Chapter VI Anthemis Cotula
As Myles Stapledon proceeded at the stirrup of his cousin their conversation became more trifling, for the girl talked and the man was well content to listen. She entertained him with a humorous commentary on the life of the Moor-edge and the people who went to compose it. She pointed to stately roofs bowered in forests and expatiated on the mushroom folk who dwelt beneath them.
“My Christo is not good enough for these! I’m a mere farmeress, and wouldn’t count, though I do trace my ancestors back to Tudor times. Yet you might have supposed a Yeoland could dare to breathe the same air as Brown, Jones, and Robinson. Don’t you think so? What are these great men?”
“Successful,” he said, not perceiving that she spoke ironically.
“Ah! the god Success!”
“Don’t blame them. Money’s the only power in the world now. Birth can’t give splendid entertainments and pose as patron of the local institutions and be useful generally and scatter gold—if it has no gold to scatter. The old order changes, because those that represent it are mostly bankrupt. But money has always been the first power. Now it has changed hands—that’s all the difference. A few generations of idleness and behold! the red blood has got all the money; the blue blood has none.”
“Poor blue blood!”
“They are nothing to you—these people. They pay proper suit and service to the god that made them; they know the power of money, the futility of birth. What is the present use of old families if they represent nothing but bygone memories and musty parchments? Rank is a marketable commodity to be bought and sold—a thing as interesting and desirable to many as old china or any other fad of the wealthy. That they can understand, but poor commoners!—why, it isn’t business. Don’t you see?”
“Christo’s ancestors were a power in the land before this sort of people were invented.”
“They were invented. If you look back far enough, you’ll see that plenty of your ancient houses sprang from just this sort of people. Only their way to power and prosperity was more romantic then. Now they merely risk their health and eyesight grubbing for half a lifetime at desks in offices or in a bad climate; then they risked their lives under some Devon Drake or Raleigh upon unknown seas, or the field of battle. Our present methods of fortune-making are just as romantic really, only it will take another age, that looks at this from a bird’s-eye point of view, to see it. Every dog has his day, and romance always means yesterday. It is summed up in that. I’ll wager the neglect of the wealthy doesn’t worry Yeoland.”
“No, he laughs.”
“They are too sordid to understand a man living his life and content to do so. It isn’t business.”
Honor laughed.
“No—they have the advantage of him there. Yet I do wish he wasn’t so lazy.”
But Stapledon felt that he could not speak upon that question, so the subject dropped.
They had now left the Moor and were descending to the valley and the river below. A magpie, like a great black and white butterfly, passed with slow flutter before them; there was a drone and gleam of shining insects in the air; and upon the sunny hedge-banks many oaks dripped with the fat sweetness of the aphides until the steep way beneath was darkened in patches as though by rain.
“D’you hear them?” asked Honor. “The twin Teigns! They meet at the bridge beneath us. They know they are going to meet, and they begin to purr and sing to one another. They will rush into each other’s arms in a minute. I love to see them do it.”
Forward went her surefooted pony, and Myles, striding now on one side, now upon the other, with his eyes in the rich fabric of the hedges, fell a little way behind. When he caught his cousin up again she saw that he had been picking wild flowers. A smile trembled on her lips, for the little blossoms looked out of place—almost ridiculous—in this stolid man’s great hand. Honor thought there was a pathetic appeal in the eyes of the summer speedwells and dog-roses, a righteous indignation in the bristling locks of the ragged-robins that he held; but, assuming that the bouquet was designed for her, she concealed her amusement. Then her mind ranged to another aspect of this action, and she found the man’s simplicity appeal to her. He did not offer Honor the flowers, but added others to them; named each hedge blossom; showed with frank interest how the seeds of the wood-sorrels sprang away and scattered at a touch; appeared entirely interested by the unconsidered business and beauty of a Devon lane. These concerns, so trivial to Honor’s eye, clearly wakened in Stapledon an interest and enthusiasm as keen as any pertaining to humanity.
They proceeded through the valley woods, past the great beech of the proposal, whose secret inscription was discreetly turned away from the high road, and then travelled towards Chagford, hard by the ancient mill of Holy Street—once a happy haunt of artists, to-day denied to all men. Here Honor pointed out the broken head of an old religious relic that formed part of a hedge upon their right hand.
“Market Cross,” she said. “It used to be in Chagford until a worthy clergyman rescued it and set it here.”
The fragment was of similar character to the granite round about it and shared with the component wall a decoration of mosses, fern, nettle, ivy, and brambles. Upon the stone itself was a rough incised cross, and the whole appeared to occupy this humble place with peaceful propriety. Myles viewed the fragment closely, then, moved by an idea, thrust his bouquet between its arms and passed on.
“I thought they were for me,” said Honor.
“No,” he answered. “I picked them without a particular object.”
