In the very heart of Dartmoor, far from human habitation, near two thousand feet above the level of the sea, but with no prospect in the clearest weather on any side upon cultivated land, stands at present, as stood two hundred years ago, and doubtless two thousand before that, a rude granite monolith, or upright stone, about fourteen feet high, having on it not a trace of sculpture, not the mark of any tool, even to the rectification of its rugged angles and rude shapelessness.
In every direction, far as the eye can range, extends brown, desolate moorland, broken here and there with lumps of protruding rock, weathered by storm into the semblance of stratification.
A bow-shot from this upright stone rises such a hump that goes by the name of Devil Tor; and the stone in question apparently formed originally the topmost slab of this granite pile. But when removed, by whom, and with what object, remains a mystery. The beauty of a vast upland region lies not in its core, but in its circumference, where the rivers have sawn for themselves valleys and gorges through which they travel to the lowlands in a series of falls, more or less broken. About the fringe, the mountain heights, if not so lofty as in the interior, show their elevation to advantage, towering out of the cultivated plains or undulating woodland at their bases.
In the centre there is less of beauty, because there is no contrast, and it is by comparison that we form our estimates.
In the heart of the upland all is equally barren, and the variations of elevation are small. This is especially the case with the interior of that vast elevated region of Dartmoor, which constitutes bog from which flow the rivers that pour into the Bristol Channel on one side, and into the English Channel on the other.
The monolith, blackened by lichen, standing in such utter solitude, was no doubt thought to bear some resemblance to the Great Enemy of Man, and the adjoining Tor was regarded as his throne, on which he seated himself but once in twelve months, on Midsummer Eve, when the Bale-fires flamed on every hill in his honour. On all other occasions he was erect in this eyrie region, peering east and west, north and south, to see what evil was brewing in the lower world of men.
Devil Tor is reached by very few, only now and then does a shepherd pass that way, as the bogs provide no pasturage. The peat there has grown from hoar antiquity undisturbed by the turf-cutter on account of the remoteness of the spot and the difficulty of transport. The fisherman never reaches it, for it lies above the sources of all streams.
The surface of the moor is chapped and transformed by the chaps into a labyrinth, of peaty hummocks and black and oozy clefts, the latter from six to twelve feet deep, running in every direction, and radiating out of each other at all angles. Why the peat is so cleft is hard to say, there is no running water in the gashes, which in many cases go down to the white granite like the fissures in the body of a leper that in places disclose the bone. It would almost seem as though the bitter cold of this region had chapped its surface, and that no soft warm weather ever came to mollify, and to heal its gaping wounds.
Evening had closed in, but not attended by darkness, for the whole sky was glowing. The moor was on fire.
The season was that early spring in which what is locally termed "swaling" takes place, that is to say, the heather is set fire to after the dry winds of March, so as to expose and to sweeten the herbage.
The recent season had been exceptionally dry, even for so rainless a season, and the fires that had been kindled near the circumference of the moor had run inwards, gained the mastery, and rioted over the whole expanse beyond control. They leaped from bush to brake, they crossed streams, throwing over tufts of flaming bracken, pelting the further shore, till that also was ignited.
They circumvented bogs, they scrambled up moraines of granite, locally termed clatters, they ran up the hills on one side, enveloped their rocky crests in lambent flame, and descended the further side in a succession of bounds, and now they raged unchecked in the vast untrodden interior, where the wiry heather grew to shrubs, and the coarse grass and rushes were dust dry. There it ate its way along, a red advancing tide, working to windward, with a low roar and crackle, snapping at every bush, mumbling the tufts of rush, tossing up sparks, flame, and smoke, so that in the general glow and haze every landmark was disguised or effaced.
To no distance could the eye reach, because the whole atmosphere was impregnated with smoke, the smoke red and throbbing with the reflection of the fires over which it rolled. Indeed, the entire firmament was aglow, at one time flashing, at another darkening, then blazing out again as a solar photosphere, responsive to the progress and force of the conflagration.
Crouched at the foot of the great upright stone, that rose over her as the Devil triumphing over his pray, was a girl, with sullen, bewildered eyes, watching the fires as they folded about her, like flame fingers interlacing to close in and squeeze, and press the life out of her.
Her hands were bandaged. She rested her chin on them. She was a handsome girl, but with the features irregular. She had large dark eyes—possibly at this moment appearing unduly large, as they stared with a vacant unconcern at the mingled darkness and flame. Her complexion was by nature a transparent sallow, but now it glowed—almost vermilion in the light of the burning moor. Her brow was broad, but low and heavy. The face was strange. When the long dark eyelashes fell, then there was in the countenance, in repose, a certain pathos, a look of sadness, of desolation; but the moment the eyes opened, this was gone, and the eyes proclaimed a sullen spirit within, underground, a smoulder of fierce passion that when stirred would burst forth into uncontrolled fury—akin to madness. When the lids fell, then the face might be pronounced beautiful, but when they rose, only the sullen, threatening eyes could be seen, the face was forgotten in the mystery of the eyes.
