THE
  THREE BROTHERS

  BY

  EDEN PHILLPOTTS

  AUTHOR OF "THE SECRET WOMAN," "THE AMERICAN
  PRISONER," "CHILDREN OF THE MIST," ETC.



  New York
  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
  1909
  _All rights reserved_




  COPYRIGHT, 1909,
  BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

  Set up and electrotyped.  Published January, 1909.



  _Norwood Press
  J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
  Norwood, Mass., U.S.A._




  TO
  MY BROTHER
  HERBERT MACDONALD PHILLPOTTS
  A SMALL TRIBUTE OF
  GREAT AFFECTION




THE THREE BROTHERS



BOOK I



CHAPTER I

From Great Trowlesworthy's crown of rosy granite the world extended to
the moor-edge, and thence, by mighty, dim, air-drenched passages of
earth and sky, to the horizons of the sea.  A clear May noon
illuminated the waste, and Dartmoor, soaking her fill of sunshine, ran
over with it, so that Devon's self spread little darker of bosom than
the grey and silver of high clouds lifted above her, mountainous under
the sun.

Hills and plains were still mottled with the winter coat of the
heather, and the verdure of the spearing grasses suffered diminution
under a far-flung pallor of dead blades above breaking green; but the
face of Dartmoor began to glow and the spring gorse leapt like a
running flame along it.  At water's brink was starry silver of
crow-foot, and the heath, still darkling, sheltered sky-blue milk-wort
and violet and the budding gold of the tormentil.

One white road ran due north-east and south-west across the desert, and
round about it, like the tents of the Anakim, rose huge snowy hillocks
and ridges silver-bright in the sun.  Here the venerable Archæan
granites of Dartmoor, that on Trowlesworthy blush to a ruddy splendour,
and elsewhere break beautifully in fair colour and fine grain through
the coarser porphyritic stone, suffer a change, and out of their
perishing constituents emerges kaolin, or china clay.

A river met this naked road, and at their junction the grey bridge of
Cadworthy saddled Plym.  Beyond, like the hogged back of a brown bear,
Wigford Down rolled above the gorges of Dewerstone, and further yet,
retreated fields and forests, great uplifted plains, and sudden
elevations that glimmered along their crests with the tender green of
distant larch and beech.

The atmosphere was opalescent, milky, sweet, as though earth's sap,
leaping to the last tree-tip and bursting bud, exuded upon air the very
visible incense and savour of life.  Running water and lifting lark
made the music of this hour; and at one spot on the desert a girl's
voice mingled with them and enlarged the melody, for it was gentle and
musical and belonged to the springtime.

She sat high on Trowlesworthy, where the rushes chatter and where, to
their eternal treble, the wind strikes deep organ music from the
forehead of the tor.  From the clefts of the rocks around her, where
foxes homed sometimes and the hawk made her nest, there hung now russet
tassels and tufts of dead lady-fern; and above this rack of the old
year sprang dark green aigrettes of the new.

Stonecrops and pennyworts also flourished amid the uncurling fronds;
aloft, the heath and whortle made curls for the great tor's brow;
below, to the girl's feet, there sloped up boulders that shone with
fabric of golden-brown mosses and dappled lichens, jade-green and grey.
The woodsorrel had climbed hither, and its frail bells and sparkling
trefoils glittered on the earth.

The sun shone with a thready lustre over the million flattened dead
rushes roundabout this place, and its light spread out upon them into a
pool of pale gold.  Thus a radiance as of water extended here and the
wind, fretting all this death, heightened the deception; while the
scattered rocks shone brilliantly against so much reflected light and
looked like boulders half submerged at the fringe of a glittering sea.

The girl laughed and gazed down at her home.  It was a squat grey
building half-way between the red tor and the distant bridge.  It stood
amid bright green crofts, and beside it was a seemly hayrick and an
unseemly patch of rufous light that stared--hideous as a bloodshot
eye--from the harmonious textures of the waste.  There a shippen under
an iron roof sank to rusty dissolution.

Here was Trowlesworthy Farm and a great rabbit warren that extended
round about it.

Milly Luscombe lived at Trowlesworthy with an uncle and aunt.  She was
accustomed to work very hard for her living, but for the moment she did
not work.  She only breathed the breath of spring and talked of love.

Beside her sat a sturdy youth with a red face and a little budding
flaxen moustache.  His countenance was not cast in a cheerful mould.
Indeed, he frowned and gazed gloomily out of large grey eyes at the
valley beneath him.

"I axed father in plain words if I might be tokened to you--of course,
that was if you said 'yes'--and he answered as plainly that I might
not.  You see, he was terrible up in years afore he got married
himself, and so he thinks a man's a fool to go into it young."

"How old was he then?"

"Forty-five to the day.  And he's seventy next month, though he don't
feel or look anything like so much.  He's full of old, stale sayings
about marrying in haste and repenting at leisure: and such like.  So
there it is, Milly."

The girl nodded.  She was a dark maiden with brown eyes and a pretty
mouth.  She sniffed rather tearfully and wiped her eyes with the corner
of her sun-bonnet.

"Belike your father only waited so long because the right one didn't
come.  When he found your mother, I'm sure he married her quick enough."

"No, he didn't.  They was tokened when he was forty, and kept company
for five years."

"That ban't loving," she said.

"Of course it ban't!  And yet father isn't what you might call a hard
man.  Far from it, to all but me.  A big-hearted, kindly creature and a
good father, if he could only understand more.  Like a boy in some
things.  I'm sure I feel a lot older than him sometimes.  If 'twas Ned
now, he'd be friendly and easy as you please."

"What does Mrs. Baskerville say?"

"She's on our side, and so's my sisters.  Polly and May think the world
of you.  'Tisn't as if I was like my brother Ned--a lazy chap that
hates the sight of work.  I stand to work same as father himself, and
he knows that; and when there's anything calling to be done, 'tis
always, 'Where be Rupert to?"  But lazy as Ned is, he'd let him marry
to-morrow."

"Mr. Baskerville's frighted of losing you from Cadworthy, Rupert."

The young man looked out where a wood rose south of the bridge, and his
father's farm lifted its black chimneys above the trees.

"He tells me I'm his right hand; and yet refuses, though this is the
first thing that ever I've asked him," he said.

"Wouldn't he suffer it if you promised him to do as he done, and not
marry for five years?"

"I'll promise no such thing.  Father seems to think 'tis all moonshine,
but I shall have another go at him when he comes home next week.  Till
then I shan't see you no more, for I've promised myself to get through
a mighty pile of work--just to astonish him."

"The harder you work, the more he'll want you to bide at home," she
said.  "Not that I mind you working.  All the best sort work--I know
that."

"I must work--no credit to me.  I'm like father there.  I ban't
comfortable if I don't get through a good lump of work in the day."

She looked at him with large admiration.

"Where's Mr. Baskerville gone to?"

"To Bideford for the wrestlin' matches.  He always stands stickler when
there's a big wrestlin'.  Such a famous man he was at it--champion of
Devon for nine years.  He retired after he was married.  But now, just
on his seventieth birthday, he's as clever as any of 'em.  'Twas his
great trouble, I do believe, that neither me nor Ned ever shaped well
at it.  But we haven't got his weight.  We take after my mother's
people and be light built men--compared to father."

"Pity May weren't a boy," said Milly.  "She's got weight enough."

"Yes," he admitted.  "She's the very daps of father.  She'll be a
whacker when she grows up.  'Tis a nuisance for a woman being made so
terrible beamy.  But there 'tis--and a happier creature never had to
walk slow up a hill."

Silence fell for a while between them.

"We must wait and hope," she declared at last.  "I shan't change,
Rupert--you know that."

"Right well I know it, and more shan't I."

"You're just turned twenty-three and I'm eighteen.  After all, we've
got plenty of time," said Milly.

"I hope so.  But that's no reason why for we should waste it.  'Tis all
wasted till I get you."

She put her hand out to him, and he caught it and held it.

"It might be a long sight worse," she said.  "'Tis only a matter of
patience."

"There's no need for patience, and there lies the cruelty.  However,
I'll push him hard when he comes home.  Tokened I will be to 'e--not in
secret, but afore the nation."

"Look!" she said.  "Two men riding up over.  Go a bit further off,
there's a dear."

Rupert looked where she pointed, and then he showed no little
astonishment and concern.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed.  "If 'tisn't my Uncle Humphrey Baskerville;
and Mark along with him.  What the mischief sent them here, of all
ways?  Can't we hide?"

But no hiding-place offered.  Therefore the young people rose and
walked boldly forward.

"He's going out to Hen Tor to look at they ruins, I reckon," said
Milly.  "I met your cousin Mark a bit ago, and he told me his father
was rather interested in that old rogues-roost of a place they call Hen
Tor House.  Why for I can't say; but that's where they be riding, I
doubt."

Two men on ponies arrived as she spoke, and drew up beside the lovers.

The elder exhibited a cast of countenance somewhat remarkable.  He was
a thin, under-sized man with grey hair.  His narrow, clean-shorn face
sloped wedge-shaped to a pointed chin, and his mouth was lipless and
very hard.  Grotesquely large black eyebrows darkened his forehead, but
they marked no arch.  They were set in two patches or tufts, and moved
freely up and down over a pair of rather dim grey eyes.  The appearance
of dimness, however, was not real, for Humphrey Baskerville possessed
good sight.  He was sixty-three years old, and a widower.  He passed
for a harsh, secretive man, and lived two miles from his elder brother,
Vivian Baskerville, of Cadworthy.  His household consisted of himself,
his son Mark, and his housekeeper.

"Good morning, Uncle Humphrey," said Rupert, taking the bull by the
horns.  "You know Milly Luscombe, don't you?  Morning, Mark."

Mr. Baskerville's black tufts went up and his slit of a mouth elongated.

"What's this then?" he asked.  "Fooling up here with a girl--you?  I
hope you're not taking after your good-for-nothing brother?"

"Needn't fear that, uncle."

"How's Mr. Luscombe?" asked the old man abruptly, turning to the girl.

Milly feared nobody--not even this much-feared and mysterious
person--and now she turned to him and patted his old pony's neck as she
answered--

"Very well, thank you, Mr. Baskerville, and I'm sure he'd hope you are
the same."

The tufts came down and he looked closely at her.

"You playing truant too--eh?  Well, why not?  'Tis too fine a day for
work, perhaps."

"So it is, then.  Even your old blind pony knows that."

"Only blind the near side," he answered.  "He can see more with one eye
than many humans can with both."

"What's his name, please?"

"I don't know.  Never gave him one."

They walked a little way forward, while Rupert stopped behind and spoke
to his cousin Mark.

"So you like that boy very much--eh?" said the old man drily and
suddenly to Milly.

She coloured up and nodded.

"Nonsense and foolery!"

"If 'tis, I wouldn't exchange it for your sense, Mr. Baskerville."

He made a deep grunt, like a bear.

"That's the pert way childer speak to the old folk now--is it?"

"Even you was in love once?"

"Nonsense and foolery--nonsense and foolery!"

"Would you do different if you could go back?"

He did not answer the question.

"I doubt you're too good for Rupert Baskerville," he said.

"He's too good for me."

"He stands to work--I grant that.  But he's young, and he's foolish,
like all young things.  Think better of it.  Keep away from the young
men.  Work--work--work your fingers to the bone.  That's the only wise
way.  I'm going to look at yonder ruin on the side of Hen Tor.  I may
build it up again and live there and die there."

"What!  Leave Hawk House, Mr. Baskerville?"

"Why not?  'Tis too much in the world for me and Mark."

"'Tis the loneliest house in these parts."

"Too much in the world," he repeated.

"That's nonsense and foolery, if you like," she said calmly; "I'm sure
love-making be all plain common-sense compared to that."

He pulled up and regarded her with a grim stare.

"I've found somebody to-day that isn't afraid of me, seemingly."

"Why for should I be?"

"For no reason, except that most others are.  What do they all think?
I'll tell you; they think I'm wrong here."

He tilted up his black wide-awake hat and tapped his forehead.

"Surely never!  The folk only be frightened of your great wittiness--so
I believe.  Rupert always says that you are terrible clever."

"That shows he's a terrible fool.  Don't you mate with a fool, Milly."

"I'll promise that anyway, sir."

She spoke with perfect self-possession and interested the old man.
Then he found that he was interested, and turned upon himself
impatiently and shouted to his son.

"Come on, boy!  What are you dawdling there for?"

Mark instantly dug his heels into his pony and followed his father.  He
was a youthful edition of the elder, with a difference.  Humphrey was
ill-clad, and Mark was neat.  Humphrey's voice was harsh and
disagreeable; Mark's was soft and almost womanly.  Mark also had a
smooth face and heavy eyebrows; but his features were clearer cut, more
delicate; his eyes were blue and beautiful.  He had a manner somewhat
timid and retiring.  He was not a cringing man, but a native deference
guided him in all dealings with his kind.

Before starting, Mr. Baskerville stopped, drew a letter from his
pocket, and called to Rupert.

"Take this to my brother Vivian, will you?  I was going to leave it on
the way back, but I'll not waste his time."

The youth came forward and took the letter.

"Father's away to Bideford--standing stickler for the wrestlin'," he
said.

"Good God!  At his age!  Can't an old man of seventy find nothing
better and wiser to do than run after childish things like that?"

The son was silent, and his uncle, with a snort of deep disdain, rode
forward.

"'Tis about the birthday," Rupert explained to Milly.  "In June father
will turn seventy, and there is to be a rare fuss made, and a spread,
and all the family to come round him at Cadworthy.  Of course, Uncle
Nat will come.  In fact, 'twas his idea that we should have a
celebration about it; but I doubt if Uncle Humphrey will.  He'd think
such a thing all rubbish, no doubt, for he's against every sort of
merry-making.  You see how he went just now when I told him father was
gone to the wrestlin' matches."

"Don't you mind him too much, all the same," said Milly.  "He looks
terrible grim and says dreadful things, but I don't believe he's half
in earnest.  I ban't feared of him, and never will be.  Don't you be
neither."

They left the tor and proceeded to the girl's home beneath.  The
close-cropped turf of the warrens spread in a green and resilient
carpet under their feet; and, flung in a mighty pattern upon it, young
red leaves of whortleberry broke through and spattered the miles of
turf with a haze of russet.

Rupert said farewell at the entrance; then he hastened homeward and
presently reached his family circle as it was preparing to dine.

Hester Baskerville, the wife of Vivian, was a quiet, fair woman of fine
bearing and above middle height.  She was twenty years younger than her
husband, but the union had been a happy and successful one in every
respect, and the woman's mild nature and large patience had chimed well
with the man's strong self-assertion, narrow outlook, and immovable
opinions.  Kindness of heart and generosity of spirit distinguished
them both; and these precious traits were handed to the children of the
marriage, six in number.

Ned Baskerville, the eldest son, was considered the least satisfactory
and the best looking.  Then came Rupert, a commonplace edition of Ned,
but worth far more as a responsible being.  These men resembled their
mother and both lived at home.  Young Nathan Baskerville followed.  He
was a sailor and seldom seen at Cadworthy.  The two girls of this
family succeeded Nathan.  May and Polly were like their father--of dark
complexion and inclined to stoutness; while the baby of the household
was Humphrey, a youngster of thirteen, called after the dreaded uncle.

All save Nat, the sailor, were at table when Rupert entered with his
letter, and all showed keenest interest to learn whether Mr.
Baskerville of Hawk House had accepted his invitation.

Rupert handed the letter to his mother, and she was about to put it
aside until her husband's return; but her children persuaded her to
open it.

"Such a terrible exciting thing, mother," said stout May.  "Us never
won't sleep a wink till us knows."

"I hope to the Lord he isn't coming," declared Ned.  "'Twill spoil
all--a regular death's head he'll be, and us shan't dare to have an
extra drop of beer or a bit of fun after with the girls."

Beer and a bit of fun with the girls' represented the limit of Edward
Baskerville's ambitions; and he gratified them with determination when
opportunity offered.  His father was blind to his faults and set him on
a pedestal above the rest of the family; but his mother felt concern
that her eldest son should be so slight a man.  She lived in hope that
he might waken to his responsibilities and justify existence.  Ned was
unusually well-educated, and would do great things some day in his
father's opinion; but the years passed, he was now twenty-five, and the
only great thing that he had done was twice to become engaged to marry
and twice to change his mind.  None denied him a rare gift of good
looks; and his fine figure, his curly hair, his twinkling eyes and his
mouth, when it smiled, proved attractive to many maidens.

Mrs. Baskerville left a spoon in the large beef-steak pudding and read
her brother-in-law's letter, while a cloud of steam ascended to the
kitchen ceiling.


"DEAR BROTHER VIVIAN,

"You ask me to come and eat my dinner with you on the twenty-eighth day
of June next, because on that day you will be up home seventy years
old.  If you think 'tis a fine thing to find yourself past three score
and ten--well, perhaps it is.  You can't go on much longer, anyway, and
journey's end is no hardship.  At a first thought I should have
reckoned such a birthday wasn't much to rejoice over; but you're right
and I'm wrong.  A man may pride himself on getting so well through with
the bulk of his life and reaching nigh the finish with so few thorns in
his feet and aches in his heart as what you have.  I'll come.

  "Yours faithfully,
      "HUMPHREY BASKERVILLE."


A mournful sound like the wind in the trees went up from Uncle
Humphrey's nephews and nieces.

"Be damned to him!" said Ned.

"Perhaps he won't come after all, when he hears Uncle Nat is coming,"
suggested May.  She was always hopeful.

Mrs. Baskerville turned and put the letter on the mantel-shelf behind
an eight-day clock.  Then she sat down and began to help the pudding.

"We must make him as welcome as we can, for father's sake," she said.




CHAPTER II

The hamlet of Shaugh Prior, a gift to the monks of Plympton in time
past, stands beneath Shaugh Moor at the edge of a mighty declivity.
The Church of St. Edward lifts its battlemented tower and crocketed
pinnacles above a world of waste and fallow.  It is perched upon a
ridge and stands, supported by trees and a few cottages, in a position
of great prominence.  The scant beauty that this holy place possessed
has vanished under restoration; but there yet remain good bells, while
a notable font-cover, cast forth by vanished vandals, is now returned
to its use.

Round about the church dark sycamores shine in spring, and at autumn
drop their patched and mottled foliage upon the dust of the dead.
Broad-bosomed fields ascend to the south; easterly a high road climbs
to the Moor, and immediately north of Shaugh the slopes of High Down
lead by North Wood to Cadworthy Farm and Cadworthy Bridge beyond it.

From High Down the village and its outlying habitations may be
perceived at a glance.  The cots and homesteads converge and cluster
in, with the church as the central point and heart of the organisation.
Around it dwellers from afar are come to sleep through their eternal
night, and a double row of slates, like an amulet, girdles the ancient
fane.  Here and there flash white marble in the string of grey above
the graves of the people; and beside the churchyard wall stand heaped a
pack of Time's playing cards--old, thin, and broken slates from graves
forgotten--slates and shattered slabs that have fallen away from the
unremembered dust they chronicled, and now follow into oblivion the
bones they marked.

A school, a rectory, 'The White Thorn' inn, and a dozen dwellings
constitute Shaugh Prior, though the parish extends far beyond these
boundaries; and on this spring day, one thrush warbling from a lilac
bush at a cottage door, made music loud enough to fill the hamlet.

Undershaugh Farm stood near on the great hill that fell westerly to
Shaugh Bridge, at watersmeet in the valley; and upon the land hard by
it, two men tramped backward and forward, crossing and re-crossing in
the bare centre of a field.  They were working over sown mangold and
enriching the seed under their feet by scattering upon it a fertile
powder.  The manure puffed from their hands in little golden clouds
under the sunlight.  The secret of this mixture belonged to one man,
and none grew such mangolds as he could grow.

Undershaugh was the property of Nathan Baskerville, innkeeper, and he
had let it for twenty years to a widow; but Mr. Baskerville took an
active personal interest in the welfare of his property, and Mrs.
Priscilla Lintern, his tenant, was very well pleased to follow his
advice on all large questions of husbandry and rotation.  As did the
rest of the world, she knew his worth and wisdom.

Nathan Baskerville had original ideas, and these were a source of
ceaseless and amicable argument between him and his elder brother,
Vivian Baskerville, of Cadworthy.  But Mr. Nathan's centre of activity
and nidus, from which his enterprises and undertakings took shape and
separate being, was 'The White Thorn' public-house.  Here, at the
centre of the little web of Shaugh Prior, he pursued his busy and
prosperous life.

Nothing came amiss to him; nothing seemed to fail in his hands.  He had
a finger in fifty pies, and men followed his lead as a matter of
course, for Nathan Baskerville was never known to make a bad bargain or
faulty investment.  Nor did he keep his good luck to himself.  All men
could win his ear; the humblest found him kind.  He would invest a
pound for a day labourer as willingly as ten for a farmer.  After
five-and-twenty years in Shaugh Prior he had won the absolute trust of
his neighbours.  All eyes brightened at his name.  He was wont to say
that only one living man neither believed in him nor trusted him.

"And that man, as luck will have it, is my own brother Humphrey," the
innkeeper would confess over his bar to regular visitors thereat.
"'Tis no great odds, however, and I don't feel it so much as you might
think, because Humphrey Baskerville is built on a very uncomfortable
pattern.  If 'twas only me he mistrusted, I might feel hurt about it;
but 'tis the world, and therefore I've got no right to mind.  There's
none--none he would rely upon in a fix--a terrible plight for a man
that.  But I live in hopes that I'll win him round yet."

The folk condoled with him, and felt a reasonable indignation that this
most large-hearted, kindly, and transparent of spirits should rest
under his own brother's suspicion.  They explained it as the work of
jealousy.  All Baskervilles had brains, and most were noted for good
looks; but both gifts had reached their highest development and
culmination in Nathan.  He was the handsomest and the cleverest of the
clan; and doubtless Humphrey, a sinister and secret character, against
whom much was whispered and more suspected, envied his brother's gifts
and far-reaching popularity.  Nathan was sixty, the youngest and
physically the weakest of the three brothers.  He had a delicate throat
which often caused him anxiety.

The men scattering manure upon the mangolds made an end of their work
and separated.  One took some sacks and the pails used for the
fertiliser.  Then he mounted a bare-backed horse that stood in a corner
of the field, and rode away slowly to Undershaugh.  His companion
crossed the stream beneath the village, mounted a hill beyond it, and
presently entered 'The White Thorn.'  He was a well-turned, fair,
good-looking youth in corduroys and black leathern leggings.  He wore
no collar, but his blue cotton shirt was clean and made a pleasant
contrast of colour with the brown throat that rose from it.  Young
Lintern was the widow Lintern's only son and her right hand at
Undershaugh.

The men in the bar gave him good day, and Mr. Baskerville, who was
serving, drew for him half a pint of beer.

"Well, Heathman," he said.  "So that's done.  And, mark me, 'twas worth
the doing.  If you don't fetch home first prize as usual for they
mangolds, say I've forgot the recipe."

"'Tis queer stuff," answered the youngster, "and what with this wind
blowing, my eyes and nose and throat's all full of it."

"'Twill do you no harm but rise a pleasant thirst."

Mr. Baskerville had humour stamped at the wrinkled corners of his
bright eyes.  His face was genial and rubicund.  He wore a heavy grey
beard, but his hair, though streaked with grey, was still dark in
colour.  A plastic mouth that widened into laughter a thousand times a
day, belonged to him.  He was rather above average height, sturdy and
energetic.  He declared that he had never known what it was to be weary
in mind or body.  Behind his bar he wore no coat, but ministered in
turned-up shirt sleeves that revealed fine hairy arms.

Young Ned Baskerville sat in the bar, and now he spoke to Heathman
Lintern.

"Have one with me, Heathman," he said.  "I was going down to your
mother with a message, but now you can take it and save me the trouble."

His uncle shook his head.

"Ah, boy--always the same with you.  Anybody as will save you trouble
be your friend.  'Tis a very poor look-out, Ned; for let a certain
party only get wind of it that you're such a chap for running from
work, and he'll mighty soon come along and save you all trouble for
evermore."

"And who might he be, Uncle Nat?"

"Old Nick, my fine fellow!  You may laugh, but Tommy Gollop here will
bear me out, and Joe Voysey too, won't you, Joe?  They be both born and
bred in the shadow of the church, and as well up in morals as
grave-digging and cabbage-growing.  And they'll tell you that the
devil's always ready to work for an idle man."

"True," said Mr. Gollop.  "True as truth itself.  But the dowl won't
work for nought, any more than the best of us.  Long hours, I grant
you--never tired him, and never takes a rest--but he'll have his wages;
and Ned here knows what they be, no doubt."

Ned laughed.

"I'm all right," he said.  "I shall work hard enough come presently,
when it gets to be worth while."

Mr. Gollop spoke again.  He was a stout man with a little grey beard, a
flat forehead, barely indicated under his low-growing, coarse hair, and
large brown, solemn eyes.  He and his sister were leading figures at
Shaugh Prior, and took themselves and their manifold labours in a
serious spirit.  Some self-complacency marked their outlook; and their
perspective was faulty.  They held Shaugh Prior as the centre of
civilisation, and considered that their united labours had served to
place and helped to maintain it in that position.  Thomas Gollop was
parish clerk and sexton; his sister united many avocations.  She acted
as pew-opener at the church; she was a sick-nurse and midwife; she took
temporary appointments as plain cook; she posed as intelligencer of
Shaugh Prior; and what she did not know of every man, woman, and child
in the village, together with their ambitions, financial position,
private relations, religious opinions, and physical constitutions, was
not worth knowing.

"At times of large change like this, when we are threatened with all
manner of doubts and dangers, 'tis well for every man among us to hold
stoutly to religion and defy any one who would shake us," said Mr.
Gollop.  "For my part I shall strike the first blow, and let it be seen
that I'm a man very jealous for the Lord, and the village and the old
paths."

"What's going to happen?" asked Ned.  "You talk as if Doomsday was
coming."

"Not at all," answered Mr. Gollop.  "When Doomsday comes, if I'm still
here, I shall know how to handle it; but 'tis the new vicar.  A man is
a man; and with a strange man 'tis only too terrible certain there will
creep in strange opinions and a nasty hunger for novelty."

"And what's worse," said Mr. Voysey, "a young man.  An old man I could
have faced from my sixty-five years without fear; but how can you
expect a young youth--full of the fiery silliness of the twenties--to
understand that as I've been gardener at the vicarage for forty year,
so in right and decency and order I ought to go on being gardener
there?"

"Have no fear, Joe," said Mr. Baskerville.  "If there's one thing among
us that Mr. Masterman won't change, 'tis you, I'm sure; for who knows
the outs and ins of the garden up the hill like you do?"

"'Tis true," admitted Tommy Gollop.  "That land is like a human, you
might say--stiff and stubborn and got to be coaxed to do its best; and
I'm sure he'll very soon see that only Voysey can fetch his beans and
peas out of the soil, and that it's took him a lifetime to learn the
trick of the place.  And I feel the same to the church.  If he's got
any new-fangled fashion of worship, Shaugh will rise against him like
one man.  After fifty-two years of the Reverend Valletort, we can't be
blown from our fixed ways at a young man's breath; and I'm sure I do
hope that he won't want so much as a cobweb swept down, or else
there'll be difficulties spring up around him like weeds after rain."

"What a pack of mouldy old fossils you are in this place!" said
Heathman Lintern.  "I'm sure, for my part, I hope the man will fetch
along a few new ideas to waken us up.  If 'twasn't for Mr. Baskerville
here, Shaugh would be forgot in the world altogether.  You should hear
Jack Head on the subject."

But Tommy Gollop little liked such criticism.

"You're young and terribly ignorant, and Jack Head's a red radical as
ought to be locked up," he answered.  "But you'll do well to keep your
ignorance from leaking out and making you look a ninny-hammer afore
sensible men.  Shaugh Prior's a bit ahead of the times rather than
behind 'em, and my fear always is, and always will be, that we shall
take the bit in our teeth some day and bolt with it.  'Tis no good
being too far ahead of the race; and that's why I'm afeared that this
young Masterman, when he finds how forward we are, will try to go one
better and stir up strife."

"Don't think it, Tommy," said Nathan Baskerville.  "I've had a good
tell with him and find him a very civil-spoken and well-meaning man.
No fool, neither.  You mustn't expect him to leave everything just as
Mr. Valletort left it.  You must allow for the difference between
eighty-two and twenty-eight, which is Mr. Masterman's age; but, believe
me, he's calm and sensible and very anxious to please.  He's pleased me
by praising my beer, like one who knew; and he's pleased my brother
Vivian by praising his riding-cob, like one who knew; and he'll please
Joe Voysey presently by praising the vicarage garden; and he'll please
you, Thomas, by praising your churchyard."

"If he's going to be all things to all men, he'll please none," said
Tommy.  "We've got no need of one of them easy ministers.  Him and me
must keep the whip-hand of Shaugh, same as me and the Reverend
Valletort used to do.  However, the man will hear my views, and my
sister's also; because a clear understanding from the start be going to
save a world of worry after."

"Not married," said Mr. Voysey.  "But he've a sister.  I hope she ban't
one of they gardening sort, so-called, that's always messing round
making work and finding things blowed down here or eaten with varmints
there.  If she's a flower-liking female, 'twill be my place to tell her
straight out from the shoulder that flowers won't grow in the vicarage
garden, and that she must be content with the 'dendrums in summer time
and the foxgloves and such-like homely old stuff."

"He was a football player to college and very skilled at it, so Barker
told me," said Ned Baskerville.

"Then mark me, he'll be for making a club, and teaching the young chaps
to play of a Saturday and keeping 'em out of your bar, Mr.
Baskerville," declared the parish clerk; "Yes, look at it as you will,
there's changes in the air, and I hope we'll all stand shoulder to
shoulder against 'em, and down the man afore he gets his foot in the
stirrup."

"You two--Joe Voysey and you--be enough to frighten the poor soul out
of his seven senses afore he's been in the place a week," declared Ned
Baskerville.  "And I hope for one that Uncle Nat won't go against him;
and I know father won't, for he's said this many a day that old
Valletort was past his work and ought to be pensioned off."

"Your father's not a man for unseemly changes, all the same," declared
Tommy; "and if this new young minister was to go in the pulpit in white
instead of black, for instance, as the Popish habit is, Vivian
Baskerville would be the first to rise up and tell him to dress himself
decently and in order."

But Ned denied this.

"Don't you think you know my father, Tommy, because you don't.  If this
chap gets up a football club, he'll have father on his side from the
first; and he can preach in black or white or pea-green, so long as he
talks sense through his mouth, and not nonsense through his nose, like
the old one did."

"Don't you speak for your father," said Joseph Voysey.  He was a very
tall and a very thin man, with pale, watery eyes and a scanty beard.
Nature had done so much for his long and rather absurd hatchet nose,
that there was no material left for his chin.

"If I shouldn't talk for my father, who should?" retorted Ned.  Then
Mr. Voysey descended to personalities and accused the other of
irreverence and laziness.  The argument grew sharp and Mr. Baskerville
was forced to still it.

"Come you along and don't talk twaddle, Ned," he said to his nephew.
"I'm going down to Undershaugh myself this minute, to see Mrs. Lintern,
and you and Heathman will come with me."

He called to a pot-boy, turned down his sleeves, took his coat from a
hook behind the door, and was ready to start.

"When Mr. Masterman does come among us, 'twill be everybody's joy and
pride to make him welcome in a kindly spirit," he said.  "Changes must
happen, but if he's a gentleman and a sportsman and a Christian--all of
which he certainly looks to be--then 'twill be the fault of Shaugh
Prior, and not the man's, if all don't go friendly and suent.  Give and
take's the motto."

"Yes," admitted Mr. Gollop.  "Give nought and take all: that's the way
of the young nowadays; and that'll be his way so like as not; and I'll
deny him to his face from the first minute, if he seeks to ride
roughshod over me, and the church, and the people."

"Hear!  Hear!" cried Mr. Voysey.

"We'll hope he'll have enough sense to spare a little for you silly old
blids," said Heathman Lintern.  Then he followed the Baskervilles.




CHAPTER III

Nathan Baskerville, like his brother Humphrey, was a widower.  Very
early in life he had married a young woman of good means and social
position superior to his own.  His handsome face and manifold charms of
disposition won Minnie Stanlake, and she brought to him a small fortune
in her own right, together with the detestation of her whole family.
Husband and wife had lived happily, save for the woman's fierce and
undying jealousy which extended beyond her early grave.

She died childless at eight-and-twenty, and left five thousand pounds
to her husband on the understanding that he did not marry again.  He
obeyed this condition, though it was vain in law, and presently
returned to his own people.  His married life was spent at Taunton, as
a general dealer, but upon his wife's death he abandoned this business
and set up another like it at Bath.

At five-and-thirty years of age he came back to Devonshire and his
native village.  Great natural energy kept him busy.  He dearly liked
to conduct all manner of pettifogging business, and his good nature was
such that the folk did not hesitate to consult him upon their affairs.
His legal attainments were considered profound, while his shrewd
handling of figures, and his personal prosperity, combined to place him
on a pinnacle among the folk as a great financier and most capable man
of business.  He did not lend money at interest, but was known more
than once to have helped a lame dog over a stile.  Many kind things he
did, and no man spoke a bad word of him.

People brought him their savings and begged him to invest them
according to his judgment.  They usually asked for no details, but
received their interest regularly, and trusted Nathan Baskerville like
the Bank of England.  He was in truth a large-hearted and kindly
spirit, who found his pleasure in the affection and also in the
applause of the people.  He liked to figure among them as the first.
He loved work for itself and enjoyed the universal praise of his
attainments.

Mr. Gollop might delude himself into believing that he was the leading
citizen of Shaugh; but the master of 'The White Thorn' knew better.
Without undue vanity he was not able to hide the fact that he stood
above others in the esteem of the countryside.  He was not so rich as
people thought, and he had not laid foundations of such a fortune as
they supposed during the years at Bath; but he fostered the impression
and the fame it gave him.  It suited better his native idiosyncrasy to
tower among smaller men, than to be small amidst his betters.  He liked
the round-eyed reverence of ploughboys and the curtsey of the school
children.

The late vicar, a Tory of the early Victorian age, had contrived to let
Mr. Baskerville perceive the gulf that existed between them; and that
the more definitely because Nathan was a Nonconformist.  The publican
professed strong Conservative principles, however, and the attitude of
the last incumbent of Shaugh had caused him some secret annoyance; but
he too hoped that with the advent of a younger man and modern
principles this slight disability might vanish.  For the rest he rode
to hounds, and his attitude in the hunting field was admitted to be
exceedingly correct and tactful.

He had no known confidant and he seldom spoke about himself.  That he
had never married astonished many people exceedingly; but it was
significant of the genuine affection and esteem entertained for him
that none, even when they came to learn of his dead wife's bequest and
its condition, ever imputed sordid motives to his celibacy.  Five
thousand pounds was guessed to be but a small part of Mr. Baskerville's
fortune, and, when the matter chanced upon local tongues, men and women
alike were quite content to believe that not affection for money, but
love for his dead partner, had proved strong enough to maintain Nathan
in widowhood.  He liked the company of women, and was never so pleased
as when doing them a service.  For their part they admired him also and
wished him well.

Mr. Baskerville not only owned 'The White Thorn' and its adjacencies,
but had other house property at Shaugh and in the neighbouring parish
of Bickleigh.  His principal possession was the large farm of
Undershaugh; and thither now he proceeded with his nephew, Ned
Baskerville, on one side of him and young Heathman Lintern on the other.

According to his wont Nathan chattered volubly and suited the
conversation to his listeners.

"You young chaps must both join the football club, if there is one.
I'm glad to think new parson's that sort, for 'tis just the kind of
thing we're wanting here.  You fellows, and a lot like you, spend too
much time and money at my bar to please me.  You may laugh, Ned, but
'tis so.  And another thing I'd have you to know: so like as not we
shall have a rifle corps also.  I've often turned my mind on it.  We
must let this man see we're not all willingly behind the times, but
only waiting for a bit of encouragement to go ahead with the best."

Ned pictured his own fine figure in a uniform, and applauded the rifle
corps; and Heathman did the like.

"Ned here would fancy himself a lot in that black and silver toggery
the yeomanry wear, wouldn't you, Ned?"

"'Tis a very good idea, and would help to make you and a few other
round-backed chaps as straight in the shoulders as me," declared Ned
complacently.

"Well, you may be straight," answered the other with a laugh.
"Certainly you've never been known yet to bend your shoulders to work.
A day's trout-fishing be the hardest job that ever you've taken
on--unless courting the maidens be a hard job."

Ned laughed and so did his uncle.

"You're right there, Heathman," declared Mr. Baskerville.  "A lazy
scamp you are, Ned, though your father won't see it; but nobody knows
it better than the girls.  They like you very well for a fine day and a
picnic by the river; but I can tell you this: they're getting to see
through you only too well.  They don't want fair-weather husbands; but
stout, hard fellows, like Heathman here, as have got brains and use
'em, and arms and legs and use 'em."

"No more use--you, than a pink and white china joney stuck on a
mantelshelf," said Heathman.  Whereupon Ned dashed at him and, half in
jest, half in earnest, they wrestled by the roadside.  Mr. Baskerville
looked on with great enjoyment, and helped presently to dust Heathman
after he had been cross-buttocked.

"That'll show 'e if I'm a pink and white puppet for a mantelpiece,"
declared Ned.

The other laughed and licked a scratch on his hand.

"Well done you!" he said.  "Never thought you was so spry.  But let's
have a whole day's ploughing over a bit of the five-acre field to
Undershaugh, and see what sort of a man you are in the evening."

"Not me," answered the other.  "Got no use for the plough-tail myself.
Rupert will take you on at that."

"To see you wrestle puts me in mind of your father," said Nathan.
"This generation can't call home his greatness, and beside him you're a
shrimp to a lobster, Ned; but 'twas a grand sight to see him handle a
man in his prime.  I mind actually getting him up to London once,
because I named his name there among some sporting fellows and 'twas
slighted.  They thought, being my brother, that I held him too high,
though he was champion of Devon at the time.  But my way is never to
say nought with my tongue that I won't back with my pocket, and I made
a match for thirty pounds a side for your father.  A Middlesex man
called Thorpe, from down Bermondsey way, was chosen, and your father
came up on a Friday and put that chap on his back twice in five
minutes, and then went home again fifteen pound to the good.  A very
clever man too, was Thorpe, but he never wanted to have no more to do
with your father.  Vivian weighed over fourteen stone in them days, and
not a pound of fat in the lot, I believe.  He could have throwed down a
tor, I reckon, if he could have got a hold on it.  But you fellows be
after your mother's build.  The best of you--him that's at sea--won't
never draw the beam to twelve stone."

A tramp stopped Mr. Baskerville, touched his hat and spoke.

"You gave me a bit of work harvesting two year ago, master, and you
didn't pull much of a long face when I told you I wasn't fond of work
as a rule.  I'm more broke than usual just for the minute, and rather
short o' boot-leather.  Can 'e give me a job?"

Nathan was famous at making work for everybody, and loafers rarely
appealed to him in vain.  How such an exceedingly busy man could find
it in his heart to sympathise with drones, none knew.  It was another
of the anomalies of Mr. Baskerville's character.  But he often proved
good for a square meal, a day's labour and a night's rest, as many
houseless folk well knew.

"You're the joker who calls himself the 'Duke of Drake's Island,'
aren't you?"

"The Duke of Drake's Island" grinned and nodded.  He was a worthless
soul, very well known to the Devon constabulary.

"Get up to the village and call at 'The White Thorn' in an hour from
now, and ask for me."

"Thank you kindly, Mr. Baskerville."

"We'll see about that later.  I can find a job for you to-night; but it
ain't picking primroses."

Priscilla Lintern met her landlord at the gate of Undershaugh.  They
were on terms of intimacy, and nodded to each other in an easy and
friendly manner.  She had been feeding poultry from a basin, and now
set it down, wiped her fingers on her apron, and shook hands with Ned
Baskerville.

"How be you, then?  'Tis a longful time since you called on us, Master
Ned."

"I'm clever, thank you; and I see you are, Mrs. Lintern.  And I hope
Cora and Phyllis be all right too.  Heathman here be growing as strong
as a lion--ban't you, Heathman?"

Mrs. Lintern was a brown, good-looking woman of rather more than fifty.
For twenty years she had farmed Undershaugh, and her power of reserve
surprised a garrulous village.  It was taken by the sensible for wisdom
and by the foolish for pride.  She worked hard, paid her rent at the
hour it was due, as Nathan often mentioned to her credit, and kept her
own counsel.  Very little was known about her, save that she had come
to Shaugh as a widow with three young children, that she was
kind-hearted and might have married Mr. Gollop a year after her
arrival, but had declined the honour.

Her daughters were at dinner when the men entered, and both rose and
saluted Ned with some self-consciousness.  Phyllis, the younger, was
like her mother: brown, neat, silent and reserved; the elder was cast
in a larger mould and might have been called frankly beautiful.

Cora was dark, with black eyes and a fair skin whose purity she took
pains to preserve.  She was tall, straight and full in the bosom.  Her
mouth alone betrayed her, for the lips set close and they were rather
thin; but people forgot them when she laughed and showed her pretty
teeth.  Her laugh again belied her lips, for it was gentle and
pleasant.  She had few delusions for a maiden, and she worked hard.  To
Cora belonged a gift of common-sense.  The girl lacked sentiment, but
she was shrewd and capable.  She kept her mother's books and displayed
a talent for figures.  It was said that she had the brains of the
family.  Only Mr. Baskerville himself doubted it, and maintained that
Cora's mother was the abler woman.  Phyllis was lost at all times in
admiration of her more brilliant sister, but Heathman did not like Cora
and often quarrelled with her.

Ned gave his message and asked for a drink of cider.  Thereupon Phyllis
rose from her dinner and went to fetch it.  But young Baskerville's
eyes were on Cora while he drank.  He had the manner of a man very well
accustomed to female society, and long experience had taught him that
nine girls out of ten found him exceedingly attractive.  His easy
insolence won them against their will.  Such girls as demanded worship
and respect found Ned not so agreeable; but those who preferred the
male creature to dominate were fascinated by his sublimity and
affectation of knowledge and worldly wisdom.  He pretended to know
everything--a convincing attitude only among those who know nothing.

The talk was of a revel presently to take place at Tavistock.  "And
what's your gown going to be, Phyllis?" asked Ned.

The gown of Phyllis did not interest him in the least, but this
question was put as a preliminary to another, and when the younger
sister told him that she meant to wear plum-colour, he turned to Cora.

"Cora's got a lovely frock--blue muslin wi' little pink roses, and a
straw hat wi' big pink roses," said Phyllis.

Ned nodded.

"I'd go a long way to see her in such a beautiful dress," he said;
"and, mind, I'm to have a dance or two with you both.  There's to be
dancing in the evening--not rough and tumble on the grass, but boards
are to be laid down and everything done proper."

They chattered about the promised festivity, while Nathan and Mrs.
Lintern, having discussed certain farm matters, spoke of another and a
nearer celebration.

"You see, my brother Vivian and I are of the good old-fashioned sort,
and we're bent on the whole family meeting at a square feed, with good
wishes all round, on his seventieth birthday.  To think of him turned
seventy!  I can't believe it.  Yet Time won't stand still--not even
with the busiest.  A family affair 'tis to be, and none asked outside
ourselves."

"Does Mr. Humphrey go?  He's not much of a hand at a revel."

"He is not; and I thought that he would have refused the invitation.
But he's accepted.  We shall try our hardest to cheer him up and get a
drop of generous liquor into him.  I only hope he won't be a damper and
spoil the fun."

"A pity he's going."

"We shall know that better afterwards.  'Twill be a pity if he mars
all; but 'twill be a good thing if we overmaster him amongst us, and
get him to take a hopefuller view of life and a kinder view of his
fellow-creatures."

Ned chimed in.

"You'll never do that, Uncle Nat.  He's too old to change now.  And
Cousin Mark be going just the same way.  He's getting such a silent,
hang-dog chap, and no wonder, having to live with such a father.  I'd
run away if I was him."

Nathan laughed.

"I believe you'd almost rather work than keep along with your Uncle
Humphrey," he said.

"'Tis pretty well known I can work when I choose," declared Ned.

"Yes," said Heathman, with his mouth full; "and 'tis also pretty well
known you never do choose."

The elder Baskerville clapped his hands.

"One to you, Heathman!" he said.  "Ned can't deny the truth of that."

But Ned showed no concern.

"I shall make up for lost time very easily when I do start," he said.
"I've got ideas, I believe, and they go beyond ploughing.  I'm like
Cora here--all brains.  You may laugh, Uncle Nat, but you're not the
only Baskerville with a head on your shoulders.  I'll astonish you yet."

"You will--you will--the day you begin to work, Ned; and the sooner the
better.  I shall be very glad when it happens."

The women laughed, and Cora much admired Ned's lofty attitude.  She too
had ambitions, and felt little sympathy with those who were content to
labour on the soil.  She strove often to fire her brother and enlarge
his ambitions; but he had the farmer's instinct, enjoyed physical work,
and laughed at her airs and graces.

"Give me Rupert," said Heathman now.  "He's like me--not much good at
talking and ain't got no use for the girls, but a towser to work."

"The man who ain't got no use for the girls is not a man," declared Ned
very positively.  "They're the salt of the earth--ban't they, Mrs.
Lintern?"

She smiled and looked at him curiously, then at his uncle; but she did
not answer.

"Anyway," continued Ned, "you're out when you say Rupert's like you;
for hard worker that he is, he's found time for a bit of love-making."

Cora and Phyllis manifested instant excitement and interest at this
news.

"Who is she?  You must tell us," said the elder.

"Why, I will; but say nought, for nothing be known about it outside the
families, and Rupert haven't said a word himself to me.  I reckon he
don't guess that I know.  But such things can't be hid from my
eyes--too sharp for that, I believe.  'Tis Milly Luscombe, if you must
know.  A very nice little thing too in her way.  Not my sort--a bit too
independent.  I like a girl to feel a man's the oak to her ivy, but----"

Uproarious laughter from his uncle cut Ned short.

"Mighty fine oak for a girl's ivy--you!" he said.

"You wait," repeated the younger.  "Anyway, Rupert be sweet on Milly,
and father knows all about it, and won't hear of it.  So there's
thunder in the air for the moment."

They discussed this interesting private news, but promised Ned not to
retail it in any ear.  Then he left them and, with Nathan, returned to
the village.

Ned, undeterred by Mr. Baskerville's raillery, began loudly to praise
Cora as soon as they had passed beyond earshot of the farmhouse-door.

"By Jove, she's a bowerly maiden and no mistake!  Not her like this
side of Plymouth, I do believe.  Haven't seen her for a month of
Sundays, and she's come on amazing."

"She's a very handsome girl without a doubt," admitted Nathan.  "And a
very clever girl too; but a word in your ear, my young shaver: you
mustn't look that way once and for all."

"Why not, if I choose?  I'm a free man."

"You may be--now--more shame to you.  But Cora--well, your cousin Mark
be first in the field there.  A word to the wise is enough.  You'll be
doing a very improper thing if you look in that quarter, and I must
firmly beg you won't, for everybody's sake."

"Mark!"

"Mark.  And a very good chap he is--worth fifty of you."

"Mark!" repeated Ned, as though the notion was unthinkable.  "I should
have guessed that he would rather have run out of the country than lift
his eyes to a girl!"




CHAPTER IV

The Reverend Dennis Masterman was a bachelor.  He came to Shaugh full
of physical energy and certain hazy resolutions to accomplish notable
work among a neglected people.  His scholastic career was nugatory, and
his intellect had offered no bar to his profession.  He was physically
brave, morally infirm.  Therefore his sister, Alice Masterman, came to
support him and share his lot and complement his character.  She might
indeed fly from cows, but she would not fly from parochial opposition.
She was strong where he was weak.  They were young, sanguine, and of
gentle birth.  They enjoyed private means, but were filled with
wholesome ardour to justify existence and leave the world better than
they found it.  Dennis Masterman possessed interest, and regarded this,
his first cure, as a stepping-stone to better things.

Shaugh Prior was too small for his natural energies and powers of
endurance--so he told his sister; but she said that the experience
would be helpful.  She also suspected that reform might not be a matter
of energy alone.

One evening, a week after their arrival, they were planning the
campaign and estimating the value of lay helpers, when two important
visitors were announced.  A maiden appeared and informed the clergyman
that Thomas Gollop and Eliza Gollop desired to see him.

"Show them into the common room," said he; then he twisted a little
bronze cross that he wore at his watchchain and regarded Miss Masterman.

"The parish clerk and his sister--I wonder if you'd mind, Alice?" he
asked.

For answer she put down her work.

"Certainly.  Since you saw Joe Voysey alone and, not only engaged him,
but promised he might have a boy for the weeding, I feel--well, you are
a great deal too easy, Dennis.  Gollop is a very masterful person,
clearly, and his sister, so I am told, is just the same.  You certainly
must not see women alone.  They'll get everything they want out of you."

"Of course, one wishes to strike a genial note," he explained.  "First
impressions count for such a lot with common people."

"Be genial by all means; I say nothing against that."

"Let's tackle them, then.  Gollop's a tremendous Conservative, but we
must get Liberal ideas into him, if we can--in reason."

Dennis Masterman was tall, square-shouldered and clean-shaven.  He
regarded himself as somewhat advanced, but had no intention of sowing
his opinions upon the parish before the soil was prepared.  He
considered his character to be large-minded, tolerant, and sane; and
for a man of eight-and-twenty he enjoyed fair measure of these virtues.

His sister was plain, angular, and four years older than Dennis.  She
wore double eyeglasses and had a gruff voice and a perceptible beard.

The Gollops rose as the vicar and his sister appeared.  Miss Gollop was
shorter and stouter than her brother, but resembled him.

"Good evening, your reverence; good evening, miss," said the parish
clerk.  "This is my sister, Miss Eliza.  For faith, hope, and charity
she standeth.  In fact, a leading light among us, though I say it as
should not."

Mr. Masterman shook hands with the woman; his sister bowed only.

"And what does Miss Gollop do?" asked Dennis.

"'Twould be easier to say what she don't do," answered Thomas.  "She's
butt-woman to begin with, or as you would call it, 'pew-opener.'  Then
she's sick-nurse to the parish, and she's midwife, and, when free,
she'll do chores or cook for them as want her.  And she's got a
knowledge and understanding of the people round these parts as won't be
beaten.  She was Mr. Valletort's right hand, wasn't you, Eliza?"

"So he said," answered Miss Gollop.  She was not self-conscious, but
bore herself as Fame's familiar and one accustomed to admiration.  She
had estimated the force of the clergyman's character from his first
sermon, and judged that her brother would be a match for him.  Now she
covertly regarded Miss Masterman, and perceived that here must lie any
issue of battle that might arise.

"Do you abide along with your brother, miss, or be you just settling
him into the vicarage?" she asked.

"I live with him."

Miss Gollop inclined her head.

"And I'm sure I hope, if I can serve you any way at any time, as you'll
let me know."

"Thank you.  Everybody can serve us: we want help from one and all,"
said Mr. Masterman.

"Ezacally so!" said Thomas.  "And you must larn each man's value from
those that know it--not by bitter experience.  Likewise with the women.
My sister can tell you, to threepence a day, what any female in this
parish be good for; and as to the men, you'll do very well to come to
me.  I know 'em all--old and young--and their characters and their
points--good and bad, crooked and odd.  For we've got some originals
among us, and I'm not going to deny it, haven't us, Eliza?"

"Every place have," she said.

"Might we sit down?" asked the man.  "We'm of the bungy breed, as you
see, and not so clever in our breathing as we could wish.  But we'm
here to go through the whole law and the prophets, so to speak, and we
can do it better sitting."

"Please sit down," answered Dennis.  Then he looked at his watch.  "I
can give you an hour," he said.  "But I'm going to ride over to
Bickleigh at nine o'clock, to see the vicar there."

"And a very nice gentleman you'll find him," declared Thomas.  "Of
course, Bickleigh be but a little matter beside Shaugh Prior.  We bulk
a good deal larger in the eyes of the nation, and can hold our heads so
much the higher in consequence; but the Reverend Coaker is a very good,
humble-minded man, and knows his place in a way that's a high example
to the younger clergymen."

Miss Masterman cleared her throat, but her voice was none the less
gruff.

"Perhaps you will now tell us what you have come for.  We are busy
people," she said.

Her brother deprecated this brevity and tried to tone it down, but
Thomas accepted the lady's statement with great urbanity.

"Miss be right," he answered.  "Busy as bees, I warrant--same as me and
my own sister here.  She don't wear out many chairs, do you, Eliza?"

"Not many," said Miss Gollop.  "I always say, 'Let's run about in this
world; plenty of time to sit down in the next.'"

"I may tell you," added Thomas kindly, "that your first sermon went
down very suent.  From where I sits, along by the font, I can get a
good look across the faces, and the important people, the Baskervilles
and the Lillicraps and the Luscombes and the Mumfords--one and all
listened to every word, and nodded now and again.  You'll be glad to
know that."

"Some thought 'twas a sermon they'd heard afore, however," said Miss
Gollop; "but no doubt they was wrong."

"Quite wrong," declared Dennis warmly.  "It was a sermon written only
the night before I preached it.  And talking of the font----"

"Yes, of course, you've marked the famous font-cover over the holy
basin, I suppose?" interrupted Mr. Gollop.  "'Tis the joy and pride of
the church-town, I assure you.  Not another like it in the world, they
say.  Learned men come all across England to see it--as well they may."

The famous font-cover, with its eight little snub-nosed saints and the
Abbot elevated in the midst, was a special glory of St. Edward's.

"I meant to speak of that," said the clergyman.  "The figure at the top
has got more than his proper vestments on, Gollop.  In fact, he's
wrapped up in cobwebs.  That is not worthy of us.  Please see they are
cleaned off."

"I hadn't noticed them; but since you say so--I'll look to it myself.
Where the vamp-dish be concerned I allow none to meddle.  It shall be
done; but I must say again that I haven't noticed any cobwebs--not last
Sunday.  Have you, Eliza?" said Thomas.

"No, I have not," answered his sister.

"The dirt has clearly been there for months," remarked Miss Masterman.

There was a painful pause, during which Miss Gollop gazed at the
vicar's sister and then at the vicar.

"'Tis a well-known fact that spiders will spin," she said vaguely, but
not without intention.  The other woman ignored her and turned to
Thomas.

"Will you be so good as to proceed?"

"Yes, and gladly, miss," he answered.  "And I'll begin with the
Gollops, since they've done as much for this parish as anybody, living
or dead.  My father was parish clerk afore me, and a very remarkable
man, wasn't he, Eliza?"

"He was."

"A remarkable man with a large faith in the power of prayer, was
father.  You don't see such faith now, worse luck.  But he believed
more than even I hold to, or my sister, either.  You might say that he
wasn't right always; but none ever dared to doubt the high religious
quality of the man.  But there he was--a pillar of the Church and
State, as they say.  He used to help his money a bit by the power of
prayer; and they fetched childer sick of the thrush to him; and he'd
tak 'em up the church tower and hold 'em over the battlements, north,
south, east, and west--while he said the Lord's Prayer four times.
He'd get a shilling by it every time, and was known to do twenty of 'em
in a good year, though I never heard 'twas a very quick cure.  But
faith moves mountains, and he may have done more good than appeared to
human eyes.  And then in his age, he very near let a heavy babby drop
over into the churchyard--just grabbed hold of un by a miracle and
saved un.  So that proper terrified the old man, and he never done
another for fear of some lasting misfortune.  Not but what a few
devilish-natured people said that if 'twas knowed he let the childer
fall now and again, he'd brisk up his business a hundred per centum.
Which shows the evil-mindedness of human nature."

"I'll have no gross superstition of that sort here," said Mr. Masterman
firmly.

"No more won't I," answered Thomas.  "'Other times, other manners,' as
the saying is.  Have no fear.  The church is very safe with me and
Eliza for watch-dogs.  Well, so much for my father.  There was only us
two, and we never married--too busy for that.  And we've done no little
for Shaugh Prior, as will be better told you in good time by other
mouths than ours."

He stopped to take breath, and Miss Masterman spoke.

"My brother will tell you that with regard to parish clerks the times
are altering too," she said.

"And don't I know it?" he answered.  "Why, good powers, you can't get a
clerk for love or money nowadays!  They'm regular dying out.  'He'll be
thankful he've got one of the good old sort,' I said to my sister.
'For he'd have had to look beyond Dartymoor for such another as me.'
And so he would."

"That's true," declared Miss Gollop.

"I mean that the congregation takes the place of the clerk in most
modern services," continued Miss Masterman.  "In point of fact, we
shall not want exactly what you understand by a 'clerk.'  'Other times,
other manners,' as you very wisely remarked just now."

Mr. Gollop stared.

"Not want a clerk!" he said.  "Woman alive, you must be daft!"

"I believe not," answered Miss Masterman.  "However, what my brother
has got to say regarding his intentions can come later.  For the
present he will hear you."

"If you don't want a clerk, I've done," answered Mr. Gollop blankly.
"But I'll make bold to think you can't ezacally mean that.  Us'll leave
it, and I'll tell my tale about the people.  The Lillicraps be a
harmless folk, and humble and fertile as coneys.  You'll have no
trouble along with them.  The Baskervilles be valuable and powerful;
and Mr. Humphrey and his son is Church, and Mr. Vivian and his family
is Church also, and his darters sing in the choir."

"We shall manage without women in the choir," said Miss Masterman.

"You may think so, but I doubt it," answered Eliza Gollop almost
fiercely.  "You'll have to manage without anybody in the church also,
if you be for up-turning the whole order of divine service!"  She was
excited, and her large bosom heaved.

"Not up-turning--not up-turning," declared the clergyman.  "Call it
reorganisation.  Frankly, I propose a surpliced choir.  I have the
bishop's permission; he wishes it.  Now, go on."

"Then the Lord help you," said Thomas.  "We'd better be going, Eliza.
We've heard almost enough for one evening."

"Be reasonable," urged Miss Masterman with admirable self-command.  "We
are here to do our duty.  We hope and expect to be helped by all
sensible people--not hindered.  Let Mr. Gollop tell us what he came to
tell us."

"Well--as to reason--I ask no more, but where is it?" murmured Thomas.
"'Twas the Baskervilles," he continued, wiping his forehead.  "The
other of 'em--Nathan--be unfortunately a chapel member; and if you be
going to play these here May games in the House of the Lord, I'm very
much afeared he'll draw a good few after him.  They won't stand
it--mark me."

"Where do the people at Undershaugh worship?  I did not see Mrs.
Lintern and her family last Sunday."

"They'm all chapel too."

Mr. Masterman nodded.

"Thank you for these various facts.  Is there anything more?"

"I've only just begun.  But I comed with warnings chiefly.  There be
six Radicals in this parish, and only six."

"Though the Lord knows how many there will be when they hear about the
choir," said Eliza Gollop.

"I'm an old-fashioned Liberal myself," declared the vicar.  "But I hope
your Radicals are sound churchmen, whatever else they may be."

"Humphrey Baskerville is--and so's his son."

"Is that young Mark Baskerville?"

"Yes--tenor bell among the ringers.  A very uneven-minded man.  He's a
wonderful ringer and wrapped up in tenor bell, as if 'twas a heathen
idol.  In fact, he'm not the good Christian he might be, and he'll ring
oftener than he'll pray.  Then Saul Luscombe to Trowlesworthy
Warren--farmer and rabbit-catcher--be a very hard nut, and so's his
man, Jack Head.  You won't get either of them inside the church.  They
say in their wicked way they ain't got no need for sleeping after
breakfast of a Sunday--atheists, in fact.  The other labouring man from
Trowlesworthy is a good Christian, however.  He can read, but 'tis
doubtful whether he can write."

"You'll have to go to keep your appointment, Dennis," remarked his
sister.

"Plenty of time.  Is there anything more that's particularly important,
Gollop?"

"Lots more.  Still, if I'm to be shouted down every minute----  I comed
to encourage and fortify you.  I comed to tell you to have no fear,
because me and sister was on your side, and always ready to fight to
the death for righteousness.  But you've took the wind out of our
sails, in a manner of speaking.  If you ban't going to walk in the old
paths, I'm terrible afraid you'll find us against you."

"This is impertinence," said Miss Masterman.

"Not at all," answered the clerk's sister.  "It's sense.  'Tis a free
country, and if you'm going to set a lot of God-fearing, right-minded,
sensible people by the ears, the sin be on your shoulders.  You'd best
to come home, Thomas."

Mr. Masterman looked helplessly at his watch.

"We shall soon arrive at--at--a _modus vivendi_," he said.

"I don't know what that may be, your reverence," she answered; "but if
'tis an empty church, and sour looks, and trouble behind every hedge,
then you certainly will arrive at it--and even sooner than you think
for."

"He's going to give ear to the Radicals--'tis too clear," moaned
Thomas, as he rose and picked up his hat.

"I can only trust that you two good people do not represent the
parish," continued the vicar.

"You'll terrible soon find as we do," said Miss Gollop.

"So much the worse.  However, it is well that we understand one
another.  Next Sunday I shall invite my leading parishioners to meet me
in the schoolroom on the following evening.  I shall then state my
intentions, and listen to the opinions and objections of every man
among you."

"And only the men will be invited to the meeting," added Miss Masterman.

"'Tis a parlous come-along-of-it," moaned the parish clerk.  "I meant
well.  You can bear me out, Eliza, that I meant well--never man meant
better."

"Good evening," said Miss Masterman, and left them.

"Be sure that we shall soon settle down," prophesied the vicar.  "I
know you mean well, Gollop; and I mean well, too.  Where sensible
people are concerned, friction is reduced to a minimum.  We shall very
soon understand one another and respect one another's opinions."

"If you respect people's opinions, you abide by 'em," declared Miss
Gollop.

"Us shan't be able to keep the cart on the wheels--not with a
night-gowned choir," foretold her brother.

Then Dennis saw them to the door; they took their leave, and as they
went down the vicarage drive, their voices bumbled together, like two
slow, shard-borne beetles droning on the night.




CHAPTER V

Both the yeoman and gentle families of Devon have undergone a wide and
deep disintegration during the recent past.  Many are swept away, and
the downfall dates back beyond the eighteenth century, when war, dice,
and the bottle laid foundations of subsequent ruin; but the descendants
of many an ancient stock are still with us, and noble names shall be
found at the plough-handle; historical patronymics, on the land.

The race of Baskerville had borne arms and stood for the king in Stuart
times.  The family was broken in the Parliamentary Wars and languished
for certain centuries; then it took heart and lifted head once more.
The three brothers who now carried on their line were doubly enriched,
for their father had died in good case and left a little fortune behind
him; while an uncle, blessed with some tincture of the gipsy blood that
had flowed into the native stock a hundred years before, found Devon
too small a theatre for his activities and migrated to Australia.  He
died a bachelor, and left his money to his nephews.

Thus the trio began life under fortunate circumstances; and it appeared
that two had prospered and justified existence; while concerning the
other little could be affirmed, save a latent and general dislike
founded on vague hearsay.

They were different as men well could be, yet each displayed strong
individuality and an assertive temperament.  All inherited some
ancestral strength, but disparities existed between their tastes, their
judgments, and their ambitions.

Vivian Baskerville was generous, self-opinionated, and kind-hearted.
He loved, before all things, work, yet, in direct opposition to this
ruling passion, tolerated and spoiled a lazy eldest son.  From the rest
of his family he exacted full measure of labour and very perfect
obedience.  He was a man of crystallised opinions--one who resented
change, and built on blind tradition.

Nathan Baskerville had a volatile and swift-minded spirit.  He was
sympathetic, but not so sympathetic as his manner made him appear.  He
had a histrionic knack to seem more than he felt; yet this was not all
acting, but a mixture of art and instinct.  He trusted to tact, to a
sense of humour with its accompanying tolerance, and to swift appraisal
of human character.  Adaptability was his watchword.

Humphrey Baskerville personified doubt.  His apparent chill
indifference crushed the young and irritated the old.  An outward
gloominess of manner and a pessimistic attitude to affairs sufficed to
turn the folk from him.  While he seemed the spirit of negation made
alive, he was, nevertheless, a steadfast Christian, and his dark mind,
chaotic though it continued to be even into age, enjoyed one precious
attribute of chaos and continued plastic and open to impressions.  None
understood this quality in him.  He did not wholly understand it
himself.  But he was ever seeking for content, and the search had thus
far taken him into many fruitless places and landed him in blind alleys
not a few.

These adventures, following his wife's death, had served to sour him in
some directions; and the late ripening of a costive but keen
intelligence did not as yet appear to his neighbours.  It remained to
be seen whether time would ever achieve a larger wisdom, patience, and
understanding in him--whether considerable mental endowments would
ultimately lift him nearer peace and content, or plunge him deeper into
despondence and incorrigible gloom.  He was as interesting as Nathan
was attractive and Vivian, obvious.

The attitude of the brothers each to the other may be recorded in a
sentence.  Vivian immensely admired the innkeeper and depended no
little upon his judgment in temporal affairs, but Humphrey he did not
understand; Nathan patronised his eldest brother and resented
Humphrey's ill-concealed dislike; while the master of Hawk House held
Vivian in regard, as an honest and single-minded man, but did not share
the world's esteem for Nathan.  They always preserved reciprocal
amenities and were accounted on friendly terms.

Upon the occasion of the eldest brother's seventieth birthday, both
Vivian and Nathan stood at the outer gate of Cadworthy and welcomed
Humphrey when he alighted off his semi-blind pony.

Years sat lightly on the farmer.  He was a man of huge girth and height
above the average.  He had a red moon face, with a great fleshy jowl
set in white whiskers.  His brow was broad and low; his small, pig-like
eyes twinkled with kindliness.  It was a favourite jest with him that
he weighed within a stone or two as much as his brothers put together.

They shook hands and went in, while Mark and Rupert took the ponies.
The three brothers all wore Sunday black; and Vivian had a yellow tie
on that made disharmony with the crimson of his great cheeks.  This
mountain of a man walked between the others, and Nathan came to his ear
and Humphrey did not reach his shoulder.  The last looked a mere shadow
beside his brother.

"Seventy year to-day, and have moved two ton of sacks--a hundredweight
to the sack--'twixt breaksis and noon.  And never felt better than this
minute," he told them.

"'Tis folly, all the same--this heavy work that you delight in,"
declared Nathan.  "I'm sure Humphrey's of my mind.  You oughtn't to do
such a lot of young man's work.  'Tis foolish and quite uncalled for."

"The young men can't do it, maybe," said Humphrey.  "Vivian be three
men rolled into one--with the strength of three for all his threescore
and ten years.  But you're in the right.  He's too old for these deeds.
There's no call for weight-lifting and all this sweating labour, though
he is such a mighty man of his hands still."

Mr. Baskerville of Cadworthy laughed.

"You be such brainy blids--the pair of you--that you haven't got no
patience with me and my schoolboy fun.  But, then, I never had no
intellects like you--all ran into muscle and bone.  And 'tis my
pleasure to show the young generation what strength be.  The Reverend
Masterman preached from a very onusual text Sunday, 'There were giants
in those days,' it was--or some such words, if my memory serves me.
And Rupert and May, as were along with me, said as surely I belonged to
the giant race!"

He laughed with a loud, simple explosion of ingenuous merriment, and
led the way to the parlour.

There his wife, in black silk, welcomed her brothers-in-law and
received their congratulations.  Humphrey fumbled at a parcel which he
produced from his breast.  He untied the string, wound it up, and put
it into his pocket.

"'Tis a book as I heard well spoken of," he said.  "There's only one
Book for you and me, I believe, Vivian; but an old man as I know came
by this, and he said 'twas light in his darkness; so I went and bought
a copy for you by way of something to mark the day.  Very like 'tis all
rubbish, and if so you can throw it behind the fire."

"Sermons, and good ones without a doubt," answered the farmer.  "I'm
very fond of sermons, and I'll lay on to 'em without delay and let you
know what I think.  Not that my opinion of such a thing do count; but I
can tell to a hair if they'm within the meaning of Scripture, and that
be all that matters.  And thank you kindly, I'm sure."

"Tom Gollop's got terrible down-daunted about Mr. Masterman," said
Nathan.  "He says that your parson is a Radical, and will bring down
dreadful things on the parish."

"Old fool," answered Humphrey.  "'Tis just what we want, within the
meaning of reason, to have a few of the cobwebs swept away."

"But you're a Radical too, and all for sweeping away," argued his
eldest brother doubtfully.

"I'm for folly and nonsense being swept away, certainly.  I'm for all
this cant about humility and our duty to our superiors being swept
away.  I hate to see chaps pulling their hair to other men no better
than themselves, and all that knock-kneed, servile rubbish."

Nathan felt this to be a challenge.

"We take off our hats to the blood in a man's veins, if 'tis blue
enough--not to the man."

"And hate the man all the time, maybe--and so act a lie when we cap to
him and pretend what isn't true."

"You go too far," declared Nathan.

"I say that we hate anything that's stronger than we are," continued
his brother.  "We hate brains that's stronger than our own, or pockets
that's deeper.  The only folk that we smile upon honestly be those we
reckon greater fools than ourselves."

Vivian laughed loud at this.

"What a sharp tongue the man hath!" he exclaimed.  "But he's wrong, for
all that.  For if I only smiled at them who had less brains than
myself, I should go glum from morn till night."

"Don't say it, father!" cried his wife.  "Too humble-minded you be, and
always will be."

"'Tis only a very wise man that knows himself for a fool, all the
same," declared Nathan.  "As for Humphrey here, maybe 'tis because men
hate brains bigger than their own, as he says, that he hasn't got a
larger circle of friends himself.  We all know he's the cleverest man
among us."

Humphrey was about to speak again, but restrained the inclination and
turned to his nieces who now appeared.

Polly lacked character and existed as the right hand of her mother; but
May took physically after Vivian, and represented his first joy and the
apple of his eye.  She was a girl of great breadth and bulk every way.
The beauty of youth still belonged to her clean white and red face, and
her yellow hair was magnificent; but it required no prophet to foretell
that poor May, when her present colt-like life of physical activity
decreased, must swiftly grow too vast for her own comfort or the
temptation of the average lover.

The youngest of the family--his Uncle Humphrey's namesake--followed his
sisters.  He was a brown boy, well set up and shy.  Of all men he
feared the elder Humphrey most.  Now he shook hands evasively.

"Don't stare at the ceiling and the floor, but look me in the eyes.  I
hate a chap as glances athwart his nose like that," said the master of
Hawk House.  Whereat the lesser Humphrey scowled and flushed.  Then he
braced himself for the ordeal and stared steadily into his uncle's eyes.

The duel lasted full two minutes, and the boy's father laughed and
applauded him.  At last young Humphrey's eyes fell.

"That's better," said Humphrey the elder.  "You learn to keep your gaze
on the eyes of other people, my lad, if you want to know the truth
about 'em.  A voice will teach you a lot, but the eyes are the book for
me--eh, Nathan?"

"No doubt there's a deal in that."

"And if 'twas followed, perhaps we shouldn't take our hats off to
certain people quite so often as we do," added Humphrey, harking back
to the old grievance.  "What's the good of being respectful to those
you don't respect and ought not to respect?"

"The man's hungry!" said Vivian.  "'Tis starvation making him so crusty
and so clever.  Come now, ban't dinner ready?"

Mrs. Baskerville had departed and Polly with her.

"Hurry 'em up," cried Vivian, and his youngest son hastened to do so.

Meantime Nathan, who was also hungry, and who also desired to display
agility of mind before his elder brother, resumed the argument with
Humphrey and answered his last question.

"Because we've everything to gain by being civil, and nought to gain by
being otherwise, as things are nowadays.  Civility costs nothing and
the rich expect it of the poor, and gentle expect it of simple.  Why
not?  You can't mar them by being rude; but you can mar yourself.  'The
golden rule for a pushing man is to be well thought upon.'  That's what
our father used to say.  And it's sound sense, if you ask me.  Of
course, I'm not speaking for us, but for the younger generation, and if
they can prosper by tact and civility to their betters, why not?  We
like the younger and humbler people to be civil to us; then why
shouldn't they be civil to parson and squire?"

"How if parson be no good, and squire a drinker or a rascal?"

"That's neither here nor there.  'Tis their calling and rank and the
weight behind 'em."

"Trash!" said Humphrey sourly.  "Let every man be weighed in his own
balance and show himself what he is.  That's what I demand.  Why should
we pretend and give people the credit of what they stand for, if they
don't stand for it?"

"For a lot of reasons----" began Nathan; then the boy Humphrey returned
to say that dinner was ready.

They sat down, and through the steam that rose from a dish of ducks
Humphrey looked at Nathan and spoke.

"What reasons?" he said.  "For your credit's sake you can't leave it
there."

"If you will have it, you will have it--though this isn't the time or
place; but Vivian must blame you, not me.  Life's largely a game of
make-believe and pretence, and, right or wrong, we've got to suffer it.
We should all be no better than lonely monkeys or Red Indians, if we
didn't pretend a bit more than we meant and say a bit more than we'd
swear to.  Monkeys don't pretend, and what's the result?  They've all
gone under."

They wrangled until the food was on the plates, then Vivian, who had
been puffing out his cheeks, rolling his eyes and showing uneasiness in
other ways, displayed a sudden irritability.

"God damn it!" he cried.  "Let's have no more of this!  Be the meal to
be sarved with no sauce but all this blasted nonsense?  Get the drink,
Rupert."

Nathan expressed instant regret and strove to lift the tone of the
company.  But the cloud did not pass so easily.  Vivian himself soon
forgot the incident; his children and his wife found it difficult.  The
young people, indeed, maintained a very dogged taciturnity and only
talked among themselves in subdued tones.  May and Polly waited upon
the rest between the intervals of their own meal.  They changed the
dishes and went to and from the kitchen.  Rupert and his youngest
brother helped them, but Ned did not.

Some cheerfulness returned with the beer, and even Humphrey Baskerville
strove to assist the general jollity; but he lacked the power.  His
mind was of the discomfortable sort that cannot suffer opinions,
believed erroneous, to pass unchallenged.  Sometimes he expressed no
more than doubt; sometimes he dissented forcibly to Nathan's
generalities.  But after Vivian's heat at the beginning of the
entertainment, his brother from 'The White Thorn' was cautious, and
took care to raise no more dust of controversy.

The talk ran on the new vicar, and the master of Cadworthy spoke well
of him.

"An understanding man, and for my part, though I can't pretend to like
new things, yet I ban't going to quarrel for nothing.  And if he likes
to put the boys in surplices and make the maidens sit with the
congregation, I don't see no great harm.  They can sing praises to God
wi' their noses to the east just so easy as they can facing north."

"Well said," declared Humphrey.  "I've no patience with such fools as
Gollop."

"As one outside and after a different persuasion, I can look on
impartial," declared Nathan.  "And I think with you both that Masterman
is a useful and promising man.  As for Gollop, he's the sort that can't
see further than the end of the parish, and don't want to do so."

"For why?  He'd tell you there's nought beyond," said Humphrey.  "He
foxes himself to think that the world can go on without change.  He
fancies that he alone of us all be a solid lighthouse, stuck up to
watch the waves roll by.  'Tis a sign of a terrible weak intellect to
think that everybody's changeable but ourselves, and that we only be
the ones that know no shadow of changing.  Yet I've seen many such
men--with a cheerful conceit of themselves too."

"There's lots like that--common as blackberries in my bar," declared
Nathan.  "Old fellows most times, that reckon they are the only
steadfast creatures left on earth, while everybody else be like
feathers blown about in a gale of change."

"Every mortal man and woman be bound to change," answered his brother.
"'Tis the law of nature.  I'd give nought for a man of hard and fast
opinions.  Such stand high and dry behind the times."

But Vivian would not allow this.

"No, no, Humphrey; that won't do.  If us wasn't fixed and firm, the
world couldn't go on."

"Vivian means we must have a lever of solid opinions to lift our load
in the world," explained Nathan.  "Of course, no grown man wants to be
flying to a new thing every day of his life, like the young people do."

"The lever's the Bible," declared Humphrey.  "I've nought to do with
any man who goes beyond that; but, outside that, there's a margin for
change as the world grows, and 'tis vain to run your life away from the
new facts the wise men find out."

"I don't hold with you," declared Vivian.  "At such a gait us would
never use the same soap or wear the same clothes two years together.
If you'm going to run your life by the newspapers, you'm in the same
case with the chaps and the donkey in the fable.  What father believed
and held to, I shall believe and hold to; for he was a better man than
me and knowed a lot more."

Humphrey shook his head.

"If we all thought so, the world would stand still," he replied.  "'Tis
the very argument pushed in the papers to-day about teaching the young
people.  'Tis said they must be taught just what their parents want for
'm to be taught.  And who knows best, I should like to know--the
parents and guardians, as have finished their learning years ago and be
miles behind-hand in their knowledge, or the schoolmasters and
mistresses as be up to date in their larning and full of the latest
things put into books?  There's no standing still with the world any
more than there's standing still with the sun.  It can't be.  Law's
against it."

"We must have change," admitted Nathan.

"For sure we must.  'Tis the only way to keep sweet--like water running
forward.  If you block it in a pond, it goes stagnant; and if you block
your brains, they rot."

"Then let us leave it at that," said Vivian's wife.  "And now, if you
men have done your drink, you can go off and smoke while we tidy up."

But there was yet a duty to perform, and Nathan rose and whispered in
Humphrey's ear.

"I think the time's come for drinking his health.  It must be done.
Will you propose it?"

His brother answered aloud.

"Nathan wants for me to propose your good health, Vivian.  But I ban't
going to.  That sort of thing isn't in my line.  I wish you nought but
well, and there's an end on't."

"Then I'll say a word," declared the innkeeper, returning to his place.
"Fill your glasses--just a drop more, Hester, you must drink--isn't it
to your own husband?  And I say here, in this family party, that 'tis a
proud and a happy thing to have for the head of the family such a man
as our brother--your husband, Hester; and your father, you boys and
girls.  Long may he be spared to stand up among us and set us a good
example of what's brave and comely in man; long may he be spared, I
say, and from my heart I bless him for a good brother and husband and
father, and wish him many happy returns of his birthday.  My love and
honour to you, Vivian!"

They all rose and spoke after the custom of the clan.

"My love and honour to you, brother," said Humphrey.

"My love and honour to you, Vivian Baskerville," said his wife.

"Love and honour to you, father," murmured the boys and girls.

And Mark said, "Love and honour to you, uncle."

There was a gulching of liquor in the silence that followed, and Mr.
Baskerville's little eyes twinkled.

"You silly folk!" he said.  "God knows there's small need of this.  But
thank you all--wife, children, brothers, and nephew.  I be getting up
home to my tether's end now, and can't look with certainty for over and
above another ten birthdays or thereabouts; but such as come we'll keep
together, if it pleases you.  And if you be drinking, then here's to
you all at a breath--to you all, not forgetting my son Nathan that's
sailing on the sea."

"I'll write to Nat and tell him every blessed word of it, and what
we've had for dinner and all," said May.

The company grew hilarious and Nathan, leaving them, went to the trap
that had brought him from Shaugh Prior and returned with a bottle.

"'Tis a pretty cordial," he said, "and a thimbleful all round will
steady what's gone and warm our hearts.  Not but what they'm warm
enough already."

The liquor was broached and all drank but Humphrey.

"Enough's as good as a feast.  And you can saddle my pony, Mark.  I'm
going home now.  I'm glad to have been here to-day; but I'm going now."

They pressed him to remain, but he judged the invitation to be
half-hearted.  However, he was tranquil and amiable at leave-taking.
To Rupert he even extended an invitation.

Rupert was the only one of his brother's family for whom he even
pretended regard.

"You can come and see me when you've got the time," he said.  "I'll go
for a walk along with you and hear what you have to say."

Then he rode off, but Mark stopped and finished the day with his
cousins.

He talked to Rupert and, with secret excitement, heard the opinions of
May and Polly on the subject of Cora Lintern.

A very glowing and genial atmosphere settled over Cadworthy after the
departure of Humphrey Baskerville.  Even the nervous Mark consented to
sing a song or two.  The musical traditions of the Baskervilles had
reawakened in him, and on rare occasions he favoured his friends with
old ballads.  But in church he never sang, and often only went there to
ring the tenor bell.

Mr. Nathan also rendered certain comic songs, and May played the aged
piano.  Then there was dancing and dust and noise, and presently the
meal called 'high tea.'  Hester Baskerville protested at last against
her brother-in-law's absurdities, for everybody began to roll about and
ache with laughter; but he challenged her criticism.

"Clever though you all are," he said, "no woman that ever I met was
clever enough to play the fool.  'Tis only the male creature can
accomplish that."

"No woman ever wanted to, I should hope," she answered; and he retorted
triumphantly--

"There you are!  There's my argument in a nutshell!"

