Furze the Cruel

The congregation melted away quickly to the echo of Eli's blessing, and the friends found themselves alone, to put out the lamps, lock the chapel, and leave everything in order. The minister was elated; they had enjoyed a "blessed hour;" the world was going very well just then; and he longed to clasp Pendoggat by the hand and tell him what a good and generous man he was. He stood near the door, and with the enthusiasm of a minor prophet exclaimed: "'Ow beautiful is this place, Mr. Pendoggat!"

A more hideous interior could hardly have been conceived, only the minister was fortunate enough to know nothing about art. Temples of Nonconformity on Dartmoor, as elsewhere, do not conform to any recognised style of architecture, unless it be that of the wooden made-in-Germany Noah's Ark; but Pezzack was able to regard the wet walls and dreary benches through rose-tinted spectacles; or perhaps his bruised eye lent a kind of glamour to the scene. It was certain, however, that Pezzack had never yet seen men or things accurately. He regarded Pendoggat as a saint, and the chapel as a place of beauty. His eyes were apparently of as little use to him as his judgment. A blind man might have discovered more with his finger-tips.

"You'll never make a preacher, man," said Pendoggat, as the last light went out. "I'd got them worked up, and then you come and let them down again. Your preaching don't bring them to the sinner's bench. It makes them sit tight and think they are saved."

"I can't talk about 'ell. It don't come to me natural," said Eli in his simple fashion.

"Sinners ain't saved by kindness. We've got to scare them. If you don't flog a biting horse he'll bite again. You're too soft with them. You want to get manly."

"I endeavour to do my duty," said Eli fervently. "But I can't talk to them rough when I feel so 'appy."

"Happy, are ye?" muttered Pendoggat, his eyes upon the ground.

"My 'appiness is beyond words. I get up 'appy, and I go to bed 'appy, and I eat 'appy. It's 'eaven on earth, Mr. Pendoggat, and when a man's so 'appy he can't talk about 'ell. I owe it all to you, Mr. Pendoggat."

"The happiness or hell?" said Pendoggat, with a flash of grim humour.

"The wonderful and beautiful 'appiness. My wife and I pray for you every night and morning. We are very comfortable in our little cottage, and when, Mr. Pendoggat," he went on with enthusiasm, "when God sends our first little olive-branch we shall 'ave all that our 'earts can desire. Ah, Mr. Pendoggat, you don't know what a blessed thing it is to be a father."

"You don't either," said the other sharply.

"I feel it coming upon me. I feel the pride and the glory and the honour of it swelling up in my 'eart and making me 'appy with the world and all that therein is. Amen. I can see myself walking about with it, saying: 'Open your eyes, my dear, and look at the proud and 'appy father of your being.' 'Ow beautiful it all is, Mr. Pendoggat!"

Pezzack spoke like a fool. Why such men should swell with pride when they become putative or actual parents is one of the wonders of the universe. Gratification is permissible enough, but not a sense of pride, which implies they have done something marvellous. Pezzack was like a hen cackling because she has laid an egg, and supposing she has accomplished something which entitles her to a chief place among hens, when she has only performed an ordinary function of Nature which she could not possibly have prevented.

"You're too soft," muttered Pendoggat, as they turned away from the gloomy box-shaped chapel and began to ascend the silent road. It was a clear night, the stars were large, and the wind was cold enough to convey the idea of heat. There was enough light for them to see the white track crossed ahead by another narrow road cut out of the black moor. By morning there would be a greyness upon everything, and the heather would be covered with frosted gossamers.

Pezzack was blowing on his big red hands, and stumbling about as if he had been Farmer Chegwidden. He had never learnt how to walk, and it was getting late to learn. Pendoggat was carrying a huge black Bible, which was almost as cumbersome as Mary's umbrella. He always took it to chapel with him, because it was useful to shake at the doubters and weaker vessels. Big books in sombre bindings generally terrify the young or illiterate, whatever their contents; and a big Bible brandished at a reading-desk suggests a sort of court of appeal to which the preacher is ready to carry his hearers' difficulties.

"I think we are going to get some snow," said Eli, falling back naturally upon the state of the weather.

"There is a bit on Brentor," said Pendoggat.

"Then there will be some on Ger Tor. I must take my wife out to-morrow to look at it. She does not know Dartmoor. It will be a little pleasure for her."

The Pezzacks were easily amused. The first sprinkle of snow on Ger Tor was worth going out to see, and could be discussed during the long evening.

