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.