She was puzzled.

"What d'you mean by that?" she asked, and, from the standpoint of his
nimble wit, he roared.

"There you are again!" he said.  "I can't explain; but the lack in you
be summed in the question."

"You'm a hopeless case," she said.  "We all laugh at you, and yet
couldn't for the life of us tell what on earth 'tis we be laughing at."

"That's the very highest art and practice of playing the fool!" he told
them.




CHAPTER VI

Where Wigmore Down descends in mighty shoulders clad with oak, there
meet the rivers Plym and Mew, after their diverse journeyings on
Dartmoor.  The first roars wild and broken from its cradle aloft on the
midmost waste, and falls with thunder under Cadworthy and beneath the
Dewerstone; the other, as becomes a stream that has run through
peaceful valleys by bridges and the hamlets of men, shall be found to
wander with more gentle current before she passes into the throbbing
bosom of her sister.  Above them, on a day in early summer, the hill
ascended washed with light, spread hugely for the pomp of the leaf.

From Plym beneath, flashing arrowy under their lowermost branches, to
the granite tonsure of the hill above, ten thousand trees ascended in a
shining raiment of all greens--a garment that fitted close to the
contours of each winding ridge, sharp cleeve, and uplifted knoll of the
elevation that they covered.  Lustrous and shimmering, this forest garb
exhibited every vernal tint that nature knows, for upon a prevalent,
triumphant fabric of golden-green were cast particular jewels and
patterns; against the oaken undertones, where they spread a dappled
verdure of amber and carmine, there sprang the tardy ash, shone the
rowan's brightness, sparkled the whitethorn at river's brink, and rose
the emerald pavilions of the larch.  Beeches thrust their diaphanous
foliage in veils athwart the shadows; here a patchwork of blue firs
added new harmonies to the hill; here the glittering birch reflected
light from every tiny leaf; and here the holly's sobriety was broken by
inflorescence and infant foliage, young and bright.

The forest spread its new-born leaves under a still, grey evening, upon
which, suddenly, the sun thrust through before it sank.  Shafts of
light, falling from west to east upon the planes of the woods, struck
out a path of sudden glory along the pine-tops and thrust down in rain
of red gold even to the river's face; while on Dewerstone's self, where
it towered above the trees and broke the green with grey, this gracious
light briefly brooded and flashed genial into dark crevices and hidden
nests of birds.

The great rock falls by abrupt acclivity to the water; it towers with
pinnacle and peak aloft.  Planted in the side of the forest it stands
veined, scarred; it is fretted with many colours, cut and torn into all
manner of fantastic shapes by work of roots and rain, by centuries of
storm and the chisel of the lightning.  Bedded here, with ivy on its
front, the smile of evening for a crown, and the forest like a green
sea breaking in foam of leaves around it, the Water Stone stood.  Night
was already come upon its eaves and cornices; from its feet ascended
musical thunder of Plym in a riot of rocks; and aloft, clashing,
echoing and re-echoing from scarp and precipice, there rang the
cheerful chiming music of unnumbered jackdaws, who made these crags
their home.

Mark Baskerville, descending into the valley from Shaugh, beheld this
scene with understanding.  He had been well educated; he was
sentimental; he regarded wild Nature in a manner rare amid those born
and bred upon her bosom.  Beauty did not find him indifferent; old
legends gave him joy.  He knew the folk-tales of the land and dwelt
upon them still with pleasure--an instinct surviving from boyhood, and
deliberately suffered to survive.  He loved the emotion of awe and
cultivated it; he led a life from choice much secluded; he had walked
hitherto blind, in so far as women were concerned; but now a woman had
entered his life, and Nature shone glorified throughout by the
experience.

Mark was in love with Cora Lintern; yet this prime fact did not lessen
his regard for the earth and the old stories concerning it.  He found
the things that were good aforetime still good, but changed.  His
emotions were all sharpened and intensified.  His strength was
stronger; his weakness was weaker than of yore.  She was never out of
his thoughts; she made the sunlight warmer, the bird's song sweeter,
the night more wonderful.  He woke and found himself brave enough to
approach her in the deep, small hours of morning; but with dawn came
fear, and with day his courage melted.  By night also he made rhymes
that seemed beautiful to him and brought moisture to his eyes; but when
the sun came and he repeated his stumbling periods, he blushed at them
and banished them.

She was friendly and not averse; but she was clever, and had many
friends among young men.  Nathan Baskerville rejoiced in her, and often
foretold a notable match for Cora.  What Mark could offer seemed very
little to Mark himself.  His father, indeed, was reputed rich; but life
at Hawk House revealed no sign of it.  They lived hard, and Humphrey
Baskerville affected a frugality that would have been unusual in the
homes of humbler people.

Humphrey had often told his son that he did not know how to spend
money; and as for Mark, until the present, he had shared his father's
indifference and been well content.  But he felt that Cora might be
fond of money; and he was glad sometimes that his father spent so
little; because, if all went well, there must surely come a time when
he would be able to rejoice Cora with great riches.  The obstacle,
however, he felt to be himself.  His distrust of himself was morbid;
the folk said that he was frightened of his own voice, and only spoke
through the tenor bell of St. Edward's.

Now he descended into the shadows of the valley and moved along the
brink of Plym, seeking for certain young wood, ripe for cutting.
Presently Mark found what he sought, but made no immediate effort to
begin work.  He flung down a frail which contained a bill-hook and saw.
Then he sat upon a rock overhanging the river and buried himself in his
own thoughts.

A path wound beside the stream, and along it sauntered suddenly the
maiden of this man's dream.  She looked fair enough and moved in deep
apparent unconsciousness of any human presence.

But her ignorance was simulated.  She had seen young Baskerville pass
over the hill; she had known his destination, and by a detour she had
entered the valley from below.

Now she started and exhibited astonishment.

"Mark!  Whoever would have thought----!  What be you doing here all
alone like this--and you not a fisherman?"

He stammered, and grew pale.

"Fancy meeting; and I might ask what brought you, Cora?"

"Oh, just a silly fondness for the river and the trees and my own
thoughts.  I like being about among the wild things, though I dare say
you won't believe it."

"Of course, I'll believe it--gladly too.  Don't I like being about
among 'em better than anything else?  I'm very pleased to meet you, I'm
sure.  There's no lovelier bit of the river than here."

"Dewerstone do look fine to-night," she said, glancing up at the crags
above them.

"It does, then.  The Water Stone I always call it, since I read in a
book that that was what it meant.  'Tis the great stone by the water,
you see.  Have you ever heard tell of the Black Hunter, Cora?  But
perhaps you don't hold with such old wife's tales?"

She put him at his ease and assured him that she loved ancient fables
and liked to go on believing them, despite her better knowledge.

"Just the same as me!" he cried eagerly.  "The very thing I do.  How
wonderful you should feel the same!  I know 'tis rubbish, yet I let it
go sadly.  I'd believe in the pixies, if I could!"

"Who was the Black Hunter, if you don't mind telling me?" she asked.
"I'll sit here a bit afore I go on, if it won't be to hinder you."

"Proud I am, I'm sure," he said.  "And as for him, the Black Hunter,
that's no more than another name for the Devil himself.  'Twas thought
that he'd come here by night with his great, bellowing, red-eyed dogs,
and go forth to hunt souls.  A coal-black horse he rode; but sometimes
he'd set out afoot, for 'tis well remembered how once in the deep snow,
on a winter morn, human footprints, along with hoofmarks, were traced
to the top of the hill, but not down again!"

"The devil flew away with somebody?"

"So the old story says.  But I like the thought of the little Heath
Hounds better.  For they hunt and harry old Nick's self.  They are the
spirits of the young children who die before they are baptised; and the
legend hath it that they win to heaven soon or late by hunting the
Prince of Darkness.  'Tis the children that we bury with maimed rites
upon 'Chrisomers' Hill' in the churchyard.  They put that poor woman
who killed herself in the same place, because the old parson wouldn't
read 'sure and certain hope' over her."

But Cora was not interested in his conversation, though she pretended
to be.  She endeavoured to turn speech into a more personal road.

"What have you come here for?  I hadn't any idea you ever took walks
alone."

"I take hundreds--terrible poor hand at neighbouring with people, I
am--like my father.  But I'm here to work--getting handles for tools.
There's no wood for light tools like alder.  You know the old rhyme--

  'When aller's leaf is so big as a penny,
  The stick will wear so tough as any.'

That's true enough, for I've proved it."

"Set to work and I'll watch you, if I may."

"Proud, I'm sure.  And I'll see you home after.  But there's no haste.
I was thinking that bare, dark corner in the garden at Undershaugh
might do very nice for ferns--if you'd care----?"

"The very thing!  How kind to think of it.  I love the garden and the
flowers.  But none else cares about them.  D'you think you could get me
one of they king ferns?  But I suppose that would be too much to ask."

"I'll get you more than one."

"I'll try to plant 'em then, but I'm not very clever."

"I'll come and make a bit of a rockery myself, if--if you like."

"'Like!"  I should love it.  But 'tis very good of you to bother about
a stupid girl."

"Don't you say that.  Far, far from stupid.  Never was a cleverer girl,
I'm sure."

She shook her head and talked about the ferns.  Then she became
personal.

"I've always felt somehow with you; but I suppose it ban't maidenly to
say such things--but I've always felt as you understood me, Mark."

"Ah!" he said.  "And as for me, I've felt--God, He knows what I've
felt."

The man broke off, and she smiled at him and dropped her eyes.  She
knew the thing that shared his heart with her, and now spoke of it.

"And through you I've got to love tenor bell almost as much as you do.
Of a Sunday the day isn't complete till I've heard the beautiful note
of your bell and thought of you at the rope.  I always somehow think of
you when I hear that bell; and I think of the bell when I see you!
Ban't that strange?"

"'Tis your wonderful quick mind, and you couldn't say anything to
please me better."

"I wanted to ask you about the bells.  I'm so ignorant; but I thought,
if 'twasn't silly of me, I'd ask you about 'em.  I suppose they'm awful
difficult to ring?"

"Not a bit.  Only wants steady practice.  The whole business is little
understood, but 'tis simple enough.  I've gone into it all from the
beginning, and I'm glad--very glad--you care about it.  The first thing
is for a ring of bells to be in harmony with itself, and founders ought
to be free to make 'em so.  The bells are never better than when they
are broken out of the moulds, and every touch of the lathe, or chip of
the chisel, is music lost.  The thickness of the sound-bow should be
one-thirteenth of the diameter, you must know; but modern bells are
made for cheapness.  Long in the waist and high in the shoulder they
should be for true fineness of sound; but they cast 'em with short
waists and flat shoulders now.  'Tis easier to hang and ring them so;
but they don't give the same music.  My tenor is a wonderful good
bell--a maiden bell, as we say--one cast true, that has never had a
chip at the sound-bow.  'I call the quick to church and dead to grave,'
is her motto.  A Pennington bell she is, and no bell-founder ever cast
a better.  Every year makes her sweeter, for there's nothing improves
bell-metal like time."

"I suppose it wouldn't be possible for me actually to see the bells?"

"It can be done and shall be," he promised.  Then he went off again.

"I've been in nearly every bell-cot and bell-turret in Devonshire, one
time and another, and I've took a hand in change-ringing far and wide;
but our ring of six, for its size and weight, can't be beat in the
county, and there's no sweeter tenor that I've heard than mine.  And
I'm very hopeful that Mr. Masterman will take my advice and have our
wheels and gear looked to, and the bell-chamber cleaned out.  'Tis the
home of birds, and the nest litter lies feet deep up there.  The
ladder's all rotten too.  We ought to have stays and slides; and our
ropes are a bit too heavy, and lack tuftings for the sally.  I'm
hopeful he'll have a care for these things."

He prattled on, for it was his subject and always loosed his tongue.
She was bored to death, but from time to time, when he feared that he
wearied her, she assured him that her interest did not wane and was
only less than his own.  He showed unusual excitement at this meeting,
was lifted out of himself, and talked until grey gloaming sank over the
valley and the jackdaws were silent.  Then Cora started up and declared
that she must return home quickly.

"Listening to you has made me forget all about the time and
everything," she said.  "They'll wonder whatever has befallen me."

"I'll see you home," he answered.  "'Tis my fault you'll be late, and I
must take the blame."

"And I've kept you from your work, I'm afraid."

"That's no matter at all.  To-morrow will do just as well for the
alder."

He rose and walked beside her.  She asked him to help her at one place
in the wood, and her cool, firm hand thrilled him.  Once or twice he
thought to take this noble opportunity and utter the thing in his
heart; but he could not bring himself to do it.  Then, at her gate, he
left her, and they exchanged many assurances of mutual thanks and
obligation.  He promised to bring the ferns in three days' time, and
undertook to spend an evening with the Linterns, build the rockery, and
stay to supper with the family afterwards.

He walked home treading on air, with his mind full of hope and
happiness.  Cora had never been so close as on this day; she had never
vouchsafed such an intimate glimpse of her beautiful spirit before.
Each word, each look seemed to bring her nearer; and yet, when he
reflected on his own imperfections, a wave of doubt swept coldly over
him.  He supped in silence, but, after the meal, he confessed the
thoughts in his mind.

"Never broke a twig this evening," he said.  "Was just going to begin,
when who should come along but Cora Lintern."

"Has she forgiven parson for turning her out of the choir?  Can't
practise that side-glance at the men no more now."

"She's not that sort, father."

"Not with a face like hers?  That girl would rather go hungry than
without admiration and flattering.  A little peacock, and so vain as
one."

"You're wrong there.  I'll swear it.  She's very different to what you
reckon.  Why, this very evening, there she was under the Water Stone
all alone--walking along by herself just for love of the place.  Often
goes there, she tells me."

"Very surprised to find you there--eh?"

"That she was.  And somehow I got talking--such a silent man as me most
times.  But I found myself chattering about the bells and one thing and
another.  We've got a lot more in common than you might think."

Mr. Baskerville smoked and looked into the fire.

"Well, don't be in a hurry.  I'm not against marriage for the young
men.  But bide your time, till you've got more understanding of women."

"I'll never find another like her.  I'm sure she'd please you, father."

"You'll be rich in a small way, as the world goes, presently.
Remember, she knows that as well as you do."

"She never speaks of money.  Just so simple and easily pleased as I am
myself, for that matter.  She loves natural things--just the things you
care about yourself."

"And very much interested in tenor bell, no doubt?"

"How did you guess that?  But 'tis perfectly true.  She is; and she
said a very kind thing that was very hopeful to me to hear.  She said
that the bell always put her in mind of me, and I always put her in
mind of the bell."

"I wonder!  And did you tell her what was writ on the bell?"

"Yes, I did, father."

"And d'you know what she thought?"

Mark shook his head.

"She thought that the sooner it called you and her to church together,
and the sooner it called me to my grave, the pleasanter life would look
for her hard eyes."

"Father!  'Tis cruel and unjust to say such things."

"Haven't I seen her there o' Sundays ever since she growed up?  There's
nought tells you more about people than their ways in church.  As
bright as a bee and smart and shining; but hard--hard as the nether
millstone, that woman's heart.  Have a care of her; that's all I'll say
to you."

"I hope to God you'll know her better some day, father."

"And I hope you will, my lad; and I'll use your strong words too, and
hope to God you'll know her better afore 'tis too late."

"This is cruel, and I'm bitter sorry to hear you say it," answered the
young man, rising.  Then he went out and left his father alone.


Elsewhere Phyllis Lintern had eagerly inquired of Cora as to the
interview with the bellringer.

The girls shared many secrets and were close friends.  They knew
unconsciously that their brother was more to the mother than were they.
Heathman adored Mrs. Lintern and never wearied of showing it; but for
his sisters he cared little, and they felt no interest in him.

Now Phyllis sympathised with Cora's ambitions and romances.

"How was it?" she asked.  "I warrant you brought him to the scratch!"

"'Tis all right," declared her sister.  "'Tis so good as done.  The
word was on his tongue coming up-along in the dimpsy; but it stuck in
his throat.  I know the signs well enough.  However, 'twill slip out
pretty soon, I reckon.  He's a good sort, though fidgety, but he's
gotten lovely eyes.  I'll wake him up and smarten him up,
too--presently."




CHAPTER VII

When man builds a house on Dartmoor, he plants trees to protect it.
Sometimes they perish; sometimes they endure to shield his dwelling
from the riotous and seldom-sleeping winds.  Round the abode of
Humphrey Baskerville stood beech and pine.  A solid old house lurked
beneath, like a bear in its grove.  People likened its face to the
master's--the grey, worn, tar-pitched roof to his hair, and the small
windows on either side of the door to his eyes.  A few apple trees were
in the garden, and currant and gooseberry bushes prospered indifferent
well beneath them.  Rhubarb and a row of elders also flourished here.
The latter were permitted to exist for their fruit, and of the berries
Mrs. Susan Hacker, Humphrey's widowed housekeeper, made medicinal
preparations supposed to possess value.

Hawk House lay under a tor, and behind it the land towered to a stony
waste that culminated in wild masses of piled granite, where the rowan
grew and the vixen laid her cubs.  From this spot one might take a
bird's-eye survey of Humphrey Baskerville's domain.  Gold lichens had
fastened on the roof, and the folk conceited that since there was no
more room in the old man's house for his money, it began to ooze out
through the tiles.

Humphrey himself now sat on a favourite stone aloft and surveyed his
possessions and the scene around them.  It was his custom in fair
weather to spend many hours sequestered upon the tor.  Dwarf oaks grew
in the clitters, and he marked the passage of the time by their
activity, by the coming of migrant birds, by the appearance of the
infant foxes and by other natural signs and tokens.  Beneath Hawk House
there subtended a great furze-clad space flanked with woods.  The Rut,
as it was called, fell away to farms and fertile fields, and terminated
in a glen through which the little Torry river passed upon her way to
Plym.  Cann Wood fringed the neighbouring heights, and far away to the
south Laira's lake extended and Plymouth appeared--faint, grey,
glittering under a gauze of smoke.

The tor itself was loved by hawks and stoats, crows and foxes.  Not a
few people, familiar with the fact that Humphrey here took his solitary
walks and kept long vigils, would affirm that he held a sort of
converse with these predatory things and learned from them their winged
and four-footed cunning.  His sympathy, indeed, was with fox and hawk
rather than with hunter and hound.  He admitted it, but in no sense of
companionship with craft did he interest himself in the wild creatures.
He made no fatuous imputation of cruelty to the hawk, or cunning to the
fox.  His bent of mind, none the less, inclined him to admire their
singlehanded fight for life against long odds; and thus he, too, fell
into fallacy; but his opinion took a practical turn and was not swiftly
shattered, as such emotions are apt to be, when the pitied outlaw
offers to the sentimental spectator a personal taste of his quality.

If a hawk stooped above his chickens, he felt a sort of contempt for
the screaming, flying fowls--let the hawk help itself if it could--and
did not run for his gun.  Indeed, he had no gun.  As men said of this
or that obstinate ancient that he had never travelled in a train, so
they affirmed, concerning Humphrey Baskerville, that he had never in
his life fired a gun.

He sat and smoked a wooden pipe and reflected on the puzzles of his
days.  He knew that he was held in little esteem, but that had never
troubled him.  His inquiring spirit rose above his fellow-creatures;
and he prided himself upon the fact, and did not see that just in this
particular of a flight too lofty did he fail of the landmarks and sure
ground he sought.

A discontent, in substance very distinguished and noble, imbued his
consciousness.  He was still seeking solace out of life and a way that
should lead to rest.  But he could not find it.  He was in arms on the
wrong road.  He missed the fundamental fact that from humanity and
service arise not only the first duties of life, but also the highest
rewards that life can offer.  He had little desire towards his
fellow-creatures.  His mind appeared to magnify their deficiencies and
weakness.  He was ungenerous in his interpretation of motives.  Mankind
awoke his highest impatience.  He sneered at his own shortcomings
daily, and had no more mercy for the manifold disabilities of human
nature in general.  In the light of his religion and his learning, he
conceived that man should be by many degrees a nobler and a wiser thing
than he found him; and this conclusion awoke impatience and a fiery
aversion.  He groped therefore in a blind alley, for as yet service of
man had not brought its revelation to his spirit, or opened the portals
of content.  He failed to perceive that the man who lives rationally
for men, with all thereby involved in his duty to himself, is
justifying his own existence to the limit of human capacity.

Instead, he fulfilled obligations to his particular God with all his
might, and supposed this rule of conduct embraced every necessity.  He
despised his neighbour, but he despised himself also.  Thus he was
logical, but such a rule of conduct left him lonely.  Hence it came
about that darkness clothed him like a garment, and that his kind
shunned him, and cared not to consider him.

He sat silent and motionless.  His gift of stillness had often won some
little intimate glimpse of Nature, and it did so now.  A fox went by
him at close quarters.  It passed absorbed in its own affairs,
incautious and without fear.  Then suddenly it saw him, braced its
muscles and slipped away like a streak of cinnamon light through the
stones.

It made for the dwarf oaks beneath the head of the tor, and the watcher
saw its red stern rise and its white-tipped brush jerk this way and
that as it leapt from boulder to boulder.  A big and powerful fox--so
Humphrey perceived; one that had doubtless stood before hounds in his
time, and would again.

Arrived at the confines of the wood, the brute hurried himself no more;
but rested awhile and, with a sort of highwayman insolence, surveyed
the object of alarm.  Then it disappeared, and the man smiled to
himself and was glad that he had seen this particular neighbour.

At the poultry-house far below, moved Mrs. Hacker.  Viewed from this
elevation she presented nothing but a sun-bonnet and a great white
square of apron.  She wore black, and her bust disappeared seen thus
far away, though her capacious person might be noted at a mile.  Susan
Hacker was florid, taciturn, and staunch to her master.  If she had a
hero, it was Mr. Baskerville; and if she had an antipathy, Miss Eliza
Gollop stood for that repugnance.

Of Susan it might be said that she was honest and not honest.  In her
case, though, she would have scorned to take a crust; she listened at
doors.  To steal a spoon was beyond her power; but to steal information
not intended for her ears did not outrage her moral sense.  Her rare
triumphs were concerned with Humphrey's ragged wardrobe; and when she
could prevail with him to buy a new suit of clothes, or burn an old
one, she felt the day had justified itself.

Now, through the clitters beneath him, there ascended a man, and
Humphrey prepared to meet his nephew.  He had marked Rupert speak with
Mrs. Hacker and seen her point to the tor.  It pleased the uncle that
this youth should sometimes call unasked upon him, for he rated Rupert
as the sanest and usefulest of his kindred.  In a sense Rupert pleased
Humphrey better than his own son did.  A vague instinct to poetry and
sentiment and things of abstract beauty, which belonged as an
ingredient to Mark's character, found no echo in his father's breast.

"I be come to eat my dinner along with you and fetch a message for
Mark," began the young man.  "Mr. Masterman's meeting, to tell
everybody about the play, will be held in the parish room early next
month, and parson specially wants you and Mark to be there.  There's an
idea of reviving some old-fangled customs.  I dare say 'tis a very good
idea, and there will be plenty to lend a hand; but I doubt whether Mark
will dress up and spout poetry for him--any more than I would."

"He means to perform 'St. George' next Christmas and invite the
countryside," said Mr. Baskerville.  "Well, one man's meat is another
man's poison.  He's young and energetic.  He'll carry it through
somehow with such material as lies about him.  The maidens will all
want to be in it, no doubt."

"I think 'tis foolery, uncle."

"You think wrong, then.  Ban't always foolery to hark back to old ways.
He's got his ideas for waking the people up.  You and me might say,
'don't wake 'em up'; but 'tisn't our business.  It is his business, as
a minister, to open their eyes and polish their senses.  So let him try
with childish things first--not that he'll succeed, for he won't."

"Then what's the good of trying?"

"The man must earn his money."

"Fancy coming to a dead-alive hole like this!  Why, even Jack Head from
Trowlesworthy--him as works for Mr. Luscombe--even he laughs at Shaugh."

"He's a rare Radical, is Head.  'Tis the likes of him the upper people
don't want to teach to read or to think--for fear of pickling a rod for
themselves.  But Head will be thinking.  He's made so.  I like him."

"He laughed at me for one," said Rupert; "and though I laughed back, I
smarted under his tongue.  He says for a young and strapping chap like
me to stop at Cadworthy doing labourer's work for my father, be a
poor-spirited and even a shameful thing.  He says I ought to blush to
follow a plough or move muck, with the learning I've learnt.  Of
course, 'tis a small, mean life, in a manner of speaking, for a man of
energy as loves work like I do."

Mr. Baskerville scratched his head with the mouthpiece of his pipe, and
surveyed Rupert for some time without speaking.

Then he rose, sniffed the air, and buttoned up his coat.

"We'll walk a bit and I'll show you something," he said.

They set out over Shaugh Moor and Rupert proceeded.

"I do feel rather down on my luck, somehow--especially about Milly
Luscombe.  It don't seem right or fair exactly--as if Providence wasn't
on my side."

"Don't bleat that nonsensical stuff," said his uncle.  "You're the sort
that cry out to Providence if you fall into a bed of nettles--instead
of getting up quick and looking for a dock-leaf.  Time to cry to
Providence when you're in a fix you can't get out of single-handed.  If
you begin at your time of life, and all about nothing too, belike
'twill come to be like the cry of 'Wolf, wolf!' and then, when you
really do get into trouble and holloa out, Providence won't heed."

"Milly Luscombe's not a small thing, anyway.  How can I go on digging
and delving while father withstands me and won't hear a word about her?"

"She's too good for you."

"I know it; but she don't think so, thank the Lord."

"Your father's a man that moves in a groove.  Maybe you go safer that
way; but not further.  The beaten track be his motto.  He married late
in life, and it worked very well; so it follows to his narrow mind that
late in life is the right and only time to marry."

"I wish you'd tell him that you hold with Milly and think a lot of her.
Father has a great opinion of your cleverness, I'm sure."

"Not he!  'Tis your uncle Nathan that he sets store by.  Quite natural
that he should.  He's a much cleverer man than me, and knows a lot more
about human nature.  See how well all folk speak of him.  Can't you get
him your side?  Your father would soon give ear to you if Uncle Nathan
approved."

"'Tis an idea.  And Uncle Nat certainly be kind always.  I might try
and get him to do something.  He's very friendly with Mr. Saul
Luscombe, Milly's uncle."

"How does Luscombe view it?"

"He'll be glad to have Milly off his hands."

"More fool him then.  For there's no more understanding girl about."

"So Jack Head says.  Ban't often he's got a good word for anybody; but
he's told me, in so many words, that Milly be bang out of the common.
He said it because his savage opinions never fluster her."

They stood on Hawk Tor, and beneath them stretched, first, the carpet
of the heath.  Then the ground fell into a valley, where water meadows
spread about a stream, and beyond, by woods and homesteads, the earth
ascended again to Shaugh Prior.  The village, perched upon the apex of
the hill, twinkled like a jewel.  Glitter of whitewash and rosy-wash
shone under the grey roofs; sunlight and foliage sparkled and
intermingled round the church tower; light roamed upon the hills,
revealing and obscuring detail in its passage.  To the far west, above
deep valleys, the world appeared again; but now it had receded and
faded and merged in tender blue to the horizon.  Earth spread before
the men in three huge and simple planes: of heath and stone sloping
from north to south; of hillside and village and hamlet perched upon
their proper crest; of the dim, dreaming distance swept with the haze
of summer and rising to sky-line.

"That's not small--that's big," said Humphrey Baskerville.  "Plenty of
room here for the best or worse that one boy can do."

But Rupert doubted.

"Think of the world out of sight, uncle.  This bit spread here be
little more than a picture in its frame."

"Granted; but the frame's wide enough to cage all that your wits will
ever work.  You can run here and wear your fingers to the bone without
bruising yourself against any bars.  Go down in the churchyard and take
a look at the Baskerville slates--fifty of 'em if there's one: your
grandfather, your great-uncle, the musicker, and all the rest.  And
every man and woman of the lot lived and died, and suffered and
sweated, and did good or evil within this picture-frame."

"All save the richest--him that went to foreign parts and made a
fortune and sent back tons of money to father and you and Uncle Nat."

Humphrey laughed.

"Thou hast me there!" he said.  "But don't be discontented.  Bide a bit
and see how the wind blows.  I'm not against a man following the spirit
that calls him; but wait and find out whether 'tis a true voice or only
a lying echo.  What does Milly say?"

"'Tis Milly have put the thought into me, for that matter.  She's
terrible large in her opinions.  She holds that father haven't got no
right to refuse to let us be tokened.  She'd come and talk to him, if
I'd let her.  A regular fear-nothing, she is."

"What would she have you do?"

"Gird up and be off.  She comes of a very wandering family, and, of
course, one must allow for that.  I've nought to say against it.  But
they can't bide in one spot long.  Something calls 'em to be roaming."

"The tribe of Esau."

They talked on, and Rupert found himself the better for some caustic
but sane counsel.

"'Tis no good asking impossibilities from you, and I'm the last to do
it," said Humphrey.  "There are some things we can't escape from, and
our characters are one of them.  There's no more sense in trying to run
from your character than in trying to run from your shadow.  Too often
your character is your shadow, come to think on it; and cruel black at
that.  But don't be impatient.  Wait and watch yourself as well as
other people.  If these thoughts have been put in your head by the
girl, they may not be natural to you, and they may not be digested by
you.  See how your own character takes 'em.  I'm not against courting,
mind, nor against early marriages; and if this woman be made of the
stuff to mix well and close with your own character, then marry her and
defy the devil and all his angels to harm you.  To take such a woman is
the best day's work that even the hardest working man can do in this
world.  But meantime don't whine, but go ahead and gather wisdom and
learn a little about the things that happen outside the
picture-frame--as I do."

They turned presently and went back to dinner.

Rupert praised his uncle, and declared that life looked the easier for
his advice.

"'Tis no good being called 'The Hawk' if you can't sharpen your wits as
well as your claws," said the old man.  "Yes--you're astonished--but I
know what they call me well enough."

"I knocked a chap down last Sunday on Cadworthy bridge for saying it,"
declared Rupert.

"Very thoughtful and very proper to stand up for your family; but I'm
not hurt.  Maybe there's truth in it.  I've no quarrel with the
hawks--or the herons either--for all they do eat the trout.  By all
accounts there was birds to eat trout afore there was men to eat 'em.
We humans have invented a saying that possession is nine points of the
law; but we never thought much of that when it comed to knocking our
weaker neighbours on the head--whether they be birds or men."

"You've made me a lot more contented with the outlook, anyway."

"I'm glad to hear it.  Content's the one thing I'd wish you--and wish
myself.  I can't see the way very clear yet.  Let me know if ever you
come by it."

"You!  Why, you'm the most contented of any of us."

"Come and eat, and don't talk of what you know nought," said Mr.
Baskerville.

They went through the back yard of the homestead presently, where a
hot, distinctive odour of pigs saturated the air.  As they passed by,
some young, very dirty, pink porkers grunted with fat, amiable voices
and cuddled to their lean mother, where she lay in a lair of ordure.

"That's content," explained Humphrey; "it belongs to brainless things,
and only to them.  I haven't found it among men and women yet, and I
never count to.  Rainbow gold in this world.  Yet, don't mistake me,
I'm seeking after it still."

"Why seek for it, if there's no such thing, uncle?"

"Well may you ask that.  But the answer's easy.  Because 'tis part of
my character to seek for it, Rupert.  Character be stronger than
reason's self, if you can understand that.  I seek because I'm driven."

"You might find it after all, uncle.  There must be such a thing--else
there'd be no word for it."

The older sighed.

"A young and hopeful fashion of thought," he said.  "But you're out
there.  Men have made up words for many a fine, fancied thing their
hearts long for; but the word is all--stillborn out of poor human hope."

He brooded deep into his own soul upon this thought and spoke little
more that day.  But Mark was waiting for his dinner when they returned,
and he and Rupert found themes in common to occupy them through the
meal.

The great project of the new vicar chiefly supplied conversation.
Rupert felt indifferent, but Mark was much interested.

"I'm very willing to lend a hand all I can, and I expect the parish
will support it," he said.  "But as for play-acting myself, and taking
a part, I wouldn't for all the world.  It beats me how anybody can get
up on a platform and speak a speech afore his fellow-creatures
assembled."

"The girls will like it," foretold Rupert.

"Cora Lintern is to play a part," declared Mark; "and no doubt she'll
do it amazing well."

Rupert was up in arms at once.

"I should think they'll ask Milly Luscombe too.  She's got more wits
than any of 'em."

"She may have as much as Cora, but not more, I can assure you of that,"
answered Mark firmly.

He rarely contradicted a statement or opposed an assertion; but upon
this great subject his courage was colossal.




CHAPTER VIII

Mr. Masterman and his sister made more friends than enemies.  The man's
good-nature and energy attracted his parishioners; while Miss
Masterman, though not genial, was sincere.  A certain number followed
the party of Mr. Gollop and Eliza, yet, as time passed, it diminished.
The surplices arrived; the girls were turned out of the choir; but the
heavens did not fall.  Even the Nonconformists of Shaugh Prior regarded
the young vicar with friendliness, and when he called a meeting at the
parish room, Mr. Nathan Baskerville and others who stood for dissent,
attended it in an amiable spirit.

Rumours as to the nature of the proposition had leaked out, and they
were vague; but a very general interest had been excited, and when the
evening came the vicar, his churchwardens, and friends, found a
considerable company assembled.

There were present Vivian and Nathan Baskerville, with most of the
former's family.  Mrs. Lintern and her two daughters from Undershaugh
also came; while Heathman Lintern, Ned Baskerville, and other young men
stood in a group at the rear of the company.  From Trowlesworthy
arrived the warrener, Saul Luscombe, his niece, Milly, and his man,
Jack Head.  People looked uneasy at sight of the last, for he was a
revolutionary and firebrand.  The folk suspected that he held
socialistic views, and were certain that he worked harm on the morals
of younger people.  Susan Hacker, at her master's wish, attended the
meeting and sat impassive among friends.  Thomas Gollop and Joe Voysey,
the vicarage gardener, sat together; but Miss Gollop was not present,
because her services were occupied with the newly-born.

A buzz and babel filled the chamber and the heat increased.  Jack Head
opened a window.  Whereupon Mr. Gollop rose and shut it again.  The
action typified that eternal battle of principle which waged between
them.  But Vivian Baskerville was on the side of fresh air.

"Let be!" he shouted.  "Us don't want to be roasted alive, Thomas!"

So the window was opened once more, and Head triumphed.

Dennis Masterman swiftly explained his desire and invited the parish to
support him in reviving an ancient and obsolete ceremonial.

"The oldest men among you must remember the days of the Christmas
mummers," he said.  "I've heard all about them from eye-witnesses, and
it strikes me that to get up the famous play of 'St. George,' with the
quaint old-world dialogue, would give us all something to do this
winter, and be very interesting and instructive, and capital fun.
There are plenty among you who could act the parts splendidly, and as
the original version is rather short and barren, I should have some
choruses written in, and go through it and polish it up, and perhaps
even add a character or two.  In the old days it was all done by the
lads, but why not have some lasses in it as well?  However, these are
minor points to be decided later.  Would you like the play? that's the
first question.  It is a revival of an ancient custom.  It will
interest a great many people outside our parish; and if it is to be
done at all, it must be done really well.  Probably some will be for it
and some against.  For my part, I only want to please the greater
number.  Those who are for it had better elect a spokesman, and let him
say a word first; then we'll hear those who are against."

The people listened quietly; then they bent this way and that, and
discussed the suggestion.  Some rose and approached Vivian Baskerville,
where he sat beside his brother.  After some minutes of buzzing
conversation, during which Vivian shook his head vigorously, and Nathan
as vigorously nodded, the latter rose with reluctance, and the folk
stamped their feet.

"'Tis only because of my brother's modest nature that I get up," he
explained.  "As a Church of England man and a leader among us, they
very properly wanted for him to speak.  But he won't do it, and no more
will young Farmer Waite, and no more will Mr. Luscombe of
Trowlesworthy; so I'll voice 'em to the best of my power.  Though I'm
of t'other branch of the Christian Church, yet my friends will bear me
out that I've nothing but kind feeling and regard for all of them, and
in such a pleasant matter as this I shall do all in my power to help
your reverence, as we all shall.  For I do think there's none but will
make the mummers welcome again, and lend a hand to lift the fun into a
great success.  Me and my brother and Luscombe, and Waite and Gollop,
and Joe Voysey, and a good few more, can well remember the old mumming
days; and we'll all do our best to rub up our memories.  So what we all
say is, 'Go ahead, Mr. Masterman, and good luck to it!'"

Applause greeted Nathan.  The folk were filled with admiration at his
ready turn of speech.  He sat down again between Mrs. Lintern and Cora.
Everybody clapped their hands.

Then came a hiss from the corner where Jack Head stood.

"A dissentient voice," declared the clergyman.  "Who is that?"

"My name is Jack Head, and I be gwaine to offer objections," said the
man stoutly.

"Better save your wind then!" snapped Mr. Gollop.  "You be one against
the meeting."

Head was a middle-aged, narrow-browed, and underhung individual of an
iron-grey colour.  His body was long and thin; his shoulders were high;
his expression aggressive, yet humorous.  He had swift wits and a
narrow understanding.  He was observant and impressed with the misery
of the world; but he possessed no philosophical formulas to balance his
observation or counsel patience before the welter of life.  He was
honest, but scarce knew the meaning of amenity.

"One or not won't shut my mouth," he said.  "I'm a member of the parish
so much as you, though I don't bleat a lot of wild nonsense come every
seventh day, and I say that to spend good time and waste good money
this way be a disgrace, and a going back instead of going forward.
What for do we want to stir up a lot of silly dead foolishness that our
grandfathers invented?  Ban't there nothing better to do with ourselves
and our wits than dress up like a ship-load of monkeys and go
play-acting?  We might so well start to wassail the apple-trees and put
mourning on the bee-butts when a man dies.  I'm against it, and I
propose instead that Mr. Masterman looks round him and sees what a
miserable Jakes of a mess his parish be in, and spends his time trying
to get the landlords to----"

"Order!  Order!  Withdraw that!" cried out Mr. Gollop furiously.  "How
dare this infidel man up and say the parish be in a Jakes of a mess?
Where's Ben North?"

"I'm here, Thomas," said a policeman, who stood at the door.

"You'm a silly old mumphead," replied Jack.  "To hear you about this
parish--God's truth!  I'll tell you this, my brave hero.  When the
devil was showing the Lord the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of
'em, he kept his thumb on Shaugh Prior, so as none should see what a
dung-heap of a place it was."

"Order!  Order!" cried Miss Masterman shrilly, and Mr. Gollop grew
livid.

"I appeal to the chair!  I appeal to the nation!" he gasped.  Then he
shook his fist at Jack.

"There's no chair--not yet," explained Dennis.  "As soon as we decide,
I'll take the chair, and we'll appoint a committee to go into the
matter and arrange the parts, and so on.  The first thing is, are we
agreed?"

One loud shout attested to the sense of the meeting.

"Then, Mr. Head, you're in a minority of one, and I hope we may yet
convince you that this innocent revival is not a bad thing," said
Dennis.  "And further than that, you mustn't run down Shaugh Prior in
this company.  We've got a cheerful conceit of ourselves, and why not?
Don't think I'm dead to the dark side of human life, and the sorrows
and sufferings of the poor.  I hope you'll all very soon find that I'm
not that sort, or my sister either.  And the devil himself can't hide
Shaugh Prior from the Lord and Saviour of us all, Mr. Head--have no
fear of that."

"Sit down, Jack, and say you'm sorry," cried Mr. Luscombe.

"Not me," replied Head.  "I've stated my views at a free meeting, and
I'm on the losing side, like men of my opinions always be where parsons
have a voice.  But me and my friends will be up top presently."

"Turn him out, Ben North!" shouted Mr. Gollop; but Ben North refused.
Indeed, he was of Jack's party.

"He've done nought but say his say, and I shan't turn him out," the
policeman answered.  "There's nobody in the chair yet, and therefore
there's none here with power to command the Law to move."

A committee was swiftly formed.  It consisted of the clergyman and
certain parishioners.  Nathan joined it for his family; Mr. Luscombe
also joined, and Dennis promised that certain local antiquaries and the
lord of the manor would assist the enterprise.

"While we are here," he said, "we may as well get the thing well
advanced and decide about the characters.  All those interested are
here, so why not let me read through the old play as it stands?  Then
we'll settle the parts, and each can copy his or her part in turn."

"There's nothing like being fore-handed," admitted Nathan.  "Let's have
it by all means.  We shall want young and old to play, if my memory
serves me."

"We shall, and a good company to sing the songs that I hope to add.  My
sister, our organist, will undertake the music."

"And right well she'll do it, without a doubt," declared Nathan.  "On
all hands 'tis admitted how the church music has mended a lot since she
took it up."

Mr. Masterman then read a version of the old play, and its ingenuous
humour woke laughter.

"Now," said the vicar when his recital was at an end, "I'll ask those
among us who will volunteer to act--ladies and gentlemen--to come
forward.  Especially I appeal to the ladies.  They'll have to say very
little."

"Only to look nice, and I'm sure that won't cost 'em an effort, for
they can't help it," declared Nathan.

None immediately rose.  Then Ned Baskerville strolled down the room.

"Best-looking young man in Shaugh," cried an anonymous voice.

"And the laziest!" answered another unknown.

There was a laugh and Ned turned ruddy.

"Thou'lt never take trouble enough to learn thy part, Ned!" cried
Heathman Lintern.

"Play Turkish knight, my son," said his father.  "Then thou can'st be
knocked on the head and die comfortable without more trouble."

Others followed Ned, and Mr. Masterman called for Mark.

"You'll not desert us, Mark?  I shall want your help, I know."

"And glad to give it," answered the young man.  He grew very hot and
nervous to find himself named.  His voice broke, he coughed and cut a
poor figure.  Somebody patted him on the back.

"Don't be frighted, Mark," said Vivian Baskerville; "his reverence only
wants for you to do what you can.  He wouldn't ask impossibilities."

Mrs. Baskerville compared her handsome son to stammering Mark and felt
satisfied.  Cora Lintern also contrasted the young men, and in her
bosom was anything but satisfaction.

"You needn't act, but you must help in many ways.  You're so well up in
the old lore--all about our legends and customs," explained the
clergyman.  "We count on you.  And now we want some of the older men
among you, and when we've settled them we must come to the ladies.
We're getting on splendidly.  Now--come--you set a good example,
Thomas."

"Me!" cried Mr. Gollop.  "Me to play-act!  Whoever heard the like?"

"You must play, Thomas," urged Vivian Baskerville of Cadworthy.  "Such
a voice can't be lost.  What a King of Egypt the man will make!"

"I'll do a part if you will, but not else," returned Gollop, and the
Baskerville family lifted a laugh at their father's expense.

"For that matter I've took the stage often enough," admitted Vivian;
"but 'twas to work, not to talk.  All the same, if his reverence would
like for me to play a part, why, I'm ready and willing, so long as
there isn't much to say to it."

"Hurrah for Mr. Baskerville!" shouted several present.

"And Mr. Nathan must play, too," declared Joe Voysey.  "No revel would
be complete without him."

"If you'll listen I'll tell you what I think," said the clergyman.
"I've considered your parts during the last five minutes, and they go
like this in my mind.  Let's take them in order:--

"St. George, Mr. Ned Baskerville.  Will you do St. George, Ned?"

"Yes, if you can't find a better," said the young man.

"Good!  Now the Turkish knight comes next.  He must be young and a bit
of a fighter.  Will you be Turkish knight, Mr. Waite?"

He addressed a young, good-looking, dark man, who farmed land in the
parish, and dwelt a few miles off.

Mr. Waite laughed and nodded.

"Right--I'll try."

"Well done!  Now"--Mr. Masterman smiled and looked at Jack Head--"will
Mr. Head play the Bear--to oblige us all?"

Everybody laughed, including Jack himself.

"The very living man for Bear!" cried Mr. Luscombe.  "I command you,
Jack, to be Bear!"

"You ain't got much to do but growl and fight, Jack, and you're a oner
at both," said Heathman.

"Well, I've said my say," returned Mr. Head, "and I was in a minority.
But since this parish wants for me to be Bear, I'll Bear it out so well
as I can; and if I give St. George a bit of a hug afore he bowls me
over, he mustn't mind that."

"Capital!  Thank you, Jack Head.  Now, who'll be Father Christmas?  I
vote for Mr. Nathan Baskerville."

Applause greeted the suggestion, but Miss Masterman bent over from her
seat and whispered to her brother.  He shook his head, however, and
answered under his breath.

"It doesn't matter a button about his being a dissenter.  So much the
better.  Let's draw them in all we can."

"You ought to choose the church people first."

"It's done now, anyway," he replied.  "Everybody likes the man.  We
must have him in it, or half the folk won't come."

"The King of Egypt is next," said Nathan, after he had been duly
elected to Father Christmas.  "I say Thomas Gollop here for the part."

"I don't play nought," answered Thomas firmly, "unless Vivian
Baskerville do.  He's promised."

"I'll be Giant, then, and say 'Fee-fo-fum!" answered the farmer.
"'Twill be a terrible come-along-of-it for Ned here, and I warn him
that if he don't fight properly valiant, I won't die."

"The very man--the only man for Giant," declared Dennis Masterman.  "So
that's settled.  Now, who's for Doctor?  That's a very important part.
I suppose your father wouldn't do it, Mark?  He's just the wise-looking
face for a doctor."

"My brother!" cried Vivian.  "Good Lord!  he'd so soon stand on his
head in the market-place as lend a hand in a bit of nonsense like this.
Ask Luscombe here.  Will you be Doctor, Saul?"

But Mr. Luscombe refused.

"Not in my line.  Here's Joe Voysey--he's doctored a lot of things in
his time--haven't you, Joe?"

"Will you be Doctor, Joe?" asked Mr. Masterman.

But Joe refused.

"Too much to say," he answered.  "I might larn it with a bit of sweat,
but I should never call it home when the time came."

"Be the French Eagle, Joe," suggested Mark Baskerville.  "You've got
but little to say, and St. George soon settles you."

"And the very living nose for it, Joe," urged Mr. Gollop.

"Very well, if the meeting is for it, I'll be Eagle," assented Mr.
Voysey.

The part of Doctor remained unfilled for the present.

"Now there's the fair Princess Sabra and Mother Dorothy," explained the
vicar.  "Princess Sabra, the King of Egypt's daughter, will be a
novelty, for she didn't come into the old play in person.  She doesn't
say anything, but she must be there."

"Miss Lintern for Princess Sabra!" said Mark.

Everybody laughed, and the young man came in for some chaff; but Dennis
approved, and Mrs. Lintern nodded and smiled.  Cora blushed and Nathan
patted Mark on the back.

"A good idea, and we're all for it," he said.

To Cora, as the belle of the village, belonged the part by right.  She
was surprised and gratified at this sudden access of importance.

Then the vicar prepared to close his meeting.

"For Mother Dorothy we want a lady of mature years and experience.  The
part is often played by a man, but I would sooner a lady played it, if
we can persuade one to do so," he said.

"Mrs. Hacker!  Mrs. Hacker!" shouted a mischievous young man at the
back of the hall.

"Never," said Susan Hacker calmly.  "Not that I'd mind; but whatever
would my master say?"

"Let my sister play the part," suggested Thomas.  "Eliza Gollop fears
nought on two legs.  She'll go bravely through with it."

Mr. Nathan's heart sank, but he could not object.

The company was divided.  Then, to the surprise of not a few, Mrs.
Hacker spoke again.  The hated name had dispelled her doubts.

"I'll do it, and chance master," she said.  "Yes, there's no false
shame in me, I believe.  I'll do it rather than----"

"You're made for the part, ma'am," declared Mr. Nathan, much relieved.
"And very fine you'll look.  You've got to kiss Father Christmas at the
end of the play, though.  I hope you don't mind that."

"That's why she's going to act the part!" shouted Heathman, and
laughter drowned Mrs. Hacker's reply.

In good spirits the company broke up, and the young folk went away
excited, the old people interested and amused.

Merriment sounded on the grey July night; many women chattered about
the play till long after their usual hour for sleep; and plenty of
coarse jests as to the promised entertainment were uttered at the bar
of 'The White Thorn' presently.

As for the vicar and his sister, they felt that they had achieved a
triumph.  Two shadows alone darkened the outlook in Miss Masterman's
eyes.  She objected to the Nonconformist element as undesirable or
unnecessary; and she did not like the introduction of Queen Sabra.

"That showy girl is quite conceited enough already," she said.

But her brother was young and warm-hearted.

"She's lovely, though," he said.  "By Jove! the play will be worth
doing, if only to see her got up like a princess!"

"Don't be silly, Dennis," answered his sister.  "She's a rude wretch,
and the Linterns are the most independent people in the parish."




CHAPTER IX

At high summer two men and two maids kept public holiday and wove
romance under the great crown of Pen Beacon.  From this border height
the South Hams spread in a mighty vision of rounded hills and plains;
whole forests were reduced to squat, green cushions laid upon the broad
earth's bosom; and amid them glimmered wedges and squares of ripening
corn, shone root crops, smiled water meadows, and spread the emerald
faces of shorn hayfields.

It was a day of lowering clouds and illumination breaking through them.
Fans of light fell between the piled-up cumuli, and the earth was
mottled with immense, alternate patches of shadow and sunshine.  Thick
and visible strata of air hung heavy between earth and sky at this
early hour.  They presaged doubt, and comprehended a condition that
might presently diffuse and lift into unclouded glory of August light,
or darken to thunderstorm.  Southerly the nakedness of Hanger Down and
the crags of Eastern and Western Beacons towered; while to the east
were Quickbeam Hill, Three Barrows, and the featureless expanses of
Stall Moor.  Northerly towered Penshiel, and the waste spread beyond it
in long leagues, whose planes were flattened out by distance and
distinguished against each other by sleeping darkness and waking light.

A fuliginous heaviness, that stained air at earth's surface, persisted
even on this lofty ground, and the highest passages of aerial radiance
were not about the sun, but far beneath it upon the horizon.

Rupert Baskerville trudged doubtfully forward, sniffing the air and
watching the sky, while beside him came Milly Luscombe; and a quarter
of a mile behind them walked Mark and Cora Lintern.  The men had
arranged to spend their holiday up aloft, and Milly was well pleased;
but Cora held the expedition vain save for what it should accomplish.
To dawdle in the Moor when she might have been at a holiday revel was
not her idea of pleasure; but as soon as Mark issued his invitation she
guessed that he did so with an object, and promised to join him.

As yet the definite word had not passed his lips, though it had hovered
there; but to-day Miss Lintern was resolved to return from Pen Beacon
betrothed.  As for Mark, his hope chimed with her intention.  Cora was
always gracious and free of her time, while he played the devout lover
and sincerely held her above him every way.  Only the week before
Heathman, obviously inspired to do so, had asked him why he kept off,
and declared that it would better become him to speak.  And now,
feeling that the meal presently to be taken would be of a more joyous
character after than before the deed, he stopped Cora while yet a mile
remained to trudge before they should reach the top of the tor.

"Rest a bit," he said.  "Let Rupert and Milly go forward.  They don't
want us, and we shall all meet in the old roundy-poundies up over,
where we're going to eat our dinner."

"Looks as if 'twas offering for bad weather," she answered, lifting her
eyes to the sky.  "I'm glad I didn't put on my new muslin."

She sat on a stone and felt that he was now going to ask her to marry
him.  She was not enthusiastic about him at the bottom of her heart;
but she knew that he would be rich and a good match for a girl in her
position.  She was prone to exaggerate her beauty, and had hoped better
things from it than Mark Baskerville; but certain minor romances with
more important men had come to nothing.  She was practical and made
herself see the bright side of the contract.  He was humble and she
could influence him as she pleased.  He worshipped her and would
doubtless continue to do so.

Once his wife she proposed to waken in him a better conceit of himself
and, when his father died, she would be able to 'blossom out,' as she
put it to her sister, and hold her head high in the land.  There were
prospects.  Nathan Baskerville was rich also, and he was childless.  He
liked Mark well, and on one occasion, when she came into the farm
kitchen at Undershaugh suddenly, she overheard Nathan say to her
mother, "No objection--none at all--a capital match for her."

Mark put down the basket that carried their meal and took a seat beside
Cora.

"'Tisn't going to rain," he said.  "I always know by my head if there's
thunder in the elements.  It gets a sort of heavy, aching feeling.
Look yonder, the clouds are levelling off above the Moor so true as if
they'd been planed.  That's the wind's work.  Why, there's enough blue
showing to make you a new dress a'ready, Cora."

"I'd love a dress of such blue as that.  Blue's my colour," she said.

"Yes, it is--though you look lovely enough in any colour."

"I like to please you, Mark."

"Oh, Cora, and don't you please me?  Little you know--little you know.
I've had it on my tongue a thousand times--yet it seems too bold--from
such as me to you.  Why, there's none you mightn't look to; and if
you'd come of a higher havage, you'd have been among the loveliest
ladies in the land.  And so you are now, for that matter--only you're
hid away in this savage old place--like a beautiful pearl under the
wild sea."

This had long been Cora's own opinion.  She smiled and touched the hair
on her hot forehead.

"If there comes on a fog, I shall go out of curl in a minute," she
said.  Then, seeing that this prophecy silenced him, she spoke again.

"I love to hear you tell these kind things, Mark.  I'd sooner please
you than any man living.  Perhaps 'tis over-bold in me to say so; but
I'm telling nought but truth."

"Truth ban't often so beautiful as that," he said slowly.  "And 'tis
like your brave heart to say it out; and here's truth for your truth,
Cora.  If you care to hear me say I think well of you, then I care to
hear you speak well of me; and more: nobody else's good word is better
than wind in the trees against your slightest whisper.  So that I
please you, I care nothing for all the world; and if you'll let me,
I'll live for you and die for you.  For that matter I've lived for only
you these many days, and if you'll marry me--there--'tis out.  I'm a
vain chap even to dare to say it; but 'tis you have made me so--'tis
your kind words and thoughts for me--little thoughts that peep out and
dear little kind things done by you and forgotten by you; but never by
me, Cora.  Can you do it?  Can you sink down to me, or is it too much
of a drop?  Others have lowered themselves for love and never regretted
it.  'Tis a fall for such a bright, lovely star as you; but my love's
ready to catch you, so you shan't hurt yourself.  I--I----"

He broke off and she seemed really moved.  She put her hand on his two,
which were knotted together; and then she looked love into his
straining eyes and nodded.

His hands opened and seized hers and squeezed them till she drew in her
breath.  Then he put his arms round her and kissed her.

"Don't move, for God's sake!" he said.  "D'you know what you've done?"

"Given myself to a dear good chap," she answered.

In her heart she was thanking heaven that she had not worn the new
muslin dress.

"Weather or no weather, he'd have creased it and mangled it all over
and ruined it for ever," she thought.

They proceeded presently, but made no haste to overtake their
companions.  Their talk was of the future and marriage.  He pressed for
an early union; she was in no hurry.

"You must learn a bit more about me first," she told him.  "Maybe I'm
not half as nice as you think.  And there's your father.  I'm terrible
frightened of him."

"You need not be, Cora.  He's not against early marriage.  You must
come and see him pretty soon.  He'll be right glad for my sake, though
he'll be sure to tell me I've had better luck than I deserve."

She considered awhile without speaking.

"I'm afraid I shan't bring you much money," she said.

"What's money?  That's the least thing.  I shall have plenty enough, no
doubt."

"What will your father do?  Then there's your uncle, Mr. Nathan.  He's
terrible rich, by all accounts, and he thinks very well of you."

"I shall be all right.  But I'm a lazy man--too lazy.  I shall turn my
hand to something steady when we're married."

"Such a dreamer you are.  Not but what, with all your great cleverness,
you ban't worth all the young men put together for brains."

"I'm going to set to.  My father's often at me about wasting my life.
But, though he'd scorn the word, he's a bit of a dreamer too--in his
way.  You'd never guess it; but he spends many long hours all alone,
brooding about things.  And he's a very sharp-eyed, clever man.  He
marks the seasons by the things that happen out of doors.  He'll come
down off our tor that cheerful sometimes, you wouldn't believe 'twas
him.  'Curlew's back on the Moor,' he'll say one day; then another day,
'Oaks are budding'; then again, 'First frost to-night,' or 'Thunder's
coming.'  His bark is worse than his bite, really."

"'Tis his terrible eyes I fear.  They look through you.  He makes me
feel small, and I always hate anybody that does that."

"You mustn't hate him.  Too many do already.  But 'twould be better to
feel sorry for him.  He's often a very unhappy old man.  I feel it, but
I can't see the reason, and he says nothing."

She pouted.

"I wish I hadn't got to see him.  Why, his own brother--your Uncle
Nathan--even he can't hit it off with him.  And I'm sure there must be
something wrong with a man that can't get on with Mr. Nathan.
Everybody is fond of him; but I've often heard him say----"

"Leave it," interrupted Mark.  "I know all that, Cora.  'Tis just one
of those puzzles that happen.  'Tis no good fretting about anybody
else: what you've got to do is to make my father love you.  And you've
only got to be yourself and he must love you."

"Of course I'll do my best."

"Give me just one more lovely kiss, before we get over the hill-top and
come in sight of them.  We're to meet at the 'old men's' camp."

She kissed him and then silence fell between them.  It lasted a long
while until he broke it.

"Don't fancy because I'm so still that I'm not bursting with joy," he
said.  "But when I think of what's happened to me this minute, I feel
'tis too big for words.  The thoughts in me can't be spoken, Cora.
They are too large to cram into little pitiful speeches."

"I'm getting hungry; and there's Milly waving," she answered.

"Milly's hungry too, belike."

Eastward, under Pen Beacon, lay an ancient lodge of the neolithic
people.  The circles of scattered granite shone grey, set in foliage
and fruit of the bilberry, with lichens on the stone and mosses woven
into the grass about them.  A semicircle of hills extended beyond and
formed a mighty theatre where dawn and storm played their parts, where
falling night was pictured largely and moonshine slept upon lonely
heights and valleys.  In the glen beneath spread Dendles Wood, with
fringes of larch and pine hiding the River Yealm and spreading a
verdant medley of deep summer green in the lap of the grey hills.  Gold
autumn furzes flashed along the waste, and the pink ling broke into her
first tremble of colourless light that precedes the blush of fulness.

The party of four sat in a hut circle and spoke little while they ate
and drank.  Rupert, unknown to the rest, and much to his own
inconvenience, had dragged up six stone bottles of ginger-beer hidden
under his coat.  These he produced and was much applauded.  A spring
broke at hand, and the bottles were sunk therein to cool them.

They talked together after a very practical and businesslike fashion.
Milly and Rupert were definitely engaged in their own opinion, and now
when Mark, who could not keep in the stupendous event of the moment,
announced it, they congratulated the newly engaged couple with the
wisdom and experience of those who had long entered that state.

"'Tis a devilish unrestful condition, I can promise you," said Rupert,
"and the man always finds it so if the girl don't.  Hanging on is just
hell--especially in my case, where I can't get father to see with my
eyes.  But, thank God, Milly's jonic.  She won't change."

"No," said Milly, "I shan't change.  'Tis you have got to change.  I
respect your father very much, like the rest of the world, but because
he didn't marry till he was turned forty-five, that's no reason why you
should wait twenty years for it.  Anyway, if you must, so will I--only
I shall be a thought elderly for the business by that time.  However,
it rests with you."

"I'm going--that's what she means," explained Rupert.  "Jack Head and
me have had a talk, and he's thrown a lot of light on things in
general.  I can't be bound hand and foot to my father like this; and if
he won't meet me, I must take things into my own hands and leave home."

Mark was staggered at the enormity of such a plan.

"Don't do anything in a hurry and without due thought."

"Very well for you to talk," said Milly.  "You do nought but ring the
bells on Sundays, and play at work the rest of the week.  Mr. Humphrey
won't stand in your way.  I suppose you could be married afore
Christmas, if you pleased."

She sighed at the glorious possibility.

"I hope we shall be; but Cora's in no hurry, I'm afraid."

"And when I've got work," continued Rupert, "then I shall just look
round and take a house and marry; and why not?"

"Your father will never let you go.  It isn't to be thought upon,"
declared Mark.

"Then he must be reasonable.  He appears to forget I'm nearly
twenty-four," answered his cousin.

Conversation ranged over their problems and their hopes.  Then Rupert
touched another matrimonial disappointment.

"It looks as if we were not to be fortunate in love," he said.
"There's Ned terrible down on his luck.  He's offered marriage
again--to Farmer Chave's second daughter; and 'twas as good as done;
but Mr. Chave wouldn't hear of it, and he's talked the girl round and
Ned's got chucked."

"Serve him right," said Milly.  "He jilted two girls.  'Twill do him
good to smart a bit himself."

"The Chaves are a lot too high for us," asserted Mark.  "He's a very
well-born and rich man, and his father was a Justice of the Peace, and
known in London.  He only farms to amuse himself."

"'Twas Ned's face, I reckon," said Cora.  "They Chave women are both
terrible stuck up.  Makes me sick to see 'em in church all in their
town-made clothes.  But fine feathers won't make fine birds of them.
They'm both flat as a plate, and a lot older than they pretend.  Ned is
well out of it, I reckon."

"He don't think so, however," replied Rupert.  "I've never known him
take any of his affairs to heart like this one.  Moped and gallied he
is, and creeps about with a face as long as a fiddle; and off his food
too."

"Poor chap," said Cora feelingly.

"Even talks of ending it and making away with himself.  Terrible hard
hit, I do believe."

"Your mother must be in a bad way about him," said Milly.

"She is.  Why, he took mother down to the river last Sunday and showed
her a big hole there, where Plym comes over the rocks and the waters
all a-boil and twelve feet deep.  'That's where you'll find me,
mother,' he says.  And she, poor soul, was frightened out of her wits.
And father's worried too, for Ned can't go wrong with him.  Ned may
always do what he likes, though I may not."

Cora declared her sympathy, but Mark did not take the incident as grave.

"You needn't fear," he assured Ned's brother.  "Men that talk openly of
killing themselves, never do it.  Words are a safety-valve.  'Tis the
sort that go silent and cheerful under a great blow that be nearest
death."

Cora spoke of Ned's looks with admiration and feared that this great
disappointment might spoil them; but Milly was not so sympathetic.

"If he stood to work and didn't think so much about the maidens, they
might think a bit more about him," she said.

"He swears he won't play St. George now," added Rupert.  "He haven't
got the heart to go play-acting no more."

"He'll find twenty girls to go philandering after afore winter,"
foretold Milly.  "And if Cora here was to ask him, he'd play St. George
fast enough."

"'Twill be a very poor compliment to me if he cries off now," declared
Cora.  "For I'm to be the princess, and 'tis pretended in the play that
he's my true lover."

"Mark will be jealous then.  'Tis a pity he don't play St. George,"
said Milly.

But Mark laughed.

"A pretty St. George me!" he answered.  "No, no; I'm not jealous of
Ned.  Safety in numbers, they say.  Let him be St. George and welcome;
and very noble he'll look--if ever he's got brains enough in his empty
noddle to get the words and remember them."

Cora cast a swift side glance at her betrothed.  She did not speak, but
the look was not all love.  Discontent haunted her for a little space.

The ginger-beer was drunk and the repast finished.  The men lighted
their pipes; the girls talked together.

Milly congratulated Cora very heartily.

"He's a fine, witty chap, as I've always said.  Different to most of
us, along of being better eggicated.  But that modest and retiring, few
people know what a clever man he is."

These things pleased the other, and she was still more pleased when
Milly discussed Mark's father.

"I often see him," she said--"oftener than you might think for.  He'll
ride to Trowlesworthy twice and thrice a month sometimes.  Why for?  To
see my uncle, you might fancy.  But that's not the reason.  To talk
with Jack he comes.  Jack Head and me be the only people in these parts
that ban't afraid of him.  And that's what he likes.  You be fearless
of him, Cora, or he'll think nought of thee.  Fearless and attentive to
what he says--that's the rule with him.  And pretend nothing, or he'll
see through it and pull you to pieces.  Him and Jack Head says the most
tremendous things about the world and its ways.  They take Uncle Saul's
breath away sometimes, and mine too.  But don't let him frighten
you--that's the fatal thing.  If a creature's feared of him, he
despises it.  Never look surprised at his speeches."

Cora listened to this advice and thanked the other girl for it.

"Why should I care a button for the old man, anyway?" she asked.  "If
it comes to that, I'm as good as him.  There's nought to fear really,
when all's said.  And I won't fear."

The men strolled about the old village and gathered whortleberries;
then Rupert judged that the storm that had skulked so long to the
north, was coming at last.

"We'd best be getting down-along," he said.  "Let's go across to
Trowlesworthy; then, if it breaks, we can slip into the warren house a
bit till the worst be over.

"You be all coming to drink tea there," said Milly.  "Uncle Saul and
Jack Head are away, but aunt be home, and I made the cakes specially o'
Saturday."

Drifting apart by a half a mile or so, the young couples left the
Beacon, climbed Penshiel, and thence passed over the waste to where the
red tor rose above Milly Luscombe's home.

A sort of twilight stole at four o'clock over the earth, and it seemed
that night hastened up while yet the hidden sun was high.  The sinister
sky darkened and frowned to bursting; yet no rain fell, and later it
grew light again, as the sun, sinking beneath the ridges of the clouds,
flooded the Moor with the greatest brightness that the day had known.




CHAPTER X

Some few weeks after it was known that young Mark Baskerville would
marry Cora Lintern, a small company drank beer at 'The White Thorn' and
discussed local politics in general, and the engagement in particular.
The time was three in the afternoon.

"They'll look to you for a wedding present without a doubt," said Mr.
Gollop to Nathan, who stood behind his bar.

"And they'll be right," answered the innkeeper.  "I'm very fond of 'em
both."

"You'll be put to it to find rich gifts for all your young people,
however."

"That's as may be.  If the Lord don't send you sons, the Devil will
send you nephews--you know the old saying.  Not but what Vivian's boys
and girls are a very nice lot--I like 'em all very well indeed.  Mark's
different--clever enough, but made of another clay.  His mother was a
retiring, humble woman--frightened of her own shadow, you might say.
However, Cora will wake him into a cheerfuller conceit of himself."

There was an interruption, for Dennis Masterman suddenly filled the
doorway.

"The very men I want," he said; then he entered.

"Fine sweltering weather for the harvest, your honour," piped an old
fellow who sat on a settle by the window with a mug of beer beside him.

"So it is, Abel, and I hope there's another month of it to come.  Give
me half a pint of the mild, will you, Baskerville?  'Tis about the
rehearsal I've looked in.  Thursday week is the day--at seven o'clock
sharp, remember.  And I'm very anxious that everybody shall know their
words.  It will save a lot of trouble and help us on."

"I've got mine very near," said Nathan.

"So have I," declared Mr. Gollop.  "Here I, the King of Egypt, boldly
do appear; St. Garge, St. Garge, walk in, my only son and heir!"

"Yes, but you mustn't say '_h_eir'; the h isn't sounded, you know.  Has
anybody seen Ned Baskerville?  I heard that he was in trouble."

"Not at all," said Nathan.  "He's all right--a lazy rascal.  'Twas only
another of his silly bits of work with the girls.  Running after Mr.
Chave's daughter.  Like his cheek!"

Mr. Masterman looked astonished.

"I thought Mr. Chave----" he said.

"Exactly, vicar; you thought right.  'Tis just his handsome face makes
my nephew so pushing.  We be a yeoman race, we Baskervilles, though
said to be higher once; but of course, as things are, Ned looking there
was just infernal impudence, though his good old pig-headed father, my
brother, couldn't see it.  He's only blind when Ned's the matter."

"'Twas said he was going to jump in the river," declared the ancient
Abel.

"Nonsense and rubbish!" declared Nathan.  "Ned's not that sort.  Wait
till he sees himself in the glittering armour of St. George, and he'll
soon forget his troubles."

"We must talk about the dresses after rehearsal.  A good many can be
made at home."

"Be you going to charge at the doors?" asked Mr. Gollop.  "I don't see
why for we shouldn't."

"Yes, certainly I am," answered Dennis.  "The money will go to
rehanging the bells.  That's settled.  Well, remember.  And stir up Joe
Voysey, Thomas.  You can do anything with him, but I can't.  Remind him
about the French Eagle.  He's only got to learn six lines, but he says
it makes his head ache so badly that he's sure he'll never do it."

"I'll try and fire the man's pride," declared Mr. Gollop.  "Joe's not a
day over sixty-eight, and he's got a very fair share of intellect.  He
shall learn it, if I've got to teach him."

"That's right.  Now I must be off."

When the vicar was gone Gollop reviewed the situation created by young
Masterman's energy and tact.

"I never could have foreseen it, yet the people somehow make shift to
do with him.  It don't say much for him, but it says a lot for us--for
our sense and patience.  We'm always ready to lend the man a hand in
reason, and I wish he was more grateful; but I shouldn't call him a
grateful man.  Of course, this here play-acting will draw the eyes of
the country on us, and he'll get the credit, no doubt; yet 'twill be us
two men here in this bar--me and you, Nathan--as will make or mar all."

"I'm very glad to help him.  He's a good chap, and my sort.  Lots of
fun in the man when you know him."

"Can't say I look at him like that.  He's not enough beholden to the
past, in my opinion.  However, I believe he's woke up a bit to who I am
and what my sister is," answered Gollop.

"Not your fault if he hasn't."

"And another thing--he don't take himself seriously enough," continued
the parish clerk.  "As a man I grant you he has got nought to take
seriously.  He's young, and he's riddled with evil, modern ideas that
would land the country in ruin if followed.  But, apart from that, as a
minister he ought to be different.  I hate to see him running after the
ball at cricket, like a school-child.  'Tisn't decent, and it lessens
the force of the man in the pulpit come Sunday, just as it lessened the
force of physician Dawe to Tavistock when he took to singing comic
songs at the penny readings.  Why, 'twas money out of the doctor's
pocket, as he lived to find out, too late.  When Old Master Trelawny
lay dying, and they axed un to let Dawe have a slap at un, he wouldn't
do it.  'Be that the man that sang the song about locking his
mother-in-law into the coal-cellar?' he axed.  'The same,' said they;
'but he's a terrible clever chap at the stomach, and may save you yet
if there be enough of your organs left for him to work upon.'  'No,
no,' says old Trelawny.  'Such a light-minded feller as that couldn't
be trusted with a dying man's belly.'  I don't say 'twas altogether
reasonable, because the wisest must unbend the bow now and again; but I
will maintain that that minister of the Lord didn't ought to take off
his coat and get in a common sweat afore the people assembled at a
cricket match.  'Tis worse than David making a circus of himself afore
the holy ark; and if he does so, he must take the consequences."

"The consequences be that everybody will think a lot better of him, as
a manly and sensible chap, wishful to help the young men," declared Mr.
Baskerville.  "One thing I can bear witness to: I don't get the
Saturday custom I used to get, and that's to the good, anyway."  Then
he looked at his watch and changed the subject.

"Mrs. Lintern's daughter is paying a sort of solemn visit to my brother
to-day, and they are all a little nervous about it."

"He'll terrify her out of her wits," said Mr. Gollop.  "He takes a dark
delight in scaring the young people."

"'Tisn't that, 'tis his manner.  He don't mean to hurt 'em.  A
difficult man, however, as I know only too well."

"If he can't get on with you, there's a screw loose in him," remarked
the old man, sitting on the settle.

"I won't say that, Abel; but I don't know why 'tis that he's got no use
for me."

"No loss, however," asserted Thomas.  "A cranky and heartless creature.
The likes of him couldn't neighbour with the likes of us--not enough
human kindness in him."

"Like our father afore him, and yet harder," explained the publican.
"I can see my parent now--dark and grim, and awful old to my young
eyes.  Well I remember the first time I felt the sting of him.  A
terrible small boy I was--hadn't cast my short frocks, I believe--but
I'd sinned in some little matter, and he give me my first flogging.
And the picture I've got of father be a man with a hard, set face, with
a bit of a grim smile on it, and his right hand hidden behind him.  But
I knowed what was in it!  A great believer in the rod.  He beat us
often--all three of us--till we'd wriggle and twine like a worm on a
hook; but our uncle, the musicker, he was as different as you
please--soft and gentle, like my nephew Mark, and all for spoiling
childer with sweeties and toys."

Mr. Gollop rose to depart, and others entered.  Then Nathan called a
pot-man and left the bar.

"I promised Mrs. Lintern as I'd go down to hear what Cora had to say,"
he explained.  "I'm very hopeful that she's had the art to win
Humphrey, for 'twill smooth the future a good bit for the people at
Undershaugh if my brother takes to the wench.  You'd think nobody could
help it--such a lovely face as she has.  However, we shall know how it
fell out inside an hour or so."

Meanwhile Cora, clad in her new muslin, had faced Humphrey Baskerville,
and faced him alone.  For her future father-in-law expressly wished
this, and Mark was from home on the occasion of his sweetheart's visit.
Cora arrived twenty minutes before dinner, and watched Susan Hacker
dish it up.  She had even offered to assist, but Susan would not permit
it.

"Better you go into the parlour and keep cool, my dear," she said.
"You'll need to be.  Master's not in the best of tempers to-day.  And
your young man left a message.  He be gone to Plympton, and will be
back by four o'clock; so, when you take your leave, you are to go down
the Rut and meet him at Torry Brook stepping-stones, if you please."

"Where's Mr. Baskerville?"

"Taking the air up 'pon top the tor.  He bides there most mornings till
the dinner hour, and he'd forget his meal altogether so often as not,
but I go to the hedge and ring the dinner bell.  Then he comes down."

"How can I best please him, Susan?"

"By listening first, and by talking afterwards.  He don't like a
chatterbox, but he don't like young folk to be too silent neither.
'Twill be a hugeous heave-up of luck if you can get on his blind side.
Few can--I warn you of that.  He's very fond of natural, wild things.
If you was to talk about the flowers and show him you be fond of
nature, it might be well.  However, do as you will, he'll find out the
truth of 'e."

"I'm all of a tremor.  I wish you hadn't told me that."

"Mark might have told you.  Still, for your comfort it may be said
you're built the right way.  You'll be near so full-blown as I be, come
you pass fifty.  He hates the pinikin,[1] pin-tailed sort.  Be cheerful,


[1] _Pinikin_--delicate.


eat hearty, don't leave nothing on your plate, and wait for him to say
grace afore and after meat.  The rest must fall out according to your
own sense and wit.  Now I be going to ring the bell."

"I half thought that he might come part of the way to meet me."

"You thought wrong, then.  He don't do that sort of thing."

"I wish Mark was here, Susan."

"So does Mark.  But master has his own way of doing things, and 'tis
generally the last way that other people would use."

Mrs. Hacker rang the bell, and the thin, black figure of Humphrey
Baskerville appeared and began to creep down the side of the hill.  He
had, of course, met Cora on previous occasions, but this was the first
time that he had spoken with the girl since her betrothal.

He shook hands and hoped that her mother was well.

"A harvest to make up for last year," he said.  "You ought to be
lending a hand by rights."

"I don't think Mr. Baskerville would like for Polly and me to do that.
'Tis too hot," she said.

"Nathan wouldn't?  Surely he would.  Many hands make light work and
save the time.  You're a strong girl, aren't you?"

"Strong as a pony, sir."

"Don't call me 'sir.'  And you're fond of wild nature and the
country--so Mark tells me."

"That I am, and the wild flowers."

"Why didn't you wear a bunch of 'em then?  Better them than that
davered[2] rose stuck in your belt.  Gold by the look of it--the belt I
mean."


[2] _Davered_--withered.


She laughed.

"I'll let you into the secret," she said.  "I wanted to be smart
to-day, and so I took one of my treasures.  You'll never guess where
this gold belt came from, Mr. Baskerville?"

"Don't like it, anyway," he answered.

"Why, 'twas the hat-band round my grandfather's hat!  He was a beadle
up to some place nigh London; and 'twas an heirloom when he died; and
mother gived it to me, and here it is."

He regarded the relic curiously.

"A funny world, to be sure," he said.  "Little did that bygone man
think of such a thing when he put his braided hat on his head, I'll
warrant."

He relapsed into a long silence, and Cora's remarks were rewarded with
no more than nods of affirmation or negation.  Then, suddenly, he broke
out on the subject of apparel long after she thought that he had
forgotten it.

"Terrible tearing fine I suppose you think your clothes are, young
woman--terrible tearing fine; but I hate 'em, and they ill become a
poor man's wife and a poor man's daughter.  My mother wore her hair
frapped back light and plain, with a forehead cloth, and a little blue
baize rochet over her breast, and a blue apron and short gown and
hob-nailed shoon; and she looked ten thousand times finer than ever you
looked in your life--or ever can in that piebald flimsy, with those
Godless smashed birds on your head.  What care you for nature to put a
bit of a dead creature 'pon top of your hair?  A nasty fashion, and I'm
sorry you follow it."

She kept her temper well under this terrific onslaught.

"We must follow the fashion, Mr. Baskerville.  But I'll not wear this
hat again afore you, since you don't like it."

"Going to be married and live up to your knees in clover, eh?  So you
both think.  Now tell me what you feel like to my son, please."

"I love him dearly, I'm sure, and I think he's a very clever chap, and
quite the gentleman in all his ways.  Though he might dress a bit
smarter, and not be so friendly with the other bellringers.  Because
they are commoner men than him, of course."

"'Quite the gentleman'--eh?  What's a gentleman?"

"Oh, dear, Mr. Baskerville, you'll spoil my dinner with such a lot of
questions.  To be a gentleman is to be like Mark, I suppose--kind and
quick to see what a girl wants; and to be handsome and be well thought
of by everybody, and all the rest of it."

"You go a bit too high at instep," he said.  "You're too vain of your
pretty face, and you answer rather pertly.  You don't know what a
gentleman is, for all you think yourself a fine lady.  And I'll tell
you this: very few people do know what a gentleman is.  You can tell a
lot about people by hearing them answer when you ask them what a
gentleman is.  Where would you like to live?"

"Where 'twould please Mark best.  And if the things I say offend you,
I'm sorry for it.  You must make allowances, Mr. Baskerville.  I'm
young, and I've not got much sense yet; but I want to please you--I
want to please everybody, for that matter."

This last remark much interested her listener.  He started and looked
at the girl fixedly.  Then his expression changed, and he appeared to
stare through her at somebody or something beyond.  Behind Cora the old
man did, indeed, see another very clearly in his mind's eye.

After a painful silence she spoke again, and her tone was troubled.

"I want to say the thing that will please you, if I can.  But I must be
myself.  I'm sorry if you don't like me."

"You must be yourself, and so must I," he answered; "and if I'm not
liking you, you're loathing me.  But we're getting through our dinner
very nicely.  Will you have any more of this cherry tart?"

"No, I've done well."

"You've eaten nought to name.  I've spoiled your appetite, and
you--well, you've done more than you think, and taught me more than you
know yourself."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Mark says puzzling things like that sometimes."

There was another silence.

"You ride a pony, don't you?" he asked presently; and the girl
brightened up.  Mr. Baskerville possessed some of the best ponies on
Dartmoor, and sold a noted strain of his own raising.

"He's going to make it up with a pony!" thought sanguine Cora.

"I do.  I'm very fond of riding."

"Like it better than walking, I dare say?"

"Yes, I do."

"And you'd like driving better still, perhaps?"

"No, I wouldn't."

"What are the strangles?" he asked suddenly and grimly.

"It's something the ponies get the matter with them."

"Of course; but what is it?  How does it come, and why?  Is it
infectious?  Is it ever fatal to them?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know nothing about things like that."

"No use having a pony if you don't understand it.  The strangles are
infectious and sometimes fatal.  Don't forget that."

Cora felt her temper struggling to break loose.  She poured out a glass
of water.

"I promise not to forget it," she answered.  "Shall I put the cheese on
the table for you??

"No, I thank you--unless you'll eat some."

"Nothing more, I'm sure."

"We'll walk out in the air, then.  With your love of nature, you'll
like the growing things up on top of my hill.  Mark will be back for
tea, I think.  But maybe you'll not stop quite so long as that."

"I'll stop just as long as you like," she said.  "But I don't want to
tire you."

"You've got your mother's patience, and plenty of it, I see.  That's a
good mark for you.  Patience goes a long way.  You can keep your
temper, too--well for you that you can.  Though whether 'tis nature or
art in you----"

He broke off and she followed him out of doors.

Upon the tor he asked her many things concerning the clouds above them,
the cries of the birds, and the names of the flowers.  The ordeal
proved terrible, because her ignorance of these matters was almost
absolute.  At last, unable to endure more, she fled from him, pleaded a
sudden recollection of an engagement for the afternoon, and hastened
homeward as fast as she could walk.  Once out of sight of the old man
she slowed down, and her wrongs and affronts crowded upon her and made
her bosom pant.  She clenched her hands and bit her handkerchief.  She
desired to weep, but intended that others should see her tears.
Therefore she controlled them until she reached home, and then she
cried copiously in the presence of her mother, her sister, and Nathan
Baskerville, who had come to learn of her success.