"It will mean the closing of the mine. There must be a lot of water in it," suggested Eli in a nervous manner, although he was anticipating things rather, seeing that the precious mine had never been opened.

"Afraid you won't get your fifteen shillings a week, are ye?" said Pendoggat, in what was for him a pleasant voice.

"I don't think of that," lied Eli, stumbling along, with his hands flapping like a pair of small wings. "I am in your 'ands, Mr. Pendoggat, so I am safe. But my uncle writes every week and sends me a mining-paper, and wants to know why we don't throw ourselves about a bit. I think he means by that we ought to be at work. My uncle talks slang, Mr. Pendoggat."

"Tell him he's a fool," said Pendoggat curtly.

"I 'ave," said Eli meekly. "At least I suggested it, but I think he misunderstood me. He says that if we don't make a start he will come down and make things 'um a bit. I am sorry my uncle uses such expressions. They use funny phrases in Bromley, Mr. Pendoggat."

"He can come down if he likes, and you can give him a pick and tell him to mine for himself until the commoners catch him," said Pendoggat pleasantly. "We've done with your uncle. He won't subscribe any more money, and I reckon his friends won't either. We've done our part. We've got the money, nothing like so much as we wanted, but still a good bit, and they can have the nickel, or what they think is nickel, and they can come here and work it till the Duchy asks them what they're after, or till the commoners fling them into the Tavy. Write that to your uncle," said Pendoggat, poking his victim in the ribs with his big Bible.

The minister stopped, but his companion went on, so he had to follow, stumbling after him very much as Brightly had followed upon that same road begging for his "duppence."

"What do you mean, Mr. Pendoggat? What do you mean?" he kept on saying.

"You're a happy man," muttered Pendoggat like a mocking bird. "Got a wife, hoping for a child, manager of a mining company, with a rich fool of an uncle. You're a lucky man, Pezzack."

"I'm a 'appy and fortunate man," gasped Eli.

"Every one respects you. They think you're a poor preacher, but they know you're honest. It's a fine thing to be honest. You'll be called to a town some day, and have a big congregation to sit under you if you keep honest."

"I 'ope so. You're walking so fast I don't seem able to keep up with you."

"It's a cold night. Come on, and get warm. How would you feel if people found out you weren't honest? I saw a man sentenced to-day – hard labour, for robbery. How would you feel if you were sentenced for robbery? Gives you a cold feeling, I reckon. Not much chance of a pulpit when you came out. Prison makes a man stink for the rest of his life."

"I can't keep up with you, Mr. Pendoggat, unless I run. I haven't enough breath," panted Eli.

Pendoggat put the Bible under his arm, turned, caught Eli by the wrist and strode on, dragging the clumsy minister after him.

"Mr. Pendoggat, I seem to think some'ow you don't 'ardly know what you are a-doing of." Pezzack was confused and becoming uncertain of grammar.

"You'd stand and freeze. Breathe this wind into you and walk like a man. What would you think, I'm asking ye, if you were found guilty of robbery and sent to prison? Tell me that."

"I can't think no'ow," sobbed Eli, trying to believe that his dear friend and brother had not gone mad.

"Can't think," growled Pendoggat. "See down under! That's where the mine is, your mine, Pezzack, your nickel mine."

"You are 'urting my arm, Mr. Pendoggat, my rheumatic arm. Don't go on so fast if you kindly please, for I don't seem able to do it. Yonder ain't my mine, Mr. Pendoggat. It's yours, but I called it mine because you told me to."

"Your uncle thinks it's yours. So do his friends. All the business has gone through you. What do they think of me? Who do they think I am?"

"Oh, Mr. Pendoggat, I told them you are the manager."

"Your man. Your paid servant. Does it pinch here, Pezzack? 'Tis a bit up here, and the moor's rough."

"Your 'and pinches, the good right 'and of fellowship," panted Eli.

"Don't the words pinch? Suppose the mine fails, where are you? Your uncle will be down on you, and he'll cast you over. You won't see any of his savings, and there's a wife to keep, and children coming, but you're a happy man. We're all happy on a frosty night like this. Come on!"

"What are you a-saying? I don't seem to get hold of it. Let me stop, Mr. Pendoggat. I want to wipe the sweat off my face."

"Let it bide there. My name don't appear in the mining business. The thing is yours from start to finish, and I'm your man. There will be none more against you if the mine fails, and I'm thrown out of a job. I've got the cash, Pezzack, every penny of it down to the Barton in notes. When are we going to start on the new chapel, minister? We're going to build a new chapel, the finest on the moor. We can't start till the spring. You told your uncle that? The snow's coming. It's in the air now, and I reckon 'tis falling thick on the high tors. We can't build the chapel and get out the nickel while the snow lasts."

