Part 44 (1/2)
CHAPTER XXIV
ABOUT BANKRUPTS
Swaling-time had come, red patches of fire flickered every night on Dartmoor, and the furze-p.r.i.c.kles crackled in the flames. The annual war between man and the p.r.i.c.kly shrub was being waged, and the atmosphere was always clouded and tainted with bitter smoke. Every one seemed to be infected with the idea of furze destruction, from the granite-cracker who as he went to his labours would push the match with which he had just lighted his pipe into some thick brake, to the small boys who begged or stole boxes of matches and went out after dark to make the moor fiery. With those huge bonfires flaming it looked as if not a particle of furze would survive; and yet when summer arrived there would be apparently as much as ever; and not a bush would be killed; only burnt to the ground, and the roots still living in the peat would soon send forth green shoots.
People who looked down into the hollow thought Helmen Barton a peaceful place, but they were wrong; there was plenty of pa.s.sion beneath the surface, and at night often there was noise. It was dark down there; a watcher on the top of the hill might have seen no light, though he could hardly have failed to hear the noise, which was made by a drunken woman railing at a silent man; at least the man appeared to be silent, as his voice did not carry out of the hollow. Possibly he did nothing but mumble.
Annie was degenerating rapidly; cider satisfied her no longer; and she went into the village to procure fiercer liquors. Pendoggat had become more reserved, and there was craftiness in his every movement. He kept his temper somehow and refused to answer the woman's taunts, which made her scream louder. He could stand it; he was nearly ready to go; only one little matter was detaining him, and when that was settled he could let himself out in the night, walk down to Tavistock, and the first train westward or eastward--he did not care which--would carry him away.
Thomasine had left Mrs. Fuzzey's hospitable roof. Pendoggat had seen her, and at once made the discovery that he loved her no longer. The girl had changed so much; she seemed to have lost her blood, her wonderful ripeness, her soft flesh, and her pa.s.sion-provoking look. She had become thin and quite unattractive. Pendoggat wondered how he could ever have been so wildly in love with her, and he told her so, adding that his conscience would not permit him to take her away with him, and it would be nothing less than a grievous sin if he married her without love. He admitted he had sinned occasionally in the past, and he did not wish to add to the number of his transgressions. The wretched girl implored him to make her a decent woman, as she called it, to keep his promises, to remember all the oaths that he had sworn. People more than suspected the truth; the Chegwiddens would not have her back and had refused her a character; her father had greeted her with an austere countenance, had opened his Bible and read for her benefit a d.a.m.natory verse or two from the Revelations of St. John the Divine, and then had shown her the way out, while her mother had locked the door behind her.
Her appearance suggested to them how she had been occupied during her retirement. Measles wouldn't go down with them. She had left Ashland too soon, but Mrs. Fuzzey would not keep her any longer. The old witch had kissed and embraced her, had wheedled every penny of her wages out of her, had declared that she loved her as she had never loved anybody else in her life, and had then told her to get out. She had no place to go to. She hung to Pendoggat, and implored him to remember what had pa.s.sed between them; but he naturally wanted to forget it. He told Thomasine she was a sinful woman, and when she made a scene he lost his temper, and reminded her that a girl could make a living on the streets of Plymouth if she walked them long enough. Afterwards he had a feeling that he had acted without charity, so he went to chapel and repented, and was forgiven in the usual way. Still he decided he could have nothing more to do with Thomasine. His conscience would not permit it.
His thorn in the flesh was Annie, but he let her rave, thinking she would be less dangerous while she barked. The little matter which detained him at the Barton was a mercenary one. He could not leave the furniture for strangers to seize or Annie to profit by. His beasts he had sold already to two different persons, which was not a dishonest act, but merely good business; it was for the two men to settle the question of owners.h.i.+p when they came together. The furniture was not worth much, but he could not leave the place without getting value for it. So he sent for a dealer from Tavistock to come and make him an offer, taking precautions to get Annie out of the way during the time of his visit; but she heard of it, and instinct told her the truth again.
One morning a letter came, Annie saw the name on the flap of the envelope, and knew that it was from the dealer. Probably he had bought what few chattels she possessed and had brought with her when she came to live with Pendoggat. She was silent all the morning; it was a dark day, there had been no sun for some time, and a spell of frost had set in; it was black above and white below, a black unbroken sky and a white sheet of frost. She s.h.i.+vered as she crept about the kitchen, listening for the movements of the master. He did not speak to her; when she pa.s.sed he put his head lower than ever.
Later in the day it became difficult to see on account of the smoke.
Swaling was going on all round, and there was a choking mist over the Barton, even inside as if the house itself was smouldering. Pendoggat could scarcely breathe. He had become horribly afraid of fire since Peter made the mommet, which he had tried to purchase but had failed because the little savage carried too many wits for him. He determined to get away that night, obtaining what money he could from the mercenary dealer as he went through Tavistock. The atmosphere was getting tainted with things stronger than smoke. He had often wondered whether his conscience would permit him to murder Annie, but he was beginning to fear then she might attempt to murder him. He went out into the court with a feeling that he was trying to escape from a burning building; and Annie followed him without a sound. She saw him standing as if dazed, peering into the smoke, clutching at his breast pocket where the capital of the Nickel Mining Company was hidden in the form of notes. He did not know which way to turn that he might escape from the mult.i.tude of little clay dolls which seemed to him to be dancing upon the hills. Then he remembered it was chapel evening. He could not go away until he had been to Ebenezer to seek a blessing and absolution, to give Pezzack one more grasp of the good right hand of fellows.h.i.+p, to remind the congregation of the certainty of h.e.l.l-fire. He did not see Annie until she came up softly and touched him.
”Where be ye going?” she said in a smooth manner, which suggested that she still loved him.
”Nowhere,” he muttered, wis.h.i.+ng the smoke would clear away and make an opening for his escape.
”That be a long way,” she said, with pleasant humour. ”'Tis where I've been going the last twenty years. Reckon I be purty nigh there.”
He made no reply, only moved away, but she followed, saying: ”How about that letter yew had this morning?”
”'Tis my business,” he said.
”Yew never did nought that warn't your business. You'm selling up the home. That's what I ses. You'm going away. Who be going wi' ye?”
”n.o.body,” he muttered.
”Hark to 'en,” said Annie in the same smooth voice. ”He'm going nowhere wi' n.o.body. I knows some one who be going wi' yew.”
”You're a liar.”
”Times I be. I've played a lie for twenty years, and mebbe it comes nat'ral. I reckon I be telling the truth now. When you start some one will be behind yew, and her wun't be dumb neither. Yew took me twenty years ago, and you'm going to tak' me now.”
”I'm not going away,” he said hoa.r.s.ely. He was afraid of the woman while she was soft and gentle. He had been so crafty and done nothing to arouse her suspicions; at least he thought so; but he was acquainted only with the bodily parts of women, not with their instincts and their minds.
”If one of us be a liar it bain't me,” said Annie. ”What be yew leaving me? When a woman gets past forty her don't want clothes. Her can cover herself wi' her grey hairs, and her don't want a roof over her and food.
Only young maids want such. Be I a liar, man?”
”Get back into your kitchen,” he muttered, still moving away, but she steadily followed.
”I've been in the kitchen twenty years, and I reckon I want a change,”
she answered. ”A wife bides in the kitchen 'cause her's willing, and a servant 'cause her has to, but I bain't a wife and I bain't a servant, though volks think I be the one, and yew think I be the other. Be ye going, man? I've got a pair o' boots, a bit worn, but they'll du. Reckon I'll get 'em on.”