"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.