The directions of Mark, to meet him at Torry stepping-stones, Cora had
entirely forgotten.  Nor would she have kept the appointment had she
remembered it.  In her storm of passion she hated even Mark for being
his father's son.

Nathan was indignant at the recital, and Mrs. Lintern showed sorrow,
but not surprise.

"'Twas bound to be difficult," she said.  "He sent Mark away, you see.
He meant to get to the bottom of her."

"A very wanton, unmanly thing," declared Nathan.  "I'm ashamed of him."

"Don't you take it too much to heart," answered the mother.  "Maybe he
thought better of Cora than he seemed to do.  He's always harsh and
hard like that to young people; but it means nought.  I believe that
Cora's a bit frightened, that's all."

"We must see him," said Nathan.  "At least, I must.  I make this my
affair."

"'Twill be better for me to do so."

"I tried that hard to please the man," sobbed Cora; "but he looked me
through--tore me to pieces with his eyes like a savage dog.  Nothing
was right from my head to my heels.  Flouted my clothes--flouted my
talk--was angered, seemingly, because I couldn't tell him how to cure a
pony of strangles--wanted me to tell the name of every bird on the
bough, and weed in the gutter.  And not a spark of hope or kindness
from first to last.  He did say that I'd got my mother's patience, and
that's the only pat on the back he gave me.  Patient!  I could have
sclowed his ugly face down with my nails!"

Her mother stroked her shoulder.

"Hush!" she said.  "Don't take on about it.  We shall hear what Mark
has got to tell."

"I don't care what he's got to tell.  I'm not going to be scared out of
my life, and bullied and trampled on by that old beast!"

"No more you shall be," cried Nathan.  "He'll say 'tis no business of
mine, but everything to do with Undershaugh is my business.  I'll see
him.  He's always hard on me; now I'll be hard on him and learn him how
to treat a woman."

"Don't go in heat," urged Mrs. Lintern after Cora had departed with the
sympathetic Phyllis.  "There's another side, you know.  Cora's not his
sort.  No doubt her fine clothes--she would go in 'em, though I advised
her not--no doubt they made him cranky; and then things went from bad
to worse."

"'Tis not a bit of use talking to me, Hester.  I'm angered, and
naturally angered.  In a way this was meant to anger me, I'm afraid.
He well knows how much you all at Undershaugh are to me.  'Twas to make
me feel small, as much as anything, that he snubbed her so cruel.
No--I'll not hear you on the subject--not now.  I'll see him to-day."

"I shouldn't--wiser far to wait till you are cool.  He'll be more
reasonable too, to-morrow, when he's forgotten a little."

"What is there to forget?  The prettiest and cleverest girl in
Shaugh--or in the county, for that matter.  Don't stop me.  I'm going
this instant."

"It's dangerous, Nat.  He'll only tell you to mind your own business."

"No, he won't.  Even he can't tax me with not doing that.  Everything
is my business, if I choose to make it so.  Anyway, all at Undershaugh
are my business."

He left her; but by the time he arrived at Beatland Corner, on the way
to Hawk House, Nathan Baskerville had changed his mind.  Another aspect
of the case suddenly presented itself to him, and, as he grew calmer,
he decided to keep out of this quarrel, though natural instincts drew
him into it.

A few moments later, as thought progressed with him, he found himself
wishing that Humphrey would die.  But the desire neither surprised nor
shocked him, for he had often wished it before.  Humphrey's life was of
no apparent service to Humphrey, while to certain other people it could
only be regarded in the light of a hindrance.




CHAPTER XI

Some days later Mark Baskerville spoke with Mrs. Lintern, and she was
relieved to find that Cora's fears had been exaggerated.

"He said very little indeed about her, except that he didn't like her
clothes and that she had a poor appetite," explained Mark.  "Of course,
I asked him a thousand questions, but he wouldn't answer them.  I don't
think he knows in the least how he flustered Cora.  He said one queer
thing that I couldn't see sense in, though perhaps you may.  He said,
'She's told me more about herself than she knows herself--and more than
I'll tell again--even to you, though some might think it a reason
against her.'  Whatever did he mean by that?  But it don't much matter,
anyway, and my Cora's quite wrong to think she was a failure or
anything of that kind.  He asked only this morning, as natural as
possible, when she was coming over again."

These statements satisfied the girl's mother, but they failed to calm
Cora herself.  She took the matter much to heart, caused her lover many
unquiet and anxious hours, and refused point-blank for the present to
see Mr. Baskerville.

Then fell the great first rehearsal of the Christmas play, and Dennis
Masterman found that he had been wise to take time by the forelock in
this matter.  The mummers assembled in the parish room, and the vicar
and his sister, with Nathan Baskerville's assistance, strove to lead
them through the drama.

"It's not going to be quite like the version that a kind friend has
sent me, and from which your parts are written," explained Dennis.
"I've arranged for an introduction in the shape of a prologue.  I shall
do this myself, and appear before the curtain and speak a speech to
explain what it is all about.  This answers Mr. Waite here, who is
going to be the Turkish Knight.  He didn't want to begin the piece.
Now I shall have broken the ice, and then he will be discovered as the
curtain rises."

Mr. Timothy Waite on this occasion, however, began proceedings, as the
vicar's prologue was not yet written.  He proved letter-perfect but
exceedingly nervous.

  "Open your doors and let me in,
  I hope your favours I shall win.
  Whether I rise or whether I fall,
  I'll do my best to please you all!"


Mr. Waite spoke jerkily, and his voice proved a little out of control,
but everybody congratulated him.

"How he rolls his eyes to be sure," said Vivian Baskerville.  "A very
daps of a Turk, for sartain."

"You ought to stride about more, Waite," suggested Ned Baskerville, who
had cheered up of recent days, and was now standing beside Cora and
other girls destined to assist the play.  "The great thing is to stride
about and look alive--isn't it, Mr. Masterman?"

"We'll talk afterwards," answered Dennis.  "We mustn't interfere with
the action.  You have got your speech off very well, Waite, but you
said it much too fast.  We must be slow and distinct, so that not a
word is missed."

Timothy, who enjoyed the praise of his friends, liked this censure less.

"As for speaking fast," he said, "the man would speak fast.  Because he
expects St. George will be on his tail in a minute.  He says, 'I know
he'll pierce my skin.'  In fact, he's pretty well sweating with terror
from the first moment he comes on the stage, I should reckon."

But Mr. Masterman was unprepared for any such subtle rendering of the
Turkish Knight, and he only hoped that the more ancient play-actors
would not come armed with equally obstinate opinions.

"We'll talk about it afterwards," he said.  "Now you go off to the
right, Waite, and Father Christmas comes on at the left.  Mr.
Baskerville--Father Christmas, please."

Nathan put his part into his pocket, marched on to the imaginary stage
and bowed.  Everybody cheered.

"You needn't bow," explained Dennis; but the innkeeper differed from
him.

"I'm afraid I must, your reverence.  When I appear before them, the
people will give me a lot of applause in their usual kindly fashion.
Why, even these here--just t'other actors do, you see--so you may be
sure that the countryside will.  Therefore I had better practise the
bow at rehearsal, if you've no great argument against it."

"All right, push on," said Dennis.

"We must really be quicker," declared Miss Masterman.  "Half an hour
has gone, and we've hardly started."

"Off I go then; and I want you chaps--especially you, Vivian, and you,
Jack Head, and you, Tom Gollop--to watch me acting.  Acting ban't the
same as ordinary talking.  If I was just talking, I should say all
quiet, without flinging my arms about, and walking round, and stopping,
and then away again.  But in acting you do all these things, and
instead of merely saying your speeches, as we would, just man to man,
over my bar or in the street, you have to bawl 'em out so that every
soul in the audience catches 'em."

Having thus explained his theory of histrionics Mr. Baskerville
started, and with immense and original emphasis, and sudden actions and
gestures, introduced himself.

  "Here come I, the dear old Father Christmas.
    Welcome or welcome not,
  I hope old Father Christmas
    Will never be forgot.
  A room--make room here, gallant boys,
    And give us room to rhyme----"


Nathan broke off to explain his reading of the part.

"When I say 'make room' I fly all round the stage, as if I was pushing
the people back to give me room."

He finished his speech, and panted and mopped his head.

"That's acting, and what d'you think of it?" he asked.

They all applauded vigorously excepting Mr. Gollop, who now prepared to
take his part.

Nathan then left the stage and the vicar called him back.

"You don't go off," he explained.  "You stop to welcome the King of
Egypt."

"Beg pardon," answered the innkeeper.  "But of course, so it is.  I'll
take my stand here."

"You bow to the King of Egypt when he comes on," declared Gollop.  "He
humbly bows to me, don't he, reverend Masterman?"

"Yes," said Dennis, "he bows, of course.  You'll have a train carried
by two boys, Gollop; but the boys aren't here to-night, as they're both
down with measles--Mrs. Bassett's youngsters."

"I'll bow to you if you bow to me, Tom," said Mr. Baskerville.  "That's
only right."

"Kings don't bow to common people," declared the parish clerk.  "Me and
my pretended darter--that's Miss Cora Lintern, who's the
Princess--ban't going to bow, I should hope."

"You ought to, then," declared Jack Head.  "No reason because you'm
King of Egypt why you should think yourself better than other folk.
Make him bow, Nathan.  Don't you bow to him if he don't bow to you."

"Kings do bow," declared Dennis.  "You must bow to Father Christmas,
Gollop."

"He must bow first, then," argued the parish clerk.

"Damn the man! turn him out and let somebody else do it!" cried Head.

"Let neither of 'em bow," suggested Mrs. Hacker suddenly.  "With all
this here bowing and scraping, us shan't be done afore midnight; and I
don't come in the play till the end of all things as 'tis."

"You'd better decide, your reverence," suggested Vivian.  "Your word's
law.  I say let 'em bow simultaneous--how would that serve?"

"Excellent!" declared Dennis.  "You'll bow together, please.  Now, Mr.
Gollop."

Thomas marched on with an amazing gait, designed to be regal.

"They'll all laugh if you do it like that, Tom," complained Mr. Voysey.

"Beggar the man!  And why for shouldn't they laugh?" asked Jack Head.
"Thomas don't want to make 'em cry, do he?  Ban't we all to be as funny
as ever we can, reverend Masterman?"

"Yes," said Dennis.  "In reason--in reason, Jack.  But acting is one
thing, and playing the fool is another."

"Oh, Lord!  I thought they was the same," declared Vivian Baskerville.
"Because if I've got to act the giant----"

"Order! order!" cried the clergyman.  "We must get on.  Don't be
annoyed, Mr. Baskerville, I quite see your point; but it will all come
right at rehearsal."

"You'll have to tell me how to act then," said Vivian.  "How the
mischief can a man pretend to be what he isn't?  A giant----"

"You're as near being a live giant as you can be," declared Nathan.
"You've only got to be yourself and you'll be all right."

"No," argued Jack Head.  "If the man's himself, he's not funny, and
nobody will laugh.  I say----"

"You can show us what you mean when you come to your own part, Jack,"
said Dennis desperately.  "Do get on, Gollop."

"Bow then," said Mr. Gollop to Nathan.

"I'll bow when you do, and not a minute sooner," answered the innkeeper
firmly.

The matter of the bow was arranged, and Mr. Gollop, in the familiar
voice with which he had led the psalms for a quarter of a century,
began his part.

  "Here I, the King of Egypt, boldly do appear,
  St. Garge!  St. Garge! walk in, my only son and heir;
  Walk in, St. Garge, my son, and boldly act thy part,
  That all the people here may see thy wondrous art!"


"Well done, Tom!" said Mr. Masterman, "that's splendid; but you mustn't
sing it."

"I ban't singing it," answered the clerk.  "I know what to do."

"All right.  Now St. George, St. George, where are you?"

"Along with the girls as usual," snapped Mr. Gollop.

As a matter of fact Ned Baskerville was engaged in deep conversation
with Princess Sabra and the Turkish Knight.  He left them and hurried
forward.

"Give tongue, Ned!" cried his father.

"You walk down to the footlights, and the King of Egypt will be on one
side of you and Father Christmas on the other," explained the vicar.

"And you needn't look round for the females, 'cause they don't appear
till later on," added Jack Head.

A great laugh followed this jest, whereon Miss Masterman begged her
brother to try and keep order.

"If they are not going to be serious, we had better give it up, and
waste no more time," she said.

"Don't take it like that, miss, I beg of you," urged Nathan.  "All's
prospering very well.  We shall shape down.  Go on, Ned."

Ned looked at his part, then put it behind his back, and then brought
it out again.

"This is too bad, Baskerville," complained Dennis.  "You told me
yesterday that you knew every word."

"So I did yesterday, I'll swear to it.  I said it out in the kitchen
after supper to mother--didn't I, father?"

"You did," assented Vivian; "but that's no use if you've forgot it now."

"'Tis stage fright," explained Nathan.  "You'll get over it."

"Think you'm talking to a maiden," advised Jack Head.

"Do get on!" cried Dennis.  Then he prompted the faulty mummer.

  "Here come I, St. George----"


Ned struck an attitude and started.

  "Here come I, St. George; from Britain did I spring;
  I'll fight the Russian Bear, my wonders to begin.
  I'll pierce him through, he shall not fly;
  I'll cut him--cut him--cut him----"


"How does it go?"

"'I'll cut him down,'" prompted Dennis.

"Right!

  "I'll cut him down, or else I'll die."


"Good!  Now, come on, Bear!" said Nathan.

"You and Jack Head will have to practise the fight," explained the
vicar; "and at this point, or earlier, the ladies will march in to
music and take their places, because, of course, 'fair Sabra' has to
see St. George conquer his foes."

"That'll suit Ned exactly!" laughed Nathan.

Then he marshalled Cora and several other young women, including May
and Polly Baskerville from Cadworthy, and Cora's sister Phyllis.

"There will be a daïs lifted up at the back, you know--that's a raised
platform.  But for the present you must pretend these chairs are the
throne.  You sit by 'fair Sabra,' Thomas, and then the trumpets sound
and the Bear comes on."

"Who'll play the brass music?" asked Head, "because I've got a very
clever friend at Sheepstor----"

"Leave all that to me.  The music is arranged.  Now, come on!"

"Shall you come on and play it like a four-footed thing, or get up on
your hind-legs, Jack?" asked St. George.

"I be going to come in growling and yowling on all fours," declared Mr.
Head grimly.  "Then I be going to do a sort of a comic bear dance; then
I be going to have a bit of fun eating a plum pudding; then I thought
that me and Mr. Nathan might have a bit of comic work; and then I
should get up on my hind-legs and go for St. George."

"You can't do all that," declared Dennis.  "Not that I want to
interfere with you, or anybody, Head; but if each one is going to work
out his part and put such a lot into it, we shall never get done."

"The thing is to make 'em laugh, reverend Masterman," answered Jack
with firmness.  "If I just come on and just say my speech, and fight
and die, there's nought in it; but if----"

"Go on, then--go on.  We'll talk afterwards."

"Right.  Now you try not to laugh, souls, and I wager I'll make you
giggle like a lot of zanies," promised Jack.

Then he licked his hands, went down upon them, and scrambled along upon
all fours.

"Good for you, Jack!  Well done!  You'm funnier than anything that's
gone afore!" cried Joe Voysey.

"So you be, for certain," added Mrs. Hacker.

"For all the world like my bob-tailed sheep-dog," declared Mr. Waite.

"Now I be going to sit up on my hams and scratch myself," explained Mr.
Head; "then off I go again and have a sniff at Father Christmas.  Then
you ought to give me a plum pudding, Mr. Baskerville, and I balance it
'pon my nose."

"Well thought on!" declared Nathan.  "So I will.  'Twill make the folk
die of laughing to see you."

"Come on to the battle," said Dennis.

"Must be a sort of wraslin' fight," continued Head, "because the Bear's
got nought but his paws.  Then, I thought, when I'd throwed St. George
a fair back heel, he'd get up and draw his shining sword and stab me in
the guts.  Then I'd roar and roar, till the place fairly echoed round,
and then I'd die in frightful agony."

"You ban't the whole play, Jack," said Mr. Gollop with much discontent.
"You forget yourself, surely.  You can't have the King of Egypt and
these here other high characters all standing on the stage doing nought
while you'm going through these here vagaries."

But Mr. Head stuck to his text.

"We'm here to make 'em laugh," he repeated with bull-dog determination.
"And I'll do it if mortal man can do it.  Then, when I've took the
doctor's stuff, up I gets again and goes on funnier than ever."

"I wouldn't miss it for money, Jack," declared Vivian Baskerville.
"Such a clever chap as you be, and none of us ever knowed it.  You
ought to go for Tom Fool to the riders.[3]  I lay you'd make tons more
money than ever you will to Trowlesworthy Warren."


[3] _The Riders_--a circus.


"By the way, who is to be the Doctor?" asked Ned Baskerville.
"'Twasn't settled, Mr. Masterman."

Dennis collapsed blankly.

"By Jove, no!  More it was," he admitted, "and I've forgotten all about
it.  The Doctor's very important, too.  We must have him before the
next rehearsal.  For the present you can read it out of the book, Mark."

Mark Baskerville was prompting, and now, after St. George and the Bear
had made a pretence of wrestling, and the Bear had perished with much
noise and to the accompaniment of loud laughter, Mark read the Doctor's
somewhat arrogant pretensions.

  "All sorts of diseases--
  Whatever you pleases:
  The phthisic, the palsy, the gout,
  If the Devil's in, I blow him out.

  * * * * * *

  "I carry a bottle of alicampane,
  Here, Russian Bear, take a little of my flip-flap,
  Pour it down thy tip-tap;
  Rise up and fight again!"


"Well said, Mark!  'Twas splendidly given.  Why for shouldn't Mark be
Doctor?" asked Nathan.

"An excellent idea," declared Dennis.  "I'm sure now, if the fair Queen
Sabra will only put in a word----"

Mark's engagement was known.  The people clapped their hands heartily
and Cora blushed.

"I wish he would," said Cora.

"Your wish ought to be his law," declared Ned.  "I'm sure if 'twas
me----"

But Mark shook his head.

"I couldn't do it," he answered.  "I would if I could; but when the
time came, and the people, and the excitement of it all, I should break
down, I'm sure I should."

"It's past ten o'clock," murmured Miss Masterman to her brother.

The rehearsal proceeded: Jack Head, as the Bear, was restored to life
and slain again with much detail.  Then Ned proceeded--

  "I fought the Russian Bear
  And brought him to the slaughter;
  By that I won fair Sabra,
  The King of Egypt's daughter.
  Where is the man that now will me defy?
  I'll cut his giblets full of holes and make his buttons fly."


"And when I've got my sword, of course 'twill be much finer," concluded
Ned.

Mr. Gollop here raised an objection.

"I don't think the man ought to tell about cutting anybody's giblets
full of holes," he said; "no, nor yet making their buttons fly.  'Tis
very coarse, and the gentlefolks wouldn't like it."

"Nonsense, Tom," answered the vicar, "it's all in keeping with the
play.  There's no harm in it at all."

"Evil be to them as evil think," said Jack Head.  "Now comes the song,
reverend Masterman, and I was going to propose that the Bear, though
he's dead as a nit, rises up on his front paws and sings with the rest,
then drops down again--eh, souls?"

"They'll die of laughing if you do that, Jack," declared Vivian.  "I
vote for it."

But Dennis firmly refused permission and addressed his chorus.

"Now, girls, the song--everybody joins.  The other songs are not
written yet, so we need not bother about them till next time."

The girls, glad of something to do, sang vigorously, and the song went
well.  Then the Turkish Knight was duly slain, restored and slain again.

"We can't finish to-night," declared Dennis, looking at his watch, "so
I'm sorry to have troubled you to come, Mrs. Hacker, and you, Voysey."

"They haven't wasted their time, however, because Head and I have
showed them what acting means," said Nathan.  "And when you do come on,
Susan Hacker, you've got to quarrel and pull my beard, remember; then
we make it up afterwards."

"We'll finish for to-night with the Giant," decreed Dennis.  "Now speak
your long speech, St. George, and then Mr. Baskerville can do the
Giant."

Ned, who declared that he had as yet learned no more, read his next
speech, and Vivian began behind the scenes--

  "Fee--fi--fo--fum!
  I smell the blood of an Englishman.
  Let him be living, or let him be dead,
  I'll grind his bones to make my bread."


"You ought to throw a bit more roughness in your voice, farmer,"
suggested Mr. Gollop.  "If you could bring it up from the innards,
'twould sound more awful, wouldn't it, reverend Masterman?"

"And when you come on, farmer, you might pass me by where I lie dead,"
said Jack, "and I'll up and give you a nip in the calf of the leg, and
you'll jump round, and the people will roar again."

"No," declared the vicar.  "No more of you, Head, till the end.  Then
you come to life and dance with the French Eagle--that's Voysey.  But
you mustn't act any more till then."

"A pity," answered Jack.  "I was full of contrivances; however, if you
say so----"

"Be I to dance?" asked Mr. Voysey.  "This is the first I've heard tell
o' that.  How can I dance, and the rheumatism eating into my knees for
the last twenty year?"

"I'll dance," said Head.  "You can just turn round and round slowly."

"Now, Mr. Baskerville!"

Vivian strode on to the stage.

"Make your voice big, my dear," pleaded Gollop.

  "Here come I, the Giant; bold Turpin is my name,
  And all the nations round do tremble at my fame,
  Where'er I go, they tremble at my sight:
  No lord or champion long with me will dare to fight."


"People will cheer you like thunder, Vivian," said his brother,
"because they know that the nations really did tremble at your fame
when you was champion wrestler of the west."

"But you mustn't stand like that, farmer," said Jack Head.  "You'm too
spraddlesome.  For the Lord's sake, man, try and keep your feet in the
same parish!"

Mr. Baskerville bellowed with laughter and slapped his immense thigh.

"Dammy! that's funnier than anything in the play," he said.  "'Keep my
feet in the same parish!'  Was ever a better joke heard?"

"Now, St. George, kill the Giant," commanded Dennis.  "The Giant will
have a club, and he'll try to smash you; then you run him through the
body."

"Take care you don't hit Ned in real earnest, however, else you'd
settle him and spoil the play," said Mr. Voysey.  "'Twould be a
terrible tantarra for certain if the Giant went and whipped St. George."

"'Twouldn't be the first time, however," said Mr. Baskerville.  "Would
it, Ned?"

Nathan and Ned's sisters appreciated this family joke.  Then Mr. Gollop
advanced a sentimental objection.

"I may be wrong," he admitted, "but I can't help thinking it might be a
bit ondecent for Ned Baskerville here to kill his father, even in play.
You see, though everybody will know 'tis Ned and his parent, and that
they'm only pretending, yet it might shock a serious-minded person here
and there to see the son kill the father.  I don't say I mind, as 'tis
all make-believe and the frolic of a night; but--well, there 'tis."

"You'm a silly old grandmother, and never no King of Egypt was such a
fool afore," said Jack.  "Pay no heed to him, reverend Masterman."

Gollop snarled at Head, and they began to wrangle fiercely.

Then Dennis closed the rehearsal.

"That'll do for the present," he announced.  "We've made a splendid
start, and the thing to remember is that we meet here again this day
week, at seven o'clock.  And mind you know your part, Ned.  Another of
the songs will be ready by then; and the new harmonium will have come
that my sister is going to play.  And do look about, all of you, to
find somebody who will take the Doctor."

"We shall have the nation's eyes on us--not for the first time,"
declared Mr. Gollop as he tied a white wool muffler round his throat;
"and I'm sure I hope one and all will do the best that's in 'em."

The actors departed; the oil lamps were extinguished, and the vicar and
his sister returned home.  She said little by the way, and her severe
silence made him rather nervous.

"Well," he broke out at length, "jolly good, I think, for a first
attempt--eh, Alice?"

"I'm glad you were satisfied, dear.  Everything depends upon us--that
seems quite clear, at any rate.  They'll all get terribly
self-conscious and silly, I'm afraid, long before the time comes.
However, we must hope for the best.  But I shouldn't be in a hurry to
ask anybody who really matters."




CHAPTER XII

In a triangle the wild land of the Rut sloped down from Hawk House to
the valley beneath, and its solitary time of splendour belonged to
Spring, when the great furzes were blooming and the white thorns filled
the valley with light.  Hither came Mark to keep tryst with Cora beside
the stream.  He walked not loverly but languid, for his mind was in
trouble, and his gait reflected it.

To water's brink he came, sat on a familiar stump above Torry Brook,
and watched sunshine play over the ripples and a dance of flies upon
the sunshine.

Looked at in a mass, the insects seemed no more than a glimmering, like
a heat haze, over the water and against the background of the woods;
but noted closer the plan and pattern of these myriads showed method:
the little storm of flies gyrated in a circle, and while the whole
cluster swept this way and that with the proper motion of the mass, yet
each individual, like planets round the sun, revolved about a definite
but shifting centre.  The insects whirled round and round, rose and
sank again, each atom describing repeated circles; and though the
united motion of this company suspended here in air appeared
inconceivably rapid and dazzling, yet the progress of each single gnat
was not fast.

Mark observed this little galaxy of glittering lives, and, knowing some
natural history, he considered intelligently the thing he saw.  For a
moment it distracted him.  A warm noon had wakened innumerable brief
existences that a cold night would still again.  All this immense
energy must soon cease and the ephemeral atoms perish at the chill
touch of evening; but to Nature it mattered neither more nor less if a
dance of nebulæ or a dance of gnats should make an end that night.
Countless successions of both were a part of her work.  From awful
marriages of ancient suns new suns would certainly be born; and out of
this midge dance here above the water, potential dances for another day
were ensured, before the little system sank to rest, the aureole of
living light became extinguished.

He turned from the whirl and wail of the gnats to his own thoughts, and
found them also revolving restlessly.  But their sun and centre was
Cora.  He had asked her to meet him here, in a favourite and secret
place, that he might speak harsh things to her.  There was no
love-making toward just now.  She had angered him once and again.  He
considered his grievances, strove to palliate them, and see all with
due allowance; but his habit of mind, if vague, was not unjust.  He
loved her passionately, but that she should put deliberate indignities
upon him argued a faulty reciprocity of love.  Time had revealed that
Cora did not care for Mark as well as he cared for her; and that would
not have mattered--he held it reasonable.  But he desired a larger
measure of affection and respect than he had received.  Then to his
quick senses even the existing affection diminished, and respect
appeared to die.

These dire shadows had risen out of the rehearsals for the play.
Cora's attitude towards other young men first astonished Mark and then
annoyed him.  He kept his annoyance to himself, however, for fear of
being laughed at.  Then, thanks to his cousin, Ned Baskerville, and the
young farmer, Timothy Waite, he was laughed at, for Cora found these
youths better company than Mark himself, and Jack Head and others did
not hesitate to rally him about his indifferent lady.

"She's more gracious with either of them than with me," he reflected.
"Why, actually, when I offered as usual to walk home with her last
week, she said yonder man had promised to do so and she need not
trouble me!"

As he spoke he lifted his eyes where a farm showed on the hills
westerly through the trees.  Coldstone was a prosperous place, and the
freehold of a prosperous man, young Waite, the Turkish Knight of the
play.

He had seen Cora home according to her wish, and Mark had kept his
temper and afterwards made the present appointment by letter.  Now Cora
came to him, late from another interview--but concerning it she said
nothing.

On her way from Undershaugh it happened that she had fallen in with
Mark's father.  The old man rode his pony, and Cora was passing him
hastily when he stopped and called her to him.  They had not met since
the occasion of the girl's first and last visit to Hawk House.

"Come hither," he said.  "I've fretted you, it seems, and set you
against me.  I'm sorry for that.  You should be made of stouter stuff.
Shake hands with me, Cora, please."

He held out his hand and she took it silently.

"I'll turn and go a bit of your road.  If you intend to marry my son,
you must make shift to be my daughter, you see.  What was it made you
so cross that you ran away?  But I know--I spoke against your clothes."

"You spoke against everything.  I felt in every drop of blood in my
body that you didn't like me.  That's why I had to run."

He was silent a moment.  Suddenly he pointed to one faint gold torch
above their heads, where a single bough of an elm was autumn-painted,
and began to glow on the bosom of a tree still green.  It stood out
shining against the deep summer darkness of the foliage.

"What d'you make of that?" he asked.

She looked up.

"'Tis winter coming again, I suppose."

"Yes--winter for us, death for the leaves.  I'm like that--I'm
frost-bitten here and there--in places.  'Twas a frosty day with me
when you came to dinner.  I'm sorry I hurt you.  But you must be
sensible.  It's a lot harder to be a good wife than a popular maiden.
My son Mark will need a strong-minded woman, not a silly one.  The
question is, are you going to rise to it?  However, we'll leave that.
How did you know in every drop of your blood, as you say, that you'd
failed to please me?"

"I knew it by--oh, by everything.  By your eyes and by the tone of your
voice.  You said you wanted to talk to me."

"Well, I did."

"You never asked me nothing."

"There was no need, you told me everything."

"I said nought, I'm sure."

"You said all I wanted to hear and told me a lot more than I wanted, or
expected, to hear for that matter."

"I'm sure I don't understand you, Mr. Baskerville."

"No need--no need.  That's only to say you're like the rest.  They
wonder how 'tis they don't understand me--fools that they are!--and yet
how many understand themselves?  I'll tell you this: you're not the
right wife for Mark."

"Then I won't marry him.  There's quite as good as him, and better, for
that matter."

"Plenty.  Take young Waite from Coldstone Farm, for instance.  A strong
man he is.  My son Mark is a weak man--a gentle character he hath.
'Tis the strong men--they that want things--that alter the face of the
world, and make history, and help the breed--not such as Mark.  He'd
spoil you and bring out all the very worst of you.  Such a man as Waite
would do different.  He'd not stand your airs and graces, and little
silly whims and fancies.  He'd break you in; he'd tame you; and you'd
look back afterwards and thank God you fell to a strong man and not a
weak one."

"Women marry for love, not for taming," she said.

"Some, perhaps, but not you.  You ban't built to love, if you want to
know the whole truth," he answered calmly.  "You belong to a sort of
woman who takes all and gives nought.  I wish I could ope your eyes to
yourself, but I suppose that's beyond human power.  But this I'll say:
I wish you nothing but good; and the best good of all for such a one as
you is to get a glimpse of yourself through a sensible and not unkindly
pair of eyes.  If you are going to marry Mark, and want to be a happy
woman and wish him to be a happy man, you must think of a lot of things
beside your wedding frock."

"For two pins I wouldn't marry him at all after this," she said.
"You'd break any girl's heart, speaking so straight and coarse to her.
I ban't accustomed to be talked to so cruel, and I won't stand it."

"I do beg you to think again," he said, stopping his pony.  "I'm only
telling you what I've often told myself.  I'm always open to hear sense
from any man, save now and again when I find myself in a black mood and
won't hear anything.  But you--a green girl as haven't seen one glimpse
of the grey side yet--why, 'tis frank foolishness to refuse good advice
from an old man."

"You don't want to give me good advice," she answered, and her face was
red and her voice high; "you only want to make me think small things of
myself, and despise myself, and to choke me off Mark."

"To choke you off Mark might be the best advice anybody could give you,
for that matter, my dear; and as to your thinking small things of
yourself--no such luck I see.  You'll go on thinking a lot of your
little, empty self till you stop thinking for good and all.  Life ban't
going to teach you anything worth knowing, because you've stuffed up
your ears with self-conceit and vanity.  So go your way; but if you get
a grain of sense come back to me, and I shall be very glad to hear
about it."

He left her standing still in a mighty temper.  She felt inclined to
fling a stone after him.  And yet she rejoiced at the bottom of her
heart, because this scene made her future actions easier.  Only one
thing still held her to Mark Baskerville, and that was his money.  The
sickly ghost of regard for him, which she was pleased to call love,
existed merely as the answer to her own appeal to her conscience.  She
had never loved him, but when the opportunity came, she could not
refuse his worldly wealth and the future of successful comfort it
promised.

Now, however, were appearing others who attracted her far more.  Two
men had entered into her life since the rehearsals, and both pleased
her better than Mark.  One she liked for his person and for his charms
of manner and of speech; the other for his masterful character and
large prosperity.  One was better looking than Mark, and knew far
better how to worship a woman; the other was perhaps as rich as Mark
would be, and he appealed to her much more by virtue of his masculinity
and vigour.  Mr. Baskerville had actually mentioned this individual
during the recent conversation; and it was of him, too, that Mark
considered where he sat and waited for Cora by the stream.

But though she felt Timothy Waite's value, yet a thing even stronger
drew her to the other man.  Ned Baskerville was the handsomest,
gallantest, most fascinating creature that Cora had ever known.  Chance
threw them little together until the rehearsals, but since then they
had met often, and advanced far along a road of mutual admiration.
Like clove to like, and the emptiness of each heart struck a kindred
echo from the other; but neither appreciated the hollowness of the
sound.

Under these circumstances Humphrey Baskerville's strictures, though
exceedingly painful to her self-love, were not unwelcome, for they made
the thing that she designed to do reasonable and proper.  It would be
simple to quote his father to her betrothed when she threw him over.

In this temper Cora now appeared to Mark.  Had he been aware of it he
might have hesitated before adding further fuel to the flames.  But he
began in a friendly fashion, rose and kissed her.

"You're late, Cora.  Look here.  Sit down and get cool and watch these
flies.  The merry dancers, they are called, and well they may be.  'Tis
a regular old country measure they seem to tread in the air--figure in
and cross over and all--just like you do when you go through the old
dance in the play."

But she was in no mood of softness.

"A tidy lot of dancing I'll get when I'm married to you!  You know you
hate it, and hate everything else with any joy and happiness to it.
You're only your father over again, when all's said, and God defend me
from him!  I can't stand no more of him, and I won't."

"You've met him?" said Mark.  "I was afraid you might.  I'm sorry for
that."

"Not so sorry as I am.  If I was dirt by the road he couldn't have
treated me worse.  And I'm not going to suffer it--never once more--not
if he was ten times your father!"

"What did he say?"

"What didn't he say?  Not a kind word, anyway.  And 'tis vain your
sticking up for him, because he don't think any better of you than he
do of me seemingly.  'Twas to that man he pointed."  She raised her arm
towards the farm through the trees.  "He thinks a lot more of Timothy
Waite than he does of you, I can tell you."

"I'll talk to father.  This can't go on."

"No, it can't go on.  Life's too short for this sort of thing.  I won't
be bullied by anybody.  People seem to forget who I am."

"You mustn't talk so, Cora.  I'm terrible sorry about it; but father's
father, and he'll go his own rough way, and you ought to know what way
that is by now.  Don't take it to heart--he means well."

"'Heart!'  I've got no heart according to him--no heart, no sense, no
nothing.  Just a dummy to show off pretty clothes."

"He never said that!"

"Yes, he did; and worse, and I'm tired of it.  You're not the only man
in the world."

"Nothing is gained by my quarrelling with father."

"I suppose not; but I've got my self-respect, and I can't marry the son
of a man that despises me openly like he does.  I won't be bullied by
him, I promise you--a cruel hunks he is, and would gore me to pieces if
he dared!  No better than a mad bull, I call him."

"'Tis no good your blackguarding my father, Cora," said Mark.

"Perhaps not; and 'tis no good his blackguarding me.  Very different to
your Uncle Vivian, I'm sure.  Always a kind word and a pat on the cheek
he've got; and so have your Uncle Nathan."

"Uncle Vivian can be hard enough too--as my cousin Rupert that means to
marry Milly Luscombe will tell you.  In fact, Rupert's going away
because he won't stand his father."

"Why don't you go away then?  If you were worth your salt, you'd turn
your back on any man living who has treated me so badly as your father
has."

"We're in for a row, it seems," answered Mark, "and I'd better begin
and get a painful job over.  When you've heard me, I'll hear you.  In
the matter of my father I'll do what a son can do--that I promise you;
but there's something on my side too."

"Say it out then--the sooner the better."

She found herself heartily hating Mark and was anxious to break with
him while angry; because anger would make an unpleasant task more easy.

"In a word, it's Ned Baskerville and that man over there--Waite.  These
rehearsals of the play--you know very well how you carry on, Cora; and
you know very well 'tisn't right or seemly.  You've promised to marry
me, and you are my life and soul; but I can't share you with no other
man.  You can't flirt with Ned while you're engaged to me; you can't
ask Waite to see you home of a night while you're engaged to me.  You
don't know what you're doing."

"Why ban't you more dashing then?" she asked.  "You slink about so mean
and humble.  Why don't you take a part in the play, and do as other
men, and talk louder and look people in the face, as if you wasn't
feared to death of 'em?  If you grumble, then I'll grumble too.  You
haven't got enough pluck for me.  Ned's different, and so's t'other
man, for that matter.  I see how much they admire me; I know how they
would go through fire and water for me."

"Not they!  Master Ned--why--he can roll his eyes and roll his voice;
but--there--go on!  Finish what you've got to say."

"I've only got to say that there's a deal about Ned you might very well
copy in my opinion.  He's a man, anyway, and a handsome man for that
matter.  And if you're going to fall out with your father, then you'll
lose your money, and----"

"I'm not going to fall out with him.  You needn't fear that."

"Then more shame to you, for keeping friendly with a man that hates me.
Call that love!  Ned----"

"Have done about Ned!" he cried out.  "Ned's a lazy, caddling
good-for-nought--the laughing-stock of every decent man and sane woman
in Shaugh.  A wastrel--worthless.  You think he's fond of you, I
suppose?"

"I know he is.  And you know it."

"Yes, just as fond of you as he is of every other girl that will let
him be.  Anything that wears a petticoat can get to his empty
heart--poor fool.  Love!  What does he know of that--a great, bleating
baby!  His love isn't worth the wind he takes to utter it; and you'll
very soon find that out--like other girls have--if you listen to him."

"He knows what pleases a woman, anyway."

"Cora!  Cora!  What are you saying?  D'you want to drive me mad?"

He started up and stared at her.

"'Twouldn't be driving you far.  Better sit down again and listen to me
now."

"I'll listen to nothing.  I'm choking--I'm stifling!  To think that
you--oh, Cora--good God Almighty--and for such a man as that----"

He rushed away frantically and she saw him no more.  He had not given
her time to strike the definite blow.  But she supposed that it was as
good as struck.  After such a departure and such words, they could not
meet again even as friends.  The engagement was definitely at an end in
her mind, for by no stretch of imagination might this be described as a
lovers' quarrel.

All was over; she rejoiced at her renewal of liberty and resolved not
to see Mark any more, no matter how much he desired it.

She flung away the luncheon that she had brought and set off for home,
trusting that she might meet Humphrey Baskerville upon the way.  She
longed to see him again now and repay him for a little of the indignity
that he had put upon her.

But she did not meet Mark's father.

On the evening of the same day a congenial spirit won slight
concessions from her.  Ned Baskerville arrived on some pretext
concerning the play.  He knew very well by this time that, in the
matter of her engagement, Cora was a victim, and he felt, as he had
often felt before in other cases, that she was the only woman on earth
to make him a happy man.  He despised Mark and experienced little
compunction with respect to him.

Upon this night Mrs. Lintern was out, and Cora made no objection to
putting on her hat and going to the high ground above Shaugh Prior to
look at the moon.

"'Twon't take above ten minutes, and then I'll see you back," said Ned.

They went together, and he flattered her and paid her many compliments
and humbled himself before her.  She purred and was pleased.  They
moved along together and he told her that she was like the princess in
the play.

"You say nought, but, my God, you look every inch a princess!  If 'twas
real life, I'd slay fifty giants and a hundred bears for you, Cora."

"Don't you begin that silliness.  I'm sure you don't mean a word of it,
Ned."

"If you could see my heart, Cora, you'd see only one name there--I
swear it."

"What about t'other names--all rubbed out, I suppose?"

"They never were there.  All the other girls were ghosts beside you.
Not one of them----"

Suddenly near at hand the church bells began to throb and tremble upon
the peace of moonlit night.

"Mark's out of the way then," said Ned.  "Not that I'm afraid of him,
or any other man.  You're too good for Mark, Cora--a million times too
good for him.  I'm bound to tell you so."

"I'm sick of him and his bell-ringing," she said violently.

"Hullo!  That's strong," he exclaimed.

"So would any maiden be.  He puts tenor bell afore me.  'Tis more to
him than ever I was.  In a word, I've done with the man!"

"You splendid, plucky creature!  'Twas bound to come.  Such a spirit as
yours never could have brooked a worm like him!  You're free then?"

"Yes, I am."


Elsewhere in the belfry Mark rang himself into better humour.  The
labour physicked his grief and soothed his soul.  He told himself that
all the fault was his, and when the chimes were still, he put on his
coat and went to Undershaugh to beg forgiveness.

Phyllis met him.

"Cora's out walking," she said.

"Out walking!  Who with?" he asked.

But Phyllis was nothing if not cautious.  She had more heart, but not
more conscience than her sister.

"I don't know--alone, I think," she answered.




CHAPTER XIII

A day of storm buffeted the Moor.  Fitful streaks of light roamed
through a wild and silver welter of low cloud; and now they rested on a
pool or river, and the water flashed; and now they fired the crests of
the high lands or made the ruddy brake-fern flame.  Behind Shaugh Moor
was storm-cloud, and beneath it, oozing out into the valleys, extended
the sullen green of water-logged fields hemmed in with autumnal hedges.

Hither came Mark Baskerville on his way to Shaugh, and then a man
stopped him and changed his plan.  For some time he had neither seen
nor heard from Cora, and unable longer to live with this cloud between
them, Mark was now on his way to visit her.

Consideration had convinced him that he was much in fault, and that she
did well to keep aloof until he came penitent back again; but he had
already striven more than once to do so, and she had refused to see
him.  He told himself that it was natural she should feel angered at
the past, and natural that she should be in no haste to make up so
serious a quarrel.

But the catastrophe had now shrunk somewhat in his estimation, and he
doubted not that Cora, during the passage of many days, also began to
see it in its proper perspective.  He did not wholly regret their
difference, and certain words that she had spoken still stung painfully
when he considered them; but the dominant hunger in his mind was to get
back to her, kiss her lips and hear her voice again.  He would be very
circumspect henceforth, and doubtless so would she.  He felt sure that
Cora regretted their difference now, and that the time was over-ripe
for reconciliation.

The next rehearsal would take place upon the following day, and Mark
felt that friendly relations must be re-established before that event.
He was on his road to see Cora and take no further denial, when her
brother met him and stopped him.

"Lucky I ran against you," said Heathman; "I've got a letter for you
from my sister, and meant to leave it on my way out over to Lee Moor.
Coarse weather coming by the look of it."

"Thank you," answered Mark.  "You've saved me a journey then.  I was
bound for Undershaugh."

Heathman, who knew that he bore evil news, departed quickly, while the
other, with true instinct of sybarite, held the precious letter a
moment before opening it.

It happened that Cora seldom wrote to him, for they met very often; but
now, having a difficult thing to say, she sought this medium, and Mark,
knowing not the truth, was glad.

"Like me--couldn't keep it up no more," he thought.  "I almost wish
she'd let me say I was sorry first; but she might have heard me say so
a week ago, if she'd liked.  Thank Heaven we shall be happy again
before dark.  I'll promise everything in the world she wants
to-night--even to the ring with the blue stone she hungered after at
Plymouth."

He looked round, then the wind hustled him and the rain broke in a
tattered veil along the edge of the hill.

"I'll get up to Hawk Tor, and lie snug there, and read her letter in
the lew place I filled with fern for her," he thought.

There was a natural cavern facing west upon this height, and here, in a
nook sacred to Cora, he sat presently and lighted his pipe and so came
to the pleasant task.  He determined that having read her plea for
forgiveness, it would be impossible to wait until nightfall without
seeing her.

"I'll go down and take dinner with them," he decided: then he read the
letter:--


"DEAR MARK,

"After what happened a little while ago you cannot be surprised if I
say I will not marry you.  There is nothing to be said about it except
that I have quite made up my mind.  I have thought about it ever since,
and not done nothing in a hurry.  We would not suit one another, and
the older we grew, the worse we should quarrel.  So it will be better
to part before any harm is done.  You will easily find a quieter sort
of girl, without so much spirit as me.  And she will suit you better
than what I do.  I have told my mother that I am not going to marry
you.  And Mr. Nathan Baskerville, your own uncle, though he is very
sorry indeed about it, is our family friend and adviser, and he says it
is better we understand and part at once.  I hope you won't make any
fuss, as _nothing will change me_.  And you will have the pleasure of
knowing your father will be thankful.  No doubt you will soon find a
better-looking and nicer girl than me, and somebody that your father
won't treat the same as he treated

  "Yours truly,
      "CORA LINTERN."


Through the man's stunned grief and above the chaos of his thoughts,
one paramount and irrevocable conviction reigned.  Cora meant what she
wrote, and nothing that he had power to say or to do would win her back
again.  She would never change; she had seen him in anger and the sight
had determined her; she had met his father and had felt that such
antagonism must ruin her life.

He possessed imagination and was able swiftly to feel what life must
mean without her.  He believed that his days would be impossible
henceforth.  He read the letter again and marked how she began with
restraint and gradually wrote herself into anger.

She smarted when she reflected on his father; and he soon convinced
himself that it was his father who had driven her to these conclusions.
He told himself that he did not blame her.  The pipe in his mouth had
been given to him by Cora.  He emptied it now, put it into its case,
rose up and went home.  He planned the things to say to his father and
determined to show him the letter.  Mark desired to make his father
suffer, and did not doubt but that he would suffer when this
catastrophe came to his ears.

Then his father appeared before him, far off, driven by the wind; and
Mark, out of his tortured mind, marvelled to think that a thing so
small as this dim spot, hastening like a dead leaf along, should have
been powerful enough, and cruel enough, deliberately to ruin his life.
For he was now obsessed by the belief that his father alone must be
thanked for the misfortune.

They came together, and Humphrey shouted to be heard against the riot
of the wind.  His hat was pressed over his ears; the tails of his coat
and the hair on his head leapt and danced; his eyes were watering.

"A brave wind!  Might blow sense into a man, if anything could.  What
are you doing up here?"

"Read that," said the other, and his father stopped and stared at him.
Despite the rough air and the wild music of heath and stone, Mark's
passion was not hidden and his face as well as his voice proclaimed it.
"See what you have done for your only son," he cried.

Humphrey held out his hand for the letter, took it and turned his back
to the wind.  He read it slowly, then returned it to Mark.

"She means that," he answered.  "This isn't the time to speak to you.
I know all that's moving in you, and I guess how hard life looks.  But
I warn you: be just.  I'm used to be misread by the people and care
nought; but I'd not like for you to misread me.  You think that I've
done this."

"I know you have--and done it with malice aforethought too.  The only
thing I've ever loved in life--the only thing that ever comed into my
days to make 'em worth living--and you go to work behind my back to
take it away from me.  And me as good a son to you as my nature would
allow--always--always."

"As good a son as need be hoped for--I grant that.  But show a little
more sense in this.  Use your brains, of which you've got too many for
your happiness, and see the truth.  Can a father choke a girl off a man
if she loves the man?  Was it ever heard that mother or father stopped
son or daughter from loving?  'Tis against nature, and nought I could
have said, and nought I could have done would have come between her and
you--never, if she'd loved you worth a curse.  But she didn't.  She
loved the promise of your money.  She loved the thought of being the
grey mare and playing with a weak man's purse.  She loved to think on
the future, when I was underground and her way clear.  And that hope
would have held with her just as strong after knowing me, as before
knowing me.  The passing trouble of me, and my straight, sour speeches,
and my eyes looking through her into her dirty little heart, wouldn't
have turned the girl away from you, if she'd loved you honestly.  Why,
even lust of money would have been too strong to break down under
that--let alone love of man.  'Tis not I but somebody else has
sloked[1] her away from thee.  And the time will come when you may live
to thank your God that it's happened so.  But enough of that.  I can
bear your hard words, Mark; and bitter though 'twill sound upon your
ear, I'll tell you this: I'm thankful above measure she's flung you
over.  'Tis the greatest escape of your life, and a blessing in
disguise--for more reasons than you know, or ever will.  And as for him
that's done it, nought that you can wish him be likely to turn out much
worse than what he'll get if he marries that woman."


[1] _Sloked_--enticed and tempted.


"Shouldn't I know if 'twas another man?  She was friendly and frank
with all.  She hadn't a secret from me.  'Twas only my own blind
jealousy made me think twice about it when she talked with other men."

"But she did talk with 'em and you did think twice?  And you didn't
like it?  And you quarrelled -eh?  And that was the sense in you--the
sense trying to lift you above the blind instinct you'd got for her.
Would you have quarrelled for nothing?  Are you that sort?  Too fond of
taking affronts and offering the other cheek, you are--like I was once.
You can't blind me.  You've suffered at her hands already, and spoken,
and this is her slap back at you.  No need to drag me in at all then;
though I did give her raw sense for her dinner when she came to see me.
Look further on than your father for the meaning of this letter.  Look
to yourself first, and if that don't throw light, look afield."

"There's none--none more than another--I'll swear it."

"Seek a man with money and with a face like a barber's image and not
over-much sense.  That's the sort will win her; and that's the sort
will suit her.  And now I've done."

They walked together and said the same things over and over again, as
people are prone to do in argument.  Then they separated in heat, for
the father lost patience and again declared his pleasure at this
accident.

Whereon Mark cried out against him for a callous and brutal spirit, and
so left him, and turned blindly homeward.  He did not know what to do
or how to fight this great tribulation.  He could not believe it.  He
came back to Hawk House at last and found himself in an angle of the
dwelling, out of the wind.

Here reigned artificial silence and peace.  The great gale roared
overhead; but beneath, in this nook, not a straw stirred.  He stood and
stared at his fallen hopes and ruined plans; while from a dry spot
beside the wall, there came to him the sweet, sleepy chirruping of
chickens that cuddled together under their mother's wings.




CHAPTER XIV

While the desolation of Mark Baskerville came to be learnt, and some
sympathised with him and some held that Cora Lintern had showed a very
proper spirit to refuse a man cursed with such a father, lesser trouble
haunted Cadworthy Farm, for the parent of Rupert Baskerville declared
himself to be suffering from a great grievance.

Vivian was an obstinate man and would not yield to his son's demand;
but the situation rapidly reached a climax, for Rupert would not yield
either.

Night was the farmer's time for long discussions with his wife; and
there came a moment when he faced the present crisis with her and
strove for some solution of the difficulty.

"Unray yourself and turn out the light and come to bed," he said to
Mrs. Baskerville.  He already lay in their great four-poster, and,
solid though the monster was, it creaked when Vivian's immense bulk
turned upon it.

His wife soon joined him and then he began to talk.  He prided himself
especially on his reasonableness, after the fashion of unreasonable men.

"It can't go on and it shan't," he said.  "Never was heard such a thing
as a son defying his father this way.  If he'd only given the girl up,
then I should have been the first to relax authority and tell him he
might have her in due season if she liked to wait.  But for him to
cleave to her against my express order--'tis a very improper and
undutiful thing--specially when you take into account what a father
I've been to the man."

"And he've been a good son, too."

"And why not?  I was a good son--better than ever Rupert was.  And
would I have done this?  I never thought of marriage till my parents
were gone."

"Work was enough for you."

"And so it should be for every young man.  But, nowadays, they think of
nought but revels and outings and the girls.  A poor, slack-twisted
generation.  My arm would make a leg for any youth I come across
nowadays."

"You must remember you'm a wonder, my dear.  We can't all be like you."

"My own sons ought to be, anyway.  And I've a right to demand it of
'em."

"Rupert works as hard as a man can work--harder a thousand times than
Ned."

"I won't have you name 'em together," he answered.  "A man's firstborn
is always a bit different to the rest.  Ned is more given to reading
and brain work."

She laughed fearlessly and he snorted like a bull beside her.

"What are you laughing at?" he said.

"At your silliness.  Such a sharp chap and so wise as you are; and yet
our handsome eldest--why, he can't do wrong!  And Lord knows he can't
do wrong in my eyes neither.  Still, when it comes to work----"

"We'll leave Ned," answered the father.  "He can work all right, and
when you've seed him play St. George and marked his intellects and
power of speech, you'll be the first to say what a 'mazing deal of
cleverness be hid in him.  His mind's above the land, and why not?  We
can't all be farmers.  But Rupert's a born farmer, and seeing as he be
going to follow my calling, he ought to follow my example and bide a
bachelor for a good ten years more."

"She's a nice girl, however."

"She may be, or she may not be.  Anyway, she's been advising him to go
away from home, and that's not much to her credit."

"She loves him and hates for him to be here so miserable."

"He'll find himself a mighty sight more miserable away.  Don't I pay
him good money?  Ban't he saving and prospering?  What the deuce do he
want to put a wife and children round his neck for till he's learned to
keep his own head above water?"

"'Twas Mr. Luscombe's man that's determined him, I do think," declared
Hester Baskerville.  "Jack Head is just the sort to unsettle the young,
with his mischievous ideas.  All the same, I wish to God you could meet
Rupert.  He's a dear good son, and there's lots of room, and for my
part I'd love to see him here with Milly.  'Tis high time you was a
grandfather."

"You foolish women!  Let him bide his turn then.  The eldest first, I
say.  'Tis quite in reason that Ned, with his fashion of mind, should
take a wife.  I've nought against that----"

"You silly men!" she said.  "Ned!  Why, what sensible girl will look at
such a Jack-o'-lantern as him--bless him!  He's too fond of all the
girls ever to take one.  And if he don't throw them over, after a bit
of keeping company, they throw him over.  If you could but see yourself
and him!  'Tis as good as play-acting!  'There's only one lazy man in
the world that your husband forgives for being lazy,' said Jack Head to
me but yesterday.  'And who might that be?' said I, well knowing.
'Why, Ned, of course,' he answers back."

"I must talk to Jack's master.  A lot too free of speech he's
getting--just because they be going to let him perform the Bear at
Christmas.  But, when all's said, the wise man makes up his own mind;
and that have been my habit from my youth up."

"You think so," she answered.

"I know so.  And Rupert may go.  He'll soon come back."

"Never, master."

"He'll come back, I tell you.  He'll find the outer world very
different from Cadworthy."

"I wish you'd let that poor boy, Mark, be a lesson to you.  Your love
story ran suent, so you can't think what 'tis for a young thing to be
crossed where the heart is set.  It looks a small matter to us, as have
forgotten the fret and fever, if we ever felt it, but to them 'tis life
or death."

"That's all moonshine and story-books.  And my story ran suent along of
my own patience and good sense--no other reason.  And I may tell you
that Mark have took the blow in a very sensible spirit.  I saw my
brother a bit ago--Nathan I mean.  He was terrible cut up for both of
'em, being as soft as a woman where young people are concerned.  But
he'd had a long talk with Mark and found him perfectly patient and
resigned about it."

"The belving[1] cow soonest forgets her calf.  'Tis the quiet sort that
don't make a row and call out their misfortunes in every ear, that feel
the most.  It's cut him to the heart and gone far to ruin his
life--that's what it's done.  You don't want to have your son in the
same case?"


[1] _Belving_--bellowing.


"Rupert's very different to that.  'Tis his will against mine, and if
he disobeys, he must stand the brunt and see what life be like without
me behind him.  When Nathan went for a sailor, I said nothing.  They
couldn't all bide here, and 'twas a manly calling.  But Rupert was
brought up to take my place, owing to Ned's superior brain power; and
now if he's going to fling off about a girl and defy me--well, he may
go; but they laugh best who laugh last.  He'll suffer for it."

"I'm much feared nought we can do will change him.  That girl be
everything to him.  A terrible pity, too, for after you, I never knowed
a man so greedy of work.  'Sundays!  There are too many Sundays,' he
said to Ned in my hearing not long since.  'What do a healthy man want
to waste every seventh day for?'  It might have been you talking."

"Not at all," answered her husband.  "Very far from it.  That's Jack
Head's impious opinion.  Who be we to question the Lord's ordaining?
The seventh's the Lord's, and I don't think no better of Rupert for
saying that, hard though it may sometimes be to keep your hands in your
pockets, especially at hay harvest."

"Well, if you ban't going to budge, he'll go."

"Then let him go--and he can tell the people that he haven't got no
father no more, for that's how 'twill be if he does go."

"Don't you say that, master."

"Why for not?  Truth's truth.  And now us will go to sleep, if you
please."

Soon his mighty snore thundered through the darkness; but Mrs.
Baskerville was well seasoned to the sound; and thoughts of her son,
not the noisy repose of her husband, banished sleep.


Others had debated these vexed questions of late, and the dark, short
days were made darker for certain sympathetic people by the troubles of
Mark and the anxieties of his cousin, Rupert.

Nathan Baskerville discussed the situation with Mrs. Lintern a week
before the great production of 'St. George.'  Matters had now advanced
and the situation was developed.

"That old fool, Gollop!" he said.  "He goeth now as if the eye of the
world was on him.  You'd think Shaugh Prior was the hub of the
universe, as the Yankees say, and that Thomas was the lynch-pin of the
wheel!"

"He's found time to see which way the cat's jumping, all the same,"
answered Mrs. Lintern.  "Full of Ned Baskerville and our Cora now!
Says that 'tis a case and everybody knows it."

Nathan shrugged his shoulders.

"Yes--well, these things can't be arranged for them.  The young must go
their own road.  A splendid couple they make without a doubt.  They'll
look magnificent in their finery at the revel.  But I wish nephew Ned
wasn't quite so vain of his good parts."

Cora herself entered at this moment, and had that to say which awoke no
small interest in her mother.

"I've fallen in with Mark," she said; "and I was passing, but he spoke
and 'tis all well, I believe.  He was very quiet and you might almost
say cheerful."

"Thank the Lord he's got over it then," answered Nathan; but Mrs.
Lintern doubted.

"Don't feel too sure of that.  He ban't one to wear his heart on his
sleeve, anyway."

"He's took it surprising well, everybody says," said Cora, in a voice
that made the innkeeper laugh.

"Poor Mark!--but I see Cora here isn't too pleased that he's weathered
the storm so easily.  She'd have liked him to be a bit more down in the
mouth."

"I'm very pleased indeed," she answered.  "You never gave better advice
than when you bade me write to him.  The truth is that he's not made to
marry.  Tenor bell be enough wife for him."

"I wonder who'll ring it when you're wedded," mused Nathan.  "No man
have touched that bell since my nephew took it up."

"Time enough.  Not that he'd mind ringing for me, I believe.  Such a
bloodless thing as he is really--no fight in him at all seemingly."

"If you talk like that we shall begin to think you're sorry he took you
at your word," said Mr. Baskerville; but Cora protested; and when he
had gone, she spoke more openly to her mother.

"'Tis a very merciful escape for me, and perhaps for him.  I didn't
understand my own mind; and since he's took it so wonderful cool, I
guess he didn't know his mind either."

"You haven't heard the last of him.  I've met the like.  For my part
I'd rather hear he was daft and frantic than so calm and reasonable.
'Tis the sort that keep their trouble out of sight suffer most."

"I'd have forgiven him everything but being a coward," declared Cora
fiercely.  "What's the use of a man that goes under the thumb of his
father?  If he'd said 'I hate my father, and I'll never see him again,
and we'll run away and be married and teach him a lesson,' then I'd
have respected him.  But not a bit of it.  And to take what I wrote
like that!  Not even to try and make me think better of it.  A very
poor-spirited chap."

Mrs. Lintern smiled, not at the picture of Mark's sorrows, but at her
daughter's suggestion, that she would have run away with the young man
and married him and defied consequences.

"How we fool ourselves," she said.  "You think you would have run with
him.  You wouldn't have run a yard, Cora.  The moment you found things
was contrary with his father, you was off him--why?  Because your first
thought always is, and always has been, the main chance.  You meant to
marry him for his money--you and me know that very well, if none else
does."

The daughter showed no concern at this attack.

"I shan't marry a pauper, certainly.  My face is all the fortune you
seem like to give me, and I'm not going to fling it away for nought.  I
do set store by money, and I do long to have some; and so do every
other woman in her senses.  The only difference between me and others
is that they pretend money ban't everything, and I say it is, and don't
pretend different."

"Milly Luscombe be going to stick to Rupert Baskerville, however,
though 'tis said his father will cut him off with a shilling if he
leaves Cadworthy."

Cora sniffed.

"There'll be so much the more for the others then.  They Baskerville
fathers always seem to stand in the way of their sons when it comes to
marrying.  Mr. Nathan would have been different if he'd had a family.
He understands the young generation.  Not that Vivian Baskerville will
object to Ned marrying, for Ned told me so."

"No doubt he'll be glad for Ned to be prevented from making a fool of
himself any more."

Mrs. Lintern's daughter flushed.

"He's long ways off a fool," she said.  "He ban't the man who comes all
through the wood and brings out a crooked stick after all.  He knows
what women are very well."

"Yes; and I suppose Mr. Waite knows too?"

"He's different to Ned Baskerville.  More cautious like and prouder.
I'd sooner have Ned's vanity than t'other's pride.  What did he want to
be up here talking with you for?--Timothy Waite I mean."

"No matter."

"'Twasn't farming, anyway?"

"Might have been, or might not.  But, mark this, he's a very shrewd,
sensible young man and knows his business, and how to work, and the
value of money, and what it takes to save money.  He'll wear well--for
all you toss your head."

"He's a very good chap.  I've got nothing against him; but----"

"But t'other suits you better?  Well, have a care.  Don't be in no
hurry.  Get to know a bit more about him; and be decent, Cora.
'Twouldn't be decent by no means to pick up with him while everybody
knows you've just jilted his cousin."

"Didn't do no such thing.  I've got my side and 'tisn't over-kind in
you to use such a word as that," answered her daughter sharply.
"However, you never did have no sympathy with me, and I can't look for
it.  I'll go my way all the same, and if some fine day I'm up in the
world, I'll treat you better than you've treated me."

But Mrs. Lintern was not impressed by these sentiments.  She knew her
daughter's heart sufficiently well.

"'Twill be a pair of you if you take Ned Baskerville," she said.  "And
you needn't pretend to be angered with me.  You can't help being what
you are.  I'm not chiding you; I'm only reminding you that you must be
seemly and give t'other matter time to be forgot.  You owe the other
man something, if 'tis only respect--Mark, I mean."

"He'll be comforted mighty quick," answered Cora.  "Perhaps he'll let
his father choose the next for him; then 'twill work easier and
everybody will be pleased.  As for me, I'm in no hurry; and you needn't
drag in Ned's name, for he haven't axed me yet and very like he'd get
'no' for his answer if he did."

Mrs. Lintern prepared to depart and Cora spoke again.

"And as for Mark, he's all right and up for anything.  He chatted free
and friendly about the play and the dresses we're going to wear.  He's
to be prompter on the night and 'tis settled that the schoolmaster from
Bickleigh be going to be Doctor, because there's none in this parish
will do it.  And Mark says that after the play's over, he shall very
like do the same as Rupert and leave home."

"He said that?"

"Yes; and I said, 'None can ring tenor bell like you, I'm sure.'  Then
he looked at me as if he could have said a lot, but he didn't."

"I hope he will go and see a bit of the world.  'Twill help him to
forget you," said her mother.

"Ned's the only one of 'em knows the world," answered Cora.  "He's
travelled about a bit and 'tis natural that his father should put him
before all the others and see his sense and learning.  When parson's
voice gave out, Ned read the lessons--that Sunday you was from
home--and nobody ever did it better.  He's a very clever man, in fact,
and his father knows it, and when his father dies, the will is going to
show what his father thinks of him."

"He's told you so, I suppose?"

"Ned has, yes.  He knows I'm one of the business-like sort.  I'd leap
the hatch to-morrow if a proper rich man came along and asked me to."

"Remember you're not the first--that's all," said her mother.  "If you
take him and he changes his mind and serves you like he's served
another here and there, you'll have a very unquiet time of it, and look
a very big fool."

"'Twas all nonsense and lies," she answered.  "He made the truth clear
to me.  He never took either of them girls.  They wasn't nice maidens
and they rushed him into it--or thought they had.  He's never loved any
woman until----"

Cora broke off.

"Shan't tell you no more," she continued.  "'Tis no odds to you--you
don't care a button--and I shall soon be out of your house, anyhow."

"Perhaps; but I shall be a thought sorry for all them at Cadworthy Farm
if you take Ned and set up wife along with his family," answered her
mother.  "Hard as a cris-hawk[2] you be; and you'll have 'em all by the
ears so sure as ever you go there."


[2] _Cris-hawk_--kestrel.


"You ax Mrs. Hester Baskerville if I be hard," retorted Cora.  "She'll
tell that I'm gentle as a wood-dove.  I don't show my claws without
there's a good reason for it.  And never, unless there is.  Anyway, I'm
a girl that's got to fight my own battles, since you take very good
care not to do a mother's part and help me."

"You shall have the last word," answered Mrs. Lintern.




CHAPTER XV

Some weeks after Christmas had passed, Mr. Joseph Voysey and others met
at 'The White Thorn' and played chorus to affairs according to their
custom.  The great subject of discussion was still the play.  It had
been enacted twice to different audiences, and it proved but an
indifferent success.  Everybody agreed that the entertainment promised
better than its ultimate performance.  At rehearsal all went well; upon
the night of the display a thousand mishaps combined to lessen its
effect.

Joe Voysey summed up to Thomas Gollop, who sat and drank with him.

"What with us all being so busy about Christmas, and the weather, and
Nathan here getting a cold on his chest and only being able to croak
like a frog, and parson losing his temper with Head at the last
rehearsal, and other things, it certainly failed.  'Tis a case of least
said soonest mended; but I'm keeping this mask of the French Eagle what
I wore, for it makes a very pretty ornament hanged over my parlour
mantelshelf."

"In my judgment," declared Nathan, "'twas Jack Head that played the
mischief with the show.  After parson cooled him down at rehearsal, I
allow he went a bit lighter on his part and didn't act quite so
forcible, but well I knew he was saving it up for the night; and so he
was.  'Twas all Jack all the time, and even when he was supposed to be
dead, he must still keep growling to make the people laugh.  He's had a
right down row with Mr. Masterman since."

"A make-strife sort of man; and yet a cheerful man; and yet, again, a
very rebellious man against the powers," said Voysey.

"Well, 'tis over and it shows, like everything else do, how much may
grow out of little," added Nathan.  "Just a bit of fun at Christmas,
you'd say, wouldn't leave no very great mark, yet--look at it--how
far-reaching."

"It's brought the eyes of the county on us, as I said it would,"
replied the parish clerk.  "The Rural Dean was here afterwards and took
his luncheon at the vicarage and came to the church to see the
font-cover; but Nancy Mumford--maiden to the vicarage--waits at table,
and she told my sister that his reverence said to Mr. Masterman that
we'd fallen between two stools and that the performance was a sort of a
mongrel between a modern pantomime and the old miracle play, and that
the masks and such-like were out of order.  And Miss Masterman was a
bit acid with the Rural Dean and said, to his face, that if he'd only
had to see the thing through, as they had, she was sure that he'd be
more charitable like about it."

"Us shan't have no more play-acting, mark me," foretold Joe Voysey;
then others entered the bar, among them being Saul Luscombe from
Trowlesworthy and Heathman Lintern.  The warrener was on his way home
and stayed only for a pint and a few friendly words.

"You should hear Jack Head tell about the play," he said.

"And he should hear us tell about him," answered Voysey.  "Jack, so
near as damn it, spoilt the play.  In fact, innkeeper here thinks he
did do so."

"He vows that he saved the whole job from being a hugeous failure.  And
young farmer Waite swears 'twas Miss Lintern as the Princess that saved
it; and Mr. Ned, your nephew, Nathan--he swears 'twas himself that
saved it."

"And I think 'twas I that saved it," declared Thomas.  "However, enough
said.  'Tis of the past and will soon be forgot, like a dead man out of
mind."

"That's where you're wrong, Tom," said Heathman.  "You can't forget a
thing so easy.  Besides, there's all that hangs to it.  There's Polly
Baskerville, that was one of Cora's maidens in the play, got engaged to
be married on the strength of it--to Nick Bassett--him as waited on the
Turkish Knight.  And now--bigger news still for me and mine.  Cora's
taken Ned Baskerville!"

"I knew it was going to happen," admitted Nathan.  "'Tis a very
delicate thing, for she's only broken with the man's cousin a matter of
a few months.  Her mother asked me about it a bit ago."

"You've got to remember this," said Heathman.  "I should have been the
first to make a row--me being Cora's only brother and the only man
responsible to look after her.  I say I should have been the first to
make a row, for I was terrible savage with her and thought it hard for
her to throw over Mark, just because his father was an old carmudgeon.
But seeing how Mark took it----"

"To the eye, I grant you that; but these quiet chaps as hide their
feelings often feel a lot more than they show," said Mr. Luscombe.

"He was hard hit, and well I know it, for his father told me so,"
continued Nathan Baskerville.  "My brother, Humphrey, in a sort of way,
blamed me and Mrs. Lintern, and, in fact, everybody but himself.  One
minute he said that Mark was well out of it, and the next he got to be
very jealous for Mark and told me that people were caballing against
his son.  I go in fear of meeting my brother now, for when he hears
that Cora Lintern is going to take Ned Baskerville, he'll think 'twas
all a plot and he'll rage on Mark's account."

"'Tis Mark that I fear for," said Heathman; then Gollop suddenly
stopped him.

"Hush!" he cried, and held up his hand.  After a brief silence,
however, he begged young Lintern to proceed.

"Beg your pardon," he said.  "I thought I heard something."

"I fear for Mark," continued the other, "because I happen to know that
he still secretly hoped a bit.  I don't like my sister Cora none too
well, and I reckon Mark's worth a million of her, and I told him I was
glad to see him so cheerful about it.  'You'm very wise to keep up your
pecker, Mark,' I said to the man; 'because she'm not your sort really.
I know her better than you do and can testify to it.'  But he said I
mustn't talk so, and he told me, very private, that he hadn't gived up
all hope.  Poor chap, I can let it out now, for he knows 'tis all over
now.  'While she's free, there's a chance,' he told me.  'I won't never
think,' he said, 'that all that's passed between us is to be blown away
at a breath of trouble like this.'  That's how he put it, and I could
see by the hollow, wisht state of his eyes and his nerves all ajolt,
that he'd been through a terrible lot."

"He'd built on her coming round, poor fellow--eh?  That's why he put
such a brave face on it then," murmured Nathan.

Then Voysey spoke again.

"As it happens, I can tell you the latest thing about him," he said.
"I was to work two days agone 'pon the edge of our garden, doing nought
in particular because the frost was got in the ground and you couldn't
put a spade in.  But I was busy as a bee according to my wont--tying up
pea-sticks I think 'twas, or setting a rat-trap, or some such
thing--when who should pass down t'other side of the hedge but Mark
Baskerville?  Us fell into talk about the play, and I took him down to
my house to show him where my grand-darter had stuck the mask what made
me into the French Eagle.  Then I said there were changes in the air,
and he said so too.  I remarked as Rupert Baskerville had left
Cadworthy and gone to work at the Lee Moor china clay, and he said
'Yes; and I be going too.'  'Never!' I said.  'What'll Mr. Humphrey do
without you?'  But he didn't know or care.  'Who ever will ring your
bell when you're gone?' I asked him, and----"

Thomas Gollop again interrupted.

"'Tis a terrible queer thing you should name the bell, Joe," he said,
"for I'll take my oath somebody's ringing it now!"

"Ringing the bell!  What be talking of?" asked Heathman.  "Why, 'tis
hard on ten o'clock."

"Yet I'm right."

At this moment Saul Luscombe, who had set out a minute sooner, returned.

"Who's ago?" he asked.  "The bell's tolling."

They crowded to the door, stood under the clear stillness of night, and
heard the bell.  At intervals of a minute the deep, sonorous note
throbbed from aloft where the church tower rose against the stars.

"There's nobody sick to death that I know about," said Nathan.  "'Twill
be Mark ringing, no doubt.  None touches tenor bell but him."

Mr. Luscombe remounted his pony.

"Cold bites shrewd after your bar, Nathan.  Good night, souls.  Us
shall hear who 'tis to-morrow."

The bell tolled thrice more; then it stopped.

"Bide a minute and I'll come back," said Mr. Gollop.  "I can't sleep
this night without knowing who 'tis.  A very terrible sudden seizure,
for certain.  Eliza may know."

He crossed the road and entered his own house, which stood against the
churchyard wall.  They waited and he returned in a minute.

"She knows nought," he said.  "Mark dropped in a little bit ago and
axed for the key.  'What do 'e want in belfry now, Mr. Baskerville?'
she axed him.  'Passing bell,' he said; and Eliza was all agog, of
course, for 'twas the first she'd heard of it.  'What's the name?' she
said; but he answered nought and went down the steps and away.  A
minute after the bell began."

"'Tis over now, anyway.  I'll step across and meet Mark," said Mr.
Baskerville.

One or two others accompanied him; but there was no sign of the ringer.
Then, led by Gollop, they entered the silent church and shouted.

"Where be you, Mark Baskerville, and who's dead?" cried Gollop.

In the belfry profound silence reigned, and the ropes hanging from
their places above, touched the men as they groped in the darkness.

"He's gone, anyway," declared Nathan.  Then suddenly a man's boot
rubbed against his face.  The impact moved it a moment; but it swung
back heavily again.

The innkeeper yelled aloud, while Gollop fetched a lantern and lighted
it.  Then they found that Mark Baskerville had fastened a length of
stout cord to the great rope of the tenor bell at twenty feet above the
floor.  He had mounted a ladder, drawn a tight loop round his neck,
jumped into the air, and so destroyed himself.




CHAPTER XVI

Certain human dust lay in a place set apart from the main churchyard of
St. Edward's.  Here newborn babies, that had perished before admission
into the Christian faith, were buried, because the ministers of the
church felt doubtful as to the salving of these unbaptised ones in
another world.  The spot was known as 'Chrisomers' Hill,' a name
descended from ancient use.  By chrisom-cloths were first understood
the anointed white garments put upon babes at baptism; and afterwards
they came to mean the robes of the newly-baptised.  Infants were also
shrouded in them if they perished a month after baptism; while a
chrisom-child, or chrisomer, signified one who thus untimely died.

Among these fallen buds the late vicar of the parish had also buried a
woman who took her own life; and Thomas Gollop, nothing doubting but
that here, and only here, the body of Mark Baskerville might decently
be laid, took it upon himself to dig the grave on Chrisomers' Hill.
But the ground was very hard and Thomas no longer possessed his
old-time strength of arm.  Therefore a young man helped him, and during
the intervals of labour, the elder related incidents connected with
past interments.  Some belonged to his own recollection; others had
been handed down by his father.

"And touching these childer took off afore the holy water saved 'em, my
parent held the old story of the Heath Hounds," concluded Thomas.  "And
there might be more in it than us later-day mortals have a right to
deny.  For my father solemnly swore that he'd heard 'em in winter
gloamings hurrying through the air, for all the world like a flock of
night-flying birds, and barking like good-uns in full cry after the
Dowl.  'Tis Satan that keeps 'em out of the joys of Paradise; but only
for a time, you must know, because these here babbies never done a
stroke of wrong, being too young for it; and therefore, in right and
reason, they will be catched up into Heaven at the last."

"But no doubt 'tis different if a human takes their own life," said the
young man.

"Different altogether," declared Mr. Gollop.  "To take your own life be
to go to a party afore you'm invited--a very presumpshuss and pushing
thing, to say the least.  No charity will cover it.  For argument's
sake, we'll say as I cut my throat, and then I stand afore the Throne
of Grace so soon as the life be out of me.  'Who be you?' says the
A'mighty.  'Thomas Gollop, your Reverence,' says I.  Then they fetch
the Books and it all comes out that I've took the law of life into my
own hands and upset the record and made a far-reaching mess of
everything; because you must know you can't live to yourself alone, and
if you lay hands on your body, you be upsetting other lives beside your
own, and making trouble in the next world so well as this.  So down I
go to the bad place--and very well I should deserve it.  I can't be
sure of Masterman, but he'll hardly have the face to treat this rash
corpse like a God-fearing creature, I should hope.  The parish will
ring with it if he do."

"Crowner's sitting now over to 'The White Thorn,'" said Tom's assistant.

"Yes; and since Jack Head's 'pon the jury, there'll be no paltering
with truth.  I hate the man and have little good to say of him as a
general thing; but there's no nonsense to him, and though he's oftener
wrong than any chap I know, he won't be wrong to-day, for he told me
nought would shake him.  'Tis the feeble-minded fashion to say that
them that kill themselves be daft.  They always bring it in so.  Why?
Because the dust shall cheat justice and get so good Christian burial
as the best among us.  But Head won't have that.  He's all for bringing
it in naked suicide without any truckling or hedging.  The young man
was sane as me, and took his life with malice aforethought; and so he
must lie 'pon Chrisomers' Hill with the doubtfuls, not along with the
certainties."

As he spoke somebody approached, and Nathan Baskerville, clad in black,
stood beside them.

"I want you, Gollop," he said.  "Who are you digging for here?  'Tis
long since Chrisomers' Hill was opened."

"For Mark Baskerville," answered the sexton stoutly.  "'Tis here he's
earned his place, and here he'll lie if I'm anybody."

Nathan regarded Thomas with dislike.

"So old and so crooked-hearted still!" he said.  "I'm glad you've had
your trouble for your pains, for you deserve it.  Poor Mark is to be
buried with his mother.  You'd better see about it, and pretty quick
too.  The funeral's the day after to-morrow."

"I'll discourse with the reverend Masterman," answered Thomas; "and
I'll also hear what the coroner have got to say."

"You're a nasty old man sometimes, Gollop, and never nastier than
to-day.  As to Mr. Masterman, you ought to know what stuff he's made of
by this time; and as for the inquest, 'tis ended.  The verdict could
only be one thing, and we decided right away."

"What about Jack Head?"

"Jack's not a cross-grained old fool, whatever else he may be,"
answered the innkeeper.  "I convinced him in exactly two minutes that
my nephew couldn't have been responsible for what he did.  And
everybody but a sour and bitter man, like you, must have known it.
Poor Mark is thrown over by a girl--not to blame her, either, for she
had to be true to herself.  But still he won't believe that she's not
for him, though she's put it plain as you please in writing; and he
goes on hoping and dreaming and building castles in the air.  Always
dreamy and queer at all times he was--remember that.  Then comes the
crashing news for him that all is over and the maiden has taken another
man.  Wasn't it enough to upset such a frail, fanciful creature?
Enough, and more than enough.  He hides his trouble and his brain fails
and his heart breaks--all unseen by any eye.  And then what happens?
He rings his own passing-bell!  Was that the work of a sane man?  Poor
chap--poor chap!  And you'd deny him Christian burial and cast him
here, like a dog, with the poor unnamed children down under.  I blush
for you.  See to his mother's grave and try and be larger-hearted.
'Tis only charity to suppose the bitter cold weather be curdling your
blood.  Now I'm off to my brother Humphrey, to tell him what there is
to tell."

Then Mr. Nathan buttoned up his coat and turned to the grinning
labourer.

"Don't laugh at him," he said.  "Be sorry for him.  'Tis no laughing
matter.  Fill up that hole and take down yonder slate at the far end of
the Baskerville row, and put everything in order.  Our graves be all
brick."

He departed and Mr. Gollop walked off to the vicarage.


A difficult task awaited Nathan, but he courted it in hope of future
advantage.  He was terribly concerned for his brother and now designed
to visit him.  As yet Humphrey had seen nobody.

Vivian had called at Hawk House the day after Mark's death, but Mrs.
Hacker had told him that her master was out.  On inquiries as to his
state, she had merely replied that he was not ill.  He had directed
that his son's body should remain at the church, and he had not visited
Shaugh again or seen the dead since the night that Mark perished.

Now Nathan, secretly hoping that some better understanding between him
and Humphrey might arise from this shattering grief, and himself
suffering more than any man knew from the shock of it, hastened to
visit his bereaved brother and acquaint him with the circumstances of
the inquest.

Humphrey Baskerville was from home and Nathan, knowing his familiar
haunt, proceeded to it.  But first he asked Mrs. Hacker how her master
fared.

The woman's eyes were stained with tears and her nerves unstrung.

"He bears it as only he can bear," she said.  "You'd think he was a
stone if you didn't know.  Grinds on with his life--the Lord knows at
what cost to himself.  He lighted his pipe this morning.  It went out
again, I grant you; still it shows the nature of him, that he could
light it.  Not a word will he say about our dear blessed boy--done to
death--that's what I call it--by that picture-faced bitch to
Undershaugh."

