The disturbance ended as swiftly as it had begun, for Humphrey

Baskerville made a bolt, dashed through the crowd, descended the

churchyard steps, and reached the street. A dozen hastened to follow,

but Jack Head, Lintern, Waite, Mr. Masterman, and Ben North, the

policeman, resisted the rioters, and kept them within the churchyard

walls as far as possible. Jack hit so hard that soon he was involved

in a battle against odds on his own account.

Meantime, with a clod or two whizzing past his head, Humphrey reached

the street corner and hastened round it. Here was silence and peace.

He stopped, and his brain grew dizzy. Such exertion he had not made

for many years. He heard the noise of men and hastened on. A chaos of

ideas choked his mind and dammed all play of coherent thought. He had

heard a rumour that the thing he had done for his brother was regarded

differently by different men, but he knew not that so many were

incensed and enraged. The shock of the discovery disarmed him now and

left him frantic. He looked forward, and believed that his last hope

of reconciliation with humanity was dead. He envied the eternal peace

of his brother as he struggled on against the hill homeward.

Into the black and water-logged heart of Shaugh Moor he climbed

presently, and from exhaustion and faintness fell there. He stopped

upon the ground for a few moments; then lifted himself to his hands and

knees; then sat down upon a stone and stared down into the theatre of

this tragedy.

Overhead a sky as wild as his soul made huge and threatening

preparations for the delayed tempest. Through the tangled skirts of

the darkness westerly there strove and spread great passages of

dazzling silver all tattered and torn and shredded out of the black and

weltering clouds. For a moment in the midst of this radiance there

opened a farewell weather-gleam, where the azure firmament was seen

only to vanish instantly. Then the gloom gathered, and huddled up in

ridges of purple and of lead. Aloft, from the skirt of the main

cumulus, where it swept under the zenith, there hung, light as a veil,

yet darker than the sky behind them, long, writhing tentacles, that

twisted down and curled in sinister suspension, that waved and twined,

and felt hither and thither horribly, like some aerial hydra seeking

prey.

For a time these curtains of the rain swayed clear of earth; but their

progress swept them against it, and they burst their vials upon the

bosom of the Moor. The storm shrieked, exploded, emptied itself with

howling rage out of the sudden darkness. Then the fury of these

tenebrous moments passed; the hurricane sped onward, and the dim wet

ray that followed struck down upon a heath whitened with ice for miles.

A bitterness of cold and an ice-blink of unfamiliar radiance were

thrown upwards from the crust of the hail; but soon it melted, and the

waste, now running with a million rivulets, grew dark again.

The spectacle must have been impressive to any peaceful mind, but

Baskerville saw nothing hyperbolic in the rage of wind and water. The

storm cited by Nature was not more tremendous than that tornado now

sweeping through his own soul.

END OF SECOND BOOK

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

Humphrey Baskerville continued to stalk the stage of life like a lonely

ghost, and still obscured from all men and women the secrets of his

nature, and the fierce interest of his heart in matters human. The

things that he most wished to display he deliberately concealed, as a

shy child who makes a toy, and longs to show it, but dares not, yet

grows warm to the roots of his being if the treasure is found and

applauded. Behind doubts, suspicions and jealousies he hid himself;

his tongue was rough; his utterances at the outrage put upon him before

the people by his brother's grave were bitter and even coarse. Nor did

it abate his concern to know that the hostile explosion was as much

simulated as genuine, as much mischievous as meant. It drove him in

upon himself; it poisoned his opinion of human wisdom; and for a time

he moved through darkest night.

Yet this transcendent gloom preceded a dawn; the crisis of his unquiet

days approached; and, from the death of Nathan onward, life changed

gradually for the man, and opened into a way that until now had been

concealed from his scrutiny.

There chanced an hour when Humphrey Baskerville rode upon his pony

under the high ground above Cornwood. He came by appointment to meet

his dead brother's lawyer, and accident had postponed the interview for

some weeks. The solicitor desired to see him. There were strange

rumours in the air, and it was declared that a very surprising and

unexpected condition of things had appeared upon the publican's passing.

Humphrey refused to hear even his own relations upon the matter, for he

held Nathan's estate no concern of his; but at the urgent entreaties of

Mr. Popham, the master of Hawk House now rode to see him. He had,

however, already made it clear that he was to be considered in no way

responsible for his brother's obligations, and felt unprepared to offer

advice or engage himself in any particular.

He passed across the shoulder of Pen Beacon, through a wild world of

dun-coloured hills, streaked with flitting radiance, and clouded in

billowy moisture driven before a great wind. The sky was lowering, and

a gale from the Atlantic swept with tremendous power along; but the

nature of the scene it struck was such that little evidence of the

force displayed could appear to the beholder. Stone and steep and

sodden waste stared blindly at the pressure and flinched not. It

remained for wandering beast or man to bend before it and reveal its

might. On the pelt of the sheep and cattle, or against the figure of a

wanderer, its buffet was manifest; and, in the sky, the fierce breath

of it herded the clouds into flocks, that sped and spread and gathered

again too swiftly for the telling. They broke in billows of sudden

light; they massed into darkness and hid the earth beneath them; then

again they parted, and, like a ragged flag above a broken army, the

clean blue unfurled.

Over this majestic desolation suddenly there shot forth a great company

of rooks, and the wind drove them before it--whirling and wheeling and

tumbling in giddy dives, only to mount again. A joyous spirit clearly

dominated the feathered people. They circled and cried aloud in merry

exultation of the air. They swooped and soared, rushed this way and

that on slanting pinions, played together and revelled in the immense

force that drove them like projectiles in a wild throng before it.

Even to these aerial things such speed was strange. They seemed to

comment in their language upon this new experience. Then the instinct

unfathomed that makes vast companies of living creatures wheel and warp

together in mysterious and perfect unison, inspired them. They turned

simultaneously, ascended and set their course against the wind. But

they could make no headway now, and, in a cloud, they were blown

together, discomforted, beaten to leeward. Whereupon they descended

swiftly to the level of the ground, and, flying low, plodded together

back whence they had come. At a yard or two above earth's surface they

steadily flapped along, cheated the wind, and for a few moments flashed

a reflected light over the Moor with their innumerable shining black

bodies and pinions outspread. At a hedge they rose only to dip again,

and here Humphrey, who drew up to watch them, marked how they worked in

the teeth of the gale, and was near enough to see their great grey

bills, their anxious, glittering eyes, and their hurtling feathers

blown awry as they breasted the hedge, fought over, and dipped again.

"'Tis the same as life," he reflected. "Go aloft and strive for high

opinions, and the wind of doubt blows you before it like a leaf. Up

there you can travel with the storm, not against it. If you want to go

t'other way, you've got to feel along close to earth seemingly--to

earth and the manners of earth and the folk of the earth. And hard

work at that; but better than driving along all alone."

He derived some consolation from this inchoate thought, and suspected a

moral; but the simile broke down. His mind returned to Mr. Popham

presently, and, taking leave of the Moor, he descended and arrived at

the lawyer's house upon the appointed hour.

The things that he heard, though he was prepared for some such recital,

astounded him by their far-reaching gravity. The fact was of a

familiar character; but it came with the acidulated sting of novelty to

those involved. An uproar, of which Humphrey in his isolation had

heard but the dim echo, already rioted through Shaugh Prior, and far

beyond it.

"I'll give you a sketch of the situation," said the man of business.

"And I will then submit my own theory of it--not that any theory can

alter the exceedingly unpleasant facts. It belongs merely to the moral

side of the situation, and may help a little to condone our poor

friend's conduct. In a word, I do not believe he was responsible."

"Begin at the other end," answered Humphrey. "Whether he was

responsible or not won't help us now. And it won't prevent honest men

spurning his grave, I fancy."

Mr. Popham collected his papers and read a long and dismal statement.

His client had always kept his affairs closely to himself, and such was

the universal trust and confidence that none ever pressed him to do

otherwise. He had been given a free hand in the administration of

considerable sums; he had invested where he pleased, and for many years

had enjoyed the best of good fortune, despite the hazardous character

of the securities he affected.

"No man was ever cursed with such an incurable gift of hope," explained

the lawyer. "All along the line you'll find the same sanguine and

unjustifiable methods exhibited. The rate per cent was all he cared

about. His custom was to pay everybody four and a half, and keep the

balance. But when companies came to grief nobody heard anything about

it; he went on paying the interest, and, no doubt, went on hoping to

make good the capital. This, however, he seldom appears to have done.

There are about forty small people who deposited their savings with

him, and there is nothing for any of them but valueless paper. He was

bankrupt a dozen times over, and the thing he'd evidently pinned his

last hope to--a big South American silver mine--is going the way of the

others. Had it come off, the position might have been retrieved; but

it is not coming off. He put five thousand pounds into it--not his own

money--and hoped, I suppose, to make thirty thousand. It was his last

flutter."

"Where did he get the money?"

"By mortgaging Cadworthy and by using a good deal of his late brother's

capital. I mean the estate of Mr. Vivian Baskerville."

"He's a fraudulent trustee, then?"

"He is. He had already mortgaged all his own property. He was in a

very tight place about the time of Mr. Vivian's death, and the money he

had to handle then carried him on."

"What did he do with his own money? How did he spend that?"

"We shall never know, unless somebody comes forward and tells us. I

trace the usual expenditures of a publican and other expenses. He

always kept a good horse or two, and he rode to hounds until latterly,

and subscribed to several hunts. He was foolishly generous at all

times. I see that he gave away large sums anonymously--but

unfortunately they were not his own. There is no doubt that his

judgment failed completely of late years. He was so accustomed to

success that he had no experience of failure, and when inevitable

failures came, they found him quite unprepared with any reserves

against them. To stem the tide he gambled, and when his speculations

miscarried, he waded still more deeply. He was engaged in borrowing a

large sum of money just before his final illness. Indeed, he came to

me for it, for he kept me quite in the dark concerning existing

mortgages on his property. But he forgot I should want the

title-deeds. He was a devious man, but I shall always believe that he

lacked moral understanding to know the terrible gravity of the things

he did."

