Chapter VI

HOW THEY BOILED A KETTLE IN THE DEVIL’S KITCHEN.

Burrough reached the secret nook early. He proceeded in his methodical manner to make the place tidy, just as he would have tidied a room. He hid the sheep’s carcase beneath the bracken; he dusted the granite arm-chair; he cleared away the cigarette-ends and half-burnt matches. Then he made a little causeway of stones along the edge of the bog. This was for Beatrice to walk upon. He could not bear the idea of those little shoes being made muddy.

His next move was to the kitchen, a heap of rocks which no doubt had been once upon a time the abode of some Dartmoor freeholder. The original hearth had disappeared; but four stones made an excellent substitute. In the space thus enclosed Burrough placed some dry gorse, a few sticks, and some scraps of peat. His spirits rose as he worked. There was a wild charm in this outdoor life. He began to whistle; and finally burst into song--

“O, she is dead and gone! She’s dead and gone! And at her head a green grass turf, And at her heels a stone.”

This was a pill to purge melancholy; for there is a joy in feigning sadness when one is happy. Burrough flung another piece of peat on the hearthstone, and went on singing--

“And will she ne’er come again? Will she ne’er come again? Ah, no, she’s dead, and laid in her grave, For ever to remain.”

“Not she,” laughed a voice.

Burrough started from his knees. There was Beatrice on the top of an ivy-clad boulder, with a little basket upon her arm.

“Here’s the stone at my heels,” she cried, dancing lightly upon it. “But I’m still uppermost.”

“How did you come?” asked Burrough.

“On these,” said Beatrice, drawing back her short skirts and showing him the tiniest feet in the west country.

“But how did you cross the bog? I never saw you--never heard you. Have you dropped out of heaven?”

“Out of the sun, I do assure you,” she laughed. “Why, I came my usual way, and whistling all the time; but you were so busy chanting dirges you did not hear.”

“Your shoes are quite clean.”

“So are my hands. Look.”

“But there’s no way here except through the bog.”

“There is. Come and see. First of all put my basket in the larder.”

Beatrice jumped down and led the way beside the river. At the bend she dived into a hole among the rocks, and pointed out to Burrough a strip of firm ground, which, she declared, wound away among the furze-bushes to a line of rocks, by means of which the bog could be circumvented dry-shod.

“It’s a roundabout way, and nobody knows it except me,” she said. “I found it out when I was about two feet high. I came here with my sister--she’s in heaven now, poor dear!--and we were looking for the osmunda. We found thickets. I think there were more then than there are now. We used to dig up the little ones, but the roots of the big ones go down to New Zealand. We used to take them home and sell them to friends at one shilling each, and have a spree with the money. We were only kids, you know. How did you get to know of the place?”

“I found it by chance,” Burrough said. “I waded up the river one afternoon, trying to get a maidenhair fern which I saw growing in a cleft. When I landed I found myself here.”

“How did you escape?”

“I crossed the rocks and found some stones at the narrowest part of the bog. Beyond are some tussocks, which are firm, though they don’t look it. The rest of the bog will bear my weight to the foot of the hill.”

“That’s a dirty way,” cried Beatrice. “Never mind; show it me. I’ve shown you mine. We must name these crossings,” she rattled on, as they worked their way to the other end of the secret nook. “I shall call mine--what?”

“Queensway,” Burrough suggested, flushing a little.

“And yours Kingsway? Too high-flown. Let’s have something ridiculous. Go on; you’ve got brains.”

Burrough’s brains were fully occupied just then. They were entangled in the web of Beatrice’s dark-brown hair. Humbly he prayed her to be sponsor of their kingdom by the river. Immediately she was filled with suggestions and strange words.

“Then I shall call my path the Apron String,” she said. “It’s not my own invention, as there’s a neck of stones near Kynance Cove called that. The path is like a string, and it connects this corner with the apron, which is the firm ground beyond the bog. And your path--but where is it?”

“There,” said Burrough, pointing to a couple of partly submerged stones at the edge of the vivid-green bog. “Those are the grass tussocks, and that bed of scarlet moss will bear, though it quakes horribly.”

“My shoes and stockings!” Beatrice exclaimed; “what a slushy way! I should have nigger feet after going through that.”

“It’s not nearly so bad as it looks,” said Burrough, encouragingly.

