Furze the Cruel

"I don't know, Boodles – I mean I can't think to-night."

Weevil had left her, and was tumbling about the room, knocking himself against things and groaning. He was beginning to understand that his efforts to destroy the Brute might only end by investing him with new powers. But the child was happy, and that was everything; she was singing to herself, and laughing, and thinking of her mother; not the mother who had tied her up in fern and flung her at his door, but the mother who existed only in his fantastic brain. Suppose Mr. Bellamie had found it out. But that was impossible, for nobody knew except that unknown mother and himself. He was doing what was right. His little maid was perfectly happy then. Sufficient for that day was the happiness thereof. There was just one trouble remaining – the problem of Mr. Bellamie's incredulity. Why had he not accepted the story which she was so ready to believe? Eccentric manner and contradictory statements did not explain everything. Mr. Bellamie had no right to put the whole story aside just because it had been badly told.

"I can tell you, Boodles. I have just found it out," he cried out of the darkness with a miserable sort of triumph. "There has been a lot of scandal about you, which I have never troubled to answer, and Mr. Bellamie has heard it, and finds it easier to believe than what I told him. There is the Brute again. He makes people prefer scandal to the truth. Nobody knows how you came to me, and so they invented a story to suit them. Everybody knows that story, and as I have not denied it Mr. Bellamie believes it is true. I think I'll write to him to-morrow."

"How did I come to you?" asked Boodles.

"It's a long story," he faltered. "I can't tell you now because I am feeling so tired. I shall have to think about it all night," he muttered.

"Why did you make up that queer story about finding me one night at your door?"

"That is true. Your father chose that way of sending you to me," he said lamely. "I kept the truth from you because I was afraid you might not want to stay with me if you knew everything. Your father wished you to be kept in ignorance. I was going to tell you on your twenty-first birthday."

"You needn't have told me you thought I was a poor woman's child," she said reproachfully.

"I am very sorry, darling. I won't do it again," the poor old creature promised.

Boodles jumped up, pattered to the window, and flung aside the curtains. The room was flooded at once with moonlight, and she could feel the wind coming through the chinks. Weevil looked up patiently, and she saw his weary old eyes and wrinkled face, ghastly in that light. It struck her he was looking very worn and ill.

"You are dreadful tired," she said very tenderly.

"Yes, Boodles, the noise of the wind makes me feel very tired."

"I am not Boodles now. That was my baby-name. I am Tita. And the others – Katherine, Mary – what are the rest?"

"I don't know, dear. I will try and think to-morrow."

"I won't tease you, but there is so much I want to know. Poor great big old grand-daddy-man, you look quite dead."

He shuffled towards her, put his arms round her, and began to make noises as if he was in pain. "I am tired and weak. That is all, darling, and the rabbit in the trap made me sick. I am weak and old and very tired, and I know I have done no good in my life. Shut it out, my maid – shut it out."

It was the prospect which he wanted shut out. They could see the bare stretch of moor, upon it the moon shining, and over it the wind rushing. There is nothing more dreary than a windy moonlit night upon the moor, filled with its own emptiness of sound, suggestive of wild motion and yet motionless, covered with light that is not light.

"It is like a lonely life," said Weevil bitterly.

Boodles dropped the curtains and tried to laugh. She did not like the look on the old man's face.

"The lonely life has gone," she said. "Now we will have some light."

Weevil shuffled after her, muttering to himself: "You have done it, Abel-Cain. You must keep it up. You must hold the Brute off her somehow, or she may have to go out, into the windy moonlight, into the lonely life."

CHAPTER XIX

ABOUT THE GOOD RIGHT HAND OF FELLOWSHIP

One of the creeping-things to be crushed at the forthcoming Assizes was Brightly. Ju had been already stamped out of existence, and it was meet and right that the little man should follow her example, and be placed behind some stone walls where it would be impossible for him to drag lusty farmers from their horses and half-murder them for the sake of their clothes. Brightly had not long to wait in prison. Exeter put on the full panoply of the law during the first week of November; scarlet and gold were flourished; trumpeters and a special preacher brayed; bells clanged, the small grocer and the candle-maker were summoned to serve on the jury, to fail not at their peril, lawyers buzzed everywhere, and a lot of money was spent just because Brightly and a few poor yokels had misconducted themselves. It was a curious sort of net, this Assize net; it was constructed and cast in such a manner that it permitted a lot of coarse fish and golden carp to escape through its meshes, while all the little tadpoles and mud-grubbers were caught and held.