Pendoggat was walking at a furious pace, devouring the keen wind, his head bent forward, chin upon his chest, lurching from side to side, dragging the minister like a parent hauling a refractory child.

"He 'ave lost his senses. He don't know what he's doing with me," Eli panted, becoming for the first time indirect.

"We're getting near the top. There will be a fine wind. Do you good, Pezzack. Make a man of you. What do you think of the nickel down under? Pretty good stuff, ain't it? Had it analysed yet? Found out what it's worth a ton? Got permission from the Duchy? I reckon you've done all that. You're a fine business man. You know a good sample of nickel when you see it."

"I left it all to you, Mr. Pendoggat. You know all about it."

Pezzack tried to say more, something about his feet and rheumatic arm and the perspiration which blinded him, but he had no more breath. Pendoggat's fingers were like a handcuff about his wrist.

"Suppose it ain't nickel at all. I never heard of any on Dartmoor. They'll be down on you, Pezzack, for the money, howling at ye like so many wolves, and if you can't pay there's prison. What are you going to say for yourself? You can't drag me into it. If I tell you there ain't a penn'orth of nickel down under you can't touch me. If you had proof against me you couldn't use it, for your own sake. You'd have to keep your mouth shut, for the sake of your wife and the family what's coming. It's a fine thing to have a wife, and a fine thing to be expecting a child, but it's a better thing to be sure of your position. It ain't wise to marry when you're in debt, and when you've got a wife, and are depending upon a man for your living, you can't make an enemy of that man. I reckon we're on top. Bide here a bit and rest yourself."

They were on the summit of one of the big rounded hills. The heather was stiff with frost and seemed to grate against their boots. The weather had changed completely while they had been coming up from the chapel. Already the stars were covered over with dense clouds which were dropping snowflakes. There was nothing in sight, and the only sound was the eternal roar of the Tavy in the distance. Helmen Barton was below. The house was invisible, but the smell of its peat fire ascended. Pendoggat was breathing noisily through his nose, while Pezzack stood before him utterly exhausted, his weak knees trembling and knocking against each other, and his mouth open like a dog.

"Why have you done this to me, Mr. Pendoggat?" he gasped at length.

"To make a man of you. If I have a puppy I make a dog out of him with a whip. When I get hold of a weak man I try to knock the weakness out of him."

"Was it because I didn't talk proper about 'ell?" sobbed the frightened minister.

"Come on," cried Pendoggat roughly. "Let's have a bout, man. It's a fine night for it. Put out your arms. I'll be the making of you yet. Here's to get your blood warm."

He raised his Bible and brought it down on Pezzack's head, crushing his hat in.

Eli stumbled aside, crying out: "Oh, Mr. Pendoggat, you don't know what you're doing. 'Itting me with the 'oly word. Let me go home, Mr. Pendoggat. My wife is waiting for me."

Pendoggat was too far gone to listen. He followed the wretched man, hitting at him with the big book, driving him along the top of the hill with resounding blows. Eli could not escape; he was unable to run, and he was dazed; he kept on stumbling and bleating, until another good blow on the head settled his business and sent him sprawling into the heather.

"Get up, man," shouted Pendoggat. "Get up and make a bout of it;" but Eli went on lying flat, sobbing and panting, and trying to pray for his persecutor.

"Get up, or I'll walk on ye with my nailed boots."

Eli shambled up slowly like some strange quadruped, found his awkward feet, and stood swaying and moaning before his tormentor, convinced that he was in the hands of a madman, and terribly afraid of losing his life. Pendoggat stood grim and silent, his head down, the Bible tucked reverently beneath his arm, the snow whitening his shoulders. It had become darker in the last few minutes, the clouds were pressing lower, and the sound of the Tavy was more distant than it had been.

"'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,'" quoted Pendoggat slowly. "'Tis a cheering text for a whist winter's night."

He had finished amusing himself, and now that he was cool again his mind reverted naturally to his religion.

Eli could not say anything. It was as much as he could do to stand upright. His clay-like right hand was pressed to his forehead. He was afraid he would fall down a great many times going home.

"Shake," said Pendoggat in a friendly way. "Give me the good right hand of fellowship, minister."