"You mustn't talk like that, Susan.  'Twas not the girl's fault, but
her cruel misfortune.  Be honest, there's a good creature.  She's
suffered more than any but her mother knows.  No, no, no--not Cora.
The terrible truth is that Humphrey's self is responsible for all.  If
he'd met Mrs. Lintern's daughter in a kinder spirit, she'd never have
feared to come into the family and never have thrown over poor Mark.
But he terrified her to death nearly, and she felt a marriage with such
a man's son could never come to good."

Mrs. Hacker was not following the argument.  Her mind had suffered a
deep excitation and shock, and she wandered from the present to the
past.

"The ups and downs of it--the riddle of it--the indecency of it--life
in general, I mean!  To think that me and you not above a week agone
were dancing afore the public eye--Father Christmas and Mother Dorothy.
How the people laughed!  And now----"

She stared stupidly before her and suddenly began repeating her part in
the play.

  "Here come I, old Mother Dorothy,
  Fat, fair, plump and commodity.
  My head is big, my body is bigger:
  Don't you think I be a handsome old figure?"


"And the quality said I might have been made for the part!"

"You're light-headed along of all this cruel grief," answered Nathan.
"Go in out of this cold wind, Susan, and drink a stiff drop of spirits.
I suppose my brother is up on the tor?"

"Yes, he's up there; you can see him from the back garden.  Looks like
an image--a stone among the stones, or a crow among the crows.  But the
fire's within.  He was terrible fond of Mark really, though he'd rather
have had red-hot pincers nip him than show it."

"I'll go up," declared the innkeeper.

He climbed where his brother appeared against the skyline and found
Humphrey bleakly poised, standing on a stone and looking into the eye
of the east wind.  His coat was flapping behind him; his hat was drawn
over his eyes; his nose was red and a drop hung from it.  He looked
like some great, forlorn fowl perched desolate and starving here.

"Forgive me for coming, brother, but I hadn't the heart to keep away.
You wouldn't see me before; but you must now.  Get down to the lew side
of these stones.  I must speak to you."

"I'm trying to understand," answered the other calmly.  "And the east
wind's more like to talk sense to me than ever you will."

"Don't say that.  We often court physical trouble ourselves when we are
driven frantic with mental trouble.  I know that.  I've suffered too in
my time; though maybe none of the living--but one--will ever know how
much.  But 'tis senseless to risk your own life here and fling open
your lungs to the east wind because your dear son has gone.  Remember
'tis no great ill to die, Humphrey."

"Then why do you ask me to be thoughtful to live?"

"I mean we mustn't mourn over Mark for himself--only his loss for
ourselves.  He's out of it.  No more east wind for him.  'Tis our grief
that's left.  His grief's done; his carking cares be vanished for ever.
You mustn't despair, Humphrey."

"And you pass for an understanding man, I suppose?  And tell me not to
despair.  Despair's childish.  Only children despair when they break
their toys.  And grown-up children too.  But not me.  I never despair,
because I never hope.  I made him.  I created him.  He was a good son
to me."

"And a good man every way.  Gentle and kind--too gentle and kind, for
that matter.  Thank God we're all Christians.  Blessed are the meek.
His cup of joy is full, and where he is now, Humphrey, his only grief
is to see ours."

"That's the sort of stuff that's got you a great name for a sympathetic
and feeling man, I suppose?  D'you mean it, or is it just the natural
flow of words, as the rain falls and the water rolls down-hill?  I tell
you that he was a good man, and a man to make others happy in his mild,
humble way.  Feeble you might call him here and there.  And his
feebleness ended him.  Too feeble to face life without that heartless
baggage!"

"Leave her alone.  You don't understand that side, and this isn't the
time to try and make you.  She's hit hard enough."

Humphrey regarded his brother with a blazing glance of rage.  Then his
features relaxed and he smiled strangely at his own heart, but not at
Nathan.

"I was forgetting," he said.  Then he relapsed into silence.

Presently he spoke again.

"My Mark wasn't much more than a picture hung on a wall to some people.
Perhaps he wasn't much more to me.  But you miss the picture if 'tis
taken down.  I never thought of such a thing happening.  I didn't know
or guess all that was hidden bottled up in him.  I thought he was
getting over it; but, lover-like, he couldn't think she'd really gone.
Then something--the woman herself, I suppose--rubbed it into him that
there was no more hope; and then he took himself off like this.  For
such a worthless rag--to think!  And I suppose she'll hear his bell
next Sunday without turning a hair."

"Don't say that.  She's terribly cut up and distressed.  And I'm sure
none--none will ever listen to his bell like we used to.  'Twill always
have a sad message for everybody that knew Mark."

"Humbug and trash!  You'll be the first to laugh and crack your jokes
and all the rest of it, the day that girl marries.  And the bell
clashing overhead, and the ashes of him in the ground under.  Let me
choose the man--let me choose the man when she takes a husband!"

Nathan perceived that his brother did not know the truth.  It was no
moment to speak of Cora and Ned Baskerville, however.

"I've just come from the inquest," he said.  "Of course 'twas brought
in 'unsound mind.'"

"Of course--instead of seeing and owning that the only flash of sanity
in many a life be the resolve and deed to leave it.  He was sane
enough.  No Baskerville was ever otherwise.  'Tis only us old fools,
that stop here fumbling at the knot, that be mad.  The big spirits
can't wait to be troubled for threescore years and ten with a cargo of
stinking flesh.  They drop it overboard and----"

His foot slipped and interrupted the sentence.

"Take my arm," said the innkeeper.  "I've told Gollop that Mark will
lie with his mother."

The other seemed suddenly moved by this news.

"If I've misjudged you, Nathan, I'm sorry for it," he said.  "You know
in your heart whether you're as good as the folk think; and as wise;
and as worthy.  But you catch me short of sleep to-day; and when I'm
short of sleep, I'm short of sense, perhaps.  To lie with his
mother--eh?  No new thing if he does.  He lay many a night under her
bosom afore he was born, and many a night on it afterwards.  She was
wonderful wrapped up in him--the only thing she fretted to leave.  How
she would nuzzle him, for pure animal love, when he was a babby--like a
cat and her kitten."

"He promised her when he was ten years old--the year she died--that he
would be buried with her," said Nathan.  "I happen to know that,
Humphrey."

"Few keep their promises to the dead; but he's dead himself now.
Burrow down--burrow down to her and put him there beside her--dust to
dust.  I take no stock in dust of any sort--not being a farmer.  But
his mother earned heaven, and if he didn't, her tears may float him in.
To have bred an immortal soul, mark you, is something, even if it gets
itself damned.  The parent of a human creature be like God, for he's
had a hand in the making of an angel or a devil."

"Shall we bring Mark back to-night, or shall the funeral start from the
church?" asked Nathan.

They had now descended the hill and stood at Humphrey's gate.

"Don't worry his bones.  Let him stop where he is till his bed's ready.
I'm not coming to the funeral."

"Not coming!"

"No.  I didn't go to my wife's, did I?"

"Yes, indeed you did, Humphrey."

"You're wrong there.  A black hat with a weeper on it, and a coat, and
a mourning hankercher was there--not me.  Bury him, and toll his own
bell for him, but for God's sake don't let any useful person catch
their death of cold for him.  Me and his mother--we'll mourn after our
own fashion.  Yes, her too: there are spirits moving here for the
minute.  In his empty room she was the night he finished it.  Feeling
about she was, as if she'd lost a threepenny piece in the bed-tick.  I
heard her.  'Let be!' I shouted from my chamber.  'The man's not there:
he's dead--hanged hisself for love in the belfry.  Go back where you
come from.  Belike he'll be there afore you, and, if not, they'll tell
you where to seek him.'"

He turned abruptly and went in; then as his brother, dazed and
bewildered, was about to hurry homeward, the elder again emerged and
called to him.

"A word for your ear alone," he said as Nathan returned.  "There's not
much love lost between us, and never can be; but I thank you for coming
to me to-day.  I know you meant to do a kindly thing.  My trouble
hasn't blinded me.  Trouble ban't meant to do that.  Tears have washed
many eyes into clear seeing, as never saw straight afore they shed 'em.
I'm obliged to you.  You've come to me in trouble, though well you know
I don't like you.  'Twas a Christian thing and I shan't forget it of
you.  If ever you fall into trouble yourself, come to me, innkeeper."

"'Twas worth my pains to hear that.  God support you always, brother."

But Humphrey had departed.

Nathan drifted back and turned instinctively to Undershaugh rather than
his own house.  Darkness and concern homed there also; Cora had gone
away to friends far from the village, and the Linterns all wore
mourning for Mark.

Priscilla met her landlord and he came into the kitchen and flung his
hat on the table and sat down to warm himself by the fire.

"God knows what's going to happen," he said.  "The man's mind is
tottering.  Never such sense and nonsense was jumbled in a breath."

After a pause he spoke again.

"And poor old Susan's half mad too.  An awful house of it.  Nothing
Humphrey may do will surprise me.  But one blessed word he said, poor
chap, though whether he knew what he was talking about I can't guess.
He thanked me for coming to him in trouble--thanked me even gratefully
and said he'd never forget it.  That was a blessed thing for me to
hear, at such a time."

The emotional man shed tears and Priscilla Lintern ministered to him.




CHAPTER XVII

Humphrey Baskerville had sought for peace by many roads, and when the
final large catastrophe of his life fell upon him, it found him
treading a familiar path.

He had conceived, that only by limiting the ties of the flesh and
trampling love of man from his heart, might one approximate to
contentment, fearlessness, and rest.  He had supposed that the fewer we
love, the less life has power to torment us, and he had envied the
passionless, sunless serenity of recorded philosophers and saints.  He
was glad that, at a time when nature has a large voice in the affairs
of the individual and sways him through sense, he had not incurred the
customary responsibilities.

Chance threw him but a single child; and when the mother of the child
was taken from him, he felt a sort of dreary satisfaction that fate
could only strike one more vital blow.  He had dwarfed his affections
obstinately; he had estimated the power of life to inflict further
master sorrows, and imagined that by the death of one human creature
alone could added suffering come.  So at least he believed before the
event.  And now that creature was actually dead.  Out of the ranks of
man, the bullet had found and slain his son.

Yet, when Mark sank to the grave and the first storm of his passing was
stilled in the father's heart, great new facts and information, until
then denied, fell upon Humphrey Baskerville's darkness and showed him
that even this stroke could not sever his spirit from its kind.

The looked-for deliverance did not descend upon him; the universal
indifference did not come.  Instead his unrest persisted and he found
the fabric of his former dream as baseless as all dreaming.  Because
the alleged saint and the detached philosopher are forms that mask
reality; they are poses only possible where the soul suffers from
constitutional atrophy or incurred frost-bite.

They who stand by the wayside and watch, are freezing to death instead
of burning healthily away.  Faulty sentience is not sublime; to be
gelded of some natural human instinct is not to stand upon the heights.
He who lifts a barrier between himself and life, shall be found no more
than an unfinished thing.  His ambition for detachment is the craving
of disease; his content is the content of unconsciousness; his peace is
the peace of the mentally infirm.

A complete man feels; a complete man suffers with all his tingling
senses; a complete man smarts to see the world's negligences,
ignorances, brutalities; he endures them as wrongs to himself; and,
because he is a complete man, he too blunders and adds his errors to
the sum of human tribulation, even while he fights with all his power
for the increase of human happiness.

The world's welfare is his own; its griefs are also his.  He errs and
makes atonement; he achieves and helps others to achieve; he loathes
the cloister and loves the hearth.  He suffers when society is
stricken; he mourns when the tide of evolution seems to rest from its
eternal task 'of pure ablution round earth's human shores'; he is
troubled when transitory victories fall to evil or ignorance; in fine,
he lives.  And his watch-tower and beacon is not content, not peace,
but truth.

He stands as high above the cowardly serenity of any anchorite or
chambered thinker, as the star above glimmering and rotten wood in a
forest hidden; and he knows that no great heart is ever passionless, or
serene, or emparadised beyond the cry of little hearts, until it has
begun to grow cold.  To be holy to yourself alone is to be nought; a
piece of marble makes a better saint; and he who quits the arena to
look on, though he may be as wise as the watching gods, is also as
useless.

Dimly, out of the cloud of misery that fell upon him when his son
perished, Baskerville began to perceive and to feel these facts.  He
had consoled himself by thinking that the only two beings he loved in
the whole world were gone out of it, and now waited together in
eternity for his own arrival thither.

Their battle was ended; and since they were at rest, nothing further
remained for him to trouble about.  But the anticipated peace did not
appear; no anodyne poured into his soul; and he discovered, that for
his nature, the isolated mental standpoint did not exist.

There could arise no healing epiphany of mental indifference for him.
He might be estranged, but to exile himself was impossible.  He must
always actively hate what he conceived to be evil; he must always
suspect human motives; he must always feel the flow and ebb of the
human tide.  Though his own rocky heart might be lifted above them, the
waves of that sea would tune its substance to throb in sympathy, or
fret it to beat with antagonism, so long as it pulsed at all.

This discovery surprised the man; for he had believed that a radical
neutrality to human affairs belonged to him.

He attributed the sustained restlessness of his spirit to recent griefs
and supposed that the storm would presently disappear; and meantime he
plunged into a minor whirlwind by falling into the bitterest quarrel
with his elder brother.

Nathan indeed he had suffered to depart in peace; but as soon as the
bereaved father learned that Vivian's son, Ned, was engaged to Cora,
and perceived how it was this fact that had finally killed hope in Mark
and induced the unhappy weakling to destroy himself, his rage burst
forth against the master of Cadworthy; and when Vivian called upon the
evening of the funeral to condole with Humphrey, an enduring strife
sprang up between them.

"I'm come as the head of the family, Humphrey," began the veteran, "and
it ban't seemly that this here terrible day should pass over your head
without any of your kith and kin speaking to you and comforting you.
We laid the poor young man along with his mother in the second row of
the Baskerville stones.  My word! as Gollop said after the funeral,
'even in death the Baskervilles be a pushing family!'  Our slates
stretch pretty near from the church to the churchyard wall now."

"Thank you for being there," answered his brother.  "I couldn't have
gone, because of the people.  There was no maiming of the rite--eh?"

"Not a word left out--all as it should be.  Eight young men carried
him, including a farmer or two, and my son Ned, and Heathman Lintern,
and also my son Rupert--though where he came from and where he went to
after 'twas ended, I don't know, and don't care.  He's left me--to
better himself--so he thinks, poor fool!  A nice way to treat a good
father."

"You've lost a son, too, then--lost him to find him again, doing man's
work.  You'll live to know that he was right and you were wrong.  But
my son--my mind is turned rather rotten of late.  After dark I can't
get his dead face out of my eyes.  Nought terrible, neither--just, in a
word, 'dead.'  He broke his neck--he didn't strangle himself.  He knew
what he was about.  But there, I see it.  Gone--and none knows what he
was to me.  He never knew himself; and for that matter I never knew
myself, neither--till he was gone."

"We never do know all other folk mean to us--not until they be snatched
off.  If anybody had told me how my son Rupert's going would have made
such a difference, I'd not have believed it."

"Then think of this house.  You feel that--you with your store of
children and Rupert, after all, but gone a few miles away to go on with
his work and marry the proper wife you deny him.  But me--nought
left--nought but emptiness--no 'Good morning, father'; no 'Good night,
father'; no ear to listen; no voice to ask for my advice.  And I'd
plotted and planned for him, Vivian; I'd made half a hundred little
secret plans for him.  I knew well the gentle fashion of man he
was--not likely ever to make a fighter--and so I'd cast his life in a
mould where it could be easy.  He'd have come to know in time.  But he
never did know.  He went out of it in a hurry, and never hinted a
whisper of what he was going to do.  If he'd but given me the chance to
argue it out with him!"

"We've acted alike, me and you," answered his brother; "and it ban't
for any man to dare to say that either of us was wrong.  When the young
fall into error, 'tis our bounden duty to speak and save 'em if we've
got the power.  I don't hold with Rupert----"

"No need to drag in your affairs.  That case is very different.  I did
not treat my son like a child; I did not forbid him to marry and turn
him out of doors."

"Stay!" cried Vivian, growing red, "you mustn't speak so to me."

"What did you do if it wasn't that?  No proud man can stay under the
roof where he's treated like a child.  But Mark--did I forbid?  No.  I
only made it clear that I despised the woman he'd set his heart on.  I
only told him the bitter truth of her.  If she'd clung to him through
all, would I have turned him away or refused him?  Never.  'Twould have
made no difference.  'Twas not me kept 'em apart--as you are trying to
keep apart your son and Saul Luscombe's niece--trying and failing.
'Twas the proud, empty, heartless female herself that left him."

"I'll hear nought against her," answered Vivian stoutly.  "She's not
proud and she's not empty.  She's a very sensible woman, and this cruel
piece of work has been a sad trouble to her.  She left Mark because she
felt that you hated her, and would torment her and make her married
life a scourge to her back.  Any woman with proper sense and
self-respect would have done the like.  'Twas you and only you choked
her off your son, and 'tis vain--'tis wicked to the girl--to say now
that 'twas her fault.  But I've not come to speak these things--only I
won't hear lies told."

"You've heard 'em already, it seems.  Who's been telling you this
trash?  Nathan Baskerville belike?"

"As a matter of fact 'tis my son Ned," answered Vivian.  "You must
surely know how things have fallen out?  It happened long afore poor
Mark died.  Didn't he tell you?"

"He told me nought.  What should he tell me?  Ned he certainly wouldn't
name, for he knew of all your brood I like your eldest son least--a
lazy, worthless man, as all the world well knows but you."

"You shan't anger me, try as you will, Humphrey.  I'm here, as your
elder brother and the head of the family, to offer sympathy to you in
your trouble; and I'll ax you to leave my family alone.  Young men will
be young men, and as for Ned, if I be the only one that feels as I
should feel to him, 'tis because I'm the only one that understands his
nature and his gifts.  He'll astonish you yet, and all of us.  The
books he reads!  You wait.  Soon ripe, soon rotten.  He's taking his
time, and if he wants a wife, 'tis only in reason that the future head
of the family should have a wife; and why not?  He shan't have to work
as I have worked."

"A fool's word!  What made you all you are?  Work and the love of it.
Yet you let him go to the devil in idleness."

"If you'd but suffer me to finish my speech--I say that Ned won't work
as I have worked--with my limbs and muscles.  He's got a brain, and the
time be coming when he'll use it."

"Never."

"Anyway a settled life is the first thing, and the mind free to follow
its proper bent.  And I don't say 'no' to his marrying, because the
case is different from Rupert's, and 'tis fitting that he should do so."

"But Rupert must not.  And you pass for a just and sensible man!"

"'Tis strange--something in the Baskerville character that draws
her--but so it is," continued the master of Cadworthy, ignoring his
brother's last remark.  "In a word, when he found she was free, my Ned
took up with Cora Lintern, and she's going to marry him.  But 'tis to
be a full year from this sad Christmas--I bargained for that and will
have it so."

"'Going to take him'?  Going to take your son!" cried the other.

"She is; and I sanction it; for I found her a very different maiden to
what you did."

"Going to marry Ned!  Going from my Mark to your Ned!"

"'Twas settled some time ago.  Mark knew it, for I myself let it out to
him when I met him one day in North Wood.  'Twas but two days afore his
last breath, poor fellow.  Of course, I thought that he knew all about
it, and as it was understood that he had got over his loss very bravely
and was cheerful and happy as usual again, I made nothing of the
matter, thinking that was the best way to take it."

Humphrey stared at him.

"Go on--you're letting in the light," he said.

"That's all--all save this.  When I told Mark that Cora was going to
wed his cousin, I saw by his face 'twas news for him.  His colour faded
away.  Then I knew that he hadn't heard about it.  Accident had kept it
from him till the matter was a week old."

"And he said----?"

"He just said something stammering like.  He was a bit of a kick-hammer
in his speech sometimes--nothing to name; but it would overtake him now
and again if he was very much excited.  I didn't catch just what the
words were--something about one of the family having her, I think
'twas."

"Then he went and killed himself, and not till then.  So 'twas your son
after all as settled him--don't roar me down, for I'll be heard.  Your
son--all his work!  He plotted and planned it.  And lazy I thought him!
And I might have known there's no such thing as laziness of mind and
body both.  Busy as a bee damning himself--damning himself, I tell you!
A shifty traitor, a man to stab other men in the back, a knave and the
vilest thing that ever bore our name.  And you know it--you know it as
well as I do."

"By God! this is too much," shouted out Vivian, rising to his feet and
towering over the crouching figure opposite him.  "What are you made of
to say such vile things of an innocent man?  You see life all awry; you
see----

"I see a hard-hearted, blind old fool," answered the other.  "You let
your wretched son rob you of justice and reason and sense and
everything.  Get hence!  I'll have no more of you.  But your time will
come; you'll suffer yet; and this godless, useless brute--this
murderer--will murder you yourself, maybe, or murder your love of
living at the least.  Wait and watch him a little longer.  He'll bring
your grey hairs with sorrow to the grave afore he's done with you--take
my word for that.  And as for me, I'll curse him to his dying day, and
curse you for breeding him!  Wait and watch what you've done and the
fashion of man you've let loose on the world; and let them marry--the
sooner the better--then his punishment's brewed and there's no escape
from the drinking.  Yes, let him eat and drink of her, for man's hate
can't wish him a worse meal than that."

He ceased because he was alone.  Vivian had felt a terrible danger
threatening him, and had fled from it.

"My anger heaved up like seven devils in me," he told his wife
afterwards.  "If I'd bided a moment longer I must have struck the man.
So I just turned tail and bolted afore the harm was done.  Not but what
harm enough be done.  Mad--mad he was by the froth on his lip and the
light in his eye, and them awful eyebrows twitching like an angry
ape's.  'Twas more a wild beast in a tantrum than a human.  'Tis all
over, and no fault of mine.  I'll never speak to thicky horrible
creature no more so long as I live--never.  And I'll not willingly so
much as set eyes upon him again."

"A very Pharaoh of a man, no doubt," declared Mrs. Baskerville.  "The
Lord has hardened his heart against us; but He'll soften it in His own
good time.  Though for that matter 'tis difficult to see how he can be
struck again.  His all be took from him."

Vivian considered this saying, but it did not shake his intention.

"He's growed dangerous and desperate, and 'twill be wiser that I see
him no more," he answered.  "He's flung my sympathy back in my face,
and that's a sort of blow leaves a bruise that a long life's self can't
medicine."

"'Twill come right.  Time will heal it," she told him.

But he was doubtful.

"There may not be time," he said.  "The man won't live long at the gait
he's going--burning away with misery, he is.  And calls himself a
Christian!  Little enough comfort the poor soul sucks out of Christ."


Within a week of this incident Humphrey Baskerville was seeking his
brother's society again--a thing of all others least likely to have
happened.  It fell out that he was walking as usual on the waste above
Hawk House, when he saw his nephew Rupert proceeding hastily along the
distant road to Cadworthy Farm.  The young man noted him, left his way
and approached.

"'Tis well I met you, uncle," he said.  "Young Humphrey's just ridden
over to you with a message from mother.  Then he came on to me.
There's terrible trouble at home--father, I mean.  You know what he is
for doing heavy work--work beyond his years, of course.  He was
shifting grain from the loft, and they found him fallen and insensible
with a sack on top of him.  I hope to God it ban't very bad.  Mother
sent off for me, for fear it might be a fatal thing.  And Humphrey says
my name was on father's lips when they laid him to bed after doctor had
gone.  He said, 'This be Rupert's fault.  I be driven to this heavy
work along of him leaving me, and now he's killed me.'  I'm sure I hope
he'll call that back, for 'tis a terrible thing for me to live under if
he died."

"I'll come along with you," said Mr. Baskerville; "and as to what your
father may have spoken in his anger at being stricken down, pay no heed
to it.  He's like a silly boy over these feats of strength, and he'd
have shifted the sacks just the same if you'd been there.  The thing he
said isn't true, and there's an end on it.  He'll be sorry he uttered
the word when he's better."

They hurried forward and presently stood at the door of Cadworthy.

"You'd best knock afore you enter," said the elder.  "We're both in
disgrace here, and come as strangers.  I had a difference with your
father last time we met.  Ned Baskerville is tokened to that woman that
killed Mark.  I could not hear and keep dumb.  I cursed my brother in
my rage, and I owe him an apology."

Rupert knocked at the door, and his sister May answered it.  Her
eyelids were red with tears and her manner agitated.

"How's your father?" asked Humphrey.

"Very bad, uncle.  'Tis a great doubt if he'll get better, doctor says."

"Then be sure he will.  I've come to see him."

Mrs. Baskerville appeared behind May.  She was very pale, but appeared
collected.

"I'm sorry--terrible sorry," she said.  "I've told dear master that I'd
sent for Rupert and for you, Humphrey, but he won't see neither of you.
'Tis no good arguing about it in his state; but I pray God he'll change
his mind to-morrow."

Rupert kissed his mother.

"Bear up," he said.  "With his strength and great courage he'll weather
it, please God.  You know where I am--not five mile away.  I'll come
running the moment he'll see me."

"And ask him to forgive his brother.  I'm sorry I said the things I
did," declared Humphrey Baskerville.

A pony cart drove up at this moment and Eliza Gollop alighted from it.

She carried a large brown-paper parcel, and a corded box was lifted out
after her.

"I've come," she said.  "Doctor left a message for me as he went back
along, and I was ready as usual.  How's the poor man going on?  I'm
afraid you must not be very hopeful--so doctor said on his way back;
but where there's life and me there's always hope, as my brother Thomas
will have it."

Humphrey and his nephew walked slowly away together.  At the confines
of the farmyard Rupert turned out of the road a little and pointed
upwards to a window that faced the east.  A white blind was drawn down
over it.

"That's father's room," he said.




CHAPTER XVIII

Jack Head entered the bar of 'The White Thorn,' and was glad to find
Nathan Baskerville at home.

"I don't want to drink, I want to talk," he said.

"Then come into my room, Jack," answered the innkeeper, and Mr. Head
followed him into a little chamber known as 'Mr. Nathan's office.'

"I've got together another five pounds," explained the labourer, "and I
know you'll do for me what you do for all--put it by with the rest.  We
come to you, Mr. Baskerville, and we trust you with our savings, for
why?  Because you ban't a lawyer.  You're the poor man's bank, as I
always say, and I only hope you get your fair share of good for all the
money you put away to goody for us."

"That's all right, Jack."

Mr. Nathan produced a ledger and turned over the pages.

"This makes twenty to you, and interest three-ten."

He wrote a receipt and handed it to the other.

"Wish I'd got your 'mazing head for figures; and so I should if I'd
been properly eggicated."

"I shall have some pretty big money on my hands before long, I'm
afraid," said Nathan gloomily.  "Doctor called coming back from
Cadworthy.  'Tis all over with my poor brother, I'm afraid."

"My stars--that mighty man to drop amongst us!  Well, he's had a good
life and full share of fortune."

"His own folly has finished him too--that's the worst of it.  Would be
doing the young men's work, and did it once too often."

"A fall, so they say.  But none appear to know the rights seemingly."

"Simple enough.  Vivian was carrying oats, and slipped his foot on a
frosty place.  Down he came with the sack on his back.  He went
insensible; but by the time young Humphrey, who was along with him, had
fetched help, Vivian had come to again.  He crept in the house and up
to his bed.  ''Tis nought,' he told 'em, 'just a shake up; I'll be
right in the morning.'  But he wasn't.  He couldn't rise, and felt a
lot of pain to the inwards.  Doctor won't be sure what's gone, but he
reckons that the poor man's ruptured spleen or liver.  Anyway, he's
going.  Fading out fast--and suffering, too."

"Such a mountain as him.  I suppose they can't reach the evil.  And
will all his affairs come down on your shoulders?"

"That is so.  Everything will have to be done by me.  The boys know
nought of business.  He's a rich man--I know that."

"A great responsibility, but no doubt you're up to it."

"Not that it will be so difficult either," added Nathan, "because all
his money was invested pretty much as I advised.  His wife is joint
executor with me; but she knows nothing.  I could have wished he'd
drawn my brother Humphrey in and made him responsible; but he never was
sure of Humphrey, I'm sorry to say; and, as bad luck would have it,
just before Vivian met with this trouble, he had a terrible quarrel
with Humphrey--so terrible, in fact, that when Humphrey called, after
the accident, farmer wouldn't see him."

"Nor his son neither.  I took hope from that, for if a man's well
enough to keep up such a hatred against his own kin, it looks as if he
was likely to get better."

"I'm afraid not.  I'm going over this afternoon to see him and hear
about his will.  Please God he'll prove softer.  'Twould be a cruel
thing if he clouded his great name for justice at the end by striking
from the grave."

"Where should he strike?"

"Rupert, I mean.  He took Rupert's going terrible to heart, and when
Rupert wrote very properly last Christmas and offered his father his
respects, and said as he meant to marry Saul Luscombe's niece next
spring, Hester tells me that my brother pretty well threw the doors out
of windows.  He went to Tavistock next day, and there's an ugly fear in
his wife's mind that he had his will out and tinkered it.  I shall ax
him this evening, and try to get him to see sense."


Elsewhere Hester Baskerville spoke with her husband, and found that he
already knew what the doctor had advised her to tell him.

"You can spare speech," he said, "I saw it in the man's eyes; and I
knew it afore he came, for that matter.  I'm not going to get better.
I'm going to die."

"There's hope still, but not enough to----"

"I'm going to die.  Where's Eliza Gollop?"

"I'll call her."

"You'd best to hot up the milk he ordered.  I'll try to let it down if
I can.  And give Eliza pen, ink, and paper."

"Don't be writing.  Lie still and let her read to you."

"You needn't be afraid.  My writing was done to Tavistock afore I came
to grief.  You're all right, and all that have treated me as a father
should be treated are all right.  There's tons of money.  Where's Ned
to?"

"He's going to ride in to the surgery for the medicine to stop that
cruel pain."

"Let Humphrey get it.  And send Ned to me instead of Eliza Gollop.
'Tis him I want--not her."

She pressed his hand and kissed him, and went out.  The huge form lay
still, breathing slowly.  A fly, wakened out of hibernation by the heat
of the fire, buzzed about his face.  He swore, and his scarlet nightcap
bobbed as he moved painfully.

Ned came in, little liking to be there.  He lacked the spirit and
mental courage for such a time.

"Kill this blasted fly, will 'e?  Then get pen and ink.  'Tis a very
old custom in our race, Ned, to write our own epitaphs when we can.
I've put mine off and off, along of a silly fancy about doing it; but
the time be ripe, and my head's clear."

"Don't say things like that, father.  You may get better yet.  He's
going to fetch another doctor to-morrow."

"Let him fetch twenty--they can do nought.  'Tis the last back-heel
that none ever stand against.  I don't grumble.  I'm only sorry that
'twas my own son has struck his father.  Death don't matter, but 'tis a
bitter death to know the fruit of your loins----  His work I was doing:
let him know that--his work.  An old man doing a young man's work.  If
Rupert had been here, he'd have been shifting they sacks.  Let none
deny it.  'Tis solemn truth."

Ned knew the extreme falsity of this impression, but he made no effort
to contradict his father.

"What I done to Tavistock a month agone, I might have undone afore I
went," continued the sick man.  "But not now--not when I remember 'twas
his wickedness has hurried me into my grave.  Where be my son Nathan's
ship to now?"

"Don't know, father."

"You ought to know, then.  Him that I would see I can't see; and him
that would see me I won't see."

"You might see him, father, for his peace."

"'Peace'!  Damn his peace!  What peace shall he have that killed his
own father?  He don't deserve to look upon me again, and he
shan't--living nor dead--mark that.  Tell your mother that when I'm
dead, Rupert ban't to see me.  Only the coffin lid shall he see."

The old man snorted and groaned.  Then he spoke again.

"Have you got pen and ink ready?"

"Yes, father."

"Turn to the first leaf of the Bible, then, and see my date."

Ned opened the family register and read the time of his father's birth.

"Born June, died January--and just over the allotted span.  Let me see,
how shall the stone read?  There's good things on the Baskerville
stones.  'Sacred to the memory of Vivian Baskerville, of Cadworthy
Farm, in this parish, yeoman.'  You can begin like that."

"Shall you say anything about being champion of the west country at
wrestling?" asked Ned.

"No.  That ban't a thing for the grave--at least, perhaps it might be.
Your uncle, the great musicker, had a fiddle cut 'pon his stone very
clever.  If 'twas thought that the silver belt could be copied upon my
slate----  But no, let that pass, 'tis but a small matter."

"Better leave it to us to think about.  Uncle Nathan will know best."

"So he will, then.  And we must work in a rhyme, for certain; but
first, I've got a fine thought to put down."

Ned waited, pen in hand; then his father continued to dictate:--

"'What it pleased the great I AM'--capital letters for I AM--'what it
pleased the great I AM to give me in shape of a body in eighteen
hundred and eighteen, it likewise pleased Him to call home again in
eighteen hundred and eighty-nine.'  How does that sound?"

"Splendid, father."

"Now there's the rhyme to follow.  I want to work in 'breath' and
'death' if it can be done.  You ought to be able to do it, seeing all
the learning you've had and what it cost."

Ned frowned and puzzled.  Then, while Vivian groaned, he had an
inspiration, and wrote rapidly.

"How's this, father?" he asked.  "It just flashed in my mind."  Then he
read:--

  "Three score years and ten I kept my breath;
  So long I felt no fear of Death."


"It goes very well, but I haven't got no more fear of death now than
ever I had.  You must alter that."

Silence fell again and Ned mended his rhyme.

"How would this answer?" he asked:--

  "Three score years and ten I kept my breath
  And stood up like a man and feared not Death."


"Yes, that's very good indeed.  Now us must make two more lines to
finish--that is, if we can be clever enough to think of 'em."

Ned's pen squeaked and stopped, squeaked and stopped again.  He
scratched out and wrote for several minutes.

"Listen to this, father," he said at length, "'tis better even than the
first."  He read once more:--

  "Yet now I'm gone, my thread is spun,
  And I know my God will say, 'Well done!'"


"The cleverness of it!  And didn't I always say you were crammed up
with cleverness?  But the last line won't do."

"'Tis the best of all, father."

"Won't do, I tell you.  Who be I to know my God will pat me on the
back?  Little enough to be pleased with--little enough.  Put, 'I hope
my God will say, "Well done!"'"

"You may only hope, but all else know that He will," declared Ned
stoutly.

As he finished writing Nathan Baskerville entered with the wife of the
sufferer.  Hester brought a cup of hot milk, but Vivian in his
excitement would not taste until the epitaph had been rehearsed.

"Ned's thought," he said.  "And I helped him.  And I shall be proud to
lie under it--any man might.  Give me the paper."

His son handed it to him, and he read the rhyme aloud with great
satisfaction.

  "Three score years and ten I kept my breath,
  And stood up like a man and feared not Death;
  Yet now I'm gone, my thread is spun,
  And I hope my God will say, 'Well done!'"

How's that, Nat?  So good as the musicker's own in my judgment."

"Splendid!  Splendid!" declared Nathan.  He was much moved.  He blew
his nose and went to the window awhile.  Then, Vivian being relieved
and fed, the innkeeper returned to him and sat beside him.  Hester
Baskerville and her son went out and left the brothers together.

"Us'll talk business, Nat," said the sick man presently.

"And first I want you to know that you'll have more than your trouble
for your pains.  'Tis a common thing with dying people to leave a lot
of work behind 'em for somebody to do, and never a penny piece of
payment for doing it.  But not me.  There's fifty pound for you, Nat.
I've scrimped in reason all my life.  I've----"

He was stopped by pain.

"Ban't far off, I reckon.  Can't talk much more.  You'll do all right
and proper.  I trust my widow and childer to you.  My boy Ned be no
good at figures, so I look to you."

"To the very best of my power I'll do by them all.  Leave that now.
You're the sort who isn't taken unprepared.  I want to say a word about
Rupert, if you'll let me."

"Not a word--not a breath!  That book is closed, not to be opened no
more.  You don't want to add another pang to my end, do you?  Let me
forget him.  I've forgiven him--that's enough."

"'Tisn't to forgive him, my dear Vivian, if you have cut him off with
nought."

"I'll hear no more!" cried the other.  "I'll think no more of him, nor
yet of Humphrey.  'Tis they have cruelly and wickedly wronged me.  'Tis
Rupert have brought me here, and hastened me into my grave ten years
afore the time, and he'll have to answer to his God for it."

"Leave it then--leave it and talk of other things.  You'll like Ned to
take Cora Lintern?  You'll like that?  And I shall do something for
Cora.  I'm very fond of her."

They talked for half an hour.  Then Vivian cried out for his wife and
Nathan left him.

That evening Dennis Masterman came to see the farmer, and on the
following day he called again.  None knew what passed between them, but
it seemed that by some happy inspiration the clergyman achieved what
Vivian Baskerville's wife and brother had failed to do.  Dennis had
heard, from the master of 'The White Thorn,' that the sick man was
passing at enmity with his brother and with his son; but he strove
successfully against this determination and, before he left Cadworthy,
Vivian agreed to see his relations.  The day was already waning when
Ned Baskerville himself rode to fetch Rupert, and the lad Humphrey
hastened to Hawk House.

Eliza Gollop told the sequel to her brother afterwards.

"It got to be a race towards the end, for the poor man fell away all of
a sudden after three o'clock.  Nature gived out, as it will sometimes,
like a douted candle.  He'd forgot all about everything afore he died.
Only his grave stuck in his mind, and I read over the epitaph till I
was weary of it.  Then he went frightened all of a sudden.  'To think
o' me lying there alone among dead folk of evenings, wi' nought but the
leather-birds[1] squeaking over the graves,' he said.  'You won't be
there, my dear,' I told him.  'You'll be up where there's no sun nor
yet moon, bathing for evermore in the light of righteousness.'  Then he
flickered and he flickered, and wandered in his speech, and the last
words I could catch was, 'What's all this pucker about?  I shall be my
own man again in a day or two.'  He was hollow-eyed and his nose growed
so sharp as a cobbler's awl, poor dear, and I knowed he'd soon be out
of his misery.  His wife was along with him when he died, her and the
two daughters; and poor Hester--Hester I call her, for she let me use
the Christian name without a murmur--she was cut in half listening to
his death-rattle o' one side and hoping to hear her son Rupert gallop
up 'pon the other.  'Twas a race, as I say; but Rupert had been long
ways off to work, and Ned had to find him, and what with one thing and
another, his father had been out of the world twenty good minutes afore
he came.  He runned up the stairs white from the clay-works.  But there
was only more clay on the bed to welcome him.  I left 'em at that
sacred moment, as my custom is, and went down house, and was just in
time to see Humphrey Baskerville ride up in hot haste on his one-eyed
pony.  'How is it with him?' he said, getting off very spry.  'I hope,
as he could send for me, that he finds hisself better.'  'Not at all,'
I answered him.  'The poor man sent because he was worse, and felt
himself slipping away.'  'Then I'd best be quick,' he replied to me;
and I broke it to him that 'twas too late.  'He's gone, sir,' I said.
'Like the dew upon the fleece he be gone.  Half an hour ago he died,
and suffered very little at the end, so far as a mortal but experienced
woman can tell you.'  He stared slap through me, in that awful way he
has, then he turned his back and got up on his beast and rode off
without a word or a sign.  Lord, He knows what that old pony must have
thought of it all.  'Twas sweating and staggering, and, no doubt, full
of wonder and rage at being pushed along so fast."


[1] _Leather-birds_--bats.



END OF FIRST BOOK




BOOK II



CHAPTER I

Upon the highway between Cadworthy and the border village of Cornwood
there stands an ancient granite cross.  For many years the broken head
reposed in the heather; then it was lifted upon the pedestal again and
the vanished shaft restored.  To north and south the white road sweeps
by it; easterly tower Penshiel and Pen Beacon, and westerly rolls
Shaugh Moor.

Here, upon a day one year after the death of Vivian Baskerville, there
met two of his sons, and the conversation that took place between them
served roughly to record the development of their affairs, together
with the present situation and future interests of the family.

Ned Baskerville was riding home from Cornwood, and his brother Rupert,
knowing that he must come this way, sat by St. Rumon's Cross, smoked
his pipe and waited.  The younger had found himself forgotten when his
father's will came to be read.  It was a pious fiction with Hester
Baskerville that her husband had striven, when too late, against his
own hasty deed.  She believed that near his end the dying man attempted
to repair this wrong.  She declared that his eyes and his mutterings
both spoke to that effect.

But the fact of disinheritance was all that remained for Rupert to
face, and in his bitterness he had turned from his family and continued
to toil at the china-clay works, despite his mother's entreaties and
Ned's handsome propositions.

Now, however, the case was altered.  After nine months of this
unwisdom, Milly prevailed with Rupert to go back to Cadworthy and take
her with him.  His mother was thankful to welcome him home, and Ned did
what he might to further the prospect.

Rupert stood within sight of marriage, and he and his wife were
presently to dwell at Cadworthy.  Then control of the farm would be
made over by Ned Baskerville to his brother.

Now Rupert, in working clothes, sat by the cross.  Opportunity to see
Ned was not always easy, for the elder lived a life of pure pleasure
and occupied much of his time from home.  He was only concerned to
spend money, but showed no interest in the sciences of administering
and making it.

He rode up presently, stopped, and, bending over, shook hands with his
brother, but did not dismount.

"Hullo!  Don't often see you smoking and taking your ease.  Look at my
new mare.  Isn't she a beauty?  But Lord knows what Uncle Nathan will
say when I come down upon him for the cash.  And I've got another
unpleasant surprise in store for him.  I've bought a horse for Cora.
It'll be my wedding-present to her, but she may as well have it now."

"Pity we couldn't have all been married together; then one fuss and
flare up and expense would have done for the lot of us."

"I shouldn't have minded; but she didn't take to the idea at all.
Wants to have a first-prize wedding all to herself.  And about time
too.  I'm sick of waiting."

As a matter of fact Ned had found no difficulty in suspense.  With
possession of money, life's boundaries considerably enlarged for him,
and he became a person of increased importance.

Cora was not jealous, and finding Ned extremely generous, she continued
content with the engagement.  The present year was to see her married,
however; but when Nathan Baskerville suggested a triple wedding, Cora
objected very strongly.  She intended that her nuptials should be in a
style considerably grander than those of Milly Luscombe, or Polly
Baskerville; but she finally promised Ned to marry him during the
following autumn.

"A nice mare," admitted Rupert; "she's got a temper, though--won't
carry beer.  I know the man who used to own her.  She very near broke
his neck for him the night after Cornwood revel."

"The horse isn't foaled that will ever throw me, I believe."

"I reckon not.  Well, I'm here to meet you, Ned.  I want to run over
the ground.  You hate business so bad that 'tis difficult to talk about
it with you; but, all the same, as a man with money you must think a
bit."

"Uncle Nathan thinks for me.  He was paid to.  Didn't father leave him
fifty pounds to be trustee, or whatever 'tis?"

"But you never will look ahead.  Uncle Nathan, since that bad bout of
health last winter, isn't what he was.  Clever enough, I grant; but he
has got his own affairs, and his own worries too, for that matter.
Everything be safe and proper in his hands; but suppose he fell ill?
Suppose he was to die?"

"You're such a beggar for supposing.  Never meet troubles
half-way--that's my rule, and I've found it work very well too.  I
trust Uncle Nathan like the rest of the world trusts him.  I sign his
blessed papers and I get my quarter's allowance very regular, with a
bit of money over and above when I want it, though he grumbles.  I ask
for no more but to be allowed to enjoy life as long as I can."

"I'm going to do this anyway," said Rupert.  "I'll tell you my hopes
and plans.  'Tis right and wise to make plans and look ahead and set
yourself a task.  And my task be to get Cadworthy Farm away from you
for my own in twenty years from the time I go there."

"I shan't object--be sure of that.  'Tisn't likely I'd make hard terms
with my own brother.  You go in as my tenant at just what rent you
please to pay in reason; and you pay me as much over and above the rent
as you can afford till the price of the farm is polished off.  And
mother stops with you, and May stops with you.  Mother has her
allowance and May has hers, so they'll be no charge on you.  And I stop
too--till I'm married."

"That's all clear, then."

"Yes; and what I'm going to do is this.  It seems there are things
called sleeping partnerships--jolly convenient things too.  All you do
is to find a good, safe, established business that wants a bit of cash.
And you put your cash in, and just go to the business once in a blue
moon and sign your name in a book or two and draw your fees, and there
you are!  Uncle Nathan's on the look-out for some such a thing for a
bit of my money.  And I hope it will be in Plymouth for choice, because
Cora's frightfully keen to be near Plymouth.  She wants to make some
decent woman pals, naturally.  It's ridiculous such a girl messing
about in a hole like Shaugh.  She hinted at a shop, but I won't have
that for a moment."

"All the same, I don't see why you shouldn't try and look out for
something that would give you a bit of work.  Work won't hurt her or
you.  You must be pretty well sick of doing nothing by this time, I
should think."

"Far from it," declared Ned.  "I find myself quite contented.  I shall
turn my hand to work presently.  No hurry that I can see.  I'm learning
a lot, remember that.  A great learner I am.  The first use of money is
to learn the world, Rupert.  That's where that old fool at Hawk House
has messed up his life.  No better than a miser, that man.  A
spendthrift may be a fool, but a miser always is.  And so it comes back
to the fact that Uncle Humphrey's a fool, as I always said he was--a
fool and a beast both."

"He's different enough from Uncle Nathan, I grant you--can't be soft or
gentle; but he's no fool, and though he pretends he's not interested in
people, he is.  Things slip out.  Look how he reads the newspapers."

"Yet now, for very hatred of all human beings--it can't be for anything
else--'tis rumoured he'll leave Hawk House and get away from the sight
of roads even.  Susan Hacker told mother, not a week agone, that he was
getting restless to go farther off.  Pity he don't go and stick his
head in Cranmere, and choke himself, and leave you and me and a few
other dashing blades to spend his money.  We ought to be his heirs--all
of us.  But we shan't see the colour of his cash, mark me."

"You won't.  He hates your way of life.  But he's got no quarrel with
the rest of us.  You never know with a man like him.  I'm going over to
him now; and I've got a tale of a chap that's broke his legs.  He may
give me five shillings for the man's wife.  He's done it before to-day.
'Tis in him to do kind things, only there's no easy outlet for 'em.
Keeps his goodness bottled up, as if he was afraid of it."

"You've got his blind eye, I reckon," said Ned.  "It's all up with me
anyway.  I look t'other way when I pass him.  He'll never forgive me
for marrying Cora."

"Well, you'd best to go on and not keep your horse dancing about no
longer."

Ned galloped off, and his brother, having sat a little longer by St.
Rumon's Cross, rose and struck over Shaugh Moor in the direction of
Humphrey Baskerville's dwelling.

The old man was expecting his nephew and came upon the waste to meet
him.  They had not spoken together for many days and Rupert was glad to
see the elder again.

A year had stamped its record upon Humphrey Baskerville, and the
significance of his son's death might now be perceived.  Mark's passing
left a permanent scar, but the expected callosity of spirit by no means
overtook the sufferer.

Man, if he did not delight him, bulked upon his mind as the supreme
experience.  It was an added tribulation that, upon his brother's
estrangement and death, one of the few living beings with whom he
enjoyed the least measure of intimacy had dropped out of his life.

And now he became increasingly sensitive to the opinion of the people
and developed a morbidity that was new.

Mrs. Hacker was his frank intelligencer, and more than once he smarted
to hear her tell how sensible men had spoken ill of him.

Now he fell into talk with Rupert and uttered the things uppermost in
his mind.

"Well enough in body, but sometimes I doubt if my brain's all it used
to be.  Mayhap in the head is where I'll go first."

Rupert laughed.  "Not much fear of that, uncle."

"You must know," answered the other, "that every man in this life has
to suffer a certain amount of injustice.  From the king on his throne
to the tinker in his garret, there are thorns stuffed in all pillows.
Human nature misunderstands itself at every turn, and the closest,
life-long friends often catch their secret hearts full of wonder and
surprise at each other.  But I--I've had more than my share of that.
The injustice that's heaped upon me is insufferable at times.  And why?
Because I don't carry my heart on my sleeve, and won't palter with
truth at the world's bidding."

"'Tis only fools laugh at you or grumble at you."

"You're wrong there," answered Humphrey.  "The scorn of fools and the
snarl of evil lips are a healthy sign.  There are some men and some
dogs that I would rather bark at me than not.  But how is it that wise
men and understanding men hold aloof and say hard things and look
t'other way when I pass by?"

"Lord knows," answered Rupert.  "They'm too busy to think for
themselves, I suppose, and take the general opinion that you're
rather--rather unsociable.  You do many and many a kind thing, but they
ban't known."

"No I don't.  I can't--'tisn't my nature.  Kind things are often
terrible silly things.  Leave your Uncle Nathan to do the kind things.
He did a kind thing when my son died; and I felt it.  For warmth of
heart there never was such another.  The trouble that man takes for
people is very fine to see.  I'm not saying he's wise.  In fact, I
don't think he is wise.  To do other folks' work for 'em and shelter
'em from the results of their own folly is to think you know better
than God Almighty."

"He's wonderful good, I'm sure.  A godsend to my mother.  Taken all the
business over for her.  When father died----"

"Leave that.  Keep on about his character," said Humphrey.  "There's
nought so interesting to a man like me as burrowing into human nature
and trying the works.  Now, in your Uncle Nathan you see one that has
the cleverness to make nearly every human being like him and trust him.
But how does he get his hold on the heart?  Is it by shutting his eyes
to what people really are, like I shut my ears to Jack Head's arguments
against the Bible; or is it by sheer, stupid, obstinate goodness, that
can't see the weakness and folly and wickedness and craft of human
beings?"

"He puts a large trust in his fellow-creatures," answered Rupert.  "He
believes everybody is good till he's proved 'em bad."

Humphrey nodded.

"True enough, and I'll tell you what that means in Nathan.  The real
secret of sympathy in this world is to be a sinner yourself.  There's
no end to the toleration and forgiveness and large-mindedness of
people, if they know in their own hearts that they be just as bad.  A
wise man hedges, and never will be shocked at anything--why?  Because
he says, 'I may be found out too, some day.'"

He broke off and his nephew spoke.

"I know you're just as kind, really.  By the same token I've come
begging to-day.  A poor Cornwood chap has had a bad accident.  Market
merry he was and got throwed off his pony.  He's in hospital with both
legs broke and may not recover, and his wife and four children----"

"What about his club?"

"He wasn't a member of a club."

"What's his name?"

"Coombes."

"Drunk too?  And you ask me to take my money and help that sort of man?
But I won't."

"Perhaps, in strict justice, he don't deserve it; but----"

"Did you ask your Uncle Nathan for him?"

"Yes.  It shows the difference between you, I suppose."

"He gave?"

"He gave me ten shillings.  There's a nice point to argify about.
Which of you was right, Uncle Humphrey--you or Uncle Nat?  You can't
both be right."

"We can both be right and both be wrong," answered the old man.

"Uncle Nat was preaching at the chapel a bit ago, afore he had his
illness; and me and Milly went to hear him."

"He preaches, does he?"

"Now and again--to work off his energy, he says.  But never no more
will he.  His voice won't stand it, he says.  He chose for his text a
question, and he said 'twas a simple and easy thing, afore we took any
step in life, to ax ourselves and say, what would the Lord do?"

"Simple enough to ask--not so simple to answer."

"He seemed to think 'twas as simple to answer as to ask."

"His brain isn't built to see the difficulties.  Jack Head laughs at
all these here Tory Christians.  He says that a man can no more be a
Tory and a Christian than he can walk on water.  He says, flat out,
that Christ was wrong here and there--right down wrong.  Mind, I don't
say so; but Head will argue for it very strong if you'll let him."

"Uncle Nat wouldn't hear of that."

"Nor would I.  I've got as much faith as my brother.  And as to what
Christ would do or would not do in any given case, 'tis a matter for
very close reasoning, because we act only seeing the outside of a
puzzle; He would act seeing the inside.  To say that we always know
what the Lord would do, is to say we're as wise as Him.  To go to the
Bible for an answer to trouble is right enough though.  'Tis like a
story I read in a wise book a few nights agone; for I've taken to
reading a terrible lot of books lately.  It told how two fellows fell
out and fought like a pair of martin-cats over a bit of ground.  Each
said 'twas his, and presently they carried their trouble to a wise
king, as reigned over a near nation, and was always happy to talk sense
to anybody who had the time to listen.  So to the neighbour kingdom
they went, and yet never got to the king at all.  And why not?
Because, so soon as they were in his land, they found the spirit and
wisdom of him working like barm in bread throughout the length and
breadth of the place.  They saw peace alive.  They saw the people
living in brotherly love and unity and understanding.  They saw the
religion of give and take at work.  They saw travellers yielding the
path to each other; they saw kindness and goodness and patience the
rule from the cradle to the grave; and they felt so terrible ashamed of
their own little pitiful quarrel that they dursn't for decency take it
afore the throne, but made friends there and then and shared the strip
of earth between 'em.  And so 'tis with the Bible, Rupert: you bring a
trouble into the Lord's kingdom and you'll find, in the clear light
shining there, that it quickly takes a shape to shame you."

"'Tis pretty much what Uncle Nat said in other words.  But didn't it
ought to make you give me ten shillings for Coombes?"

"'Tisn't for us to stand between the State and its work."

"But his wife and children?"

"The sins of the fathers are visited on the children.  Who are we to
come between God Almighty and His laws?"

Rupert shrugged his shoulders.

"Christ Almighty would have done--what?" asked Mr. Baskerville.

Rupert reflected.

"He'd have done something, for certain.  Why, of course!  He'd have
healed the man's broken legs first!"

"And that's what mankind is doing as best it can."

"And if the man dies?"

"Then the State will look after his leavings."

"You're justice itself," said Rupert; "but man's justice be frosty
work."

"That's right enough.  Justice and mercy is the difference between God
and Christ.  The one's a terrible light to show the way and mark the
rock and point the channel through the storm; but 'twill dazzle your
eyes if you see it too close, remember.  And t'other's to the cold
heart what a glowing fire be to the cold body."

"And I say that Uncle Nathan's just that--a glowing, Christlike sort of
man," declared the younger fervently.

"Say so and think so," answered his uncle.  "He stands for mercy; and
I'll never say again that he stands for mercy, because he knows he'll
stand in need of mercy.  I'll never say that again.  And I stand for
justice, and hope I'll reap as I have sowed--neither better nor worse.
But between my way and Nathan's way is yet another way; and if I could
find it, then I should find the thing I'm seeking."

"The way of justice and mercy together, I suppose you mean?"

"I suppose I do.  But I've never known how to mix 'em and keep at peace
with my own conscience.  Justice is firm ground; mercy is not.  Man
knows that very well.  We may please our fellow-creatures with it; but
for my part, so far as I have got till now, I'm prone to think that
mercy be God's work only--same as vengeance is.  For us 'tis enough
that we try to be just, and leave all else in higher hands.  Life ban't
a pretty thing, and you can't hide its ugliness by decorating it with
doubtful mercies, that may look beautiful to the eye but won't stand
the stark light of right."

"Justice makes goodness a bit hard at the edges, however," answered his
nephew.  "And when all's said, if mercy be such treacherous ground, who
can deny that justice may give way under us too now and again?"

They now stood at the door of Hawk House.

"Enter in," said Mr. Baskerville.  "You argue well, and there's a lot
in what you say.  And words come all to this, as the rivers come all to
the sea, that we know nothing, outside Revelation.  And now let's talk
about your affairs.  When is your marriage going to be?  Has Milly
Luscombe said she wants me to come to it?  Answer the truth."




CHAPTER II

Dennis Masterman took the opportunity that offered after a service to
meet his parish clerk and perambulate the churchyard.  For the vicar's
sister had pointed out that the burying-ground of St. Edward's was
ill-kept and choked with weeds.

Overhead the bells made mighty riot.  Two weddings had just been
celebrated, and the ringers were doing their best.

"With spring here again, this place will be a scandal," said Dennis.
"You must set to work in earnest, Gollop, and if it's more than you can
do single-handed, you'd better get help."

"Hay is hay," answered the other; "and the Reverend Valletort was above
any fidgets like what some people suffer from nowadays.  He had the
churchyard hay as his right in his opinion, and, given a good year, us
made a tidy little rick for him.  'All flesh is grass,' he used to say
in his wise fashion, 'and grass is not the less grass because it comes
off a man's grave.'"

"I think differently.  To make hay in a churchyard, Thomas, is very bad
form, and shows a lack of proper and delicate feeling.  Anyway, there's
to be a thorough clean-up.  We've got a lot of very interesting graves
here, and when people come and ask to see the churchyard I don't like
wading through a foot of weeds.  Where's the famous tomb with the music
book and bass viol on it?  I wanted to show it to a man only last week,
and couldn't find it."

Mr. Gollop led the way and indicated a slate amid the Baskerville
monuments.

"There 'tis.  A riddle and an open book; and the book actually had a
bit of the Old Hundredth--the music, I mean--scratched on it when first
'twas set up.  But time have eaten that off, I believe.  He was a fine
fiddler in the days afore the organs was put in the church, and then he
had to go; and he soon died after the joy of playing on Sundays was
taken from him.  He made up his verse himself."

Mr. Gollop drew back the herbage from this slate and read out the rhyme
half hidden beneath.

  "'Praises on tombs are to no purpose spent,
  A man's good name is his own monument.'


"But a good name don't last as long as a good slate, when all's said.
There's Vivian Baskerville's stone, you see.  'Tis a great addition to
the row, and cost seven pounds odd.  And there lieth the suicide, as
should be yonder if justice had been done.  But Humphrey Baskerville
don't mean to take his place in the family row.  Like him, that is.
Won't even neighbour with his fellow dust."

"You oughtn't to repeat such nonsense, Gollop."

"Nonsense or no nonsense, 'tis the truth.  Here's the place he's
chosen, and bought it, too, right up in this corner, away from
everybody; and his gravestone is to turn its back upon t'other dead
folk--like he's always turned his back upon the living."

Mr. Gollop indicated a lonely corner of the churchyard.

"That's where he's going to await the trump."

"Well, that's his business, poor man.  He's a good Christian, anyway."

"If coming to church makes him so, he may be; but Christian is as
Christian does in my opinion.  Show me a man or beast as be the better
for Humphrey Baskerville, and I'll weigh up what sort of Christian he
may be."

"Judge nobody; but get this place respectable and tidy.  No half
measures, Gollop.  And you'll have to work out all those unknown mounds
with a pair of shears.  They are running together, and will disappear
in a year or two.  And that pile of broken slates in the corner had
better be carted away altogether.  You ought to know the graves they
belong to, but of course you don't."

"No, I don't, and more don't any other living man.  I ban't God
Almighty, I believe.  'Tis Miss Masterman have put you on to harrying
me out of my seven senses this way, and I wish she'd mind her own
business and let me mind mine."

"No need to be insolent.  I only ask you to mind your own business.  If
you'd do that we should never have a word."

Mr. Gollop grunted rudely.  When conquered in argument he always
reserved to himself, not the right of final speech, but the licence of
final sound.  On these occasions he uttered a defiant, raucous
explosion, pregnant with contempt and scorn, then he hurried away.  At
times, under exceptional stress, he would also permit himself an
offensive gesture before departing.  This consisted in lifting his
coat-tail and striking the part of his person that occurred beneath it.
But such an insult was reserved for his acquaintance; obviously it
might not be exploited against the vicar of the parish.

Now Gollop marched off to 'The White Thorn,' and Masterman, turning,
found that the man of whom they had recently spoken walked alone not
far off.  Dennis instantly approached him.  It was his wish to know
this member of his congregation better, but opportunity to do so had
been denied.  Now there was no escape for Humphrey Baskerville, because
the minister extended his hand and saluted him.

"How do you do, Mr. Baskerville?  Glad to see you.  A pretty pair of
weddings, and two very popular young couples, I fancy."

Humphrey admitted it.

"There's no better or harder working man about here than my nephew
Rupert Baskerville," he said.

"So I understand.  Not much of a church-goer, though, I'm afraid.
However, perhaps he'll come oftener now.  The bells make the tower
shake, I do believe.  We've never had the tenor bell rung like your son
rang it, Mr. Baskerville."

The old man shrugged his shoulders.

"I always fancy so; but then, I've a right to fancy so.  I was his
father.  No doubt 'tis folly.  One pair of hands can pull a rope as
well as another.  But 'as the heart thinketh, so the bell clinketh,'
though the heart of man is generally wrong.  My son would have done his
best to-day, no doubt, though such was his nature that he'd sooner toll
alone than peal in company."

"Are you going to the wedding breakfast?"

"Yes; not that they really want me.  'Twas only because the boys and
girls wouldn't take 'no' for an answer that I go.  I doubt whether
they're in earnest.  But I'm glad to be there too."

"Who was the fine young brown fellow in the Baskerville pew beside Mrs.
Baskerville?"

"Nathan Baskerville the younger.  Called after my brother, the
innkeeper.  He's just off the sea for a bit."

"A handsome man."

"He is for certain."

"Well, I'm very glad to meet you.  I was telling Gollop that our graves
are not worthy of us.  We must make the churchyard tidier."

They had reached the lich-gate and Dennis held Mr. Baskerville's pony
while he mounted it.

"Thank you," said the elder.

"By the way, I've never called at Hawk House, because I've been told
you wouldn't care about it."

"As to that, 'tisn't whether I'd care or not, 'tis whether you ought to
call or not."

"You're right.  Then come I shall.  How about next Friday?"

"I shall be there."

"I hear you're a great reader, Mr. Baskerville.  I might lend you some
of my books--and gladly would do so, if you'd care to have them."

"Thank you, I'm sure.  A kindly thought in you.  'Tis no great art to
think kindly; but let the thought blossom out into a deed and it grows
alive.  Yes, I read a lot now since my son died.  Jack Head is a
reading man, likewise; but he reads terrible dangerous books.  He lent
me one and I burnt it.  Yes, I burnt it, and told him so."

"Probably you were right."

"No, I wasn't.  He showed me very clearly that I was wrong.  You can't
burn a book.  A bad book once out in the world is like a stone once
flung--it belongs to the devil.  Not but what Jack Head says many
things that can't be answered--worse luck."

"I wish he'd bring his difficulties to me."

"You needn't wish that.  _He's_ got no difficulties.  _He's_ going with
the wind and tide.  'Tis you, not him--'tis you and me, and the likes
of us--that will be in difficulties afore long.  I see that plain
enough.  'Tis idle to be blind.  I shall die a Christian, and so will
you, and so belike will your childer, if ever you get any; but all's in
a welter of change now, and very like your grandchilder will think
'twas terrible funny to have a parson for a grandfather.  Jack Head
says they'll put stuffed curates in the British Museum afore three
generations."

"A free-thought wave," said Dennis.  "Be under no concern, Mr.
Baskerville.  Christianity is quite unassailable.  Remember the Rock
it's founded on."

"'Tis the rock it will split on be the thing to consider.  However, if
you've got any books that stand for our side, I shall thank you to lend
'em to me.  Jack's had it all his own way of late."

"I'll bring some," declared Masterman.

They parted, and Humphrey trotted off on his pony.

Meantime at 'The White Thorn' a considerable gathering had met to
discuss the weddings, and Nathan Baskerville, his namesake, the sailor,
Heathman Lintern, Joe Voysey, and others enjoyed a morning drink.  For
some the entertainment was now ended, but not a few had been bidden to
the feast at Cadworthy, where a double banquet was planned, and many
would soon set out on foot or in market-carts for the farm.

"One may hope for nought but good of these here weddings," said Voysey.
"There's only one danger in my judgment, and that is for two of the
young people to set up living with the bridegroom's mother; but Rupert
ban't Hester Baskerville's favourite son, I believe.  If he was it
certainly wouldn't work.  The poor chap would be pulled in two pieces
between mother and wife.  However, if the mother ban't jealous of him,
it may do pretty well."

"When Master Ned marries, he'll have to go a bit further off," said the
innkeeper.

"How is it brother Ned ban't married a'ready?" asked the younger
Nathan.  "Why, 'tis more than a year agone since I heard from my sister
that he was going to marry Heathman's sister, and yet nothing done.
I'd make her name the day jolly quick if 'twas me."

Heathman laughed and shook his head.

"No, you wouldn't, Nat.  You don't know Cora.  None will hurry her if
she's not minded to hurry.  Ned has done what he could, and so have
I--and so has my mother.  But she's in no haste.  Likes being engaged
and making plans, getting presents, and having a good time and being
important."

"The autumn will see them married, however," declared Mr. Baskerville.
"I've told Master Ned that he'll have to draw in his horns a bit, for
he's not made of money, though he seems to think so.  'Twill be his
best economy to marry pretty quick and settle down.  Never was a man
with wilder ideas about money; but Cora's different.  She's a woman
with brains.  He'll do well to hand her over the purse."

"She wants to start a shop at Plymouth," said Heathman.  "A shop for
hats and women's things.  But Ned's against it.  He says she shan't
work--not while he can help it; and as he certainly won't work himself
while he can help it, we must hope they've got tons of money."

"Which they have not," answered Nathan Baskerville.  "And the sooner
Ned understands that and gives ear to me, the better for his peace of
mind."

Mr. Gollop entered at this moment.  He was ruffled and annoyed.

"That man!" he moaned, "that headstrong, rash man will be the death of
me yet.  Of course, I mean Masterman.  Won't let the dead rest in their
graves now.  Wants the churchyard turned into a pleasure-ground
seemingly.  Must be mowing and hacking and tacking and trimming; and no
more hay; and even they old holy slates in the corner to be carted off
as if they was common stones."

"Lie low and do nought," advised Joe Voysey.  "'Tis a sort of fever
that takes the gentleman off and on.  He catches the fit from his
sister.  She'll be down on me sometimes, with all her feathers up and
everything wrong.  I must set to that instant moment and tidy the
garden for my dear life, till not a blade be out of place.  Likes to
see the grass plot so sleek as a boy's head after Sunday pomatum.  But
the way is to listen with all due and proper attention, as becomes us
afore our betters, and then--forget it.  The true kindness and charity
be to let 'em have their talk out, and even meet 'em in little things
here and there--if it can be done without loss of our self-respect.
But we understand best.  Don't you never forget that, Thomas.  Where
the yard and the garden be concerned, you and me must be first in the
land.  They be children to us, and should be treated according.  We've
forgot more than they ever knowed about such things."

Others came and went; Joe and Thomas matured their Fabian tactics;
Nathan Baskerville, with his nephew and young Lintern, set off in a
pony trap for Cadworthy.  The bells still rioted and rang their
ceaseless music; for these new-made wives and husbands were being
honoured with the long-drawn, melodious thunder of a full five-bell
'peal.'




CHAPTER III

Cora Lintern waited for Ned Baskerville at the fork of the road above
Shaugh.  Here, in the vicarage wall, the stump of a village cross had
been planted.  Round about stitchwort flashed its spring stars, and
foxgloves made ready, while to the shattered symbol clung ivy tighter
than ever lost sinner seeking sanctuary.

Upon a stone beneath sat the woman in Sunday finery, and she was
beautiful despite her garments.  They spoke of untutored taste and a
mind ignorantly attracted by the garish and the crude.  But her face
was fair until examined at near range.  Then upon the obvious beauty,
like beginning of rust in the leaf, there appeared delicate signs of
the spirit within.  Her eyes spoke unrest and her mouth asperity.  The
shadow of a permanent line connected her eyebrows and promised a
network too soon to stretch its web, woven by the spiders of
discontent, upon her forehead.

Cora built always upon to-morrow, and she suffered the fate of those
that do so.  She was ambitious and vain, and she harboured a false
perspective in every matter touching her own welfare, her own desert,
and her own position in the world.  She largely overrated her beauty
and her talents.  She was satisfied with Ned Baskerville, but had
ceased to be enthusiastic about him.  A year of his society revealed
definite limitations, and she understood that though her husband was
well-to-do, he would never be capable.  The power to earn money did not
belong to him, and she rated his windy optimisms and promises at their
just value.  She perceived that the will and intellect were hers, and
she knew that, once married, he would follow and not lead.  The
advantage of this position outweighed the disadvantages.  She desired
to live in a town, and rather favoured the idea of setting up a shop,
to be patronised by the local leaders of rank and fashion.  She loved
dress, and believed herself possessed of much natural genius in matters
sartorial.

At present Ned absolutely refused any suggestion of a shop; but she
doubted not that power rested with her presently to insist, if she
pleased to do so.  He was a generous and fairly devout lover.  He more
than satisfied her requirements in that direction.  She had, indeed,
cooled his ardour a little, and she supposed that her common-sense was
gradually modifying his amorous disposition.  But another's
common-sense is a weak weapon against lust, and Ned's sensual energies,
dammed by Cora, found secret outlet elsewhere.

So it came about that he endured the ordeal of the lengthy engagement
without difficulty, and the girl wore his fancied sobriety and
self-control as a feather in her cap.  When she related her achievement
to Ned and explained to him how much his character already owed to her
chastening influence, he admitted it without a blush, and solemnly
assured her that she had changed his whole attitude to the sex.

Now the man arrived, and they walked together by Beatland Corner,
southerly of Shaugh, upon the moor-edge.

Their talk was of the autumn wedding and the necessity for some active
efforts to decide their domicile.  Cora was for a suburb of Plymouth,
but Ned wanted to live in the country outside.  The shop she did not
mention after his recent strong expressions of aversion from it; but
she desired the first step to be such that transition to town might
easily follow, when marriage was accomplished and her power became
paramount.

They decided, at length, to visit certain places that stood between
town and country above Plymouth.  There were Stoke and Mannamead to
see.  A villa was Cora's ambition--a villa and two servants.  Ned's
instincts, on the other hand, led to a small house and a large stable.
He owned some horses and took great part of his pleasure upon them.
Since possession of her own steed, however, Cora's regard for riding
had diminished.  It was her way to be quickly satisfied with a new toy.
Now she spoke of a 'victoria,' so that when she was married she might
drive daily upon her shopping and her visiting.

"The thing is to begin well," she said.  "People call according to your
house, and often the difference between nice blinds and common blinds
will decide women whether they'll visit a newcomer or not.  With my
taste you can trust the outside of your home to look all right, Ned.
At Mannamead I saw the very sort of house I'd like for us to have.
Such a style, and I couldn't think what 'twas about it till I saw the
short blinds was all hung in bright shining brass rods across the
windows, and the window-boxes was all painted peacock-blue.  'I'll have
my house just like that!' I thought."

"So you shall--or any colour you please.  And I'll have my stable smart
too, I promise you.  White tiles all through.  I shall have to do a bit
myself, you know--looking after the horses, I mean--but nobody will
know it."

"You'll keep a man, of course?"'

"A cheap one.  Uncle Nathan went into figures with me last week.  He
was a bit vague, and I was a bit impatient and soon had enough of it.
'All I want to know,' I told him, 'is just exactly what income I can
count upon,' and he said five hundred a year was the outside figure.
Then, against that, you must set that he's getting a bit old and, of
course, being another person's money, he's extra cautious.  He admitted
that if I sold out some shares and bought others, I could get pretty
near another one hundred a year by it.  But, of course, we've got to
take a bite out of the money for furnishing and all the rest of it.  My
idea, as you know, is to invest a bit in a sleeping partnership, but he
hasn't found anything of the sort yet, apparently.  He's not the man he
was at finding a bargain."

Here opened a good opportunity for her ambitions, and Cora ventured to
take it.

"I wish you'd think twice about letting me start a little business.
It's quite a ladylike thing, or I wouldn't offer it, but with my
natural cleverness about clothes, and with all the time I've given to
the fashions and all that--especially with the hats I can make--it
seems a pity not to let me do it.  You don't want much money to start
with, and I should soon draw the custom."

"No," he said.  "Time enough if ever we get hard up.  I'm not going to
have you making money.  'Tis your business to spend it.  You'll be a
lady, with your own servants and all the rest of it.  You'll walk
about, and pick the flowers in your garden, and pay visits; and if you
do have a little trap, you can drive out to the meets sometimes when I
go hunting.  Why, damn it all, Cora, I should have thought you was the
last girl who would ever want to do such a thing!"

"That's all you know," she said.  "People who keep hat shops often get
in with much bigger swells than ever we're likely to know at Mannamead,
or Stoke either.  They come into the shop and they see, of course, I'm
a lady, and I explain that I only keep the shop for fun, and then I get
to know them.  I'd make more swell friends in my hat shop than ever you
do on your horse out fox-hunting."

"I know a lot of swells, for that matter."

"Ask 'em to come to tea and then you'll see if you know 'em," she said.
"'Tis no use for us to be silly.  We're poor people, compared to rich
ones, and we always shall be, so far as I can see.  We must be content
with getting up the ladder a bit--and that's all I ask or expect."

"I know my place all right, if that's what you mean," answered Ned.
"I'm not anxious to get in with my betters, for they're not much use to
me.  I'm easily satisfied.  I want for you to have a good time, and I
mean for myself to have a good time.  You can only live your life once,
and a man's a fool to let worry come into his life if he can escape
from it.  The great thing in the world is to find people who think as
you do yourself.  That's worth a bit of trouble; and when you've found
them, stick to them.  A jolly good motto too."

They spilt words to feeble purpose for another half-hour, and then
there came an acquaintance.  Timothy Waite appeared on his way from
Coldstone Farm.  He overtook them and walked beside them.

"I suppose you don't want company," he said, "but I'll leave you half a
mile further on."

"We do want company, and always shall," declared Cora.  "And yours most
of all, I'm sure.  We're past the silly spooning stage.  In fact, we
never got into it, did we, Edward?"

"You didn't," said her betrothed, "and as you didn't, I couldn't.
Spooning takes two."

Mr. Waite remained a bachelor and no woman had ever been mentioned in
connection with him.  He was highly eligible and, indeed, a husband
much to be desired.  He enjoyed prosperity, good looks, and a
reputation for sense and industry.

Cora he had always admired, and still did so.  At heart he wondered why
she had chosen Ned Baskerville, and sometimes, since the marriage hung
fire, he suspected that she was not entirely satisfied of her bargain
and might yet change her mind.

He would have married her willingly, for there was that in her
practical and unsentimental character which appealed to him.  He had
indeed contemplated proposing when the announcement of young
Baskerville's engagement reached him.  He met Cora sometimes and always
admired her outlook on life.  He did so now, yet knowing Ned too,
doubted at heart whether the woman had arrested his propensities as
completely as she asserted.

"The question on our lips when you came along was where we should set
up shop," said Ned.

"A shop is what I really and truly want to set up," declared Cora; "but
Edward won't hear of it--more fool him, I say.  He can't earn money,
but that's no reason why I shouldn't try to."

Mr. Waite entirely agreed with her.

"No reason why you shouldn't.  If Cadworthy's to be handed over to
Rupert and you're going to live in Plymouth, as I hear," he said, "then
why not business?  There's nothing against it that I know, and there's
nothing like it.  If I wasn't a farmer, I'd keep a shop.  For that
matter a farmer does keep a shop.  Only difference that I can see is
that he has fields instead of cupboards and loses good money through
the middleman between him and his customers.  I'm going to take another
stall in Plymouth market after Midsummer.  There's nought like market
work for saving cash."

"And as nearly half our money will come from the rent that Rupert pays
for Cadworthy, we shall be living by a shop in a sense whether you
pretend to or not," added Cora.

But Ned denied this.  He aired his views on political economy, while
Waite, who valued money, yet valued making it still more, reduced the
other's opinions to their proper fatuity and laughed at him into the
bargain.

Timothy's contempt for Baskerville was not concealed.  He even
permitted himself a sly jest or two at the expense of the other's
mental endowments; and these thrusts, while unfelt by the victim,
stabbed Cora's breast somewhat keenly.  Even Timothy's laughter, she
told herself, was more sane and manly than Ned's.

She fell into her own vice of contrasting the thing she had with the
thing she had not, to the detriment of the former.  It was an instinct
with her to under-value her own possessions; but the instinct stopped
at herself--an unusual circumstance.

With herself and her attributes of mind and body, she never quarrelled;
it was only her environment that by no possibility compared favourably
with that of other people.  Her mother, her sister, her brother, her
betrothed, and her prospects--none but seemed really unworthy of Cora
when dispassionately judged by herself.

Now she weighed Timothy's decision against Ned's doubt, his knowledge
against Ned's ignorance, his sense against Ned's nonsense.  She felt
the farmer's allusions, and she throbbed with discomfort because Ned
did not also feel them and retort upon Mr. Waite in like manner.  She
told herself that the difference between them was the radical
difference between a wise man and a fool.  Then she fell back in
self-defence of her own judgment, and assured herself that, physically,
there could be no comparison, and that Ned had a better heart and would
make a gentler husband.

Timothy had admired her--she remembered that; but he was caution
personified and, while he had considered, Ned had plunged.  She strove
to see this as a virtue in Ned.  Yet Timothy's old attitude to her
forbade any slighting of him.  She remembered very well how, when he
congratulated her on her engagement, he had pointedly praised Ned for
one thing alone: his precipitation.  A fault at other seasons may be a
virtue in the love season.

"I thought him not very clever," said Timothy on that occasion; "but
now I see he was cleverer than any of us.  Because he was too clever to
waste a moment in getting what every other chap wanted.  We learn these
things too late."

He said that and said it with great significance.  It comforted Cora
now to remember the circumstance.  Whatever else Ned might not know, he
knew a good deal about women; and that would surely make him by so much
a better husband.  Then her wits told her the opposite might be argued
from this premise.  She was not enjoying herself, and she felt glad
when Waite left them.  Anon Ned rallied her for lengthened taciturnity
and even hinted, as a jest, that he believed she was regretting her
choice.

They turned presently and went back over Shaugh Moor to drink tea at
the man's home.  But upon the threshold Cora changed her mind.  She
pleaded headache and some anxiety about her health.

"I've got a cold coming--else I wouldn't be so low-spirited," she said.
"I'll get back through North Wood and go to bed early."

He instantly expressed utmost solicitation and concern.

"I'll come back with you, then.  If you like, I'll put in the pony and
drive you," he said.  But she would neither of these things.

"I shall be all right.  You go in and have your tea, and don't trouble.
I'll get back by the wood path, and you'll find I shall be better
to-morrow."

"'Tis that flimsy dress that lets the wind through like a net," he
said.  "The weather's not right for such clothes as you will wear."

But she laughed and told him to mind his own business.  Then she kissed
him on the cheek and went away.

He stood doubtful.  First he felt moved to follow her, and then he
changed his mind.  He knew Cora better than she thought he did, and he
was aware that at the present moment she felt perfectly well but
desired to be alone.

He had not missed the significance of Mr. Waite's views on his
sweetheart's mind, though he had failed to appreciate Timothy's sly
humour at his own expense.

Now, therefore, he let Cora have her will and made no further effort to
overtake her.  He waited only until she looked back, as he knew she
would; then he kissed his hand, turned, and departed.

She passed along through the forest homeward, and, when hidden in a
silent place, dusted a stone and sat down to think.

A wild apple tree rose above her, half smothered in a great ivy-tod.
But through the darkness of the parasite, infant sprays of bright young
foliage sprang and splashed the gloomy evergreen with verdure.

Aloft, crowning this gnarled and elbowed crab, burst out a triumphant
wreath of pale pink blossom--dainty, diaphanous, and curled.  Full of
light and pearly purity it feathered on the bough, and its tender
brightness was splashed with crimson beads of the flower-buds that
waited their time and turn to open.

Higher still, dominating the tree, thrust forth a crooked, naked bough
or two.  They towered, black, dead, and grim above the loveliness of
the living thing beneath.

From reflections not agreeable, this good sight attracted Cora and
turned the tide of her thoughts.

Even here the instinct of business dominated any sentiment that might
have wakened in another spirit before such beauty.  She gazed at it,
then rose and plucked a few sprays of the apple-blossom.  Next she took
off her hat and began to try the effect of the natural flowers therein.
Her efforts pleased her not a little.

"Lord!  What a hand I have for it!" she said aloud.  Then, refreshened
by this evidence of her skill, she rose and proceeded to Shaugh.  "I
know one thing," she thought, "and that is, man or no man, I shall
always be able to make my living single-handed in a town.  'Tisn't for
that I want a husband.  And be it as 'twill, when master Ned finds a
lot more money coming in, he'd very soon give over crying out at a
shop."




CHAPTER IV

Humphrey Baskerville still sought to determine his need, and sometimes
supposed that he had done so.  More than once he had contemplated the
possibility of peace by flight; then there happened incidents to change
his mind.

Of late the idea of a home further from distracting influences had
again seemed good to him.  More than once he considered the advantages
of isolation; more than once he rode upon the Moor and distracted his
gloom with visions of imaginary dwellings in regions remote.

The folly of these thoughts often thrust him with a rebound into the
life of his fellow-beings, and those who knew him best observed a
rhythmic alternation in Humphrey.

After periods of abstention and loneliness would follow some return to
a more sociable style of living.  From a fierce hectic of mind that
sent him sore and savage into the heart of the wilderness, he cooled
and grew temperate again as the intermittent fever passed.