“I won’t try it,” said Beatrice, decidedly. “I won’t make casts of my feet in mud-of-Dartmoor. But what shall we call this? It must be some slippery-slushing-sliding-soozling sort of name. I know! We’ll call it Skelywidden.”

“Now for the hut circle, the devil’s kitchen, and tea!” said Burrough.

“There’s this lovely little place,” she murmured, “known only to you and me. It’s ours--entirely ours.”

“Yours by right of discovery,” Burrough reminded her.

“Yours by annexation,” she said. “The Prince of Wales would claim it as Duke of Cornwall if he knew of it; but he shan’t have it, not if he comes with twenty thousand men. We’d know the reason why! I would hold the Apron String, and you would stand at bay upon Skelywidden. We would die for our country, wouldn’t we?”

She laughed merrily at her nonsense, and Burrough lost his reserve and laughed too.

“Well, it must have a name,” Beatrice declared. “A really nice name; something that would look pretty upon a map. It’s your turn to suggest something.”

“New Paradise,” Burrough suggested, somewhat lamely; and, in reply to her wondering glance, added boldly, “the vision of Danté--Beatrice.”

“Danté went to hell,” replied the girl. “I’m not a ghostly Beatrice, and I won’t have the place called Paradise, new or old. You can’t talk about Paradise without thinking of purgatory and getting shivers. Also, it’s too personal. Likewise, as you ought to know, Paradise is only used as a name for the very slummiest of slums. Now what do you say to Half-and-half Corner? Yours and mine, you know.”

“Too long,” he objected. “What do you say to Ourland?”

“Nuffin’,” lisped Beatrice, “except that it would be another injustice to poor old Oireland.”

“Then I have done,” said Burrough.

“I haven’t,” she cried. “You’re not a bit of good as a godfather. There’s a place in my native country called Blisland. It was once Blastland, which sounds sweary. I think Blisland is rather a pretty name.”

“With one ‘s’?” he asked.

“Only one there,” she said.

“We will have two here.”

“Now let’s go into the hut circle and be prehistoric people,” laughed Beatrice.

They scrambled over the rocks, and Beatrice, diving into the kitchen, began to arrange the fire, chatting frivolously all the time.

“Gugh! it’s clamp and dammy down here, and this is a silly little half-bred fireplace. Have you forgotten the matches? My s’ars--if you have! What did they do for matches when they were prehistoric? Never let the fire go out, of course. But what a business! Fancy getting up in the middle of the night! ‘My dear, you must, or the fire will go out.’ And they couldn’t go away for a week-end because of their precious fire. Where are the devil’s kettle and pans? Mr. Burrough, there’s no water in the devil’s kettle.”

“I believe it is my kettle,” said the young man gravely.

“Not now,” cried Beatrice. “This is the devil’s kitchen. People are so fond of the dear old devil. They name everything after him. They say God made the country, but they make the devil its patron. I expect they think it’s just as well to propitiate him. I wish I had the devil’s bellows, as this fire won’t burn. Oh, Tregony and Tregolls!”

“Anything the matter?” called Burrough, peering through the smoke.

“I’ve cremated myself,” wailed Beatrice. “Get an urn quick, and put me in. I shall soon be a pinch of dust, and you can use me for snuff or plate-powder. However did they live here in the days of Adam--he, she, baby, and fireplace? She would not have been bothered with frock and frills--lucky girl.”

Burrough had stooped to enter the hut circle, but dared not. He would have been too close to Beatrice, and he knew he could not trust himself. If they had bent together over the fire, their hands touching, that maddening little face close to his--it might become the devil’s kitchen indeed.”

“I believe I’m out of danger,” she sang out. “But half-a-yard of lace has gone to heaven. I hope I didn’t startle you. When I swear I always use Cornish names. They sound nicer than the usual swear-words, and you can make them mean just the same. This is a rotten fire-place. I think you had better come and be prehistoric instead of me.”

With that she came forth, sucking a scorched finger in a distracting manner, so that Burrough very wisely diverted his eyes, and began to collect bits of dry gorse. Then he descended to the hearthstone, while Beatrice lolled in the granite arm-chair and made frivolous remarks.

