The Torch and Other Tales Part 16

"Thousands o' dozens of saplings with those hands you planted, and saw lift up to be trees," answered Meadows, "and scores of dozens of timber you've felled; and now, if you've took your tea, Silas, I'd have you tell these chaps the story of Weaver Knowles, because you'll do it better than what I can."

The old man sparked up a bit.

"For my part, knowing all I know, I never feared the Hound's Pool," he said, "though a wisht place in the dimpsey and after dark as we know. But when a lad I drew many a sizeable trout out of it--afore your time, John, when it weren't poaching to fish there as it be now. Not that I ever see the Hound; but I've known them that have, and if I don't grasp the truth of the tale, who should, for my grandfather acksually knowed the son of old Weaver Knowles, and he heard it from the man's own lips, and I heard it from grandfather when he was eighty-nine year old and I was ten."

"Then we shall have gospel truth for certain," said Harry Wade, with his eyes on Millicent Meadows.

"Oh, yes," answered Silas, "because my grandfather could call home the taking of Canada and many such like far-off things, so that shows you the sort of memory he'd gotten. But nowadays the learning of the past be flouted a good bit and what our fathers have told us don't carry no weight at all. Holy spells and ghostesses and--"

"You get on to Hound Pool, Silas," said John Meadows, "because Parsloe will have to go to his work in ten minutes."

"The solemn truth be easily told," declared Mr. Belchamber. "Back along in dim history there was a weaver by name of Knowles who lived to Dean Combe.

Him and his son did very well together and he was a widower with no care but for his work. Old Weaver, he stuck to his yarn and was a silent and lonely fas.h.i.+on of man by all accounts. Work was his G.o.d, and 'twas said he sat at his loom eighteen hours out of every twenty-four. Then, coming home one evening, the man's son heard the loom was still and went in and found old Knowles fallen forward on the top of his work, dead. So they buried him at Buckfastleigh.

"Then young Knowles, coming home to his empty house after the funeral, suddenly heard the music of the loom and thought his ears had played him false. But the loom hummed on and he crept up over to see who was weaving.

In a pretty good rage he was, no doubt, to think of such a thing; but then his blood turned from hot to cold very quick, I warn 'e, for there was his father sitting on the old seat and working weft through warp as suent and clever as if he was alive!

"Well, young Knowles he glared upon his dead parent and felt the hair rising on his nidd.i.c.k and the sweat running down his face; but he kept his nerve pretty clever and crept away and ran for all his might to the village and went to see Parson. They believed more in those days than what they do now, and Parson, whatever he may have thought, knew young Knowles for a truth-teller and obeyed his pet.i.tion to come at once. But the good man stopped in the churchyard and gathered up a handful of sacred ground; and then he went along to the dead weaver's house.

"Sure enough the loom was a-working busy as ever; but it couldn't drown Parson's voice, for he preached from one of they old three-decker pulpits, like a s.h.i.+p o' war, and his noise, when the holy man was in full blast, would rise over a thunderstorm.

"'Knowles! Knowles!' he cried out; 'Come down this instant. This is no place for you!'

"And then, hollow as the wind in a winter hedge, the ghost made answer.

"'I will obey so soon as I have worked out my quill, your reverence,'

replied the spirit of Weaver Knowles, and Parson didn't raise no objection to that, but bade the dead man's son kneel down; and he done so; and the priest also knelt and lifted his voice in prayer for five minutes.

"Then the loom stopped and old Knowles came forth and glided downstairs; and not a step creaked under him, for young Knowles specially noted that wonder when he told my grandfather the adventure.

"At sight of Old Weaver, Parson took his churchyard dust and boldly threw it in the face of the vision, and afore you could cross your heart the shadow had turned into a gert black dog--so dark as night. The poor beast whimpered and yowled something cruel, but Parson was short and stern with it, well knowing you can't have half measures with spirits, no more than you can with living men if you will to conquer 'em. So he takes a high line with the weaver, as one to be obeyed.

"'Follow me, Knowles,' he said to the creature. 'Follow me in the name of the Father, Son, and Ghost'; which the forlorn dog did do w.i.l.l.y-nilly; and he led it down the Burn, to Hound's Pool, and there bade it halt. Then the man of G.o.d took a nutsh.e.l.l--just a filbert with a hole in it bored by a squirrel--and he gave it boldly into the dog's mouth.