One of the coarse fish to swim into the judicial circuit was Pendoggat. He came to Exeter, partly that he might spend a portion of the capital of the Nickel Mining Company, and partly that he might visit the Guildhall to see sinners punished. Pendoggat had a keen sense of justice and a certain amount of dull humour. The Assizes represented to him a foreshadowing of the fiery pleasures of Hell – they were a pleasure to his mind because he was secure from them – and it amused him to think that another man was going to suffer for his wrongdoing. The idea that he was a sinner had never occurred to him. He had stripped Chegwidden, and flung him into the furze, because the wind had swept upon him, urging him to persecute the unconscious man, and he had obeyed. He had not robbed Chegwidden, nor had he stolen his clothes; and that was the principal charge against Brightly. If he had stood up in court, and confessed that he had dragged the farmer from his horse and stolen his clothes, he would have been telling a lie, which would have been painful to him. Brightly was not charged with finding Chegwidden unconscious, stripping the clothes from him, and throwing them down a wheal. Had that been the charge against him Pendoggat would probably have recognised that the purveyor of rabbit-skins was a good Christian, who had learnt the great principles of the gospel, and was willing to sacrifice himself for another. The mind of Pendoggat when it turned towards theology became incomprehensible.

The weather was changing into winter and there was a smell of snow upon the moor. Pendoggat had played his game, and so far as he could see had won it. The success was not brilliant, because the people of Bromley had proved to be a stingy set, and the amount of money subscribed for the mining venture did not reach three hundred pounds. The chairman of the company, Pezzack's retired grocer-uncle, who had after repeated failures at last discovered how to spell the word committee, was continually writing to know when the first consignment of ore was to be placed on the market, and, what was of far greater importance, when the first dividend might be expected. Pendoggat as frequently replied, through the agency of Pezzack, that operations could not be commenced until spring, as the climate of Dartmoor was not the same as that of Bromley; but the grocer could not understand, and went on writing. He appeared to think that nickel was like the inferior American and disreputable margarine – which in his business had been labelled respectively prime Cheddar and best butter – and would not keep. The little grocer deserved to lose his money, though he was eminently respectable. His position proved it, as only men of assured respectability can make enough money to retire and purchase a little suburban villa, with such modern improvements as walls one brick thick, roofs of thin plaster, and defective drainage. His front doorstep was whitened daily. His parlour window was heavily curtained, and in it were geraniums and ferns further to attest respectability; and behind the curtains and floral display was a chamber crowded with stately furniture. All was very beautiful in front, and very dirty behind. The display in front was for the benefit of the road. The negligence and dirt behind were only visible from the railway. It was best butter according to the parlour window, and disreputable margarine judging by the testimony of the back-yard.

Queer objects of the country had come from all parts of Devon to assert their intelligence as witnesses in the various trials. Peter was a witness in the Brightly case, Peter who had comforted his system with many a pint of beer, paid for with Chegwidden's money, and was then enjoying himself at the expense of the country, although he had taken the opportunity to get his railway fare from Mary. Peter was not only travelling again, but he was principal witness, as he had discovered Chegwidden lying unconscious and fully dressed upon the road; and Peter did not underestimate his importance.

Brightly had not been fortunate of late, but luck was to turn his way a little at the trial. No doubt sentences upon small prisoners depend very much upon the state of his lordship's liver. A bottle of corked wine, or a burnt soup, may quite possibly mean another couple of months to the man in the dock. Mercy is supposed to have its lodging somewhere in the bowels, and if they are out of order, or offended by inferior cookery, mercy may conceivably be out of order too. The judge upon this occasion was in a robust state of health. His wine had not been corked, nor had his soup been burnt, and he was quite in the mood to temper the panoply of the law with a playful kind of mercy which presented counsel with several somewhat obsolete jokes and one new pun. When Brightly appeared another pun was instantly forthcoming upon his name. His lordship had at once a kindly feeling for the prisoner who had contributed towards the maintenance of his own reputation as a humorist; and he was soon saying that it was absurd to suppose that such a poor creature could be guilty of robbery with violence against the person of a strong man like Farmer Chegwidden.