Eli heard him, comprehended the meaning of the words, and hesitated, partly from inability to act, and partly from unwillingness to respond. He felt he might fall down if he removed the hand from his dazed head. He smiled in a stupid fashion and managed to say: "You 'ave been cruel to me, Mr. Pendoggat. You 'ave used me like a beast."

Pendoggat stepped forward, caught the big cold hand in his, pulled it roughly from the minister's forehead, and shook it heartily. Not content with that, he dragged the poor dazed wretch nearer, threw an arm about his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. Perhaps it was the influence of his Spanish blood which suggested the act. Possibly it was a genuine wave of sorrow and repentance. He did not know himself; but the frightened Maggot only groaned and sobbed, and had no caresses to give in return.

"'How good and joyful a thing it is, brethren, to dwell together in unity,'" quoted Pendoggat, with the utmost reverence.

CHAPTER XX

ABOUT THE PASSOVER OF THE BRUTE

Mary soon forgave her brother for his failure over the electric light business, and they became as good friends as ever, except when Peter demanded sums of money for services which Mary could not remember he had rendered. Peter had a trick of benefiting himself, and charging the cost to his sister. They were settled for the winter; Peter had turfed up the chinks in the walls, adding a solid plaster of clay; had repaired the thatch of gorse where it had rotted, laying on big stones to prevent the removal of any portion by the gales; and had cut the winter supply of fern. He sent in the bill to Mary, and she had taken it to Master, and Master had put on silver spectacles and golden wisdom and revised the costs so thoroughly, that Peter had to complain he had not received the price of the tobacco smoked during the work of restoration.

Mary still mourned for Old Sal, knowing she would never see "the like o' he again," while Peter cooked his mommet and cursed Pendoggat. Peter was a weak little creature, who could only revenge himself by deeds of witchcraft. He was not muscular like his sister, who would have stood up to any man on Dartmoor, and made some of them sorry for themselves before she had done with them. Mary believed in witchcraft, because she was to a certain extent religious; she had been baptised, for instance, and that was an act of witchcraft pure and simple, as it was intended to protect the child from being overlooked by the devil; but, if any man had insulted her, she would not have made a mommet of him, or driven a nail into his footprint; she would have taken her stick, "as big as two spears and a dag," and whacked him well with it.

The prospect of winter encouraged Peter to turn his mind towards literary pursuits. There were days of storm and long evenings to be occupied; and the little savage considered he might fill those hours with work for which his talents seemed to qualify him, and possibly bequeath to posterity some abiding monument of his genius. Peter had a weekly paper and studied it well. He gathered from it that people still wrote books; apparently every one wrote thern, though only about one in every hundred was published. Most people had the manuscripts of their books put away in cupboards, linhays, and old teapots, waiting the favourable moment to bring them forth and astonish the world. This was something of a revelation to Peter. Where was his book! Why had he remained so long a mute inglorious scholar? Possibly the commoners who met him in daily intercourse had their books completed and stored away safely in their barns, and he was certainly as learned as any of them. Peter went off to Master, and opened to him the secret of his mind.

Master was entirely sympathetic. He gave it as his opinion that any one could write a book. When the art of forming letters of the alphabet had been acquired, nothing indeed remained, except pen, ink, and paper; and, as he reminded Peter, Mother Cobley sold ink at one penny the bottle, while pen and paper could be obtained from the same source for an additional twopence. Genius could therefore startle the world at threepence a head.

Peter was profoundly interested. He indicated the big tomes, which Master kept always lying beside him: a copy of the Arcadia, a Bible dictionary, a volume of Shakespeare, and a few books of poetry, most of them presents from a former rector long deceased, and suggested that Master was accountable for the lot. The old man beamed through his spectacles, coughed uneasily, and generally assumed that attitude of modesty which is said to be one of the most marked traits of literary men.

"You can spell turnips," Master reminded.

"Sure 'nuff," said Peter. "I can spell harder words than he. I can spell hyacinth, and he'm a proper little brute."

He proceeded to spell the word, making only three mistakes. Master advised him to confine himself for the present to more simple language, and went on to ask what was the style and subject of Peter's proposed undertaking.

"I wants yew to tell me," was the answer.

Master had an idea that genius ought to be inspired from within and not from without, but he merely answered: "Nothing's no trouble, varmer," and suggested that Peter should compose a diary. "'Tis what a man does every day," he explained. "How he gets up, and how he goes to bed, and how he yets his dinner, and how his belly feels."

Peter considered that the idea was brilliant. Such an item as how he drank his beer would certainly prove entertaining, and might very well be original.