As the girl sat beneath the great black monolith her brooding eyes were turned as a brake exploded into brilliant flame. She watched it burn out, till it left behind only a glow of scarlet ash; then she slowly turned her head towards Devil Tor, and watched the fantastic shapes the rocks assumed in the flicker, and the shadows that ran and leaped about them, as imps doing homage to their monarch's chair.
Then she unwound the bandages about her hands, and looked at her knuckles. They were torn, and had bled, torn as by some wild beast. The blood was dry, and when she wrenched the linen from a wound to which it adhered, the blood began again to ooze. Her wounds were inflamed through the heat of the fires and the fever in her blood. She blew on them, but her breath was hot. There was no water within the engirdling ring of fire in which she could dip her hands. Then she waved them before her face, to fan them in the wind, but the wind was scorching, and charged with hot ash.
Sitting thus, crouched, waving her bloodstained hands, with the bandage held between her teeth, under the black upright stone of uncouth shape, she might have been taken for a witch provoking the fires to mischief by her incantations.
Suddenly she heard a voice, dropped the kerchief from her mouth, and sprang to her feet, as a shock of fear—not of hope of escape—went through her pulses to her heart. Whom was she likely to encounter in such a spot, save him after whom the Tor was named, and which was traditionally held to be his throne?
On the further side of the encompassing fires stood a young man, between her and Devil Tor; but through the intervening smoke and fire she could not discern who he was, or distinguish whether the figure was familiar or strange.
She drew back against the stone. A moment ago she was like a witch conjuring the conflagration, now she might have been taken for one at the stake, suffering the penalty of her evil deeds.
"Who are you? Do you desire to be burnt?" shouted the young man.
Then, as he received no reply, he called again, "You must not remain where you are."
With a long staff he smote to right and left among the burning bushes, sending up volumes of flying fiery sparks, and then he came to her, leaping over the fire, and avoiding the tongues of flame that shot after him maliciously as he passed.
"What!" he exclaimed, as he stood before the girl and observed her. Against the ink-black, lichened rock, her face, strongly illumined, could be clearly seen. "What! Urith Malvine?"
She looked steadily at him out of her dark, gloomy eyes, and said, "Yes, I am Urith. What brings you here, Anthony Cleverdon?"
"On my faith, I might return the question," said he, laughing shortly. "But this is not the place, nor is this the time, for tossing questions like shuttlecocks on Shrove Tuesday. However, to satisfy you, I will tell you that I came out in search of some ponies of my father's—scared by the fires and lost. But come, Urith, you cannot escape unaided through this hoop of flame, and now that you are contented with knowing why I am here, you will let me help you away."
"I did not ask you to help me."
"No, but I am come, unasked."
He stooped and caught her up.
"Put your arms around my neck," said he. "The fire will not injure me, as I am in my riding boots, but your skirts invite the flame." Then he wrapped together her gown about her feet, and holding her on his left arm, with the right brandishing his staff, he fought his way back. The scorching breath rushed about them, ten thousands of starry sparks, and whirled round and over them. He took a leap, and bounded over and through a sheet of flame and landed in safety. He at once strode with his burden to the pile of rocks where were no bushes to lead on the fire—only short swath, and a few green rushes full of sap.
"Look, Urith," said he, after he had recovered breath, "between us and the next Tor—whose name, by the Lord, I don't know, but which I take to be the arm-chair of Lilith, the Devil's grandam—do you see?—the very earth is a-fire."
"How, the earth?"
"The peat is so dry that it has ignited, and will smoulder down into its depths for weeks, for months, mayhap, till a Swithurn month of rains has extinguished it. I have known a moor burn like this all through the summer, and he that put an unwary foot thereon was swallowed like the company of Korah in underground fire."
The girl made no reply. She had not thanked the young man for having delivered her from the precarious position in which she had been.
"Where am I?" she asked, turning her head about.
"On Devil Tor."
"How far from home?"
"What—from Willsworthy?"
"Yes, from Willsworthy, of course. That is my home."
"You want to find your way back? How did you come here?"
"You ask me two questions. Naturally, I want to get to my home. As for how I came here—on my feet. I went forth alone on the moor."
"And lost your way?"
"Certainly, or I would not be here. I lost my way."
"You cannot by any possibility return direct over the bog and through the fire to Willsworthy. I could not guide you there myself. No man, not the best moor-shepherd could do this at such a time. But what ails your hands? You have hurt yourself."
"Yes, I have hurt myself."
"And, again, what induced you to come forth on the moor at such a season as this?"
The girl made no answer, but suddenly looked down, as in confusion.
She was seated on the rock of the Tor. Anthony Cleverdon stood somewhat below, on the turf, with one hand on the stone, looking up into her face, that was in full illumination, and he thought how handsome she was, and what a fortunate chance had befallen him to bring him that way to rescue her—not from death, but from a position of distress and considerable danger. Even had she escaped the fire, she would have wandered further into the recesses of the waste, becoming more and more entangled in its intricacies, without food, and might have sunk exhausted on the charred ground far from human help.