They went forward again, traversed Chagford Bridge, and so, by dell and hamlet, hill and valley, returned towards Little Silver and began to breast the great acclivity to Bear Down.
At the foot of this steep climb one Doctor Courteney Clack met them. He was a plump, genial soul of five-and-forty, and love of sport with lack of ambition combined to anchor him in this remote region. He had little to do and so much the more leisure for rod and horse. But to-day he was walking, and his round, clean-shorn face showed him to be remarkably warm.
“Not at the races, Doctor? How extraordinary!”
“Sheer evil fortune, Miss Endicott. A most inconsiderate young person.”
“Mrs. Ford?”
“Exactly so. Nature has no sympathy with sportsmen. Christo is to tell me everything. He also has charge of a five-pound note. So I enjoy the sport in spirit.”
Hurried footsteps interrupted the conversation, and a boy was seen running at top speed down the hill.
“It’s Tommy Bates from home!” cried Honor. “What on earth does he want to go at that pace for?”
“Me probably,” said Doctor Clack. “Nobody ever runs in Little Silver, unless it’s to my house.”
The medical man was right, and Tommy announced that a labourer had fallen suddenly sick in the hayfield and appeared about to perish.
“Sunstroke for certain,” declared the medical man. “If it’s not asking too much, Miss Endicott, I would suggest that I borrowed your pony. It will take me up the hill a great deal faster than I can walk, and time may be precious.”
Honor immediately dismounted, and Doctor Clack, with great entertainment to himself, sat side-saddle, and uttering a wild whoop sent the astounded pony at the hill in a manner both unfamiliar and undignified. He was soon out of sight; and Tommy, after winning back his breath, explained the nature of the disaster and gave the name of the sufferer.
An hour earlier in the day, those workers of Bear Down already seen, were assembled about their dinner beside the majestic bulk of the last rick. All was now gathered in and the evening would see conclusion of a most satisfactory hay-harvesting. With their bread and onions, cheese and cold puddings the labourers speculated upon the worth of the crop.
“I’m thinking ’twill go in part to fat the pocket of a lazy man,” said Henry Collins, who knew of the recent scene between Christopher Yeoland and Mr. Cramphorn, and had his reasons for ingratiating the latter.
“Lazy an’ worse. Look at my eye!” growled Jonah. “If it weren’t for missis, I’d have laid him in clink afore now—vicious rip as he is! He’ll never trouble Satan to find him a job. Born to the gallows like as not.”
He dropped his voice and turned to Churdles Ash.
“I seen Cherry Grepe,” he said. “She’s took my money to be even with un. I didn’t ax no questions, but ’twill go hard with un afore very long.”
Mr. Ash pursed his lips, which were indeed always pursed from the fact of there being no teeth to mention behind them. He did not answer Jonah’s dark news, but spoke upon the main question.
“Come to think of it, a honest scarecrow do more work in the world than him,” he declared.
“No more gude than a bowldacious auld dog-fox,” said Henry Collins.
“Worse,” replied Jonah. “Such things as foxes an’ other varmints be the creation of the Lard to keep the likes of Christopher Yeoland out o’ mischief. But him—the man hisself—what can you say of wan as have got a sawl to save, an’ behaves like a awver-fed beast?”
“A butivul soarin’ sawl,” assented Samuel Pinsent. “But wheer do it soar to? To kissin’ honest gals on the highways by all accounts.”
Mr. Cramphorn’s dark visage wrinkled and twisted and contracted.
“Blast the viper! But I gived un a hard stroke here an’ theer, I warn ’e. Might have killed un in my gert wrath, but for t’other. Walloped un to the truth of music I did—philandering beast! ’Tis pearls afore swine, missis to mate with him.”
“Fegs! You’m right theer. I’ve said afore an’ I’ll say again that she should have bided longer an’ tried for her cousin. He’m worth ten of t’other chitterin’ magpie; an’ ban’t feared o’ work neither,” declared Mr. Ash.
“Wait!” murmured Jonah darkly and with mystery in his voice. Then he whispered behind his hand to the ancient. “Cherry Grepe had a gawlden half-sovereign! I knaw what’s in that woman, if she’s pleased to let it out. Bide an’ see. An’ her didn’t burn the chap in a wax image stuffed with pins for nought! ‘That’ll do the trick presently,’1 her said. So wait an’ watch, Churdles, same as I be doin’.”
Mr. Ash looked uneasy, but answered nothing. Then came a sudden interruption.