A very able young barrister defended Brightly at the request of the judge, a youngster recently called, who had every inducement to do his best. That was Brightly's second bit of luck. The health of the judge was perfect, and he had been allotted a strong advocate, although he could not understand why the gentleman took such an interest in him and tried so hard to get him off. The fat constable and the other witnesses were given a melancholy time by the young barrister, who treated them all very much as Pendoggat had treated Chegwidden. He stripped the lies off them and left them shivering in the strangeness of the truth. Peter was a difficult witness at first, but after a few minutes counsel could probably have made him swear that when he had discovered Chegwidden the farmer was undressing himself with a view to taking a bath.

"In what condition was he when you found him lying upon the road?" asked counsel.

"Mazed," replied Peter. "Same as I be," he muttered.

"Was he drunk?"

"No," said Peter stoutly.

"Do you know a drunken man when you see one?"

Peter thought he did, but was not certain. They were common objects, and as long as a man could proceed from one place to another, and shout occasionally, he was, according to Peter, a fairly sober person.

"Do you suppose he had fallen from his horse and stunned himself?"

"Likely," said Peter. "He'm a cruel hard rider."

"You have often seen him galloping over the moor, in what some people might call a reckless way?"

"Seen 'en often," said Peter.

"Thursday evenings usually?" went on counsel, in a pleasant conversational manner.

Peter agreed that it was so.

"You know, of course, that it is the farmer's habit on these evenings to frequent some public-house; one night at Lydford, another at Brentor, and so on? There's nothing remarkable about that, but still you are well aware of it?"

Peter was.

"And you know what he goes there for? Everybody knows that. You know why you go to a public-house. You go to get beer, don't you?"

"I du," said Peter with some enthusiasm.

"Sometimes there is a glass too much, and you are not quite sure of the way home. That's only human nature. We all have our little failings. When you have that glass too much you might ride 'cruel hard,' as you express it, over the moor, without caring whether you had a spill or not. Probably you would have a tumble. Chegwidden comes off pretty often, I believe?"

"More often that he used to du," mumbled Peter, not in the least knowing where he was being led.

"Well, that's natural enough. He's getting older and less confident. Perhaps he drinks a bit harder too. A man can hardly find it easy to gallop over the rough moor when he is very drunk. Don't you feel surprised that Chegwidden has never hurt himself badly?"

Peter was not flustered then. Counsel was half-sitting on the edge of the table, talking so nicely that Peter began to regard him as an old friend, and thought he would like to drink a few glasses with this pleasant gentleman who, he fancied, had a distinctly convivial eye. "'Tis just witchery," he said in a confidential manner, feeling he was in some bar-room, and the judge might be the landlord about to draw the beer. "He'm got a little charm to his watch-chain, and that makes 'en fall easy like."

"I suppose he hadn't got it on that night?"

"Forgot 'en, likely," said Peter with some regret, knowing that had Chegwidden been wearing the charm and chain he would have gained possession of them.

Counsel smiled at Peter, and the witness grinned back, with a feeling that he was adding to his acquaintances. The next question followed quite naturally —

"I suppose Chegwidden was pretty far gone that night. Now I want you to use your memory, and tell me if you have ever seen him more drunk than he was that night?"

"When us gets drunk us comes to a stop like," said Peter thoughtfully. "Us gets no drunker," he explained to his new friend.

"You think Farmer Chegwidden had reached that stage? He could hardly have been more intoxicated than he was when you found him?"

Peter admitted that the farmer's condition was unquestionably as his friend had stated.

"He was dead drunk?"

"Mucky drunk," said Peter with a burst of confidence.

"You were not astonished, as you know he is an habitual drunkard?"

Peter was just going to agree, when he remembered he didn't know the meaning of the word habitual.