As Anthony looked into her face and saw the sparks travel in her eyes as the reflections changed, he thought of what he had said concerning the hidden fire in a moor, and it seemed to him that some such fire might burn in the girl's heart, of which the scintillations in her eyes were the only indication.
But the young man was not given to much thought and consideration, and the notion that started to his mind disappeared from it as suddenly as it flashed out.
"You cannot remain here, Urith," he said. "I must take you with me to Two Bridges, where I have stabled my horse."
"I should prefer to find my way home alone."
"You are a fool—that is not possible."
She said nothing to his blunt and rude remark, but revolved in mind what was to be done.
The situation was not a pleasant one. She was well aware that it would be in vain for her to attempt to discover the way for herself. On the other hand, she was reluctant to commit herself to the guidance of this youth, who was no relation, not even a friend, only a distant acquaintance. The way, moreover, by which he would take her home must treble the distance to Willsworthy. That way would be, except for a short portion of it, over high road, and to be seen travelling at night with a young man far from her home would be certain to provoke comment, as she could not expect to traverse the roads unobserved by passengers. Although the journey would be made by night, the packmen often travelled at night, and they were purveyors, not only of goods, but of news and scandal. She could not calculate on reaching home till past midnight; it would be sufficient to render her liable to invidious remark were she to make this journey with such a companion alone by day, but to do this at such a time of night was certain to involve her in a flood of ill-natured and ugly gossip. This thought decided her.
"No," she said, "I will stay here till daylight."
"That you shall not."
"But if I will?"
"You will find another will stronger than your own."
She laughed. "That can hardly be."
"Why do you refuse my guidance?"
"I do not want to go with you; I prefer to remain here."
"Why so?"
She looked down. She could not answer this question. He ought not to have asked it. He should have had the tact to understand the difficulty. But he was blunt of feeling, and he did not. Without more ado, he caught her in his arms and lifted her off the rock.
"If I carry you every step of the way," he said, roughly, "I will make you come with me."
She twisted herself in his grip; she set her hands against his shoulders and endeavoured to thrust him from her.
He threw aside his staff, with an oath, and set his teeth. Her hands were unbandaged. She had not been able to tie them up again, but she held the kerchiefs that had been wrapped round them in her fingers, and now they fell, and in her struggles her hands began to bleed, and the kerchiefs became entangled about his feet, and nigh on tripped him up.
"You will try your strength against me—wild cat?" he said.
She writhed, and caught at his hands, and endeavoured to unclinch them. She was angry and alarmed. In her alarm and anger she was strong. Moreover, she was a well-knit girl, of splendid constitution, and she battled lustily for her liberty. Anthony Cleverdon found that he had to use his whole strength to hold her.
"You are a coward?" she cried, in her passion. "To wrestle with a girl! You are a mean coward! Do you mark me?" she repeated.
"On my soul, you are strong!" said he, gasping.
"I hate you!" she said, exhausted, and desisting from further effort, which was vain.
"Well!" said he, as he set her down, "which is the strongest—your will or mine?"
"Our wills have not been tested," she answered, "only our strength; your male muscles and nerves are more powerful than those of a woman. God made them so, alack! That which I knew before, I know now, that a man is stouter than a woman. Boast of that, if you will—but as for our wills!" she shrugged her shoulders, then stooped and recovered her kerchiefs, and began impatiently, to cover her confusion, to re-adjust them about her hands, and to twist them with her teeth.
"And you will remain unbent, unbroken—to continue here in the wilderness?"
"My will is not to go with you."
"Then I use the advantage of my superior strength of nerve and muscle, and make you come along with me."
She took a step forward, still biting at the knots, but suddenly desisted, turned her head over her shoulder, and said, sullenly, "Drive—I am your captive." The step she had taken was acknowledgment of defeat.
"Come, Urith," said he, picking up his fallen staff, "it was in vain for you to resist me. No one opposes me without having in the end to yield. Tell me the truth—captive—captive if you will, tell me what brought you out on the moor? Was it to see the fires?"
"No, I ran away."
"Why did you run away?"
She was silent and strode forward, still pulling and biting at the knots.
"Come, answer me, why did you run away?"
"I was in a passion, slave-driver! Why do you say to me, 'Come, Urith?' I do not come, I go—driven forward by you."
"In a passion! What about?"
"My mother and Uncle Solomon worried me."
"What about?"
"That I will not tell you, though you beat me with your long stick."
"You know well enough, little owl, that I will not strike you."
"I know nothing, save that you are a bully."
"What! because I will not leave you on the moor to perish? Be reasonable, Urith. I am doing for you the best I can. I could not suffer you to remain uncared for on this waste. That would indeed be inhuman. Why, at sea it is infamy for a sailor to leave a wrecked vessel uncared for if he sights it."
