THE TORCH

In my opinion there’s hardly an acre of Dartmoor as wouldn’t set forth a good tale, if us could only go back along into time and get hold of it.  Anyway, there’s a ’mazing fine thing to be told about Vitifer Farm; and you don’t want to go back far, neither, for it all happened but ten year ago.

Vitifer is one of the “tenement” farms and don’t belong to the Duchy; and Furze Hill farm, which adjoins Vitifer, be likewise land handed down from father to son from generations forgot.  The “tenements” are scattered over Dartmoor, mostly in the valleys of East and West Dart; but Vitifer and Furze Hill stood together half a mile distant from the famous Vitifer tin mine that lies in the wild ground west of Hameldon.  And Joe Gregory farmed Vitifer when this fearful thing fell out, and his brother Amos Gregory was master at Furze Hill.

The Duchy had long desired the land, for ’tis Duchy’s rule to snap up the tenement farms as they fall in the market, and indeed few will soon remain in private possession; but for the minute the two brothers—­middle-aged bachelors both—­held on where their forefathers had worked before them time out of mind, and it looked almost as though they was going to be the last of the ancient name to resist the over-lord of Dartmoor; for men come and men go; but Duchy lasts for ever and, no doubt, will have all it wants to the last rood afore many years be past.

One of the next generation, however, still stood for the Gregory race, and he was a nephew to Joe and Amos.  A third brother they had, but him and his wife were dead, and their only son lived with Joe and was thought to be his heir.  Ernest Gregory he was called, and few thought he’d make old bones, for the young man was pigeon-breasted and high-coloured and coughed a good bit when first he came up from the “in country” to the Moor.

Along with his uncle, however, he put on flesh and promised better.  Fair and gentle he was—­a quiet, timid sort of chap, who kept pretty much to himself and didn’t neighbour with the young men and maidens.  He was said to be vain behind his silence and to reckon himself a good deal cleverer than us Merripit people; but I never found him anything but well behaved and civil spoken to his elders, and I went so far sometimes as to ask his Uncle Amos why for he didn’t like the man.  Because the master of Furze Hill never did care about Ernest, though Joe Gregory, with whom the young fellow lived at Vitifer, thought very highly of him indeed.

And Amos confessed he hadn’t got no deep cause to dislike his nephew.

“To be plain, ’tis a woman’s reason and no more,” admitted Amos.  “Ernest have got a glide in his eye, poor chap, and God knows that’s not a fault, and yet I never can abide that affliction and it would put me off an angel from heaven if the holy creature squinted.”

It was a silly prejudice of the man, and in time I think he got it under and granted that you did ought to judge a person by their acts and not by their eyes; but human nature has its ingrained likes and dislikes, and I for one couldn’t question Amos, because I hate a hunchback, and I wouldn’t trust one of they humped people—­man or woman—­with anything that belonged to me.  The broadest-minded of us have got a weak spot like that somewhere and hate some harmless thing if ’tis only a spider.