And then, when the effort towards his kind had failed by his own
ineptitude and the world's mistrust, he retreated once more to suffer,
and banished himself behind the clouds of his own restless soul.

Humanity has no leisure to decipher these difficult spirits; the pathos
of their attempts must demand a philosophic eye to perceive it; and
unless kind chance offers the key, unless opportunity affords an
explanation, the lonely but hungry heart passes away unfathomed, sinks
to the grave unread and unreconciled.

Inner darkness turned Baskerville to the Moor again, and he rode--where
often he had already ridden: to inspect the ruin of an old dwelling
upon the side of a great hill above the waters of Plym.

Brilliant summer smiled upon this pilgrimage, and as he went, he fell
in with a friend, where Jack Head tramped the high road upon his way to
Trowlesworthy.  Jack now dwelt at Shaugh, but was head man of Saul
Luscombe's farm and rabbit warren.

"A fine day," said Humphrey as he slowed his pony.

"Yes, and a finer coming," answered the other.  Mr. Baskerville was
quick to note the militant tone.

"Been at your silly books again, I warrant," he said.  "There's one
book I could wish you'd read along with t'others, Jack.  'Tis the salt
to all other books, for all you scorn it."

"Bible's a broken reed, master, as you'll live to find out yet."

"No, Jack.  'Tis what makes all other writing but a broken reed.  A
fountain that never runs dry, I promise you.  No man will ever get the
whole truth out of the Bible."

"No, by Gor!  Because it ban't there," said the other.

"It's there all right--hidden for the little children to find it.  You
bandage your eyes and then you say you can't see--a fool's trick that."

"I can see so far as you.  'Tis you put coloured spectacles on your
nose to make things look as you'd have 'em.  Your book be played out,
master.  Let the childer read it, if you like, along with the other
fairy tales; but don't think grown men be going to waste their time
with it.  The whole truth is that the book be built on a lie.  There
never was no Jehovah and never will be.  Moses invented Him to frighten
the folk from their naughtiness, same as you invent a scarecrow to
frighten the birds from the seed.  And the scarecrow works better than
Jehovah did, by all accounts."

"You talk out of your narrow, bitter books, Jack."

"No need to call my books names.  That's all your side can do.  Why
don't they try to answer 'em instead of blackguarding 'em?"

"'Tis a great danger to the poor that they begin to think so much."

"Don't you say that.  Knowledge be the weapon the poor have been
waiting for all these years and years.  'Tis the only weapon for a poor
man.  And what will it soon show 'em?  It'll show 'em that the most
powerful thing on this earth be the poor.  They are just going to find
it out; then you rich people will hear of something that will terrible
astonish you."

"You're a rank Socialist, Jack.  I've no patience with you."

"There you are: 'no patience!'  But that's another thing we men of the
soil be going to teach you chaps who own the soil.  'Patience,' you
say.  There's a time coming when the rich people will have to be mighty
patient, I warn you!  And if you're impatient--why, 'tis all one to us,
for never was heard that any impatient man could stop the tide flowing."

"I believe that," said Baskerville grimly.  "You'll pay us presently
for teaching you, and clothing you, and helping to enlarge your minds.
When you're learned enough, you'll turn round, like the snake, and bite
the hand that fed you.  Gratitude the common soul never knows and never
will, whatever else it may learn.  Knowledge is poison to low natures,
and we ought to have kept you ignorant and harmless."

Jack Head stared.

"That's a pretty speech!" he said.  "That's a good healthy bit of
Christian charity--eh?  Why for should you ax so much credit for your
side?  Take me.  What's the rich man done for me?  A workhouse boy I
was."

"And look at you now--a prosperous man and saving money.  Who fed you
and taught you and brought you up?  The State.  Society saved you;
society played mother to you; and now you want to kick her.  That's how
you'd pay your debts.  You take a base and a narrow view--dishonest
too.  The State have got to look after the rich as well as the poor.
Why not?  The poor aren't everybody.  You're the sort that think no man
can be a decent member of society unless he was born in a gutter.
Class prejudice 'tis called, and some of the chaps who think they're
the salt of the earth, stink of it."

"Class be damned," said Mr. Head.  "Class is all stuff and nonsense.
There are only two classes--good men and bad ones.  The difference
between a duke and me be difference between a pig with a ring in his
nose and another without one.  We'm built the same to the last bone in
our bodies, and I've got more sense than half the dukes in the kingdom."

"And t'other half have got more sense than you," returned the rider.
"It's summed up in a word.  Class there will be, because class there
must be.  The poor we have always with us--you know that well enough.
Your books, though they deny most things, can't deny that."

"Another of your silly Christian sayings.  We have got the poor with
us--but it won't be always.  So long as we have the rich with us, we
shall have the poor, and no longer.  No longer, master!  Finish off the
one and you'll finish off t'other.  That's a bit of home-grown wisdom,
that is got from no book at all."

"Wisdom, you call it!  And what power is going to root out the rich?
How are you clever folk going to alter human nature, and say to this
man you shan't save your money and to this man you shall save yours?
While some men and women are born to thrift and sense, and some to
folly and squandering, there must be rich and poor; and while men are
born to hunger for power, there must be war.  These things can't be
changed.  And you can't say where any man can reach to; you can't put
up a mark and tell your fellow-man, 'you shan't go higher than that.'"

"Granted.  You can't say where they shall reach to; but you can say
where they shall start from.  Half the world's handicapped at the
starting-post.  I only ax for the race to be a fair one.  I only ax for
my son to start fair with yours.  If yours be the better man, then let
him win; but don't let him win because he's got too long a start.
That's not justice but tyranny.  Give every man his chance and make
every man work--that's all I ask.  If a man's only got the wits to
break stones, then see that he breaks 'em; and let them who can do
better and earn better money not grudge the stone-breaker a little over
and above what his poor wits earn in the market."

"I grant that's good," admitted Baskerville.  "Let the strong help the
weak.  'Twas Christ found that out, not you Socialists."

"'Tis found out anyway," said Jack Head.  "And 'tis true; and therefore
it will happen and we can't go back on it.  And it follows from that
law of strong helping weak that nobody ought to be too rich, any more
than they ought to be too poor.  Let the State be a millionaire a
million times over, if you like--and only the State.  So long as the
hive be rich, no bee is poor."

Humphrey did not immediately reply.  He was following Head's argument
to a still larger conclusion.

"And you'd argue that as the strong man can help the weak one, so in
time the strong State might help the weak one instead of hindering it,
and the powerful of the earth give of their abundance to strengthen the
humble and feeble?"

"Why not?  Instead of that, the great Powers be bristling with fighting
men, and all the sinews of the world be wasted on war.  And it shows
the uselessness of the Book, anyway, that the Christian
nations--so-called--keep the biggest armies and the largest number of
men idle, rotting their bodies and souls away in barracks and
battleships."

Baskerville nodded.

"There's sense of a lop-sided sort in much that you say, Jack.  But
'tisn't the Book that's to blame--'tis the world that misunderstands
the Book and daren't go by the Book--because of the nations around that
don't go by it."

"Then why do they pretend they'm Christians?  They know if they went by
the Book they'd go down; yet they want to drive it into the heads of
the next generation.  The child hears his father damning the Government
because they ban't building enough men-of-war, and next day when the
boy comes home with a black eye, his father turns round and tells him
to mind his Bible and remember that the peacemakers be blessed."

"I could wish a Government would give Christianity a chance," confessed
Mr. Baskerville; "but I suppose 'tis much the same thing as Free
Trade--a fine thing if everybody played the game, but a poor thing for
one nation if t'others are all for Protection."

"That's a lie," answered Mr. Head.  "We've shown Free Trade is a fine
thing--single-handed we've shown it, and why?  Because Free Trade's a
strong sword; but Christianity's rusty and won't stand the strain no
longer.  We've passed that stage; and if we was to start Christianity
now and offer the cheek to the smiter--well, he'd damn soon smite, and
then where are we?"

They chattered on and set the world right according to their outlook,
instinct, and understanding.  Then the conversation turned into
personal channels, and Mr. Baskerville, while admitting the justice of
much that Jack asserted, yet blamed him for a certain impatience and
bitterness.

"If evolution is going to set all right and the unborn will come into a
better world, why get so hot?" he asked.

"Because I'm a thinking, feeling man," answered the other.  "Because I
hate to see wrong done in the name of right.  And you're the same--only
you haven't got as much sense as me seemingly.  I'm useful--you only
want to be useful and don't see how."

"I want to do my part in the world; but just the right way is difficult
to choose out among the many roads that offer, Jack.  You are positive,
and that saves a deal of trouble, no doubt.  The positive people go the
furthest--for good or evil.  But I'm not so certain.  I see deeper than
you because I've been better educated, though I'm not so clever by
nature.  Then there's another thing--sympathy.  People don't like me,
and to be disliked limits a man's usefulness a lot."

"That's stuff," answered Jack; "no more than a maggot got in your head.
If they don't like you, there's a reason.  They'm feared of your sharp
tongue, and think 'tis the key to a hard heart.  Then 'tis for you to
show 'em what they can't see.  I'll tell you what you are: you'm a man
sitting hungry in a wheat-field, because you don't know and won't larn
how to turn corn into bread.  That's you in a word."

Trowlesworthy was reached and Jack went his way.

"You might come and drink a dish of tea some Sunday," said Mr.
Baskerville, and the other promised to do so.  Then Humphrey proceeded
beside the river, and presently ascended a rough slope to his
destination.  The ruin that alternately drew and repelled him lay
below; but for the moment he did not seek it.  He climbed to the high
ground, dismounted, turned his pony loose, and took his pipe out of his
pocket.

The great cone of granite known as Hen Tor lies high upon the eastern
bank of Plym, between that streamlet and the bog-foundered table-land
of Shavercombe beyond.  From its crown the visitor marked Cornwall's
coastline far-spreading into the west, and Whitsand Bay reflecting
silver morning light along the darker boundaries of earth.

Spaces of grass and fern extended about the tor, and far below a midget
that was a man moved along the edge of the ripe bracken and mowed it
down with a scythe.

Half a dozen carrion crows took wing and flapped with loud croaking
away as Humphrey ascended the tor and sat upon its summit.  Again he
traversed the familiar scene in his mind, again perceived the
difficulties of transit to this place.  Occasionally, before these
problems, he had set to work obstinately and sought solutions.

Once he had determined to rebuild the ruin in the valley, so that he
might turn his back on man and make trial of the anchorite's isolation
and hermit's bastard peace; but to-day he was in no mood for such
experiments; his misanthropic fit passed upon the west wind, and his
thoughts took to themselves a brighter colour.

Where he sat two roof-trees were visible, separated by the distant
height of Legis Tor.  Trowlesworthy and Ditsworthy alone appeared, and
for the rest the river roamed between them, and flocks and herds
wandered upon the hills around.  The man still moved below, and long
ribbons of fallen fern spread regularly behind him.

A foul smell struck on Baskerville's nostrils, and he saw death not far
distant, where the crows had been frightened from their meal.  He
climbed away from the main pile of the tor and sat in a natural chair
hollowed from the side of an immense block of granite that stands hard
by.  He smoked, and his pony grazed.

A storm of rain fell and passed.  The sun succeeded upon it, and for a
little while the moor glittered with moisture.  Then the wind dried all
again.  The old man was now entirely out of tune with any thought of a
dwelling here.  He did not even descend the hill and inspect the ruin
beneath.  But he had come to spend the day alone, and was contented to
do so.  His mind busied itself with the last thing that a fellow-man
had said to him.  He repeated Jack Head's word over and over to
himself.  Presently he ate the food that he had brought with him, drank
at a spring, and walked about to warm his body.  The carrion crows
cried in air, soared hither and thither, settled again on the rocks at
hand and waited, with the perfect patience of unconscious nature, for
him to depart.  But he remained until the end of the day.

Then occurred a magnificent spectacle.  After gold of evening had
scattered the Moor and made dark peat and grey rock burn, there rolled
up from the south an immense fog, that spread its nacreous sea under
the sunset.  Born of far-off fierce heat upon the ocean, it advanced
and enveloped earth, valley by valley, and ridge by ridge.  Only the
highest peaks evaded this flood of vapours, and upon them presently
sank the sun.  His light descending touched many points and uplifted
sprays of mist; whereon, like magic, a thousand galleons rode over the
pearl and advanced in a golden flotilla upon this fleeting sea.  The
rare, brief wonder passed, and the sky above it faded; the sun sank;
the fog rolled forward--heavy, cold, a burden for the wet wings of
night.

Humphrey set off, and the carrion crows, full hungry, returned to sup.

In Baskerville's mind certain words reverberated still, as they had
often done since they were spoken during the morning.  They chimed to
the natural sounds that had fallen upon his ear throughout the day;
they were echoed in the wind and the distant water-murmur; in the cry
of birds and call of beasts; in the steady rasping of his pony's teeth
through the herbage; and now, in its hoof-beat as it trotted by a
sheep-track homeward.

And louder than all these repetitions of it, louder than the natural
music that seemed to utter the words in many voices, there came the
drumming of his own pulse, laden with the same message, and the
answering beat of his heart that affirmed the truth of it.

"A man sitting hungry in a wheat-field, because you don't know and
won't learn how to turn corn into bread."




CHAPTER V

Milly and her husband Rupert came on a Sunday to drink tea at Hawk
House.  They found Humphrey from home, but he had left a message with
Susan Hacker to say that he would return before five o'clock.

"He's got the rheumatics," said Mrs. Hacker.  "They have fastened cruel
in his shoulder-blades, and he've started on his pony and gone off to
see the doctor.  Won't have none of my cautcheries, though I know
what's good for rheumatics well enough, and I've cured three cases to
common knowledge that neither doctor nor that Eliza Gollop could budge,
do as they would."

Rupert expressed concern, and went out to meet his uncle, while Milly
stopped and helped Susan Hacker to prepare tea.

"And how do 'e like being married?" asked the elder.

"Very well; but not quite so well as I thought to," answered Milly with
her usual frankness.

"Ah! same with most, though few have the pluck to confess it."

"Being married is a very fine thing if you've got such a husband as
Rupert; but living along with your husband's people ain't so fine, if
you understand me.  You see, he's farmer now, and he will have his
way--a terrible resolute chap where the land and the things be
concerned.  But sometimes his mother gets a bit restive at Rupert's
orders, and sometimes she says, in her quiet way, as her husband never
would have held with this or that.  'Tis a thought awkward now and
again, because, you see, Rupert ban't the favourite, and never was."

"You side with him, of course?"

"Always, and always shall do--right or wrong."

"Maybe when Master Ned's married and away Mrs. Baskerville will go
easier."

"Don't think I'm grumbling.  She's a kind woman, but, like all old
married folk, seem to think young married folk be only playing at it.
The truth is that I haven't got enough to do for the minute."

Mr. Baskerville returned in half an hour, and Rupert walked beside him.
Then, with some silent suffering, the old man alighted, and a boy took
the pony to its stable.

"Doctor was out," he said, "so I'll have to trouble you to make up a
bit of your ointment after all."

"And so I will," answered Susan.  "And if you'd gone to that Gollop
woman for the beastliness she pretends will cure everything, I'd never
have forgiven you.  She helped to kill off your brother, no doubt, but
that's no reason why you should give her a chance to kill you."

"You're all alike," he said; "a jealous generation.  But if you can
have your physic ready in an hour, so much the better; then Rupert
shall give my back a good rub before he goes."

Mrs. Hacker was doubtful.

"Better I do it," she said.  "'Tis the way it's rubbed in makes the
cure."

"He's stronger and can rub harder," answered the patient.

"Uncle Nathan's none too grand, neither," declared his nephew.  "Won't
say what's amiss, but I do think he's not all he might be.  I asked
Mrs. Lintern, who knows more about him than anybody, I reckon, and she
told me 'twas nothing much in her opinion--only his throat a bit queer."

"You and Uncle Nathan ought to have wives to look after you," declared
Milly as she poured out tea.  "You men be unfinished, awkward things
alone.  You'm always wanting us at every turn, for one reason or
another, and after middle age a man looks a fool half his time if he
haven't got a woman for his own.  Men do the big things and alter the
face of the earth and all that, but what becomes of their clever
greatness without our clever littleness?"

"Cant!--cant!  You all talk that stuff and 'tisn't worth answering.
Ask the sailors if they can't sew better than their sweethearts."

Mr. Baskerville was in a hard mood and would allow no credit to the
sex.  He endured his pain without comment, but it echoed itself in
impatient and rather bitter speeches.  Rupert fell back on other
members of the family, and spoke of his uncle, the master of 'The White
Thorn.'

"The good that man does isn't guessed," he said.  "The little
things--you'd be surprised--yet 'tisn't surprising neither, for every
soul you meet speaks well of him; and a man can't win to that without
being a wonder.  He's made of human kindness, and yet never remembers
the kind things he does--no memory for 'em at all."

Humphrey conceded the nobility of this trait, and Milly spoke.

"Not like some we could name, who'll give a gift to-day and fling it in
your face to-morrow."

"There are such.  My mother's father was such a one," said Mr.
Baskerville.  "He never forgot a kindness--that he'd done himself.  He
checked his good angel's record terrible sharp, did that man."

There came an interruption here, and unexpected visitors in the shape
of Nicholas Bassett, the young man who had married Polly Baskerville,
and Polly herself.  Nicholas was nervous and stood behind his wife;
Polly was also nervous, but the sight of her brother Rupert gave her
courage.

Her uncle welcomed her with astonishment.

"Wonders never cease," he said.  "I didn't count to get a visit from
you, Polly, or your husband either.  You needn't stand there turning
your Sunday hat round and round, Bassett.  I shan't eat you, though
people here do seem to think I'm a man-eater."

"We came for advice," said Polly, "and I made bold to bring Nicholas.
In fact, 'twas his idea that I should speak to you."

Mr. Baskerville was gratified, but his nature forbade him to show it.

"A new thing to come to Uncle Humphrey when you might go to Uncle
Nathan," he said.

"'Tis just about Uncle Nathan is the difficulty," declared his niece.
Then she turned to her husband.  "You speak, Nick.  You must know that
Nick's rather slow of speech, and can't get his words always, but he's
improving.  Tell Uncle Humphrey how 'tis, Nick."

Mr. Bassett nodded, dried a damp brow with a red handkerchief, and
spoke.

"'Tis like this here," he began.  "Under Mr. Vivian Baskerville's
will--him being my wife's father--she had five hundred pound."

"We all know that," said Rupert.  "And May, too."

"Well, the law of the will was that the money should be handed over
when the girls was wedded, or when they comed to the age of
five-and-twenty.  Therefore, surely it's clear as my wife ought to have
her five hundred--eh?"

"Perfectly clear--on the day she married you," said Rupert.  "I thought
you'd got it, Polly."

"But I haven't.  There's legal difficulties--so Uncle Nathan says; and
he told Nicholas that there was a doubt in his mind whether--what was
it, Nick?"

"The man said that as trustee for everybody he was very unwilling to
disturb the money.  He said 'twas out at interest and doing very well;
and he said he'd pay us five per centum upon it, which comed to
twenty-five pounds a year."

"You're entitled to the capital if you want it," declared Mr.
Baskerville.  "It can't be withheld."

"I've been to the man twice since," said Polly's husband, "and he's
always terrible busy, or else just going into it in a few days, or
something like that.  We've had six months' interest on it; but we want
the money--at least, half of it--because we've got ideas about leasing
a field where we live to Bickleigh, and buying a cow in calf and a lot
of poultry.  With all Polly's farm cleverness we can do better with a
bit of money than leave it in the bank.  At least, that's what we
think."

"Ask Rupert here to help," suggested her uncle.  "He's on very good
terms with Uncle Nat, and he's a man of business now, and Polly's elder
brother, and a right to be heard.  No doubt, if he says plain and clear
that he wants you to have your money without delay, you'll get it."

"I'd leave it till autumn, after Ned's marriage," said Rupert, "then
I'd press him to clear things up.  Ned will want tons of money then,
and I believe Cora Lintern is to have a money present from Uncle
Nathan.  She got the secret out of her mother, and, of course, told
Ned; and now everybody knows.  But nobody knows the figure.  Therefore,
I say Polly had better do nought till the wedding."

"Mr. Nathan's temper isn't what it was," said Rupert's wife.  "His
health be fretting him a lot, I believe."

"I wish I had our money, anyhow," declared Mr. Bassett; "but if you say
wait till autumn, of course we will do so."

Humphrey Baskerville spoke but little.  He had fallen into deep private
thought upon this news, and now was only aroused by his niece getting
up to depart.

"I hope you'll forgive us for troubling you," said Polly; "but we've
talked it over a thousand times, and we felt we ought to take the
opinion of some wiser person.  Still, if you say wait, we'll wait."

"I didn't say wait," answered her uncle, "and I don't take any
responsibility for it.  Rupert advised you to wait, not me.  If a man
owed me twopence under a will--let alone five hundred pound--I'd have
it, and wouldn't wait a minute."

The young couple departed in a good deal of agitation, and debated this
advice very earnestly all the way home; but Rupert stuck to his own
opinion, and, when they were gone, chode Humphrey for giving such
counsel.

"I'm sure such a thing would hurt Uncle Nathan cruelly," he said.
"'Tis as much as to say that you don't trust him--don't trust a man who
is trusted by the countryside as none ever was before."

"Easy to be large-minded about other people's money," answered his
uncle.  "Only if 'twas yours, and not your sister's, I rather think
you'd be a bit less patient with the man that held it from you."

Yet another visitor appeared and the family matter was dropped.

Mrs. Hacker brought in Mr. Head.

"Looks as if the whole countryside was coming here," she declared.
"Here's Jack for a cup of tea; and the ointment will be cool enough to
use in half an hour."

"Hullo, Bear!" said Rupert.  "Who'd have thought of seeing you?"

"I was axed to tea when I felt in a mind to come," replied Mr. Head;
"and here I am, if not in the way.  And as to being a bear, I'm the
sort that needs a lot of stirring up afore I roar--your wife will back
me up in that.  How's Mr. Baskerville faring?"

"Got the rheumatism," answered Humphrey.  "Rupert here be going to rub
in some ointment presently."

"I hope 'twill break the heart of it, I'm sure.  There's nothing worse.
It tells us the truth about our parts better than any sermon.  I'm not
too gay to-day myself.  We was at it hammer and tongs in 'The White
Thorn' last night--me and your brother.  Such a Tory was never seen in
the land afore.  I very soon settled Tom Gollop and a few others like
him, but Mr. Nathan's got more learning and more power of argument.  We
drank, too--more than usual, owing to the thirstiness of the night and
the flow of speech.  Quarts I must have took, and when Ben North looked
in to say 'twas closing time, nothing would do but a few of us went in
your brother's room, after house was shut, and went at it again."

"Say you were drunk in a word, Jack," suggested Rupert.

"Not drunk, Rupert--still, near it.  We all got in sight of it.
There's no prophet like the next morning after a wet night.  As a man
fond of the flesh I say it.  And the older you grow, the sharper comes
the day after a bust-up.  Then Nature gives you a proper talking to,
and your heart swells with good resolutions against beer and other
things.  And then, as soon as you are as right as ninepence--just by
keeping those good resolves--blest if Nature don't tumble down what
she's set up, and tempt you with all her might to go on the loose
again.  You can't steady her, though she can mighty soon steady you.
Preaches to you one minute, and then starts off to get you into
mischief the next.  That's her way--no more sense than any other
female."

"Then so much the less reason to put your trust in her," answered Mr.
Baskerville.  "She's a poor, untaught, savage thing at best.  'Tis
madness to trust her, for nothing is weaker than she."

"Nothing is stronger or so strong," declared Jack.  "Nature knows what
she wants, and she gets what she wants.  You can't deny that.  She's
just, and never does nothing without a reason.  Very different to a
woman there.  She'm digging her claws into your back because you've
been doing some foolish thing, I'll warrant."

He drank his tea and aired his opinions.  But Mr. Baskerville was in no
mood for Jack's philosophy.  He retired presently with Rupert, stripped
to the waist, and endured a great and forcible application of Mrs.
Hacker's ointment.  The friction brought comfort with it, and he
declared himself better as a result.  But he did not again descend from
his chamber, and presently the three visitors departed together.

Mr. Head expressed great admiration for Susan Hacker.

"I should like to be better acquaint with that woman," he declared.
"For sense in few words there's not her equal about."

"If you want to please her, cuss Eliza Gollop," explained Rupert.




CHAPTER VI

The setting sun burnt upon Dewerstone's shoulder and beat in a sea of
light against the western face of North Wood, until the wind-worn
forest edge, taking colour on trunk and bough, glowed heartily.

Already the first summer splendour was dimmed, for these lofty domains
suffered full fret of storm and asperity of season.  A proleptic
instinct, stamped by the centuries, inspired this wood; it anticipated
more sheltered neighbours in autumn, though it lagged behind them in
spring.  Upon its boughs the last vernal splendour fluttered into
being, and the first autumnal stain was always visible.  Now beech and
larch revealed a shadow in their texture of leaf and needle though
August had not passed, for their foliage was born into elemental
strife.  Here homed the west wind, and the salt south storms emptied
their vials; here the last snows lingered, and May frost pinched the
young green things.

Now roseal and gracious light penetrated the heart of the wood, warmed
its recesses, and dwelt upon a grass-grown track that wound through the
midst.  Toward this path by convergent ways there came a man and woman.
As yet half a mile separated them, for they had entered the wood at
opposite places; but one desire actuated both, and they moved slowly
nearer until they met at a tryst in the deep heart of the trees.
Undergrowth rose about them, and their resort was carefully chosen and
perfectly concealed.  Here oak closely clad the hill, and granite
boulders offered an inner rampart against observation.  The man and
woman were elderly, yet she was still personable, and he retained a
measure of unusual good looks.  They came to perform a little rite,
sacred and secret, an event celebrated these many years, and unknown to
any other human beings but themselves.

Nathan Baskerville put his arms round Priscilla Lintern and drew her
beside him and kissed her.

"We shall never find it this year, I'm much afraid," he said.  "The
time is past.  'Tis always later far than other lilies in the garden,
but not so late as this.  However, I'll do my best."

"No matter for the flower," she answered, "so long as we keep up our
custom."

A slant flame from the sunset stole deliciously through the dusky
hiding-places of the wood, and played on the deep mosses and
fern-crowns and the tawny motley of the earth, spread like a coverlet
beneath.  Here dead litter of leaf and twig made the covering of the
ground, and through it sprang various seedling things, presently to
bear their part in the commonwealth and succeed their forefathers.  The
ground was amber-bright where the sunshine won to it, and everywhere
stretched ivy and bramble, gleamed the lemon light of malempyre,
sparkled green sorrel, and rose dim woodbine that wound its arms around
the sapling oaks.  Wood-rush and wood-sage prospered together, and
where water spouted out of the hill there spread green and ruddy
mosses, embroidered with foliage of marsh violet and crowned by pallid
umbels of angelica.  The silver of birches flashed hard by, and the
rowan's berries already warmed to scarlet.

Hither after their meeting came the man and woman, and then Nathan,
searching sharply, uttered a cry of triumph, and pointed where, at
their feet, grew certain dark green twayblade leaves that sprouted from
the grass.  Here dwelt lilies-of-the-valley--their only wild haunt in
Devon--and the man now made haste to find a blossom and present it to
his mistress.  But he failed to do so.  Only a dead spike or two
appeared, and presently he gave up the search with some disappointment.

"They must have bloomed just when I was ill and couldn't come," he said.

"'Tis no matter at all," she answered.  "The thought and the meeting
here are the good thing.  We'll go back into the wood now, further from
the path.  To me 'tis marvellous, Nat, to think the crafty world has
never guessed."

"It is," he admitted.  "And sometimes in my dark moments--however, we
can leave that to-day.  We're near at the end of our labours, so far as
the children are concerned.  Cora was always the most difficult.  But
the future's bright, save for the cash side.  I hope to God 'twill come
right afore the wedding; but----"

"Go on," she said.  "We can't pretend to be so happy as usual this
year.  Let's face it.  I know you're worried to death.  But money's
nought alongside your health.  You're better again; you've shown me
that clear enough.  And nothing else matters to us."

"Yes, I'm all right, I hope.  But I'm a bit under the weather.  Things
have gone curiously crooked ever since Vivian died.  I was a fool.  I
won't disguise that; but somehow my luck seemed so good that a few
little troubles never looked worth considering.  Then, just before he
went, I got into a regular thunderstorm.  It blew up against the steady
wind of my good fortune, as thunderstorms will.  Vivian did me a good
turn by dying just when he did--I can't deny it; and everything is all
right now--for all practical purposes.  The silver mine will be a
wonder of the world by all accounts.  Still, I've had a good deal to
trouble me, and things look worse when a man's sick."

"Shall you be giving Polly Bassett her money soon?  Heathman tells me
her husband's grumbling a bit."

"All in good time.  When our Cora is married I shall try and fork out a
good slice of Vivian's estate.  Ned must have the capital he wants, and
I've got to find a hundred for Cora's wedding gift."

"Why do that yet?"

"I'll do it if I have to sell myself up," he said fiercely.  "Isn't she
my first favourite of our three?  Don't I worship the ground she goes
on, and love her better than anything in the world after you yourself?"

She sighed.

"How it weighs heavier and heavier after all these years!  And I always
thought 'twould weigh lighter and lighter.  We were fools to have
childer.  But for them we could have let the world know and been
married, and gived back the five thousand to your wife's people.  But
not now--never now, for the children's sake, I suppose."

"They'll know in good time, and none else.  When I come to my end, I'm
going to tell 'em I'm their father, according to your wish, and because
I've promised you on my oath to do it; but none else must ever know it;
and it would be a wiser thing, Priscilla, if you could only see it so,
that they didn't either."

"They must know, and they shall."

"Well, it may be sooner than anybody thinks.  The position is clear
enough: I might have married and still kept the five thousand, because
the lawyers said that my dead wife's wish wouldn't hold water in law;
but I didn't know that till 'twas too late, and your first child had
come.  Then we talked it out, and you was content and so was I.  Now
there are three of them, and though I'd face the music so brave as you
and go to my grave spurned by all men, if necessary, what would better
it for them?  Nothing short of an Act of Parliament would make 'em
legitimate now.  I kept the condition of my dead wife, because you
urged me to do it and weren't feared of the consequences; but now,
though I can make you my lawful wife, I can't make them my lawful
children, and therefore surely 'tis better they shall never know they
are my children at all?"

"'Twas a promise," she said, "and I hold you to it.  I'm fixed on it
that they shall know."

"Very well, so it shall be, then.  Only for God's sake look to it for
everybody's sake that it don't get out after, and ruin you all.  I
shouldn't sleep in my grave if I thought the life-long secret was
common knowledge."

"You can trust them to keep it, I should think."

"The girls, yes; but Heathman's so easy and careless."

"Suppose you was to marry me even now, Nat, would that help?"

"I'll do it, as I've always said I'll do it.  But that means I should
be in honour bound to pay five thousand to my first wife's people.
Well, I can't--I can't at this moment--not a penny of it.  Just now I'm
a good deal driven.  In a year or two I might, no doubt; but there's
that tells me a year or two----"

He put up his hand to his throat.

"You swore to me on your oath that you were better, last time you came
down by night."

"I was; but--it's here, Priscilla--deep down and----  Maybe 'twill lift
again, and maybe it won't.  But we must be ready.  I'd give my eternal
soul if things were a little straighter; but time--plenty of time--is
wanted for that, and 'tis just time I can't count upon.  I'm not so
young as I was, and I've not the head for figures I used to have."

"If you don't marry, you've got absolute power to dispose of that five
thousand.  'Tis yours, in fact.  Yet at best that's a paltry quibble,
as you've admitted sometimes."

"Leave it," he said.  "Don't let this day be nought but cloud.  We're
married afore God, but not afore man, because to do that would have
lost me five thousand pounds.  When I die, I've the right to make over
that money to you--at least, what's left of it."

"That's a certainty for me and Heathman and Phyllis?"

"Leave it--leave it," he cried irritably.  "You know that what a man
can do I shall do.  You're more to me than any living thing--much, much
more.  You're my life, and you've been my life for thirty years--and
you will be to the end of my life.  I know where I stand and how I
stand."

"Don't think I'd care to live a day longer than you do, Nat.  Don't
think I'm careful for myself after you be gone.  'Tis only for your boy
and girl as I care to know anything."

He took her hand.

"I know you well enough--you priceless woman!" he answered.  "Let's go
a bit further through the forest.  Come what may, all's got to be
bright and cheerful at Cora's wedding; and after, when they've got
their money, I'll have a good go into things with Mr. Popham, my lawyer
at Cornwood.  He's heard nothing yet, but he shall hear everything.
Have no fear of the upshot.  I know where I've always trusted, and
never in vain."

Like two children they walked hand in hand together.  For a long time
neither spoke, then she addressed him.

"You've taught me to be brave and put a bright face on life afore the
world, and now I'll not be wanting."

"Well I know that.  'Brave!'  'Tis too mild a a word for you.  You've
come through your life in a way that would maze the people with wonder
if they only knew it.  So secret, so patient, so clever.  Never was
heard or known the like.  A wonderful wife--a wife in ten thousand."

The sun began to sink where Cornwall, like a purple cloud, rose far off
against the sky; yet still the undulations of the land, mingling with
glory, melted into each other under the sunset, and still North Wood
shone above the shadows.  But a deep darkness began to stretch upwards
into it, where the Dewerstone's immense shade was projected across the
valley.  At length only the corner of the forest flashed a final fire;
then that, too, vanished, and the benighted trees sighed and shivered
and massed themselves into amorphous dimness under the twilight.

The man and woman stopped together a while longer, and after that their
converse ended.  They caressed and prepared to go back by different
ways into the world.

"Come good or evil, fair weather or foul, may we have a few happy
returns yet of this day; and may I live to find you the
lily-of-the-valley again once or twice before the end," he said.

For answer she kissed him again, but could not trust herself to speak.




CHAPTER VII

Life is a compromise and a concession.  According to the measure of our
diplomacy, so much shall we win from our fellows; according to our
physical endowment, so much will Nature grant.  All men are envoys to
the court of the world, and it depends upon the power behind them
whether they are heard and heeded, or slighted and ignored.  To change
the figure, each among us sets up his little shop in the social mart
and tries to tempt the buyer; but few are they who expose even
necessary wares, and fewer still the contemporary purchasers who know a
treasure when they see it.

An accident now lifted the curtain from Humphrey Baskerville's nature,
threw him for a day into the companionship of his kind, and revealed to
passing eyes a gleam of the things hidden within him.  No conscious
effort on his part contributed to this illumination, for he was
incapable of making such.  His curse lay in this: that he desired to
sell, yet lacked wit to win the ear of humanity, or waken interest in
any buyer's bosom.  Yet now the goods he offered with such ill grace
challenged attention.  Accident focussed him in a crowd; and first the
people were constrained to admit his presence of mind at a crisis, and
then they could not choose but grant the man a heart.

It happened that on the day before Princetown pony fair Mr.
Baskerville's groom fell ill and had to keep his bed; but twenty ponies
were already at Princetown.  Only Humphrey and his man knew their exact
value, and the market promised to be unusually good.  His stock
represented several hundred pounds, for Mr. Baskerville bred a special
strain possessing the Dartmoor stamina with added qualities of speed
and style.  The irony of chance ordained that one who despised all
sport should produce some of the best polo ponies in the West of
England.

Mr. Baskerville saw nothing for it but to sell by deputy at loss, or
withdraw his stock from the fair.  He debated the point with Mrs.
Hacker, and her common-sense revealed an alternative.

"Lord, man alive, what are you frightened of?" she asked.  "Can't you
go up along, like any other chap with summat to sell, and get rid of
your beasts yourself?  You did use to do it thirty year ago, and nobody
was any the worse, I believe."

He stared at her.

"Go in a crowd like that and barter my things like a huckster?"

"Well, why not?  You'm only made of flesh and bone like t'others.  You
won't melt away.  'Tis just because you always avoid 'em, that they
think you give yourself airs, and reckon they ban't good enough company
for you."

"I don't avoid 'em."

"Yes, you do.  But you'm not the only honest man in the world, though
sometimes you think you are.  And if you'd ope your eyes wider, you'd
find a plenty others.  For my part, if I was paid for it, I couldn't
number more rogues in Shaugh than I can count upon the fingers of both
hands."

"To go up myself!  Who'd believe it was me if they saw me?"

"They want your ponies, not you; and when it came to paying the price
of the ponies, they'd soon know 'twas you then."

"I suppose you think I charge too much.  Like your impudence!  Are you
going?" he asked.

"Why, of course I'm going.  'Tis my only 'out' for the year."

"They'll fancy 'tis the end of the world up at 'Duchy Inn' if I come
along and take my place at the ordinary."

"No, they won't: they'll be a deal too busy to trouble about you.  You
go, master, and you'll stand a lot better in your own eyes for going.
'Twill be a great adventure in your life.  You'm a deal too much up on
the hill there, along with the foxes and other wild things; and you
know it."

"I haven't the cut for a revel.  'Tis nonsense to think of my going up."

"To think of it can't do no harm, anyway," she said.  "You think and
think, and you'll find 'tis your duty as a sensible creature to go."

"Not my duty.  'Twill hurt none if I stay away."

"'Twill hurt your pocket.  You know right well 'tis the proper thing
that you go.  And if you do, I'll ax for a fairing.  And if you get me
one, I'll get you one."

"You can put off old age like a garment and be a girl again," he said.

"So I can, then.  'Tis your brother sets that wise fashion, not you.
He's as lively as a kitten when there's a frolic in the air.  And so be
I--though all sixty-five.  You should have seen me at giglet market in
my youth!"

He did not answer; but the next morning he appeared shamefaced and clad
for the fair.

"Well done, you!" cried Mrs. Hacker.  "Be you going to drive the black
gig?  I was riding up in the pony-cart along with Mr. Waite's
housekeeper from Coldstone, but----"

"You can come with me, if you please.  All foolery, and 'tis offering
to rain--however, I'm going through with the job now.  And mind you
don't take too much liquor up there.  I know your ways when you get
with a lot of silly people."

They started presently, and Humphrey made sour remarks at the expense
of Susan's bonnet.  Then by steep ascent and descent they went their
way and fell in with other folk also bound for the festivity.  Some
they passed and some passed them.  Cora Lintern and Ned Baskerville
drove together in a flashy, high-wheeled dog-cart; and the sight of
Cora brought a cloud upon Mr. Baskerville.  She was soon gone, however.
The lofty vehicle slipped by with a glitter of wheels, a puff of dust,
a shout from Ned as he lifted his whip hand, and a flutter of pale pink
and blue where Cora sat in her finery.

"Heartless minx!" growled the old man.  "A parrot and a popinjay.  No
loss to the world if that pair was to break their necks together."

"Don't you tell such speeches as that, there's a good man," answered
Mrs. Hacker.  "The mischief with your sort is that you be always crying
out nasty things you don't think; which is just the opposite of us
sensible people, as only think the nasty things, but take very good
care for our credit's sake not to say 'em.  None like you for barking;
and them as hear you bark take it for granted you bite as well.  And
when I tell 'em you don't bite, they won't believe it."

"Take care I never bite you for so much plain speaking," he said; "and
I'll thank you to lay hold on the reins while we walk up this hill; for
I want to read a letter.  'Tis about the ponies from a would-be buyer."

He read and Mrs. Hacker drove.  They traversed the miles of moorland at
a slow pace, and not a few who passed them displayed surprise at the
spectacle of Mr. Baskerville on his way to the fair.

At Devil's Bridge, beneath the last long hill into Princetown, a
vehicle from Shaugh overtook them and the Linterns appeared.  Heathman
was driving, and beside him sat his mother; while at the back of the
cart were Nathan Baskerville and Phyllis Lintern.

"Hullo!  Wonders never cease!" cried the publican.  "Good luck and long
life to you, Humphrey!  Now I couldn't have seen a better sight than
this.  Hold on!  I want to have a talk afore the fair."

"If you want to talk, I'll onlight and you do the same," said Nathan's
brother.  "The women can drive on, and we'll walk into Princetown."

Priscilla Lintern and Mrs. Hacker kept their places and drove slowly up
the hill side by side; but not before Nat had chaffed Susan and
applauded her holiday bonnet.  Heathman and his sister walked on
together; the brothers remained behind.

The younger was in uproarious mood.  He laughed and jested and
congratulated Humphrey on his courage in thus coming among the people.

None would have recognised in this jovial spirit that man who walked
not long before with a woman in North Wood, and moved heavily under the
burdens of sickness and of care.  But to Nathan belonged the art of
dropping life's load occasionally and proceeding awhile in freedom.  He
felt physically a little better, and intended to enjoy himself to-day
to the best of his power.  Resolutely he banished the dark clouds from
his horizon and let laughter and pleasure possess him.

"How's your throat?" asked Humphrey.  "You don't look amiss, but they
tell me you're not well."

"I hope it may mend.  'Tis up and down with me.  I can't talk so loud
as once I could, and I can't eat easy; but what's the odds as long as I
can drink?  I'm all right, and shall be perfectly well again soon, no
doubt.  And you--what in the name of wonder brings you to a revel?"

"My ponies.  There's twenty and all extra good.  Chapman goes and falls
ill after the ponies was brought up here.  The fool would bring 'em
though there's no need.  Buyers are very well content to come to my
paddocks.  But custom is a tyrant to the old, and if I didn't send to
the sales, Chapman would think something had gone wrong with the world."

"I'm right glad you're here, and I hope 'tis the beginning of more
gadding about for you.  'Tis men like you and me that lend weight to
these meetings.  We ought to go.  'Tis our duty."

"You're better pleased with yourself than I am, as usual."

"We ought to be pleased," answered the other complacently.  "We are the
salt of the earth--the rock that society is built on."

"Glad you're so well satisfied."

"Not with myself specially; but I'm very well pleased with my class,
and the older I grow the better I think of it."

"People be like yonder pool--scum at the top and dirt at the bottom,"
declared Humphrey.  "The sweet water is in the middle; and the useful
part of the people be the middle part."

"In a way, yes.  We of the lower middle-class are the backbone: the
nation has to depend on us; but I'm not for saying the swells haven't
their uses.  Only they'd be nought without us."

"It takes all sorts to make a world.  But leave that.  I ban't up here
to talk politics.  What does doctor say about your throat?"

"Leave that too.  I'm not here to talk about my health.  I want to
forget it for a few hours.  The wedding is on my mind just now.  Mrs.
Lintern and her daughter intend it to be a bit out of the common; and
so do I.  But the bride's mother's set on it taking place at our
chapel, and Hester wants it to be at church.  Ned don't care a rush, of
course."

"It ought to be at church."

"Don't see any pressing reason.  Toss up, I say."

"You should know better than to talk like that.  You Dissenters----"

"No arguments, Humphrey.  But all the same they must be married in
church or chapel, and since there's such a division of opinion--I'm
anxious to see Ned married.  'Tis more than time and certainly no fault
of his that they didn't join sooner.  But Cora had her own ideas
and----"

"Oblige me by not naming either of them.  You can't expect me to be
interested.  Even if they were different from what they are, I should
remember the cruel past too keenly to feel anything good towards either
of them."

"Let the past go.  You're too wise a man to harbour unkind thoughts
against headstrong youth.  Let 'em be happy while they can.  They'll
have their troubles presently, like the rest of us."

"They'll have what they're brewing, no doubt.  Empty, heartless
wretches--I will say it, feel as you may for Cora."

"I hope you'll live to see her better part.  She's a sensible woman and
a loving one, for all you think not.  At any rate, you'll come and see
them married, Humphrey?"

"You can ask me such a thing?"

"Let bygones be bygones."

"What was it you wanted to speak to me about?"

"Just that--the wedding.  I must make it a personal matter.  I attach a
good deal of importance to it.  I'm very interested in the
Linterns--wrapped up in them wouldn't be too strong a word for it.
I'll confess to you that the mother is a good deal to me--my best
friend in this world.  I owe a lot of my happiness to her.  She's made
my life less lonely and often said the word in season.  You know what a
wise woman can be: you was married yourself."

Humphrey did not answer and his brother spoke again.

"There's only us two left now--you and me.  You might pleasure me in
this matter and come.  Somehow it's grown to be a feeling with me that
your absence will mar all."

"Stuff!  I've been the death's-head at too many feasts in our family.
In a word, I won't do it.  I won't be there.  I don't approve of either
of 'em, and I've not interest enough in 'em now to take me across the
road to see them."

"If you'll come, the marriage shall be in church.  Priscilla will agree
if I press it.  I can't offer more than that."

"I won't come, so leave it."

Nathan's high spirits sank for a little while; then Princetown was
reached and he left his brother and strove to put this pain from him
for the present, as he had banished all other sources of tribulation.
He was soon shaking hands with his acquaintance and making merry among
many friends.  But Humphrey proceeded to the place where his ponies
were stalled, and immediately began to transact business with those who
were waiting for him.




CHAPTER VIII

Gipsy blood runs thin in England to-day, but a trickle shall be found
to survive among the people of the booth and caravan; and glimpses of a
veritable Romany spirit may yet be enjoyed at lesser fairs and revels
throughout the country.  By their levity and insolence; by their quick
heels and dark faces; by the artist in them; by their love of beauty
and of music; by their skill to charm money from the pockets of the
slow-thinking folk; and by their nimble wits you shall know them.

A few mongrels of the race annually find Princetown, and upon days of
revel may there be seen at shooting-galleries, 'high-fliers,' and
'roundabouts.'

Here they are chaffing the spectators and cajoling pennies from young
and old; here, astounding the people by their lack of
self-consciousness; here, singing or dancing; here, chafering; here,
driving hard bargains for the local ponies; here, changing their
doubtful coins for good ones, or raising strife between market-merry
folk and prospering from the quarrels of honest men, after the manner
of their kind.

Two streams of holiday-makers drifted through each other and through
the little fair.  They passed up and down the solitary street, loitered
and chattered, greeted friends, listened to the din of the music, to
the altercations of the customers and salesmen, to the ceaseless
laughter of children and whinny of the ponies.

On either side of that open space spread in the village midst, an array
of carts had been drawn up, and against these barricades were tethered
various animals which the vehicles had brought.  They stood or reposed
on litter of fern and straw cast down for them.

Here were pigs, flesh-coloured and black, and great raddled rams in a
panting row.  Amid the brutes tramped farmers and their men.

The air was full of the smell of live mutton and swine; and among
them--drifting, stopping in thoughtful knots, arguing, and laughing
heavily, the slow-eyed yokels came and went.  The rams bleated and
dribbled and showed in a dozen ways their hatred of this publicity; the
pigs cared not, but exhibited a stoic patience.

Upon the greensward beside the road stood separate clusters of guarded
ponies.  Old and young they were, gainly and ungainly, white, black,
and brown, with their long manes and tails often bleached to a rusty
pallor by the wind and sun.

In agitated groups the little creatures stood.  Company cried to
company with equine language, and the air was full of their squealings,
uttered in long-drawn protests or sudden angry explosions.

Occasionally a new drove from afar would arrive and trot to its place
in double and treble ranks--a passing billow of black and bright russet
or dull brown, with foam of tossing manes, flash of frightened eyes,
and soft thud and thunder of many unshod hoofs.

The people now came close, now scattered before a pair of uplifted
heels where a pony, out of fear, showed temper.  The exhibits were very
unequal.  Here a prosperous man marshalled a dozen colts; here his
humbler neighbour could bring but three or four to market.  Sometimes
the group consisted of no more than a mare and foal at foot.

Round about were children, who from far off had ridden some solitary
pony to the fair, and hoped that they might get the appointed price and
carry money home to their parents or kinsfolk.

Hanging close on every side to the main business and thrusting in where
space offered for a stall, rows of small booths sprang up; while beyond
them on waste land stood the merry-go-rounds, spinning to bray of
steam-driven organs, the boxing-tent, the beast show and the arena,
where cocoanuts were lifted on posts against a cloth.

Here worked the wanderers and played their parts with shout and song;
but at the heart of the fair more serious merchants stood above their
varied wares, and with unequal skill and subtlety won purchasers.
These men displayed divergent methods, all based on practical
experience of human nature.

A self-assertive and defiant spirit sold braces and leather thongs and
buckles.  His art was to pretend the utmost indifference to his
audience; he seemed not to care whether they purchased his goods or no,
yet let it be clearly understood that none but a fool would miss the
opportunities he offered.

A cheap-jack over against the leather-seller relied upon humour and
sleight of hand.  He sold watches that he asserted to be gold; but he
was also prepared to furnish clocks of baser metal for more modest
purses.  He dwelt upon the quality of the goods, and defied his
audience to find within the width and breadth of the United Kingdom
such machinery at such a price.  He explained also very fully that he
proposed to return among them next year, with a special purpose to make
good any defective timepieces that might by evil chance lurk
unsuspected amid his stock.  He reminded them he had been among them
during the previous year also, as a guarantee of his good faith.

Beyond him a big, brown half-caste sold herb pills and relied upon a
pulpit manner for his success.  He came with a message of physical
salvation from the God of the Christians.

He mingled dietetics and dogma; he prayed openly; he showed emotion; he
spoke of Nature and the Power above Nature; he called his Maker to
witness that nothing but the herbs of the field had gone to make his
medicine.

He had good store of long words with which to comfort rustic ears.  He
spoke of 'a palliative,' 'a febrifuge,' and 'a panacea.'  He wanted but
three-pence for each box, and asserted that the blessing of the Lord
accompanied his physic.

"Why am I here?" he asked.  "Who sent me?  I tell you, men and women,
that God sent me.  We must not carry our light under a bushel.  We must
not hide a secret that will turn a million unhappy men and women into a
million happy men and women.  God gave me this secret, and though I
would much sooner be sitting at home in my luxurious surroundings,
which have come to me as the result of selling this blessed corrective
of all ills of the digestion and alimentary canals, yet--no--this world
is no place for idleness and laziness.  So I am here with my pills, and
I shall do my Master's work so long as I have hands to make the
medicine and a voice to proclaim it.  And in Christ's own blessed words
I can say that where two or three just persons are gathered together,
there am I in the midst of them, my friends--there am I in the midst of
them!"

Amid the welter of earth-colour, dun and grey there flashed yellow or
scarlet, where certain Italian women moved in the crowd.  They sold
trinkets, or offered to tell fortunes with the aid of little green
parakeets in cages.

The blare and grunt of coarse melody persisted; and the people at the
booths babbled ceaselessly where they sold their sweetmeats, cakes, and
fruit.  Some were anchored under little awnings; some moved their goods
about on wheels with flags fluttering to attract attention.

Old and young perambulated the maze.  Every manner of man was gathered
here.  Aged and middle-aged, youthful and young, grey and white, black
and brown, bearded and shorn, all came and went together.  Some passed
suspicious and moody; some stood garrulous, genial, sanguine, according
to their fortunes or fancied fortunes in the matter of sale and barter.

And later in the day, by the various roads that stretch north, south,
and west from Princetown, droves of ponies began to wend, some with
cheerful new masters; many with gloomy owners, who had nothing to show
but their trouble for their pains.

This spacious scene was hemmed in by a rim of sad-coloured waste and
ragged hills, while overhead the grey-ribbed sky hung low and shredded
mist.

Humphrey Baskerville had sold his ponies in an hour, and was preparing
to make a swift departure when accident threw him into the heart of a
disturbance and opened the way to significant incidents.

The old man met Jack Head and was speaking with him, but suddenly Jack
caught the other by his shoulders and pulled him aside just in time to
escape being knocked over.  A dozen over-driven bullocks hurtled past
them with sweating flanks and dripping mouths.  Behind came two
drovers, and a brace of barking dogs hung upon the flanks of the weary
and frightened cattle.

Suddenly, as the people parted, a big brute, dazed and maddened by the
yelping dogs now at his throat, now at his heels, turned and dashed
into the open gate of a cottage by the way.

The door of the dwelling stood open and before man or sheepdog had time
to turn him, the reeking bullock had rushed into the house.  There was
a crash within, the agonised yell of a child and the scream of a woman.

Then rose terrified bellowings from the bullock, where it stood jammed
in a passageway with two frantic dogs at its rear.

A crowd collected, and Mr. Baskerville amazed himself by rushing
forward and shouting a direction.  "Get round, somebody, and ope the
back door!"

A woman appeared at the cottage window with a screaming and bloody
child in her arms.

"There's no way out; there's no way out," she cried.  "There's no door
to the garden!"

"Get round; get round!  Climb over the back wall," repeated
Baskerville.  Then he turned to the woman.  "Ope the window and come
here, you silly fool!" he said.

She obeyed, and Humphrey found the injured child was not much hurt,
save for a wound on its arm.  Men soon opened the rear door of the
cottage and drove the bullock out of the house; then they turned him
round in the garden and drove him back again through the house into the
street.

The hysterical woman regarded Mr. Baskerville as her saviour and
refused to leave his side.  The first drover offered her a shilling for
the damage and the second stopped to wrangle with Jack Head, who blamed
him forcibly.

"'Twas the dogs' fault--anybody could see that," he declared.  "We're
not to blame."

"The dogs can't pay, you silly fool," answered Head.  "If you let loose
a dog that don't know his business, you've got to look out for the
trouble he makes.  'Tis the devil's own luck for you as that yowling
child wasn't killed.  And now you want to get out of it for nought!
There's a pound's worth of cloam smashed in there."

The woman, who was alone, sent messengers for her husband, but they
failed to find him; then she declared that Mr. Baskerville should
assess the amount of her claim and the people upheld her.  Thus most
reluctantly he was thrust into a sort of prominence.

"You was the only one with sense to tell 'em what to do; and so you'd
better finish your good job and fix the price of the breakages," said
Jack.

The man with the bullocks, when satisfied that Humphrey would be
impartial and indifferent to either party, agreed to this proposal, and
Mr. Baskerville, quite bewildered by such a sudden notoriety, entered
the cottage, calculated the damage done, and soon returned.

"You've got to pay ten shillings," he said.  "Your bullock upset a tray
and smashed a terrible lot of glass and china.  He also broke down four
rails of the balusters and broke a lamp that hung over his head.  The
doctor will charge a shilling for seeing to the child's arm also.  So
that's the lowest figure in fairness.  Less it can't be."

The drover cursed and swore at this.  He was a poor man and would be
ruined.  His master would not pay, and if the incident reached
headquarters his work must certainly be taken from him.  None offered
to help and Humphrey was firm.

"Either pay and thank God you're out of it so easily," he said, "or
tell us where you come from."

The drovers talked together, and then they strove to bate the charges
brought against them.  Their victim, now grown calmer, agreed to take
seven shillings, but Mr. Baskerville would not hear of this.  He
insisted upon observance of his ruling, and the man with the bullocks
at length brought out a leather purse and counted from it seven
shillings.  To these his companion added three.

Then the leader flung the money on the ground, and to accompaniment of
laughter and hisses hastened after his stock.  The cattle were not for
Princetown, and soon both men and their cavalcade plodded onward again
into the peace and silence of a mist-clad moor.

They cursed themselves weary, kicked the offending dog and, with a
brute instinct to revenge their mishap, smote and bruised the head of
the bullock responsible for this misfortune when it stopped to drink at
a pool beside the road.

Humphrey Baskerville won a full measure of applause on this occasion.
He took himself off as swiftly as possible afterwards; but words were
spoken of approval and appreciation, and he could not help hearing
them.  His heart grew hot within him.  A man shouted after him, "Good
for the old Hawk!"

Before he had driven off, Nathan Baskerville met him at 'The Duchy
Hotel' and strove to make him drink.

"A drop you must have along with me," he said.  "Why, there's a dozen
fellows in the street told me how you handled those drovers.  You ought
to have the Commission of the Peace, that's what you ought to have.
You're cut out for it."

"A lot of lunatics," answered the elder.  "No presence of mind in fifty
of 'em.  Nought was done by me.  The job might have cost a life, but it
didn't, so enough's said.  I won't drink.  I must get back home."

"Did the ponies go off well?"

"Very.  If you see Susan Hacker, tell her I've gone.  The old fool's on
one of they roundabouts, I expect.  And if she breaks it down, she
needn't come back to me for the damages."

"A joke!  A joke from you!  This is a day of wonders, to be sure!"
cried Nathan.  "Now crown all and come along o' me, and we'll find the
rest of the family and the Linterns, and all have a merry-go-round
together!"

But his brother was gone, and Nathan turned and rejoined a party of
ram-buyers in the street.

Elsewhere Mrs. Lintern and Mrs. Baskerville walked together.  Their
hearts were not in the fair, but they spoke of the pending marriage and
hoped that a happy union was in store for Ned and Cora.

The young couple themselves tasted such humble delights as the fair
could offer, but Cora's pleasure was represented by the side glances of
other girls, and she regarded the gathering as a mere theatre for her
own display.  Ned left her now and again and then returned.  Each time
he came back he lifted his hat to her and exhibited some new sign of
possession.

Cora affected great airs and a supercilious play of eyebrow that
impressed the other young women.  She condescended to walk round the
fair and regarded this perambulation as a triumph, until the man who
sold watches marked her among his listeners, observed her vanity, and
raised a laugh at her expense.  Then she lost her temper and declared
her wish to depart.  She was actually going when there came up Milly
and her husband, Rupert Baskerville.

Ned whispered to his sister-in-law to save the situation if possible,
and Milly with some tact and some good fortune managed to do so.

Cora smoothed her ruffled feathers and joined the rest of the family at
the inn.  There all partook of the special ordinary furnished on this
great occasion to the countryside.

In another quarter Thomas Gollop, Joe Voysey and their friends took
pleasure after their fashion.  Every man won some sort of satisfaction
from the fair and held his day as well spent.

Perhaps few could have explained what drew them thither or kept them
for many hours wandering up and down, now drinking, now watching the
events of the fair, now eating, now drinking again.  But so the day
passed with most among them, and not until evening darkened did the
mist thicken into rain and seriously damp the proceedings.

Humphrey Baskerville, well pleased with his sales and even better
pleased with the trivial incident of the bullock, went his way homeward
and was glad to be gone.  His state of mind was such that he gave alms
to two mournful men limping slowly on crutches into Princetown.  Each
of these wounded creatures had lost a leg, and one lacked an arm also.
They dragged along a little barrel-organ that played hymns, and their
faces were thin, anxious, hunger-bitten.

These men stopped Mr. Baskerville, but not to beg.  They desired to
know the distance yet left to traverse before they reached the fair.

"We set out afore light from Dousland, but we didn't know what a
terrible road 'twas," said one.  "You see, with but a pair o' legs
between us, we can't travel very fast."

Humphrey considered, and his heart being uplifted above its customary
level of caution, he acted with most unusual impulse and served these
maimed musicians in a manner that astounded them.  His only terror was
that somebody might mark the deed; but this did not happen, and he
accomplished his charity unseen.

"It's up this hill," he said; "but the hill's a steep one, and the fair
will be half over afore you get there at this gait."

The men shrugged their shoulders and prepared to stump on.

"Get in," said Mr. Baskerville.  "Get in, the pair of you, and I'll run
you to the top."

He alighted and helped them to lift their organ up behind, while they
thanked him to the best of their power.  They talked and he listened as
he drove them; and outside the village, on level ground, he dropped
them again and gave them half-a-crown.  Much heartened and too
astonished to display great gratitude, they crawled upon their way
while Humphrey turned again.

The taste of the giving was good to the old man, and its flavour
astonished him.  He overtook the drovers and their cattle presently,
and it struck him that this company it was who had made the day so
remarkable for him.

He half determined with himself to stop and speak with them and even
restore the money he had exacted; for well he knew the gravity of their
loss.

But, unfortunately for themselves, the twain little guessed what was in
his mind; they still smarted from their disaster, and when they saw the
cause of it they swore at him, shook their fists and threatened to do
him evil if opportunity offered.

Whereupon Mr. Baskerville hardened his heart, kept his money in his
pocket and drove forward.




CHAPTER IX

The sensitive Cora could endure no shadow of ridicule.  To laugh at her
was to anger her, for she took herself too seriously, the common error
of those who do not take their fellow-creatures seriously enough.
When, therefore, she committed a stupid error and Ned chaffed her about
it, there sprang up a quarrel between them, and Cora, in her wounded
dignity, even went so far as to talk of postponing marriage.

Nathan Baskerville explained the complication to a full bar; and when
he had done so the tide of opinion set somewhat against Ned's future
bride.

"You must know that Phyllis Lintern has gone away from home, and last
thing she did before she went was to ask Cora to look after a nice
little lot of young ducks that belonged to her and were coming forward
very hopeful.  Of course, Cora said she would, and one day, mentioning
it to my nephew Rupert's wife, Milly told her that the heads of
nettles, well chopped up, were splendid food for young ducks.  Wishful
to please Phyllis and bring on the birds, what does Cora do but busy
herself for 'em?  She gets the nettle-tops and chops 'em up and gives
'em to the ducklings; and of course the poor wretches all sting their
throats and suffocate themselves.  For why?  Because she let 'em have
the food raw!  We all know she ought to have boiled the nettles.  And a
good few have laughed at her about it and made her a bit savage."

"That's no reason, surely, why she should quarrel with her sweetheart.
'Twasn't his fault," declared Jack Head, who was in the bar.

"None in the world; but Ned joked her and made her rather snappy.  In
fact, he went on a bit too long.  You can easily overdo a thing like
that.  And none of us like a joke at our expense to be pushed too far."

"It shows what a clever woman she is, all the same," declared Mr.
Voysey; "for when Ned poked fun at her first, which he did coming out
of church on Sunday, I was by and heard her.  What d'you think she
said?  'You don't boil thistles for a donkey,' says she, 'so how was
anybody to know you boil nettles for a duck?' Pretty peart that--eh?"

"So it was," declared Nathan.  "Very sharp, and a good argument for
that matter.  I've bought Phyllis a dozen new birds and nothing more
need come of it; but Ned's a bit of a fool here and there, and he
hadn't the sense to let well alone; and now she's turned on him."

"He'll fetch her round, a chap so clever with the girls as him," said
Voysey; whereupon Timothy Waite, who was of the company, laughed
scornfully.

"How can that man be clever at anything?" he asked.  "Here's his own
uncle.  Be Ned clever at anything on God's earth but spending money,
Mr. Baskerville?  Come now!  An honest answer."

"Yes," replied Nathan promptly.  "He was never known to fall off a
horse."

The laugh rose against Timothy, for the farmer's various abilities did
not extend to horsemanship.  He had been thrown a week before and still
went a little lame.

"Ned's all right," added Jack Head.  "Lazy, no doubt--like everybody
else who can be.  But he's generous and good-hearted, and no man's
enemy.  The girl's a fool to keep him dangling.  A little more of it
and he'll--however, I'll not meddle in other people's business."

Mr. Gollop entered at this moment and saw his foe.

"Do I hear John Head saying that he don't meddle with other people's
business?" asked the sexton.  "Gin cold, please.  Well, well; since
when have Head made that fine rule?"

"Drink your gin," said Jack, "and then have another.  You ban't worth
talking to till you've got a drop of liquor in you.  When you're tuned
up I'll answer you.  How's Masterman getting on?  He must be a patient
man, or else a terrible weak one, to have you still messing about the
church."

"Better you leave the church alone," retorted Thomas.  "You'd pull down
every church in the land if you could; and if it wasn't for men like
me, as withstand your sort and defy you, there'd very soon be no law
and order in the State."

"'Tis your blessed church where there's no law and order," answered
Jack.  "The State's all right so long as the Liberals be in; but a
house divided against itself falleth.  You won't deny that.  And that's
the hobble you Christians have come to.  And so much the easier work
for my side--to sweep the whole quarrelsome, narrow-minded boiling of
you to the devil."

"Stop there, Jack!" cried Mr. Baskerville.  "No religion in this bar
and no politics.  You know the rules."

"Let him go on," said Gollop gloomily.  "There's a bitter truth in what
he says.  We're not shoulder to shoulder and none can pretend we are.
Take Masterman--that man!  What did he say only this morning in vestry?
'Gollop,' he said, 'the roots are being starved.  If we don't get rain
pretty quick there'll be no turnips--no, nor mangolds neither.'"

Half a dozen raised their voices in support of this assertion.

"That's truth anyway," declared Timothy.  "Never knew such a beastly
drought at this season.  Even rain will not bring the crop up to
average weight now.  It's beyond nature to do it."

"Well, he's going to pray for rain," said Gollop.  "Next Sunday we
shall ax for 'moderate rain and showers.'"

"Well, why not?" asked Nathan.  "That's what the man's there for
surely."

"Why not?  Because the glass is up 'pon top of everything, and the
wind's in the east steady as a rock.  That's why not.  You don't want
prayer to be turned into a laughing-stock.  We don't want our ministers
to fly in the face of Providence, do we?  To pray for rain at present
be equally mad as to pray for snow.  'Tis just courting failure.  Then
this here man, Jack Head, and other poisonous members, will laugh, like
Elijah when he drawed on them false prophets, and say our Jehovah be
asleep."

"Not me," answered Head.  "'Tis your faith be asleep.  You've given
your side away properly now, my bold hero!  So you've got such a poor
opinion of your Jehovah that you reckon to ax Him to take the wind out
of the east be going too far?  But you're right.  Your God can't do it.
All the same, Masterman's a better Christian than you."

"You speak as a rank atheist, Jack," said Timothy Waite.  "And what
sense there is in you is all spoiled because you're so fierce and sour."

"Not me--far from it.  We was talking of Jehovah, I believe, and
there's no law against free speech now, so I've a right to say my say
without being called to order by you or any man.  Tom here don't trust
his God to bring rain when the glass is set fair; and I say that he be
perfectly right--that's all.  Gollop ought to have the faith that moves
mountains, no doubt; but he hasn't.  He can't help feeling terrible
shaky when it comes to a challenge.  That's the good my side's doing,
though he do swear at us.  We're making the people common-sensible.
Faith have had a long run for its money.  Now we're going to give Works
a bit of a show.  Masterman fawns on Jehovah like a spaniel bitch, and
thinks that all this shoe-licking be going to soften the God of the
stars.  But if there was a God, He'd be made of sterner stuff than man
makes Him.  We shouldn't get round Him, like a naughty boy round a weak
father.  In fact, you might so well try to stop a runaway steam-roller
by offering it a cabbage-leaf, as to come round a working God by
offering Him prayers."

"How you can stand this under your roof, Nathan, I'm blessed if I
know," grumbled Mr. Gollop.  "'Tis very evil speaking, and no good will
come to you by it."

"Light will shine even on this man afore the end," declared the
innkeeper.  "God will explain as much as is good for Jack to know.  He
shows each of us as much as we can bear to see--like He did Moses.  If
Jehovah was to shine too bright on the likes of Head here, He'd dazzle
the man and blind him."

"God will explain--eh?  That's what you said, Nat.  Then why don't He
explain?  I'm a reasonable man.  I'm quite ready and willing to hear.
But 'twill take God all His time to explain some of His hookem-snivey
tricks played on honest, harmless humans.  Let's hear first why He let
the snake into the garden at all, to fool those two poor grown-up
children.  You talk about original sin!  'Tis a dirty lie against human
nature.  If you're in the right, 'twas your God sent it--stuck the tree
under Eve's nose--just as if I put a bunch of poison berries in a
baby's hand and said, 'You mustn't eat 'em,' and then left the rest to
chance and an enemy.  Who'd be blamed if the child ate and died?  Why,
I should.  And jury would bring it in murder--quite right too.  Look at
your God's blackguard doings against all they peaceful people He set
His precious Jews against!  Shameful, I call it.  Driving 'em out of
their countries, harrying 'em, killing 'em by miracles, because He
knowed the Jews wasn't good men enough to do it.  Chosen people!  A
pretty choice!  He's been judging us ever since He made us; now let's
judge Him a bit, and see what His games look like to the eyes of a
decently taught Board School boy."

"You'll roast for this, John Head, and well you'll deserve it," said
Mr. Gollop.

"Not I, Thomas.  I've just as much right to crack a joke against your
ugly, short-tempered Jehovah as you would have to laugh at the tuft of
feathers on the end of a pole that foreign savages might call God.
There's not a pin to choose betwixt them and you."

"We can only hope you'll have the light afore you've gone too far,
Jack," said Nathan.  "You're getting up home to sixty, and I'm sure I
hope God's signal-post will rise up on your path afore you go much
further."

"'Tis certainly time," answered Head.  "And if your God's in earnest
and wants to put me right, the sooner He begins the better for us
both--for my salvation and His credit."

"He's got His holy self-respect, however," argued Gollop.  "If I was
Him, I'd not give myself a thought over the likes of you.  'Good
riddance'--that's what I should say."

"If you was God for five minutes I wonder what you'd do, Tom,"
speculated Joe Voysey.  "Give me a new back, I hope.  That's the first
favour I should ax."

"I'd catch you up into heaven, Joe.  That's the kindest thing the
Almighty could do for you."

But Voysey looked doubtful.

"If you was to wait till I gived the word, 'twould be better," he said.
"Nobody wants to leave his job unfinished."

"A good brain gone to rot--that's what's happened to you, Jack," said
Nathan sadly.  "Lord, He only knows why you are allowed to think such
thoughts.  No doubt there's a reason for it, since nought can happen
without a reason; but the why and wherefore are hid from us common men,
like much else that's puzzling.  Anyway, we can stick to this--we
Christians: though you've got no use for God, Jack, 'tis certain that
God's got a use for you; and there may be those among us who will live
to see what that use is."

"Well, I'm ready for a whisper," declared the free-thinker.  "He won't
have to tell me twice--if He only makes His meaning clear the first
time."

They talked a little longer, and then Heathman Lintern came among them.

"Be Jack Head here?" he asked.  "The chimney to his house have took
fire seemingly, and policeman's made a note of it.  But 'twas pretty
near out when I come by."

"Hell!" cried Jack.  "That's another five shilling gone!"

He left hurriedly to the tune of laughter, and failed to hear Gollop's
triumphant final argument.

"There!  There!" shouted the sexton.  "There 'tis--'hell' in his
everyday speech!  He can't get away from it: 'tis part of nature and a
common item--just as natural as heaven.  And argue as he pleases, the
moment he's took out of himself, the truth slips.  Well may he say
'hell'!  There's nobody living round here will ever have more cause to
say it.  And that he'll find long afore I, or another, drop the clod on
his bones."




CHAPTER X

Thanks more to the diplomacy of Nathan Baskerville than Ned's own skill
in reconciliation, Cora forgave her lover and their marriage day was
fixed.  Not a few noticed that the master of 'The White Thorn' held
this union much to heart, and indeed appeared more interested in its
achievement than any other save Ned himself.

A change had come over Nathan and his strength failed him.  The
affection of his throat gained upon him and his voice grew weaker.  He
resented allusions to the fact and declared that he was well.  Only his
doctor and Priscilla Lintern knew the truth; and only she understood
that much more than physical tribulation was responsible for the
innkeeper's feverish activity of mind and unsleeping energy poured
forth in secret upon affairs.

The extent of this immense diligence and devotion was hidden even from
her.  She supposed that a temporary cloud had passed away; and she
ceased not, therefore, from begging him to save his powers and so
afford himself an opportunity to recover.

But the man believed that he was doomed, and suspected that his life
could only be held upon uncertain tenure of months.

The doctor would not go so far as this gloomy opinion; yet he did not
deny that it might be justified.

Nathan felt no doubt in his own mind, and he believed that Cora's
wedding was the last considerable event of a personal and precious
nature that he could hope to see accomplished.

Afterwards, but not until he found himself upon his deathbed, the
innkeeper designed a confession.  Circumstances and justice, as he
conceived it, must make this avowal private; but those most interested
were destined to know the hidden truth concerning themselves.  He had
debated the matter with Priscilla, since decision rested with her; but
she was of his mind and, indeed, had been the first to suggest this
course.

Cora's shopping roused all the household of Undershaugh to a high pitch
of exasperation.  Much to the girl's surprise her mother produced fifty
pounds for a wedding outfit, and the bride employed agreeable days in
Plymouth while she expended this handsome gift.

A house had been taken at Plympton.  The face of it was 'genteel' in
Cora's estimation; but the back was not.  However, the rear premises
satisfied Ned, and its position with respect to town and country suited
them both.

There remained contracts and settlements, in which Nathan Baskerville
represented both parties.  Ned was generous and indifferent; Cora
exhibited interest and a faculty for grasping details.  She told
herself that it was only reasonable and wise to do so.

At any time the reckless Ned might break his neck; at any time the
amorous Ned might find her not all-sufficing.  No sentiment obscured
Cora's outlook.  She astounded Nathan Baskerville by the shrewdness of
her stipulations.

Few prophesied much joy of this marriage, and even Priscilla, albeit
Nathan was impatient at her doubts, none the less entertained
misgivings.  She knew the truth of her daughter, and had long since
learned the truth concerning young Baskerville.

Those who desired to comfort her foretold that man and wife would go
each their own way and mind each their own business and pleasure.  Not
the most sanguine pretended to suppose that Ned and Cora would unite in
any bonds of close and durable affection.

The man's mother trusted that Cora's common-sense and practical spirit
might serve as a steady strain to curb his slothful nature; but May
Baskerville was the only living soul who, out of her warm heart and
trusting disposition, put faith in his marriage to lift her brother
toward a seemly and steadfast position in the ranks of men.

At Hawk House the subject of the wedding might not be mentioned.  In
consequence renewed coolness had arisen between the brothers.  Then
came a rumour to Humphrey's ear that Nathan was ill, and he felt
concern.  The old man had no eye to mark physical changes.  He was slow
to discern moods or read the differences of facial expression, begot by
mental trouble on the one hand and bodily suffering on the other.

Now, greatly to his surprise, he heard that Nathan began to be very
seriously indisposed.  The news came to him one morning a month before
Cora's wedding.  Heathman Lintern called upon the subject of a
stallion, and mentioned casually that Humphrey's brother had lost his
voice and might never regain it.

"'Tis terrible queer in the bar at 'The White Thorn' not to hear him
and to know we never may no more," he said.  "He's gone down and down
very gradual; but now he can only whisper.  'Tis a wisht thing to lose
the power of speech--like a living death, you might say."

"When did this happen?  I've marked no change, though 'tis a good few
weeks now since I spoke with him."

"It comed gradual, poor chap."

Humphrey rose and prepared on the instant to start for Shaugh.

"I must see the man," he said.  "We're out for the minute owing to this
wedding.  But, since he's fallen ill, I must go to him.  We'll hope
'tis of no account."

They set out together and Heathman was mildly surprised to learn the
other's ignorance.

"He keeps it so close; but you can't hide your face.  We've all marked
it.  The beard of the man's grown so white as if the snow had settled
on it, and his cheeks be drawed too.  For my part I never felt nothing
in life to make me go down-daunted afore, except when your son Mark
died; but, somehow, Nat Baskerville be a part of the place and the best
part.  I've got a great feeling towards him.  'Tis making us all very
uncomfortable.  Especially my mother.  He talks to her a lot, feeling
how more than common wise she be; and she knows a lot about him.  She's
terrible down over it and, in fact, 'tis a bad job all round, I'm
afraid."

Humphrey's answer was to quicken his pace.

"He kept it from me," he replied.  "I suppose he thought I ought to
have seen it for myself.  Or he might have wrongly fancied I didn't
care."

"Everybody cares--such a wonderful good sort as him.  'Twill cast a
gloom over this blessed wedding.  I wish to God 'twas over and done
with--the wedding, I mean--since it's got to be."

"Why do you wish that?"

"Because I'm sick of the thing and that awnself[1] baggage, my sister.
God's truth!  To watch her getting ready.  Everything's got to go down
afore her, like the grass afore the scythe.  You may work your fingers
to the bone and never get a thank you.  I had a row with her last
night, and she got lashing me with her tongue till I rose up and
fetched her a damned hard box on the ear, grown woman though she is.
My word, it tamed her too!  'There!' I said.  'That's better than all
the words in the dictionary.  You keep your snake's tongue between your
teeth,' I said.  There's no answering her with words, but if her
husband has got a pinch of sense, which he hasn't, he'll do well to
give her a hiding at the start.  It acted like a charm."


[1] _Awnself_--selfish.


"Don't want to hear nothing about that.  They're making their own bed,
and 'twill be uneasy lying," said Humphrey.  "Leave them, and talk of
other things."

"Very pleased," answered Lintern.  "Ban't a subject I'm fond of.
Undershaugh without Cora would be a better place to live in--I know
that and I say it.  And my mother knows it too; though say it she
won't."

They talked on various subjects, and Heathman informed Mr. Baskerville
that he would soon be a great-uncle.

"Rupert's wife be going to have a babby--that's the last news.  I heard
it yester-eve at 'The White Thorn.'"

"Is that so?  They might have told me, you'd think.  Yet none has.
They kept it from me."

"Holding it for a surprise; or maybe they didn't think 'twould interest
you."

"No doubt that was the reason," answered Humphrey.

And then he spoke no more, but worked his own thoughts into a ferment
of jealous bitterness until the village was reached.  Arrived, he took
no leave of Heathman, but forgot his presence and hastened to the inn.
Nathan was standing at the door in his apron, and the brothers entered
together.

"What's this I hear?" said Humphrey as they entered the other's private
chamber.

"Well, I'm ill, to be frank.  In fact, very ill.  I'd hoped to hide it
up till after the wedding; but my voice has pretty well gone, you see.
Gone for good.  You'll never hear it again.  But that won't trouble you
much--eh?"

"I should have marked something wrong when last we met, no doubt.  But
you angered me a bit, and angry men are like drunken ones; their senses
fail them.  I didn't see or hear what had happed to you.  Now I look
and listen, I mark you're bad.  What does the doctor say?"

"'Tis what he don't say.  But I've got it out of him.  He took me to
Plymouth a month ago--to some very clever man there.  I've talked such
a lot in my life that I deserve to be struck dumb--such a chatterbox as
I have been."

"Is that all?"

"For the present.  We needn't go beyond that.  I shall soon get used to
listening instead of talking.  Maybe I'll grow wiser for it."

"That wasn't all they told you?"

Nathan looked round and shut the door which stood ajar behind them.

"There's no hiding anything from you that you want to find out.  As a
matter of fact, I'm booked.  I know it.  'Tis only a question of--of
months--few or many.  They give me time to put things as straight--as
straight as I can."

"So like as not they lie.  You'll do better to go off to London while
you may, and get the best opinion up there."

"I would, if 'twas only to pleasure you.  But that's no use now."

"Can you let down your food easy?"

Nathan shook his head.

"I dare not eat in company no more," he said; "it's here."  He put his
hand to his throat and then drew it down.

"You don't suffer, I hope?"

Nathan nodded.

"I can tell you, but I trust you not to let it out to any soul.  We
must have the wedding off cheerful and bright.  I shall keep going till
then, if I'm careful.  Only a month now."

"You ought to be lying up close, and never put your nose out this
coarse weather."

"Time enough.  Leave it now.  I'm all right.  I've had a good
life--better than you might think for.  I wish for my sake, and knowing
that I've got my end in sight, you'd do the last thing you can for me
and countenance this wedding.  Perhaps I've no right to ask; but if you
knew--if you knew how hard life can be when the flesh gives way and
there's such a lot left to do and think about.  If you only knew----"

"You say 'the last thing I can do for you.'  Are you sure of that?"

A strange and yearning expression crossed the face of the younger man.
He stroked his beard nervously and Humphrey, now awake to physical
accidents, marked that his hands were grown very thin and his skin had
taken on it a yellowish tinge of colour.

There was silence between them for some moments.  Then Nathan shook his
head and forced a smile upon his face.

"Nothing else--nothing at all.  But it's no small thing that I ask.  I
know that.  You've a right to feel little affection for either of
them--Ned or Cora.  But my case is different.  Cora's mother----"

Again he stopped, but Humphrey did not speak.

"Cora's mother has been a good friend to me in many ways.  She is a
clever woman and can keep her own counsel.  There's more of Priscilla
Lintern in Cora than you might think.  You'll never know how terribly
Cora felt Mark's death; but she did.  Only she hid it close.  As to
Ned----"

He began to cough and suffered evident pain in the process.  When the
cough ceased it was some time before he could speak.  Then, to
Humphrey's discomfort, his brother began to weep.

"There--there," he said, as one talks to a child.  "What I can do, I'll
do.  God knows this is a harsh shock to me.  I didn't dream of such a
thing overtaking you.  How old are you?"

"In my sixty-third year."

"Hope despite 'em.  They don't know everything.  Pray to the Almighty
about it.  You're weak.  You ought to drink, if you can't eat.  I'll
come to the wedding and I'll give the woman a gift--for your sake and
her mother's--not for her own."

Nathan, now unnerved, could not reply.  But he took his brother's hand
and held it.

"God bless you for this," he whispered.  "If you could but understand
me better and believe that with all my black faults I've meant well, I
should die easier, Humphrey."

