HOW BURROUGH WALKED WITH BEATRICE.

Towards evening Burrough had the vision again. In the interval he had made inquiries. Her name was Beatrice Pentreath; her home was in Cornwall; and she lived with a maiden aunt of uncertain age. They came upon Dartmoor every summer. The woman who cleaned Burrough’s cottage had a poor opinion of the young lady, because it was her custom to ride astride like a man, she was shamelessly plainspoken, and had a disgusting habit of using tobacco in the form of cigarettes.

“And she’s been seen on the moor, naked—naked, sir,” went on the matron in a tragic manner.

Further questioning elicited the statement that Miss Beatrice went up Taw Marsh sometimes to bathe in one of the river pools; and after bathing she would run about to dry herself. There was nothing very shocking about that, the region being exceedingly lonely, and the chances of the young lady being detected in her Garden of Eden gambols therefore exceedingly slight.

“Who saw her?” Burrough asked.

“Don’t matter who saw her,” said the matron severely. “She was seen from Oke Tor. Not even a towel round her, sir.”

“Oke Tor is a long way from the river,” Burrough said, and added impatiently, “Why shouldn’t she bathe? I have been up there to bathe too.”

“You’re a gentleman, sir,” the good woman reminded him.

Burrough was not listening. He was thinking how well that tinted skin would look against the pink heather and grey granite. He thought too of the little pool of black trout at the secret nook, where he had discovered the footprint and the piece of paper, and he wondered if she had ever bathed there.

It was in the village Burrough met her. She was alone. At first he thought he would turn back, as the sight of her made him nervous; but he reflected she had probably seen him, and his flight would look ridiculous. He decided to pass her, and bow if she chose to acknowledge his presence.

“Good evening,” she said, as they drew together.

His first impression had been correct. That face was maddening. He stopped, feeling as though he had just swallowed something strong and burning. He looked down, and saw a tiny tan shoe nestling in the dust beside his big boot. He looked up, and caught her eyes. He did not know how she was dressed; but he was aware she was bare-headed, and that her hair was dark-brown. He could smell syringa, and he supposed she was wearing some of that which she had obtained from the Vicar during the rain-storm.

“Are you going for a walk?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m off duty. My auntie is as sleepy as a dormouse, and is hugged over the fire. The room was too hot for me, so I came out among the moths and beetles—and—it’s lonely dull in the evenings.”

The scented languorous atmosphere of early summer was about them, that atmosphere so dangerous to youth and innocence. Burrough felt the charm working upon him with every breath of that warm air. There was too much fragrance. In winter there was not enough. In his cottage there was the odour of stale tobacco and the musty smell of books. It was “lonely dull” in the evenings there.

“Have you ever seen the aftermath from the top of the village?” he asked her timidly.

“Let me think,” said she, laughing, but a trifle puzzled.

“I mean the glow in the sky above High Willhays,” he explained.

“I’ve seen it,” she replied; then added, “And I should like to see it again.”

Side by side they began to ascend the hill. Burrough had only once before been a maiden’s squire. While living in London he went one night to a music hall, and found himself sitting next to a girl who was unaccompanied. A remark led up to a conversation. After the entertainment he had the politeness to escort her as far as her door-step. The following Sunday he met her by appointment and they walked in the Park. She was a good-looking girl, and he thought he would improve her mind. The girl, however, did not want her mind improved. After she had met the young man a few times, and found that he had not the sense or inclination to respond to the hints she gave him, she transferred her affections to someone more demonstrative.

Of course the shop-girl of the London days was not to be thought of in comparison with the young lady at his side. He thought of Beatrice’s bathing exploits, and the drying process found favour in his eyes. It showed virtue, naturalness, freedom of soul, and purity of mind. No prude would do such a thing as expose herself to Nature, because it is a commonplace that a prude is at heart a rake.

“You live in a little crooked house?” Beatrice said suddenly.

“Cottage,” he amended. “Quite a shell. I feel that I ought to carry it about with me like a snail.”

“And you walk a crooked mile to get to it, and you have a crooked cat,” she went on, with a gasp of laughter, humming the old nursery rhyme. “You must take care you don’t become a crooked man,” she added.

“How do you know about me or my cat?” he asked her.

