CHAPTER VI
Where Wigmore Down descends in mighty shoulders clad with oak, there meet the rivers Plym and Mew, after their diverse journeyings on Dartmoor. The first roars wild and broken from its cradle aloft on the midmost waste, and falls with thunder under Cadworthy and beneath the Dewerstone; the other, as becomes a stream that has run through peaceful valleys by bridges and the hamlets of men, shall be found to wander with more gentle current before she passes into the throbbing bosom of her sister. Above them, on a day in early summer, the hill ascended washed with light, spread hugely for the pomp of the leaf.
From Plym beneath, flashing arrowy under their lowermost branches, to the granite tonsure of the hill above, ten thousand trees ascended in a shining raiment of all greens—a garment that fitted close to the contours of each winding ridge, sharp cleeve, and uplifted knoll of the elevation that they covered. Lustrous and shimmering, this forest garb exhibited every vernal tint that nature knows, for upon a prevalent, triumphant fabric of golden-green were cast particular jewels and patterns; against the oaken undertones, where they spread a dappled verdure of amber and carmine, there sprang the tardy ash, shone the rowan's brightness, sparkled the whitethorn at river's brink, and rose the emerald pavilions of the larch. Beeches thrust their diaphanous foliage in veils athwart the shadows; here a patchwork of blue firs added new harmonies to the hill; here the glittering birch reflected light from every tiny leaf; and here the holly's sobriety was broken by inflorescence and infant foliage, young and bright.
The forest spread its new-born leaves under a still, grey evening, upon which, suddenly, the sun thrust through before it sank. Shafts of light, falling from west to east upon the planes of the woods, struck out a path of sudden glory along the pine-tops and thrust down in rain of red gold even to the river's face; while on Dewerstone's self, where it towered above the trees and broke the green with grey, this gracious light briefly brooded and flashed genial into dark crevices and hidden nests of birds.
The great rock falls by abrupt acclivity to the water; it towers with pinnacle and peak aloft. Planted in the side of the forest it stands veined, scarred; it is fretted with many colours, cut and torn into all manner of fantastic shapes by work of roots and rain, by centuries of storm and the chisel of the lightning. Bedded here, with ivy on its front, the smile of evening for a crown, and the forest like a green sea breaking in foam of leaves around it, the Water Stone stood. Night was already come upon its eaves and cornices; from its feet ascended musical thunder of Plym in a riot of rocks; and aloft, clashing, echoing and re-echoing from scarp and precipice, there rang the cheerful chiming music of unnumbered jackdaws, who made these crags their home.
Mark Baskerville, descending into the valley from Shaugh, beheld this scene with understanding. He had been well educated; he was sentimental; he regarded wild Nature in a manner rare amid those born and bred upon her bosom. Beauty did not find him indifferent; old legends gave him joy. He knew the folk-tales of the land and dwelt upon them still with pleasure—an instinct surviving from boyhood, and deliberately suffered to survive. He loved the emotion of awe and cultivated it; he led a life from choice much secluded; he had walked hitherto blind, in so far as women were concerned; but now a woman had entered his life, and Nature shone glorified throughout by the experience.
Mark was in love with Cora Lintern; yet this prime fact did not lessen his regard for the earth and the old stories concerning it. He found the things that were good aforetime still good, but changed. His emotions were all sharpened and intensified. His strength was stronger; his weakness was weaker than of yore. She was never out of his thoughts; she made the sunlight warmer, the bird's song sweeter, the night more wonderful. He woke and found himself brave enough to approach her in the deep, small hours of morning; but with dawn came fear, and with day his courage melted. By night also he made rhymes that seemed beautiful to him and brought moisture to his eyes; but when the sun came and he repeated his stumbling periods, he blushed at them and banished them.
She was friendly and not averse; but she was clever, and had many friends among young men. Nathan Baskerville rejoiced in her, and often foretold a notable match for Cora. What Mark could offer seemed very little to Mark himself. His father, indeed, was reputed rich; but life at Hawk House revealed no sign of it. They lived hard, and Humphrey Baskerville affected a frugality that would have been unusual in the homes of humbler people.
Humphrey had often told his son that he did not know how to spend money; and as for Mark, until the present, he had shared his father's indifference and been well content. But he felt that Cora might be fond of money; and he was glad sometimes that his father spent so little; because, if all went well, there must surely come a time when he would be able to rejoice Cora with great riches. The obstacle, however, he felt to be himself. His distrust of himself was morbid; the folk said that he was frightened of his own voice, and only spoke through the tenor bell of St. Edward's.
Now he descended into the shadows of the valley and moved along the brink of Plym, seeking for certain young wood, ripe for cutting. Presently Mark found what he sought, but made no immediate effort to begin work. He flung down a frail which contained a bill-hook and saw. Then he sat upon a rock overhanging the river and buried himself in his own thoughts.
A path wound beside the stream, and along it sauntered suddenly the maiden of this man's dream. She looked fair enough and moved in deep apparent unconsciousness of any human presence.
But her ignorance was simulated. She had seen young Baskerville pass over the hill; she had known his destination, and by a detour she had entered the valley from below.