"Don't talk about dying.  You're a bit low.  I haven't forgotten when
Mark went.  Now 'tis my turn.  Why don't you trust me?"

"You never trusted me, Humphrey."

The other darted a glance and Nathan's eyes fell.

"Never--and you were right not to," he added.

Humphrey rose.

"I'm your brother and your friend.  I can't be different to what I am.
I don't respect you--never did.  But--well--a silly word most times,
but I'll use it--I love you well enough.  Why shouldn't I?  You're my
brother--all I've got left.  I'm cut up about this.  I wish I could
lighten your load, and I'm willing to do it if 'tis in my power."

"You have.  If you come to that wedding I shall die a happy man."

"That's nought.  Ban't there anything deeper I can do--for you yourself
and your peace of mind?"

Again Nathan struggled with his desires.  But pride kept him silent.
He could not tell the truth.

"No," he answered at last.  "Nothing for me myself."

"Or for any other?"

The innkeeper became agitated.

"No, no.  You've done a good day's work.  No more for the present.
I've not thrown up the sponge yet.  Will you take a glass of the old
sloe gin before you go?"

Humphrey shook his head.

"Not for me.  When's the wedding?"

"Third of November."

"I shall be there, and your--Cora Lintern will have a letter from me
next week."

"You make me a happier man than you know, Humphrey."

"Let it rest then.  I'll see you again o' Sunday."

They parted, and while one put on his hat and hastened with tremulous
excitement to Undershaugh, the other breasted the hill homewards, and
buttoned his coat to the wind which sent leaves flying in wild
companies at the spinney edge by Beatland Corner.

The sick man rejoiced upon his way; the hale man went moodily.

"I can do no more," said Humphrey to himself.  "He's a Baskerville,
despite the grip of death on him.  Perhaps I was a fool to tell him I
didn't respect him.  He'll think of it again when he's got time for
thought by night, and 'twill rasp home."

Following upon this incident it seemed for a season that Nathan's
health mended.  His disease delayed a little upon its progress, and he
even hoped in secret that his brother might be right and the physicians
wrong.  He flashed with a spark of his old fire.  He whispered jokes
that woke noisy laughter.  In secret he ticked off the days that
remained before Ned and Cora should be married.

It wanted less than a fortnight to the event, and all was in readiness
for it.  Humphrey Baskerville had sent Cora twenty pounds, and she had
visited him and thanked him personally for his goodness.  The old man
had also seen Ned, and although his nephew heard few compliments and
came from the interview in a very indignant frame of mind, yet it was
felt to be well that Humphrey had thus openly suffered the past to be
obliterated.

Then came a midnight when Priscilla Lintern, lying awake and full of
anxious thoughts, heard upon the silence a sound.  At first she
believed it to be the four feet of some wandering horse as he struck
the ground with his hoofs in leisurely fashion, and slowly passed along
the deserted road; then she perceived that it was the two feet of a man
moving briskly and carrying him swiftly forward.  The feet stopped, the
outer wicket gate was opened, and some one came to the door.
Priscilla's window looked forth from a thatched dormer above, and now
she threw it up and leant out.  She knew by intuition the name of the
man below.

"Is that you, Jim?" she asked.

"Yes'm.  Master's took cruel bad and can't fetch his breath.  He
knocked me up, and I went first for Miss Gollop, who was to home
luckily.  Then I comed for you."

Mrs. Lintern was already putting on her clothes.

"You'd best to go back," she said.  "I'll be up over at once, after
I've waked up my son and sent him riding for doctor."

Fifteen minutes later Heathman, still half asleep, cantered on a pony
through a rainy night for medical help, and his mother hastened up to
'The White Thorn,' and steeled her heart for what she might find there.

She had long learned to conceal all emotion of spirit, and she knew
that under no possible stress of grief or terror would truth have power
to escape the prison of her heart.




CHAPTER XI

The accident of a heavy cold had suddenly aggravated the morbid
condition of Nathan Baskerville's throat, and set all doubt of the
truth at rest.  Often on previous occasions he had anticipated death at
short notice, and prepared to face it; but now he trusted fate not to
deal the final blow before his daughter's marriage.  His only concern
was to be on his feet again swiftly, that none of the plans for the
wedding should be changed.

The doctor warned him that he was very ill, and took the gravest view
of his condition; but Nathan, out of a sanguine heart, declared that he
would make at least a transient recovery.  He obeyed the medical man's
directions very carefully, however; he kept his bed and put himself
into the hands of the parish nurse.

In sombre triumph she came to this important case, and brought with her
certain errors of judgment and idiosyncrasies of character that went
far to counter-balance real ability begot of experience.  She was a
good nurse, but an obstinate and foolish woman.  No more conscientious
creature ruled a sick room or obeyed a doctor's mandate; but she added
to her prescribed duties certain gratuitous moral ministrations which
were not required by science or demanded by reason.

Mrs. Lintern saw Mr. Baskerville often, and sometimes shared the night
watches with Eliza Gollop.  The latter viewed her attentions to Nathan
and her emotion before his suffering with a suspicious eye.  But she
reserved comment until after the end.  The case was not likely to be a
long one in her opinion.  For one week little happened of a definite
character, and during that time Nathan Baskerville saw his relations
and several of his more intimate friends.  Then ensued a malignant
change, and at the dawn of this deterioration, after the doctor had
left him, Miss Gollop sat alone with her patient and endeavoured to
elevate his emotions.

"I've flashed a bit of light on a wandering soul at many a deathbed,"
she declared; "and I hope I shall be spared to do so at many more.
There's not a few men and women that wouldn't hear me in health, but
they listened, meek as worms, when the end was in sight, and they
hadn't strength left to move an eye-lash.  That's the time to drive
truth home, Mr. Baskerville, and I've done it.  But always cheerful,
mind.  I'm not the sort to give up hoping."

"I'm sure not," he whispered.  "Wasn't Christ's first and last message
hope?"

"Don't you talk.  Let me do the talking.  Yes, 'twas hope He brought
into this hopeless world.  But even hope can be trusted too much.  You
must put your hope in the next world now, not in this one, I'm afraid."

"Did he say so?"

"Yes--I knew he would.  Death was in his eyes when he went out of your
chamber.  Still, there's plenty of time.  Things may mend.  He's going
to send a new physic."

"What's the good of that if I've got to go?"

"You'll know presently, my poor man.  'Tis to ease what be bound to
creep over you later on."

"Bodily pain's nought.  Haven't I suffered all that man can suffer?"

"No, you haven't--not yet.  Don't talk about that part.  You shan't
suffer while I'm here--not if I can help it in reason, and under
doctor's orders.  But I won't stray beyond them; I was never known to
take anything upon myself, like some of they hospital chits, that call
themselves nurses, do."

"When is Mrs. Lintern coming?"

Eliza's lips tightened.

"Very soon, without a doubt; though why, I can't ezacally say.  Listen
to me a little afore she's here.  'Tis my duty to say these things to
you, and you're not one that ever stood between man or woman and their
duty."

"I'll not see them married now.  That's cruel hard after----"

"How can you say that?  You may be there in the spirit, if not in the
flesh.  I suppose you ban't one of they godless ones that say ghosts
don't walk?  Haven't I beheld 'em with these eyes?  Didn't I go down to
Mrs. Wonnacott at Shaugh Bridge in the dimpsy of the evening two year
ago; and didn't I see a wishtness coming along out of they claypits
there?  'Tis well known I seed it; and if it weren't the spirit of
Abraham Vosper, as worked there for fifty year and then was run over by
his own team of hosses and fractured to death in five places, whose
spirit was it?  So you may be at your nephew's wedding with the best;
and, for my part, I shall know you be there, and feel none the less
cheerful for it."

"So much to do--so many to save--and no strength and no time--no time,"
he said.

The air was dark and hurtling with awful wings for Nathan Baskerville.
He heard and saw the storm coming.  But others would feel it.  He was
safe from the actual hurricane, but, by anticipation, dreadfully he
endured it now.  Death would be no release save from physical disaster.
His place was with the living, not with the dead.  Cruelly the living
must need him presently; the dead had no need of him.

Miss Gollop supposed that she read her patient's heart.

"'Tis your own soul you must seek to save, Mr. Baskerville.  None can
save our souls but ourselves.  And as for time, thanks to the rivers of
blood Christ shed, there's always time for a dip in 'em.  You're well
thought on.  But that's nought.  'Tis the bird's-eye view the Almighty
takes that will decide.  And our conscience tells us what that view's
like to be.  'Tis a good sign you be shaken about it.  The best sort
generally are.  I've seen an evil liver go to his doom like a babby
dropping asleep off its mother's nipple; and I've seen a pious saint,
such as my own father was, get into a terrible tear at the finish, as
if he seed all the devils in hell hotting up against his coming."

She ministered to the sick man, then sat down and droned on again.  But
he was not listening; his strength had nearly gone, his gaiety had
vanished for ever.  Not a smile was left.  The next world at this
juncture looked inexpressibly vain and futile.  He cared not a straw
about it.  He was only concerned with his present environment and the
significance of passing from it at this juncture.

"Run out--all run out!" he whispered to himself.

Would there be no final parenthesis of strength to deal with the
manifold matters now tumbling to chaos?  Was the end so near?  He
brushed aside lesser things and began to think of the one paramount
obligation.

"Why don't she come?  Why don't she come?" he whispered; but Miss
Gollop did not hear him.

This was a sort of moment when she felt the call of her faith mighty
upon her.  She had often inopportunely striven to drag a dying's man's
mind away from earth to the spectacle of heaven and the immense
difficulty of winning it.

"How many houses have you got, Mr. Baskerville?" she asked abruptly;
and in a mechanical fashion he heard and answered her.

"Six--two here and four at Bickleigh; at least, they can't be called
mine, I'm afraid, they're all----"

"And you'd give the lot for one little corner in a heavenly
mansion--wouldn't you, Mr. Baskerville?"

"No doubt--no doubt," he said.  "Don't talk for a bit.  I'm broken; I'm
terrible anxious; I must see----  Give me something to drink, please."

While she obeyed him Mrs. Lintern came in.  The doctor, who had
perceived her tragic interest in the patient, kept her closely informed
of his condition, and Priscilla had learned within the hour that Nathan
was growing worse.

Now she came, and Mr. Baskerville asked Miss Gollop to leave them.

"I can't think why," murmured Eliza.  "I'm not generally told to go out
except afore relations.  Still, I can take my walk now instead of this
afternoon.  And if the new physic comes, don't you give him none, Mrs.
Lintern, please.  'Tis very powerful and dangerous, and only for
skilled hands to handle."

Neither spoke until the nurse had departed.

"And I shall be gone exactly twenty minutes and no more," she said.
"I've got my reputation, I believe, if some of us haven't; but with
chapel people----"

The exact problem respecting chapel people she left unstated, and in
closing the door behind her made some unnecessary noise.

Then Priscilla folded Nathan in her arms and kissed him.  He held her
hand and shut his eyes while she talked; but presently he roused
himself and indicated that the confession to his children must not in
safety be longer delayed.

"I don't feel particular worse, though I had a bit of a fight for wind
last night; but I am worse, and I may soon be a lot worse.  They'd
better all come to-day--this afternoon."

"They shall," she promised.

"If that was all--my God, if that was all, Priscilla!"

"It is all that matters."

"'Tis the least--the very least of it.  Dark--dark wherever I turn.
Plots miscarried, plans failed, good intentions all gone astray."

She thought that he wandered.

"Don't talk, 'tis bad for you.  If you've got to go, go you must--God
pity me without you!  But you are all right, such a steadfast man as
you.  The poor will call you blessed, and your full tale of well-doing
will never be told."

"Well-meaning, that's all--not well-doing.  A dead man's motives don't
count, 'tis his deeds we rate him by.  He's gone.  He can't explain
what he meant.  Pray for me to live a bit longer, Priscilla.  Beg 'em
for their prayers at the chapel; beg 'em for their prayers at church.
I'm terrible, terrible frighted to go just now, and that's truth.
Frighted for those I leave--for those I leave."

She calmed him and sought to banish his fears.  But he entered upon a
phase of mental excitement, deepening to frenzy.  He was bathed in
sweat and staring fixedly before him when the nurse returned.

After noon the man had regained his nerve and found himself ready for
the ordeal.  A dose of the new drug brought ease and peace.  He was
astonished and sanguine to feel such comfort.  But his voice from the
strain of the morning had almost become extinguished.

When Priscilla and his children came round him and the family were
alone, he bade the woman speak.

"Tell them," he said.  "I'm not feared to do it, since you wish them to
know, but my throat is dumb."

Heathman stood at the bottom of the bed and his mother sat beside it.
Cora and Phyllis were in chairs by the fire.  They looked and saw Mrs.
Lintern clasp her hands over Nathan Baskerville's.  The act inspired
her, and she met the astonished glances of her children.

"For all these years," she said, "you've been kept without hearing the
truth, you three.  You only knew I was a widow, and that Mr.
Baskerville was a widower, and that we were friends always, and that he
never married again because his dead wife didn't want him to.  But
there's more to know.  After Mrs. Baskerville died, Nathan here found
me an orphan girl, working for my living in a china and glass shop at
Bath.  I hadn't a relation or friend in the world, and he got to love
me, and he wanted to marry me.  But I wouldn't have it, because, in
honour to his wife's relations, if he'd married me he'd have had to
give up five thousand pound.  And they would have taken very good care
he did so.  The law was his side, but truth was against it, since his
wife gave him the money only if he didn't wed.  She couldn't enforce
such a thing, but he acted as if she could.  I went to live with him,
and you three children were born.  Then, a bit after, he came back
here, and of course I came with him.  He's your father, but there's no
call for any else to know it but us.  I don't care, and never shall
care if everybody knows it.  A better man won't breathe God's air in
this world than your father, and no woman have been blessed with a
kinder husband in the eye of the Almighty.  But there's you three to
think of, and 'twould be against you if this was known now.  He didn't
even want to tell you; but I was determined that you should know it
afore either of us died.  And now it's pleased God to shorten your dear
father's days; and you've got to hear that he is your father."

There was a silence.

"I ask them to forgive me," whispered Nathan Baskerville.  "I ask my
son and my daughters to forgive me for what I've done."

"No need for that," answered Priscilla.  "Lie down and be easy, and
don't get excited."

He had sat up and was holding his beard, and stroking it nervously.

Mrs. Lintern shook his pillow and took his hand again.  Then she looked
at her son, who stood with his mouth open, staring at the sick man.
His expression indicated no dismay, but immense astonishment.

"Well, I'm damned!" he said.  "This beats cock-fighting!  You my
father!  And now you'm going to drop out--just when I might have been
some use to you.  There! what a 'mazing thing, to be sure."

"Call him by his right name then--for my sake, Heathman," urged his
mother.

"Why--good God!--I will for his own," answered the man.  "I don't care
a curse about such things as laws and all the rest of it.  He's been a
rare good sort all his life; and no man could have a better father,
whichever side the blanket he was got.  I'll call him father, and
welcome, and I wish to Christ he wasn't going to die."

Heathman came and took Nathan's hand, and his mother broke down at his
words, buried her face in the counterpane and wept.

"Tell them to come over," whispered Mr. Baskerville to his son.  "And
thank you, and God bless you, son.  You've done more than you know to
lighten a cruel load."

"Come here, you two, and kiss your father," said Heathman.

The girls came, and first Phyllis kissed Nathan nervously, and then the
touch that he hungered for rested a moment on his cheek.  With Cora's
kiss the tension subsided; he sank back, and Priscilla drew the sheet
up to his beard, and again lifted the pillow.

"Now I shall go in some sort of peace, though an erring and a sinful
man," he murmured.  "If you can forgive me, so will my Saviour.  And
let this secret be a secret for ever.  Remember that, all of you.  'Tis
beyond human power to make you legitimate Baskervilles; but
Baskervilles you are, and, please God, will lead a better and wiser
life than I have led.  No need to tell anybody the truth.  Forgive your
father, and forget him so soon as ever you can; but worship your mother
always--to your dying day worship her; protect her and shield her, and
stand between her and the rough wind, and be proud of having such a
blessed brave woman for a mother."

"You needn't tell me that," said Heathman.

The other stopped, but held up his hand for silence.  After a little
rest he proceeded.

"The time's coming when she will need all the love and wit you've got
among you.  'Tis no good talking much about that, and I haven't the
human courage left to meet your hard faces, or tears, or frowns.  All I
say is, forgive me, and love your mother through thick and thin.  All
the blame is mine--none of it belongs to her."

He held his hand out to Cora.  She was sitting on the edge of the bed
looking out of the window.

"You'll remember, my Cora," he said.  "And--and let me hear you call me
'father' just once--if you can bring yourself to do it."

"The money, dear father?" she asked.

He smiled, and it was the last time that he ever did so.

"Like my sensible Cora," he answered.  But he did not continue the
subject.

"You'd best all to go now," declared Priscilla.  She rose and looked
straight into the eyes of her children each in turn.  The girls
flinched; the son went to her and kissed her.

"Don't you think this will make any difference to me," said Heathman.
"You're a damned sight too good a mother for me, whether or no--or for
them women either; and this man here--our father, I should say--needn't
worrit about you, for I'll always put you afore anything else in the
world."

"And so will I, mother," said Phyllis.

"Of course, we all will," added Cora; "and the great thing must be for
us all to keep as dumb as newts about it.  'Twould never do for it to
come out--for mother's sake more than ours, even.  I don't say it for
our sakes, but for mother's sake, and for father's good name, too."

"Such wisdom--such wisdom!" said Nathan.  "You've all treated me better
than I deserved--far better.  And God will reward you for such high
forgiveness to a wicked wretch.  I'll see you all again once before I
die.  Promise that.  Promise you'll come again, Cora."

"I will come again," she said; "and please, father, make mother promise
on her oath to be quiet and sensible and not run no risks.  If it got
out now--you never know.  We're above such small things, but many
people would cold shoulder us if they heard of it.  You know what
people are."

Her mother looked at her without love.  The girl was excited; she began
to appreciate the significance of what she had heard; her eyes were wet
and her voice shook.

"I'll be 'quiet and sensible,' Cora Lintern," said the mother.  "I've
been 'quiet and sensible' for a good many years, I believe, and I
shan't begin to be noisy and foolish now.  You're quite safe.  Better
you all go away now and leave us for the present."

They departed silently, and, once below, the girls crept off together,
like guilty things, to their home, while Lintern dallied in the bar
below and drank.  He was perfectly indifferent to the serious side of
his discovery, and, save for his mother's sake, would have liked to
tell the men in the bar all about it.  He regarded it rather as a
matter of congratulation than not.  No spark of mercenary feeling
touched his emotion.  That he was a rich man's son had not yet occurred
to him; but that he was a good man's son and a popular man's son
pleased him.

Mrs. Lintern suffered no detraction in his eyes.  He felt wonder when
he considered her power of hiding this secret for so many years, and he
experienced honest sorrow for her that the long clandestine union was
now to end.  The day's event, indeed, merely added fuel to the flame of
his affection for her.

But it was otherwise with the sisters.  Phyllis usually took on the
colour of Cora's thought, and now the elder, with no little
perspicacity, examined the situation from every point of view.

"The only really bright side it's got is that there'll be plenty of
money, I suppose.  I'd give a sovereign, Phyllis, to see the will.
Father--how funny it sounds to say it--poor father was always terrible
fond of me, and I've often wondered why for.  Now, of course, 'tis easy
to explain."

"What about the wedding?" asked Phyllis.  "'Twill have to be cruel
quiet now, I suppose."

"Certainly not," answered her sister.  "'Twill have to be put off,
that's all.  I won't have a scrubbly little wedding smothered up in
half mourning, or some such thing; but, come to think of it, we shan't
figure among the mourners in any case--though we shall be among them
really.  'Twill be terrible difficult to help giving ourselves away
over this.  I think the best thing would be for mother to take the
money and clear out, and go and live somewhere else--the further off
the better.  For that matter, when the will's read, everybody will
guess how it is."

"Heathman might go on with the public-house."

"Yes, he might.  But I hope he'll do no such thing," answered her
sister.  "He's always the thorn in my side, and always will be.  Don't
know the meaning of the word 'decency.'  However, he's not like to
trouble us much when we're married.  I shan't be sorry to change my
name now, Phyllis.  And the sooner you cease to be called Lintern, too,
the better."

"About mother?"

"I shouldn't presume to say a word about mother, one way or the other,"
answered Cora.  "I'm not a fool, and I'm not going to trouble myself
about the things that other people do; but all the same, I shall be
glad to get out of it and start with a clean slate among a different
class of people."

"What amazing cleverness to hide it all their lives like that,"
speculated Phyllis.  "I'm sure us never would have been so clever as to
do it."

"It became a habit, no doubt.  'Twas salt to their lives, I reckon, and
made 'em all the fonder of each other," declared Cora.  "Everyday
married life must have looked terrible tame to them--doing what they
did.  Their time was one long love-making in secret."

"I'm awful sorry for mother now, though," continued Phyllis; "because
when he dies she can't put on weeds and go and hear the funeral sermon,
and do all the things a proper widow does do."

"No," admitted her sister; "that she certainly can't.  She'll have to
hide the truth pretty close from this day forward, that's very clear.
She owes that to me--and to you; and I shall see she pays her debt."

"She will, of course," replied the other.  "She's a terrible brave
woman, and always has been.  She'll hide it up close enough--so close
as we shall, for that matter.  Heathman's the only one who's like to
let it out.  You know what a careless creature he is."

Cora frowned.

"I do," she said.  "And I know there's no love lost between him and me.
A coarse man, he is, and don't care what gutter he chooses his friends
out of.  Take one thing with another, it might be so well to marry Ned
at the appointed time, and get it hard and fast."

So they talked, and misprized Heathman from the frosty standpoint of
their own hearts.  Rather than bring one shadow on his mother's fame,
the brother of these girls would have bitten out his tongue and
swallowed it.




CHAPTER XII

Nathan Baskerville's bedroom faced the south.  A text was nailed upon
the wall over his head, and an old photograph of his father stood upon
the mantelpiece.  To right and left of this memorial appeared trinkets
made of shells.  A pair of old carriage lamps, precious from
association, decorated either end of the mantelshelf.  An old print of
Niagara Falls, that his mother had valued, was nailed above it.

A white curtain covered the window, but there was no blind, for this
man always welcomed daylight.  On the window-ledge there languished a
cactus in a pot.  It was a gift under the will of an old dead woman who
had tended it and cherished it for twenty years.  One easy chair stood
beside the bed, and on a table at hand were food and medicine.

Many came to see the dying man, and Humphrey Baskerville visited him
twice or thrice in every week.

More than once Nathan had desired to speak of private matters to his
brother, but now he lacked the courage, and soon all inclination to
discuss mundane affairs departed from him.

There followed a feverish week, in which Nathan only desired to listen
to religious conversation.  Recorded promises of hope for the sinner
were his penultimate interest on earth.  He made use of a strange
expression very often, and desired again and again to hear the Bible
narrative that embraced it.

"'This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise,'" he said to Humphrey and
to many others.  "I cling to that.  It was spoken to a thief and a
failure."

All strove to comfort him, but a great mental incubus haunted his
declining hours.  His old sanguine character seemed entirely to have
perished; and its place was taken by spirits of darkness and of terror.

"'The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,'" he said to Eliza
Gollop, when she was alone with him.  "If I'd marked that better, I
might now have got beyond that stage and learned to love Him.  But I'm
in fear--my life hasn't took me further than that--all's fearful still."

"No need in your case, I hope, so far as mortal man can say," she
answered.  "'Tis natural to be uneasy when the journey's end falls in
sight; and we all ought to be.  But then comes Christ and casts out
fear.  You've a right, so far as man can say, to trust Him and fear
nought."

"But man doesn't know.  Yet He forgave the dying thief."

"He did so, though us have no right to say whether 'twas a bit of rare
kindness in Him, or whether he made a practice of it.  But for my part
I steadfastly believe that He do forgive everything but the sin against
the Holy Ghost.  Of course, that's beyond His power, and would never
do."

Mrs. Lintern spent much time at 'The White Thorn,' and since her visits
relieved Eliza of work, she acquiesced in them, while reserving the
right of private judgment.  Priscilla and her children all saw the
sufferer together more than once; and then came a day when Heathman,
Cora, and Phyllis took their leave of him.

The young man then secreted his emotion and roamed for an hour alone
upon the Moor; the girls felt it but little.

Cora declared afterwards to Phyllis that since this great confession
had been made, her mind dimly remembered her tender youth and a man in
it.  This man she had regarded as her father.

All the children were deceived at an early age.  They had, indeed, been
led implicitly to suppose that their father died soon after the birth
of Phyllis.

One last conversation with his brother, Humphrey long remembered.  It
was the final occasion on which Nathan seemed acutely conscious, and
his uneasiness of mind clearly appeared.

They were alone, and the elder perceived that Nathan desired and yet
feared to make some statement of a personal character.  That he might
ease the other's mind and open the way to any special conversation he
desired, Mr. Baskerville uttered certain general speeches concerning
their past, their parents, and the different characteristics of
temperament that had belonged to Vivian and themselves.

"We were all as opposite as men can be, and looked at life opposite,
and set ourselves to win opposite good from it.  Who shall say which
comes out best?  On the whole, perhaps Vivian did.  He died without a
doubt.  There are some men bound to be pretty happy through native
stupidity and the lack of power to feel; and there are some men--mighty
few--rise as high as happiness, and glimpse content by the riches of
their native wisdom.  I've found the real fools and the real wise men
both seem to be happy.  A small brain keeps a man cheerful as a bird,
and a big one leads to what's higher than cheerfulness; but 'tis the
middle bulk of us be so often miserable.  We'm too witty to feed on the
fool's pap of ignorance; and not witty enough to know the top of
wisdom.  I speak for myself in that; but you've been a happy, hopeful
man all your days; so belike, after all, you're wiser than I granted
you to be."

"Me wise!  My God!  Don't you say that.  My happiness was a fool's
happiness; my laughter a fool's laughter all the time.  At least--not
all the time; but at first.  We do the mad things at the mad age, and
after, when the bill comes in--to find us grown up and in our right
minds--we curse Nature for not giving us the brains first and the
powers afterwards.  Man's days be a cruel knife in the hand of a child.
Too often the heedless wretch cuts hisself afore he's learned how to
handle it, and carries the scar for ever."

"True for you.  Nature's a terrible poor master, as I've always said,
and always shall.  We know it; but who stands up between a young man
and his youth to protect him therefrom?  We old blids see 'em thinking
the same vain things, and doing the same vain things, and burning their
fingers and scorching their hearts at the same vain fires; and we look
on and grin, like the idiots we are, and make no effort to help 'em.
Not you, though--not you.  You was always the young man's friend.  You
never was a young man yourself exactly.  An old head on young shoulders
you always carried; and so did I."

"Don't think it--not of me.  'Tisn't so.  No man was madder than me;
none was crueller; none committed worse sins for others' backs to bear.
The best that any man will be able to say of me a month after I'm in my
grave is that I meant well.  And maybe not many will even say that.
Death's no evil to me, Humphrey, but dying now is a very cruel evil, I
assure you.  The cloud lies behind, not in front."

"So it does with every man struck down in the midst of his work.  Shall
you write your own verse according to our old custom?"

The other shook his head.

"No.  I'll stick up no pious thought for men to spit upon when they
pass my grave.  I'd rather that no stone marked it.  'Twill be
remembered--in one heart--and that's more than ever I'll deserve."

"Don't be downcast.  Leave afterwards to me.  I think better of you for
hearing you talk like this.  You tried to brace me against the death of
my son; now I'll brace you against your own death.  You don't fear the
thing, and that's to the good.  But, like all busy men, it finds you
with a lot of threads tangled, I suppose.  That's the fate of every one
who tries to do other people's work besides his own, and takes off the
shoulders of others what properly belongs there.  They'll have to look
to their own affairs all round when you go."

Nathan's answer was a groan, and with the return of the nurse, Humphrey
went away.

From that hour the final phases of the illness began; suffering dimmed
the patient's mind, and turned his thoughts away from everything but
his own physical struggle between the intervals of sleep.  His torments
increased; his consciousness, flinging over all else, was reduced to
its last earthly interest.  He kept his eyes and his attention
ceaselessly fixed upon one thing so long as his mind continued under
his control.

Not grief at the past; not concern at the future; not the face of
Priscilla, and not the touch of her hand absorbed his intelligence now;
but the sight of a small bottle that held the anodyne to his misery.
That he steadfastly regarded, and pointed impatiently to the clock upon
the mantelpiece when the blessed hour of administration struck.

The medicine was guarded jealously by Eliza Gollop, and once, when
frenzied at the man's sufferings, Priscilla had sought to administer a
dose, the other woman came between and sharply rebuked her.

"It's death!" she whispered under her voice.  "D'you want to murder
him?  He's taking just what the doctor allows--the utmost limit."

After three days of unutterable grief, Nathan's brother became aware of
the situation, and perceived that the end tarried.  He debated on this
long-drawn horror for a night, and next day spoke to the doctor.

He put the case without evasion or obscurity, and the professional man
heard him in patience and explained at once his deep sympathy and his
utter powerlessness to do more.

"He's dying--you grant that?"

"Certainly, he's dying--the quicker the better now, poor fellow.  The
glands are involved, and the end must come tolerably soon."

"How long?"

"Impossible to say.  A few days probably.  He keeps his strength
wonderfully well."

"But it would be better if he didn't?  Wouldn't it be better if he died
to-night?"

"Much--for all our sakes," admitted the physician.

"Can't you help him out of it, then?"

"Impossible."

"Why?  You'd do as much for a horse or dog."

"My business is to prolong life, not hasten death.  The profession
recognises no interference of that sort."

"Who knows anything about it?  A dying man dies, and there's an end."

"I cannot listen to you, Mr. Baskerville.  We must think of the
greatest good and the greatest safety to the greatest number.  The law
is very definite in this matter, and I have my profession to consider.
You look at an individual case; the law looks at the larger question of
what is convenient for a State.  Your brother is having medicinal doses
of morphia as often as it is possible to give them to him without
danger to life."

"In fact, Nature must kill him her own hard way."

"Much is being done to lessen his pain."

"But a double dose of your physic would----"

"End his life."

"How?"

"He would become unconscious and in three, or possibly four, hours he
would die."

"You'd call that murder?"

"That is the only name for it as the law stands."

"You won't do that?"

"No, Mr. Baskerville.  I wish I could help him.  But, in a word, I have
no power to do so."

"Is it because you think 'twould be a wrong thing, or because you know
'tis unlawful?" asked the elder.  "You might say 'twas impertinent to
ask it, as it touches religion; but I'm ignorant and old, and want to
know how it looks to the conscience of a learned man like you--you,
that have been educated in all manner of deep subjects and the secrets
of life."

The doctor reflected.  He was experienced and efficient; but like many
other professional men, he had refused his reason any entrance into the
arcanum of his religious opinions.  These were of the customary
nebulous character, based on tradition, on convention, on the necessity
for pleasing all in a general practice, on the murmur of a mother's
voice in his childhood.

"I am a Christian," he said.  "And I think it wrong to lessen by one
moment the appointed life of any man."

"But not wrong to lengthen it?"

"That we cannot do."

"Then surely you cannot shorten it, either?  Tell me this, sir: why
would you poison a dog that's dying, so that its misery may be ended?"

"I will not argue about it.  The cases are not parallel.  Common
humanity would, of course, put a period to the agony of any unconscious
beast."

"But wouldn't free an immortal soul from its perishing dirt?"

"No.  I am diminishing his pain enormously.  I can do no more.
Remember, Mr. Baskerville, that our Lord and Master healed the sick and
restored the dead to life.  He never shortened any man's days; He
prolonged them."

"I'm answered," replied the elder.  "Your conscience is--where it
should be: on the side of the law.  I'm answered; but I'm not
convinced."

They parted, and Humphrey found the other's argument not strong enough
to satisfy him.  He wrestled with the problem for some time and ere
long his impression grew into a conviction, his conviction ripened to a
resolve.

In the afternoon of that day he returned to 'The White Thorn' and found
Mrs. Lintern with his brother.

Eliza had gone out for a while.  Nathan appeared to be half
unconscious, but his mind clearly pursued some private train of thought.

Priscilla rose from her chair beside the bed and shook hands with
Humphrey.  Nathan spoke, but not to them.

"A mighty man of valour.  His burning words melted the wax in a man's
ears, I warn you....  Melted the wax in a man's ears....  Melted the
wax....  Oh, Christ, help me!  Isn't it time for the medicine yet?"

He stared at the bottle.  It was placed on a bracket in his sight.

"What did the doctor say to-day?" asked Humphrey.

"Said it was wonderful--the strength.  There's nothing to stop him
living three or four days yet."

"D'you want him to?"

"My God, no!  I'd--I'd do all a woman could do to end it."

Humphrey regarded her searchingly.

"Will he come to his consciousness again?"

"I asked the doctor the same question.  He said he might, but it was
doubtful."

The sick man groaned.  Agony had long stamped its impress on his face.

"When is he to have the medicine?"

"When Miss Gollop comes back," she said.  "There's an hour yet.  The
Lord knows what an hour is to me, watching.  What must it be to him?"

"Why, it may be a lifetime to him--a whole lifetime of torment yet
before he's gone," admitted Humphrey.

"I pray to God day and night to take him.  If I could only bear it for
him!"

Mr. Baskerville knelt beside his brother, spoke loudly, squeezed the
sufferer's hand and tried to rouse him.

"My physic, Eliza, for your humanity, Eliza--the clock's struck--I
heard it--I swear--oh, my merciful Maker, why can't I have it?"

He writhed in slow suffocation.

"I'll give him his medicine," said Humphrey.  "This shan't go on."

"She'll make trouble if you do."

"I hope not, and it's no great matter if she does."

He crossed the room, examined the bottle, took it to the light and
poured out rather more than a double dose.  He crossed the room with
it, heaved a long breath, steadied himself and then put his arm round
his brother and lifted him.

"Here you are, Nat.  You'll sleep awhile after this.  'Twill soon ease
you."

Nathan Baskerville seized the glass like one perishing of thirst, and
drank eagerly.

He continued to talk a little afterwards, but was swiftly easier.
Presently the drug silenced him and he lay still.

Humphrey looked at his watch.

"I can tell you," he said.  "Because you'll understand.  His troubles
are ended for ever now.  He won't have another pang.  I've taken it
upon myself.  You're a wise and patient woman.  You've got other
secrets.  Better keep this with the rest."

He was excited.  His forehead grew wet and he mopped it with the sheet
of the bed.

Priscilla did not reply; but she went on her knees beside Nathan and
listened.

"At six o'clock, or maybe a bit earlier, he'll stop.  Till then he'll
sleep in peace.  When does Eliza Gollop come back?"

"After four."

"I'll wait then."

"You're a brave man.  'Tisn't many would do so much as that, even for a
brother."

"Do as you would be done by covers it.  'Tis a disgrace to the living
that dying men should suffer worse terror and pain than dying beasts.
Terror they must, perhaps, since they can think; but pain--no need for
that."

"I'll bless you for this to my own last day," she said.  She rose then
and fetched a chair.  She held Nathan's hand.  He was insensible and
breathing faintly but easily.

Suddenly Mrs. Lintern got up and hastened across the room to the
medicine bottle.

"We must think of that," she said.

"Leave it.  He's had enough."

"He's had too much," she answered.  "There's the danger.  When that
woman comes back she'll know to half a drop what's gone.  She guessed
the wish in me to do this very thing two days ago.  She read it in my
eyes, I believe.  And God knows the will was in my heart; but I hadn't
the courage."

"Let her find out."

"No--not her.  Some--perhaps many--wouldn't matter; but not her."

Priscilla took the bottle, lifted it and let it fall upon the floor.
It broke, and the medicine was spilled.

"There," she said.  "That will answer the purpose.  You had given him
his dose and, putting the bottle back, it broke.  I'll send Heathman
off quick to Yelverton for another bottle, so it shall be here before
the next dose is due.  Then you won't be suspected."

He listened, and perceived how easily came the devious thought to her
swift mind.  It did not astonish him that she was skilled in the art to
deceive.

"I've taken the chances--all of them," he said.  "I've thought long
about this.  I needn't have told you to keep the secret, for it can't
be kept.  And I don't want it to be kept really.  You can't hide it
from the nurse.  She'll know by the peace of poor Nat here how it is."

Priscilla looked again.  Profound calm brooded over the busy man of
Shaugh Prior.  He was sinking out of life without one tremor.

"There's an awful side to it," the woman murmured.

"There was," he said.  "The awfulness was to see Nature strangling him
by inches.  There's nought awful now, but the awfulness of all death.
'Tis meant to be an awful thing to the living--not to the dying."

For half an hour they sat silent.  Then Priscilla lifted the clothes
and put her hand to Nathan's feet.

"He's cold," she said.

"Cold or heat are all one to him now."

A little later Eliza Gollop returned.  She came at the exact hour for
administration of the medicine, and she sought the bottle before she
took off her bonnet and cloak.

"Where--why----?" she cried out.

"I gave him his physic a bit ago," said Mr. Baskerville.  "The bottle
is broke."

The nurse hurried to her patient and examined him closely.  She
perceived the change.

"He's dying!" she said.

"So he was when you went away."

She broke off and panted into anger.

"You've--you've--this is murder--I won't stop in the house.  I--oh, you
wicked woman!"

She turned upon Mrs. Lintern and poured out a torrent of invective.

Then Humphrey took her by the shoulders and put her out of the room.

"You can go," he said.  "You'll not be wanted any more."

She hastened from the inn and then went off to the vicarage as fast as
her legs would carry her.

Another half-hour passed and none came to them.  From time to time
Priscilla put her ear to Nathan's face.

"I don't think he's breathing any more," she said.

Then came a noise and a grumbling of men's voices below.  A violent
strife of words clashed in the bar.  The day had waned and it was
growing dark.

"They'll be against you, I'm fearing," said Priscilla.

"'Tis of no account.  They always are."

Presently Dennis Masterman entered the room.

"I hear poor Baskerville is going and they can't find his minister.
Can I be of any comfort to him?"

He made no allusion to the things that he had heard, and Humphrey did
not immediately answer him.  He was leaning over his brother.  Then he
took out his watch, opened it, and put the polished inner case to
Nathan's lips.

"Light a candle and bring it here," he said to Priscilla.

She obeyed, and he examined the polished metal.

"No stain--he's dead, I suppose."

Then Mr. Baskerville turned to the clergyman.

"If you can pray, I'll be glad for you to do it."

Dennis immediately knelt down; the old man also went slowly on his
knees and the weeping woman did the same.

"O Almighty God, Who has been pleased to take our brother from his
sufferings and liberate an immortal soul from mortal clay, be Thou
beside him now, that he may pass over the dark river with his hand in
his Saviour's, and enter as a good and faithful servant into the joy of
his Lord.  And support the sorrows of those who--who cared for him on
earth, and help them and all men to profit by the lesson of his charity
and lovingkindness and ready ear for the trouble of his
fellow-creatures.  Let us walk in the way that he walked, and pass in
peace at the end as he has passed.  And this we beg for the sake of our
Mediator and Comforter, our Blessed Lord and Redeemer, Thy Son, Jesus
Christ."

"Amen," said Mr. Baskerville, "and thank you."

He rose, cast one glance at the grief-stricken woman by the bed, then
looked upon his brother and then prepared to depart.

But he returned for a moment.

"Will you do the rest?" he asked of Mrs. Lintern.  "Or shall I tell 'em
to send?"

"No, I daren't.  Tell him to send.  I must go home," she answered.

A loud noise persisted in the bar, but he did not enter it.  He took
his hat and an old umbrella from the corner of the sick-room, then
descended and went out into the night.




CHAPTER XIII

The doctor who attended Nathan Baskerville in his last illness heard
from Eliza Gollop what had been done, and he took a serious view of it.
From the standpoint of his opinions Humphrey Baskerville had struck a
blow at society and the established order.

The physician was sober-minded and earnest.  He communicated with the
coroner of the district, stated the case impartially and left the
official to act as seemed proper to him.  But the coroner was also a
medical man, and he reduced the problem to its simplest possible
dimensions.

Death had been hastened by an uncertain measure of time for one who was
enduring extreme agony.  He judged the case on its own merits, after a
rare judicial faculty peculiar to himself.  He made no effort to
consider its general bearing and tendency; he did not enlarge his
survey to the principles involved.  His sympathy was entirely on the
side of Humphrey Baskerville; he applauded the old man in his heart and
declared no inquest necessary.  None was therefore held.

Those interested in Nathan's end took opposite views, and as for
Humphrey himself, he was hidden for a time from the people and did not
appear again in public until his brother's funeral.  He failed,
therefore, to learn the public opinion.

Jack Head and those who thought as he did, upheld the action; but not a
few shared the faith of Thomas Gollop, openly expressed at the bar of
'The White Thorn' while still the dead master lay above.

For two days Nathan kept a sort of humble state, and the folk from far
and near enjoyed the spectacle of his corpse.  Many tramped ten miles
to see him.

The humblest people appeared; the most unexpected persons acknowledged
debts of unrecorded kindness.  He lay in his coffin with a face placid
and small behind the bush of his silver beard.  Women wept at the sight
and took a morbid joy in touching his folded hands.

Then he was hidden for ever and carried with difficulty down the narrow
and winding stair of the inn.

Thomas Gollop dug the grave and Joe Voysey helped him.  No younger men
assisted them.  They felt a sort of sentiment in the matter.

"'Tis the last pit I shall open, Joe," said Mr. Gollop; "and for my
part, if I had my way, I shouldn't make it very deep.  In these cases
the law, though slow, is sure, and it may come about that he'll have to
be digged up again inside a month to prove murder against that dark,
awful man to Hawk House."

"'Tis the point of view.  I don't look at it quite the same.  For my
part, in my business, I see a lot of death--not men but plants.  And
when a bush or what not be going home, I don't stand in the way.  'No
good tinkering,' I often says to Miss Masterman, for the silly woman
seems to think a gardener can stand between a plant and death.  'The
herb be going home,' I says, 'and us can't stay the appointed time.'
'But I don't want it to go home--it mustn't go home,' she'll answer
me--like a silly child talking.  However, when her back be turned, I do
my duty.  The bonfire's the place.  Jack Head looked over the
kitchen-garden wall a bit agone and seed me firing up; and he said,
'Ah, Joe, your bonfire's like charity: it covers a multitude of sins!'
A biting tongue that man hath!"

Joe chuckled at the recollection, but Gollop was not amused.

"A plant and a man are very different," he answered.  "Scripture tells
us that the fire is the place for the withered branch, but where
there's a soul working out its salvation in fear and trembling, who be
we worms to stand up and say 'go'?"

"It might be the Lord put it in Mr. Baskerville's heart," argued Voysey.

"The Lord ban't in the habit of putting murder in people's hearts, I
believe."

"You didn't ought to use the word.  He might have you up if he come to
hear it."

"I wish he would; I only wish he would," declared Thomas.  "Fearless
you'd find me, with Eliza's evidence behind me, I can promise you.  But
not him: he knows too well for that."

They stood and rested where Nathan's grave began to yawn beside that of
his brother.  White marble shone out above Vivian, and not only his
farewell verse, but also a palestric trophy representing the old
wrestler's championship belt, was carved there.

"'Twill make history in more ways than one--this death will," foretold
Thomas.

"What do you think?  Parson's going to help with the funeral!"

"Why not?"

"'Why not?'  You ask that!  Nat was a Dissenter and his dissenting
minister be going to bury him; but Masterman says, seeing how highly
thought upon he was by all parties, that it becomes all parties to be
at his grave.  And he's going to be there; and if the bishop comed to
learn of it, there'd be a flare-up that might shake England in my
opinion."

"If his reverence says he'll be there, there he'll be."

"I don't doubt that.  My belief is that all's well knowed at
headquarters, and they're giving the man rope enough to hang hisself
with.  This may be the last straw."

Comforted by the reflection, Thomas resumed his labours.

"He'll lie cheek by jowl with his brother," he said.  "Go easy in that
corner, Joe; us'll be getting to the shoulder of Vivian's bricks afore
long."


The circumstance of Nathan's passing had been received with very real
grief by most of his relations.  Even distant kindred mourned and not a
few of the race, who were strangers to the Baskervilles of Shaugh
Prior, appeared at the funeral.  Mrs. Baskerville of Cadworthy felt
helpless and faced almost with a second widowhood, for all her
financial affairs had rested in Nathan's willing hand since her husband
died.  Her daughters also mourned in very genuine fashion.  Their uncle
had been kind, helpful, and generous to them.  Only Mr. Bassett did not
greatly suffer, for now he knew that his wife must inherit her own and
hoped, indeed, for some addition under the will of the departed
innkeeper.

As for Rupert Baskerville, he endured very real grief; but Ned was too
concerned with the bearing of this event on his own affairs to feel it
deeply.  He would now be free to administer his capital as he pleased.
Only his mother stood between.  One black cloud, however, thrust itself
upon his immediate future.  His wedding was postponed.  Cora insisted
upon it, and her mother supported her.  Their motives were widely
different, but they arrived at the same conclusion.

Priscilla hid her grief from all eyes but her son's; while he, less
skilled, surprised the folk by his evident sorrow.  They failed to
understand it, and acute people laughed, judged it to be simulation,
and despised the man for his display.  Cora and Phyllis neither
pretended nor felt grief.  The elder had talked her sister round, and
they arrived at a perfectly rational conclusion.  It was averse from
their father.  It led them to regard him as a selfish and a cruel man.
They considered also that he had deceived himself, and wickedly wronged
the unborn that he might perform a far-fetched obligation to the dead.

Cora put the case very clearly.

"Mother won't see it, and 'tis vain to try to make her; and Heathman
won't see it, because he's a fool, and only just misses being weak in
his head.  But I see it clear enough, and the ugly truth of the man is
that for five thousand pounds he was content to let his children come
into the world bastards.  That's what he did, and I'm not going to
pretend I care for him or shall ever respect his memory."

"It'll never come out, however," said Phyllis.

"I'm sure I hope it won't--not out of my mouth, anyway.  But still it
is so, and all the money he may have left behind him won't make me feel
different."

"We shall be rich, I hope, anyway," speculated Phyllis.

"I suppose we shall; and that's the only bright thing about it."

"'Twill be funny not walking first behind the coffin, and not sitting
in the mourners' pew after for the Sunday sermon; and we knowing all
the time that's where we ought to be," said the younger; but Cora
exploded the theory.

"Not at all.  We've no right there--not the right of the most distant
cousin twenty times removed.  Mother was his mistress, and she daren't
use the word 'husband' even to us, though I've seen her mouth itching
to do it.  'Tis always 'your dear father.'  She can't put on a widow's
streamers, though it's in her heart to.  She'll have to balance her
black pretty cautious, I can tell you, if she don't want the people to
be staring."

"Surely it must all come out if he leaves his money to us."

"He'll do it clever," said Cora bitterly.  "With all his faults he was
clever enough.  He didn't hide this--so clever as a lapwing hides her
nest--for near thirty years, to let it come out the minute he was dead."

"If I was engaged to be married, like what you are, I shouldn't be so
nervous," said Phyllis.

"As to that, 'twas as well for me that it fell out now and not later.
It may mean a bigger establishment after all; and even a bigger
wedding, if I put it off till spring."

"My word, what'll Ned say?"

But Ned's view did not enter as a serious factor into Cora's.

"He's all right," she answered.  "If I'm content, so's he."


Storm heralded the funeral day, and dawn blinked red-eyed from much
weeping.  It was hoped that further torrents might hold off until after
the ceremony, and happily they did so, though intermittent rain fell
and the wind stormed roughly out of a sad-coloured south.

"'Blessed be the carpse that the rain rains on,'" said Joe Voysey in
muffled accents to Jack Head.

They were walking under the coffin, and bore it, with the assistance of
six other men, to the grave.

"Ban't so blessed for them that's alive, however," answered Jack.  "The
mourners will be lashed out of their skins by the look of it.  Death's
never so busy as at a funeral."

A purple pall spread over the coffin, and while humble men carried the
weight of Nathan Baskerville's dust, others of greater repute stood at
the corners of the coverlet.  They included Mr. Luscombe of
Trowlesworthy, Timothy Waite of Coldstone Farm, Heathman Lintern as
representing Undershaugh, one Mr. Popham from Cornwood, Nathan's
lawyer, and others.

Humphrey Baskerville walked beside the coffin as chief mourner, and
Hester Baskerville, on her son Ned's arm, followed him with the rest of
the family, save Nathan's namesake, who was at sea.  Other relations
came after them, with Nicholas Bassett, Polly's husband, and Milly, the
wife of Rupert.  Cora and her mother and her sister were next in the
long procession, and half a dozen private carriages stood together
beneath the churchyard wall to support a convention and indicate the
respect that their owners entertained towards the dead.

Flowers covered the pall and stood piled beside the grave.  Crosses,
wreaths, and various trophies were here, together with many little
humble bunches from cottage gardens, and not a few mere gleanings from
the hedgerow of scarlet and crimson berries, or the last autumnal
splendour of beech and briar.  The air was heavy with emotion, and many
wept.  A congregational minister conducted the service, and the vicar
helped him.  After the body had sunk to earth and the rite was nearly
accomplished, the chief mourners took their last look upon the lid,
according to custom.  Leaves whirled in the air, and the branches
overhead made a mighty sigh and swough in the brief silence.  Underfoot
was trampled mire and reeking grass.  A pushing child slipped in the
clay at the grave-mouth, and nearly fell in.  She was dragged back by
Thomas Gollop and despatched weeping to the rear.

Humphrey Baskerville came almost the last to look into the grave, and
as others had fallen away from it when he did so, he assumed a
momentary prominence.  His small, bent, and sombre shape appeared alone
at the edge of the cleft-in earth, with flowers piled about his knees.
Then suddenly, ominously, cutting its way through the full diapason of
the storm-sounds on trees and tower, there crept a different utterance.
The wind shouted deep and loud; but this noise was thin and harsh--a
hissing, a sharp, shrill sibilation that gained volume presently and
spread epidemic into the crowded ranks of the collected men.  They were
mostly the young who permitted themselves this attack, but not a few of
their elders joined with them.  The sounds deepened; a groan or two
threaded the hisses.  Then Baskerville, from his abstraction, awakened
to the terrific fact that here, beside his brother's grave, in the eyes
of all men, a demonstration had broken out against him.  Hands were
pointed, even fists were shaken.

He could not immediately understand; he looked helplessly into certain
angry faces, and then shrank back from the grave to where his relations
stood.

"What's the meaning of this?" he asked Ned; but the young man turned
and pretended not to hear him.  Then the truth came hurtling like a
missile.  Voices shouted at him the words 'murderer' and
'brother-killer.'

The fire that lights a mob into one blaze was afoot, and leaping from
heart to head.  Many for a jest bellowed these insults at him, and
thought it good for once to bate so unpopular a creature.  A few in
honest and righteous rage cried out their wrath.  Of such were those
who stoned the martyrs to serve their jealous gods.  More stones than
one now actually did fly, and Humphrey was struck upon the arm.  A
counter display of feeling ran like a wave against the enemies of the
man, and induced a shock in the crowd.  Masterman and others laboured
to still the gathering storm; women's voices clacked against the
gruffer noise of the men.  Voysey, with admirable presence of mind,
drew some boards over the dead in his grave, that no quick spirit might
suddenly fall upon him.

The disturbance ended as swiftly as it had begun, for Humphrey
Baskerville made a bolt, dashed through the crowd, descended the
churchyard steps, and reached the street.  A dozen hastened to follow,
but Jack Head, Lintern, Waite, Mr. Masterman, and Ben North, the
policeman, resisted the rioters, and kept them within the churchyard
walls as far as possible.  Jack hit so hard that soon he was involved
in a battle against odds on his own account.

Meantime, with a clod or two whizzing past his head, Humphrey reached
the street corner and hastened round it.  Here was silence and peace.
He stopped, and his brain grew dizzy.  Such exertion he had not made
for many years.  He heard the noise of men and hastened on.  A chaos of
ideas choked his mind and dammed all play of coherent thought.  He had
heard a rumour that the thing he had done for his brother was regarded
differently by different men, but he knew not that so many were
incensed and enraged.  The shock of the discovery disarmed him now and
left him frantic.  He looked forward, and believed that his last hope
of reconciliation with humanity was dead.  He envied the eternal peace
of his brother as he struggled on against the hill homeward.

Into the black and water-logged heart of Shaugh Moor he climbed
presently, and from exhaustion and faintness fell there.  He stopped
upon the ground for a few moments; then lifted himself to his hands and
knees; then sat down upon a stone and stared down into the theatre of
this tragedy.

Overhead a sky as wild as his soul made huge and threatening
preparations for the delayed tempest.  Through the tangled skirts of
the darkness westerly there strove and spread great passages of
dazzling silver all tattered and torn and shredded out of the black and
weltering clouds.  For a moment in the midst of this radiance there
opened a farewell weather-gleam, where the azure firmament was seen
only to vanish instantly.  Then the gloom gathered, and huddled up in
ridges of purple and of lead.  Aloft, from the skirt of the main
cumulus, where it swept under the zenith, there hung, light as a veil,
yet darker than the sky behind them, long, writhing tentacles, that
twisted down and curled in sinister suspension, that waved and twined,
and felt hither and thither horribly, like some aerial hydra seeking
prey.

For a time these curtains of the rain swayed clear of earth; but their
progress swept them against it, and they burst their vials upon the
bosom of the Moor.  The storm shrieked, exploded, emptied itself with
howling rage out of the sudden darkness.  Then the fury of these
tenebrous moments passed; the hurricane sped onward, and the dim wet
ray that followed struck down upon a heath whitened with ice for miles.
A bitterness of cold and an ice-blink of unfamiliar radiance were
thrown upwards from the crust of the hail; but soon it melted, and the
waste, now running with a million rivulets, grew dark again.

The spectacle must have been impressive to any peaceful mind, but
Baskerville saw nothing hyperbolic in the rage of wind and water.  The
storm cited by Nature was not more tremendous than that tornado now
sweeping through his own soul.



END OF SECOND BOOK




BOOK III



CHAPTER I

Humphrey Baskerville continued to stalk the stage of life like a lonely
ghost, and still obscured from all men and women the secrets of his
nature, and the fierce interest of his heart in matters human.  The
things that he most wished to display he deliberately concealed, as a
shy child who makes a toy, and longs to show it, but dares not, yet
grows warm to the roots of his being if the treasure is found and
applauded.  Behind doubts, suspicions and jealousies he hid himself;
his tongue was rough; his utterances at the outrage put upon him before
the people by his brother's grave were bitter and even coarse.  Nor did
it abate his concern to know that the hostile explosion was as much
simulated as genuine, as much mischievous as meant.  It drove him in
upon himself; it poisoned his opinion of human wisdom; and for a time
he moved through darkest night.

Yet this transcendent gloom preceded a dawn; the crisis of his unquiet
days approached; and, from the death of Nathan onward, life changed
gradually for the man, and opened into a way that until now had been
concealed from his scrutiny.

There chanced an hour when Humphrey Baskerville rode upon his pony
under the high ground above Cornwood.  He came by appointment to meet
his dead brother's lawyer, and accident had postponed the interview for
some weeks.  The solicitor desired to see him.  There were strange
rumours in the air, and it was declared that a very surprising and
unexpected condition of things had appeared upon the publican's passing.

Humphrey refused to hear even his own relations upon the matter, for he
held Nathan's estate no concern of his; but at the urgent entreaties of
Mr. Popham, the master of Hawk House now rode to see him.  He had,
however, already made it clear that he was to be considered in no way
responsible for his brother's obligations, and felt unprepared to offer
advice or engage himself in any particular.

He passed across the shoulder of Pen Beacon, through a wild world of
dun-coloured hills, streaked with flitting radiance, and clouded in
billowy moisture driven before a great wind.  The sky was lowering, and
a gale from the Atlantic swept with tremendous power along; but the
nature of the scene it struck was such that little evidence of the
force displayed could appear to the beholder.  Stone and steep and
sodden waste stared blindly at the pressure and flinched not.  It
remained for wandering beast or man to bend before it and reveal its
might.  On the pelt of the sheep and cattle, or against the figure of a
wanderer, its buffet was manifest; and, in the sky, the fierce breath
of it herded the clouds into flocks, that sped and spread and gathered
again too swiftly for the telling.  They broke in billows of sudden
light; they massed into darkness and hid the earth beneath them; then
again they parted, and, like a ragged flag above a broken army, the
clean blue unfurled.

Over this majestic desolation suddenly there shot forth a great company
of rooks, and the wind drove them before it--whirling and wheeling and
tumbling in giddy dives, only to mount again.  A joyous spirit clearly
dominated the feathered people.  They circled and cried aloud in merry
exultation of the air.  They swooped and soared, rushed this way and
that on slanting pinions, played together and revelled in the immense
force that drove them like projectiles in a wild throng before it.
Even to these aerial things such speed was strange.  They seemed to
comment in their language upon this new experience.  Then the instinct
unfathomed that makes vast companies of living creatures wheel and warp
together in mysterious and perfect unison, inspired them.  They turned
simultaneously, ascended and set their course against the wind.  But
they could make no headway now, and, in a cloud, they were blown
together, discomforted, beaten to leeward.  Whereupon they descended
swiftly to the level of the ground, and, flying low, plodded together
back whence they had come.  At a yard or two above earth's surface they
steadily flapped along, cheated the wind, and for a few moments flashed
a reflected light over the Moor with their innumerable shining black
bodies and pinions outspread.  At a hedge they rose only to dip again,
and here Humphrey, who drew up to watch them, marked how they worked in
the teeth of the gale, and was near enough to see their great grey
bills, their anxious, glittering eyes, and their hurtling feathers
blown awry as they breasted the hedge, fought over, and dipped again.

"'Tis the same as life," he reflected.  "Go aloft and strive for high
opinions, and the wind of doubt blows you before it like a leaf.  Up
there you can travel with the storm, not against it.  If you want to go
t'other way, you've got to feel along close to earth seemingly--to
earth and the manners of earth and the folk of the earth.  And hard
work at that; but better than driving along all alone."

He derived some consolation from this inchoate thought, and suspected a
moral; but the simile broke down.  His mind returned to Mr. Popham
presently, and, taking leave of the Moor, he descended and arrived at
the lawyer's house upon the appointed hour.

The things that he heard, though he was prepared for some such recital,
astounded him by their far-reaching gravity.  The fact was of a
familiar character; but it came with the acidulated sting of novelty to
those involved.  An uproar, of which Humphrey in his isolation had
heard but the dim echo, already rioted through Shaugh Prior, and far
beyond it.

"I'll give you a sketch of the situation," said the man of business.
"And I will then submit my own theory of it--not that any theory can
alter the exceedingly unpleasant facts.  It belongs merely to the moral
side of the situation, and may help a little to condone our poor
friend's conduct.  In a word, I do not believe he was responsible."

"Begin at the other end," answered Humphrey.  "Whether he was
responsible or not won't help us now.  And it won't prevent honest men
spurning his grave, I fancy."

Mr. Popham collected his papers and read a long and dismal statement.
His client had always kept his affairs closely to himself, and such was
the universal trust and confidence that none ever pressed him to do
otherwise.  He had been given a free hand in the administration of
considerable sums; he had invested where he pleased, and for many years
had enjoyed the best of good fortune, despite the hazardous character
of the securities he affected.

"No man was ever cursed with such an incurable gift of hope," explained
the lawyer.  "All along the line you'll find the same sanguine and
unjustifiable methods exhibited.  The rate per cent was all he cared
about.  His custom was to pay everybody four and a half, and keep the
balance.  But when companies came to grief nobody heard anything about
it; he went on paying the interest, and, no doubt, went on hoping to
make good the capital.  This, however, he seldom appears to have done.
There are about forty small people who deposited their savings with
him, and there is nothing for any of them but valueless paper.  He was
bankrupt a dozen times over, and the thing he'd evidently pinned his
last hope to--a big South American silver mine--is going the way of the
others.  Had it come off, the position might have been retrieved; but
it is not coming off.  He put five thousand pounds into it--not his own
money--and hoped, I suppose, to make thirty thousand.  It was his last
flutter."

"Where did he get the money?"

"By mortgaging Cadworthy and by using a good deal of his late brother's
capital.  I mean the estate of Mr. Vivian Baskerville."

"He's a fraudulent trustee, then?"

"He is.  He had already mortgaged all his own property.  He was in a
very tight place about the time of Mr. Vivian's death, and the money he
had to handle then carried him on."

"What did he do with his own money?  How did he spend that?"

"We shall never know, unless somebody comes forward and tells us.  I
trace the usual expenditures of a publican and other expenses.  He
always kept a good horse or two, and he rode to hounds until latterly,
and subscribed to several hunts.  He was foolishly generous at all
times.  I see that he gave away large sums anonymously--but
unfortunately they were not his own.  There is no doubt that his
judgment failed completely of late years.  He was so accustomed to
success that he had no experience of failure, and when inevitable
failures came, they found him quite unprepared with any reserves
against them.  To stem the tide he gambled, and when his speculations
miscarried, he waded still more deeply.  He was engaged in borrowing a
large sum of money just before his final illness.  Indeed, he came to
me for it, for he kept me quite in the dark concerning existing
mortgages on his property.  But he forgot I should want the
title-deeds.  He was a devious man, but I shall always believe that he
lacked moral understanding to know the terrible gravity of the things
he did."

"How do we stand now?"

"The estate is from six thousand to seven thousand pounds to the bad."

"What is there against that?"

"The assets are practically nil.  About forty pounds at the bank, and
the furniture at 'The White Thorn' Inn.  Of course, his largest
creditor will be Mr. Ned Baskerville, of Cadworthy Farm.  I want to
say, by the way, that this state of things is quite as much of a
surprise to me as to anybody.  It is true that I have been his
solicitor for twenty years, but my work was nominal.  I had no
knowledge whatever of his affairs.  He never consulted me when in
difficulties, or invited my opinion on any subject."

"What about the Linterns?"

"They have asked to stop at Undershaugh for the present.  I fancy Mrs.
Lintern was a close friend of your brother's.  However, she is not
communicative.  The mortgagee in that case, of course, forecloses, and
will, I think, be contented to let Mrs. Lintern stop where she is."

"There was no will?"

"I can find none."

"Yet I know very well he made one ten years ago.  At least, he came to
me once rather full of it."

"It is very likely that he destroyed it."

There was a silence; then Humphrey Baskerville asked a question.

"Well, what d'you want of me?"

The other shrugged his shoulders.

"I leave that to you.  You know how much or how little you regard this
disaster as a personal one."

"It has nothing whatever to do with me.  I never lent him a penny.  He
never asked me to do so."

"You don't recognise any obligation?"

"Absolutely not a shadow of any such thing."

"The family of which you are now head----?"

"A sentimental lawyer!"

The other laughed.

"Not much room for sentimentality--at least, plenty of room, no doubt.
Of course, if you don't consider----"

He broke off, but his listener did not speak.

"It is to be understood I must not ask you to help me?"

"Not in any practical way--not with money--certainly not.  For the
rest, if as a man of business I can be of any service----"

"For the sake of the family."

"The family is nothing to me--at least, the one hit hardest is nothing
to me.  He'll have to work for his living now.  That's no hardship.  It
may be the best thing that's befallen him yet."

"Very true, indeed.  Well, let us leave the main question open.  The
case has no very unusual features.  Occasionally the world trusts a man
to his grave, and then finds out, too late, that it was mistaken.  It
is extraordinary what a lot of people will trust a good heart, Mr.
Baskerville.  Trust, like hope, springs eternal in the human breast."

"Does it?  I've never found much come my way.  And I'm not strong in
trust myself.  I felt friendly to Nathan, because he was my own flesh
and blood; but trust him--no."

"He didn't confide in you?"

"Never."

Mr. Baskerville rose.

"I shall see my relations no doubt pretty soon.  I fancy they'll pay me
some visits.  Well, why not?  I'm lonely, and rolling in money--so they
think.  And--there's a woman that I rather expect to call upon me.  In
fact, I've bidden her to do so.  Perhaps, if she don't, I'll call on
her.  For the present we can leave it.  If there's no money, nobody can
hope to be paid.  We'll talk more on that later.  Who's got Cadworthy?"

"Westcott of Cann Quarries.  He lent the money on it."

"What the devil does he want with it?" asked Mr. Baskerville.

"That I can't tell you.  Probably he doesn't want it.  He's foreclosed,
of course.  It was only out of friendship and regard for Mr. Nathan
that he lent so much money on the place.  He tells me that your brother
explained to him that it was for a year or so to help Ned; and out of
respect for the family he gladly obliged."

"Didn't know Westcott was so rich."

"You never know who's got the money in these parts.  But 'tis safe to
bet that it isn't the man who spends most.  There's Mr. Timothy Waite,
too, he lent Nathan a thousand, six months ago.  Some cock-and-bull
story your poor brother told him, and of course, for such a man, he
gladly obliged.  Each that he raised money from thought he was the only
one asked, of course."

"He was a rogue, and the worst sort of rogue--a chapel-going,
preaching, generous-handed, warm-hearted rogue.  Such men are the
thieves of virtue.  'Tis an infamous story."

The lawyer stared, and Humphrey continued.

"Such men are robbers, I tell you--robbers of more than money and
widows' houses.  They are always seeming honest, and never being so.
They run with the hare and hunt with the hounds.  They get the benefit
of being rogues, and the credit of honest men.  They are imitation good
men, and at heart know not the meaning of real goodness.  They have the
name of being generous and kind--they are neither.  Look what this man
has left behind him--blessings turned to curses.  All a sham, and a
lifelong theft of men's admiration and esteem--a theft; for he won it
by false pretences and lived a lie."

"He is dead, however."

"Yes, he is dead; and I suppose you are the sort who like to palter
with facts and never speak ill of the dead.  Why should we not tell the
truth about those who are gone?  Does it hurt them to say it?  No; but
it may do the living some good to say it.  If living knaves see us
condoning and forgiving dead ones, will they turn from their knavery
any the quicker?  We're a slack-twisted, sentimental generation.
Justice is the last thing thought of.  It's so easy to be merciful to
people who have sinned against somebody else.  But mercy's slow poison,
if you ask me.  It rots the very roots of justice."

The other shrugged his shoulders.

"The first of Christian virtues, Mr. Baskerville, we must remember
that.  But argument won't alter facts.  You don't see your way to do
anything definite, so there's an end of it.  Of course, there is no
shadow of obligation."

"You're right.  I'll visit you again presently.  Meantime you might let
me have a copy of the claims.  I'm interested in knowing how many fools
trusted my dead brother with their money.  I should like to know what
manner of man and woman put their savings into another man's pocket
without security.  It seems contrary to human nature."

"There's no objection at all.  They are all clamouring for their money.
And if the South American silver mine had done all that was hoped, not
only would they have had their cash, but your brother must have saved
his own situation, cleared his responsibilities, and died solvent."

"'If.'  There's generally a rather big 'if' with a South American
anything, I believe."

They parted, and Humphrey Baskerville rode home again.  Upon the way he
deeply pondered all the things that he had heard, and not until he was
back at Hawk House did distraction from these thoughts come.  Then he
found that a woman waited to see him.  It was Priscilla Lintern, who
had called at his invitation; and now he remembered that he had asked
her, and half regretted the act.




CHAPTER II

Mrs. Lintern arrived by appointment, for while one instinct of his
nature pressed Humphrey to evade this problem and take no hand in the
solution, another and more instant impulse acted in opposition.

He surveyed the sweep of events as they struck at those involved in
Nathan's ruin and death; and acting upon reasons now to be divulged, he
sent first for the mistress of Undershaugh; because in his judgment her
right to consideration was paramount.

Even in the act of summoning her, he told himself that these claims
were no business of his to investigate; and that he was a fool to
meddle.  He repudiated responsibility at one breath, and deliberately
assumed it with the next.  His own motives he did not pause to examine.

Introspection irritated him and he turned from his conflicting ideas
with impatience.  In himself he only saw a very ill-balanced,
imprudent, and impertinent person; yet he proceeded.

Now came Mrs. Lintern to know what he would have, and he saw her with
an emotion of hearty regret that he had invited her.

In answer to his first question she assured him that she and her
children were well.

"I'm afraid putting off the wedding has annoyed your nephew a good
bit," she said; "but Cora felt that it was better; and so did I."

"Why did you think so?"

"Well, your brother held it so much to heart; and he was Ned's uncle.
We could only have made a very quiet business of it in decency; and
Cora felt 'twould be sad to marry under the cloud of death."

"Half the sorrow in the world is wasted on what can't be helped.  It's
folly to mourn what's beyond altering--just as great folly as to mourn
the past.  Surely you know that?"

"No doubt; but who can help it that's made on a human pattern?"

"The world would be a cheerful place if none wept for what can't be
altered.  There was nothing in reason to stand between us and the
wedding.  'Twas my brother's last wish, for that matter."

She did not answer and a silence fell between them.  He was determined
that she should break it, and at length she did so.

"Your brother was very fond of Cora.  Of course, we at Undershaugh miss
him a very great deal."

"You would--naturally."

"At present the idea is that they get married in spring; and that won't
be none too soon, for everything's altered now.  They'll have to sell
half they bought, and get rid of their fine house and their horses, and
much else.  This business has entirely altered the future for them,
poor things."

"Utterly, of course.  'Twill have to be real love to stand this pinch.
Better they wait a bit and see how they feel about it.  They may change
their minds.  Both are pretty good at that."

She sighed.

"They understand each other, I believe.  But Ned won't change, whatever
Cora does.  He's wrapped up heart and soul in her."

"He'll have to seek work now."

"Yes; he is doing so."

"The one thing he's never looked for.  Harder to find work than foxes."

"He's not good for much."

"You say that of your future son-in-law?"

"Truth's truth.  A harmless and useless man.  I can't for the life of
me think what he'll find to do."

"Nathan would have given him a job--eh?  How wonderful he was at
finding work for people.  And what does Cora think of it all?":

"She's a very secret girl."

"And Heathman?"

"Heathman be going to make my home for me--somewhere.  'Tisn't decided
where we go."

"You leave Undershaugh, then?"

"Yes."

"Nathan wouldn't have wished that, I'm sure."

"We were to have stopped, but the new owner wants to raise the rent to
nearly as much again."

"What used you to pay?"

She hesitated.  Like many people whose position has forced them into
the telling of countless lies, she was still tender of truth in trifles.

"No matter," he said.  "I can guess the figure very easily, and
nought's the shape of it."

A sinister foreboding flashed through her mind.  It seemed impossible
to suppose such an innuendo innocent.  Miss Gollop had said many
offensive things concerning her after Nathan's death; but few had
believed them, and still fewer shown the least interest in the subject.
It was absurd to suppose that Humphrey Baskerville would trouble his
head with such a rumour.

"Your brother was generous to all," she answered.

"Why, he was.  And if charity shouldn't begin at home, where should it?"

"He was very generous to all," she repeated.

"I've been seeing Mr. Popham to-day."

"He's a true kind man, and wishful to do what he can.  The rent asked
now for Undershaugh is too high, even in the good state we've made it.
So I've got to leave."

"'Twill be a wrench."

"Yes, indeed."

"But not such a bad one as his death?"

"That's true."

He probed her.

"Never to see him come down your path with his bustling gait; never to
hear the laughter of the man.  You held his hand when he went out of
life.  He loved you--'twas the master passion of him."

A flush of colour leapt and spread over her face.  She gasped but said
nothing.

"A cruel thing that he left you as he did."

"What was I?" she began, alert and ready to fight at once and crush
this suspicion.  "What are you saying?  We were nothing----"

He held up his hand.

"A fool's trick--a lifelong fool's trick to hide it--a cruel, witless
thing--a wrong against generations unborn--scandalous--infamous--beyond
belief in a sane man."

"I don't understand you.  God's my----"

"Hush--hush!  I'm not an enemy.  You needn't put out your claws; you
needn't lie to me.  You needn't break oaths to me.  It's a secret
still; but I know it--only me.  You were his mistress, Priscilla
Lintern--his mistress and the mother of his children."

"He never told you that."

"Not he."

"Who did tell you?"

"Cora told me."

"She'd rather have----"

"She told me--not in words; but every other way.  I knew it the hour
she came to see me, after she was engaged to marry my son.  She strokes
her chin like Nat stroked his beard.  Have you marked that?  She thinks
just like Nat thought in a lot of ways, though she's not got his heart.
She's not near so silly as he was.  Her voice was the echo to his as
soon as I got the clue.  Her eyes were his again.  She handles her
knife and fork just like he was wont to do it; she sets her head o' one
side to listen to anybody in the way he did.  There's birds do it
too--when they gather worms out of the grass.  And from that I took to
marking t'others.  Your second girl be more like you; but Heathman will
be nearer his father every day as he gets older.  If he growed a beard,
he'd be nearer him now.  Wait and watch.  And he's got his heart.
Don't speak till you hear more.  From finding out that much, I sounded
Nathan himself.  Little he guessed it, but what I didn't know, I soon
learned from him.  Cora was the apple of his eye.  She could do no
wrong.  'Twas Vivian and Ned over again.  He spoke of you very guarded,
but I knew what was behind.  It came out when he was dying, and he was
too far gone to hide it.  And let me say this: I'll never forgive him
for doing such a wicked thing--never.  God may; but I won't.  I
wouldn't forgive myself if I forgave him.  But you--you--dull man as I
am, I can see a bit of what your life was."

"A better life--a more precious life than mine no woman ever lived."

He took a deep breath.

Here she tacitly confessed to all that he had declared.  She did not
even confirm it in words, but granted it and proceeded with the
argument.  And yet his whole theory had been built upon presumption.
If she had denied the truth, he possessed no shadow of power to prove
it.

"If ever I pitied anybody, I pity you; and I admire you in a sort of
left-handed way.  You're a very uncommon creature to have hid it in the
face of such a village as Shaugh Prior."

"What I am he made me.  He was a man in ten thousand."

"I hope he was.  Leave him.  Let me say this afore we get on.  I don't
judge you and, God knows it, I'm alive to this thing from your point of
view.  You loved him well enough even for that.  But there's no will.
He had nothing to leave; therefore--unless you've saved money during
his lifetime----?"

"I don't want you to have anything to do with my affairs, Mr.
Baskerville."

"As you please.  But there are your children to be considered.  Now it
may very much surprise you to know that I have thought a lot about
them.  Should you say, speaking as an outsider, that I'm under any
obligation to serve them?"

The sudden and most unexpected question again startled the blood from
Mrs. Lintern's heart.

"What a terrible curious man you are!  What a question to ask me!" she
said.

"Answer it, however--as if you wasn't interested in it."

"No," she declared presently.  "None can say that they are anything to
do with you.  You wasn't your brother's keeper.  They be no kin of
yours in law or justice."

"In law--no.  In justice they are of my blood.  Not that that's
anything.  You're right.  They are nought to me.  And you are less than
nought.  But----"  He stopped.

"Why have you told me that you have found this out?" she asked.  "What
good can come of it?  You'll admit at least 'tis a sacred secret, and
you've no right whatever to breathe it to a living soul?  You won't
deny that?"

"There again--there's such a lot of sides to it.  You might argue for
and against.  Justice is terrible difficult.  Suppose, for instance,
that I held, like Jack Head holds and many such, that 'tis a very
improper thing and a treachery to the unborn to let first cousins
mate--suppose I held to that?  Ought I to sit by and let Cora marry
Ned?  Now there's a nice question for an honest man.

"You were going to let Cora marry your own son."

"I don't know so much about that.  They were engaged to each other
before I found it out, and then, as she soon flung him over, there was
no need for me to speak.  Now, the question is, shall I let these two
of the same blood breed and maybe bring feebler things than themselves
into the world?"

"This is all too deep for me.  One thing I know, and that is you can
say nought.  You've come to the truth, by the terrible, wonderful
brains in your head; but you've no right to make it known."

"You're ashamed of it?"

She looked at him almost with contempt.

"You can ask that and know me, even so little as you do?  God's my
judge that I'd shout it out from the top of the church tower to-morrow;
I'd be proud for the world to know; and so much the louder I'd sing it
because he's gone down to his grave unloved and in darkness.  It would
make life worth living to me, even now, if I could open my mouth and
fight for him against the world.  Not a good word do I hear now--all
curse him--all forget the other side of him--all forget how his heart
went out to the sorrowful and sad....  But there--what's the use of
talking?  He don't want me to fight for him."

"If you feel that, why don't you stand up before the people and tell
'em?"

"There's my children."

"Be they more to you than he was?"

"No; but they are next."

"I hate deceit.  Who'll think the worse of them?"

"Who won't?"

"None that are worth considering."

"You know very little about the world, for all that you are deep as the
dark and can find out things hidden.  What about my darters?  No, it
wouldn't be a fair thing to let it out."

"I hold it very important."

"It shan't be, I tell you.  You can't do it; you never would."

"You're right.  I never would.  But that's not to say I don't wish it
to come out.  For them, mind you, I speak.  I leave you out now.  I put
you first and you say you'd like it known.  So I go on to them, and I
tell you that for their peace of mind and well-being in the future,
'tis better a thousand times they should start open and fair, without
the need of this lie between them and the world."

"I don't agree with that.  When the truth was told them on his
deathbed, 'twas settled it should never go no further."

"Wait and think a moment before you decide.  What has it been to you to
hide the truth all your life?"

"A necessity.  I soon grew used to it.  Nobody was hurt by it.  And
Nathan kept his money."

"Don't fool yourself to think that none was hurt by it.  Everybody was
hurt by it.  A prosperous lie be like a prosperous thistle: it never
yet flourished without ripening seed and increasing its own poisonous
stock a thousandfold.  The world's full of that thistledown.  Your
children know the truth themselves; therefore I say it should come out.
They've no right to stand between you and the thing you want to do.
I'll wager Heathman don't care--it's only your daughters."

"More than that.  Nathan would never have wished it known."

"No argument at all.  He was soaked in crookedness and couldn't see
straight for years afore he died."

"I won't have it and I won't argue about it."

"Well, your word's law.  But you're wrong; and you'll live to know
you're wrong.  Now what are you going to do?  We'll start as though I
knew nought of this for the moment."

"I stop at Undershaugh till spring.  I've got no money to name.  We
shall settle between ourselves--me and Heathman."

"I'll----"

He stopped.

"No," he said; "I can't promise anything, come to think of it; and I
can't commit myself.  'Tis folly to say, 'let the position be as though
I didn't know the truth.'  It can't be.  I do know it, and I'm
influenced by it.  I'll do nothing at all for any of you unless this
comes out.  I say that, not because I don't care for my brother's
children, but because I do care for them."

"I don't want you to do anything.  I've got my son.  I refuse
absolutely to speak.  Until my children are all of one mind about it,
the thing must be hidden up--yes, hidden up for evermore.  I won't
argue the right or the wrong.  'Tis out of my hands, and so long as one
of them says 'no,' I hold it my duty to keep silent.  And, of course,
'tis yours also."

"Who knows what my duty would be if Ned was going to marry Cora?  I'd
sacrifice the unborn to you; but not to your daughter and my nephew.
There have been enough tongues to curse that worthless pair already.
You don't want their own children to do the same in the time to come?
But perhaps I know as much about Cora as you do about Ned.  Wait and
see if she changes her mind, since he has lost his fortune."

Priscilla rose.

"I will go now," she said.  "Of course, you can't guess how this looks
to a woman--especially to me of all women.  To find that you knew--and
no doubt you thought I'd come here and drop dead afore you of shame."

"No, I didn't.  If you'd been that sort, I shouldn't have plumped it
out so straight.  You are a brave creature, and must always have been
so.  Well, I won't deny you the name of wife in secret--if you like to
claim it."

She was moved and thanked him.  Satisfaction rather than concern
dominated her mind as she returned homeward.  She felt glad that
Nathan's brother knew, and no shadow of fear dimmed her satisfaction;
for she was positive that, despite any declared doubts, he would never
make the truth public.

Her own attitude was even as she had described it.  She would have
joyed to declare her close companionship, if only to stop the tongues
of those who hesitated not to vilify the dead before her.

Eliza Gollop had told many stories concerning Mrs. Lintern's attendance
in the sick room; but few were interested in them or smelt a scandal.
They never identified Priscilla with the vanished innkeeper; they did
not scruple to censure Nathan before her and heap obloquy on his fallen
head.

Often with heart and soul she longed to fight for him; often she had
some ado to hide her impotent anger; but a lifetime of dissimulation
had skilled her in the art of self-control.  She listened and looked
upon the angry man or woman; she even acquiesced in the abuse by
silence.  Seldom did she defend the dead man, excepting in secret
against her daughters.




CHAPTER III

When Cora Lintern returned home she brought with her a resolution.  Her
intentions were calculated to cause pain, and she carried them so much
the quicker to execution, that the thing might be done and the blow
struck as swiftly as possible.  She revealed her plan to none, and only
made it public when he who was chiefly involved had learned it.