“You live in a Dartmoor village, and ask me that question. Don’t you know that your down-sittings and up-risings are known long before? The villagers have nothing to do but gossip. Whenever I want to know how I am getting on, I go and ask one of them. If you cannot remember how you have spent your time, they will enlighten you, and add side-lights upon your character which are both instructive and interesting. Old Ann Cobbledick, our landlady, has told me your history; and if you are interested in the future she will tell you that too. You are a source of great vexation to Ann.”

“Why?” asked Burrough.

“She wants you to have a housekeeper, so that she may have a new scandal to discuss and circulate. Of course, there is plenty of scandal about you, but there does not appear to be anything very solid to build upon. I may tell you that Ann is quite prepared to sacrifice a niece of hers for the benefit of herself and of the village in general. Do you think you will be public-spirited enough to accept the girl’s services, and make the poor people happy?”

Burrough laughed, and ventured to glance at the distracting profile of this plain-spoken young lady. Really, it was quite easy to chat with her. With the shop-girl there had been innumerable difficulties. Her conversation had consisted chiefly of monosyllables, with such phrases as, “Go on,” “Well, I never,” and “That’s all right.” The shop-girl and the doddering old Vicar would have suited each other admirably. Burrough could not resist the conclusion that Beatrice and he were equally well matched.

“I have a bone to pick with you,” he said in a deferential manner.

“With me! Why, before this morning you had never——” She stopped, as if mindful of the informality of their introduction, then rattled on merrily, “What sort of a bone?”

“People who go painting should not spoil the beauties of Nature by dropping waste-paper,” Burrough went on.

“They should not,” Beatrice agreed. “But they do. It’s beastly of them.”

“Pieces of paper smeared with paint,” said Burrough.

“Torn into pieces, and scattered all over the place,” she added tragically.

“No, rolled into a ball, and dropped beside the river,” he concluded.

“Oh, my dear little life! It’s the ghost! The very pisky itself! To be regardless of grammar, it’s him!” laughed Beatrice.

Burrough sought to learn why she made merry at his expense. Thereupon the young lady drew herself up, glanced at him wickedly, and imitating his voice and manner, said like a saucy parrot:

“People who go smoking should not absolutely ruin the beauties of Nature by dropping matches and cigarette-ends about.”

“They were not conspicuous,” Burrough urged somewhat lamely.

“Cigarette-ends stained with tobacco juice, and half-burnt wax-matches,” she went on ruthlessly.

“I thought they were hidden by the bracken,” he pleaded.

“They are scattered all over the grass beside the river,” she said.

“I am guilty,” he confessed.

“I could not think who the man was who had discovered my hiding-place,” Beatrice rattled on. “I discovered it during my childhood, in those happy days when I would rush about the moor with nothing on but a rag of a frock, a jersey, and pair of sandals. I wish I might do it now! I thought nobody knew of that place except myself, until I saw the cigarette-ends. I sighed, and said, ‘le jeu est fait.’ How did you know I was the trespasser?”

“By the piece of paper,” Burrough answered foolishly.

“I haven’t the slightest remembrance of writing my name upon it,” she said.

“You left the marks of your paint-brushes, red marks and blue marks,” he rambled on.

“You looked at them, and you said, said you, ‘Sure, and ’tis Beatrice Pentreath entirely!’ That was cleverer than telling fortunes by coffee-grounds.”

Driven to desperation Burrough divulged a portion of the truth. He would not own how he had measured the footprint.

“I saw your footprints at the edge of the bog—ninety-nines,” she murmured. “You ought to have taken an impress, and gone to a cobbler, and got him to make you a slipper. Then you should have collected all the girls in the neighbourhood, and tried the slipper on each one until you found Cinderella. I shouldn’t have let you try it on me, for I think I have got a big hole in my stocking. I can’t understand how you recognised me by my footprint. It’s the same as any other girl’s.”

“Isn’t it smaller?” he suggested.

“Do you think so? There!” she exclaimed, putting out a tiny shoe, and twisting the foot about. “It’s not very large, is it?”

Burrough felt something ringing in his ears. An almost irresistible longing swept over him, urging him to kneel and press his lips upon that thinly-covered ankle. It was curious, because the shop-girl of his London days had not affected him in the least. He had been perfectly cool and level-headed in her presence.