"'Henceforth,' he said, 'you shall labour here to empty the pool, using nought but this nutsh.e.l.l to do so; and when you have done your work, but no sooner, then you shall go back whence you came.'

"And the Hound will be on the job till the end of the world afore he gets peace, no doubt, and them with ears to hear, may oft listen to a sound in the water like the rattling of a loom to this day; but 'tis no more than that poor devil-dog of a Knowles at his endless task."

Millicent poured the old man another cup of tea and Parsloe went to work and Wade applauded the tale-teller.

"A very fine yarn, uncle," he said, "and I'm glad to know the rights of it; and if the Hound brings luck, I hope I'll see him."

"More would see him if faith was there," answered old Belchamber. "But where do you find faith in these days? For all I can see the childer taught in school don't believe in nothing on earth but themselves. In fact, you may say a bald head be a figure of scorn to 'em, same as it was in the prophet's time."

"Youth will run to youth, like water to the sea," said Harry Wade. "But a very fine tale, master, and I hope I may be the next to meet thicky ghost Hound I'm sure."

"You've had your luck, Mr. Wade, by all accounts," laughed Millicent, but the returned native was doubtful. They chatted and he told 'em some of his adventures and how, at the last gasp, prospecting along with two other men, they had found a bit of gold at last.

"Not any too much for three, however," said Harry; "but enough for a simple customer like me. They say lucky in life unlucky in love; but I much hope I haven't been too lucky in life to spoil my chance of a home-grown partner."

Mr. Belchamber departed then, because he was rather tired after his tale, but Harry stopped on, because Mrs. Meadow had took a liking to his talk and found he'd got a very civil way with old women. He'd listen to her and, as she loved to chatter, though she'd got nothing whatever to say, as so often happens with the great talkers, his attention pleased her and she asked him if he'd bide to supper. And Millicent liked him also, being drawn to the man by his account of great hards.h.i.+ps and perils borne with bravery; for though Harry wasn't the hero of his own tales no more than his mates had been, yet he had gone through an amazing lot and done some bold and clever things. And the girl, being one of the timid sort, liked to hear of the courage of a man, as they will. Wade was an open speaker, and had no secrets from 'em. He confessed that he'd got a clear four hundred pounds a year out of his battle with life.

"Not much for what I endured," he said, "yet a lot more than many poor chaps, who went through worse. And now I'm in a mind to settle down and find a bit of work and stick to Dean Prior for evermore."

Mrs. Meadows laughed at her daughter when Harry was gone, for she had quick senses and was a good bit amused to see her shy girl open out and show interest in the man; but to chaff Millicent was always the way to shut her up, and she wouldn't let her mother poke fun at her.

"Now I'll never see him again," vowed Millicent, "and all along of you, mother, for I'd blush to the roots of my hair if he spoke to me any more while I knew your cruel sharp eye was on me."

However, see him again she did, because Wade had asked 'em all to come and drink tea long with him and witness the curiosities he'd fetched home from Australia; and though the girl made a hard try to escape the ordeal, her father bade her go along with him. Mrs. Meadows didn't go when the day came, because she weren't feeling very well; and out of her ailments sprang a surprising matter that shook 'em all to the roots.

Harry Wade lived in a little house all alone and did for himself very clever as old campaigners know how to do. He'd planned a very nice meal for 'em and laid out his treasures and was very sorry when John and his daughter explained the absence of Mrs. Meadows. And sorrier still he declared himself to be when they cut their visit a bit short, because for the need to get home pretty quick to the suffering woman.

He was engaged for the most part with Millicent's father that visit, though he pressed food of his own cooking upon her and tried to make her chatter a bit. But he got little out of her, for she weren't a talker at best, and she couldn't forget her mother had laughed at her for being so interested in the man, and so she was shyer than usual.

But though she said nought, she liked to hear her father praise Harry as they went home along, for John thought well upon him.

"He's a man who have got a regular mind despite his dangerous past," said the old chap. "You might think such a venturesome way of life would make him reckless and lawless; but far from it. His experience have made him see the high value of law and order."