Ned Baskerville called to see Cora, who had been stopping with friends;
and when she had spoken upon general subjects, she made him come out
with her to the wintry side of West Down, and there imparted her wintry
news.

"Have you found anything to do?" was Cora's first question, and he
answered that he had not.

"People don't understand me," he said.  "Here is Rupert talking about
labourer's work, as if it was a perfectly decent suggestion to make.
My farm's gone, and he seems to think I might offer to stop there under
somebody, like he has himself."

"You want something better."

"Why, of course.  I might get a clerkship or some such thing, I should
think.  A man who has lived my life can't go and dig potatoes.  But the
difficulty is to get work like that away from towns.  I can't be
expected to live in a town, and I won't."

"Mr. Tim Waite is a friend of the people I've been stopping with," she
said.  "He's rich and all that.  I believe he might find----"

"Thank you for nothing, Cora.  I'm hardly likely to trouble him, am I?"

"Not much use talking like that."

"I'll take patronage, if I must, because beggars can't be choosers; but
I'll not take it from my inferiors."

"'Inferiors'!  That's a funny word for you to use.  How is Timothy
Waite your inferior?  I don't see it."

"Don't you?" he answered, getting red.  "Then you ought to see it.
Damn it all, Cora, you're so cold-blooded where I'm concerned.  And yet
you're supposed to love me and want to marry me."

"I'm not a fool, and if 'tis cold-blooded to have a bit of
common-sense, then I'm cold-blooded.  Though I'm a bit tired of hearing
you fling the word in my face.  Timothy Waite always was as good a man
as you; and why not?"

"I should call him a mean, money-grubbing sort of chap
myself--close-fisted too.  He's not a sportsman, anyway.  You can't
deny that."

"Not much good being generous, if you've got nought to be generous
with.  And mean he is not.  He lent money to your uncle, and never
pushed the claim half as hard as many smaller men.  I know him a long
sight better than you do.  And, if you've got any sense left, you'll go
to him and ask him if he can help you to find a job.  I'm only thinking
of you--not myself.  I can go into a hat shop any day; but you--you
can't do anything.  What are you good for?  For that matter you don't
seem to be able to get a chance to show what you are good for.  All
your swell hunting friends are worth just what I said they were worth.
Now you're down on your luck, they look t'other way."

He began to grow angry.

"You're the fair-weather sort too, then?  One here and there has hinted
to me that you were--your brother always said it.  But never, never
would I stand it from any of them.  And now I see that it is so."

"No need to call names.  The case is altered since Nathan Baskerville
ruined you, and I'm not the sentimental kind to pretend different.  As
we're on this now, we'd better go through with it.  You want to marry
me and I wanted to marry you; but we can't live on air, I believe.  I
can't, anyway.  It's a very simple question.  You wish to marry me so
soon as I please; but what do you mean to keep me on?  I've got
nothing--you know that; and you've got less than nothing, for there's
the rent of the house we were to have lived in."

"I've let the house and I am looking round.  I'm open to any reasonable
offer."

"What nonsense you talk!  Who are you that people should make you
offers?  What can you do?  I ask you that again."

"By God!  And you're supposed to love me!"

"When poverty comes in at the door--you know the rest.  I'm not a
heroine of a story-book.  All very well for you; but what about me?
You can't afford to marry, and I can't afford not to; so there it
stands.  There's only one thing in the world--only one thing--that you
can be trusted to earn money at, and that's teaching people to ride
horses.  And that you won't do.  I've thought it out, and you needn't
swear and curse; because it's the truth."

"Damn it all----"

"No good raging.  You're selfish, and you never think of me working my
fingers to the bone and, very likely, not knowing where to look for a
meal.  You only want me--not my happiness and prosperity.  That's not
love.  If you loved me, you would have come long since and released me
from this engagement, and saved me the pain of all this talk.  Nobody
ever thinks of me and my future and my anxieties.  I've only got my
face and--and--you say 'damn' and I'll say it too.
Damn--damn--damn--that's thrice for your once; and I hate you thrice as
much as you hate me, and I've thrice the reason to.  I hate you for
being so selfish; and 'tis no good ever you saying you care about me
again, because you never did--not really.  You couldn't--else you
wouldn't have put yourself first always."

He started, quite reduced to silence by this assault.  She struck him
dumb, but his look infuriated her.

"You won't make me draw back, so you needn't think it," she cried.
"I'm not ashamed of a word I've said.  'Tis you ought to be ashamed.
And I'm not sorry for you neither, for you've never once been sorry for
me.  After the crash, not one word of trouble for my loss and my
disappointment did you utter--'twas only whining about your horses, and
the house at Plympton, and all the rest of it.  Vain cursing of the man
in his grave; when you ought to have cursed yourself for letting him
have the power to do what he did.  I'd have stuck to you, money or no
money, if you'd been a different man--I swear that.  I'd have taken you
and set to work--as I shall now, single-handed--but how can any decent
girl with a proper conceit of herself sink herself to your level and
become your drudge?  Am I to work for us both?  Are you going to live
on the money I make out of women's bonnets?"

"No!" he answered.  "Don't think that.  I'm dull, I know, and
slow-witted.  Such a fool was I that I never believed anything bad of a
woman, or ever thought an unkind thought of anything in petticoats.
But you use very straight English always, and you make your meaning
perfectly clear.  I know it won't be easy for me to get the work I
want.  I may be poor for a long time--perhaps always.  I'll release
you, Cora, if that's what you wish.  No doubt I ought to have thought
of it; but I'll swear I never did.  I thought you loved me, and
everything else was small by comparison.  If anybody had said 'release
her,' I'd have told him that he didn't know what love of woman
meant--or a woman's love of man.  But you can be free and welcome, and
put the fault on my shoulders.  They can bear it.  Go to Timothy.  He's
always wanted you."

"You needn't be coarse.  I'm sick and tired of all you men.  You don't
know what love means--none of you.  And since you say I'm to go, I'll
go.  And I'll find peace somewhere, somehow; but not with none of you."

He laughed savagely.

"You've ruined me--that's what you've done.  Meat and drink to you,
I'll wager!  Ruined me worse than ever my uncle did.  I could have
stood up against that.  I did.  I'd pretty well got over the pinch of
it.  Though 'twas far more to me than anybody, I took it better than
anybody, and my own mother will tell you so.  But why?  Because I
thought I'd got you safe enough and nothing else mattered.  I never
thought this misfortune meant that you'd give me the slip.  If any man
had hinted such a thing, I'd have knocked his teeth down his throat.
But I was wrong as usual."

"You gave me credit for being a fool as usual."

"Never that, Cora.  I always knew very well you were clever, but I
thought you were something more.  You crafty things--all of you!  And
now--what?  'Twill be said I've jilted another girl--not that the only
woman I ever honestly worshipped with all my heart have jilted me."

"No need to use ugly, silly words about it.  All that will be said by
sensible people is that we've both seen reason and cut our coats
according to our cloth.  The people will only say you've got more wits
than they thought.  Let it be understood we were of the same mind, and
so we both get a bit of credit for sense."

"Never!" he burst out passionately.  "You're a hard-hearted, cruel
devil.  You know where the fault is and who's to blame.  You think of
nought but your own blasted comfort and pleasure, and you never cared
no more for me than you cared for my cousin before me.  But I'll not
hang myself--be sure of that!"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"You might do worse, all the same," she said.  "For you're only
cumbering the earth that I can see."

Thereupon he swore wild oaths and rushed off and left her on the
hillside alone.

When he was gone she went her own way, but not to Undershaugh.  By deep
lanes and field-paths familiar to her she took a long walk, and at the
end of it found herself at Coldstone Farm, the abode of Mr. Timothy
Waite.  He was from home, and she asked for pen and paper that she
might leave a note for him.  Her communication was short, and when she
had written it and sealed it with exceeding care, she set off again for
home.

Anon Mr. Waite opened it and was much disappointed at the length.  But
Cora's matter atoned for this shortcoming.

"Have settled with N.B.  Yours, C."


And elsewhere, while she retraced her way from Coldstone, the discarded
lover came to a wild conclusion with himself.  He steadied his steps,
stood at the Moor edge in two minds, then turned and set off for Hawk
House.

This blow had staggered him, had even awakened him from the fatuous
dream in which he passed his days.  He had a vague idea that Humphrey
might be glad to know of this broken engagement; that it might even put
his uncle into a more amiable temper.  Ned had been advised by Rupert
to see Mr. Baskerville; but had declined to do so until the present
time.

At Hawk House Mrs. Hacker met him and made no effort to hide
astonishment.

"Wonders never cease, I'm sure!  You, of all men!  Master be on the
Moor, riding somewheres, but if you want him, you can wait for him.  He
always comes in at dusk.  How's your young woman?"

The man was in no mood for talk with Susan and cut her short.

"I'll wait, then," he said.  "I'll wait in the garden."

He walked up and down amid the nut trees for an hour.  Then Humphrey
returned.

Tea was served for them in the kitchen; Susan went out and the way
opened for Ned.

"You might be surprised to see me," he began; "but though I know you
don't like me--natural enough too--still, I'm your eldest nephew, and I
felt at a time like this you'd not refuse to let me speak to you."

"Speak, and welcome."

"Of course, all our lives are turned upside down by this terrible
business."

"Not all.  In these cases 'tis the drones, not the workers, that are
hit hardest.  If you've got wit enough to understand what you see under
your eyes, you'll find that your brother Rupert, for instance, can go
on with his life much as before; and scores of others---they've lost a
bit of money--cheated out of it by my brother, the late Nathan
Baskerville--but it don't wreck them.  'Tis only such as
you--accustomed all your life to idle and grow fat on other men's
earnings--'tis only such as you that are stranded by a thing like this.
I suppose you want to get back into the hive--like t'other drones when
the pinch of winter comes--and the world won't let you in?"

This uncompromising speech shook Ned and, under the circumstances, he
felt that it was more than he could bear.

"If you knew what had happened to me to-day, you'd not speak so harsh,
Uncle Humphrey," he answered.  "I may tell you that I've been struck a
very cruel blow in the quarter I least expected it.  Cora Lintern's
thrown me over."

"Cat-hearted little bitch," he said.  "And you bleat about a 'cruel
blow'!  Why, you young fool, escape from her is the best piece of
fortune that ever fell to your lot--or is ever likely to.  And you ask
me to be sorry for you!  Fool's luck is always the best luck.  You've
had better fortune far than ever you deserved if she's quitted you."

"You can't look at it as I do; you can't see what my life must be
without her."

"Eat your meat and don't babble that stuff."

Ned shook his head.

"Don't want nothing, thank you."

"Well, hear me," said Humphrey.  "You sought me of your own free will,
and so you may as well listen.  You've come, because you think I can do
you a turn--eh?"

"I'm down on my luck, and I thought perhaps that you--anyway, if you
can help, or if you can't, you might advise me.  I've looked very hard
and very far for a bit of work such as I could do; and I've not found
it."

"The work you can do won't be easily found.  Begin at the beginning.
You're Godless--always have been."

"Let God alone and He'll let you alone--that's my experience," said Ned.

"Is it?  Well, your experience don't reach far.  You've come to the
place where God's waiting for you now--waiting, and none too pleased at
what you bring afore Him.  You're a fool, and though we mourn for a
wise man after he's dead, we mourn for a fool all the days of his life.
D'you know where that comes from?  Of course you don't."

"I can mend, I suppose?  Anyway, I've got to be myself.  Nobody can be
different to their own character."

"Granted--you can't rise above your own character; but you can easily
sink below it.  That's what you have done, and your father helped you
from the first."

"I won't hear you say nothing against him, Uncle Humphrey.  Good or
bad, he was all goodness to me."

"You think so, but you're wrong.  Well, I'll leave him.  But 'tis vain
to judge you too hard when I remember your up-bringing."

"All the same, I will say this for myself: when you pull me to pieces,
you'll find no wickedness in me worth mentioning.  Whatever I may be,
I've always behaved like a gentleman and a sportsman, and none will
deny it," declared Ned.

"The biggest fool can be witty when it comes to excusing his own vices
to his conscience," replied the old man.  "Fox yourself with that
rubbish, if you can, not me.  To behave like a gentleman is to be a
gentleman, I should think, and I understand the word very different
from you.  You're a selfish, worthless thing--a man that's reached near
to thirty without putting away his childish toys--a man that's grown to
man's estate and stature without doing so much good in the world as my
blind pony--nay, nor so much good as the worm that pulls the autumn
leaves into the wet ground.  And you pride yourself on being a
gentleman!  Better larn to be a man first and a gentleman afterwards."

"I've never had no occasion to work till now.  Nobody ever asked me to;
nobody ever wanted me to.  It was natural that I shouldn't.  A man
can't help his character, and I can't help mine.  I hate work and
always shall."

"That's clear, then.  And I can't help my character either.  I hate
idleness and always shall.  Never have I given a loafer a helping hand,
and never will I.  A man ought to be like Providence and only help
those who help themselves."

"But I mean to work; I need to work; I must work."

"Laziness is a cancer," said Mr. Baskerville.  "'Tis just as much a
cancer as the human ill we call by that name.  And 'tis a modern thing.
There's something rotten with the world where any man can live without
earning the right to.  When next you find yourself caddling about on
the Moor wasting your time, take a look at the roundy-poundies--they
circles of stones cast about on the hillsides and by the streams.  My
son Mark knew all about them.  They were set up by men like ourselves
who lived on the Moor very long ago.  Life was real then.  Nought but
their own sweat stood between the old men and destruction.  The first
business of life was to keep life in them days.  They hunted to live,
not for pleasure.  They hunted and were hunted.  No time to be lazy
then.  Did they help beggars?  Did they keep paupers?  No; all had to
toil for the common good; and if a man didn't labour, he didn't eat.
They had their work cut out for 'em to wring a bare living out of the
earth and the creatures on it.  No softness of mind or body then.  No
holidays and pleasurings and revels then.  And I'd have it so again
to-morrow, if I could.  Work and eat; idle and starve--that's what I'd
say to my fellow-creatures."

"I mean to work; I'm ready for work."

"All very well to say that now.  You may be ready for work; but what
sort of work is ready for you?  What can you do?  Can you break stones?
There's a Cornish proverb hits you this minute: 'Them as can't scheme
must lowster.'  Your father was very fond of using it--to every lazy
body but you.  It means that if you haven't the wits to make a living
with your brains, you must do it with your hands.  It all comes back to
work."

"I know it does.  I keep on telling you I'm ready for it--any amount of
it.  But not breaking stones.  I've got brains in my head, though I
know you don't think so.  I came to-day to know if you would give those
brains a trial.  I'm a free man now.  Cora has flung me over, so
there's no obligation anywhere.  I'm free to stand up and show what I'm
good for.  I've sold my horses and given up hunting already.  That's
something."

"Something you couldn't help.  How much did you get for that big bright
bay?"

"Forty-five guineas."

"And gave?"

"Seventy.  But, of course, I've not got enough capital all told to be
much practical use in buying into anything.  What I really want is five
hundred pounds."

"A common want."

"And I thought perhaps that you--I thought of it as I came here to see
you."

"And still you try to make out you're not a fool?"

"I can give interest and security."

"Yes--like your Uncle Nathan, perhaps.  In a word, I'll not do
anything.  Not a farthing of money and not a hand of help.  But----"

He stopped as the younger man rose.

"I didn't ask for money; I only suggested a loan."

"I'll loan no loans to you or any man.  But this I will do, because you
are the head of our family now, and I don't want anybody to say I
helped to cast you lower when you were down.  This I will do: I'll
double the money you earn."

"Double it!" exclaimed Ned.

"That's my word; and now the boot's on the other leg, and I'm the fool
for my pains, no doubt.  But understand me.  'Tis what you _earn_, not
what you get.  When you come to me and say, 'I've found a job, and I'm
paid so much a week for doing it by an independent man,' then I'll
double what he gives you.  But let there be no hookemsnivey dealings,
for I'll very soon find them out if you try it.  Let it be figures, let
it be horses, let it be clay, let it be stones by the road--I'll double
what you earn for five years.  By that time, maybe, you'll know what
work means, and thank Heaven, that's taught you what it means.  Go and
find work--that's what you've got to do; go and find what you're worth
in the open market of men.  And you needn't thank me for what I offer.
'Twill be little enough, I promise you--as you'll find when you come to
hear the money value of your earning powers."

"All the same I do thank you, and I thank you with all my heart," said
Ned: "and perhaps you'll be a bit more astonished than you think for,
Uncle Humphrey, when you find what I can do."

Then his nephew went away in doubt whether to be elated or cast down.




CHAPTER IV

An elderly man called Abraham Elford became tenant of 'The White Thorn'
after Baskerville's death.  He lacked the charm of Nathan, and it was
rumoured that the quality of his liquor by no means equalled that
provided by the vanished master of the inn; but no choice offered of
other drinking houses, and the new publican retained all former
patronage.

One subject at this season proved rich enough to shut out all lesser
matters from conversation, for the wide waves of concern set rolling
when Nathan died had as yet by no means subsided.  Each day for many
days brought news of some fresh disaster to humble folk; and then came
another sort of intelligence that gratified the few and angered the
many.

Mr. Elford and certain of his customers, not directly interested, found
the subject of Nathan's affairs exceedingly wearisome and often sought
to turn talk into other channels; but not for long could they be said
to succeed.  Local politics and weather soon lost their power to hold
the people; and those disasters spread by the late publican swiftly
cropped up again to the exclusion of less pungent concerns.

A party of men was assembled at 'The White Thorn' near Christmas time,
and they wrangled on over this well-trodden ground until Joe Voysey,
who had not suffered, turned to the grey-headed host behind the bar and
asked a question.

"Did this here fire fail afore you comed, Abraham?" he asked.  "'Tis a
well-known fact that 'The White Thorn' hearth haven't been cold for a
hundred year--peat always smouldering, or else blazing, upon it."

"Yes, and a thousand pities," answered the other.  "At the time of Mr.
Baskerville's death, of course, there was a terrible deal of running
about and confusion.  And the fire was forgot.  I knowed the old saying
and was very sorry to see it black out."

"What do it matter?" asked Jack Head.  He was in a quarrelsome mood and
bad company on the occasion.  "These silly sayings and fancies are
better forgot.  Who's the wiser for a thing like that?  Probably, when
all's said, 'tis a lie.  I dare say the fire went out scores of times
when Nathan was here, and somebody just lit it again and said nought
about it."

"That's wrong, Jack," declared Heathman Lintern, who was present.  "Mr.
Baskerville took a lot of care of the fire and felt very proud of it.
A score of times I've heard him tell people about it, and that the fire
had never been douted for more than a hundred years."

"One thing I know, that if there was such a place as hell, he'd soon
meet with a fire as would last longer still," answered Head.  "A fire
that never will be douted.  And right well he'd deserve it."

Thomas Gollop found himself in agreement with this ferocity.

"You're right there, and there is such a place--have no fear of that,
though 'tis your way to scorn it.  For my part I say that there
couldn't be no justice without it.  He devoured widows' houses and
stole the bread of the poor--what worse can any man do?"

"A man can backbite the dead, and spit out his poison against them as
never hurt him in word or deed," answered Heathman Lintern.  "'Tis
always your way to blackguard them that be out of earshot and the power
to answer; and the further a man be away, the louder you yelp.  Faults
or no faults, the likes of you wasn't worthy to wipe his shoes."

"You Linterns--well, I'll say nought," began Jack Head; but the subject
was too attractive for him and he proceeded.

"If he left your mother any money, it's against the law, and you can
tell her so.  It wasn't his to leave, and if she got money from him in
secret, it's my money--not hers--mine, and many other people's before
it's hers.  And if she was honest she'd give it back."

"You've lost your wits over this," answered Lintern, "and if you wasn't
an old man, Jack, I'd hammer your face for mentioning my mother's name
in such a way.  She never had a penny by him, and the next man that
says she did shall get a flea in his ear--old or young."

"Let it be a lesson to all sorts and conditions not to trust a
Dissenter," said Gollop.  "I've known pretty well what they're good for
from the first moment they began to lift their heads in the land.  They
never were to be trusted, and never will be.  And as for Nathan
Baskerville, he was a double serpent, and I shall tell the truth out
against him when and where I please; and why for not?"

"You don't know the meaning of truth," began Heathman; "no more don't
that old cat, your sister."

"Better leave my sister alone, or 'twill be the worse for you,"
answered the parish clerk.

"I'll leave her alone when she leaves my mother alone, and not sooner.
She a lying, foul-minded old baggage--not to be trusted in a
respectable house--and if I was better to do, I'd have the law of her
for the things she's said."

"You talk of the law," answered Jack.  "You might just so well talk of
the prophets.  One's as rotten as t'other nowadays.  The law's gone
that weak that a man's savings can be taken out of his pocket by the
first thief that comes along with an honest face; and him powerless.
Five-and-thirty pound--that's what he had of mine, and the law looks on
and does nought."

"Because there's nought for it to do," suggested Mr. Elford.  "The law
can't make bricks without straw----"

"Just what it can do--when it's writing its own bills o' costs,"
answered Jack.  "They'm damn clever at that; but let a rogue rob me of
my savings and the law don't care a brass farthing.  Why?  Because I'm
poor."

"Is there to be nought declared in the pound?" inquired an old man
beside the fire.  "He had eight, ten of mine, and I was hopeful us
might get back a little, if 'twas only shillings."

"You'll see nothing of it, gaffer," declared Head.  "There wasn't much
more than enough to pay for the man's coffin.  And the tears shed at
his grave!  I laugh when I think of all them gulls, and the parsons,
with their long faces, thinking they was burying a good man and a
burning light."

"A burning light now, if he wasn't afore," said Gollop, returning to
his favourite theme.

"You're a mean cur at heart, Jack," burst out the dead man's son to Mr.
Head.  "With all your noise about justice and liberty and right and
wrong, none on God's earth can show his teeth quicker and snarl worse
if his own bone be took away.  You knowed Nathan Baskerville--no one
knowed him better than you.  And well you know that with all his faults
and foolish, generous way of playing with his money and other
people's--well, you know there was a big spirit in the man.  He meant
terrible kindly always.  He didn't feather his own nest.  For a hundred
that curse him now, there's thousands that have blessed him in past
years.  But 'tis the curses come home to roost and foul a man's grave;
the blessings be forgot."

The young man's eyes shone and his eloquence silenced the bar for a
moment.

Jack Head stared.

"'Tis Mark Baskerville speaking," he said.  "Even so he was used to
talk!  But I didn't know you was the soft sort too, Heathman.  What was
Nat to you, or you to Nat, that you can stand up for him and talk this
nonsense in the face of facts?  Where's my money?  When you tell me
that, I'll tell you----"

"Who knows whether you'm forgot after all, Jack?" interrupted Joe
Voysey.  "Everybody ban't ruined.  There's a few here and
there--especially the awful poor people--as have had their money made
good."

"I know all about that," answered Head; "'tis that fool, the parson.
Masterman have no more idea of justice than any other church minister,
and he's just picked and chosen according to his own fancy, and made it
up to this man and that man out of his own riches."

"To no man has he made it up," corrected Gollop.  "'Tis only in the
case of certain needy females that he've come forward.  A widow here
and there have been paid back in full.  I made so bold as to ask Lawyer
Popham about it; but he's not a very civil man, and he fobbed me off
with a lawyer's answer that meant nought."

"'Tis well knowed to be Masterman, however," said Voysey.

"Yes; well knowed to us; but not to the general public.  Some think
it's the lawyer himself; but that's a wild saying.  Last thing he'd do.
He'll be out of pocket as it is."

At this juncture was presented the unusual spectacle of a woman in the
bar of 'The White Thorn,' and Susan Hacker entered.

She was known to several present and men liked her.  She understood the
sex, and could give as good as she got.  She expected little in the way
of civility or sense from them, and she was seldom disappointed.

"Hullo!" cried Head.  "Be you on the downward path then, Susan?  'Tis
your old man driving you to drink without a doubt!"

The abundant woman pushed Jack out of her way and came to the counter.

"Don't you pay no heed to that there sauce-box," she said.  "And him
old enough and ugly enough to know better, you'd think.  A drop of gin
hot, please.  I be finger-cold and I've got to speed home yet."

"How's 'the Hawk'?" asked Mr. Voysey.  "We all thought when poor old
Nathan was took off that he'd come forward with his money bags--knowing
the man, didn't we, souls?"

This excellent jest awakened laughter till Susan stopped it.  She took
her drink to the fire, loosed a mangy little fur tippet from her great
shoulders and warmed her feet alternately.

"A funny old fool you are, Joe--just funny enough to make other fools
laugh.  And why should Humphrey Baskerville waste his money on a lot of
silly people?  Which of you would come forward and help him if he was
hard up?"

"I would," said Jack Head.  "With my opinions I'd help any thrifty
person let in by this dead man--if I could.  But I was let in myself.
And you're in the truth to call us fools, for so we were."

"It's reason, every way, that your master might think of his brother's
good name and right the wrong done by the man who was here afore me,"
declared Mr. Elford impartially.

"Why?" asked Mrs. Hacker.  "Why do you say 'tis reason?  If 'tis reason
for him, 'tis just as much reason for every other man who can afford to
mend it."

"That's what I say," argued Jack Head, but none agreed with him.

"Ban't our business, but 'tis Humphrey Baskerville's," declared the
publican.  "The dead man was his own brother and his only one.  For the
credit of the family he ought to come forward, and not leave the parson
and other outsiders to do it."

"Because your brother does wrong, 'tis no business of yours to right
the wrong," answered Mrs. Hacker.  "Besides, 'tis well known that
charity begins at home."

"And stops there," suggested Gollop.  "No doubt at Hawk House, you and
him be as snug as beetles in the tree bark, while other people don't
know where to turn for a roof to cover 'em."

"They'd have poor speed if they was to turn to you, anyway," she said.
"'Tis like your round-eyed, silly impudence to speak like that of a
better man than ever you was or will be, or know how to be.  He ban't
bound to tell you where he spends his money, I believe; and if you was
half as good a man--but there, what can you expect from a Gollop but a
grunt?  You'm a poor generation, you and your sister--God knows which
is the worse."

"Bravo, Susan!  Have another drop along o' me," cried Heathman Lintern,
and she agreed to do so.

"What do you know and what don't you know?" asked Head presently.  "Be
your old party going to do anything or nothing?"

"I don't know.  But this I do know, that all your wild tales down here
about his money be silly lies.  We live hard enough, I can promise
that, whatever you may think.  If every man here spent his money so
wise as Humphrey Baskerville, you wouldn't all be boozing in this bar
now, but along with your lawful wives and families, helping the poor
women to find a bit of pleasure in life.  But I know you; you get a
shipload of brats and leave their mothers to do all the horrid work of
'em, while you come in here every night like lords, and soak and
twaddle and waste your money and put the world right, then go home not
fit company for a dog----"

"Steady on--no preaching here--rule of the bar," said Mr. Voysey.  "You
think we're all blanks because you drew a blank, Susan.  Yes, a blank
you drew, though you might have had me in the early forties."

"You!  I'd make a better man than you with a dozen pea-sticks,"
retorted Susan.  "And I didn't draw a blank, I drawed Hacker, who'd be
here now teaching you chaps to drink, if the Lord had spared him.  You
can't even drink now--so feeble have you growed.  Hacker, with all his
faults, was a fine man; and so's Humphrey Baskerville in his way."

"Talk on; but talk to the purpose, Susan.  What have he done?  That's
the question.  You ain't going to tell me he's done nought," suggested
Mr. Head.

"I ain't going to tell you nothing at all, because I don't know nothing
at all.  He wouldn't ax me how to spend his money--nor you neither."

"Tell us who he's helping--if anybody," persisted the man.  "How is it
none haven't handed me back my money?  You can mention--if you've got
the pluck to do it--that I want my bit back so well as t'others; and
mine be quite as much to me as Ned Baskerville's thousands was to him."

"Charity begins at home," repeated Susan, "and I'll lay you my hat,
though the fog's took the feather out of curl, that if he does
anything, 'twill be for his own first.  He's that sort, I believe."

"They people at Cadworthy?"

"Yes.  Not that I think he'll do aught; but if he does, 'twill be
there.  Mrs. Baskerville be taking very unkindly to the thought of
leaving.  She've lived here all her married life and brought all her
childer there.  But she've got to go.  They're all off after Lady Day.
Too much rent wanted by the new owner."

"Same with us," said Heathman.  "These here men, who have got the
places on their hands now, 'pear to think a Dartmoor farm's a gold
mine.  Me and my mother clear out too."

Mrs. Hacker drank again.

"And after this glass, one of you chaps will have to see me up over,"
she said.

"We'll all come, if you'll promise another drink at t'other end,"
declared Heathman; but Susan turned to Jack Head.

"You'd best to come, Jack," she declared.

He exhibited indifference, but she pressed him and he agreed.

"If I've got a man to look after me, there's no hurry," she concluded.
"I'm in for a wigging as 'tis."

The easy soul stopped on until closing time, and then Mr. Head
fulfilled his promise and walked homeward beside her through a foggy
night.  She rested repeatedly while climbing the hill to the Moor, and
she talked without ceasing.  Susan was exhilarated and loquacious as
the result of too much to drink.  Head, however, bore with her and
acquired a most startling and unexpected piece of information.

He mentioned the attitude of Heathman Lintern and his fiery
championship of the dead.

"I thought he'd have come across and hit me down, because I told the
naked truth about the man.  And he denied that his mother was the
better by a penny when Nathan died.  But how about it when he was
alive?"

"Truth's truth," answered Susan.  "You might have knocked me down with
a feather when--but there, what am I saying?"

He smelt a secret and angled for it.

"Of course, you're like one of the Baskerville family yourself, and
I've no right to ask you things; only such a man as me with a credit
for sense be different to the talking sort.  Truth's truth, as you say,
and the truth will out.  But Eliza Gollop--of course she knows nothing.
She couldn't keep a secret like you or me."

Mrs. Hacker stood still again and breathed hard in the darkness.  Her
tongue itched to tell a tremendous thing known to her; but her muddled
senses fought against this impropriety.

"Two can often keep a secret that pretty well busts one," said Mr. Head
with craft.  He believed that Humphrey Baskerville was paying some of
his brother's debts; and since this procedure might reach to him, he
felt the keenest interest in it.  Mrs. Lintern did not concern him.  He
had merely mentioned her.  But Priscilla was the subject which filled
Susan's mind to the exclusion of all lesser things, and she throbbed to
impart her knowledge.  No temptation to confide in another had forced
itself upon her until the present; yet with wits loosened and honour
fogged by drink, she now yearned to speak.  At any other moment such a
desire must have been silenced, by reason of the confession of personal
wrongdoing that it entailed.  Now, however, she did not remember that.
She was only lusting to tell, and quite forgot how she had learned.
Thus, while Head, to gain private ends, endeavoured to find whether Mr.
Baskerville was paying his brother's debts, Susan supposed that his
mind ran upon quite another matter: the relations between Priscilla
Lintern and Humphrey's dead brother.

Mrs. Hacker knew the truth.  She had acquired it in the crudest manner,
by listening at the door during an interview between Nathan's mistress
and her master.  This tremendous information had burnt her soul to
misery ever since; but a thousand reasons for keeping the secret
existed.  Her own good name was involved as much as another's.  She
could not whisper a word for her credit's sake; and a cause that
weighed far heavier with her was the credit of Eliza Gollop.

Eliza had guessed darkly at what Susan now knew; but as a result of her
subterranean hints, Eliza had suffered in the public esteem, for few
believed her.

To confirm Eliza and ratify her implications was quite the last thing
that Mrs. Hacker would have desired to do; and yet such was the magic
sleight of alcohol to masquerade in the shape of reason, justice, and
right--such also its potency to conceal danger--that now this muddled
woman fell.  She was intelligent enough to make Jack promise on Bible
oaths that he would keep her secret; and then she told him the last
thing that he expected to hear.

With acute interest he waited to know Humphrey's future intentions
respecting his brother's creditors; instead he listened to widely
different facts.

"I'll tell you if you'll swear by the Book to keep it to yourself.
I'll be the better for telling it.  'Tis too large a thing for one
woman--there--all that gin--I know 'tis that have loosed my tongue even
while I'm speaking.  And yet, why not?  You're honest.  I'm sure I
can't tell what I ought to do.  You might say 'twas no business of
mine, and I don't wish one of 'em any harm--not for the wide world do
I."

"I'll swear to keep quiet enough, my dear woman.  And 'tis your sense,
not your thimble of liquor, makes you want to talk to me.  If not me,
who?  I'm the sort that knows how to keep a secret, like the grave
knows how to keep its dead.  I'm a friend to you and Mr. Baskerville
both--his greatest friend, you might say."

"In a word, 'tis natural that young Lintern--you swear, Jack--on your
Bible you swear that you won't squeak?"[1]


[1] _Squeak_--break silence.


"I ain't got one; but I'll swear on yours.  You can trust me."

"'Twas natural as Lintern got vexed down there then, and you was lucky
not to feel the weight of his fist.  For why--for why?  He's Nathan's
son!  Gospel truth.  They'm all his: Cora, t'other girl, and Heathman.
The mother of 'em told my master in so many words; and I heard her tell
him.  I was just going into the room, but stopped at the door for some
reason, and, before I could get out of earshot, I'd catched it.  There!"

"Say you was eavesdropping and have done with it," said Mr. Head.  He
took this startling news very quietly, and advised Susan to do the like.

"The less you think about it, the better.  What's done be done.  We
don't know none of the rights of it, and I'm not the sort to blame
anybody--woman or man--for their private actions.  'Tis only Nathan's
public actions I jumped on him for, and if Heathman was twice his son,
I'd not fear to speak if 'twas a matter of justice."

"I didn't ought to have told you, but my mind's a sieve if there's a
drop of gin in my stomach.  I had to let it go to-night.  If I hadn't
told you what I knowed, so like as not I'd have told Mr. Baskerville
hisself when I got back; and then 'twould have comed out that I'd
listened at the door--for I did, God forgive me."

Susan became lachrymose, but Jack renewed his promises and left her
tolerably collected.  The confession had eased her mind, calmed its
excitement, and silenced her tongue also.

Jack tried to learn more of the thing that interested him personally,
but upon that subject she knew nothing.  She believed the general
report: that Mr. Masterman, by secret understanding with the lawyer,
was relieving the poorest of Nathan's creditors; and she inclined to
the opinion that her master had no hand in this philanthropy.

They parted at the garden wicket of Susan's home, and Mr. Head left her
there; but not before she had made him swear again with all solemnity
to keep the secret.




CHAPTER V

As Humphrey Baskerville had pointed out to his nephew Ned, disaster
usually hits the weak harder than the strong, and the lazy man suffers
more at sudden reverses than his neighbour, who can earn a living, come
what trouble may.

Rupert and his wife were prepared to seek a new home, and Milly, at the
bottom of her heart, suffered less from these tribulations than any of
her husband's relations.  The blow had robbed him of nothing, since he
possessed nothing.  To work to win Cadworthy was no longer possible,
but he might do as well and save money as steadily elsewhere; and the
change in their lives for Milly meant something worth having.  In her
heart was a secret wish that her coming child might be born in her own
home.  As for her husband he now waited his time, and did not
immediately seek work, because Humphrey Baskerville directed delay.
His reason was not given, nor would he commit himself to any promise;
but he offered the advice, and Rupert took it.

Mrs. Baskerville's grief at leaving her home proved excessive.  She
belonged to the easy sort of people who are glad to trust their affairs
in any capable control, and she suffered now at this sudden
catastrophe, even as Ned suffered.  She had very little money, and was
constrained to look to her sons for sustenance.  It was proposed that
she and May should find a cottage at Shaugh; but to display her poverty
daily before eyes that had seen her prosperity was not good to her.
She found it hard to decide, and finally hoped to continue life in a
more distant hamlet.  All was still in abeyance, and the spring had
come.  Until Ned's future theatre of toil was certain, his mother would
not settle anything.  She trusted that he might win a respectable post,
but employment did not offer.  Hester's youngest son Humphrey had been
provided for by a friend, and he was now working with Saul Luscombe at
Trowlesworthy.

Then came a date within six weeks of the family's departure.  The
packing was advanced, and still nothing had been quite determined.  Ned
was anxious and troubled; Rupert waited for his uncle to speak.  He
knew of good work at Cornwood, and it was decided that his mother and
May should also move to a cottage in that churchtown, unless Ned
achieved any sort of work within the next few weeks.  Then his plans
might help to determine their own.

At this juncture, unexpectedly on a March evening, came their kinsman
from Hawk House, and Rupert met him at the outer gate.

"Is your mother here?" asked the rider, and when he heard that the
family was within--save Ned, who stayed at Tavistock on his quest--he
dismounted and came among them.

A litter and disorder marked the house.  There were packing-cases in
every room; but less than a moiety of Hester's goods would leave her
home.  She must dwell in a small cottage henceforth, and her furniture,
with much of her china and other precious things, was presently
destined to be sold.  The period of her greatest grief had long passed;
she had faced the future with resignation for many months, and returned
to her usual placidity.  She and her daughter could even plan their
little possessions in a new cottage, and smile together again.  They
had fitted their minds to the changed condition; they had calculated
the probable result of the sale, and Mrs. Baskerville, thrown by these
large reverses from her former easy and tranquil optimism, had fallen
upon the opposite extreme.

She now looked for no amelioration of the future, foresaw no
possibility of adequate work for Ned, and was as dumb as a wounded
horse or cow, even at the tragical suggestion of her son's enlistment.
This he had openly discussed, but finding that none exhibited any
horror before the possibility, soon dropped it again.

To these people came Mr. Baskerville--small, grey, saturnine.  His eyes
were causing him some trouble, and their rims were grown red.  They
thought in secret that he had never looked uglier, and he declared
openly that he had seldom felt worse.

"'Tis the season of the year that always troubles me," he said.  "Gout,
gravel, rheumatism, lumbagy--all at me together.  Nature is a usurer,
Hester, as you may live to find out yet, for all you keep so healthy.
She bankrupts three parts of the men you meet, long afore they pay back
the pinch of dust they have borrowed from her.  The rate of interest on
life runs too high, and that's a fact, even though you be as thrifty of
your powers as you please, and a miser of your vital parts, as I have
always been."

"Your eyes are inflamed seemingly," said his sister-in-law.  "Vivian's
went the same once, but doctor soon cured 'em."

They sat in the kitchen and he spoke to May.

"If you'll hurry tea and brew me a strong cup, I'll thank you.  I feel
just as if 'twould do me a deal of good."

She obeyed at once, and Humphrey, exhibiting a most unusual garrulity
and egotism, continued to discuss himself.

"For all my carcase be under the weather, my mind is pretty clear for
me.  Things be going well, I'm glad to say, and you might almost think
I----  However, no matter for that.  Perhaps it ban't the minute to
expect you to take pleasure at any other's prosperity.  There's nothing
like health, after all.  You'll find yourself more peaceful now,
Hester, now you know the worst of it?"

"Peaceful enough," she said.  "I don't blame myself, and 'tis vain to
blame the dead.  Master trusted his brother Nathan, like you trust
spring to bring the leaves.  Therefore it was right and proper that I
should do the same.  'Twas all put in his hands when Vivian died.  Even
if I would have, I wasn't allowed to do anything.  But, of course, I
trusted Nathan too.  Who didn't?"

"I didn't, never--Rupert will bear me out in that.  I never trusted
him, though I envied the whole-hearted respect and regard the world
paid him.  We envy in another what's denied to ourselves--even faults
sometimes.  Yet I'm pretty cheerful here and there--for me.  Have you
heard any more said about his death and my hand in it?"

"A lot," answered Mrs. Baskerville.  "And most understanding creatures
have quite come round to seeing your side.  Only a man here and there
holds out that you were wrong."

"I may tell you that the reverend Masterman couldn't find no argument
against it.  He came to see me not long since.  He wouldn't be kept to
the case in point, but argued against the principle at large.  When I
pinned him to Nathan at last, he said, though reluctantly, that he
believed he would have done no less for his own brother.  That's a
pretty good one to me--eh?"

"My Uncle Luscombe thinks you did the proper thing," declared Milly.

Presently May called them to the table and handed Humphrey his tea.

He thanked her.

"No sugar," he said, "and you ought not to take none neither, May.
Trouble haven't made you grow no narrower at the waist seemingly."

The girl tried to smile, and her family stared.  Jocosity in this man
was an exhibition almost unparalleled.  If he ever laughed it was
bitterly against the order of things; yet now he jested genially.  The
result was somewhat painful, and none concealed an emotion of
discomfort and restraint.

The old man perceived their surprise and returned into himself a little.

"You'll wonder how I come to talk so much about my own affairs,
perhaps?  'Tisn't often that I do, I believe.  Well, let's drop 'em and
come to yours.  Have you found work, Rupert?"

"I can, when you give the word.  There's Martin at Cornwood wants me,
and mother can come there.  We've seen two houses, either of which
would suit her and May very well.  One, near the church, she likes
best.  There's a cottage that will fit me and Milly not far off."

"Why go and have an expensive move when you can live at Shaugh Prior?"

"I've got my feelings," answered the widow rather warmly.  "You can't
expect me to go there."

Mr. Baskerville asked another question.

"So much for you all, then.  And what of Ned?"

"At Tavistock, wearing out his shoe-leather trying to find work."

"If he's only wearing out shoe-leather, no harm's done."

"He told us what you offered last year, and I'm sure 'twas over and
above what many men would have done," declared Ned's mother.

"I was safe to offer it," he answered.  "'Tis only to say I'll double
nought.  He's not worth a box of matches a week to any man."

"They very near took him on at the riding-school when he offered to go
there."

"But not quite."

"And that gave him the idea to 'list in the horse soldiers.  He knows
all about it, along of being in the yeomanry."

"To enlist?  Well, soldiering's man's work by all accounts, though I
hold 'tis devil's work myself--just the last mischief Satan finds for
idle hands to do."

"It would knock sense into Ned, all the same," argued Rupert.  "The
discipline of it would be good for him, and he might rise."

"But he's not done it, you say?"

"No," answered Mrs. Baskerville.  "He's not done it.  I've suffered so
much, for my part, that when he broke the dreadful thing upon me, I
hadn't a tear left to shed.  And the calm way I took it rather
disappointed him, poor fellow.  He had a right to expect to see me and
May, if not Rupert, terrible stricken at such a thought; but we've been
through such a lot a'ready that we couldn't for the life of us take on
about it.  I'm sure we both cried rivers--cried ourselves dry, you
might say--when Cora Lintern threw him over; but that was the last
straw.  Anything more happening leaves us dazed and stupid, like a
sheep as watches another sheep being killed.  We can't suffer no more."

"Even when Ned went out rather vexed because we took it so calm, and
said he'd end his life, we didn't do anything--did we, mother?" asked
May.

"No," answered Hester.  "We was past doing or caring then--even for
Ned.  Besides, he's offered to make a hole in the water so terrible
often, poor dear fellow.  'Twas a case where I felt the Lord would look
after His own.  Ned may do some useful thing in the world yet.  He's
been very brave over this business--brave as a lion.  'Tis nought to
me.  I'm old, and shan't be here much longer.  But for him and May
'twas a terrible come-along-of-it."

"Ned's a zany, and ever will be," declared Humphrey.  "Rupert, here, is
different, and never was afraid of work.  Fortune didn't fall to him,
and yet 'twas his good fortune to have to face bad fortune, if you
understand that.  Money, till you have learned the use of it, be a gun
in a fool's hand; and success in any shape's the same.  If it comes
afore you know the value and power of it, 'tis a curse and a danger.
It makes you look awry at life, and carry yourself too proud, and
cometh to harm and bitterness.  I know, none so well."

They did not answer.  Then May rose and began to collect the tea things.

Humphrey looked round the dismantled room, and his eyes rested on the
naked mantelshelf.

"Where are all the joanies?"[1] he asked.  "You used to have two big
china figures up there."


[1] _Joanies_--ornaments of glass or china.


"Some are packed, and some will go into the sale.  They two you mean
are worth money, I'm told," explained Mrs. Baskerville.

Then the visitor said a thing that much astonished her.

"'Twill give you trouble now," he remarked, "but 'twill save trouble in
the end.  Let me see them put back again."

Milly looked at May in wonder.  To argue the matter was her first
thought; but May acted.

"They be only in the next room, with other things to be sold," she
said.  "You can see them again, uncle, if you mind to."

Rupert spoke while she was from the room.

"Why don't you buy 'em, uncle?  They'd look fine at your place."

"Put 'em back on the shelf," answered Mr. Baskerville.  "And, what's
more, you may, or may not, be glad to know they can stop there.  'Tis a
matter of no account at all, and I won't have no talk about it, but you
can feel yourself free to stay, Hester, if you'd rather not make a
change at your time of life.  You must settle it with Rupert and your
darter.  In a word, I've had a tell with the owner of the farm and he's
agreeable."

"I know he's agreeable," answered Humphrey's nephew, "but I'm not
agreeable to his rent."

"If you'd keep your mouth shut till you'd heard me, 'twould be better.
I was going to say that Mr. Westcott of Cann Quarries, who foreclosed
on the mortgage of this place when your uncle died--Mr. Westcott is
agreeable to let me have Cadworthy; and, in a word, Cadworthy's mine."

May came in at this moment with the old china figures.  She entered a
profound silence, and returned the puppets to their old places on the
mantelpiece.  It seemed that this act carried with it support and
confirmation of the startling thing that Hester Baskerville had just
heard.

Humphrey spoke again.

"Past candle-teening, and snow offering from the north.  I must be
gone.  Fetch up my pony, Rupert, and then you can travel a bit of the
way back along with me."

His nephew was glad to be gone.  A highly emotional spirit began to
charge the air.  Hester had spoken to May, and her daughter, grown
white and round-eyed, was trying to speak.

"You mean--you mean we can all stop, and Rupert can go on here?" she
said at last.

"If he thinks it good enough.  He'd bought back a bit of the place
a'ready, as he thought, from Ned.  I can go into all that with him.
And for you women--well, you're used to the rounds of Cadworthy, and
I'm used to your being here.  You've done nought but trust a weak man.
I don't want all the blue[2] to be off the plum for you yet.  But I
waited till now, because you'll see, looking back, that you'll be none
the worse for smarting a few months.  I've smarted all my life, and I'm
not very much the worse, I suppose.  So now I'll be gone, and you can
unpack when you please."


[2] _Blue_--bloom.


They could not instantly grasp this great reversal of fortune.

"Be you sure?" asked his niece.  "Oh, uncle, be you sure?"

"Sure and sure, and double sure.  A very good investment, with a man
like your brother Rupert to work it for me.  But let him see the rent's
paid on the nail."

He rose, and Mrs. Baskerville tried to rise also, but her legs refused
to carry her.

"Get my salts," she said to Milly; then she spoke to her brother-in-law.

"I'm a bit dashed at such news," she began.  "It have made my bones go
to a jelly.  'Tis almost too much at my age.  The old can't stand joy
like the young; they'm better tuned to face trouble.  But to stop
here--to stop here--'tis like coming back after I'd thought I was gone.
I can't believe 'tis true.  My God, I'd said 'good-bye' to it all.  The
worst was over."

"No, it wasn't," answered Humphrey.  "You think 'twas; but I know
better.  The worst would have come the day the cart waited, and you got
up and drove off.  Now cheer yourself and drink a drop of spirits.  And
don't expect Rupert home till late.  I'll take him back with me to
supper."

He offered his hand, and the woman kissed it.  Whereupon he uttered a
sound of irritation, looked wildly at her, and glared at his fingers as
though there had been blood upon them instead of tears.  Milly stopped
with Mrs. Baskerville; May went to the door with her uncle and helped
him into his coat.

"I can't say nothing," she whispered.  "It won't bear talking
about--only--only----  If you knew how I loved mother----"

"Be quiet," he answered.  "Don't you play the fool too.  I let you fret
to get your fat down a bit--that was the main reason, I do believe; and
now you'll only get stouter than ever, of course.  Go back to her, and
let's have no nonsense; and, mind, when I come over again, that my
house is tidy.  I never see such a jakes of a mess as you've got it in."

He went out and met Rupert at the gate.

"You'd best to come back with me," he said.  "I've told them you'll sup
at Hawk House.  'Twill give 'em time to calm down.  It takes nought to
fluster a woman."

"'Nought'!  You call this 'nought'!"

Rupert helped Mr. Baskerville on to his pony and walked beside him.  It
was now nearly dark, and a few flakes of snow already fell.

"Winter have waited for March," said Humphrey; "and I waited for March.
You might ask why for I let 'em have all this trouble.  'Twas done for
their good.  They'll rate what they've got all the higher now that it
had slipped from them; and so will you."

Rupert said nothing.

"Yes," repeated his uncle; "winter waited for the new year, and so did
I.  And now 'tis for you to say whether you'll stop at my farm or no."

"Of course, I'll stop."

"No silly promises, mind.  This is business.  You needn't be thanking
me; and in justice we've got to think of that fool, your elder brother.
But be it as it will, 'tis Hester's home for her time."

"I'll stop so long as my mother lives."

"And a bit after, I hope, if you don't want to quarrel with me.  But I
shall be dead myself, come to think of it.  What shall I forget next?
So much for that.  We'll go into figures after supper."

"I know you don't want no thanks nor nothing of that sort," said
Rupert; "but you know me pretty well, and you know what I feel upon it.
'Tis a masterpiece of goodness in you to do such a thing."

"Say no more.  I've killed two birds with one stone, as my crafty
manner is.  That's all.  'Tis a very good farm, and I've got it cheap;
and I've got you cheap--thanks to your mother.  I benefit most--my
usual way in business."

They passed along, and the snow silenced the footfall of horse and man.
Near Hawk House came the sudden elfin cry of a screech-owl from the
darkness of the woods.

"Hush!" said Humphrey, drawing up.  "List to that.  I'm glad we heard
it.  A keeper down along boasted to me a week ago that he'd shot every
owl for a mile round; but there's a brave bird there yet, looking round
for his supper."

The owl cried again.

"'Tis a sound I'm very much addicted to," explained Mr. Baskerville.
"And likewise I'm glad to hear the noise of they kris-hawks sporting,
and the bark of a fox.  They be brave things that know no fear, and go
cheerful through a world of enemies.  I respect 'em."

"You never kill a snake, 'tis said."

"Not I--I never kill nought.  A snake's to be pitied, not killed.
He'll meddle with none as don't meddle with him.  I've watched 'em
scores an' scores o' times.  They be only humble worms that go upon
their bellies dirt low, but they gaze upward for ever with their
wonnerful eyes.  Belike Satan looked thus when they flinged him out of
heaven."

"You beat me," said Rupert.  "You can always find excuses for varmints,
never for men."

His uncle grunted.

"Most men are varmints," he answered.




CHAPTER VI

The effect of his financial tribulation on Jack Head was not good.
Whatever might have been of Humphrey Baskerville's theories as to the
value worldly misfortune and the tonic property of bad luck upon
character, in this man's case the disappearance of his savings deranged
his usual common-sense, and indicated that his rational outlook was not
based upon sure foundations.  From the trumpery standpoint of his
personal welfare, it seemed, after all, that he appraised life; and
upon his loss a native acerbity and intolerance increased.  He grew
morose, his quality of humour failed him, and his mind, deprived of
this cathartic and salutary sense, grew stagnant.  At his best Jack was
never famed for a delicate choice of time or place when pushing his
opinions.  Propriety in this connection he took pleasure in
disregarding.  He flouted convention, and loved best to burst his
bombshells where they were most certain to horrify and anger.
Following the manner of foolish propagandists, he seldom selected the
psychological moment for his onslaughts; nor did he perceive that half
the battle in these cases may depend upon nice choice of opportunity.

There came an evening, some time after he had learnt the secret of the
Lintern family, when Head, returning to Shaugh Prior, fell in with
Cora, who walked upon the same road.  He had never liked her, and now
remembered certain aggressive remarks recently cast at him by her
brother.  The man was going slower than the woman, and had not meant to
take any notice of her, but the somewhat supercilious nod she gave him
touched his spleen, and he quickened his pace and went along beside her.

"Hold on," he said, "I'll have a tell with you.  'Tisn't often you hear
sense, I believe."

Cora, for once in a mood wholly seraphic over private affairs, showed
patience.

"I'm in a bit of a hurry, but I've always got time to hear sense," she
said.

Thus unexpectedly met, Mr. Head found himself with nothing to say.  One
familiar complaint at that time running against Cora for the moment he
forgot.  Therefore he fell back upon her brother.

"You might tell Heathman I was a good bit crossed at the way he spoke
to me two nights agone.  I've as much right to my opinion as him, and
if I say that the late Nathan Baskerville was no better than he should
be, and not the straight, God-fearing man he made us think--well, I'm
only saying what everybody knows."

"That's true," she said.  "Certainly a good many people know that."

"Exactly so.  Then why for does he jump down my throat as if I was
backbiting the dead?  Truth's truth, and it ban't a crime to tell the
truth about a man after he's dead, any more than it be while he's
alive."

"More it is.  Very often you don't know the truth till a man's dead.
My brother's a bit soft.  All the same, you must speak of people as you
find them.  And Heathman had no quarrel with Mr. Baskerville, though
most sensible people had seemingly.  He was a tricky man, and nobody
can pretend he was honest or straight.  He's left a deal of misery
behind him."

The relationship between Cora and Nathan Baskerville suddenly flashed
into Jack's memory.  Her remark told him another fact: he judged from
it that she could not be aware of the truth.  It seemed improbable that
Cora could utter such a sentiment if she knew that she spoke of her
father.  Then he remembered how Heathman certainly knew the truth, and
he assumed that Cora must also know it.  She was, therefore, revealing
her true thoughts, secure in the belief that, since her companion would
be ignorant of the relationship between her and the dead, she need
pretend to no conventional regard before him.  At another time Jack
Head might have approved her frankness, but to-day he designed to
quarrel, and chose to be angered at this unfilial spirit.  Upon that
subject his mouth was sealed, but there returned to him the
recollection of her last achievement.  He reminded her of it and rated
her bitterly.

"Very well for you to talk of dishonest men and crooked dealings," he
retorted.  "You, that don't know the meaning of a straight deed--you
that flung over one chap and made him hang himself, and now have flung
over another.  You may flounce and flirt and walk quick, but I'll walk
quick too, and I tell you you're no better than a giglet
wench--heartless, greedy, good for nought.  You chuck Ned Baskerville
after keeping him on the hooks for years.  And why?  Because he came
down in the world with a run, and you knew that you'd have to work if
you took him, and couldn't wear fine feathers and ape the beastly
people who drive about in carriages."

Her lips tightened and she flashed at him.

"You stupid fool!" she said.  "You, of all others, to blame me--you,
who were never tired of bawling out what a worthless thing the man was.
You ought to be the first to say he's properly punished, and the first
to say I'm doing the right thing; and so you would, but just because
you've lost a few dirty pounds, you go yelping and snarling at
everybody.  You're so mighty clever that perhaps you'll tell me why I
should marry a pauper, who can't find work far or near, because he's
never learnt how to work.  Why must I keep in with a man like that, and
get children for him, and kill myself for him, and go on the parish at
the end?  You're so fond of putting everybody right, perhaps you'll put
me right."

The other was not prepared for this vigorous counter-attack.

"Very well for you to storm," he said; "but you only do it to hide your
own cowardly nature.  You pretended you was in love with him, and took
his gifts, and made him think you meant to marry him, and stick up for
him for better, for worse; but far from it.  You was only in love with
his cash, and hadn't got no use for the man.  I'm not saying you would
do well to marry him for the minute; but to chuck him when he's
down----"

"You're a one-sided idiot--like most other men," she answered.  "'Tis
so easy for you frosty creatures, with no more feeling than a frog, to
talk about 'love' and 'waiting.'  There, you make a sane woman wild!
Waiting, waiting--and what becomes of me while I'm waiting?  I'm a
lovely woman, you old fool, don't you understand what that means?
Waiting--waiting--and will time wait?  Look at the crows'-feet coming.
Look at the line betwixt my eyebrows and the lines from my nose, each
side, to the corners of my mouth.  Will they wait?  No, curse 'em, they
get deeper and deeper, and no rubbing will rub 'em out, and no waiting
will make them lighter.  So easy to bleat about 'faithfulness' and
'patience' if you're ugly as a gorilla and flat as a pancake.  I'm
lovely, and I'm a pauper, and I've got nought but loveliness to stand
between me and a rotten life and a rotten death in the workhouse.  So
there it is.  Don't preach no more of your cant to me, for I won't have
it."

She was furious; the good things in her mind had slipped for the moment
away.  While uttering this tirade she stood still, and Mr. Head did the
like.  He saw her argument perfectly well.  He perceived that she had
reason on her side, but her impatience and scorn angered him.  Her main
position he could not shake, but he turned upon a minor issue and made
feeble retort.

His answer failed dismally in every way.  Of its smallness and weakness
she took instant advantage; and, further, it reminded her of the
satisfactory event that Mr. Head had for the moment banished from her
mind.

"Hard words won't make the case better for you," he began.  "And to be
well-looking outside is nought if you're damned ugly inside; and that's
what you be; and that's what everybody very well knows by now."

She sneered at him.

"Parson's talk--and poor at that.  If you want to snuffle that sort of
trash you'd better ask Mr. Masterman to teach you how.  You, of all
folk--so wise and such a book-reader!  What's the good of telling that
to me?  'Tis the outside we see, and the outside we judge by; and, for
the rest, you'll do well to mind your own business, and not presume to
lecture your betters."

"Very grand!  Very high and mighty, to be sure.  That's how you talked
to Humphrey Baskerville, I suppose, and got a flea in your ear for your
pains.  And I'll give you another.  'Tis the inside that matters, and
not the out, though your empty mind thinks different.  And mark this:
you'll go begging now till you're an old woman; and 'twon't be long
before you'll have your age dashed in your face by every female you
anger.  Yes, you'll go begging now--none will have you--none will take
you with your record behind you.  An old maid you'll be, and an old
maid you'll deserve to be.  You just chew the end of that."

"What a beast you are!" she retorted.  "What a low-minded, cowardly
creature to strike a woman so.  But you spoke too soon as usual.  The
likes of you to dare to say that!  You, that don't know so much about
women as you do about rabbits!"

"I know enough about men, anyhow, and I know no man will ever look at
you again."

"Liar!  A man asked me to marry him months ago!  But little did I think
you'd be the first to know it when we decided that it should be known.
He asked, and he was a man worth calling one, and I took him, so you
may just swallow your own lies again and choke yourself with 'em.
You're terrible fond of saying everybody's a fool--well, 'twill take
you all your time to find a bigger one than yourself after to-day.  And
don't you never speak to me again, because I won't have it.  Like your
cheek--a common labouring man!--ever to have spoke to me at all.  And
if you do again, I'll tell Mr. Timothy Waite to put his whip round your
shoulders, so now then!"

"Him!"

"Yes, 'him'; and now you can go further off, and keep further off in
future."

She hastened forward to carry her news to other ears, and Jack Head
stood still until she was out of sight.  He felt exceedingly angry, but
his anger swiftly diminished, and he even found it possible to laugh at
himself before he reached Shaugh Prior.  He knew right well that he
must look a fool, but the knowledge did not increase his liking for
Cora Lintern.  He reflected on what he had heard, and saw her making
fun of him in many quarters.  He even debated a revenge, but no way
offered.  Once he speculated as to what her betrothed would say if he
knew the truth of Cora's paternity; but, to do him justice, not the
faintest thought of revealing the secret tempted Jack.

"Leave it, and she'll most likely wreck herself with him," he thought.
"Waite's a sharp chap, and not easily hoodwinked.  So like as not, when
he's seen a bit of her mean soul he'll think twice while there's time."

Mr. Head began to reflect again upon his own affairs, and, finding
himself at the vicarage gate, went in and asked for Dennis Masterman.
The rumour persisted, and even grew, that Dennis was paying back
certain losses incurred at Nathan Baskerville's death among the poorest
of the community.  The fact had wounded Mr. Head's sense of justice,
and he was determined to throw some light on Masterman's foggy
philanthropy.  The vicar happened to be in, and soon Mr. Head appeared
before him.  Their interview lasted exactly five minutes, and Jack was
in the street again.  He explained his theory at some length, and gave
it as his opinion that to pick and choose the cases was not defensible.
He then explained his own loss, and invited Mr. Masterman to say
whether a more deserving and unfortunate man might be found within the
quarters of the parish.  The clergyman listened patiently and answered
with brevity.

"I hear some of the people are being helped, but personally the donor
is not known to me.  I have nothing to do with it.  He, or
she--probably a lady, for they do that sort of thing oftenest--is not
responsible to anybody; but, as far as I have heard, a very good choice
has been made among the worst sufferers.  As to your case, Jack, it
isn't such a very hard one.  You are strong and hale still, and you've
got nobody to think of but yourself.  We know, at any rate, that Mr.
Nathan Baskerville did a lot of good with other people's money.  Isn't
that what you Socialists are all wanting to do?  But I dare say this
misfortune has modified your views a little here and there.  I've never
yet met a man with fifty pounds in the bank who was what I call a
Socialist.  Good-evening to you, Jack."




CHAPTER VII

Alice Masterman, the vicar's sister, came in to speak with Dennis after
Jack Head had gone.  He was composing a sermon, but set it aside at
once, for the tone of her voice declared that she could brook no denial.

"It's Voysey," she said.  "I'm sorry to trouble you about him again,
but he's got bronchitis."

"Well, send him some soup or something.  Has that last dozen of parish
port all gone yet?"

"I was thinking of another side to it," she confessed.  "Don't you
think this might be an excellent opportunity to get rid of him?"

"Isn't that rather hitting a man when he's down?"

"Well, it's perfectly certain you'll never hit him when he's up again.
If you only realised how the man robs us--indirectly, I mean.  He
doesn't actually steal, I suppose, but look at the seed and the
thousand and one things he's always wanting in the garden, and nothing
to show but weeds."

"You must be fair, Alice.  There are miles of large, fat cabbages out
there."

"Cabbages, yes; and when I almost go down on my knees for one, he says
they're not ready and mustn't be touched.  He caught the cook getting a
sprig of parsley yesterday, and was most insolent.  She says that if he
opens his mouth to her again she'll give warning; and she means it.
And even you know that cooks are a thousand times harder to get than
gardeners."

Dennis sighed and looked at his manuscript.

"Funny you should say these things--I'm preaching about the fruits of
the earth next Sunday."

"The man's maddening--always ready with an excuse.  The garden must be
swarming with every blight and horror that was ever known, according to
him.  And somehow I always feel he's being impertinent all the time
he's speaking to me, though there's nothing you can catch hold of.  Now
it's mice, and now it's birds, and now it's canker in the air, or some
nonsense; and now it's the east wind, and now it's the west wind--I'm
sick of it; and if you ask for an onion he reminds you, with quite an
injured air, that he took three into the house last week.  There's a
wretched cauliflower we had ages ago, and he's always talking about it
still, as if it had been a pineapple at least."

"I know he's tiresome.  I tell you what--wait till he's back, and then
I'll give him a serious talking to."

"Only two days ago I met him lumbering up with that ridiculous basket
he always will carry--a huge thing, large enough to hold a sack of
potatoes.  And in the bottom were three ridiculous little lettuces from
the frame, about as long as your thumb.  I remonstrated, and, of
course, he was ready.  'I know to a leaf what his reverence eats,' he
said; 'and if that woman in the kitchen, miscalled a cook, don't serve
'em up proper, that's not my fault.'  He didn't seem to think I ever
ate anything out of the garden."

"Old scoundrel!  I'll talk to him severely.  I've had a rod in pickle
ever since last year."

Dennis laughed suddenly, but his sister was in no laughing mood.

"I really can't see the funny side," she declared.

"Of course not.  There is none.  He's a fraud; but I remembered what
Travers said last year--you recollect?  The thrips and bug and all
sorts of things got into the vines, and we asked Travers what was the
matter, and he explained what a shameful muddle Voysey had made.  Then,
when Joe had gone chattering off, saying the grapes were worth five
shillings a pound in open market, and that they'd only lost their bloom
because we kept fingering them, Travers said he looked as if he was
infested with thrips and mealy bug himself.  I shall always laugh when
I think of that--it was so jolly true."

"I hate a man who never owns that he is wrong; and I do wish you'd get
rid of him.  It's only fair to me.  I have but few pleasures, and the
garden is one of them.  He tramples and tears, and if you venture to
ask him to tidy--well, you know what happens.  The next morning the
garden looks as though there had been a plague of locusts in
it--everything has gone."

"He ought to retire; but he's saved nothing worth mentioning, poor old
fool!"

"That's his affair."

"It ought to be; but you know well enough that improvidence all round
is my affair.  We are faced with it everywhere.  Head has just been in
here.  There's a rumour about the poor people that the innkeeper
swindled.  He took their savings, and there's nobody to pay them back
now he's gone.  But it seems that here and there those hit
hardest--mostly women--have had their money again.  Not your work, I
hope, Alice?  But I know what you do with your cash.  Voysey was
talking about it a little time ago, and I blamed him for not having
saved some money himself by this time.  He said, 'Better spend what you
earn on yourself than give it to somebody else to save for you.'  The
misfortunes of the people seemed to have pleased him a good deal.
'We'm mostly in the same box now,' he said; 'but I had the rare sense
to spend my brass myself.  I've had the value of it in beer and
tobacco, if no other way.'"

"Detestable old man!  And Gollop's no better.  Anybody but you would
have got rid of them both years and years ago."

"They must retire soon--they simply must.  They're the two eldest men
in the parish."

"And, of course, you'll pension them, or some such nonsense."

"Indeed, I shall do no such thing.  Perhaps this is the end of Voysey.
He may see the sense of retiring now."

"Not he.  He'll be ill for six weeks, and lie very snug and comfortable
drawing his money at home; then, when the weather gets to suit him,
he'll crawl out again.  And everything that goes wrong all through next
year will be owing to his having been laid by."

"I'll talk to him," repeated her brother.  "I'll talk to him and Gollop
together.  Gollop has pretty well exhausted my patience, I assure you."

Miss Masterman left him with little hope, and he resumed his sermon on
the fruits of the earth.

But next Sunday the unexpected happened, and Thomas Gollop, even in the
clergyman's opinion, exceeded the bounds of decency by a scandalous
omission.

It happened thus.  The sexton, going his rounds before morning service,
was confronted with an unfamiliar object in the churchyard.  A
tombstone had sprung up above the dust of Nathan Baskerville.  He
rubbed his eyes with astonishment, because the time for a memorial was
not yet, and Thomas must first have heard of it and made ready before
its erection.  Here, however, stood what appeared to be a square slate,
similar in design to those about it; but investigation proved that an
imitation stone had been set up, and upon the boards, painted to
resemble slate, was inscribed a ribald obituary notice of the dead.  It
scoffed at his pretensions, stated the worst that could be said against
him, and concluded with a scurrility in verse that consigned him to the
devil.

Now, by virtue of his office, apart from the fact of being a
responsible man enlisted on the side of all that was seemly and
decorous, Mr. Gollop should have removed this offence as quickly as
possible before any eye could mark it.  Thus he would have disappointed
those of the baser sort who had placed it there by night, and arrested
an outrage before any harm was done by it.  But, instead, he studied
the inscription with the liveliest interest, and found himself much in
sympathy therewith.

Here was the world's frank opinion on Nathan Baskerville.  The
innkeeper deserved such a censure, and Thomas saw no particular reason
why he should interfere.  He was alone, and none had observed him.
Therefore he shuffled off and, rather than fetch his spade and barrow
to dig up this calumny and remove it, left the board for others to
discover.

This they did before the bells began to ring, and when Dennis Masterman
entered the churchyard, on his way to the vestry, he was arrested by
the sight of a considerable crowd collected about the Baskerville
graves.  The people were trampling over the mounds, and standing up on
the monuments to get a better view.  On the outskirt of the gathering
was Ben North in a state of great excitement; but single-handed the
policeman found himself unable to cope with the crowd.  A violent
quarrel was proceeding at the centre of this human ring, and Masterman
heard Gollop's voice and that of Heathman Lintern.  Dennis ordered some
yelling choir-boys down off a flat tomb, then pushed his way through
his congregation.  Parties had been divided as to the propriety of the
new monument, and the scene rather resembled that in the past, when
Nathan Baskerville was buried.

As the vicar arrived, Heathman Lintern, who had lost his self-control,
was just knocking Mr. Gollop backwards into the arms of his sister.
The man and woman fell together, and, with cries and hisses, others
turned on Heathman.  Then a force rallied to the rescue.  Sunday hats
were hurled off and trampled into the grass; Sunday coats were torn;
Sunday collars were fouled.  Not until half a dozen men, still
fighting, had been thrust out of the churchyard, was Dennis able to
learn the truth.  Then he examined the cause of the riot and listened
to Lintern.

The young man was bloody and breathless, but he gasped out his tale.  A
dozen people were already inspecting the new gravestone when Heathman
passed the church on his way to chapel with his mother and sisters.  He
left them to see the cause of interest, and, discovering it, ordered
Gollop instantly to remove it.  This the sexton declined to do on the
ground that it was Sunday.  Thereupon, fetching tools, Heathman himself
prepared to dig up the monument.  But he was prevented.  Many of the
people approved of the joke and decreed that the board must stand.
They arrested Heathman in his efforts to remove it.  Then others took
his side and endeavoured to drag down the monument.

Having heard both Lintern and Gollop, the clergyman read the mock
inscription.

"D'you mean to say that you refuse to remove this outrageous thing?" he
asked the sexton; but Thomas was in no mood for further reprimand.  He
had suffered a good deal in credit and temper.  Now he mopped a
bleeding nose and was insolent.

"Yes, I do; and I won't break the Fourth Commandment for you or fifty
parsons.  Who the mischief be you to tell me to labour on the Lord's
Day, I should like to know?  You'll bid me covet my neighbour's ass and
take my neighbour's wife next, perhaps?  And, when all's said, this
writing be true and a lesson to the parish.  Let 'em have the truth for
once, though it do turn their tender stomachs."

"Get out of the churchyard, you old blackguard!" cried Heathman.
"You're a disgrace to any persuasion, and you did ought to be hounded
out of a decent village."

"Leave Gollop to me, Lintern.  Now lend a hand here, a few of you; get
this infamous thing away and destroyed before anybody else sees it.
And the rest go into church at once.  Put on your surplices quick, you
boys; and you, Jenkins, tell Miss Masterman to play another voluntary."

Dennis issued his orders and then helped to dig up this outrage among
the tombs.  Thomas Gollop and his sister departed together.  Ben North,
Lintern, and another assisted Mr. Masterman.

Then came Humphrey Baskerville upon his way to church, and, despite the
entreaty of the young clergyman that he would not read the thing set up
over Nathan's grave, insisted on doing so.

"I hear in the street there's been a row about a tombstone to my
brother.  Who put it there?  'Tis too soon by half.  I shall lift a
stone to the man when the proper time comes," he said.

"It isn't a stone, it's an unseemly insult--an outrage.  Not the work
of Shaugh men, I hope.  I shall investigate the thing to the bottom,"
answered Dennis.

"Let me see.  Stay your hand, Lintern."

The old man put on his glasses deliberately, and read the evil words.

"Tear it down," he said.  "That ban't all the truth about the man, and
half the truth is none.  Quick, away with it!  There's my sister-in-law
from Cadworthy coming into the gate."

The burlesque tombstone was hurried away, and Masterman went into the
vestry.  Others entered church, and Heathman at last found himself
alone.  The bells stopped, the organ ceased to grunt, and the service
proceeded; but young Lintern was only concerned with his own labours.
He ransacked Mr. Gollop's tool-shed adjoining the vestry.  It was
locked, but he broke it open, and, finding a hatchet there, proceeded
to make splinters of the offending inscription.  He chopped and chopped
until his usual equitable humour returned to him.  Then, the work
completed, he returned to his father's grave and repaired the broken
mound.  He was engaged upon this task to the murmur of the psalms, when
Jack Head approached and bade him 'good-morning.'

"A pretty up-store, I hear.  And you in the midst of it--eh?"

"I was, and I'd do the same for any chap that did such a beastly thing.
If I thought you had any hand in it, Jack----"

The other remembered that the son of the dead was speaking to him.

"Not me," he answered.  "I have a pretty big grudge against Nathan
Baskerville that was, and I won't deny it; but this here--insults on
his tomb--'tis no better than to kick the dead.  Besides, what's the
use?  It won't right the wrong, or put my money back in my pocket.  How
did it go--the words, I mean?"

"I've forgot 'em," answered Heathman.  "Least said, soonest mended, and
if it don't do one thing, and that is get Gollop the sack, I shall be a
bit astonished."

He laughed.

"You should 'a' seen the old monkey just now!  He was the first to mark
this job, and he let it stand for all to see, and was glad they should
see it--shame to him."

"Wrote it himself so like as not."

"Hadn't the wit to.  But he left it, and he was well pleased at it.
And then, when I ordered him as sexton to take it down, he wouldn't,
and so I lost my head and gave him a tap on the ribs, and over he went
into his sister's arms, as was standing screeching like a poll-parrot
just behind him.  Both dropped; then Tom Sparkes hit me in the mouth;
and so we went on very lively till Mr. Masterman came."

"Wouldn't have missed it for money," said Jack.  "But just my luck to
be t'other side the village at such a moment."

He sat down on a sepulchre and filled his pipe.  He knew well why
Heathman had thrown himself so fiercely into this quarrel, and he
admired him for it.  The sight of the young man reminded him of his
sister.

"So your Cora is trying a third, she tells me?"

"Yes; 'tis Tim Waite this time," answered Cora's brother.  "I shouldn't
envy him much--or any man who had to live his life along with her."

"You're right there: no heart--that's what was left out when she was
a-making.  She told me the news a bit ago, just when I was giving her a
rap over the knuckles on account of that other fool, Ned Baskerville.
And she got the best of the argument--I'll allow that.  In fact, you
might say she scored off me proper, for I told her that no decent chap
would ever look at her again, and what does she answer?  Why, that Tim
Waite's took her."

"Yes, 'tis so.  He and me was talking a bit ago.  He'll rule her."

"But I got it back on Cora," continued Mr. Head.  "I'm not the sort to
be beat in argument and forget it.  Not I!  I'll wait, if need be, for
a month of Sundays afore I make my answer; but I always laugh last, and
none don't ever get the whip-hand of me for long.  And last week I
caught up with her again, as we was travelling by the same road, and I
gave her hell's delights, and told her the ugly truth about herself
till she could have strangled me if she'd been strong enough."

"I know you did.  She came home in a pretty tantara--blue with temper;
and she's going to tell Waite about it.  But don't you sing small,
Jack; don't you let Timothy bully you."

"No man bullies me," said Head; "least and last of all a young man.
Waite have too much sense, I should hope, to fall foul of me.  But if
it comes to that, I can give him better than he'll give me--a long
sight better, too."

"The Cadworthy people have been a bit off us since Cora dropped Ned,"
declared Heathman.  "No wonder, neither, but my mother's cruel galled
about it.  'Twasn't her fault, however.  Still, that's how it lies."

Mr. Head was examining this situation when the people began to come out
of church.

He rose, therefore, and went his way, while Heathman also departed.
Many returned to the outraged grave, but all was restored to order, and
nothing remained to see.




CHAPTER VIII

Jack Head presently carried his notorious grievances to Humphrey
Baskerville, and waited upon him one evening in summer time.  They had
not met for many weeks, and Jack, though he found little leisure to
mark the ways of other people at this season, could not fail to note a
certain unwonted cheerfulness in the master of Hawk House.  Humphrey's
saturnine spirit was at rest for the moment.  To-night he talked upon a
personal topic, and found evident pleasure in a circumstance which,
from the standpoint of his visitor, appeared exceedingly trivial.  The
usual relations of these men seemed changed, and Mr. Baskerville showed
the more reasonable and contented mind, while Jack displayed an active
distrust of everything and everybody.

"I wanted a bit of a tell with you," he began, "and thought I might
come over."

"Come in and welcome," answered Humphrey.  "I hope I see you pretty
middling?"

"Yes, well enough for that matter.  And you?"

"Never better.  'Tis wonnerful how the rheumatics be holding off--along
of lemons.  You might stare, but 'tis a flame-new remedy of doctor's.
Lemon juice--pints of it."

"Should have reckoned there was enough lemon in your nature without
adding to it."

"Enough and to spare.  Yet you needn't rub that home to-day.  I've
heard a thing that's very much pleased me, I may tell you.  Last news
such a cranky and uncomfortable man as me might have expected."

"Wish I could hear summat that would please me, I'm sure," said Jack.
"But all that ever I hear of nowadays is other people's good luck.  And
there's nothing more damned uninteresting after a bit.  Not that I
grudge t'others----"

"Of course you don't--not with your high opinions.  You've said to me a
score of times that there's no justice in the world, therefore 'tis no
use your fretting about not getting any.  We must take things as we
find them."

"And what's your luck, then?  More money rolling in, I suppose?"

"My luck--so to call it--mightn't look over large to another.  'Tis
that my nephew Rupert and his wife want for me to be godfather to their
babe.  The child will be called after me, and I'm to stand godfather;
and I'll confess to you, in secret, that I'm a good deal pleased about
it."

Jack sniffed and spat into the fire.  He took a pipe out of his pocket,
stuffed it, and lighted it before he answered.

"I was going to say that little things please little minds, but I
won't," he began.  "If you can find pleasure in such a trifle--well,
you'm fortunate.  I should have reckoned with all the misery there is
in the world around you, that there'd be more pain than pleasure in----"

He broke off.

"'Tis the thought," explained Mr. Baskerville.  "It shows that they
young people feel towards me a proper and respectful feeling.  It shows
that they'd trust me to be a godparent to this newborn child.  I know
very well that folk are often asked just for the sake of a silver
spoon, or a christening mug; but my nephew Rupert and his wife Milly be
very different to that.  There's no truckling in them.  They've thought
this out, and reckoned I'm the right man--old as I am.  And naturally I
feel well satisfied about it."

"Let that be, then.  If you're pleased, their object be gained, for
naturally they want to please you.  Why not?  You must die sooner or
later, though nobody's better content than me to hear you'm doing so
clever just at present.  But go you must, and then there's your mighty
fortune got to be left to something or somebody."

"Mighty's not the word, Jack."

"Ban't it?  Then a little bird tells the people a lot of lies.  And,
talking of cash, I'm here over that matter myself."

But Humphrey was not interested in cash for the moment.

"They sent me a very well-written letter on the subject," he continued.
"On the subject of the child.  'Twas more respectful to me and less
familiar to put it in writing--so they thought.  And I've written back
a long letter, and you shall hear just how I wrote, if you please.
There's things in my letter I'd rather like you to hear."

Mr. Head showed impatience, and the other was swift to mark it.

"Another time, if 'tis all the same to you," Jack replied.  "Let me get
off what's on my chest first.  Then I'll be a better listener.  I
ha'n't got much use for second-hand wisdom for the moment."

Mr. Baskerville had already picked up his letter; but now he flung the
pages back upon his desk and his manner changed.

"Speak," he said.  "You learn me a lesson.  Ban't often I'm wrapped up
in my own affairs, I believe.  I beg your pardon, Head."

"No need to do that.  Only, seen from my point, with all my misfortunes
and troubles on my mind, this here twopenny-halfpenny business of
naming a newborn babby looks very small.  You can't picture it, no
doubt--you with your riches and your money breeding like rabbits.  But
for a man such as me, to see the sweat of his brow swept away all at a
stroke--nought else looks of much account."

"Haven't you got over that yet?"

"No, I haven't; and more wouldn't you, if somebody had hit you so hard."

"Say your say then, if 'twill do you any sort of good."

"What I want to know is this.  Why for do Lawyer Popham help one man
and not help t'other?  Why do this person--I dare say you know who
'tis--do what he's doing and pick and choose according to his fancy?
It isn't Masterman or I'd have gived him a bit of my mind about it.
And if I could find out who it was, I would do so."

"The grievance is that you don't get your bit back?  Are you the only
one?"

"No, I'm not.  There's a lot more going begging the same way.  And if
you know the man, you can tell him from me that he may think he'm doing
a very fine thing, but in my opinion he isn't."

Mr. Baskerville had relapsed into his old mood.

"So much for your sense, then--you that pride yourself such a lot on
being the only sane man among us.  Have you ever looked into the
figures?"

"I've looked into my own figures, and they be all I care about."