“No, it’s not large,” Beatrice said, answering her own question with perfect truth and innocence. “I shall have to cover my tracks in future, or else wherever you go you will see them, and say, ‘There’s that girl of the paint-pot.’ ”

“What do you paint?” Burrough asked, thankful to find a question.

“Anything,” she laughed. “I painted a most lovely sunset, and when I showed it to my auntie she pointed to one of my pink clouds, and said, ‘Oh, my dear, how prettily you have painted the heather!’ Then she mistook the setting sun for a lump of granite, and a beam of light for the river, so I made the discovery that my sunset was after all quite a nice picture of moorland scenery. I can never do the right thing. Last year I made a study of a sheep’s face—just the face and nothing else—and showed it to old Y. That’s the vicar. He was so pleased. Before I could explain anything he declared it was the best likeness of himself he had ever seen, and wanted to know how I had done it without his knowledge. For the future I shall label my works of art. Every picture wants labelling. A big painter showed me a picture he had just done once, and I made him so angry because I said I couldn’t see any stockings. I thought it was meant for Christmas Eve, and the father was bringing in presents for the kiddies; and it was really the murder of the two young princes in the Tower.”

Beatrice rattled on in this lively strain for some time, while her companion listened intently and laughed in a subdued fashion. Somehow he could not rid himself of the idea that Miss Pentreath, the girl’s Aunt, might not approve of this tête-à-tête. In the meantime it had grown dark. White moths fluttered here and there, and the beetles boomed.

“I thought we were going up on the moor to see the afterglow. Here we are in the lane which has no turning and goes nowhere,” Beatrice exclaimed. “And the dew is falling. My hair is quite wet.” She passed her hand across the brown curls, and caressed them into their proper place. Then she turned to him with a smile. In that voluptuous gloom her face was more distracting than ever.

“You have told me nothing about the little crooked house,” she said.

Burrough winced. Her remark suggested everything that was sacred and tender and purely passionate. He imagined her there. Already he loved her in his quiet self-restrained fashion. Only to have her there, to worship, to care for, protect and adore; to kiss that tiny foot; and aspire at last to those ruby-red lips and that maddening little nose. But it was not to be thought of. Dainty Beatrice, in her silks and laces, beneath the tin roof of his wild moorland cottage home. It would be asking the princess to become Cinderella. He caught a glimpse of her lace-trimmed petticoat as she walked, and he thought of the bog near his cottage, and of the gorse and granite beside its door.

“And they all lived together in a little crooked house,” she hummed thoughtlessly.

“Well,” said she, “you must describe it to me another time.”

“Are you going to the secret nook to-morrow?” he asked eagerly.

“Perhaps,” she said. “To paddle.”

“Then I must not be there.”

“I might postpone the paddling,” she went on. “Let me see. To-morrow: In the morning I shall take Auntie for a toddle, if she’s good. In the afternoon I shall put her into a chair, and give her a sermon to read, and a heap of stockings to mend. Then ‘Ho and away for the riverside!’ ”

“If I brought a kettle…” began Burrough timidly.

“I might provide a basket of buttered splits,” the girl said delightedly.

Never had the cottage on the moor appeared so dreary to its owner as it was that summer’s night. He went in, lit his lamp, and sat for some time motionless, with his hands upon his knees, while the big moths passed through the open window to bombard the lamp-shade. Presently he felt something against his legs, and looking down he beheld Peter with a rat in his mouth. It was a gift for the master, and the cat put it down upon the carpet and purred in noisy triumph.

“What have you done, King o’ the Cats?” said Burrough sorrowfully. “Wilfully and with malice doing murder on this peaceful night, and presenting your ghastly victim at my feet. Shame on you, Lord of Darkness! This rat may have been a king’s daughter, a brown-haired princess, metamorphosed by some vile magician. What, my green-eyed monster, did you imagine I should come home weary and hungry, and did you decide therefore to serve me up savoury meat? Eat it yourself, my Pete, for I have no appetite. And, tell me truly, do you not think Beatrice is the sweetest and most adorable name between the lowest earth and the highest heaven?”