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.