Now she started and exhibited astonishment.
"Mark! Whoever would have thought——! What be you doing here all alone like this—and you not a fisherman?"
He stammered, and grew pale.
"Fancy meeting; and I might ask what brought you, Cora?"
"Oh, just a silly fondness for the river and the trees and my own thoughts. I like being about among the wild things, though I dare say you won't believe it."
"Of course, I'll believe it—gladly too. Don't I like being about among 'em better than anything else? I'm very pleased to meet you, I'm sure. There's no lovelier bit of the river than here."
"Dewerstone do look fine to-night," she said, glancing up at the crags above them.
"It does, then. The Water Stone I always call it, since I read in a book that that was what it meant. 'Tis the great stone by the water, you see. Have you ever heard tell of the Black Hunter, Cora? But perhaps you don't hold with such old wife's tales?"
She put him at his ease and assured him that she loved ancient fables and liked to go on believing them, despite her better knowledge.
"Just the same as me!" he cried eagerly. "The very thing I do. How wonderful you should feel the same! I know 'tis rubbish, yet I let it go sadly. I'd believe in the pixies, if I could!"
"Who was the Black Hunter, if you don't mind telling me?" she asked. "I'll sit here a bit afore I go on, if it won't be to hinder you."
"Proud I am, I'm sure," he said. "And as for him, the Black Hunter, that's no more than another name for the Devil himself. 'Twas thought that he'd come here by night with his great, bellowing, red-eyed dogs, and go forth to hunt souls. A coal-black horse he rode; but sometimes he'd set out afoot, for 'tis well remembered how once in the deep snow, on a winter morn, human footprints, along with hoofmarks, were traced to the top of the hill, but not down again!"
"The devil flew away with somebody?"
"So the old story says. But I like the thought of the little Heath Hounds better. For they hunt and harry old Nick's self. They are the spirits of the young children who die before they are baptised; and the legend hath it that they win to heaven soon or late by hunting the Prince of Darkness. 'Tis the children that we bury with maimed rites upon 'Chrisomers' Hill' in the churchyard. They put that poor woman who killed herself in the same place, because the old parson wouldn't read 'sure and certain hope' over her."
But Cora was not interested in his conversation, though she pretended to be. She endeavoured to turn speech into a more personal road.
"What have you come here for? I hadn't any idea you ever took walks alone."
"I take hundreds—terrible poor hand at neighbouring with people, I am—like my father. But I'm here to work—getting handles for tools. There's no wood for light tools like alder. You know the old rhyme—
'When aller's leaf is so big as a penny,
The stick will wear so tough as any.'
That's true enough, for I've proved it."
"Set to work and I'll watch you, if I may."
"Proud, I'm sure. And I'll see you home after. But there's no haste. I was thinking that bare, dark corner in the garden at Undershaugh might do very nice for ferns—if you'd care——?"
"The very thing! How kind to think of it. I love the garden and the flowers. But none else cares about them. D'you think you could get me one of they king ferns? But I suppose that would be too much to ask."
"I'll get you more than one."
"I'll try to plant 'em then, but I'm not very clever."
"I'll come and make a bit of a rockery myself, if—if you like."
"'Like!" I should love it. But 'tis very good of you to bother about a stupid girl."
"Don't you say that. Far, far from stupid. Never was a cleverer girl, I'm sure."
She shook her head and talked about the ferns. Then she became personal.
"I've always felt somehow with you; but I suppose it ban't maidenly to say such things—but I've always felt as you understood me, Mark."
"Ah!" he said. "And as for me, I've felt—God, He knows what I've felt."
The man broke off, and she smiled at him and dropped her eyes. She knew the thing that shared his heart with her, and now spoke of it.
"And through you I've got to love tenor bell almost as much as you do. Of a Sunday the day isn't complete till I've heard the beautiful note of your bell and thought of you at the rope. I always somehow think of you when I hear that bell; and I think of the bell when I see you! Ban't that strange?"
"'Tis your wonderful quick mind, and you couldn't say anything to please me better."
"I wanted to ask you about the bells. I'm so ignorant; but I thought, if 'twasn't silly of me, I'd ask you about 'em. I suppose they'm awful difficult to ring?"
"Not a bit. Only wants steady practice. The whole business is little understood, but 'tis simple enough. I've gone into it all from the beginning, and I'm glad—very glad—you care about it. The first thing is for a ring of bells to be in harmony with itself, and founders ought to be free to make 'em so. The bells are never better than when they are broken out of the moulds, and every touch of the lathe, or chip of the chisel, is music lost. The thickness of the sound-bow should be one-thirteenth of the diameter, you must know; but modern bells are made for cheapness. Long in the waist and high in the shoulder they should be for true fineness of sound; but they cast 'em with short waists and flat shoulders now. 'Tis easier to hang and ring them so; but they don't give the same music. My tenor is a wonderful good bell—a maiden bell, as we say—one cast true, that has never had a chip at the sound-bow. 'I call the quick to church and dead to grave,' is her motto. A Pennington bell she is, and no bell-founder ever cast a better. Every year makes her sweeter, for there's nothing improves bell-metal like time."