"He gets drunk frequently. Makes a habit of it," explained counsel.

"He du," said Peter, in the emphatic manner which makes for good evidence.

"Why did you say just now he was not drunk when you found him?" asked counsel smoothly.

Peter's eyes were opened, and he discovered he was not in a bar-room, but in the Guildhall between rows of unsympathetic faces, and his nice young companion was not a friend at all; and he knew also he had been giving evidence against a parishioner. It was useless after that to proceed with the charge against Brightly in its original form; and his advocate then attempted to show that he was equally innocent of theft.

Here, however, he failed, and his lordship himself, who felt in the mood to be merciful, could only point out that circumstantial evidence went entirely against the prisoner. He didn't believe that Brightly, was a bad character. A long experience upon the Bench had enabled him to determine fairly accurately between the hardened criminal and the poor man who succumbed to sudden temptation. It was a wild cold night, and the prisoner in his wretched clothes had happened to pass that way, and when he found the drunken and stunned farmer lying upon the road the temptation to strip him of his clothing had been too strong. The subsequent ill-treatment of the senseless man, no doubt to gratify some old grudge, was the unpleasant feature of the case. It was not altogether easy for him to believe that Brightly had worked single-handed. He left the case to the small grocer and the candle-maker with every confidence that they would bring in a verdict in accordance with the evidence, and he hoped that their consciences would direct them aright. The consciences did their work rapidly, Brightly was declared guilty, and the learned judge found that he would not be doing his duty to the country if he sentenced him to less than three months' imprisonment with hard labour. The next case was called, and the police began as usual to complain about the sentence, and to declare that it was no use doing their duty when judges wouldn't do theirs. The prisoner was removed weeping, asking the gentlemen if they wouldn't let him have his little dog, and begging the warder to take his "duppence" and go out to buy him some rat-poison.

Brightly had indulged in several fits of play-acting since his committal. He was a dull-witted man, and they could not make him comprehend that he was a criminal of a particularly dangerous type, and his little Ju a furious beast which it had been found necessary to destroy. He was, indeed, so foolish that he failed to grasp the fact that Ju was dead. He was always asking if he mightn't have her to talk to. When they brought him food he would set a portion aside for Ju, and beg the warder to see that she got it. When he sang his hymns he put out his hand and patted the floor, thinking it was Ju. He did not want to go to the wonderful dairy without his little dog. She would like the milk and honey too. He would never have the heart to drive about in the pony-cart, which was sure to come some day if he only waited long enough, unless Ju was squatting upon the fern at the bottom or on the seat beside him. It would be dreary Dartmoor indeed without tail-wagging starving Ju. They could not make him understand that Ju was starving no longer. Since his committal Brightly had failed to benefit from the food, which was the best he had ever eaten in his life, though it was prison fare. He was thinner because he could not feed upon the air and the solitude, or smell the moor, and he was more blind because the healing touch of the sun was off his eyes. He often thought of an evening how beautifully the sun would be shining across Sourton Down, and he wondered if the gentlemen would let him go, just to get a feel of it for a few minutes. Sometimes he thought he could hear the Tavy roaring, but it was nothing but the prison van rumbling in.

After sentence Brightly became more foolish, and rambled about his little dog worse than ever. The doctor certified he was totally incapable of undergoing hard labour, and he was removed to the infirmary, where kind people visited him and gave him tracts and hoped he would see the wickedness of his ways before it was too late. At last Brightly began to comprehend that he was a vagabond of the baser sort. All the gentlemen had said so, and they would not have impressed it upon him so frequently if it was untrue. It appeared that he had led a life of vice from his earliest years. It had been wicked to walk about the moor trading in rabbit-skins, and vile to live in a cave upon Belstone Cleave; and he had never known it until then. There was so much that he didn't know. He learnt a lot about literature in his confinement. A lady read portions of the Bible to him, and Brightly found some of it interesting, although he could not understand why the Hebrew gentlemen were always fighting, and his teacher didn't seem able to explain it. Another lady tried to teach him "Jerusalem the Golden," and he responded as well as he could, but the words would not remain in his poor memory, and he always gave a quaint rendering of his own when he tried to repeat the lines. He had the same question for every one: might he have his little dog and talk to her for a bit? At last the doctor made him understand that Ju was dead, and after that Brightly changed. His soul became rusty, as it were, and he did not respond to his teachers. He accepted everything with the same patient spirit, but he showed indifference. He became like a tortoise, and when people stroked his shell he refused to put his head out. It was all owing to the same old fault – he could not understand things. He comprehended that he was a criminal, and it had been fully explained to him that criminals must be kept in confinement because they constitute a danger to other people. But he could not understand what Ju had done that she should be taken away from him and killed. Apparently she too had been a criminal, and much worse than himself; for he had only been sent to prison, while she had been executed. That was what Brightly couldn't understand; but then he was only a fool.