There was reason in what he said. That she admitted in her heart. In her heart, also, she was constrained to allow that the difficult situation into which she had fallen was due to her own conduct. Anthony Cleverdon was behaving towards her in the only way in which a generous lad could behave towards one found astray in the wilderness. But she was angry with him because he was too dull to see that there were difficulties in the way in which he proposed to restore her to her home, difficulties which she could not, in delicacy, express.
Anthony did not press her to speak further. He led the way now, and she followed; whereas, at first, she had preceded, in her angry humour, and to maintain the notion that she was being driven against her will. Occasionally he turned to see that she had not run away. She was chary of speech, out of humour, partly with him—chiefly with herself.
The way led from one granite tor to another, through all the intricacies of fissured bog, till at length the two travellers reached a sensible depression or slope of the land, and now the water, instead of lying stagnant in the clefts, began to run, and presently in a thousand rills filtered down a basin of turf towards a bottom, where they united in a river-head.
The aspect of the country at once changed. It was as when a fever-patient passes from incoherent and inarticulate mutterings into connected syllables, and then to clearly distinct sentences. The wandering veins and seams in the bog had found direction and drift for their contents, acquired a cant down which the water ran, and valley, stream, and river were the definite result.
"Now," said Anthony, "our course is clear; we have but to follow the water."
"How far?"
"About four miles."
"And then?"
"Then I will get my horse, and we shall have a direct course before us."
"What, the high road to Tavistock?"
"No. You shall not go that way."
"By what way then will you take me?"
"By the Lyke-Way."
The whole of Dartmoor Proper is included within the bounds of a single parish, the parish of Lydford. The moor belongs to the Duchy of Cornwall, and at Lydford stood the Ducal Castle. For two hundred years this castle has been in ruins, but stands a monument of possession, and just as the estate has been eaten into and pillaged through a long course of years, so has the castle of the Duke been broken into and robbed, to furnish cottages with stone, and cowstalls with timber.
Parishes when first constituted followed the boundaries of manors, consequently, as the Duke of Cornwall claimed the entire Forest of Dartmoor, that whole forest was included within the parish limits. It is the largest parish as to acreage in England, and that with the scantiest population in proportion to its area.
In former times the moor attracted miners, it does so still, but to a very limited extent; extensive operations were anciently carried on in every stream bed in quest of tin.
The vast masses of upturned refuse testify to the vastness of the mining works that once made the moors teem with people. The workers in the mines lived in huts merely constructed of uncemented granite blocks, thatched with turf; the ruins of which may still be inspected. But even these ruins are comparatively recent, though dating from the Middle Ages, for there were earlier toilers on the same ground, and for the same ends, who also lived on the moor, and have also left there their traces; they dwelt in circular beehive huts, like those of the Esquimaux, warmed by a central fire, and covered in by a conical roof that had a smoke-vent in the midst. Tens of thousands of these remain, some scattered, most congregated within circular enclosures, and hundreds of thousands have been, and are being, annually destroyed. In connection with these are the megalithic circles and lines of upright stones, cairns that contain tombs made of rude stone blocks set on end, and covered with slabs equally rude.
Who were the people that made of Dartmoor at a remote period a scene of so much activity? Probably a race that occupied Britain before the British, and which was subjugated by the inflowing, conquering Celts.
Throughout the Middle Ages, down to the Civil Wars, the tin was much worked, and men living on the moor also died there; and dying there had to be buried somewhere, and that somewhere was properly in the parish churchyard.
Now, as there is but a single road across the moor from Tavistock to Two Bridges, where it forks, one road going to Moreton, the other to Ashburton, and as the main road was of no great assistance to such as desired to reach Lydford for the sake of their burying their dead, a way was made, rudely paved, and indicated where not paved by standing stones, for the sole purpose of conveying corpses to their final resting place.
This way, of which at present but faint traces exist, was called the Lyke-Way. Since the establishment of the prison at Prince's Town, first for French captives in the European War, then for Irish and English convicts, a church has been erected, and a graveyard enclosed and consecrated, for the convenience and accommodation of those who live and those who die on Dartmoor. The Lyke-Way has accordingly been abandoned for three-quarters of a century; nevertheless it is still pointed out by the moor-men, and is still occasionally taken advantage of by them.
In former days, when for weeks the moor was covered with snow, and its road and tracks deep in drifts, corpses were deliberately exposed to the frost, or were salted into chests, to preserve them till the Lyke-Way was once more passable.
Where the Lyke-Way touches a stream, there double stepping-stones were planted in the bed, for the use of the bearers, occasionally a rude bridge was constructed, by piling up a pier in midwater, and throwing slabs of granite across, to meet in the midst on this pier; but these were always wide enough to permit of the bearers to cross the bridge with the bier between them.