"He's brave as a lion seemingly," ventured Millicent, and her father allowed it was so.

"An undaunted man," he admitted, "and his gifts will run to waste now, because, unless you're in the police, or else a gamekeeper, there's little call for courage."

Mrs. Meadows was a lot worse when they came home and they got her to bed and put a hot brick in flannel to her feet; but she'd had the like attacks before and John weren't feared for her till the dead of night; and then she went off her head and he touched her and found she was living fire. So he had to call up his girl and explain that, for all he could tell, death might be knocking at the door.

Such things we say, little knowing we be prophets; but in truth a fearful peril threatened the Meadows folk that night, though 'twas Millicent and not her mother was like to be in highest danger.

"'Tis doctor," said John, "and I can't leave her, for she may die in my arms, so you must go; and best to run as never you run before. Go straight through Dean Wood and don't draw breath till you've got to the man."

She was up and rayed in less than no time and away quick-footed through the forest; and so swift had been her actions that she hoped to cheat her own fear of the darkness and get through Dean Woods afore she had time to quail. But you can't hoodwink Nature that way, and not long afore the trees had swallowed her up Millicent felt nameless dread pulling at her heart and all her senses tingling with terror. She kept her mind on her mother, however, and sped on with her face set before her, though a thousand instincts cried to her to look behind for the nameless things that might be following after.

'Twas a frosty night with a winter moon high in the sky, and Millicent, who knew the Woodman's Path blindfold, much wished it had been darker, for the moonlight was strong enough to show queer faces in every tree-hole and turn the shadows from the trees into monsters upon her path at every yard.

She prayed as she went along.

"My duty--my duty," she said. "G.o.d help me to do my duty and save mother!"

Then she knew she was coming close to the Hound's Pool and hesitated for fear, and wondered if she might track into the woods and escape the ordeal. But that wasn't possible without a lot of time wasted, and so she lifted up another pet.i.tion to her Maker and went on. She'd travelled a mile by now and there was another mile to go. And then she came alongside the Pool and held her hands to her breast and kept her eyes away from the water, where it spread death-still with the moon looking up very peaceful out of it. But a moment later and poor Millicent got the fearfullest shock of her life, for right ahead, suddenly without a sound of warning, stark and huge with the moonlight on his great open mouth, appeared the Hound.

From nowhere he'd come, but there he stood within ten yards of her, barring the way. And she heard him growl and saw him come forward to meet her.

One scream she gave, though not so loud as a screech owl, and then she tottered, swayed, and lost her senses. If she'd fallen to the left no harm had overtook her; but to the right she fell and dropped unconscious, face forward into Dean Burn.

The waters ran shallow there, above the Pool, yet, shallow or deep, she dropped with her head under the river and knew it not.

Many a day pa.s.sed afore the mystery of her escape from death got to Millicent's ears; but for the moment all she could mind was that presently her senses returned to her and she found herself with her back against a tree and her face and bosom wet with water. Slowly her wits worked and she looked around, but found herself a hundred yards away from the Pool. Then she called home what had befallen her and rose to her feet; and presently her blood flowed again and she felt she was safe and the peril over-got.

'Twas clear the Hound had done her no hurt and she felt only puzzled to know why for she was so wet and why, when she went fainty beside the Pool, she'd come to again a hundred yards away from it. But that great mystery she put by for another time and thanked G.o.d for saving her and cleared the woods and sped to doctor with her bad news.

And he rose up and let her in and, hearing the case was grave, soon prepared to start. And while he dressed, Millicent made s.h.i.+ft to dry herself by the heat of a dying fire. Then he put his horse in the trap and very quick they drove away up to the gamekeeper's house. But no word of her amazing adventure did the woman let drop in doctor's ear; and the strange thing was that peace had come upon her now and fear was departed from her heart.

Milly Meadows had got the influenza very bad and, guessing what he'd find, the physician had brought his cautcheries along with him, so he ministered a soothing drug and directed her treatment and spoke hopeful words about it. He was up again next day and found all going very orderly, and foretold that, if the mischief could be kept out of Milly's lungs, she'd recover in due course. So the mind of her husband and her daughter grew at peace when Milly's body cooled down; and then the girl told her father of what had befell her by Hound's Pool, and he was terrible interested and full of wonder.