“They will think we are swaling,” she cried cheerily, when Burrough’s labours became rewarded by smoke and flame. “We shall be dragged before the Stannary Court upon Crockern Tor, for burning the moor in summer, and thrown into Lydford dungeon. Why did they throw people into prison? They might just as well have put them in gently. This is our own territory, so we can do what we like. Are you listening there below? If so, what is your name?”

“John,” replied a nervous voice out of the smoke.

“King John! Then we must have a Magna Charta. You must go upon the island and sign it. There is to be no tyranny in Blissland. If you try it I will appeal to the Pope. By the way, how do you write to the Pope? I should begin, ‘My dear Pope, I hope you are well. How are your gardens looking? I should love to see them, but I suppose if I come I should have to kneel and kiss your big toe, and really I couldn’t do that. What an idea!’ she rattled on; ‘expecting a girl to kiss an old man’s big toe.’ Don’t you think we ought to build a palace? I am sure we could do it. Firstly, we should dig a hole; secondly put a stone in, then another on top, and another on top of that; thirdly, make two holes, one for door, and another for window; and to conclude put the roof on. It would be quite easy.”

“The theory of palace-building is simplicity itself,” Burrough agreed. “The decoration of the interior, and the furnishing of the same, present difficulties.”

“Which appear insurmountable,” added Beatrice precisely. “Now we are two dictionaries. As for decoration we should stick ferns about, and cover the floor with bracken. As for furniture that is a needless luxury. I could furnish the place quite nicely with a few slabs of granite and some bundles of heather.”

“Slabs of granite,” repeated Burrough wonderingly. “For beds?” he asked innocently.

“No,” she said crossly. “Chairs and tables, of course. Then we should have slaves. It’s no use having a kingdom if you don’t keep slaves. When anything went wrong we should cut their heads off. The kettle is spitting! Quick! And I haven’t put out the devil’s cups and saucers. And where, oh, where, is the devil’s teapot?”

Burrough rushed to the kitchen, and brought out the kettle, bubbling and seething.

“We don’t want a teapot,” he explained. “We just shovel the tea into the kettle.”

“Gugh! how messy!” said Beatrice. “What a mad tea-party. I think,” she went on sweetly, “one pound of tea would be quite enough.”

“I have put in rather a lot,” said Burrough. “I like it strong.”

“It would appear so. I will prescribe for myself, thank you. One part essence of tea to twenty parts water. Add milk and sugar, and stir thoroughly. The mixture to be served hot.”

“I have forgotten the sugar,” said Burrough penitently. “I do not take it myself. I am exceedingly sorry.”

“I must curse you,” said Beatrice. “It is very sad, but I must. You shall have a nightmare, and be beaten with sugar-canes, and suffocated beneath a mountain of brown Demerara. Now don’t say sugar is unnecessary in my case. I can see you are going to; but it is very necessary. I feel a wild longing to have my system impregnated with it. I want to lie down and roll in it.”

Burrough persuaded her to taste the tea, and see how much nicer it was without sugar. She did so, and made a wry face; declared it was like medicine; that she would as soon drink vinegar; that it set her teeth on edge and made her miserable. Then she forgot her troubles, and turned out the contents of her basket.

“If I were a dishonest person I would say I made this saffron cake,” she rattled on. “Being as clear as the noon-day, I will own that Auntie was the architect. Auntie is very Cornish. Her pasties are works of art and her saffron cakes are symphonies. Her dutiful niece does not take after her much. When she tries to make saffron cake it’s as likely as not that a Christmas plum-pudding is the result.”

The sun had worked its way round the precipice of bog, and as the girl finished speaking a long ray flashed into Blissland and made a glory of her dark-brown head.

“How long are you staying here?” Burrough asked suddenly.

“Until I have eaten some more bread-and-butter, two pixy cakes, and smoked one cigarette,” said she.

“I mean in the village--in Lew,” he went on, with an earnestness he could not conceal.

“Ages I expect. Until the bracken turns golden. We shall go with the swallows. When you see Auntie and me on the wall beside Mrs. Cobbledick’s, twittering and arranging our feathers, you will know we are about to fly away. Don’t you find it dreary here in the winter?”

“It is,” he said, with more emphasis than he intended.

“Mud and mist?” she suggested.

“Silence and desolation,” he continued.

“Why do you…?” she asked, with a slight hesitation, regarding him for the first time with some seriousness.