It is not to be marvelled at that superstition attaches to this road, and that at night, especially when the moon is shining, and the clouds are flying before the wind, the moor-men aver that there pass trains of phantom mourners along this way, bearing a bier, gliding rather than running, shadows only, not substantial men of flesh. And as, in the old days, the funeral train sang hymns as they went along with their load, up hill and down dale, so do the moor-men protest at the present time that when the phantom train sweeps along the Lyke-Way, a solemn dirge is wafted on the wind of such overwhelming sadness, that he who hears it is forced to cover his face, and burst into tears.
It is said that if one be daring enough to hide behind a rock on the side of the corpse-track when the phantom procession is on the move, so as to suffer it to pass near him, he will see his own face upturned to the moon on the bier that goes by. Then must he make the best of his time, for within a year he will be dead.
Along the Lyke-Way, as the nearest way to her home, and also to his own, in defiance of the superstition that clung to it, did Anthony Cleverdon purpose to conduct Urith.
When she heard him suggest this way she shivered, for she was, though a strong-minded girl, imbued with the belief of the age. But the power to resist was taken from her. Moreover, along that way there was less chance than on any other of encountering travellers, and Urith shrank from being seen.
On reaching the point where she and her companion touched the Lyke-Way, a point recognisable only by Anthony, who was familiar with it—for here it was but a track over smooth turf, then Cleverdon bade his companion seat herself on a stone and await him. He would, he said, go to the tavern and fetch his horse.
Her opposition to his determination had ceased, not because her will was conquered, but because she was without an alternative course to cling to, without a purpose to oppose to his. She was weary and hungry. She had rambled for many hours before Cleverdon had discovered her, and had eaten nothing. Fatigued and faint, she was glad to rest on the stone, and to be left alone, that she might unobserved give way to the tears of annoyance and anger that welled up in her heart.
In an access of inconsiderate wrath—wrath is ever inconsiderate—she had run away from home—run from a sick mother—and she was now reaping the vexations that followed on what she had done. Her annoyance was aggravated, not tempered, by the thought that no one was to blame for the unpleasant predicament in which she was placed but her own self.
As Urith sat, awaiting the return of Anthony, gazing around her, it appeared to her that the scene could hardly be more awful at the consummation of all things. The whole of the world, as far as she could see, was on fire; it looked as if a black crust were formed over an inner glowing core, like the coal-dust clotted in a blacksmith's forge above the burning interior. There were wandering sparks ranging over it, and here and there a quiver of lurid flame. All that was needed to excite to universal conflagration was a thrust with an iron rod, a blast of concentrated wind, and then the crust would break up, and through its rents would flare out rays of fire too dazzling to look upon, that would swallow up all darkness and dissolve mountain and granite into liquid incandescent lava, and dry up every river with a breath. There was water near the rock where Urith sat, and she again unwound her hands and dipped the bandages in the cool stream.
She was thus engaged, when softly over the velvet turf came Anthony, leading his horse.
"Let me look," said he, bluntly; "let me tie up your rags. How did you injure your knuckles?"
She obediently held out her hands.
"I did it myself."
"How? Against the rocks?"
"No—with my teeth."
"What! You bit your hands?"
"Yes. I bit my hands. I was in a rage."
"We men," said Anthony, "when we are angry, hurt each other, but you women, I suppose, hurt your own selves?"
"Yes. We have not the strength or the means to hurt others. Not that we lack the will—so we hurt ourselves. I would rather have bitten some one else, but I could not, so I tore my own hands—with my teeth."
"You are strange beings, you women," said Anthony.
Then he threw the bridle on the ground, and set his foot on it, so as to disengage his own hands.
He took hold of Urith's wrist, and the kerchiefs, one after the other, and arranged the bandages, and fastened them firmly. Whilst thus engaged, he suddenly looked up, and caught her sombre eyes fixed intently on him.
"Would you hurt me—bite and mangle me?" he asked, with a laugh.
"Yes—if you gave me occasion."
"And if I gave you opportunity?"
"Assuredly, if I had the occasion and the opportunity."
"Which latter I would not be such a fool as to allow you."
"Opportunities come—are not made and given."
"You are a strange girl," he said; holding her hands by the bandaged knots at the wrists, and looking into her gloomy eyes; "I should be sorry to rouse the wild beast in you—there is one curled up in your heart—that I can see. Your eyes are the entrance to its lair."
"Yes," answered Urith, without shrinking, "it is true there is a wild beast in me."
"And you obey the wild beast. It stretched itself and sniffed the moor air—than away you ran out into the wilderness."
He continued to study her face; that exercised a strange fascination upon him.
"Yes; I was in one of my fits. I was angry, and when I am angry I have no reason—no thought—no feelings, nothing save anger. Just as the moor now is—all fire; and the fire consumes everything. I could not hurt my mother—I did not want to hurt my Uncle Solomon. That other—— He was beyond my reach, and so I bit myself."