"How do we stand now?"

"The estate is from six thousand to seven thousand pounds to the bad."

"What is there against that?"

"The assets are practically nil. About forty pounds at the bank, and

the furniture at 'The White Thorn' Inn. Of course, his largest

creditor will be Mr. Ned Baskerville, of Cadworthy Farm. I want to

say, by the way, that this state of things is quite as much of a

surprise to me as to anybody. It is true that I have been his

solicitor for twenty years, but my work was nominal. I had no

knowledge whatever of his affairs. He never consulted me when in

difficulties, or invited my opinion on any subject."

"What about the Linterns?"

"They have asked to stop at Undershaugh for the present. I fancy Mrs.

Lintern was a close friend of your brother's. However, she is not

communicative. The mortgagee in that case, of course, forecloses, and

will, I think, be contented to let Mrs. Lintern stop where she is."

"There was no will?"

"I can find none."

"Yet I know very well he made one ten years ago. At least, he came to

me once rather full of it."

"It is very likely that he destroyed it."

There was a silence; then Humphrey Baskerville asked a question.

"Well, what d'you want of me?"

The other shrugged his shoulders.

"I leave that to you. You know how much or how little you regard this

disaster as a personal one."

"It has nothing whatever to do with me. I never lent him a penny. He

never asked me to do so."

"You don't recognise any obligation?"

"Absolutely not a shadow of any such thing."

"The family of which you are now head----?"

"A sentimental lawyer!"

The other laughed.

"Not much room for sentimentality--at least, plenty of room, no doubt.

Of course, if you don't consider----"

He broke off, but his listener did not speak.

"It is to be understood I must not ask you to help me?"

"Not in any practical way--not with money--certainly not. For the

rest, if as a man of business I can be of any service----"

"For the sake of the family."

"The family is nothing to me--at least, the one hit hardest is nothing

to me. He'll have to work for his living now. That's no hardship. It

may be the best thing that's befallen him yet."

"Very true, indeed. Well, let us leave the main question open. The

case has no very unusual features. Occasionally the world trusts a man

to his grave, and then finds out, too late, that it was mistaken. It

is extraordinary what a lot of people will trust a good heart, Mr.

Baskerville. Trust, like hope, springs eternal in the human breast."

"Does it? I've never found much come my way. And I'm not strong in

trust myself. I felt friendly to Nathan, because he was my own flesh

and blood; but trust him--no."

"He didn't confide in you?"

"Never."

Mr. Baskerville rose.

"I shall see my relations no doubt pretty soon. I fancy they'll pay me

some visits. Well, why not? I'm lonely, and rolling in money--so they

think. And--there's a woman that I rather expect to call upon me. In

fact, I've bidden her to do so. Perhaps, if she don't, I'll call on

her. For the present we can leave it. If there's no money, nobody can

hope to be paid. We'll talk more on that later. Who's got Cadworthy?"

"Westcott of Cann Quarries. He lent the money on it."

"What the devil does he want with it?" asked Mr. Baskerville.

"That I can't tell you. Probably he doesn't want it. He's foreclosed,

of course. It was only out of friendship and regard for Mr. Nathan

that he lent so much money on the place. He tells me that your brother

explained to him that it was for a year or so to help Ned; and out of

respect for the family he gladly obliged."

"Didn't know Westcott was so rich."

"You never know who's got the money in these parts. But 'tis safe to

bet that it isn't the man who spends most. There's Mr. Timothy Waite,

too, he lent Nathan a thousand, six months ago. Some cock-and-bull

story your poor brother told him, and of course, for such a man, he

gladly obliged. Each that he raised money from thought he was the only

one asked, of course."

"He was a rogue, and the worst sort of rogue--a chapel-going,

preaching, generous-handed, warm-hearted rogue. Such men are the

thieves of virtue. 'Tis an infamous story."

The lawyer stared, and Humphrey continued.

"Such men are robbers, I tell you--robbers of more than money and

widows' houses. They are always seeming honest, and never being so.

They run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. They get the benefit

of being rogues, and the credit of honest men. They are imitation good

men, and at heart know not the meaning of real goodness. They have the

name of being generous and kind--they are neither. Look what this man

has left behind him--blessings turned to curses. All a sham, and a

lifelong theft of men's admiration and esteem--a theft; for he won it

by false pretences and lived a lie."

"He is dead, however."

"Yes, he is dead; and I suppose you are the sort who like to palter

with facts and never speak ill of the dead. Why should we not tell the

truth about those who are gone? Does it hurt them to say it? No; but

it may do the living some good to say it. If living knaves see us

condoning and forgiving dead ones, will they turn from their knavery

any the quicker? We're a slack-twisted, sentimental generation.

Justice is the last thing thought of. It's so easy to be merciful to

people who have sinned against somebody else. But mercy's slow poison,

if you ask me. It rots the very roots of justice."

The other shrugged his shoulders.

"The first of Christian virtues, Mr. Baskerville, we must remember

that. But argument won't alter facts. You don't see your way to do

anything definite, so there's an end of it. Of course, there is no

shadow of obligation."

"You're right. I'll visit you again presently. Meantime you might let

me have a copy of the claims. I'm interested in knowing how many fools

trusted my dead brother with their money. I should like to know what

manner of man and woman put their savings into another man's pocket

without security. It seems contrary to human nature."

"There's no objection at all. They are all clamouring for their money.

And if the South American silver mine had done all that was hoped, not

only would they have had their cash, but your brother must have saved

his own situation, cleared his responsibilities, and died solvent."

"'If.' There's generally a rather big 'if' with a South American

anything, I believe."

They parted, and Humphrey Baskerville rode home again. Upon the way he

deeply pondered all the things that he had heard, and not until he was

back at Hawk House did distraction from these thoughts come. Then he

found that a woman waited to see him. It was Priscilla Lintern, who

had called at his invitation; and now he remembered that he had asked

her, and half regretted the act.

CHAPTER II

Mrs. Lintern arrived by appointment, for while one instinct of his

nature pressed Humphrey to evade this problem and take no hand in the

solution, another and more instant impulse acted in opposition.

He surveyed the sweep of events as they struck at those involved in

Nathan's ruin and death; and acting upon reasons now to be divulged, he

sent first for the mistress of Undershaugh; because in his judgment her

right to consideration was paramount.

Even in the act of summoning her, he told himself that these claims

were no business of his to investigate; and that he was a fool to

meddle. He repudiated responsibility at one breath, and deliberately

assumed it with the next. His own motives he did not pause to examine.

Introspection irritated him and he turned from his conflicting ideas

with impatience. In himself he only saw a very ill-balanced,

imprudent, and impertinent person; yet he proceeded.

Now came Mrs. Lintern to know what he would have, and he saw her with

an emotion of hearty regret that he had invited her.

In answer to his first question she assured him that she and her

children were well.

"I'm afraid putting off the wedding has annoyed your nephew a good

bit," she said; "but Cora felt that it was better; and so did I."

"Why did you think so?"

"Well, your brother held it so much to heart; and he was Ned's uncle.

We could only have made a very quiet business of it in decency; and

Cora felt 'twould be sad to marry under the cloud of death."

"Half the sorrow in the world is wasted on what can't be helped. It's

folly to mourn what's beyond altering--just as great folly as to mourn

the past. Surely you know that?"

"No doubt; but who can help it that's made on a human pattern?"

"The world would be a cheerful place if none wept for what can't be

altered. There was nothing in reason to stand between us and the

wedding. 'Twas my brother's last wish, for that matter."

She did not answer and a silence fell between them. He was determined

that she should break it, and at length she did so.

"Your brother was very fond of Cora. Of course, we at Undershaugh miss

him a very great deal."

"You would--naturally."

"At present the idea is that they get married in spring; and that won't

be none too soon, for everything's altered now. They'll have to sell

half they bought, and get rid of their fine house and their horses, and

much else. This business has entirely altered the future for them,

poor things."

"Utterly, of course. 'Twill have to be real love to stand this pinch.

Better they wait a bit and see how they feel about it. They may change

their minds. Both are pretty good at that."

She sighed.

"They understand each other, I believe. But Ned won't change, whatever

Cora does. He's wrapped up heart and soul in her."

"He'll have to seek work now."

"Yes; he is doing so."

"The one thing he's never looked for. Harder to find work than foxes."

"He's not good for much."

"You say that of your future son-in-law?"

"Truth's truth. A harmless and useless man. I can't for the life of

me think what he'll find to do."

"Nathan would have given him a job--eh? How wonderful he was at

finding work for people. And what does Cora think of it all?":

"She's a very secret girl."

"And Heathman?"

"Heathman be going to make my home for me--somewhere. 'Tisn't decided

where we go."

"You leave Undershaugh, then?"

"Yes."

"Nathan wouldn't have wished that, I'm sure."

"We were to have stopped, but the new owner wants to raise the rent to

nearly as much again."

"What used you to pay?"

She hesitated. Like many people whose position has forced them into

the telling of countless lies, she was still tender of truth in trifles.

"No matter," he said. "I can guess the figure very easily, and

nought's the shape of it."

A sinister foreboding flashed through her mind. It seemed impossible

to suppose such an innuendo innocent. Miss Gollop had said many

offensive things concerning her after Nathan's death; but few had

believed them, and still fewer shown the least interest in the subject.

It was absurd to suppose that Humphrey Baskerville would trouble his

head with such a rumour.

"Your brother was generous to all," she answered.

"Why, he was. And if charity shouldn't begin at home, where should it?"

"He was very generous to all," she repeated.

"I've been seeing Mr. Popham to-day."

"He's a true kind man, and wishful to do what he can. The rent asked

now for Undershaugh is too high, even in the good state we've made it.

So I've got to leave."

"'Twill be a wrench."

"Yes, indeed."

"But not such a bad one as his death?"

"That's true."

He probed her.