Pendoggat left the court after sentence upon Brightly had been pronounced, and began his homeward journey. The trial had pleased him, and satisfied his sense of justice. He was hurrying back because there was a service that evening and he was going to preach. Brightly would make a good subject for his sermon, the man who was alone because he was not fit to dwell with his kind, the man who had been caught in his sins and punished for them. He had always tried to impress his listeners with the fact that every man is sure to suffer for his sins some day; and he believed what he said, and could not understand why people were so dull as to think they would escape. Pendoggat had discovered long ago that every man regards his neighbours as sinners and himself as a saint. He behaved in exactly the same way himself. He would not be punished, because he always made a point of repenting of his sins. He saved himself by prayer and chapel attendances, and every day would insure his soul against fire by reading the Bible. And yet he thought himself different from other people, and was amazed when they had the effrontery to declare that they too were saved, although neighbour This and neighbour That ought to have known they were most assuredly and everlastingly damned.

The region of the Tavy was cold and clear; a great change from the low-lying city on the Exe and Greedy where there had been mist and drizzle. As Pendoggat rode up from Lydford he noticed white pools and splashes upon the dark tower and roof of St. Michael's church upon its mount, and his heart warmed at the cold sight. It was to him what the note of the cuckoo is to many, a promise, not of spring, but of the wild days when solitude increases and the bogs become blue glaciers. Winter had come and there would soon be the usual November fall of snow. Pendoggat prepared his discourse as he rode up. The night was coming when no man could work, miners least of all. His was not a cold theology by any means. It contained, indeed, little that was not red-hot. The old-fashioned lake of fire, surrounded by attendants in a uniform of tails and hoofs, armed with pitchforks to keep sinners sizzling and turn them occasionally, was good enough for him. Every one would have to be burnt some time, like the gorse in swaling-time, except himself.

Ebenezer was crowded that evening. The week-day services were popular, especially in winter, when the evenings were long, and there was no money for the inn. Chapel upon the moor occupies much the same place in the affections of the parishioners as the music-hall has obtained over the minds of dwellers in big towns; and for much the same reason, everybody likes to be entertained, and praying and hymn-singing are essentially dramatic performances. A warm church or chapel is an attractive place on a winter's evening, when it is dull at home, and there is nothing doing outside. Middle-aged men will always speak lovingly of their village church and its pleasant evening services. They do not remember much about the prayers and hymns; but they have a very clear and tender recollection of the golden-haired girl who used to sit in the next pew but one.

Pezzack did not come in until Pendoggat had finished his discourse. He was a sort of missionary, carrying the gospel over many villages, and his unfortunate habit of tumbling from his bicycle kept many a congregation waiting. He entered at last, with a bruised nose and tender ear, and took possession of the reading-desk which his friend and partner had been keeping warm for him; and then in his usual ridiculous fashion he undid Pendoggat's good work by preaching of a pleasant land on the other side of this world of woe. Eli had always been an optimist, and now that he was happily married his lack of a proper religious pessimism became more strongly marked than ever. He would never make a really popular minister while he insisted upon looking at the bright side of things. Many of his listeners thought him frivolous when he spoke of happiness after death. They couldn't think wherever he got his strange ideas from. It seemed as if Pezzack wanted to deprive them of that glowing hell which they had learnt to love at their mother's knee.