Anthony made an attempt to shake himself free from the sensation that stole over his senses, a sensation of giddiness. The effort was ineffectual, it lacked resoluteness, and again the spell settled over him; he was falling into a dream, with his hands on her wrists, and her pulses throbbing against his fingers, a dream woven about him, enlacing, entangling mind and heart and consciousness; a dream in which he was losing all power of seeing anything save her eyes, of hearing anything save her breathing, of feeling anything save the dull throb of her pulse—a dream in which he was being caught and bound, and thrown powerless at her feet—a dream of mingled rapture and pain and undefined terror. She had called herself his captive a little while ago, and now she, without a word or a movement, was subjecting him absolutely.
How long he stood thus fascinated he could not conjecture, he was startled out of it by his horse jerking his bridle from under his foot, and then at once, as one starting out of a trance, he passed into a world of other sensations, he heard the rush of water and the wail of wind, he saw the fires about him, and Urith's eyes no longer filled the entire horizon.
"Come," said he, roughly, as he caught the bridle, "get on the horse; we must waste no more time talking folly." He put his hands under her foot, and with a leap she was in the saddle.
"You can ride of course," said he, churlishly; he detested the spell that had been thrown over him; the conviction that he had been very nearly falling wholly into her power.
"Of course I can ride—I am a moor-maid."
With his hand at the bit he urged the horse on, and strode forward, looking down at the turf, without speaking. The sudden drunkenness of brain that had come over him left its vapours that were not withdrawn wholly and at once. But Anthony was not a man to brood over any sensation or experience, and when Urith asked, "Did you find your father's colts?" he recovered his good humour and gaiety, and answered in his wonted tone, "No, the fire must have driven them further north, maybe they are lost in Cranmeer." Then, with a laugh, he added, "I have been like Saul seeking my father's beasts, and like Saul, have found something better." He looked up at her with a flashing eye.
She turned her head away.
"You came to the moors alone?" she asked.
He did not reply, but pointed to the west. "The wind is shifting, I hold. The direction of the smoke and flames is changed."
She did not observe that he evaded giving her a reply to her question.
The way now dipped into a broad valley, where the fire had already burnt, and had exhausted itself.
It lay before them a dark trough, and yet scintillating in points where ashes glowed after the flames had exhausted themselves. An auroral light pervaded the sky overhead, especially bright above the hills to the east, and against it the granite piles of rock on the mountain tops, stood forth as ruined castles crumbling away in the conflagration, and above one huge block, like an altar, smoke rose in columns intermingled with flame, as though on it a gigantic sacrificial oblation were being made.
"I suppose you were angry with me when I snatched you off Devil Tor, and you strove to free yourself?" said Anthony.
"Not angry, but reluctant," she replied; "for I knew that you wished me well, and that your violence was kindly meant."
He drew the reins sharply and arrested the horse, then turned, put his arm over the neck, and looked up at Urith.
"Verily," said he, "I have the fancy that I should like to put you into one of your fits—as you term them."
"Indeed," she answered; "it is a cruel fancy, for my fits end in some hurt. When the devil entered into the child it cast him into the fire or into the water, and tore him before it came out. You see what one fit has cost me"—she extended her bandaged hands. "But you do not feel how they sting and burn. It may have been rare sport for such as looked on to see this child half scorched by the fire, half smothered by the water, and prostrate, mangled by the devil—but I question if any one would have had the heart to invoke the devil to possess the child; yet that is what you would do."
"Nay," said Anthony, a little confounded by her vehemence and the charge against him; "nay, I would not have you again hurt."
"Then would you stand to be torn yourself?"
"What—would you tear and bite me?"
"I cannot say. When I have one of my fits on me I do not know what I am about."
"Are you repentant for your action afterwards?"
"Assuredly I am repentant when I have gnawed my hands, for they are full of pain."
He turned away. The girl disturbed him. The young man was not accustomed to meet with damsels who were not honey and cream, smiles and allurements—the frank avowal of savagery in Urith, mingled with the consciousness that she exerted over him a certain fascination against which he had no counter-spell, caused him uneasiness. He turned abruptly round and went forward with lowered head, and the vapours recently lifted from his brain began to settle over them again.
Presently he came to the side of a foaming tumbling river. He halted, and, without looking into Urith's face, said——
"Now we have come to the Walla, and my cob has been restive at crossing water to-day, shall I help you to dismount? You can go over by the stepping-stones. I must ride him across."
He put forth his hand, but she slipped to her feet unassisted, and handed to him the crop or long-lashed whip that had hung at the saddle-bow, but which she had taken in hand.
"Yes," he said, "I shall require the crop." Then he leaped into the saddle and spurred the horse down into the water.
Urith tripped along the stones till she reached a broad block in the midst of the river. She found no difficulty in crossing, as the light overhead mirrored itself in the water, making of the Walla a very Phlegethon. But for the same reason Anthony's cob objected to enter. He reared and plunged, and when whipped and spurred, wheeled about.
Urith watched the futile efforts of her companion.