"Never to see him come down your path with his bustling gait; never to

hear the laughter of the man. You held his hand when he went out of

life. He loved you--'twas the master passion of him."

A flush of colour leapt and spread over her face. She gasped but said

nothing.

"A cruel thing that he left you as he did."

"What was I?" she began, alert and ready to fight at once and crush

this suspicion. "What are you saying? We were nothing----"

He held up his hand.

"A fool's trick--a lifelong fool's trick to hide it--a cruel, witless

thing--a wrong against generations unborn--scandalous--infamous--beyond

belief in a sane man."

"I don't understand you. God's my----"

"Hush--hush! I'm not an enemy. You needn't put out your claws; you

needn't lie to me. You needn't break oaths to me. It's a secret

still; but I know it--only me. You were his mistress, Priscilla

Lintern--his mistress and the mother of his children."

"He never told you that."

"Not he."

"Who did tell you?"

"Cora told me."

"She'd rather have----"

"She told me--not in words; but every other way. I knew it the hour

she came to see me, after she was engaged to marry my son. She strokes

her chin like Nat stroked his beard. Have you marked that? She thinks

just like Nat thought in a lot of ways, though she's not got his heart.

She's not near so silly as he was. Her voice was the echo to his as

soon as I got the clue. Her eyes were his again. She handles her

knife and fork just like he was wont to do it; she sets her head o' one

side to listen to anybody in the way he did. There's birds do it

too--when they gather worms out of the grass. And from that I took to

marking t'others. Your second girl be more like you; but Heathman will

be nearer his father every day as he gets older. If he growed a beard,

he'd be nearer him now. Wait and watch. And he's got his heart.

Don't speak till you hear more. From finding out that much, I sounded

Nathan himself. Little he guessed it, but what I didn't know, I soon

learned from him. Cora was the apple of his eye. She could do no

wrong. 'Twas Vivian and Ned over again. He spoke of you very guarded,

but I knew what was behind. It came out when he was dying, and he was

too far gone to hide it. And let me say this: I'll never forgive him

for doing such a wicked thing--never. God may; but I won't. I

wouldn't forgive myself if I forgave him. But you--you--dull man as I

am, I can see a bit of what your life was."

"A better life--a more precious life than mine no woman ever lived."

He took a deep breath.

Here she tacitly confessed to all that he had declared. She did not

even confirm it in words, but granted it and proceeded with the

argument. And yet his whole theory had been built upon presumption.

If she had denied the truth, he possessed no shadow of power to prove

it.

"If ever I pitied anybody, I pity you; and I admire you in a sort of

left-handed way. You're a very uncommon creature to have hid it in the

face of such a village as Shaugh Prior."

"What I am he made me. He was a man in ten thousand."

"I hope he was. Leave him. Let me say this afore we get on. I don't

judge you and, God knows it, I'm alive to this thing from your point of

view. You loved him well enough even for that. But there's no will.

He had nothing to leave; therefore--unless you've saved money during

his lifetime----?"

"I don't want you to have anything to do with my affairs, Mr.

Baskerville."

"As you please. But there are your children to be considered. Now it

may very much surprise you to know that I have thought a lot about

them. Should you say, speaking as an outsider, that I'm under any

obligation to serve them?"

The sudden and most unexpected question again startled the blood from

Mrs. Lintern's heart.

"What a terrible curious man you are! What a question to ask me!" she

said.

"Answer it, however--as if you wasn't interested in it."

"No," she declared presently. "None can say that they are anything to

do with you. You wasn't your brother's keeper. They be no kin of

yours in law or justice."

"In law--no. In justice they are of my blood. Not that that's

anything. You're right. They are nought to me. And you are less than

nought. But----" He stopped.

"Why have you told me that you have found this out?" she asked. "What

good can come of it? You'll admit at least 'tis a sacred secret, and

you've no right whatever to breathe it to a living soul? You won't

deny that?"

"There again--there's such a lot of sides to it. You might argue for

and against. Justice is terrible difficult. Suppose, for instance,

that I held, like Jack Head holds and many such, that 'tis a very

improper thing and a treachery to the unborn to let first cousins

mate--suppose I held to that? Ought I to sit by and let Cora marry

Ned? Now there's a nice question for an honest man.

"You were going to let Cora marry your own son."

"I don't know so much about that. They were engaged to each other

before I found it out, and then, as she soon flung him over, there was

no need for me to speak. Now, the question is, shall I let these two

of the same blood breed and maybe bring feebler things than themselves

into the world?"

"This is all too deep for me. One thing I know, and that is you can

say nought. You've come to the truth, by the terrible, wonderful

brains in your head; but you've no right to make it known."

"You're ashamed of it?"

She looked at him almost with contempt.

"You can ask that and know me, even so little as you do? God's my

judge that I'd shout it out from the top of the church tower to-morrow;

I'd be proud for the world to know; and so much the louder I'd sing it

because he's gone down to his grave unloved and in darkness. It would

make life worth living to me, even now, if I could open my mouth and

fight for him against the world. Not a good word do I hear now--all

curse him--all forget the other side of him--all forget how his heart

went out to the sorrowful and sad.... But there--what's the use of

talking? He don't want me to fight for him."

"If you feel that, why don't you stand up before the people and tell

'em?"

"There's my children."

"Be they more to you than he was?"

"No; but they are next."

"I hate deceit. Who'll think the worse of them?"

"Who won't?"

"None that are worth considering."

"You know very little about the world, for all that you are deep as the

dark and can find out things hidden. What about my darters? No, it

wouldn't be a fair thing to let it out."

"I hold it very important."

"It shan't be, I tell you. You can't do it; you never would."

"You're right. I never would. But that's not to say I don't wish it

to come out. For them, mind you, I speak. I leave you out now. I put

you first and you say you'd like it known. So I go on to them, and I

tell you that for their peace of mind and well-being in the future,

'tis better a thousand times they should start open and fair, without

the need of this lie between them and the world."

"I don't agree with that. When the truth was told them on his

deathbed, 'twas settled it should never go no further."

"Wait and think a moment before you decide. What has it been to you to

hide the truth all your life?"

"A necessity. I soon grew used to it. Nobody was hurt by it. And

Nathan kept his money."

"Don't fool yourself to think that none was hurt by it. Everybody was

hurt by it. A prosperous lie be like a prosperous thistle: it never

yet flourished without ripening seed and increasing its own poisonous

stock a thousandfold. The world's full of that thistledown. Your

children know the truth themselves; therefore I say it should come out.

They've no right to stand between you and the thing you want to do.

I'll wager Heathman don't care--it's only your daughters."

"More than that. Nathan would never have wished it known."

"No argument at all. He was soaked in crookedness and couldn't see

straight for years afore he died."

"I won't have it and I won't argue about it."

"Well, your word's law. But you're wrong; and you'll live to know

you're wrong. Now what are you going to do? We'll start as though I

knew nought of this for the moment."

"I stop at Undershaugh till spring. I've got no money to name. We

shall settle between ourselves--me and Heathman."

"I'll----"

He stopped.

"No," he said; "I can't promise anything, come to think of it; and I

can't commit myself. 'Tis folly to say, 'let the position be as though

I didn't know the truth.' It can't be. I do know it, and I'm

influenced by it. I'll do nothing at all for any of you unless this

comes out. I say that, not because I don't care for my brother's

children, but because I do care for them."

"I don't want you to do anything. I've got my son. I refuse

absolutely to speak. Until my children are all of one mind about it,

the thing must be hidden up--yes, hidden up for evermore. I won't

argue the right or the wrong. 'Tis out of my hands, and so long as one

of them says 'no,' I hold it my duty to keep silent. And, of course,

'tis yours also."

"Who knows what my duty would be if Ned was going to marry Cora? I'd

sacrifice the unborn to you; but not to your daughter and my nephew.

There have been enough tongues to curse that worthless pair already.

You don't want their own children to do the same in the time to come?

But perhaps I know as much about Cora as you do about Ned. Wait and

see if she changes her mind, since he has lost his fortune."

Priscilla rose.

"I will go now," she said. "Of course, you can't guess how this looks

to a woman--especially to me of all women. To find that you knew--and

no doubt you thought I'd come here and drop dead afore you of shame."

"No, I didn't. If you'd been that sort, I shouldn't have plumped it

out so straight. You are a brave creature, and must always have been

so. Well, I won't deny you the name of wife in secret--if you like to

claim it."

She was moved and thanked him. Satisfaction rather than concern

dominated her mind as she returned homeward. She felt glad that

Nathan's brother knew, and no shadow of fear dimmed her satisfaction;

for she was positive that, despite any declared doubts, he would never

make the truth public.

Her own attitude was even as she had described it. She would have

joyed to declare her close companionship, if only to stop the tongues

of those who hesitated not to vilify the dead before her.

Eliza Gollop had told many stories concerning Mrs. Lintern's attendance

in the sick room; but few were interested in them or smelt a scandal.

They never identified Priscilla with the vanished innkeeper; they did

not scruple to censure Nathan before her and heap obloquy on his fallen

head.

Often with heart and soul she longed to fight for him; often she had

some ado to hide her impotent anger; but a lifetime of dissimulation

had skilled her in the art of self-control. She listened and looked

upon the angry man or woman; she even acquiesced in the abuse by

silence. Seldom did she defend the dead man, excepting in secret

against her daughters.

CHAPTER III

When Cora Lintern returned home she brought with her a resolution. Her

intentions were calculated to cause pain, and she carried them so much

the quicker to execution, that the thing might be done and the blow

struck as swiftly as possible. She revealed her plan to none, and only

made it public when he who was chiefly involved had learned it.

Ned Baskerville called to see Cora, who had been stopping with friends;

and when she had spoken upon general subjects, she made him come out

with her to the wintry side of West Down, and there imparted her wintry

news.

"Have you found anything to do?" was Cora's first question, and he

answered that he had not.

"People don't understand me," he said. "Here is Rupert talking about

labourer's work, as if it was a perfectly decent suggestion to make.