"I suppose it wouldn't be possible for me actually to see the bells?"
"It can be done and shall be," he promised. Then he went off again.
"I've been in nearly every bell-cot and bell-turret in Devonshire, one time and another, and I've took a hand in change-ringing far and wide; but our ring of six, for its size and weight, can't be beat in the county, and there's no sweeter tenor that I've heard than mine. And I'm very hopeful that Mr. Masterman will take my advice and have our wheels and gear looked to, and the bell-chamber cleaned out. 'Tis the home of birds, and the nest litter lies feet deep up there. The ladder's all rotten too. We ought to have stays and slides; and our ropes are a bit too heavy, and lack tuftings for the sally. I'm hopeful he'll have a care for these things."
He prattled on, for it was his subject and always loosed his tongue. She was bored to death, but from time to time, when he feared that he wearied her, she assured him that her interest did not wane and was only less than his own. He showed unusual excitement at this meeting, was lifted out of himself, and talked until grey gloaming sank over the valley and the jackdaws were silent. Then Cora started up and declared that she must return home quickly.
"Listening to you has made me forget all about the time and everything," she said. "They'll wonder whatever has befallen me."
"I'll see you home," he answered. "'Tis my fault you'll be late, and I must take the blame."
"And I've kept you from your work, I'm afraid."
"That's no matter at all. To-morrow will do just as well for the alder."
He rose and walked beside her. She asked him to help her at one place in the wood, and her cool, firm hand thrilled him. Once or twice he thought to take this noble opportunity and utter the thing in his heart; but he could not bring himself to do it. Then, at her gate, he left her, and they exchanged many assurances of mutual thanks and obligation. He promised to bring the ferns in three days' time, and undertook to spend an evening with the Linterns, build the rockery, and stay to supper with the family afterwards.
He walked home treading on air, with his mind full of hope and happiness. Cora had never been so close as on this day; she had never vouchsafed such an intimate glimpse of her beautiful spirit before. Each word, each look seemed to bring her nearer; and yet, when he reflected on his own imperfections, a wave of doubt swept coldly over him. He supped in silence, but, after the meal, he confessed the thoughts in his mind.
"Never broke a twig this evening," he said. "Was just going to begin, when who should come along but Cora Lintern."
"Has she forgiven parson for turning her out of the choir? Can't practise that side-glance at the men no more now."
"She's not that sort, father."
"Not with a face like hers? That girl would rather go hungry than without admiration and flattering. A little peacock, and so vain as one."
"You're wrong there. I'll swear it. She's very different to what you reckon. Why, this very evening, there she was under the Water Stone all alone—walking along by herself just for love of the place. Often goes there, she tells me."
"Very surprised to find you there—eh?"
"That she was. And somehow I got talking—such a silent man as me most times. But I found myself chattering about the bells and one thing and another. We've got a lot more in common than you might think."
Mr. Baskerville smoked and looked into the fire.
"Well, don't be in a hurry. I'm not against marriage for the young men. But bide your time, till you've got more understanding of women."
"I'll never find another like her. I'm sure she'd please you, father."
"You'll be rich in a small way, as the world goes, presently. Remember, she knows that as well as you do."
"She never speaks of money. Just so simple and easily pleased as I am myself, for that matter. She loves natural things—just the things you care about yourself."
"And very much interested in tenor bell, no doubt?"
"How did you guess that? But 'tis perfectly true. She is; and she said a very kind thing that was very hopeful to me to hear. She said that the bell always put her in mind of me, and I always put her in mind of the bell."
"I wonder! And did you tell her what was writ on the bell?"
"Yes, I did, father."
"And d'you know what she thought?"
Mark shook his head.
"She thought that the sooner it called you and her to church together, and the sooner it called me to my grave, the pleasanter life would look for her hard eyes."
"Father! 'Tis cruel and unjust to say such things."
"Haven't I seen her there o' Sundays ever since she growed up? There's nought tells you more about people than their ways in church. As bright as a bee and smart and shining; but hard—hard as the nether millstone, that woman's heart. Have a care of her; that's all I'll say to you."
"I hope to God you'll know her better some day, father."
"And I hope you will, my lad; and I'll use your strong words too, and hope to God you'll know her better afore 'tis too late."
"This is cruel, and I'm bitter sorry to hear you say it," answered the young man, rising. Then he went out and left his father alone.
Elsewhere Phyllis Lintern had eagerly inquired of Cora as to the interview with the bellringer.
The girls shared many secrets and were close friends. They knew unconsciously that their brother was more to the mother than were they. Heathman adored Mrs. Lintern and never wearied of showing it; but for his sisters he cared little, and they felt no interest in him.
Now Phyllis sympathised with Cora's ambitions and romances.
"How was it?" she asked. "I warrant you brought him to the scratch!"
"'Tis all right," declared her sister. "'Tis so good as done. The word was on his tongue coming up-along in the dimpsy; but it stuck in his throat. I know the signs well enough. However, 'twill slip out pretty soon, I reckon. He's a good sort, though fidgety, but he's gotten lovely eyes. I'll wake him up and smarten him up, too—presently."