Presently she called to Anthony, "The cob will go into the water if you pat him. You further frighten him by your violence when he is already frightened. The river seems to roll down fire and blood."
"What!" laughed Anthony; "will you teach me how to manage a horse?"
"I have had to do with horses every whit as much as yourself," she replied. "Remember, I am the Wild Maid of the Moors."
He made no reply, but again essayed to force the cob to enter the water. Suddenly Urith, still stationed in midstream, uttered an exclamation of surprise, not unmingled with alarm.
She saw black figures emerge on the hill shoulder, visible against the lurid sky, and then descend along the Lyke-Way, coming along the same track, in the same direction.
At once there rushed upon her the stories she had heard of ghostly trains of mourners, sweeping at night along this road, and of the ill-luck that attended such as cast eyes on them.
"Look!—look!" she exclaimed, now in real terror. "Who are they?—what are they? They are following us, Anthony Cleverdon! Do not let us see them more. Do not let them overtake us."
Anthony looked back. Strange was the appearance of the moor side, half-lighted by the skies reddened with the reflection of fires beyond the hills, but with its surface travelled ever by sparks. An imaginative mind might have thought that mountain gnomes were alert, and were rambling torch in hand over the moor. Now one red spark wandered along in solitude, then out flashed a second, and ran to meet it; as if they were the lights of comrades hailing each other. Suddenly a score sparkled and danced in a ring, and were as suddenly extinguished. Or it might be supposed that the spirits of the primeval tin-workers had returned to earth once more, and were revisiting their ancient circles and avenues of stone, to perform in them the rites of a forgotten religion.
To the south-east rose Mistor, one of the loftiest summits on the moor, on whose rocky crest, scooped out by wind and water, is a huge circular bowl, called by the natives the Devil's Fryingpan, in which he prepares the storms that lash and explode on the moor. And now it really seemed as though the Spirit of the Tempest were at work, brewing in his bowl.
In the strange after-glow that partially lighted the hill-side could be seen dark figures descending the Lyke-Way, and approaching the ford where Anthony was vainly endeavouring to force his cob to cross. Anthony uttered an oath, and then redoubled his attempts to drive the brute into the water. But it came to the edge, snuffed, and recoiled.
"What is it?" asked Urith, still watching the pursuing shadows.
Urith ran back over the stones.
"Only some folks coming after us. By heaven! I wish I could get this cursed beast over."
"If you take the bridle on one side, I on the other, and coax the horse, we can cross by the double stones, and he can go in the middle."
"As the bearers with the dead," said Anthony.
Urith patted the frightened beast, talked to him, praised him, and taking the bridle, quietly led him down to the stream. Ever and anon, she turned to look back, and saw the shadowy figures rapidly nearing. Who could they be? Would they recognise her? Were they such as would be likely to recognise her? What, if they knew her, would they think of her being at such a time, and in such a place, alone with Anthony Cleverdon?
Would it be advisable to step aside, and let these travellers pass without seeing her? But she was too ashamed to make such a proposal to her companion. So, as she was caressing the horse, and urging him into the water, these pursuers, whoever they were, drew nearer. She could distinguish that they were mounted.
Anthony stood on the stepping-stones on one side, Urith on those upon the other. The frightened horse cautiously put his hoofs in, snuffed at the water, began to drink, recovered confidence, and allowed himself to be led along through the stream.
They were past the middle of the river when the pursuers came to the side of the stream, and a loud male voice exclaimed——
"There is the runaway, and by God—not alone!"
Urith shuddered, her hand twitched at the bridle, and made the horse start. She knew the voice well. It was not a pleasant one, harsh, and with mockery and insult in its tones. As her hand contracted, so did her heart, and sent a rush of blood tingling to her temples.
"That is Fox Crymes!" she said to her companion, "the last, the very last man I would have had see me here."
"Why the last?" asked Anthony, stepping on the bank, and leading the horse up on the land. "Why the last that you would have see you, Urith?"
"Because it was on his account I ran away."
"What," laughed Anthony, "Then it is Fox whom you would have bitten, had he allowed you to fasten your teeth on him?"
Urith's colour deepened; if Anthony had had pity, he would not have said this. If he had looked in her face, he would have seen how dark it was with shame and vexation.
"You wring all out. You are cruel—yes, Fox Crymes," she muttered.
"And I am not surprised. I would like to thrash him," said Anthony. "For one thing, for coming up with us now."
The pursuing party consisted of but three, Fox—his real Christian name was Anthony—and two others, Bessie, the sister of Anthony Cleverdon, and Julian, Fox Crymes' half-sister. Both Crymes and Cleverdon had the same Christian name. Old Cleverdon, the father, had been sponsor to Crymes, and in compliment to him had received at the font his godfather's name.
Fox was the only son of Fernando Crymes. Since childhood he had borne the nickname, partly because of his red hair, partly because of his pointed features, also, in a measure, because it was thought that somewhat of the craft and subtlety of Reynard was intwined in his nature. He did not object to the designation; it had attached itself to him at an early age, when it conveyed no meaning to his mind, and in mature years he accepted it without demur, and was perhaps a little proud that he should be credited with superior shrewdness.