My farm's gone, and he seems to think I might offer to stop there under

somebody, like he has himself."

"You want something better."

"Why, of course. I might get a clerkship or some such thing, I should

think. A man who has lived my life can't go and dig potatoes. But the

difficulty is to get work like that away from towns. I can't be

expected to live in a town, and I won't."

"Mr. Tim Waite is a friend of the people I've been stopping with," she

said. "He's rich and all that. I believe he might find----"

"Thank you for nothing, Cora. I'm hardly likely to trouble him, am I?"

"Not much use talking like that."

"I'll take patronage, if I must, because beggars can't be choosers; but

I'll not take it from my inferiors."

"'Inferiors'! That's a funny word for you to use. How is Timothy

Waite your inferior? I don't see it."

"Don't you?" he answered, getting red. "Then you ought to see it.

Damn it all, Cora, you're so cold-blooded where I'm concerned. And yet

you're supposed to love me and want to marry me."

"I'm not a fool, and if 'tis cold-blooded to have a bit of

common-sense, then I'm cold-blooded. Though I'm a bit tired of hearing

you fling the word in my face. Timothy Waite always was as good a man

as you; and why not?"

"I should call him a mean, money-grubbing sort of chap

myself--close-fisted too. He's not a sportsman, anyway. You can't

deny that."

"Not much good being generous, if you've got nought to be generous

with. And mean he is not. He lent money to your uncle, and never

pushed the claim half as hard as many smaller men. I know him a long

sight better than you do. And, if you've got any sense left, you'll go

to him and ask him if he can help you to find a job. I'm only thinking

of you--not myself. I can go into a hat shop any day; but you--you

can't do anything. What are you good for? For that matter you don't

seem to be able to get a chance to show what you are good for. All

your swell hunting friends are worth just what I said they were worth.

Now you're down on your luck, they look t'other way."

He began to grow angry.

"You're the fair-weather sort too, then? One here and there has hinted

to me that you were--your brother always said it. But never, never

would I stand it from any of them. And now I see that it is so."

"No need to call names. The case is altered since Nathan Baskerville

ruined you, and I'm not the sentimental kind to pretend different. As

we're on this now, we'd better go through with it. You want to marry

me and I wanted to marry you; but we can't live on air, I believe. I

can't, anyway. It's a very simple question. You wish to marry me so

soon as I please; but what do you mean to keep me on? I've got

nothing--you know that; and you've got less than nothing, for there's

the rent of the house we were to have lived in."

"I've let the house and I am looking round. I'm open to any reasonable

offer."

"What nonsense you talk! Who are you that people should make you

offers? What can you do? I ask you that again."

"By God! And you're supposed to love me!"

"When poverty comes in at the door--you know the rest. I'm not a

heroine of a story-book. All very well for you; but what about me?

You can't afford to marry, and I can't afford not to; so there it

stands. There's only one thing in the world--only one thing--that you

can be trusted to earn money at, and that's teaching people to ride

horses. And that you won't do. I've thought it out, and you needn't

swear and curse; because it's the truth."

"Damn it all----"

"No good raging. You're selfish, and you never think of me working my

fingers to the bone and, very likely, not knowing where to look for a

meal. You only want me--not my happiness and prosperity. That's not

love. If you loved me, you would have come long since and released me

from this engagement, and saved me the pain of all this talk. Nobody

ever thinks of me and my future and my anxieties. I've only got my

face and--and--you say 'damn' and I'll say it too.

Damn--damn--damn--that's thrice for your once; and I hate you thrice as

much as you hate me, and I've thrice the reason to. I hate you for

being so selfish; and 'tis no good ever you saying you care about me

again, because you never did--not really. You couldn't--else you

wouldn't have put yourself first always."

He started, quite reduced to silence by this assault. She struck him

dumb, but his look infuriated her.

"You won't make me draw back, so you needn't think it," she cried.

"I'm not ashamed of a word I've said. 'Tis you ought to be ashamed.

And I'm not sorry for you neither, for you've never once been sorry for

me. After the crash, not one word of trouble for my loss and my

disappointment did you utter--'twas only whining about your horses, and

the house at Plympton, and all the rest of it. Vain cursing of the man

in his grave; when you ought to have cursed yourself for letting him

have the power to do what he did. I'd have stuck to you, money or no

money, if you'd been a different man--I swear that. I'd have taken you

and set to work--as I shall now, single-handed--but how can any decent

girl with a proper conceit of herself sink herself to your level and

become your drudge? Am I to work for us both? Are you going to live

on the money I make out of women's bonnets?"

"No!" he answered. "Don't think that. I'm dull, I know, and

slow-witted. Such a fool was I that I never believed anything bad of a

woman, or ever thought an unkind thought of anything in petticoats.

But you use very straight English always, and you make your meaning

perfectly clear. I know it won't be easy for me to get the work I

want. I may be poor for a long time--perhaps always. I'll release

you, Cora, if that's what you wish. No doubt I ought to have thought

of it; but I'll swear I never did. I thought you loved me, and

everything else was small by comparison. If anybody had said 'release

her,' I'd have told him that he didn't know what love of woman

meant--or a woman's love of man. But you can be free and welcome, and

put the fault on my shoulders. They can bear it. Go to Timothy. He's

always wanted you."

"You needn't be coarse. I'm sick and tired of all you men. You don't

know what love means--none of you. And since you say I'm to go, I'll

go. And I'll find peace somewhere, somehow; but not with none of you."

He laughed savagely.

"You've ruined me--that's what you've done. Meat and drink to you,

I'll wager! Ruined me worse than ever my uncle did. I could have

stood up against that. I did. I'd pretty well got over the pinch of

it. Though 'twas far more to me than anybody, I took it better than

anybody, and my own mother will tell you so. But why? Because I

thought I'd got you safe enough and nothing else mattered. I never

thought this misfortune meant that you'd give me the slip. If any man

had hinted such a thing, I'd have knocked his teeth down his throat.

But I was wrong as usual."

"You gave me credit for being a fool as usual."

"Never that, Cora. I always knew very well you were clever, but I

thought you were something more. You crafty things--all of you! And

now--what? 'Twill be said I've jilted another girl--not that the only

woman I ever honestly worshipped with all my heart have jilted me."

"No need to use ugly, silly words about it. All that will be said by

sensible people is that we've both seen reason and cut our coats

according to our cloth. The people will only say you've got more wits

than they thought. Let it be understood we were of the same mind, and

so we both get a bit of credit for sense."

"Never!" he burst out passionately. "You're a hard-hearted, cruel

devil. You know where the fault is and who's to blame. You think of

nought but your own blasted comfort and pleasure, and you never cared

no more for me than you cared for my cousin before me. But I'll not

hang myself--be sure of that!"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"You might do worse, all the same," she said. "For you're only

cumbering the earth that I can see."

Thereupon he swore wild oaths and rushed off and left her on the

hillside alone.

When he was gone she went her own way, but not to Undershaugh. By deep

lanes and field-paths familiar to her she took a long walk, and at the

end of it found herself at Coldstone Farm, the abode of Mr. Timothy

Waite. He was from home, and she asked for pen and paper that she

might leave a note for him. Her communication was short, and when she

had written it and sealed it with exceeding care, she set off again for

home.

Anon Mr. Waite opened it and was much disappointed at the length. But

Cora's matter atoned for this shortcoming.

"Have settled with N.B. Yours, C."

And elsewhere, while she retraced her way from Coldstone, the discarded

lover came to a wild conclusion with himself. He steadied his steps,

stood at the Moor edge in two minds, then turned and set off for Hawk

House.

This blow had staggered him, had even awakened him from the fatuous

dream in which he passed his days. He had a vague idea that Humphrey

might be glad to know of this broken engagement; that it might even put

his uncle into a more amiable temper. Ned had been advised by Rupert

to see Mr. Baskerville; but had declined to do so until the present

time.

At Hawk House Mrs. Hacker met him and made no effort to hide

astonishment.

"Wonders never cease, I'm sure! You, of all men! Master be on the

Moor, riding somewheres, but if you want him, you can wait for him. He

always comes in at dusk. How's your young woman?"

The man was in no mood for talk with Susan and cut her short.

"I'll wait, then," he said. "I'll wait in the garden."

He walked up and down amid the nut trees for an hour. Then Humphrey

returned.

Tea was served for them in the kitchen; Susan went out and the way

opened for Ned.

"You might be surprised to see me," he began; "but though I know you

don't like me--natural enough too--still, I'm your eldest nephew, and I

felt at a time like this you'd not refuse to let me speak to you."

"Speak, and welcome."

"Of course, all our lives are turned upside down by this terrible

business."

"Not all. In these cases 'tis the drones, not the workers, that are

hit hardest. If you've got wit enough to understand what you see under

your eyes, you'll find that your brother Rupert, for instance, can go

on with his life much as before; and scores of others---they've lost a

bit of money--cheated out of it by my brother, the late Nathan

Baskerville--but it don't wreck them. 'Tis only such as

you--accustomed all your life to idle and grow fat on other men's

earnings--'tis only such as you that are stranded by a thing like this.

I suppose you want to get back into the hive--like t'other drones when

the pinch of winter comes--and the world won't let you in?"

This uncompromising speech shook Ned and, under the circumstances, he

felt that it was more than he could bear.

"If you knew what had happened to me to-day, you'd not speak so harsh,

Uncle Humphrey," he answered. "I may tell you that I've been struck a

very cruel blow in the quarter I least expected it. Cora Lintern's

thrown me over."

"Cat-hearted little bitch," he said. "And you bleat about a 'cruel

blow'! Why, you young fool, escape from her is the best piece of

fortune that ever fell to your lot--or is ever likely to. And you ask

me to be sorry for you! Fool's luck is always the best luck. You've

had better fortune far than ever you deserved if she's quitted you."

"You can't look at it as I do; you can't see what my life must be

without her."

"Eat your meat and don't babble that stuff."

Ned shook his head.

"Don't want nothing, thank you."

