go. It isn't to be thought upon," declared Mark.
"Then he must be reasonable. He appears to forget I'm nearly twenty-four," answered his cousin.
Conversation ranged over their problems and their hopes. Then Rupert touched another matrimonial disappointment.
"It looks as if we were not to be fortunate in love," he said. "There's Ned terrible down on his luck. He's offered marriage again—to Farmer Chave's second daughter; and 'twas as good as done; but Mr. Chave wouldn't hear of it, and he's talked the girl round and Ned's got chucked."
"Serve him right," said Milly. "He jilted two girls. 'Twill do him good to smart a bit himself."
"The Chaves are a lot too high for us," asserted Mark. "He's a very well-born and rich man, and his father was a Justice of the Peace, and known in London. He only farms to amuse himself."
"'Twas Ned's face, I reckon," said Cora. "They Chave women are both terrible stuck up. Makes me sick to see 'em in church all in their town-made clothes. But fine feathers won't make fine birds of them. They'm both flat as a plate, and a lot older than they pretend. Ned is well out of it, I reckon."
"He don't think so, however," replied Rupert. "I've never known him take any of his affairs to heart like this one. Moped and gallied he is, and creeps about with a face as long as a fiddle; and off his food too."
"Poor chap," said Cora feelingly.
"Even talks of ending it and making away with himself. Terrible hard hit, I do believe."
"Your mother must be in a bad way about him," said Milly.
"She is. Why, he took mother down to the river last Sunday and showed her a big hole there, where Plym comes over the rocks and the waters all a-boil and twelve feet deep. 'That's where you'll find me, mother,' he says. And she, poor soul, was frightened out of her wits. And father's worried too, for Ned can't go wrong with him. Ned may always do what he likes, though I may not."
Cora declared her sympathy, but Mark did not take the incident as grave.
"You needn't fear," he assured Ned's brother. "Men that talk openly of killing themselves, never do it. Words are a safety-valve. 'Tis the sort that go silent and cheerful under a great blow that be nearest death."
Cora spoke of Ned's looks with admiration and feared that this great disappointment might spoil them; but Milly was not so sympathetic.
"If he stood to work and didn't think so much about the maidens, they might think a bit more about him," she said.
"He swears he won't play St. George now," added Rupert. "He haven't got the heart to go play-acting no more."
"He'll find twenty girls to go philandering after afore winter," foretold Milly. "And if Cora here was to ask him, he'd play St. George fast enough."
"'Twill be a very poor compliment to me if he cries off now," declared Cora. "For I'm to be the princess, and 'tis pretended in the play that he's my true lover."
"Mark will be jealous then. 'Tis a pity he don't play St. George," said Milly.
But Mark laughed.
"A pretty St. George me!" he answered. "No, no; I'm not jealous of Ned. Safety in numbers, they say. Let him be St. George and welcome; and very noble he'll look—if ever he's got brains enough in his empty noddle to get the words and remember them."
Cora cast a swift side glance at her betrothed. She did not speak, but the look was not all love. Discontent haunted her for a little space.
The ginger-beer was drunk and the repast finished. The men lighted their pipes; the girls talked together.
Milly congratulated Cora very heartily.
"He's a fine, witty chap, as I've always said. Different to most of us, along of being better eggicated. But that modest and retiring, few people know what a clever man he is."
These things pleased the other, and she was still more pleased when Milly discussed Mark's father.
"I often see him," she said—"oftener than you might think for. He'll ride to Trowlesworthy twice and thrice a month sometimes. Why for? To see my uncle, you might fancy. But that's not the reason. To talk with Jack he comes. Jack Head and me be the only people in these parts that ban't afraid of him. And that's what he likes. You be fearless of him, Cora, or he'll think nought of thee. Fearless and attentive to what he says—that's the rule with him. And pretend nothing, or he'll see through it and pull you to pieces. Him and Jack Head says the most tremendous things about the world and its ways. They take Uncle Saul's breath away sometimes, and mine too. But don't let him frighten you—that's the fatal thing. If a creature's feared of him, he despises it. Never look surprised at his speeches."
Cora listened to this advice and thanked the other girl for it.
"Why should I care a button for the old man, anyway?" she asked. "If it comes to that, I'm as good as him. There's nought to fear really, when all's said. And I won't fear."
The men strolled about the old village and gathered whortleberries; then Rupert judged that the storm that had skulked so long to the north, was coming at last.
"We'd best be getting down-along," he said. "Let's go across to Trowlesworthy; then, if it breaks, we can slip into the warren house a bit till the worst be over.
"You be all coming to drink tea there," said Milly. "Uncle Saul and Jack Head are away, but aunt be home, and I made the cakes specially o' Saturday."
Drifting apart by a half a mile or so, the young couples left the Beacon, climbed Penshiel, and thence passed over the waste to where the red tor rose above Milly Luscombe's home.
A sort of twilight stole at four o'clock over the earth, and it seemed that night hastened up while yet the hidden sun was high. The sinister sky darkened and frowned to bursting; yet no rain fell, and later it grew light again, as the sun, sinking beneath the ridges of the clouds, flooded the Moor with the greatest brightness that the day had known.