"Then he ses things about other volk, and about the weather," Master went on. "He puts down all he can think of, so long as it be decent. Mun't put down anything that bain't decent 'cause that would shock volks."

"Nothing 'bout Varmer Pendoggat and Chegwidden's maid?" the other suggested, in rather a disappointed voice.

"Hark ye, Peter," said Master decidedly, "you had best bide quiet about that. Volks wun't tak' your word against his, and if he purty nigh murders ye no one wun't try to stop 'en. A man bain't guilty till he be found out, and Varmer Pendoggat ain't been found out."

"He can't touch I. Mary wun't let 'en, and I've made a mommet of 'en tu," said the little man.

"Made a mommet, ha' ye? Aw, man, that be an awful thing to du. It be calling in the devil to work for ye, and the devil wun't work wi'out pay, man. He'll come sure 'nuff, and say to yew: 'I wants your soul, Peter. I've a bought 'en wi' that mommet what yew made.' I be main cruel sorry for yew, Peter."

"It be done now," said Peter gloomily.

Master wagged his head until his silver spectacles dropped off his nose, added a little wisdom, then returned to his subject.

"Yew mun write things what you wun't be ashamed to let folk read. When 'tis a wet day yew ses so, and when it be fine you ses it be butiful. When yew gets thoughts yew puts 'em all down."

"What du'ye mean?" asked the aspirant.

"Why, you think as how it be a proper feeling when you'm good, and yew ses so. That be a thought."

"S'pose yew bain't feeling good?" suggested Peter quite naturally.

"Then yew writes about what it feels like to be bad," explained Master. "Yew puts it down this sort o' way: 'I feels bad to-day. I don't mean I feels bad in my body, for that be purty middling, but I feels bad in my soul. It be a cruel pity, and I hopes as how I wun't feel so bad to-morrow.' All them be thoughts, Peter; and that be the way books are written."

"Thank ye kindly, master. It be proper easy," said Peter.

"You'm welcome, varmer. Nothing's no trouble."

Peter bought the articles necessary for fame, and went home. Mary was forking manure, pausing only to spit on her hands; but she stopped for another reason when Peter told her he was going to keep a diary.

"What be yew talking about?" she cried, amazed at such folly. "Us ha' got one as 'tis. What du us want wi' another?"

Peter had to explain that the business of his diary had nothing to do with such base commerce as cream and butter, but consisted in recording the actions of a blameless life upon a pennyworth of paper for the instruction and edification of those who should come after them. Mary grasped her fork, and told him he was mazed.

Peter was not sure that Mary had spoken falsely when he came to test his 'prentice hand. In theory the art of writing was so simple, and consisted in nothing more difficult than setting down what he would otherwise have spoken, adding those gems of thought with which his mind was occasionally enriched under the ennobling influence of moderate beer. But nothing appeared upon the sheet of paper except dirt. Even the simplest art requires practice. Not every man can milk a cow at the first attempt. After much labour he recorded the statement: "This be a buke, and when 'tis dun 'twill be a dairy. All volks write bukes, and it bain't easy till you'm yused to it." There he stopped for the day. As soon as he left the paper all sorts of ideas crowded into his mind, and he hurried back to put them down, but directly he took up the pen his mind was a blank again. The ideas had been swept away like butterflies on a windy day. Mary called him "a proper old vule," and her thought was probably quite as good as any that were likely to occur to him. "'Tis bravish times us lives in. Us mun keep up wi' em," was Peter's answer.

The next day he tried again, but the difficulties remained. Peter managed to place on record such imperishable facts as there was snow and more would come likely, and he had got up later than usual, and he and Mary were tolerably well, and the fare for the day was turnips and bacon – he wanted to drag in turnips because he could spell the word, and he added a note to inform posterity that he had taught Master how to do so – but nothing came in the way of thoughts, and without them Peter was persuaded his book could not properly be regarded as belonging to the best order of literature. At the end of his second day of creation Peter began to entertain a certain feeling of respect, if not of admiration, for those who made a living with the pen; but on the third day inspiration touched his brain, and he became a literary soul. The old gentleman who shared his house, so called out of courtesy, as it contained only one room, was making more noise than usual, as if the cold had got into his chest. The diarist kept looking up to peer at Grandfather's worn features, wondering what was wrong, and at last the great idea came to him. "Dalled if Gran'vaither bain't a telling to I," he exclaimed; and then he got up and went cautiously across the room, which was the same thing as going from one side of the house to the other, his boots rustling in the fern which covered the floor.