"Well, hear me," said Humphrey. "You sought me of your own free will,

and so you may as well listen. You've come, because you think I can do

you a turn--eh?"

"I'm down on my luck, and I thought perhaps that you--anyway, if you

can help, or if you can't, you might advise me. I've looked very hard

and very far for a bit of work such as I could do; and I've not found

it."

"The work you can do won't be easily found. Begin at the beginning.

You're Godless--always have been."

"Let God alone and He'll let you alone--that's my experience," said Ned.

"Is it? Well, your experience don't reach far. You've come to the

place where God's waiting for you now--waiting, and none too pleased at

what you bring afore Him. You're a fool, and though we mourn for a

wise man after he's dead, we mourn for a fool all the days of his life.

D'you know where that comes from? Of course you don't."

"I can mend, I suppose? Anyway, I've got to be myself. Nobody can be

different to their own character."

"Granted--you can't rise above your own character; but you can easily

sink below it. That's what you have done, and your father helped you

from the first."

"I won't hear you say nothing against him, Uncle Humphrey. Good or

bad, he was all goodness to me."

"You think so, but you're wrong. Well, I'll leave him. But 'tis vain

to judge you too hard when I remember your up-bringing."

"All the same, I will say this for myself: when you pull me to pieces,

you'll find no wickedness in me worth mentioning. Whatever I may be,

I've always behaved like a gentleman and a sportsman, and none will

deny it," declared Ned.

"The biggest fool can be witty when it comes to excusing his own vices

to his conscience," replied the old man. "Fox yourself with that

rubbish, if you can, not me. To behave like a gentleman is to be a

gentleman, I should think, and I understand the word very different

from you. You're a selfish, worthless thing--a man that's reached near

to thirty without putting away his childish toys--a man that's grown to

man's estate and stature without doing so much good in the world as my

blind pony--nay, nor so much good as the worm that pulls the autumn

leaves into the wet ground. And you pride yourself on being a

gentleman! Better larn to be a man first and a gentleman afterwards."

"I've never had no occasion to work till now. Nobody ever asked me to;

nobody ever wanted me to. It was natural that I shouldn't. A man

can't help his character, and I can't help mine. I hate work and

always shall."

"That's clear, then. And I can't help my character either. I hate

idleness and always shall. Never have I given a loafer a helping hand,

and never will I. A man ought to be like Providence and only help

those who help themselves."

"But I mean to work; I need to work; I must work."

"Laziness is a cancer," said Mr. Baskerville. "'Tis just as much a

cancer as the human ill we call by that name. And 'tis a modern thing.

There's something rotten with the world where any man can live without

earning the right to. When next you find yourself caddling about on

the Moor wasting your time, take a look at the roundy-poundies--they

circles of stones cast about on the hillsides and by the streams. My

son Mark knew all about them. They were set up by men like ourselves

who lived on the Moor very long ago. Life was real then. Nought but

their own sweat stood between the old men and destruction. The first

business of life was to keep life in them days. They hunted to live,

not for pleasure. They hunted and were hunted. No time to be lazy

then. Did they help beggars? Did they keep paupers? No; all had to

toil for the common good; and if a man didn't labour, he didn't eat.

They had their work cut out for 'em to wring a bare living out of the

earth and the creatures on it. No softness of mind or body then. No

holidays and pleasurings and revels then. And I'd have it so again

to-morrow, if I could. Work and eat; idle and starve--that's what I'd

say to my fellow-creatures."

"I mean to work; I'm ready for work."

"All very well to say that now. You may be ready for work; but what

sort of work is ready for you? What can you do? Can you break stones?

There's a Cornish proverb hits you this minute: 'Them as can't scheme

must lowster.' Your father was very fond of using it--to every lazy

body but you. It means that if you haven't the wits to make a living

with your brains, you must do it with your hands. It all comes back to

work."

"I know it does. I keep on telling you I'm ready for it--any amount of

it. But not breaking stones. I've got brains in my head, though I

know you don't think so. I came to-day to know if you would give those

brains a trial. I'm a free man now. Cora has flung me over, so

there's no obligation anywhere. I'm free to stand up and show what I'm

good for. I've sold my horses and given up hunting already. That's

something."

"Something you couldn't help. How much did you get for that big bright

bay?"

"Forty-five guineas."

"And gave?"

"Seventy. But, of course, I've not got enough capital all told to be

much practical use in buying into anything. What I really want is five

hundred pounds."

"A common want."

"And I thought perhaps that you--I thought of it as I came here to see

you."

"And still you try to make out you're not a fool?"

"I can give interest and security."

"Yes--like your Uncle Nathan, perhaps. In a word, I'll not do

anything. Not a farthing of money and not a hand of help. But----"

He stopped as the younger man rose.

"I didn't ask for money; I only suggested a loan."

"I'll loan no loans to you or any man. But this I will do, because you

are the head of our family now, and I don't want anybody to say I

helped to cast you lower when you were down. This I will do: I'll

double the money you earn."

"Double it!" exclaimed Ned.

"That's my word; and now the boot's on the other leg, and I'm the fool

for my pains, no doubt. But understand me. 'Tis what you _earn_, not

what you get. When you come to me and say, 'I've found a job, and I'm

paid so much a week for doing it by an independent man,' then I'll

double what he gives you. But let there be no hookemsnivey dealings,

for I'll very soon find them out if you try it. Let it be figures, let

it be horses, let it be clay, let it be stones by the road--I'll double

what you earn for five years. By that time, maybe, you'll know what

work means, and thank Heaven, that's taught you what it means. Go and

find work--that's what you've got to do; go and find what you're worth

in the open market of men. And you needn't thank me for what I offer.

'Twill be little enough, I promise you--as you'll find when you come to

hear the money value of your earning powers."

"All the same I do thank you, and I thank you with all my heart," said

Ned: "and perhaps you'll be a bit more astonished than you think for,

Uncle Humphrey, when you find what I can do."

Then his nephew went away in doubt whether to be elated or cast down.

CHAPTER IV

An elderly man called Abraham Elford became tenant of 'The White Thorn'

after Baskerville's death. He lacked the charm of Nathan, and it was

rumoured that the quality of his liquor by no means equalled that

provided by the vanished master of the inn; but no choice offered of

other drinking houses, and the new publican retained all former

patronage.

One subject at this season proved rich enough to shut out all lesser

matters from conversation, for the wide waves of concern set rolling

when Nathan died had as yet by no means subsided. Each day for many

days brought news of some fresh disaster to humble folk; and then came

another sort of intelligence that gratified the few and angered the

many.

Mr. Elford and certain of his customers, not directly interested, found

the subject of Nathan's affairs exceedingly wearisome and often sought

to turn talk into other channels; but not for long could they be said

to succeed. Local politics and weather soon lost their power to hold

the people; and those disasters spread by the late publican swiftly

cropped up again to the exclusion of less pungent concerns.

A party of men was assembled at 'The White Thorn' near Christmas time,

and they wrangled on over this well-trodden ground until Joe Voysey,

who had not suffered, turned to the grey-headed host behind the bar and

asked a question.

"Did this here fire fail afore you comed, Abraham?" he asked. "'Tis a

well-known fact that 'The White Thorn' hearth haven't been cold for a

hundred year--peat always smouldering, or else blazing, upon it."

"Yes, and a thousand pities," answered the other. "At the time of Mr.

Baskerville's death, of course, there was a terrible deal of running

about and confusion. And the fire was forgot. I knowed the old saying

and was very sorry to see it black out."

"What do it matter?" asked Jack Head. He was in a quarrelsome mood and

bad company on the occasion. "These silly sayings and fancies are

better forgot. Who's the wiser for a thing like that? Probably, when

all's said, 'tis a lie. I dare say the fire went out scores of times

when Nathan was here, and somebody just lit it again and said nought

about it."

"That's wrong, Jack," declared Heathman Lintern, who was present. "Mr.

Baskerville took a lot of care of the fire and felt very proud of it.

A score of times I've heard him tell people about it, and that the fire

had never been douted for more than a hundred years."

"One thing I know, that if there was such a place as hell, he'd soon

meet with a fire as would last longer still," answered Head. "A fire

that never will be douted. And right well he'd deserve it."

Thomas Gollop found himself in agreement with this ferocity.

"You're right there, and there is such a place--have no fear of that,

though 'tis your way to scorn it. For my part I say that there

couldn't be no justice without it. He devoured widows' houses and

stole the bread of the poor--what worse can any man do?"

"A man can backbite the dead, and spit out his poison against them as

never hurt him in word or deed," answered Heathman Lintern. "'Tis

always your way to blackguard them that be out of earshot and the power

to answer; and the further a man be away, the louder you yelp. Faults

or no faults, the likes of you wasn't worthy to wipe his shoes."

"You Linterns--well, I'll say nought," began Jack Head; but the subject

was too attractive for him and he proceeded.

"If he left your mother any money, it's against the law, and you can

tell her so. It wasn't his to leave, and if she got money from him in

secret, it's my money--not hers--mine, and many other people's before

it's hers. And if she was honest she'd give it back."

"You've lost your wits over this," answered Lintern, "and if you wasn't

an old man, Jack, I'd hammer your face for mentioning my mother's name

in such a way. She never had a penny by him, and the next man that

says she did shall get a flea in his ear--old or young."

"Let it be a lesson to all sorts and conditions not to trust a

Dissenter," said Gollop. "I've known pretty well what they're good for

from the first moment they began to lift their heads in the land. They

never were to be trusted, and never will be. And as for Nathan

Baskerville, he was a double serpent, and I shall tell the truth out

against him when and where I please; and why for not?"

"You don't know the meaning of truth," began Heathman; "no more don't

that old cat, your sister."

"Better leave my sister alone, or 'twill be the worse for you,"

answered the parish clerk.

"I'll leave her alone when she leaves my mother alone, and not sooner.

She a lying, foul-minded old baggage--not to be trusted in a

respectable house--and if I was better to do, I'd have the law of her

for the things she's said."