After the death of Fox's mother, old Fernando Crymes had married an heiress—a Glanville—and by her had a single daughter, Julian, at whose birth this second wife had died. Fernando Crymes, though belonging to a very ancient and estated family, had frittered away such remains of the property as had come to him, and would have been reduced to threadbare circumstances had not his second marriage rehabilitated him. He was trustee for his daughter, and lived on her estate. His son, Anthony, was but too well aware that the portion of goods that would fall to himself must be small, whereas his half-sister would be wealthy. The consciousness of this disparity in their prospects affected their relations to each other. Julian was disposed to imperiousness, and Fox let no opportunity pass of saying or doing something to annoy her.
"You have played us a scurvy trick, Anthony," said Fox, as he splashed through the river, and came up with the two on the further bank; then pushing close to Urith, whom Anthony had remounted on his saddle, he peered rudely into her face. He uttered an exclamation of rage as he recognised her, and turned away towards Cleverdon, and said, in a rasping tone, "We awaited you at the tavern an endless age, ever expecting you to come and let us know whether you had found the colts or not. I assured your sister and mine that you were after game of some sort, and the colt-seeking was a mask, but they would not believe me. Finally, I went to the stable, and found that you had slipped away without a word."
"Was I bound to let you know I was going home?" asked Anthony Cleverdon, without an effort to disguise his ill-humour.
"Bound, certainly, by all the ties of breeding and good-fellowship," answered Fox. "But, in good faith, when a woman is concerned, all other considerations are thrown to the winds."
Then he fell back, and addressing his sister Julian and Bessie Cleverdon loud enough to be overheard by those in front, he said, "I never doubted but that Anthony came after something other than colts, and to make a mock of us. I told you as much when we were at the Saracen's Head, and you scouted my words. You said the Fox was ever suspicious, but the Fox has his eye and his nose, and ear keen, and I saw, and smelt, and heard what was hidden to duller senses."
Cleverdon turned round. He was angry, but he said nothing.
Fox Crymes went on, tauntingly. "There is game of all sorts on the Moor; but, good Lord! it is sometimes hard to say which is the game and which the sportsman, and which has been in pursuit of the other."
"Silence that malicious tongue of yours, or I will silence it for you," said Anthony, angrily.
"O! I am always to be threatened whenever I draw my bow, but you—are to be scatheless, whatever your conduct be."
"You fight unfairly, with poisoned weapons."
"And you retaliate, like a wild man, with a bludgeon," answered Crymes. "Are we to hold our hands when treated by you as it has pleased you? You invited us to attend you to the Moor and spend with you a merry day, and then you desert us. Are we not free to question why we are thus treated?"
Then Bessie rode forwards beside Urith, and asked, "Tell me, how came you here?"
"She lost her way in the smoke, and no marvel," said Anthony Cleverdon. "I discovered her strayed among the bogs, and engirded with flames; and had I not done so, she would have stayed all night."
"But what brought her on to the moors?"
"The same occasion that brought you, Bess—she came to see the fires. She became distraught with the smoke, wandered, and lost all knowledge of her direction."
"It is well, brother, that you found her," said Elizabeth; and then, in a lower tone, "Brother, brother, speak to Julian. You have been short of courtesy to-day, and she resents it."
Anthony shrugged his shoulders.
"I will ride alongside of Urith," said Elizabeth Cleverdon. "You must not allow it to be observed that you lack manners, brother Anthony. You persuaded Julian and me to come with you and see the moor on fire, and you have left us to ourselves, and now disregard her markedly."
Whilst the brother and sister were in conversation near the horse on which Urith was mounted, Julian Crymes passed them with averted head, and took the lead along the Lyke-Way. Anthony, admonished by Bessie, strode forward after her, but with a frown and curl of the lips.
Julian Crymes was a handsome dark-haired girl, with a rich, warm complexion, and full lips and rounded chin. Her eyes were large, with that droop in the lids that gives an impression of sensuous languor.
She heard Anthony tread at her side, but did not deign to cast on him a look, neither did she throw a word at him. Indeed, she was angry and offended, her bosom was heaving, her blood was simmering, and her lips she bit to prevent their quiver. Anthony was out of humour at having been caught up by the party, and was conscious that he had not behaved with civility, but was too proud in himself, too indifferent to the feelings of others, to acknowledge himself to be in the wrong, and to make amends for his lack of courtesy to others.
Accordingly they pursued their way, side by side, she riding with averted head, he pacing with knitted brows and downcast eyes, in silence, and for some considerable distance.
The situation was irksome. Each, instead of speaking, was endeavouring to catch what was said in the rear, each with suspicion that Fox was saying something behind their backs which would cause the left ear to tingle.
Julian was the first to find the situation intolerable, and to break from it. She turned her head over her shoulders and said,