“Because I must,” he answered, looking down. “I cannot keep in good health anywhere else.”

“Never mind,” said Beatrice sweetly. “If you live here a little longer you will get strong enough to live anywhere. The villagers here would live as long as they liked if they didn’t drink so. How do you pass the evenings in winter?”

“Thinking, smoking, dreaming,” he answered with a smile.

“Always alone?”

“With Peter, my cat.”

“And you talk to Peter?”

“I tell him everything.”

Beatrice hummed softly. Then she settled herself snugly in the granite chair, and begged a cigarette. When it was lighted, she said, in child-like tones, “Please tell me a story.”

Burrough hesitated. He felt he was approaching dangerous ground.

“Go on,” she said impatiently. “A fairy-story.”

“You know them all,” he said. “You are a Cornish girl.”

“Tell me something new, pretty, and a wee bit sentimental, while I’m serious,” she commanded.

Thus adjured Burrough commenced--

“Once upon a time there was a princess, who was so beautiful that it was considered there was no man in the world worthy to be her husband----”

“Did she think so herself?”

“I do not know,” he answered. “She was a Cornish princess, and therefore she could not help being beautiful.”

“Skip all that, and come to her best boy,” said Beatrice, with signs of returning frivolity.

“She had three lovers, all kings, of course,” Burrough went on. “There was the king of Biggletubben, who was very rich; the king of Amalebria, who was very learned; and the king of Trevalyor, who was neither rich nor powerful, and his kingdom was very small and very poor.”

“So she told him to run away home, and promised to send him a picture post-card at Christmas,” said irreverent Beatrice.

“She couldn’t do that. He might have declared war upon her,” Burrough went on. Trevalyor was not a Cornish prince. His kingdom was in Devonshire, and it was poor, because it consisted of rocks and bogs.”

Beatrice hummed again. “I must be careful what I say about the king of Trevalyor,” she thought.

“The king of Biggletubben promised the princess all the finest jewels in the world, and everything else that her heart could desire. The king of Amalebria promised to make posterity remember her by writing a poem upon her beauty. But the king of Trevalyor could do nothing, except love her passionately.”

“Didn’t the others love her?”

“Yes, in their way. But one was so wrapped up in his wealth, and the other in his learning, that it was impossible for them to love her whole-heartedly, as the king of Trevalyor did. He could think of nothing else but the princess, and his only desire was to devote himself and his whole life to her and to her happiness.”

“Well,” said Beatrice, with a fine colour. “Which of them did she take?”

“The princess could not make up her mind. She thought she would like the king of Biggletubben’s wealth, but she did not like him, because he was fat and ugly. The king of Amalebria was pale and serious, and there were deep lines of thought beneath his eyes. As for the king of Trevalyor, his kingdom was a poor and miserable one, and his palace was not much better than a hovel, and it stood right in the middle of a bog.”

“She ought to have chucked the lot and advertised,” commented the flippant voice.

“She went to see a white witch, and the witch told her if she would go to Cranmere pool and drink a little of the water, saying aloud three times the name of the king she desired to marry, she would find herself at once in love with that king, even if he were fat and ugly, like the king of Biggletubben.”

“I don’t see why the witch should have sent her to Dartmoor,” Beatrice objected, “and to Cranmere. What a beast of a witch!”

“She went,” Burrough continued. “And on the way she stopped to visit the king of Trevalyor. His kingdom was quite near Cranmere, and she had tea with him.”

“And he forgot the sugar,” murmured Beatrice to herself.

“He was the last of the three kings that she saw, and she went on to Cranmere thinking of him, and remembering the love in his eyes. She reached the pool, and gathered up some of the water in her hand.”

“I know it: Dirty slimy stuff, full of wriggling black things.”

“There she stood, making up her mind. She had only to say three times the name of King Biggletubben to be in love with him--ugliness, obesity, little pig’s eyes, and all.”

“Did she?” cried Beatrice eagerly. “Did she go in for the diamonds?”

“Unfortunately the end of the story has not come down to us,” Burrough answered. “You see it was written upon a calf-skin during the reign of King Arthur. One day the king wanted a strip of hide to fasten the Virginian creeper against the wall of his palace, so he cut off the bottom of the calf-skin. It was the part which contained the end of the story. After that nobody knew how it ended, or whether the Cornish princess chose the king of Biggletubben.”