"You talk of the law," answered Jack. "You might just so well talk of

the prophets. One's as rotten as t'other nowadays. The law's gone

that weak that a man's savings can be taken out of his pocket by the

first thief that comes along with an honest face; and him powerless.

Five-and-thirty pound--that's what he had of mine, and the law looks on

and does nought."

"Because there's nought for it to do," suggested Mr. Elford. "The law

can't make bricks without straw----"

"Just what it can do--when it's writing its own bills o' costs,"

answered Jack. "They'm damn clever at that; but let a rogue rob me of

my savings and the law don't care a brass farthing. Why? Because I'm

poor."

"Is there to be nought declared in the pound?" inquired an old man

beside the fire. "He had eight, ten of mine, and I was hopeful us

might get back a little, if 'twas only shillings."

"You'll see nothing of it, gaffer," declared Head. "There wasn't much

more than enough to pay for the man's coffin. And the tears shed at

his grave! I laugh when I think of all them gulls, and the parsons,

with their long faces, thinking they was burying a good man and a

burning light."

"A burning light now, if he wasn't afore," said Gollop, returning to

his favourite theme.

"You're a mean cur at heart, Jack," burst out the dead man's son to Mr.

Head. "With all your noise about justice and liberty and right and

wrong, none on God's earth can show his teeth quicker and snarl worse

if his own bone be took away. You knowed Nathan Baskerville--no one

knowed him better than you. And well you know that with all his faults

and foolish, generous way of playing with his money and other

people's--well, you know there was a big spirit in the man. He meant

terrible kindly always. He didn't feather his own nest. For a hundred

that curse him now, there's thousands that have blessed him in past

years. But 'tis the curses come home to roost and foul a man's grave;

the blessings be forgot."

The young man's eyes shone and his eloquence silenced the bar for a

moment.

Jack Head stared.

"'Tis Mark Baskerville speaking," he said. "Even so he was used to

talk! But I didn't know you was the soft sort too, Heathman. What was

Nat to you, or you to Nat, that you can stand up for him and talk this

nonsense in the face of facts? Where's my money? When you tell me

that, I'll tell you----"

"Who knows whether you'm forgot after all, Jack?" interrupted Joe

Voysey. "Everybody ban't ruined. There's a few here and

there--especially the awful poor people--as have had their money made

good."

"I know all about that," answered Head; "'tis that fool, the parson.

Masterman have no more idea of justice than any other church minister,

and he's just picked and chosen according to his own fancy, and made it

up to this man and that man out of his own riches."

"To no man has he made it up," corrected Gollop. "'Tis only in the

case of certain needy females that he've come forward. A widow here

and there have been paid back in full. I made so bold as to ask Lawyer

Popham about it; but he's not a very civil man, and he fobbed me off

with a lawyer's answer that meant nought."

"'Tis well knowed to be Masterman, however," said Voysey.

"Yes; well knowed to us; but not to the general public. Some think

it's the lawyer himself; but that's a wild saying. Last thing he'd do.

He'll be out of pocket as it is."

At this juncture was presented the unusual spectacle of a woman in the

bar of 'The White Thorn,' and Susan Hacker entered.

She was known to several present and men liked her. She understood the

sex, and could give as good as she got. She expected little in the way

of civility or sense from them, and she was seldom disappointed.

"Hullo!" cried Head. "Be you on the downward path then, Susan? 'Tis

your old man driving you to drink without a doubt!"

The abundant woman pushed Jack out of her way and came to the counter.

"Don't you pay no heed to that there sauce-box," she said. "And him

old enough and ugly enough to know better, you'd think. A drop of gin

hot, please. I be finger-cold and I've got to speed home yet."

"How's 'the Hawk'?" asked Mr. Voysey. "We all thought when poor old

Nathan was took off that he'd come forward with his money bags--knowing

the man, didn't we, souls?"

This excellent jest awakened laughter till Susan stopped it. She took

her drink to the fire, loosed a mangy little fur tippet from her great

shoulders and warmed her feet alternately.

"A funny old fool you are, Joe--just funny enough to make other fools

laugh. And why should Humphrey Baskerville waste his money on a lot of

silly people? Which of you would come forward and help him if he was

hard up?"

"I would," said Jack Head. "With my opinions I'd help any thrifty

person let in by this dead man--if I could. But I was let in myself.

And you're in the truth to call us fools, for so we were."

"It's reason, every way, that your master might think of his brother's

good name and right the wrong done by the man who was here afore me,"

declared Mr. Elford impartially.

"Why?" asked Mrs. Hacker. "Why do you say 'tis reason? If 'tis reason

for him, 'tis just as much reason for every other man who can afford to

mend it."

"That's what I say," argued Jack Head, but none agreed with him.

"Ban't our business, but 'tis Humphrey Baskerville's," declared the

publican. "The dead man was his own brother and his only one. For the

credit of the family he ought to come forward, and not leave the parson

and other outsiders to do it."

"Because your brother does wrong, 'tis no business of yours to right

the wrong," answered Mrs. Hacker. "Besides, 'tis well known that

charity begins at home."

"And stops there," suggested Gollop. "No doubt at Hawk House, you and

him be as snug as beetles in the tree bark, while other people don't

know where to turn for a roof to cover 'em."

"They'd have poor speed if they was to turn to you, anyway," she said.

"'Tis like your round-eyed, silly impudence to speak like that of a

better man than ever you was or will be, or know how to be. He ban't

bound to tell you where he spends his money, I believe; and if you was

half as good a man--but there, what can you expect from a Gollop but a

grunt? You'm a poor generation, you and your sister--God knows which

is the worse."

"Bravo, Susan! Have another drop along o' me," cried Heathman Lintern,

and she agreed to do so.

"What do you know and what don't you know?" asked Head presently. "Be

your old party going to do anything or nothing?"

"I don't know. But this I do know, that all your wild tales down here

about his money be silly lies. We live hard enough, I can promise

that, whatever you may think. If every man here spent his money so

wise as Humphrey Baskerville, you wouldn't all be boozing in this bar

now, but along with your lawful wives and families, helping the poor

women to find a bit of pleasure in life. But I know you; you get a

shipload of brats and leave their mothers to do all the horrid work of

'em, while you come in here every night like lords, and soak and

twaddle and waste your money and put the world right, then go home not

fit company for a dog----"

"Steady on--no preaching here--rule of the bar," said Mr. Voysey. "You

think we're all blanks because you drew a blank, Susan. Yes, a blank

you drew, though you might have had me in the early forties."

"You! I'd make a better man than you with a dozen pea-sticks,"

retorted Susan. "And I didn't draw a blank, I drawed Hacker, who'd be

here now teaching you chaps to drink, if the Lord had spared him. You

can't even drink now--so feeble have you growed. Hacker, with all his

faults, was a fine man; and so's Humphrey Baskerville in his way."

"Talk on; but talk to the purpose, Susan. What have he done? That's

the question. You ain't going to tell me he's done nought," suggested

Mr. Head.

"I ain't going to tell you nothing at all, because I don't know nothing

at all. He wouldn't ax me how to spend his money--nor you neither."

"Tell us who he's helping--if anybody," persisted the man. "How is it

none haven't handed me back my money? You can mention--if you've got

the pluck to do it--that I want my bit back so well as t'others; and

mine be quite as much to me as Ned Baskerville's thousands was to him."

"Charity begins at home," repeated Susan, "and I'll lay you my hat,

though the fog's took the feather out of curl, that if he does

anything, 'twill be for his own first. He's that sort, I believe."

"They people at Cadworthy?"

"Yes. Not that I think he'll do aught; but if he does, 'twill be

there. Mrs. Baskerville be taking very unkindly to the thought of

leaving. She've lived here all her married life and brought all her

childer there. But she've got to go. They're all off after Lady Day.

Too much rent wanted by the new owner."

"Same with us," said Heathman. "These here men, who have got the

places on their hands now, 'pear to think a Dartmoor farm's a gold

mine. Me and my mother clear out too."

Mrs. Hacker drank again.

"And after this glass, one of you chaps will have to see me up over,"

she said.

"We'll all come, if you'll promise another drink at t'other end,"

declared Heathman; but Susan turned to Jack Head.

"You'd best to come, Jack," she declared.

He exhibited indifference, but she pressed him and he agreed.

"If I've got a man to look after me, there's no hurry," she concluded.

"I'm in for a wigging as 'tis."

The easy soul stopped on until closing time, and then Mr. Head

fulfilled his promise and walked homeward beside her through a foggy

night. She rested repeatedly while climbing the hill to the Moor, and

she talked without ceasing. Susan was exhilarated and loquacious as

the result of too much to drink. Head, however, bore with her and

acquired a most startling and unexpected piece of information.

He mentioned the attitude of Heathman Lintern and his fiery

championship of the dead.

"I thought he'd have come across and hit me down, because I told the

naked truth about the man. And he denied that his mother was the

better by a penny when Nathan died. But how about it when he was

alive?"

"Truth's truth," answered Susan. "You might have knocked me down with

a feather when--but there, what am I saying?"

He smelt a secret and angled for it.

"Of course, you're like one of the Baskerville family yourself, and

I've no right to ask you things; only such a man as me with a credit

for sense be different to the talking sort. Truth's truth, as you say,

and the truth will out. But Eliza Gollop--of course she knows nothing.

She couldn't keep a secret like you or me."

Mrs. Hacker stood still again and breathed hard in the darkness. Her

tongue itched to tell a tremendous thing known to her; but her muddled

senses fought against this impropriety.

"Two can often keep a secret that pretty well busts one," said Mr. Head

with craft. He believed that Humphrey Baskerville was paying some of

his brother's debts; and since this procedure might reach to him, he

felt the keenest interest in it. Mrs. Lintern did not concern him. He

had merely mentioned her. But Priscilla was the subject which filled

Susan's mind to the exclusion of all lesser things, and she throbbed to

impart her knowledge. No temptation to confide in another had forced

itself upon her until the present; yet with wits loosened and honour

fogged by drink, she now yearned to speak. At any other moment such a

desire must have been silenced, by reason of the confession of personal

wrongdoing that it entailed. Now, however, she did not remember that.