Sally was serving at the cider barrel and had just poured out a horn of sweet refreshment for a thirsty man. It was Mr. Libby, who, in working clothes to-day, had condescended to manual labour once more. Time being an object with the hay, Mr. Cramphorn offered the youth a week’s employment, so, much to the secret satisfaction of one who loved him, Mr. Libby became enrolled. Now the supreme moment was at hand, and while Sally laughed, her heart throbbed in a mighty flutter and beat painfully against a little bottle in her bosom. It contained the philtre, now to be exhibited on the cold heart of Gregory. Danger indeed lurked in this act, but Sally felt steeled to it and well prepared to hazard any reasonable risk. Only the previous evening she had seen Mr. Libby and her sister very close together in the gloaming. Moreover, her father had babbled far and near of the incident on the moorland road, and certain men and women, to her furious indignation, had not hesitated to hint that only an unmaidenly and coming-on spirit could culminate in such tribulation.
Now she passed for one instant behind the rick, drew forth the phial, took out its cork with her teeth and poured the potion into Mr. Libby’s horn of cider. Gregory, his holiday airs and graces set aside, thanked the girl, gave a grateful grunt of anticipation, and drained the beaker at a draught.
“That’s better!” he said. Then he smacked his lips and spat. “Theer’s a funny tang to it tu. ’Twas from the cask—eh?”
“Ess, of course; wheer should it be from?” said Sally. Then she fluttered away, scarcely seeing where she walked.
The boy, Tommy Bates, was sitting beside Libby, and a moment later he spoke.
“Lard, Greg! what’s tuke ’e? You’m starin’ like a sheep.”
“Doan’t knaw, ezacally. I’m—I’m——”
“You’m gone dough-colour, an’ theer’s perspiration come out ’pon ’e so big as peas!” cried candid Tommy.
“I’m bad—mortal bad—‘struth, I be dyin’ I b’lieve! ’Tis here it’s took me.”
He clapped his hands to his stomach, rolled over on the ground and groaned, while his companion hastened to cry the catastrophe.
“Greg Libby’s struck down! He’m thrawin’ his life up, an’ wrigglin’ an’ twistin’ like a gashly worm!”
“Ah, I seed un wi’out his hat,” said Mr. Ash calmly.
“A bit naish an’ soft, I reckon; comes o’ not standin’ to work,” spoke Henry Collins contemptuously.
“Or might be tu much cider,” suggested Pinsent.
Without undue haste they strolled over to the sufferer. His head was in Sally’s lap, and she screamed that he was passing away before their eyes.
“Put the poll of un off your apern, will ’e!” snapped Mr. Cramphorn. “Give awver hollerin’, an’ get on your legs, an’ run home to Mrs. Loveys for the brandy. The man’s took a fit seemin’ly. An’ you, Bates, slip it down the hill for Doctor Clack. Loose his shirt to the throat, Collins, and drag un in the shade.”
Jonah’s orders were complied with, and soon, brandy bottle in hand, Mrs. Loveys hastened to the hay field with Sally sobbing behind her. But meantime Nature had assisted Mr. Libby to evade the potion, and a little brandy soon revived his shattered system. He was sitting up with his back against the hayrick describing his sensations to an interested audience when Doctor Clack arrived. The physician, who loved well the sound of his own voice, lectured on the recumbent Libby as soon as he had learnt particulars.
“First let me assure you all that he’s in no danger—none at all,” he began. “Nature is more skilful, more quick-witted, more resourceful than the most learned amongst us. Even I, beside Nature, am as nothing. I should have ordered an emetic. Behold! Nature anticipates me and takes all the necessary steps. Really one might have suspected a case of Colica Damnoniensis—which doesn’t mean a damned stomach-ache, as you might imagine, having no Latin, but merely ‘Devonshire Colic’—an old-time complaint—old as cider in fact—but long since vanished. It was caused by the presence of deleterious substances, or, as you would describe it more simply, dirt, in the apple-juice; and those eminent men, Doctor John Huxham and Sir George Baker, arrived at the conclusion some hundred years ago that the ailment arose from presence of lead in the cider vats. Nowadays such things cannot happen; therefore, to return to our friend here, we must seek elsewhere for an explanation of his collapse. Whatever he was unfortunate or unwise enough to partake of has happily been rejected by that learned organ, the human stomach—so often wiser than the human head—and my presence ceases to be longer necessary. A little more brandy and water and our friend will be quite equal to walking home.”
Myles and Honor had now reached the scene, and the mistress of Endicott’s insisted that a cart should convey Gregory to his mother. The unconscious victim of love therefore departed making the most of his sufferings.
Sally also withdrew from the toil of the day, retired to her little bedroom in Mr. Cramphorn’s cottage near Bear Down, and wept without intermission for a space of time not exceeding two hours. She then cheered up and speculated hopefully upon the future.
To explain these matters it need only be said that, like many a better botanist before her, the girl had mistaken one herb of the field for another, and, instead of gathering innocent wild chamomile, collected good store of mayweed—a plant so exactly like the first to outward seeming that only most skilled eyes detect the differences between them. Thus, instead of receiving the beneficent and innocuous Matricaria chamomilla, Mr. Libby’s stomach had been stormed by baleful Anthemis cotula, with the results recorded.
Notes
1 Presently = immediately.