“I ’spect she did,” Beatrice murmured. “You see, she would have been in love with him after drinking the water of Cranmere, and though I dare say the king of Trevalyor was very nice, he had only a rotten little kingdom. After a year with him she would have grown very tired of canvas petticoats and hob-nailed boots. Biggletubben would have given her silks and laces, muslins, and purple, and fine linen, and she needn’t have broken it off altogether with Trevalyor. She could have dropped him a line now and again, ‘Meet me in the middle of your kingdom, and we’ll have tea again.’ Just a platonic tea-party, of course.”

“That would not have suited Trevalyor,” Burrough said.

“Of course not. He would have wanted to live happily with her ever afterwards. But he would have to be thankful for small mercies. Do you know what I should have said to Trevalyor? I should have said, make war upon Biggletubben and Amalebria. If you can conquer them, you will have their kingdoms, and then you will be rich and powerful. If they conquer you, well--you haven’t much to lose.”

“There was no chance,” said Burrough gloomily. “Trevalyor had no means and no influence. He could not even restore his palace, and there was nothing to be had out of his boggy kingdom.”

“Then he didn’t marry no Cornish princesses,” said Beatrice. “He had to put up with Molly, the milkmaid. She wouldn’t have objected to canvas petticoats and hob-nailed boots.”

“Perhaps they didn’t wear boots,” Burrough suggested.

“My s’ars!” cried Beatrice. “No tan shoes? What horny tootsies the poor girls must have had! No use tickling their soles. They would never have felt it. And how their feet must have spread! What an age to live in: Fancy cutting a hole in the bottom of a sack, popping your head through, and saying, ‘Now I’m dressed for dinner!’”

“Perhaps the end of the story will be discovered some day,” Burrough went on. “The strip of hide, which Arthur used to nail up the Virginian creeper, may be found in the ruins of Tintagel, and then we shall know. It is quite possible that the princess did become the queen of Trevalyor after all.”

Beatrice had no reply to this; but the rose-colour came into her cheek again.

“Don’t you think it was possible?” he urged.

“Trewidden, Trewinnard, Trewint!” Beatrice hooted saucily.

It was time to go. A shadow was creeping across Blissland, and the clouds were beginning to blush above Yes Tor. The girl packed every little bit of paper into her basket, with a wicked glance at her companion, as though she would say, “Who is the sinner now?” Burrough extinguished the glowing peat in the devil’s kitchen. He plucked a handful of asphodel, and spread it over the loose paper in the basket. Beatrice smiled and nodded. Then his heart bounded. She had taken a sprig and fastened it to her waist. As they walked on Burrough felt something upon his left side, clawing and struggling, like a bird trying to escape. How much more lovely she was, he thought, wearing the river asphodel than the pale and sickly syringa.

Yet she was not lovely, not even pretty, as beauty goes. Only distracting. Mere beauty Burrough would have gazed at delightedly. It was torment to gaze upon Beatrice, and not touch her. Beauty appeals to the eye. Beatrice appealed to the five senses. He followed her, placing his feet where her tiny shoes had pressed. Once she slipped back upon him. She recovered first, and hurried on. They returned by way of the Apron String.

“We never visited the island,” she said, as they came up the hill.

“We will--the next time,” Burrough replied. “When will that be? I won’t forget the sugar.”

“I shall bring a pocketful. The next time: Oh, I shall be there next Furry-day.”

“Friday?” he queried.

“No, the eighth day of the week--Furry-day.”

“I know,” he said. “That is the Cornish _feur_--the Floralia, the survival of the Roman occupation. Don’t they dance hand-in-hand through the streets, carrying branches and flowers?”

“Yes. I’ve danced too, and I can sing the Furry-tune,” Beatrice gasped; for the hill was very steep.

“But it may be any day,” he said appealingly.

“It may,” she replied pitilessly, “any day of the week between Sunday and Saturday. Furry-day must be a fine day.”

“Then if it rains to-morrow…?” he began.

“There will be no Furry-tune.”

“If it is fine,” he went on.

“The sun will shine,” she laughed.

They parted upon the high moor at the top of the village.

“I think,” said Beatrice charmingly, as she held out her little hand, “we have enjoyed our poor lives this afternoon.”