She was only lusting to tell, and quite forgot how she had learned.

Thus, while Head, to gain private ends, endeavoured to find whether Mr.

Baskerville was paying his brother's debts, Susan supposed that his

mind ran upon quite another matter: the relations between Priscilla

Lintern and Humphrey's dead brother.

Mrs. Hacker knew the truth. She had acquired it in the crudest manner,

by listening at the door during an interview between Nathan's mistress

and her master. This tremendous information had burnt her soul to

misery ever since; but a thousand reasons for keeping the secret

existed. Her own good name was involved as much as another's. She

could not whisper a word for her credit's sake; and a cause that

weighed far heavier with her was the credit of Eliza Gollop.

Eliza had guessed darkly at what Susan now knew; but as a result of her

subterranean hints, Eliza had suffered in the public esteem, for few

believed her.

To confirm Eliza and ratify her implications was quite the last thing

that Mrs. Hacker would have desired to do; and yet such was the magic

sleight of alcohol to masquerade in the shape of reason, justice, and

right--such also its potency to conceal danger--that now this muddled

woman fell. She was intelligent enough to make Jack promise on Bible

oaths that he would keep her secret; and then she told him the last

thing that he expected to hear.

With acute interest he waited to know Humphrey's future intentions

respecting his brother's creditors; instead he listened to widely

different facts.

"I'll tell you if you'll swear by the Book to keep it to yourself.

I'll be the better for telling it. 'Tis too large a thing for one

woman--there--all that gin--I know 'tis that have loosed my tongue even

while I'm speaking. And yet, why not? You're honest. I'm sure I

can't tell what I ought to do. You might say 'twas no business of

mine, and I don't wish one of 'em any harm--not for the wide world do

I."

"I'll swear to keep quiet enough, my dear woman. And 'tis your sense,

not your thimble of liquor, makes you want to talk to me. If not me,

who? I'm the sort that knows how to keep a secret, like the grave

knows how to keep its dead. I'm a friend to you and Mr. Baskerville

both--his greatest friend, you might say."

"In a word, 'tis natural that young Lintern--you swear, Jack--on your

Bible you swear that you won't squeak?"[1]

[1] _Squeak_--break silence.

"I ain't got one; but I'll swear on yours. You can trust me."

"'Twas natural as Lintern got vexed down there then, and you was lucky

not to feel the weight of his fist. For why--for why? He's Nathan's

son! Gospel truth. They'm all his: Cora, t'other girl, and Heathman.

The mother of 'em told my master in so many words; and I heard her tell

him. I was just going into the room, but stopped at the door for some

reason, and, before I could get out of earshot, I'd catched it. There!"

"Say you was eavesdropping and have done with it," said Mr. Head. He

took this startling news very quietly, and advised Susan to do the like.

"The less you think about it, the better. What's done be done. We

don't know none of the rights of it, and I'm not the sort to blame

anybody--woman or man--for their private actions. 'Tis only Nathan's

public actions I jumped on him for, and if Heathman was twice his son,

I'd not fear to speak if 'twas a matter of justice."

"I didn't ought to have told you, but my mind's a sieve if there's a

drop of gin in my stomach. I had to let it go to-night. If I hadn't

told you what I knowed, so like as not I'd have told Mr. Baskerville

hisself when I got back; and then 'twould have comed out that I'd

listened at the door--for I did, God forgive me."

Susan became lachrymose, but Jack renewed his promises and left her

tolerably collected. The confession had eased her mind, calmed its

excitement, and silenced her tongue also.

Jack tried to learn more of the thing that interested him personally,

but upon that subject she knew nothing. She believed the general

report: that Mr. Masterman, by secret understanding with the lawyer,

was relieving the poorest of Nathan's creditors; and she inclined to

the opinion that her master had no hand in this philanthropy.

They parted at the garden wicket of Susan's home, and Mr. Head left her

there; but not before she had made him swear again with all solemnity

to keep the secret.

CHAPTER V

As Humphrey Baskerville had pointed out to his nephew Ned, disaster

usually hits the weak harder than the strong, and the lazy man suffers

more at sudden reverses than his neighbour, who can earn a living, come

what trouble may.

Rupert and his wife were prepared to seek a new home, and Milly, at the

bottom of her heart, suffered less from these tribulations than any of

her husband's relations. The blow had robbed him of nothing, since he

possessed nothing. To work to win Cadworthy was no longer possible,

but he might do as well and save money as steadily elsewhere; and the

change in their lives for Milly meant something worth having. In her

heart was a secret wish that her coming child might be born in her own

home. As for her husband he now waited his time, and did not

immediately seek work, because Humphrey Baskerville directed delay.

His reason was not given, nor would he commit himself to any promise;

but he offered the advice, and Rupert took it.

Mrs. Baskerville's grief at leaving her home proved excessive. She

belonged to the easy sort of people who are glad to trust their affairs

in any capable control, and she suffered now at this sudden

catastrophe, even as Ned suffered. She had very little money, and was

constrained to look to her sons for sustenance. It was proposed that

she and May should find a cottage at Shaugh; but to display her poverty

daily before eyes that had seen her prosperity was not good to her.

She found it hard to decide, and finally hoped to continue life in a

more distant hamlet. All was still in abeyance, and the spring had

come. Until Ned's future theatre of toil was certain, his mother would

not settle anything. She trusted that he might win a respectable post,

but employment did not offer. Hester's youngest son Humphrey had been

provided for by a friend, and he was now working with Saul Luscombe at

Trowlesworthy.

Then came a date within six weeks of the family's departure. The

packing was advanced, and still nothing had been quite determined. Ned

was anxious and troubled; Rupert waited for his uncle to speak. He

knew of good work at Cornwood, and it was decided that his mother and

May should also move to a cottage in that churchtown, unless Ned

achieved any sort of work within the next few weeks. Then his plans

might help to determine their own.

At this juncture, unexpectedly on a March evening, came their kinsman

from Hawk House, and Rupert met him at the outer gate.

"Is your mother here?" asked the rider, and when he heard that the

family was within--save Ned, who stayed at Tavistock on his quest--he

dismounted and came among them.

A litter and disorder marked the house. There were packing-cases in

every room; but less than a moiety of Hester's goods would leave her

home. She must dwell in a small cottage henceforth, and her furniture,

with much of her china and other precious things, was presently

destined to be sold. The period of her greatest grief had long passed;

she had faced the future with resignation for many months, and returned

to her usual placidity. She and her daughter could even plan their

little possessions in a new cottage, and smile together again. They

had fitted their minds to the changed condition; they had calculated

the probable result of the sale, and Mrs. Baskerville, thrown by these

large reverses from her former easy and tranquil optimism, had fallen

upon the opposite extreme.

She now looked for no amelioration of the future, foresaw no

possibility of adequate work for Ned, and was as dumb as a wounded

horse or cow, even at the tragical suggestion of her son's enlistment.

This he had openly discussed, but finding that none exhibited any

horror before the possibility, soon dropped it again.

To these people came Mr. Baskerville--small, grey, saturnine. His eyes

were causing him some trouble, and their rims were grown red. They

thought in secret that he had never looked uglier, and he declared

openly that he had seldom felt worse.

"'Tis the season of the year that always troubles me," he said. "Gout,

gravel, rheumatism, lumbagy--all at me together. Nature is a usurer,

Hester, as you may live to find out yet, for all you keep so healthy.

She bankrupts three parts of the men you meet, long afore they pay back

the pinch of dust they have borrowed from her. The rate of interest on

life runs too high, and that's a fact, even though you be as thrifty of

your powers as you please, and a miser of your vital parts, as I have

always been."

"Your eyes are inflamed seemingly," said his sister-in-law. "Vivian's

went the same once, but doctor soon cured 'em."

They sat in the kitchen and he spoke to May.

"If you'll hurry tea and brew me a strong cup, I'll thank you. I feel

just as if 'twould do me a deal of good."

She obeyed at once, and Humphrey, exhibiting a most unusual garrulity

and egotism, continued to discuss himself.

"For all my carcase be under the weather, my mind is pretty clear for

me. Things be going well, I'm glad to say, and you might almost think

I---- However, no matter for that. Perhaps it ban't the minute to

expect you to take pleasure at any other's prosperity. There's nothing

like health, after all. You'll find yourself more peaceful now,

Hester, now you know the worst of it?"

"Peaceful enough," she said. "I don't blame myself, and 'tis vain to

blame the dead. Master trusted his brother Nathan, like you trust

spring to bring the leaves. Therefore it was right and proper that I

should do the same. 'Twas all put in his hands when Vivian died. Even

if I would have, I wasn't allowed to do anything. But, of course, I

trusted Nathan too. Who didn't?"

"I didn't, never--Rupert will bear me out in that. I never trusted

him, though I envied the whole-hearted respect and regard the world

paid him. We envy in another what's denied to ourselves--even faults

sometimes. Yet I'm pretty cheerful here and there--for me. Have you

heard any more said about his death and my hand in it?"

"A lot," answered Mrs. Baskerville. "And most understanding creatures

have quite come round to seeing your side. Only a man here and there

holds out that you were wrong."

"I may tell you that the reverend Masterman couldn't find no argument

against it. He came to see me not long since. He wouldn't be kept to

the case in point, but argued against the principle at large. When I

pinned him to Nathan at last, he said, though reluctantly, that he

believed he would have done no less for his own brother. That's a

pretty good one to me--eh?"

"My Uncle Luscombe thinks you did the proper thing," declared Milly.

Presently May called them to the table and handed Humphrey his tea.

He thanked her.

"No sugar," he said, "and you ought not to take none neither, May.

Trouble haven't made you grow no narrower at the waist seemingly."