"Exactly so!  But them that want to right this wrong have looked into
all the figures; and so they know a great deal more about 'em than you
do.  You're not everybody.  You're a hale, hearty creature getting good
wages.  More than one man that put away money with my brother is dead
long ago, and there are women and children to be thought upon; and a
bedridden widow, and two twin boys, both weak in the head; and a few
other such items.  Why for shouldn't there be picking and choosing?  If
you'd been going to lend a hand yourself and do a bit for charity,
wouldn't you pick and choose?  Ban't all life picking and choosing?
Women and childer first is the rule in any shipwreck, I believe--afloat
or ashore.  And if you was such a born fool as to trust, because others
trusted, and follow the rest, like a sheep follows his neighbour sheep,
then I should reckon you deserve to whistle for your money.  If this
chap, who was fond of my brother and be set on clearing his name, will
listen to me, you and the likes of you will have to wait a good few
years yet for your bit--if you ever get it at all.  You ought to know
better--you as would shoulder in afore the weak!  And now you can go.
I don't want to see you no more, till you've got into a larger frame of
mind."

"What a cur-dog you be!" said Head, rising and scowling fiercely.  "So
much for Christian charity and doing to your neighbour as you would
have him do to you--so much for all your cant about righteousness.  You
wait--that's all!  Your turn will come to smart some day.  And if I
find out this precious fool, who's got money to squander, I'll talk a
bit of sense to him too.  He's no right to do things by halves, and one
man's claim on that scamp, your brother, is just as lawful and proper
as another man's; and because a person be poor or not poor don't make
any difference in the matter of right and wrong."

"That's where you're so blind as any other thick-headed beetle,"
snarled back Humphrey.  "For my part I've looked into the figures
myself, and I quite agree with Nathan's friend.  None has a shadow of
reason to question him or to ask for a penny from him.  'Tis his
bounty, not your right."

"Very easy to talk like that.  Why don't you put your fingers in your
own pocket and lend a hand yourself?  Not you--a sneaking old
curmudgeon!  And then want people to think well of you.  Why the devil
should they?  Close-fisted mully-grubs that you are!  And hark to this,
Miser Baskerville, don't you pretend your nephew wants you to stand
gossip for his bleating baby to pleasure you.  'Tis because he's got
his weather-eye lifting on your dross.  Who's like to care for you for
yourself?  Not a dog.  Your face be enough to turn milk sour and give
the childer fits."

"Get along with you," answered Humphrey.  "You--of all men!  I could
never have believed this--never.  And all for thirty-five pounds,
fifteen and sevenpence!  So much for your wisdom and reason.  Be off
and get down on your knees, if they'll bend, and ask God to forgive
you."

Head snorted and swore.  Then he picked up his hat and departed in a
towering rage.

Mr. Baskerville's anger lasted a shorter time.  He walked to the
window, threw it open, listened to Head's explosive departure and then,
when silence was restored, Humphrey himself went to his doorstep and
looked out upon the fair June night.

Mars and a moon nearly full sailed south together through unclouded
skies, and beneath them lay, first, a low horizon, whose contour,
smoothed by night's hand into dim darkness, showed neither point nor
peak under the stars.  Beneath all, valley-born, there shone silver
radiance of mist--dense and luminous in the moonlight.  Apparently
quiescent, this vapour in truth drifted with ghostly proper motion
before the night wind, and stole from the water-meadows upward toward
the high places of the Moor.

Against these shifting passages of fog, laid along the skirts of forest
and above the murmuring ways of a hidden river, ascended silhouettes of
trees, all black and still against the pearly light behind them.  The
vapour spread in wreaths and filaments of moisture intermingled.  Seen
afar it was still as standing water; but to one moving beside it, the
mist appeared as on a trembling loom where moonlight wove in ebony and
silver.  The fabric broke, ravelled, fell asunder, and then built
itself up once more.  Again it dislimned and shivered into separate
shades that seemed to live.  From staple of streams, from the cold
heart of a nightly river were the shadows born; and they writhed and
worshipped--poor, heart-stricken spirits of the dew--love-mad for
Selene on high.  Only when red Mars descended and the moon went down,
did these forlorn phantoms of vapour shrink and shudder and lie closer,
for comfort, to the water mother that bore them.

Hither, nigh midnight, in a frame of mind much out of tune with the
nocturnal peace, passed Jack Head upon his homeward way.  His loss had
now become a sort of mental obsession, and he found it daily wax into a
mightier outrage on humanity.  He would have suffered in silence, but
for the aggravation of these events whereby, from time to time, one or
another of the wounded found his ill fortune healed.

Examination might have showed an impartial mind that much method
distinguished the process of this alleviation.

Those responsible for it clearly possessed close knowledge of the
circumstances; and they used it to minister in turn to the chief
sufferers.  The widows and fatherless were first indemnified; then
others who least could sustain their losses.

A sane system marked the procedure; but not in the eyes of Mr. Head.
First, he disputed the right of any philanthropist to select and single
out in such a matter, and next, when defeated in argument on that
contention, he fell back upon his own disaster and endeavoured to show
how his misfortune was among the hardest and most ill-deserved.

That man after man should be compensated and himself ignored, roused
Jack to a pitch of the liveliest indignation.  He became a nuisance,
and people fled from him and his inevitable topic of speech.  And now
he had heard Humphrey Baskerville upon the subject, and found him as
indifferent as the rest of the world.

The old man's argument still revolved in Jack's head and, too late,
came answers to it.  He moved along in the very extremity of rage, and
Humphrey might have smarted to hear the things that his former friend
thought against him.  Then, as ill chance willed, another came through
the night and spoke to Head.

Timothy Waite went happily upon his homeward way and found himself in a
mood as sweet as Jack's was the reverse.  For Timothy was love-making,
and his lady's ripe experience enabled her to give him many pleasant
hours of this amusement.

Neither was sentimental, but Cora, accustomed to the ways and fancies
of the courting male, affected a certain amount of femininity, and
Timothy appreciated this, and told himself that his future wife
possessed a woman's charms combined with a man's practical sense.  He
was immensely elated at the thing he had done, and he felt gratified to
find that Miss Lintern made a most favourable impression amid his
friends and relations.

Now, moved thereto by his own cheerful heart, he gave Jack Head 'good
night' in a friendly tone of voice and added, "A beautiful evening,
sure enough."

The way was overshadowed by trees and neither man recognised the other
until Waite spoke.  Then Mr. Head, feeling himself within the
atmosphere of a happy being, grunted a churlish answer and made himself
known.

Thereon Timothy's manner changed and he regretted his amenity.

"Is that Head?" he asked in an altered tone.

"You know my voice, I suppose."

"Yes, I do.  I want to speak to you.  And I have meant to for some time
past.  But the chance didn't offer, as you don't go to church, or any
respectable place; and I don't frequent publics."

The other bristled instantly.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" he shouted.

"Nothing's the matter with me.  But there's a lot the matter with you
by all accounts, and since you can't keep a civil tongue in your head,
it's time your betters took you in hand a bit."

Jack stared speechless at this blunt attack.  The moon whitened his
face, his lean jaw dropped and his teeth glimmered.

"Well, I'm damned!  'My betters'--eh?"

"Yes; no need for any silly pretence with me.  You know what I think of
your blackguard opinions and all that rot about equality and the rest.
I'm not here to preach to you; but I am here to tell you to behave
yourself where ladies are concerned.  Miss Lintern has told me what you
said to her, and she complained sharply about it.  You may think it was
very clever; but I'd have you to know it was very impertinent, coming
from you to her.  Why, if I'd been by, I'd have horsewhipped you.  And
if it happens again, I will.  You're a lot too familiar with people,
and seem to think you've a right to talk to everybody and anybody in a
free and easy way--from parson downwards.  But let me tell you, you
forget yourself.  I'd not have said these things if you'd been rude to
any less person than the young lady I'm going to marry.  But that I
won't stand, and I order you not to speak to Miss Lintern again.  Learn
manners--that's what you've got to do."

Having uttered this admonition, Mr. Waite was proceeding but Jack
stopped him.

"I listened to you very patient," he said.  "Now you've got to listen
to me, and listen you shall.  Why, God stiffen it, you bumbling fool!
who d'you think you are, and who d'you think any man is?  You be china
to my cloam, I suppose?  And who was your grandfather?  Come now, speak
up; who was he?"

"I'm not going to argue--I've told you what I wish you to do.  It
doesn't matter who my grandfather was.  You know who I am, and that's
enough."

"It is enough," said Jack; "it's enough to make a toad laugh; but I
don't laugh--no laughing matter to me to be told by a vain, puffed-up
booby, like you, that I'm not good enough to have speech with people.
And that tousled bitch--there--and coming on what I've just heard!  If
it don't make me sick with human nature and all the breed!"

"Be sick with yourself," answered Timothy.  "I don't want to be too
hard on an uneducated and self-sufficient man; but when it comes to
insulting women, somebody must intervene."

By way of answer the older man turned, walked swiftly to Waite and
struck him on the breast.  The blow was a hard one and served its
purpose.  Timothy hit back and Head closed.

"You blackguard anarchist," shouted the farmer.  "You will have it,
will you?  Then take it!"

Jack found himself no match for a strong and angry man full twenty-five
years his junior, and he reaped a very unpleasant harvest of blows, for
the master of Coldstone carried an ash sapling and when he had thrown
Mr. Head to the ground he put his foot on him and flogged him heartily
without heeding where his strokes might fall.  Head yelled and cursed
and tried to reach the other's legs and bring him down.  A column of
dust rose into the moonlight and Timothy's breath panted steaming upon
the air.  Then, with a last cruel cut across the defeated labourer's
shoulders, he released him and went his way.  But Head was soon up
again and, with a bleeding face, a torn hand and a dusty jacket, he
followed his enemy.

Rage is shrewd of inspiration.  He remembered the one blow that he
could deal this man; and he struck it, hoping that it might sink far
deeper than the smarting surface-wounds that now made his own body ache.

"Devil--coward--garotter!" he screamed out.  "You that hit old men in
the dark--listen to me!"

Waite stopped.

"If you want any more, you can have it," he answered.  "But don't go
telling lies around the country and saying I did anything you didn't
well deserve.  You struck me first, and if you are mad enough to strike
your betters, then you'll find they will strike back."

"I'll strike--yes, I'll strike--don't fear that.  I'll strike--a harder
blow than your evil hand knows how.  I'll strike with truth--and that's
a weapon goes deeper than your bully's stick.  Hear me, and hear a bit
about your young lady--'young lady'!  A woman without a father--a child
got--ax her mother where and how--and then go to blazing hell--you and
your nameless female both.  I know--I know--and I'll tell you if you
want to know.  She's Nathan Baskerville's bastard--that's what your
'young lady' is!  There's gall for yours.  There's stroke for stroke!
And see which of us smarts longest now!"

Jack took his bruises homeward and the other, dazed at such a storm,
also went his way.  He scoffed at such malice and put this evil thing
behind him.  He hastened forward, as one hastens from sudden incidence
of a foul smell.

But the wounded man had sped a poison more pestilential far than any
born of physical cause.  The germ thus despatched grew while Waite
slept; and with morning light its dimensions were increased.

Under the moon, he had laughed at this furious assault, and scorned it
as the vile imagining of a beaten creature; but with daylight he
laughed no longer.  The barb was fast; other rumours set floating after
the innkeeper's death now hurtled like lesser arrows into his bosom;
and Mr. Waite felt that until a drastic operation was performed and
these wounds cleansed, his peace of mind would not return.

He debated between the propriety of speaking to Cora about her father,
or to Mrs. Lintern on the subject of her husband; and he decided that
the latter course would be more proper.




CHAPTER IX

Susan Hacker and her master sat together in the kitchen.  He had
lighted his pipe; she was clearing away the remains of a somewhat
scanty meal, and she was grumbling loudly as she did so.

"Leave it," he cried at length, "or I won't show you the christening
mug for Milly's baby.  It have come from Plymouth, and a rare, fine,
glittering thing it is."

"I won't leave it," she answered.  "You can't see the end of this, but
I can.  People know you've got plenty of money, but they don't know the
way you're fooling it about, and presently, when you go and get ill,
and your bones begin to stick through your skin, 'tis I shall be
blamed."

"Not a bit of it.  They all think I'm a miser, don't they?  Let 'em go
on thinking it.  'Tis the way of a miser's bones to stick out through
his skin.  Everybody knows that I live cheap from choice and always
have.  I hate the time given to eating and drinking."

"You've always lived like a labouring man," she admitted.  "But of
late, here and there, people be more friendly towards you, because you
let your folk bide at Cadworthy; and I'm sick and tired of hearing
Hester Baskerville tell me you don't eat enough, and Rupert and Milly
too.  Then there's that Gollop woman and a few other females have said
things against me about the way I run this house.  And 'tis bad to
suffer it, for the Lord knows I've got enough on my mind without their
lies."

"Get 'em off your mind, then," he answered.  "You're a changed woman of
late, and I'll tell you what's done it.  I only found out myself a bit
ago and said nought; but now I will speak.  I've wondered these many
weeks what had come over you, and three days since I discovered.  And
who was it, d'you think, told me?"

Her guilty heart thumped at Susan's ribs.

"Not Jack Head?" she asked.

"Jack?  No.  What does he know about you?  Jack's another changed
creature.  He was pretty good company once, but his losses have soured
him.  'Twasn't Jack.  'Twas the reverend Masterman.  You've signed the
pledge, I hear."

"He'd no business to tell," declared Susan.  "Yes, I have signed it.
I'm a wicked woman, and never another drop shall pass my lips."

"'Tis that that's made you cranky, all the same," he declared.  "You
was accustomed to your tipple and you miss it.  However, I'm the last
to say you did wrong in signing.  When your organs get used to going
without, you'll find yourself better company again.  And don't worry
about the table I keep.  I live low from choice, not need.  It suits me
to starve a bit.  I'm the better and cheerfuller for it."

But then she took up the analysis and explained to him whence his good
health and spirits had sprung.

"Ban't that at all.  'Tis what you be doing have got into your blood.
I know--I know.  You've hid it from all of 'em, but you haven't hid it
from me.  I don't clean up all the rubbish you make and sift your
waste-paper basket for nought.  I itch to let it out!  But God forgive
me, I've let out enough in my time."

He turned on her angrily; then fearlessly she met his frown and he
subsided.

"You're a dangerous, prying woman," he said, "and you ought to be
ashamed of yourself."

"I'm all that," she admitted; "and shame isn't the word.  I'm ashamed
enough, and more than ashamed."

"If you let out a breath of my little games, I'll pack you off into the
street that very day, Susan."

She sat down by the fire and took her knitting off the peat box where
it was usually to be found.

"You needn't fear me," she answered.  "I've had my lesson.  If ever I
tell again what I should not, you may kick me into the gutter."

He mused over the thoughts that she had awakened.

"I know a mazing deal more about the weaknesses of my brother Nathan
now than ever I did while the man was in life," he began.  "He was
always giving--always giving, whether he had it to give or whether he
hadn't.  I'm not defending him, but I know what it felt like a bit now.
Giving be like drink: it grows on a man the same as liquor does.
Nathan ought to have taken the pledge against giving.  And yet 'tis
just another example of how the Bible word never errs.  On the face of
it you'd think 'twas better fun to receive than to give.  But that
isn't so.  Once break down the natural inclination, shared by the dog
with his bone, to stick to what you've got--once make yourself hand
over a bit to somebody else--and you'll find a wonderful interest arise
out of it."

"Some might.  Some would break their hearts if they had to fork out
like you've been doing of late."

"They be the real misers.  To them their stuff is more than food and
life and the welfare of the nation.  And even them, if we could tear
their gold away from them, might thank us after they'd got over the
operation, and found themselves better instead of worse without it."

"All that's too deep for me," she answered.  "The thing that's most
difficult to me be this: How do you get any good out of helping these
poor folk all underhand and unknown?  Surely if a man or woman does
good to others, he's a right to the only payment the poor can make him.
And that's gratitude.  Why won't you out with it and let them thank
you?"

"You're wrong," he said.  "I've lived too many years in the world to
want that.  I'm a fool here and there, Susan; but I'm not the sort of
fool that asks from men and women what's harder to give than any other
thing.  To put a fellow-creature under an obligation is to have a faith
in human nature that I never have had, and never shall have.  No, I
don't want that payment; I'm getting better value for my money than
that."

"So long as you're satisfied----"

Silence followed and each pursued a private line of thought.  Humphrey
puffed his pipe; Susan knitted, and her wooden needles tapped and
rattled a regular tune.  She was wondering whether the confession that
she desired to make might be uttered at this auspicious moment.  Her
conscience tortured her; and it was the weight of a great misery on her
mind, not the fact of giving up liquor, that had of late soured her
temper.  She had nearly strung herself to tell him of her sins when he,
from the depths of his being, spoke again.  But he was scarcely
conscious of a listener.

"To think that a man like me--so dark and distrustful--to think that
even such a man--I, that thought my heart was cracked for ever when my
son died--I, that said to myself 'no more, no more can any earthly
thing fret you now.'  And yet all the time, like a withered
pippin--brown, dry as dust--there was that within that only wanted
something--some heat to the pulp of me--to plump me out again.  To
think that the like of me must have some other thing to--to cherish and
foster!  To think my shrivelled heart-strings could ever stretch and
seek for aught to twine around again!  Who'd believe it of such a man
as me?  God A'mighty!  I didn't believe it of myself!"

"But I knowed it," said Susan.  "You always went hunger-starved for
people to think a bit kindly of you; you always fretted when decent
folk didn't like you."

"Not that--not that now.  I wanted their good-will; but I've found
something a lot higher than that.  To see a poor soul happy is better
far than to see 'em grateful.  What does that matter?  To mark their
downward eye uplifted again; to note their fear for the future gone; to
see hope creep back to 'em; to watch 'em walk cheerful and work
cheerful; to know they laugh in their going once more; that they lie
themselves down with a sigh of happiness and not of grief--ban't all
that grander than their gratitude?  Gratitude must fade sooner or late,
for the largest-hearted can't feel it for ever, try as he may.
Benefits forgot are dust and ashes to the giver--if he remembers.  But
none can take from me the good I've won from others' good; and none can
make that memory dim."

"'Tis a fairy story," murmured Mrs. Hacker.

"No," he said, "'tis a little child's story--the thing they learn at a
mother's knees; and because I was a growed-up man, I missed it.  'Tis a
riddle a generous child could have guessed in a minute; but it took one
stiff-necked fool from his adult days into old age afore he did."

Susan's mind moved to her purpose, and she knew that never again might
fall so timely a moment.  She put down her knitting, flung a peat on
the fire, and spoke.

"You be full of wonderful tales to-night, but now I'll please ask you
to listen to me," she began.  "And mark this: you can't well be too
hard upon me.  I've got a pack of sins to confess, and if, when you've
heard 'em, you won't do with me no more, then do without me, and send
me through that door.  I deserve it.  There's nought that's bad I don't
deserve."

He started up.

"What's this?" he said.  "You haven't told anybody?"

"No, no, no.  Ban't nothing about your affairs.  In a word, I overheard
a secret.  I listened.  I did it out of woman's cursed curiosity.  And,
as if that weren't enough, I got drunk as a fly down to 'The White
Thorn' a while back and let out the truth.  And nought's too bad for
me--nought in nature, I'm sure."

Mr. Baskerville put down his pipe and turned to her.

"Don't get excited.  Begin at the beginning.  What did you hear?"

"I heard Mrs. Lintern tell you she was your brother's mistress.  I
heard her tell you her children was also his."

"And you're scourged for knowing it.  Let that be a lesson to you,
woman."

"That's only the beginning.  I ban't scourged for that.  I'm scourged
because I've let it out again."

"I'm shocked at you," he answered.  "Yes, I'm very much shocked at you;
but I'm not at all surprised.  I knew as sure as I knew anything that
'twould out.  The Lord chooses His own time and His own tool.  But that
don't make your sin smaller.  You're a wicked woman."

"I've signed the pledge, however, and not another drop----"

"How many of 'em did you tell?"

"But one.  Of course, I chose the man with the longest tongue.  Jack
Head saw me up the hill after closing time and--there 'twas--I had to
squeak.  But I made him swear as solemn as he knowed how that he
wouldn't."

"He's not what he was.  We had a proper row a month ago.  I doubt if
he'll ever speak to me again.  And until he makes a humble apology for
what he spoke, I won't hear him."

"He swore he wouldn't tell."

"Be that as it may, it will be known.  It's started and it won't stop."

They talked for two hours upon the problems involved in these facts.
Then there came a knock at the door and Susan went to answer it.

Mr. Baskerville heard a protracted mumble and finally, after some
argument, Mrs. Hacker shut the door and returned into the kitchen with
a man.

It was Jack himself.

He explained the reason for his unduly late visit.  He was anxious and
troubled.  He spoke without his usual fluency.

"I didn't come to see you," he said.  "I waited till 'twas past your
hour for going to bed.  But knowing that Mrs. Hacker was always later,
I thought to speak to her.  However, nothing would do but I came in,
and here I be."

"I'll have nought to say to you, Head--not a single word--until you
make a solemn apology for your infernal impudence last time you stood
here afore me," said the master of Hawk House, surveying his visitor.

"So Susan tells me, and so I will then," replied Jack.  "So solemn as
ever you like.  You was right and I was wrong, and I did ought to have
been kicked from here to Cosdon Beacon and back for what I said to you.
We'm always punished for losing of our tempers.  And I was damn soon
punished for losing mine, as you shall hear.  But first I confess that
I was wrong and ax you, man to man, to forgive me."

"Which I will do, and here's my hand on it," said the other.

The old men shook hands and Susan wept.  Her emotion was audible and
Humphrey told her to go to bed.  She refused.

"I'm in this," she said.  "'Tis all my wicked fault from beginning to
end, and I'm going to hear it out.  I shall weep my eyes blistered
afore morning."

"Don't begin now, then.  If you're going to stop here, be silent," said
Humphrey.

She sniffed, wiped her face, and then fetched a black bottle, some
drinking water, and two glasses.

"Light your pipe and say what you feel called upon to say," concluded
Humphrey to Mr. Head.

"'Tis like this," answered the other.  "Every man wants to boss
somebody in this world.  That's a failing of human nature, and if we
ain't strong enough to lord it over a fellow-creature, we try to reign
over a hoss or even a dog.  Something we have to be master of.  Well,
long since I marked that, and then, thanks to my understanding and
sense, I comed to see--or I may have read it--that 'twas greater far to
lord it over yourself than any other created thing."

"And harder far," said Humphrey.

"Without doubt you'm right.  And I set about it, and I had myself in
hand something wonderful; and very proud I felt of it, as I had the
right to feel."

"Then the Lord, seeing you puffed up, sent a hard stroke to try whether
you was as clever as you thought you was--and He found you were not,"
suggested Mr. Baskerville.

"I don't care nothing about that nonsense," answered Jack; "and,
knowing my opinions, there ain't no call to drag the Lord in.  All I do
know is that my hard-earned savings went, and--and--well, I got my
monkey up about it, and I got out of hand.  Yes, I got out of hand.
The awful shock of losing my thirty-five pounds odd took me off my
balance.  For a bit I couldn't stand square against it, and I did some
vain things, and just sank to be a common, everyday fool, like most
other people."

"'Tis a good thing you can see it, for 'twill end by righting your
opinion of yourself."

"My opinion of myself was a thought too high.  I admit it," answered
Jack.  "For the moment I was adrift--but only for the moment.  Now I've
come back to my common-sense and my high ideas, I can assure you.  But
the mischief is that just while I was dancing with rage and out of hand
altogether, I did some mistaken things.  Enough I had on my mind to
make me do 'em, too.  But I won't excuse 'em.  I'll say, out and out,
that they were very wrong.  You've agreed to overlook one of those
things, and you say you'll forgive me for talking a lot of rubbish
against you, for which I'm terrible sorry.  So that's all right, and no
lasting harm there.  But t'other job's worse."

Jack stopped for breath, and Susan sighed from the bottom of her
immense bosom.  Humphrey poured out some gin and water for his guest.
Then he helped himself more sparingly.

"Here's to you," said Jack.  "To drink under this roof is to be
forgiven.  Now I'll go on with my tale, and tell you about the second
piece of work."

He related how he had left Hawk House in wrath, how he had met with
Timothy Waite; how he had been reproved and how he had hit back both
with his fists and his tongue.

"He knocked me down and gave me the truth of music with his heavy
stick.  I hit him first, and I'm not saying anything about what he did,
though there may be thirty years between us; but anyway he roused Cain
in me and I told him, in a word, that the woman he was going to marry
was the natural child of Nathan Baskerville.  'Twas a double offence
against right-doing, because I'd promised Susan here not to let it out,
and because to tell Waite, of all men, was a cowardly deed against the
girl, seeing he meant to marry her.  But I'd quarrelled with her
already, and tell him I did; and now I tell you."

He drank and stared into the fire.  For some time Humphrey did not
reply; but at last he expressed his opinion.

"It all depends on the sort of chap that Waite may prove to be.  He'll
either believe you, or he won't.  If he don't, no harm's done.  If he
do, then 'tis his character and opinions will decide him.  For his own
sake we'll trust he'll throw her off, for woe betide the man that
marries her; but if he loves her better than her havage, he'll go his
way and care nothing.  If he looks at it different, and thinks the
matter can't rest there, he'll go further.  For my part I can't say I
care much about it.  All I know is that Priscilla Lintern has rare
virtues, though she weren't virtuous, and she've lived on no bed of
roses, for all the brave way in which she stands up for my late
brother.  She won't be sorry the murder's out.  When she told me--or
when I told her--I made it plain that in my opinion this ought to be
known.  She stood for the children, not herself, and said it never must
be known for their sakes.  Well, now we shall see who hears it next.
As for you two, you've got your consciences, and it ban't for me to
come between you and them."

"Well, I've told my story, and admitted my failings like a man," said
Jack, "and, having done so, I can do no more.  My conscience is
cleared, and I defy it to trouble me again; and I may add that I'll
take mighty good care not to give it the chance.  So there you are.
And come what may, I can stand to that."

"How if they deny it and have you up for libel?" asked Mr. Baskerville;
but Jack flouted the idea.

"Not them," he said.  "Have no fear on that score.  I've got this woman
for witness, and I've got you.  For that matter, even if 'twas known,
nobody wouldn't die of astonishment.  Since the things Eliza Gollop
said after Nathan died, 'twould come as a very gentle surprise, I
believe.  And, when all's said, who's the worse, except what be called
public morals?"

Mr. Baskerville nodded.

"There's some sense in what you say, Jack.  And I'm glad we're friends
again.  And now I'm going to bed, so I'll ax you to be gone."

Head rose, finished his refreshment, and shook Mr. Baskerville's hand.

"And I'm the better for knowing as you've been large-minded enough to
forgive me," he said.  "And as you can, I suppose Susan here can.  I
know I'm very much in her black books, and I deserve that too, and I'd
make it up to her in any way I can--except to marry her.  That I never
will do for any woman as long as I live."

"No, and never will get the chance to," replied Susan; "and I only
trust to God 'twill all die out, and we hear no more of it."

Head turned at the door and spoke a final word.

"It may interest you to know that everybody have had their money
now--everybody but me and Thomas Coode, the drunken farmer at Meavy.
'Tis strange I should be put in the same class with Coode; but so it
is.  However, I've larned my lesson.  I shall say no more about that.
Think of it I must, being but mortal, but speak I won't."

"You'll do well to forget it," answered Mr. Baskerville.  "The man, or
woman if 'twas one, be probably settled in their mind not to pay you or
Coode back--since you're so little deserving."

Jack shrugged his shoulders, but kept his recent promise and went out
silently.




CHAPTER X

A jay, with flash of azure and rose, fluttered screaming along from
point to point of a coppice hard by Hawk House, and Cora Lintern saw
it.  She frowned, for this bird was associated in her mind with a
recent and an unpleasant incident.  Her brother Heathman, whose
disparate nature striking against her own produced many explosions, had
recently told her that the jay was her bird--showy, tuneless,
hard-hearted.  She remembered the occasion of this attack, but for the
moment had no energy at leisure with which to hate him; for
difficulties were rampant in her own path, and chance began to treat
her much as she had treated other people in the past.

In a word, her lover grew colder.  As yet she had no knowledge of the
reason, but the fact could not be denied, and her uneasiness increased.
He saw somewhat less of her, and he made no effort to determine the
time of the wedding.  Neither did he invite her to do so.  He had come
twice to see Mrs. Lintern when Cora was not by, and an account of these
visits was reported by her mother.

"I don't exactly know why he dropped in either time," said Mrs.
Lintern.  "He kept talking on everyday matters, and never named your
name.  'Twas curious, in fact, the way he kept it out.  All business,
but nothing about the business of marrying you.  Yet there was plenty
on his mind, I do believe.  I should reckon as he'd come for a special
purpose, but finding himself here, it stuck in his throat.  He's strong
with men, but weak with women.  Have he told you of aught that's
fretting him?"

Her daughter could remember nothing of the sort.  Neither did she
confess what she did know--that Waite was unquestionably cooler than of
old.

"'Tis time the day was named," declared Priscilla.  "And you'd better
suggest it when next you meet with him."

But Cora did not do so, because there was much in Timothy's manner that
told her he desired no expedition.  Some time had now elapsed since
last she saw him, and to-day she was going, in obedience to a note
brought by a labourer, to meet him at the Rut, half a mile from
Coldstone Farm.  That he should have thus invited her to come to him
was typical of the change in his sentiments.  Formerly he would have
walked or ridden to her.  The tone of his brief note chilled her, but
she obeyed it, and was now approaching their tryst at evening time in
early September.

In a little field nigh Hawk House she heard the purr of a corn-cutting
machine.  It was clinking round and round, shearing at each revolution
a slice from the island of oats that still stood in the midst of a sea
of fallen grain.  A boy drove the machine, and behind it followed
Humphrey Baskerville and Rupert.  The younger man had come over to help
garner the crop.  Together they worked, gathered up the oats, and set
them in little sheaves.  The waning sunlight gilded the standing oats.
Now and then a dog barked and darted round the vanishing island in the
midst, for there--separated from safety by half an acre of
stubble--certain rabbits squatted together, and waited for the moment
when they must bolt and make their final run to death.

Cora, unseen, watched this spectacle; then Mrs. Hacker appeared with a
tray, on which were three mugs and a jug of cider.

The girl was early for her appointment, but she sauntered forward
presently and marked Timothy Waite in the lower part of the valley.

It was the Rut's tamest hour of late summer, for the brightness of the
flowers had ceased to shine; the scanty heath made little display, and
autumn had as yet lighted no beacon fire.  Stunted thorn trees ripened
their harvest, but the round masses of the greater furze were dim; a
prevalent and heavy green spread over the Rut, and the only colour
contrast was that presented by long stretches of dead brake fern.  The
litter had been cut several weeks before and allowed to dry and ripen.
It had now taken upon itself a dark colour, widely different from the
richer, more lustrous, and gold-sprinkled splendour of auburn that
follows natural death.  The dull brown stuff was being raked together
ready for the cart; and Cora, from behind a furze clump, watched her
sweetheart carry immense trusses of the bracken and heave them up to
the growing pile upon a wain that waited for the load.  All she could
see was a pair of straight legs in black gaiters moving under a little
stack of the fern; then the litter was lifted, to reveal Timothy Waite.

Presently he looked at his watch and marked that the time of meeting
was nearly come.  Whereupon he donned his coat, made tidy his
neckcloth, handed his fork to a labourer, and left the working party.
He strolled slowly up the coomb along the way that she must approach,
while she left her hiding-place and set out to meet him.  He shook
hands, but he did not kiss her, and he did not look into her eyes.
Instead, he evaded her own glance, spoke quickly, and walked quickly in
unconscious obedience to his own mental turmoil.

"I can't run," she said.  "If you want me to hear what you're saying,
Timothy, you must go slower, or else sit down in the hedge."

"It's terrible," he answered.  "It's terrible, and it's made an old man
of me.  But some things you seem to know from the first are true, and
some you seem to know are not.  And when first I heard it I said to
myself, t 'Tis a damned lie of a wicked and venomous man'; but then,
with time and thought, and God knows how many sleepless nights, I got
to see 'twas true enough.  And why wasn't I told?  I ask you that.  Why
wasn't I told?"

Her heart sank and her head grew giddy.  She translated this speech
with lightning intuition, and knew too well all that it must mean.  It
explained his increasing coolness, his absences and evasions.  It
signified that he had changed his mind upon learning the secret of the
Linterns.

A natural feminine, histrionic instinct made her pretend utmost
astonishment, though she doubted whether it would deceive him.

"What you're talking about I haven't the slightest idea," she said.
"But if you have a grievance, so have I--and more than one.  You wasn't
used to order me here and there six weeks ago.  'Twas you that would
come and see me then; now I've got to weary my legs to tramp to do your
bidding."

He paid no heed to her protest.

"If you don't understand, then you must, and before we part, too.  I
can't go on like this.  No living man could do it.  I called twice to
see your mother about it, for it seemed to me that 'twas more seemly I
should speak to her than to you; but when I faced her I couldn't open
my mouth, much as I wanted to do so.  She shook me almost, and I'd have
been thankful to be shook; but 'tis the craft and cunning of the thing
that's too much for me.  I've been hoodwinked in this, and no doubt
laughed at behind my back.  That's what's made me feel as I do now.  I
waited and hoped on, and loved you for years, and saw you chuck two
other men, and found I'd got you at last, and reckoned I was well
rewarded for all my patience; and--then--then--this----"

"What?  This what?  Are you mad?  What didn't you dare to speak to my
mother, and yet you can speak to me?  What have I done that's set you
against me?  What sin have I committed?  Don't think I'm blind.  I've
seen you cooling off clear enough, and for the life of me I couldn't
guess the reason, try as I would and sorrow about it as I would.  But
since you've ordered me here for this, perhaps you'll go straight on
and tell me what's all the matter."

"I want you to answer me one question.  The answer you must know, and I
ask you to swear afore your Maker that you'll tell me the truth.  Mind
this, I know the truth.  It's scorched into me like a burn this many a
day.  But I must hear it from you too, Cora."

She guessed his question, and also guessed that in truth lay her last
hope.  He spoke positively, and she doubted not that he knew.  His fear
before her mother was natural.  She perceived how easily a man might
have gone to a woman with this momentous question on his mind, and how
naturally the presence of the woman might strike him dumb at the actual
meeting.  None knew better than Cora how different is the reality of a
conversation with a fellow-creature from the imaginary interview
formulated before the event.  There was but one problem in her mind
now--the advantage or disadvantage of truth.  She judged that the case
was desperate, but that her only hope lay in honesty.

"Speak," she said.  "And I swear I'll answer nought but the truth--if I
know the truth."

He hesitated, and considered her answer.  He was fond of her still, but
the circumstance of this deception, to which he supposed her a party,
had gone far to shake his affection.  The grievance was that the facts
should have been hidden from him after his proposal.  He held that then
was the time when Cora's paternity should have been divulged.  He
believed that had he known it then, it would have made small difference
to his love.  It was not so much the fact as the hiding of the fact
that had troubled him.

"Who was your father?" he asked at length, and the words burst out of
him in a heap, like an explosion.

"I know who he was," she answered.

"Name him, then."

"You see, Timothy, you never asked.  I often thought whether there was
any reason to tell you, and often and often I felt you ought to know;
but you're a wise and far-seeing man, and I wasn't the only one to be
thought on.  I'd have told you from the first, even at the risk of
angering you, but there was mother.  I couldn't do it--knowing what
she'd feel.  I was a daughter afore I was a sweetheart.  Would you have
done it when you came to think on your mother?"

"Name him."

"Nathan Baskerville was my father, and my sister's and brother's
father.  My mother was his wife all but in name, and they only didn't
marry because it meant losing money.  You understand why I didn't tell
you--because of my poor mother.  Now you can do as you please.  I'm
myself anyway, and I'm not going to suffer for another's sins more than
I can help.  There's no stain on me, and well you know it."

"Nathan was your father?"

"He was.  I suppose Heathman told you.  He's threatened to oft enough."

"No matter for that.  'Tis so, and 'twas deliberately hidden from me."

"'Twas hidden from all the world.  And why not?  I did no wrong by
hiding it, feel as I might.  There was four to think of."

"'Twasn't hidden from all the world, and 'tisn't hidden.  I didn't
learn it from Heathman.  You've brought this on yourself in a way.  If
you hadn't quarrelled with a certain man I shouldn't have done so
either.  Jack Head told me after I'd thrashed him for insulting you;
and I suppose if he hadn't I might have gone to church with you, and
very likely gone to my grave at last, and never known what you was."

"I should have told you when my mother died."

"D'you swear that?"

"I tell you it is so.  I'm going to swear no more at your bidding.
'Tis for me to speak now.  You've cut me to the quick to-day, and I
doubt if I shall ever get over it.  'Tisn't a very manly way to treat
an innocent girl, I should think.  However, I forgive everything and
always shall, for I love the ground you walk on, and you know it, and
'twasn't from any wish to treat you without proper respect that I hid
away this cruel thing.  I said to myself, 'It can't hurt dear Tim not
to know it, and it would hurt my mother and my sister terribly if 'twas
known.'  So, right or wrong, I did what I did; and now you're in
judgment over me, and I can't--I can't live another moment, dear
Timothy, till I know how you feel about it."

She had begun in a spirit rather dictatorial, but changed swiftly into
this milder appeal when she marked the expression of his face.  He was
prepared to stand little.  From the first she felt almost hopeless that
she would have power to move him.

"Who told Jack Head?" asked Timothy.

"God knows.  My brother, I should think.  There's none else in the
world but mother and Phyllis that knew it."

"Others were told, but not me.  I was deceived by all of you."

"That's not true," she answered as her fighting instinct got the better
of tact.  "'Twasn't to deceive you not to tell you.  All families have
got secrets--yours too."

"You did wrong to me.  'Tisn't even like as if I was nobody.  I come of
pretty good havage on my mother's side, and I think a lot of such
things."

"Well, the Baskervilles----"

"Don't be foolish, woman!  D'you think I'm ----?  There, 'tisn't a case
for talk that I can see.  The thing be done and can't be undone.  I'd
have overlooked it, so like as not, if you'd made a clean breast of the
truth when I offered for you; but to let me go on blind--I can't
forgive that."

Perceiving what had hurt him, Cora set herself to lessen the sting as
much as possible; but she failed.  They talked to no purpose for an
hour, while she used every argument that occurred to her, and he
opposed to her swift mind and subtle reasoning a blank, impassive wall
of sulky anger and wounded pride.  It began to grow dark before the
conclusion came, and they had walked half-way back to Shaugh.  At the
top of the hill he left her, and the battle ended in wrath on both
sides and a parting irrevocable.

Her failure it was that made Cora lose her temper, and when she did so,
he, thankful for the excuse, spoke harshly, and absolved his own uneasy
spirit for so doing.

The final scene was brief, and the woman, wearied in mind and body with
her efforts to propitiate him, drew it down upon them.

"Why don't you speak out like a man, then?" she said at last.  "Why
d'you keep growling in your throat, like a brute, and not answering my
questions?  'Tis because you can't answer them in right and justice.
But one word you've got to find a tongue to, though well you may be
shamed to do it.  It shan't be said I've thrown you over, if that's the
cowardly thing you're playing up for.  I promised to marry you, and I
would marry you; but you don't want to marry me, it seems, and you've
pitched on this paltry thing to get out of it."

"'Paltry thing'!  You're shameless."

"Yes, it is paltry; and everybody would say so; and you'll hear what
decent people think of you pretty soon if you throw me over, I can tell
you.  How can a child help its own father, or see whether its parents
be properly married?  You're cruel and mad both."

"We'll see, then," he answered.  "Since you're bent on hearing me
speak, I will.  And don't pretend as I'm growling and you're not
hearing.  I'll tell you what I mean, and my words shall be as clear as
my mind is about it.  I won't marry you now, and I wouldn't if you was
all you ought to be.  I've had a taste of your tongue this evening
that's opened my mind a good bit to what you are.  You've shown me a
lot more about yourself than you think for.  And if I did growl, like a
brute, my ears was open and my wits was wide awake, like a man.  And I
won't marry you, and I've a perfect right not to do so after this."

"You dirty coward!  No, you shan't marry me, and you shouldn't if you
crawled to me across the whole world on your knees, and prayed to me to
forgive you.  And if you're well out of it, what am I?  And don't you
think you've heard the last of this, because you have not.  I've got
good friends and strong friends in the world, though you'd like to
fancy as I was friendless and outcast, for men like you to spit on.
But I can fight my own battles very well, come to that, as you shall
find; and I'll have you up for breach, God's my judge; and if decent
men don't bring in proper, terrifying damages against you, I'll ask you
to forgive me.  Yes, I'll make your name laughed at from one end of the
Moor to t'other, as you shall find afore you'm many days older."

He stood still before this threat, and, finding that he did not answer,
she left him and hastened home.

There she blazed her startling news.  Cora's own attitude towards the
truth was now one of indifference.  She raged against her fate, and for
the time being could not look forward.  Phyllis alone displayed grief.
She was engaged to a young baker at Cornwood, and feared for her own
romance: therefore she wept and revealed the liveliest concern.  But
Heathman, perceiving Priscilla's indifference, exhibited the like.  It
appeared that mother and son were glad rather than regretful at this
escape of truth.

Mrs. Lintern, however, exhibited exceeding wonder, if little dismay.
She was sorry for Cora, but not for herself.

"I had a feeling, strong as death in me, that 'twould come to light,"
she said.  "Somehow I always knew that the thing must struggle out
sometime.  Many and many actually knew it in their hearts, by a sort of
understanding--like a dog's reason.  And I knew they knew it.  But the
truth was never openly thrust in my face till he died, and Eliza Gollop
spoke it.  And, she being what she is, none believed her; and 'twas
enough that she should whisper scandal for the better sort to flout her
and turn a deaf ear.  And now it's out, and the great wonder in me
ban't that 'tis out, but who let it out.  For the moment it looks as if
'twas a miracle; yet, no doubt, time will clear that too."

"I suppose you'll go now," said Cora.  "Anyway, if you don't, I shall.
There's been nought but trouble and misery for me in this hole from my
childhood upward."




CHAPTER XI

There visited Cadworthy Farm, on a Sunday afternoon, Priscilla Lintern
with her son and her younger daughter.

They came unexpectedly, though Rupert had told Heathman they would not
be unwelcome.  May was from home, and the business of preparing tea
fell upon Milly Baskerville.  Phyllis helped Rupert's wife in this
operation, and while they were absent in the kitchen and the men went
to the farm, Hester and Priscilla spoke together.  The one discussed
her son, the other her daughter and herself.

"I've been coming over to see you this longful time," said Mrs.
Baskerville, "but what with the weather and--and----"

"The things that are being said, perhaps?"

"No, not them.  I'm an old woman now, and if I've not got patience at
my age, when shall I get it?  Good things have happed to me--better
than I deserved--and I'm only sorry for them as have had less fortune.
I never pay no heed to stories at any time.  My master taught me that."

"I merely want to tell you that 'tis all true.  For my children's sake
I should never have told it, but since it had to come I'm right glad."

"I'd rather you spared yourself," said Mrs. Baskerville.  "You've had
enough to bear, I should reckon.  Leave it.  I've always felt a very
great respect for you, and always shall do so; and I've no wish to hear
anything about it.  Well I know what men are, and what life is.  He was
lucky--lucky in you and lucky in his brothers.  What he took away from
me, Humphrey has given back.  Now we'll go on as before.  Mr. Waite
have thrown your maiden over, I hear.  What's she going to do?"

"Thank you for being kind," answered Mrs. Lintern.  "I've been a good
deal astonished to find how easily the people have took this thing.
The world's a larger-minded place than I, for one, had any idea of.
The neighbours, save here and there, seem to be like you, and reckon
that 'tis no business of theirs.  My son's terrible pleased that it
have got out; and the young man who is going to marry Phyllis don't
mean to alter his plans.  And your brother is glad also, I suppose, for
he wished it.  But to Cora, this business of being flung over hit her
very hard, and she wanted to bring an action for breach of promise
against Timothy.  She went to see Mr. Popham about it; only he didn't
seem to think she'd get much, and advised her to do no such thing."

"Why ban't she along with you to-day?"

"She won't go nowhere.  She'll be off pretty soon to a milliner's to
Plymouth.  She wants to clear away from everything so quick as may be."

"Natural enough.  Let her go in a shop somewhere and begin again.  My
Ned, I may tell you, have found----

"Work, I hope?"

"No.  Another girl to marry him.  It looks as if it might go through
this time, though I can't see him really married after all his
adventures with the maidens.  'Tis the daughter of the livery-stable
keeper at Tavistock.  And she's the only one--and King--that's her
father's name--worships the ground she goes on.  It's like to happen
after Christmas.  And Ned's been straight about it, and he've broke in
a young horse or two very clever for Mr. King, so I suppose he'll let
them wed for the girl's sake.  He's there to-day."

Mrs. Lintern nodded.

"Where's May?" she asked.  "Away too?"

"Only till evening.  She's drinking tea along with her Uncle Humphrey
at Hawk House."

"A strange man he is."

"'Tis strange for any man to be so good."

"He first found out about me and his brother.  And how d'you reckon?
From Cora.  His sharp eyes saw her father in her long before Nathan
died.  I've been to Hawk House since it came out.  He was content that
Cora had suffered so sharp, and said so."

"He thinks a great deal of you and Heathman, however."

Milly brought the tea at this moment and called Heathman and Rupert,
who were smoking in the farmyard.  They appeared, and Milly's baby was
carried to join the company.  Rupert showed the cup that his godfather
had given to the child.

The Baskervilles made it clear that they designed no change in their
relations with Mrs. Lintern.  A sharp estrangement had followed Ned's
jilting, but that belonged to the past.  Amity reigned, and Milly
expressed regret at Mrs. Lintern's determination to leave Shaugh Prior
in the following spring.

"They'll both be gone--both girls," she explained, "and Heathman here
haven't got no need of a wife yet, he says, so he and I shall find a
smaller and a cheaper place than Undershaugh."

"Cora will marry yet," foretold Rupert.  "Third time's lucky, they say."

"'Twill be the fourth time," corrected Milly.

They ate and drank, and spoke on general subjects; then the Linterns
prepared to start, and Priscilla uttered a final word to Hester before
the younger people.

"I thank you for letting the past go.  There was but few mattered to
me, and you were the first of them."

They departed, and the Baskervilles talked about them.

Behind her back, they spoke gently of Priscilla, and old Mrs.
Baskerville revealed even a measure of imagination in her speech.

"The worst was surely after he sank into his grave and the storm
broke," said Hester.  "To think she was standing there, his unknown,
unlawful wife, yet a wife in spirit, with all a wife's love and all a
wife's belief in him.  To think that her ear had to hear, and her heart
had to break, and her mouth had to be dumb.  Gall and vinegar that
woman have had for her portion these many days--yet she goes unsoured."

"She's got a rare good son to stand by her," declared Rupert.

"And so have I," murmured Milly, squeezing the baby who was sucking her
breast.

"And I've got four," answered Mrs. Baskerville.  "Four brave boys--one
on sea and three on land.  Things be divided curious; but our part is
to thank God for what we've got, and not worry because them that
deserve more have so much less.  That's His work, and the balance will
swing true again in His own good time."


Elsewhere, upon their journey home, the Linterns fell in with May.  She
was excited, and turned back and walked beside them for half a mile.

"I'm just bursting with news," she said, "and I hope you haven't heard
it."

"The world be full of news," answered Heathman.  "There's a bit down to
Shaugh as I meant to tell Rupert just now and forgot, owing to press of
other matters.  It proves as I'm a prophet too, for I've said this
three year that it was bound to happen.  And that disgrace in the
churchyard over my father's grave have brought it to a climax.  I mean
Tommy Gollop and that other old rip, Joe Voysey.  Both have got the
sack!  The reverend Masterman have hit out right and left and floored
the pair of 'em.  Mind you tell Rupert that.  'Twill make him die of
laughing.  The old boys be showing their teeth too, I promise you."

"I'll tell him."

"And what was your news?" asked Mrs. Lintern.

"Very good; yet perhaps no news neither to many folk who understand
things better than me.  Yet I'd often thought in my mind that 'twas my
uncle Humphrey clearing off Uncle Nathan's----"

She stopped, brought to silence by the recollection of their
relationship.

"Say it," said Priscilla.  "I know what's on your lips.  Don't fear to
say it."

"That 'twas Uncle Humphrey made all right," continued May.  "And paid
back what had been lost.  We can't say how it might have gone if Uncle
Nathan had lived.  No doubt, sooner or late, he'd have done the same,
for never would he let man or woman suffer if he could help it.
Anyway, all be in the fair way to have their money again.  And I asked
Lawyer Popham long ago, when he came to Cadworthy, who 'twas, and he
wouldn't say; but had no doubt we could guess.  And then I asked Susan
Hacker, and she wouldn't say, but yet came so near saying that there
was little left to know.  And to-day I tackled Uncle Humphrey and gave
him no peace till 'twas out.  'To please himself' he's done it."

She panted for breath, and then continued--

"And there's more yet.  'Twas him paid up my married sister's legacy,
and even Ned's not forgot--for justice.  And when Uncle Humphrey
dies--and far be it off--my brother Rupert's to have Cadworthy!  I got
that out of him too.  But I've solemnly promised not to tell Rupert.
He's going to tell him himself."

"A useful old fairy, and no mistake," laughed Heathman.  "He'll beggar
himself afore he's finished, and then you'll all have to set to work to
keep him out of the workhouse!"

"He said that very thing," answered May, "and Susan said the same.  Not
that it makes any difference to him, for he hasn't got any comforts
round him, and gets savage if you ask him so much as to take a hot
brick to bed with him to warm himself in winter."

"All these things," said Mrs. Lintern, "have been done for honour of
the name.  Your folk go back along far--far into the past, and there's
never been a cloud between them and honest dealing.  But, when
Heathman's father was cut off with his work unfinished, it happed that
he left no money, and the many things that he had planned all fell
short, without his mastermind to pick up the threads and bring them
through.  Then came Humphrey Baskerville, and for love of his brother
and for love of the name, did these good deeds.  And to beggar himself
in money be nought in the eyes of that man, if he leaves his family
rich in credit afore the eyes of the world.  Such another was your own
father, May; and such another is your brother Rupert; and such another
was your cousin Mark.  They had their own sight and looked at the world
their own way and all saw it different, maybe; but they never saw
justice different."

"And such be I," declared Heathman.  "I can't call myself a
Baskerville, and shan't get no thinner for that; but I'm the son of my
mother, and she's worth a shipload of any other sort--better than the
whole flight of you Baskervilles, May--good though you be.  And I'm
very well pleased to be kin to you all, if you like, and if you don't
like, you can leave it."

They parted then, and May returned home.  Heathman showed himself
highly gratified at what he had heard, and his sister shared his
satisfaction.  But their mother was sunk deep in the hidden places of
her own heart, and they left her alone while they spoke together.




CHAPTER XII

Joe Voysey walked over one evening to talk with his lifelong friend
Thomas Gollop.  The gardener felt choked to the throat with injustice,
and regarded his dismissal from the vicarage as an outrage upon
society; while Mr. Gollop laboured under similar emotions.

Both declared that the ingratitude of Dennis Masterman was what
principally stung them.  To retire into private life caused them no
pain; but to have been invited to do so was a bitter grievance.

Miss Eliza Gollop chanced to be out, and Thomas sat by the fire alone.
His Bible stood on the table, but he was not reading it.  Only when
Voysey's knock sounded at the cottage door did Thomas wheel round from
the fire, open the book and appear to be buried in its pages.

He had rather expected a visit from Mr. Masterman, hence these
preparations; but when Voysey entered, Thomas modified his devout
attitude and shut the Bible again.

"I half thought as that wretched man from the vicarage might call this
evening," he said.

"He won't, then," replied Joe, "for he've got together all they fools
who have fallen in with his wish about yowling carols at Christmas.
Him and her be down at the schoolroom; and there's row enough rising up
to fright the moon."

"Carol-singing!  I wish the time was come for him to sing to his God
for mercy," said Thomas.

Then he went to a cupboard and brought out a bottle of spirits.

"Have he said anything to you about a pension?" asked Voysey.

"No, not yet.  I thought he might be coming in about that to-night.  My
father afore me got a pension--a shilling a day for life--and I ought
to have twice as much, in my opinion, though I don't expect it.  And
when I've got all I can, I'm going to shake the dust off my boots
against the man and his church too.  Never again, till I'm carried in
to my grave, will I go across the threshold--not so long as he be
there.  I'm going to take up with the Dissenters, and I advise you to
do the same."

"That woman have told me about my pension," answered Joe--"Alice
Masterman, I mean.  I won't call her 'Miss' no more, for 'tis too
respectful.  She've worked on her brother--so she says--to give me
three half-crowns a week.  But I doubt she had anything to do with
it--such a beastly stinge as her.  However, that's the money; and who
d'you think they've took on?  That anointed fool the policeman's
brother!  He've been learning a lot of silliness down to a nurseryman
at Plymouth, and he'm coming here, so bold as brass, and so noisy as a
drum, to show what can be done with that garden.  And if I don't look
over the wall sometimes and have a laugh at him, 'tis pity!"

Gollop nodded moodily, but he did not answer.  Then Joe proceeded with
malevolent glee.

"I clear out on the last day of the year," he said; "and if I haven't
picked the eyes out of his garden and got 'em settled in my patch afore
that day----!  She met me taking over a lot of mint plants a bit ago.
'Where be you taking they mint plants?' she said.  'To a neighbour,' I
said.  'He wants 'em, and we can spare 'em.'  'You'll ask me, please,
before you give things away, Voysey,' she said.  And now I ax, humble
as a maggot, if I may take this or that to a neighbour afore I move a
leaf.  And she always says, 'Yes, if we can spare it.'  Had her
there--eh?"

"As for me," said Gollop, "I shall be the last regular right down
parish clerk we ever have--unless the good old times come back later.
A sexton he must use, since people have got to be buried, but who
'twill be I neither know nor care."

"Mind you take the tools," said Joe.  "They be fairly your property,
and you can sell 'em again if you don't want 'em yourself.  I've made a
good few shillings that way during the last forty years.  But as for
leaving the church, I shouldn't do that, because of the Christmas
boxes.  'Tis well knowed in Shaugh that your Christmas boxes run into a
tidy figure, and some people go so far as to say that what you take at
the door, when the bettermost come out after Christmas morning prayer,
is pretty near so good as what be dropped in the bags for the
offerings."

"Lies," declared Thomas.  "All envious lies.  I never got near what the
people thought.  Still, I hadn't remembered.  That's yet another thing
where he'll have robbed me."

When Miss Eliza Gollop appeared half an hour later, she was cold and
dispirited.

"What be you doing in here?" she said to Mr. Voysey.

"Having a tell with Thomas.  We be both wishing to God we could strike
them hateful people to the vicarage.  Harm be bound to come to 'em, for
their unchristian ways; but me and your brother would like to be in it."

"You'll be in it alone, then," she answered; "for this place have gone
daft where they're concerned.  They can't do no wrong seemingly--except
to us.  The people babble about him, and even her, as if they was
angels that had lost their wings."

"'Tis all lax and lawless and going to the dogs," said Thomas.
"There's no truth and honesty and manliness left in Shaugh.  The man
found a human thigh-bone kicking about up under the top hedge of the
churchyard yesterday.  Lord knows where it had come from.  I never seed
it nowhere; but he turned on me and said 'twas sacrilege, and I know
not what else.  'Where there's churchyards, there'll also be bones,' I
said to the fool; 'and if one here and there works to the top, along of
the natural heaving of the earth, how can a sexton or any other man
help it?'  A feeble creature, and making the young men feeble too.
Carol-singing!  Who wants carols?  However, I've done with him.  I've
stood between him and his folly time and again; but never no more.  Let
him go."

"'Tis a knock-kneed generation," declared Mr. Voysey.  "All for comfort
and luxury.  Tea, with sugar in it, have took the place of the good,
honest, sour cider like what every man had in harvest days of old.  But
now, these here young youths, they say sharp cider turns their innards!
It never used to turn ours.  'Tis all of a piece, and the nation's on
the downward road, along of too much cosseting."

"For my part, I think 'tis more the weakness of mind than the weakness
of body that be ruining us," observed Miss Gollop.  "As a nurse I see
more than you men can, and, as a female, I hear more than you do.  And
I will say that the way the people have taken these here doings of that
scarlet woman to Undershaugh is a sin and a scandal.  At first they
wouldn't believe it, though I blew the trumpet of truth in their ears
from the moment that Dissenter died; but, afterwards, when 'twas known
as a fact and the parties couldn't deny it, and Mr. Waite throwed over
Cora Lintern, as any respecting man would when he heard the shameful
truth--then who came to me and said, 'Ah, you was right, Eliza, and I
was wrong'?  Not one of 'em!  And what's worse is the spirit they've
taken it in.  Nobody cares, though everybody ought to care!"

"Every person says 'tis none of their business," explained Voysey.

"More shame to 'em!" declared Thomas.  "As if it wasn't the business of
all decent men and women.  Time was when such an incontinent terror of
a woman would have been stoned out of the village in the name of law
and righteousness.  Yet now, mention the thing where I will, 'tis taken
with a heathen calmness that makes my blood boil.  And Masterman worst
of all, mind!  If it wasn't a case for a scorching sermon, when was
there one?  Yet not a word.  And not a word from the Dissenters
neither--not in the meeting-house--though 'tis a subject they'm very
great against most times.  However, I've inquired and I find it has
been passed over."

"No godly anger anywhere," admitted Eliza, "and not one word of sorrow
to me for the hard things what were spoken when I stood up
single-handed and told the truth."

"Religion be dying out of the nation," summed up Thomas.  "My father
always said that me and Eliza would live to see antichrist ascend his
throne; and it begins to look as if the times were very near ripe for
the man.  And 'twill be harder than ever now--now I'm driven out from
being parish clerk.  For I shall have to look on and yet be powerless
to strike a blow."

They drank in gloomy silence; but Mr. Voysey was not similarly
oppressed by the moral breakdown of the times.  He strove to bring
conversation back to the vicarage, and failing to do so, soon took his
leave.

After he had gone the brother and sister debated long, and Thomas gave
it as his opinion that it would be well for them to leave Shaugh and
end their days in a more Christian and congenial atmosphere.

"There's nought to keep us now," he said; "all have gone down afore
that Masterman, and 'tis something of a question whether such as we
ought to bide here, simply as common folk with no more voice in the
parish.  If we go, the blame lies on his shoulders; but once I make up
my mind, I won't stop--not though the people come before me and beg on
their bended knees for me to do so."

"'Twould be like Adam and Eve being driven out of the Garden if we'm
forced to go," declared Eliza.

"With this difference, however, that the blame ban't with us, though
the punishment may be.  There's nobody can say we've ever done wrong
here, or gone outside our duty to God or man by a hair.  If we go, 'tis
them that drive us out will have to pay for their wickedness."

"They'll certainly smart, if 'tis only in the long run," confessed
Eliza.  "'Twill be brought home against them at the appointed time."

Thomas nodded drearily.

"Cold comfort," he said, "but the only satisfaction there is to be got
out of it by us.  Yes, I shall go; I shall shake off the dust for a
witness.  I wish I thought as 'twould choke a party here and there;
but, thank God, I know my place.  I never offered to do His almighty
work, and I never will.  I never wanted to call down thunder from
heaven on the evil-doer.  But 'tis always a tower of faith to a
righteous man when he sees the Lord strike.  And to them as be weak in
faith, 'tis often a puzzle and a temptation to see how long the Lord
holds off, when justice cries aloud to Him to rise up and do His worst."




CHAPTER XIII

At the approach of another Christmas, Humphrey Baskerville stood in the
churchyard of St. Edward's and watched two masons lodge the stone that
he had raised to his brother Nathan.  It conformed to the usual pattern
of the Baskerville memorials, and was of slate.  The lettering had been
cut deep and plain without addition of any ornament.  The accidental
severity and simplicity of the stone contrasted to advantage with
Vivian's ornate and tasteless marble beside it.

Dennis Masterman walked across the churchyard presently and, seeing
Humphrey, turned and approached.

"Good morning," he said.  "Glad you've put a slate here.  I like them
better than these garish things.  They are more suited to this grey
Moor world of ours."

"'Tis a foolish waste to spend money on the dead," answered Mr.
Baskerville.  "When all the living be clothed and fed, then we can
fling away our money over graves.  'Tis only done to please ourselves,
not to please them."

"You've a right to speak," said the clergyman.  "To praise you would be
an impertinence; but as the priest of Him we both worship, I rejoice to
think of what you have done to clear the clouded memory of this man."

Humphrey took no verbal notice of these remarks.  He shrugged his
shoulders and spoke of the gravestone.

"I'll thank you to read what I've put over him, and say whether 'tis
not right and just."

The other obeyed.  After particulars of Nathan's age and the date of
his death, there followed only the first verse of the forty-first
Psalm--

  "Blessed is he that considereth the poor: the Lord
  will deliver him in time of trouble."


"You see," explained Mr. Baskerville, "my brother did consider the
poor--and none else.  That he made a botch of it, along of bad judgment
and too much hope and too much trust in himself, is neither here nor
there; for I hold his point of view was well-meaning though mistaken.
If we see a man's point of view, it often leads--I won't say to mercy,
for that's no business of ours in my opinion--but to the higher
justice.  To judge by results is worldly sense, but I'm doubtful if
'tis heavenly sense.  Anyway, that's how I feel about my brother now,
though 'twas only brought home to me after a year of thinking; and as
for the end of the text, certainly that happened, because none can
doubt the Lord delivered him in the time of trouble.  His death was a
deliverance, as every death must be, but none more than Nathan's afore
the tempest broke."

Masterman--knowing as little as the other what Nathan's death had
brought to Nathan of mental agony before the end--conceded these points
freely.  They walked together in the churchyard and spoke of moral
topics and religious instruction.  At a point in the enclosure, the
younger stopped and indicated a space remote from the lodges of the
silent people.

"You design to lie here--is it not so?  Gollop, I remember, told me, a
long time ago now."

The old man regarded the spot indifferently and shook his head.

"I meant it once--not now.  We change our most fixed purposes under the
battering of the world; and small enough our old thoughts often look,
when seen again, after things have happened and years have passed.
I'll creep to join my own, if you please.  They won't mind, I reckon,
if I sink into the pit beside 'em.  I'll go by my wife and my son and
my brothers.  We'll all rise and brave the Trump together, as well as
erring man may."

The stone was set in its place presently and Mr. Baskerville, well
pleased with the result, set off homeward.  His tethered pony stood at
the gate, and he mounted and went slowly up the hill.




CHAPTER XIV

"Some say they believe the old saying and some say they don't,"
declared Mr. Abraham Elford to a thin bar at six o'clock on Christmas
Eve; "but for my part I know what I've proved to be true with my own
eyes, and I will stick to it that apples picked at wane of moon do
shrivel and scrump up cruel.  In fact, for hoarding they be no use at
all."

"And you swear that you've proved that?" asked Mr. Head in his most
judicial manner.  "You stand there, a man up home sixty years of age,
and steadfastly declare that apples gathered when the moon be on the
wane do dry up quicker than others that be plucked when it begins to
grow?"

"Yes, I do," declared the innkeeper.  "Don't I tell you that I've
proved it?  Pick your apples when the moon be first horning, that's my
advice."

They wrangled upon the question, and missed its real interest as an
example of the value of evidence and the influence of superstition and
individual idiosyncrasy on all human testimony.

Jack scoffed, Abraham Elford grew warm; for who is there that can
endure to hear his depositions brushed aside as worthless?

Upon this great topic of the shrinking of apples at wane of moon, some
sided with Mr. Head; while others, who held lunar influence as a force
reaching into dark mysteries of matter and mind, supported the publican.

The contention was brisk, and not until it began to interfere with the
nightly sale of his liquor, did Elford awake to its danger and stop it.
He conceded nothing, but declared the argument must cease.

"'Tis Christman Eve," said he, "and no occasion for any short words or
sharp sayings.  Me and Head both know that we'm right, and mountains
wouldn't move either of us from our opinions, so let it be."

He lifted a great earthen pot from the fire in the bar parlour.  It
contained cider with pieces of toast floating in it.

"Pretty drinking, as I'm certain sure that one and all of you will
say," foretold the host.

Apples, however, rose again to be first topic of conversation before
this fine wassail, and Jack spoke once more.

"Time was, down to the in country, that on this night--or else Old
Christman Eve, I forget which--we gawks should all have marched out
solemn to the orchards and sung lucky songs, and poured out cider, and
fired our guns into the branches, and made all-round heathen fools of
ourselves.  And why?  Because 'twas thought that to do so improved the
next year's crop a thousandfold!  And when we remember that 'twas no
further back than our fathers that they did such witless things, it did
ought to make us feel humble, I'm sure."

"Don't talk no more about cider, drink it," said Heathman Lintern, who
was of the company.  "Drink it while 'tis hot, and 'twill warm your
bones and soften your opinions.  You'm so peart to-night and so sharp
at the corners, that I reckon you've got your money back at last."

This direct attack reduced Mr. Head to a less energetic and dogmatic
frame of mind.

"No," he answered.  "I have not, and I happen to know that I never
shall.  Me and the old chap fell out, and I dressed him down too sharp.
I was wrong, and I've since admitted it, for I'm the rare, fearless
sort that grant I'm wrong the first minute it can be proved against me.
Though when a man's built on that large pattern, you may be sure he
ban't wrong very often.  'Tis only the peddling, small creatures that
won't admit they're mistaken--out of a natural fear that if they once
allow it, they'll never be thought right again.  But though he's
forgiven me, I've strained the friendship.  So we live and learn."

"Coode's had his money again," said the host of 'The White Thorn.'

"He has--the drunken dog?  There's only me left," returned Jack.

"It wasn't till after he lost his money that he took to swilling,
however," declared the innkeeper.  "I know him well.  The misfortune
ruined his character."

"His daughter's been paid back, all the same," said Lintern.  "She
keeps his house, and the old boy gave the money to her, to be used or
saved according as she thinks best."

"That leaves only me," said Jack.

"Me and Rupert was running over the figures a bit ago," continued
Heathman.  "We made out that the sporting old blade had dropped upwards
of six thousand over this job, and we was wondering how much that is
out of all he's got."

"A fleabite, I reckon," answered Head; but the other doubted it.

"Rupert says he thinks 'tis pretty near half of his fortune, if not
more.  He goes shabbier than ever, and he eats little better than orts
for his food."

"That's no new thing," said another man as he held a mug for some more
of the hot cider; "'twas always so, as Susan Hacker will tell you.  My
wife have heard her grumbling off and on these ten years about it.  His
food's poor and coarse, like his baccy and his cider.  His clothes be
kept on his back till there ban't enough of the web left to hold 'em
together any longer.  Susan offered an old coat to a tramp once,
thinking to get it away afore Baskerville missed it; and the tramp
looked it over--through and through, you might say--and he thanked
Susan as saucy as you please, and told her that when he was going to
set up for a mommet[1] he'd let her know, but 'twouldn't be yet."


[1] _Mommet_--scarecrow.


"A strange old night-hawk, and always have been," said Head.  "Not a
man--not even me, though I know him best--can measure him altogether.
Never was such a mixture.  Now he's so good-natured as the best stone,
and you'll go gaily driving into him and then, suddenly, you'll strike
flint, and get a spark in your eye, and wish to God you'd left the man
alone.  He's beyond any well-balanced mind to understand, as I've told
him more than once."

"Meek as Moses one minute, then all claws and prickles the next--so
they tell me," declared Abraham Elford.  "But whether 'tis true or not,
I can't say from experience," he added, "for the man don't come in
here."

"And why?" said Heathman.  "That's another queer side of him.  I axed
him that same question, and he said because to his eyes the place was
haunted by my father.  'I should see Nathan's long beard wagging behind
the bar,' he said to me, 'and I couldn't abide it.'"

"He's above common men, no doubt," declared another speaker.  "We can
only leave him at that.  He's a riddle none here will ever guess, and
that's the last word about him."

Rupert Baskerville came in at this moment and saw Heathman.  Both were
in Dennis Masterman's carol choir, and it was time that they gathered
with the rest at the vicarage, for a long round of singing awaited them.

"A mild night and the roads pretty passable," he announced.  "We're
away in half an hour wi' books and lanterns; but no musickers be coming
with us, like in the good old days.  Only voices to carry it off."

He stopped to drink, and the sight of Jack Head reminded him of a
commission.

"I want you, Jack," he said.  "Come out in the ope-way for half a
moment."

They departed together, and in a few moments returned.  Rupert was
laughing, Mr. Head exhibited the liveliest excitement.  In one hand he
waved three ten-pound notes; with the other he chinked some gold and
silver.

"Money!  Money!  Money, souls!" he shouted.  "If that baggering old
hero haven't paid me after all!  Give it a name, boys, drinks round!"

They congratulated him and liquor flowed.  Head was full of rejoicing.
He even exhibited gratitude.

"You might say 'twas no more than justice," he began; "but I tell you
he's more than just--he's a very generous old man, and nobody can deny
it, and I for one would like to do something to pay him back."

"There's nought you can do," declared Elford, "but be large-minded
about it, and overlook the little smart that always touches a big mind
when it's asked to accept favours."

"Not a big mind," corrected Rupert.  "'Tis only a small mind can't take
favours.  And the thought of giving that smart would pain my uncle, for
he's terrible tender and he's smarted all his life, and knows what 'tis
to feel so."

"Smart be damned!" said Mr. Head.  "There's no smart about getting back
your own.  I'm only glad that he felt the call to pay; and, though I
was kept to the last, I shan't quarrel about that.  If Rupert here, as
be his nephew and his right hand by all accounts, could hit on a thing
for us to do that would please the man, then I say us might do it
without loss of credit.  There's nobody has anything serious against
him, I believe, nowadays, unless it be Abraham here, because he never
comes inside his bar."

The publican shrugged his shoulders.

"I can't quarrel for that," he said, "since he goeth nowhere else
either."

They considered the possible ways of bringing any satisfaction to
Humphrey Baskerville, but could hit on no happy project.  Head, indeed,
was fertile of ideas, but Rupert found objections to all of them.

"If us could only do something that meant a lot of different chaps all
of one mind," said Heathman.  "The old bird always thinks that the
people hate him or laugh at him, and if we could somehow work a trick
that showed a score of folk all meaning well to him and thinking well
of him for once----  But Lord knows what."

Then came an interruption in the shape of Dennis Masterman.  He was
warm and somewhat annoyed.  He turned upon the guilty Rupert and
Heathman.

"This is too bad, you fellows!" he said.  "Here we're all waiting and
waiting, and, despite my express wishes, you turn in to drink.  I blame
you both."

They expressed the liveliest regret, and Dennis was speedily mollified
when he heard the great argument that had made these men forget the
business of the night.

"There's no time now," he answered, "but you're in the right to think
of such a thing, and, after Christmas, I shall be only too glad to lend
a hand.  A very admirable idea, and I'm glad you've hit on it."

"Just a thimbleful of my wassail, your honour, for luck," said the
host, and Masterman, protesting, took the glass handed to him.

A sudden and violent explosion from Mr. Head made the clergyman nearly
choke in the middle of his drinking.

"I've got it!" cried Jack so loudly that the company started.  He
slapped his leg at the same moment and then danced with exaggerated
rejoicing.

"Got what?  D.T.'s?" asked Heathman.

"Go up along to Hawk House!  I beg and pray your reverence to go there
first of all," urged Jack.  "Surely 'tis the very thing.  'Tis just
what we was trying to light upon--summat that meant the showing of
general friendship--summat that meant a bit of trouble and thought
taken for him--all your blessed Christmas vartues put
together--goodwill and all the rest of it.  If you was to steal up
through the garden by the greenside and then burst forth like one
man--why, there 'tis!  Who can deny 'tis a noble idea?  And you can go
and holler to the quality afterwards."

"Good for you, Jack!" answered Rupert.  "And I say ditto with all my
heart if Mr. Masterman----"

"Come, then," interrupted Dennis.  "The night will be gone before we
start.  We'll go to Hawk House right away.  I can't gainsay such a
wish, though it's a mile out of the beat we had planned.  Come!"

The clergyman, with Rupert Baskerville and Heathman Lintern, hurried
off, and a few of the younger men, accompanied by Jack Head, followed
after them.

"I must just pop in my house and lock up this dollop of money," said
Jack; "then us'll go up over with the singers to see how the old Hawk
takes it.  He'll be scared first; and then he'll try to look as if he
was going to fling brickbats out of the windows, or set the dogs at us;
and all the time we shall very well know that he's bubbling over with
surprise to find what a number of respectable people have got to
thinking well of him."

The crowd of men and boys moved on ahead of Jack and his friends.  The
shrill cries and laughter of the youngsters and a bass rumble of adult
voices wakened night, and a dozen lanterns flashed among the company as
they ascended into the silent darkness of Dartmoor.




CHAPTER XV

Humphrey Baskerville had hoped that his nephew might visit him on
Christmas Eve; but he learned that it was impossible, because Rupert
had joined the carol-singers, and would be occupied with them on a wide
circle of song.

After dark he sat alone until near seven o'clock; then Mrs. Hacker
returned home and they took their supper together.

The meal ended, she cleared it away and settled to her knitting.  Talk
passed between them not unmarked by sentiment, for it concerned the
past and related to those changes the year had brought.  On the
following day Humphrey was to eat his Christmas dinner at Cadworthy,
and Susan hoped to spend the festival with friends in Shaugh.

"I've got Heathman and his mother to be of the company," said Mr.
Baskerville.  "The daughters are both about their own business, and one
goes to her sweetheart, and Cora's down to Plymouth, so we shall escape
from them and no harm done.  But Heathman and his mother will be there.
They are rather a puzzle to me, Susan."

"No doubt," she replied.  "You'll go on puzzling yourself over this
party or that till you've puzzled yourself into the workhouse.  Haven't
you paid all the creditors to the last penny?"

"Not so," he answered.  "That's where it lies.  A man's children and
their mother are his first creditors, I should reckon.  They've got
first call in justice, if not in law.  I judge that there's a fine bit
of duty there, and the way they look at life--so much my own way
'tis--makes me feel----  I wrote to that bad Cora yesterday.  She's
working hard, I'm told."

Susan sniffed.

"So does the Devil," she said.  "'Tis all very well for you, I suppose;
because when you wake up some morning and discover as you've got nought
left in the world but your night-shirt, you'll go about to them you've
befriended to seek for your own again--and lucky you'll be if you find
it, or half of it; but what of me?"

"You'll never want," he declared.  "You're the sort always to fall on
your feet."

"So's young Lintern for that matter.  No need to worry about him.  He's
a lesson, if you like.  The man to be contented whatever haps."

"I know it.  I've marked it.  I've learnt no little from him.  A big
heart and a mighty power of taking life as it comes without fuss.
There's a bad side to it, however, as well as a good.  I've worked that
out.  It's good for a man to be contented, but no good for the place he
lives in.  Contented people never stir up things, or throw light into
dark corners, or let air into stuffy places.  Content means stagnation
so oft as not."

"They mind their own business, however."

"They mostly do; and that's selfish wisdom so oft as not.  Now Jack
Head's never content, and never will be."

"Don't name that man on Christmas Eve!" said Mrs. Hacker testily.  "I
hate to think of him any day of the week, for that matter."

"Yet him and the east wind both be useful, little as you like 'em.  For
my part, I've been a neighbour to the east wind all my life and shared
its quality in the eyes of most folk--till now.  But the wind of God be
turning out of the east for me, Susan."

"So long as you be pleased with yourself----  And as for content,
'tisn't a vartue, 'tis an accident, like red hair or bow legs.  You
can't get it, nor yet get away from it, by taking thought."

He nodded.

"You're in the right there.  One man will make more noise if he
scratches his finger than another if he breaks his leg.  'Tis part of
the build of the mind, and don't depend on chance.  Same with
misery--that's a matter of character, not condition, I know men that
won't be wretched while they can draw their breath; and some won't be
happy, though they've got thrice their share of good fortune.  No doubt
that's how Providence levels up, and gives the one what he can't enjoy,
to balance him with the other, who's got nought, but who's also got the
blessed power of making happiness out of nought."

"You've found the middle way, I suppose," she said; "and, like others
who think they're on the sure road to happiness, you be pushing along
too fast."

"Running myself out of breath--eh?  But you're wrong.  I'm too cautious
for that.  If I'm a miser, as the people still think here and there,
then 'tis for peace I'm a miser.  'Twas always peace of mind that I
hungered and hankered for, yet went in doubt if such a thing there was.
And even now, though I seem three-parts along the road to it, I feel a
cold fear often enough whether my way will stand all weathers.  It may
break down yet."

"Not while your money lasts," she answered with a short laugh.

He followed his own thoughts in silence, and then spoke aloud again.

"Restless as the fox, and hungrier than ever he was.  Every man's hand
against me, as I thought, and mine held out to every man; but they
wouldn't see it.  None to come to my hearth willingly, though 'twas
always hot for 'em; none to look into my meaning, though that meaning
was always meant for kindness.  But who shall blame any living creature
that they thought me an enemy and not a friend?  How should they know?
Didn't I hide the scant good that was in me, more careful than the bird
her nest?"

"They be up to your tricks now, anyway; and I've helped to show 'em
better, though you may not believe it," declared Susan.  "What a
long-tongued, well-meaning female could do I've done for you; and I
always shall say so."

"I know that," he said.  "There's no good thing on earth than can't be
made better, but one thing.  And that's the thing in all Christian
minds this night--I mean the thing called love.  You know it--you deal
in it.  Out of your kind soul you've always felt friendly to me, and
you saw what I had the wish but not the power to show to others; and
you've done your share of the work to make the people like me better.
Maybe 'tis mostly your doing, if we could but read into the truth of
it."

This work-a-day world must for ever fall far short of the humblest
ethical ideal, and doubtless even those who fell prostrate at the shout
of their Thunder Spirit, or worshipped the sun and the sea in the
morning of days, guessed dimly how their kind lacked much of
perfection.  To them the brooding soul of humanity revealed the road,
though little knew those early men the length of it; little they
understood that the goal of any faultless standard must remain a
shifting ideal within reach of mind alone.

At certain points Baskerville darkly suspected weak places in this new
armour of light.  While his days had, indeed, achieved a consummation
and orbicular completeness beyond all hope; while, looking backward, he
could not fail to contrast noontide gloom with sunset light, the fierce
equinox of autumn with this unfolding period of a gracious Indian
summer now following upon it; yet, even here, there fell a narrow
shadow of cloud; there wakened a wind not unedged.  In deep and secret
thought he had drifted upon that negation of justice involved by the
Golden Rule.  He saw, what every intellect worthy a name must see: that
to do as you would be done by, to withhold the scourge from the guilty
shoulder, to suffer the weed to flourish in the garden, to shield our
fellow-men from the consequence of their evil or folly, is to put the
individual higher than society, and to follow a precept that ethics in
evolution has long rejected.

But he shirked his dilemma: he believed it not necessary to pursue the
paradox to its bitter end.  The Golden Rule he hypostatised into a
living and an omnipresent creed; henceforth it was destined to be his
criterion of every action; and to his doubting spirit he replied, that
if not practicable in youth, if not convenient for middle age, this
principle might most justly direct the performance and stimulate the
thought of the old.  Thus he was, and knew himself, untrue to the
clearer, colder conviction of his reasoning past; but in practice this
defection brought a peace so exalted, a content so steady, a
recognition so precious, that he rested his spirit upon it in faith and
sought no further.

Now he retraced his time, and made a brief and pregnant summary thereof
for Susan's ear.

"'Tis to be spoken in a score of words," he said.  "My life has been a
storm in a teacup; but none the less a terrible storm for me until I
won the grace to still it.  Port to the sailor-man be a blessed thing
according to the voyage that's gone afore.  The worse that, the better
the peace of the haven when he comes to it."

She was going to speak, but a sound on the stillness of night stopped
her.

"Hark!" was all she said.

Together they rose and went to his outer door.

The gibbous moon sailed through a sky of thin cloud, and light fell
dimly upon the open spaces, but sparkled in the great darkness of
evergreen things about the garden.  Earth rolled night-hidden to the
southern hills, and its breast was touched with sparks of flame, where
glimmered those few habitations visible from this place.  A lattice of
naked boughs meshed the moonlight under the slope of the hill, and from
beneath their shadows ascended a moving thread of men and boys.  They
broke the stillness with speech and laughter, and their red
lantern-light struck to right and left and killed the wan moonshine as
they came.

"What's toward now?" asked Mr. Baskerville, staring blankly before him.

"Why," cried Susan, "'tis the carol-singers without a doubt!  They'll
want an ocean of beer presently, and where shall us get it from?"

"Coming to me--coming to sing to _me_!" he mumbled.  "Good God, a thing
far beyond my utmost thought is this!"

The crowd rolled clattering up, and the woman stayed to welcome them;
but the man ran back into his house, sat down in his chair, bent
forward to listen and clasped his hands tightly between his knees.

Acute emotion marked his countenance; but this painful tension passed
when out of the night there rolled the melodious thunder of an ancient
tune.

"Singing for me!" he murmured many times while the old song throbbed.