The girl tried to smile, and her family stared. Jocosity in this man

was an exhibition almost unparalleled. If he ever laughed it was

bitterly against the order of things; yet now he jested genially. The

result was somewhat painful, and none concealed an emotion of

discomfort and restraint.

The old man perceived their surprise and returned into himself a little.

"You'll wonder how I come to talk so much about my own affairs,

perhaps? 'Tisn't often that I do, I believe. Well, let's drop 'em and

come to yours. Have you found work, Rupert?"

"I can, when you give the word. There's Martin at Cornwood wants me,

and mother can come there. We've seen two houses, either of which

would suit her and May very well. One, near the church, she likes

best. There's a cottage that will fit me and Milly not far off."

"Why go and have an expensive move when you can live at Shaugh Prior?"

"I've got my feelings," answered the widow rather warmly. "You can't

expect me to go there."

Mr. Baskerville asked another question.

"So much for you all, then. And what of Ned?"

"At Tavistock, wearing out his shoe-leather trying to find work."

"If he's only wearing out shoe-leather, no harm's done."

"He told us what you offered last year, and I'm sure 'twas over and

above what many men would have done," declared Ned's mother.

"I was safe to offer it," he answered. "'Tis only to say I'll double

nought. He's not worth a box of matches a week to any man."

"They very near took him on at the riding-school when he offered to go

there."

"But not quite."

"And that gave him the idea to 'list in the horse soldiers. He knows

all about it, along of being in the yeomanry."

"To enlist? Well, soldiering's man's work by all accounts, though I

hold 'tis devil's work myself--just the last mischief Satan finds for

idle hands to do."

"It would knock sense into Ned, all the same," argued Rupert. "The

discipline of it would be good for him, and he might rise."

"But he's not done it, you say?"

"No," answered Mrs. Baskerville. "He's not done it. I've suffered so

much, for my part, that when he broke the dreadful thing upon me, I

hadn't a tear left to shed. And the calm way I took it rather

disappointed him, poor fellow. He had a right to expect to see me and

May, if not Rupert, terrible stricken at such a thought; but we've been

through such a lot a'ready that we couldn't for the life of us take on

about it. I'm sure we both cried rivers--cried ourselves dry, you

might say--when Cora Lintern threw him over; but that was the last

straw. Anything more happening leaves us dazed and stupid, like a

sheep as watches another sheep being killed. We can't suffer no more."

"Even when Ned went out rather vexed because we took it so calm, and

said he'd end his life, we didn't do anything--did we, mother?" asked

May.

"No," answered Hester. "We was past doing or caring then--even for

Ned. Besides, he's offered to make a hole in the water so terrible

often, poor dear fellow. 'Twas a case where I felt the Lord would look

after His own. Ned may do some useful thing in the world yet. He's

been very brave over this business--brave as a lion. 'Tis nought to

me. I'm old, and shan't be here much longer. But for him and May

'twas a terrible come-along-of-it."

"Ned's a zany, and ever will be," declared Humphrey. "Rupert, here, is

different, and never was afraid of work. Fortune didn't fall to him,

and yet 'twas his good fortune to have to face bad fortune, if you

understand that. Money, till you have learned the use of it, be a gun

in a fool's hand; and success in any shape's the same. If it comes

afore you know the value and power of it, 'tis a curse and a danger.

It makes you look awry at life, and carry yourself too proud, and

cometh to harm and bitterness. I know, none so well."

They did not answer. Then May rose and began to collect the tea things.

Humphrey looked round the dismantled room, and his eyes rested on the

naked mantelshelf.

"Where are all the joanies?"[1] he asked. "You used to have two big

china figures up there."

[1] _Joanies_--ornaments of glass or china.

"Some are packed, and some will go into the sale. They two you mean

are worth money, I'm told," explained Mrs. Baskerville.

Then the visitor said a thing that much astonished her.

"'Twill give you trouble now," he remarked, "but 'twill save trouble in

the end. Let me see them put back again."

Milly looked at May in wonder. To argue the matter was her first

thought; but May acted.

"They be only in the next room, with other things to be sold," she

said. "You can see them again, uncle, if you mind to."

Rupert spoke while she was from the room.

"Why don't you buy 'em, uncle? They'd look fine at your place."

"Put 'em back on the shelf," answered Mr. Baskerville. "And, what's

more, you may, or may not, be glad to know they can stop there. 'Tis a

matter of no account at all, and I won't have no talk about it, but you

can feel yourself free to stay, Hester, if you'd rather not make a

change at your time of life. You must settle it with Rupert and your

darter. In a word, I've had a tell with the owner of the farm and he's

agreeable."

"I know he's agreeable," answered Humphrey's nephew, "but I'm not

agreeable to his rent."

"If you'd keep your mouth shut till you'd heard me, 'twould be better.

I was going to say that Mr. Westcott of Cann Quarries, who foreclosed

on the mortgage of this place when your uncle died--Mr. Westcott is

agreeable to let me have Cadworthy; and, in a word, Cadworthy's mine."

May came in at this moment with the old china figures. She entered a

profound silence, and returned the puppets to their old places on the

mantelpiece. It seemed that this act carried with it support and

confirmation of the startling thing that Hester Baskerville had just

heard.

Humphrey spoke again.

"Past candle-teening, and snow offering from the north. I must be

gone. Fetch up my pony, Rupert, and then you can travel a bit of the

way back along with me."

His nephew was glad to be gone. A highly emotional spirit began to

charge the air. Hester had spoken to May, and her daughter, grown

white and round-eyed, was trying to speak.

"You mean--you mean we can all stop, and Rupert can go on here?" she

said at last.

"If he thinks it good enough. He'd bought back a bit of the place

a'ready, as he thought, from Ned. I can go into all that with him.

And for you women--well, you're used to the rounds of Cadworthy, and

I'm used to your being here. You've done nought but trust a weak man.

I don't want all the blue[2] to be off the plum for you yet. But I

waited till now, because you'll see, looking back, that you'll be none

the worse for smarting a few months. I've smarted all my life, and I'm

not very much the worse, I suppose. So now I'll be gone, and you can

unpack when you please."

[2] _Blue_--bloom.

They could not instantly grasp this great reversal of fortune.

"Be you sure?" asked his niece. "Oh, uncle, be you sure?"

"Sure and sure, and double sure. A very good investment, with a man

like your brother Rupert to work it for me. But let him see the rent's

paid on the nail."

He rose, and Mrs. Baskerville tried to rise also, but her legs refused

to carry her.

"Get my salts," she said to Milly; then she spoke to her brother-in-law.

"I'm a bit dashed at such news," she began. "It have made my bones go

to a jelly. 'Tis almost too much at my age. The old can't stand joy

like the young; they'm better tuned to face trouble. But to stop

here--to stop here--'tis like coming back after I'd thought I was gone.

I can't believe 'tis true. My God, I'd said 'good-bye' to it all. The

worst was over."

"No, it wasn't," answered Humphrey. "You think 'twas; but I know

better. The worst would have come the day the cart waited, and you got

up and drove off. Now cheer yourself and drink a drop of spirits. And

don't expect Rupert home till late. I'll take him back with me to

supper."

He offered his hand, and the woman kissed it. Whereupon he uttered a

sound of irritation, looked wildly at her, and glared at his fingers as

though there had been blood upon them instead of tears. Milly stopped

with Mrs. Baskerville; May went to the door with her uncle and helped

him into his coat.

"I can't say nothing," she whispered. "It won't bear talking

about--only--only---- If you knew how I loved mother----"

"Be quiet," he answered. "Don't you play the fool too. I let you fret

to get your fat down a bit--that was the main reason, I do believe; and

now you'll only get stouter than ever, of course. Go back to her, and

let's have no nonsense; and, mind, when I come over again, that my

house is tidy. I never see such a jakes of a mess as you've got it in."

He went out and met Rupert at the gate.

"You'd best to come back with me," he said. "I've told them you'll sup

at Hawk House. 'Twill give 'em time to calm down. It takes nought to

fluster a woman."

"'Nought'! You call this 'nought'!"

Rupert helped Mr. Baskerville on to his pony and walked beside him. It

was now nearly dark, and a few flakes of snow already fell.

"Winter have waited for March," said Humphrey; "and I waited for March.

You might ask why for I let 'em have all this trouble. 'Twas done for

their good. They'll rate what they've got all the higher now that it

had slipped from them; and so will you."

Rupert said nothing.

"Yes," repeated his uncle; "winter waited for the new year, and so did

I. And now 'tis for you to say whether you'll stop at my farm or no."

"Of course, I'll stop."

"No silly promises, mind. This is business. You needn't be thanking

me; and in justice we've got to think of that fool, your elder brother.

But be it as it will, 'tis Hester's home for her time."

"I'll stop so long as my mother lives."

"And a bit after, I hope, if you don't want to quarrel with me. But I

shall be dead myself, come to think of it. What shall I forget next?

So much for that. We'll go into figures after supper."

"I know you don't want no thanks nor nothing of that sort," said

Rupert; "but you know me pretty well, and you know what I feel upon it.

'Tis a masterpiece of goodness in you to do such a thing."

"Say no more. I've killed two birds with one stone, as my crafty

manner is. That's all. 'Tis a very good farm, and I've got it cheap;

and I've got you cheap--thanks to your mother. I benefit most--my

usual way in business."

They passed along, and the snow silenced the footfall of horse and man.

Near Hawk House came the sudden elfin cry of a screech-owl from the

darkness of the woods.

"Hush!" said Humphrey, drawing up. "List to that. I'm glad we heard

it. A keeper down along boasted to me a week ago that he'd shot every

owl for a mile round; but there's a brave bird there yet, looking round

for his supper."

The owl cried again.

"'Tis a sound I'm very much addicted to," explained Mr. Baskerville.

"And likewise I'm glad to hear the noise of they kris-hawks sporting,

and the bark of a fox. They be brave things that know no fear, and go

cheerful through a world of enemies. I respect 'em."

"You never kill a snake, 'tis said."

"Not I--I never kill nought. A snake's to be pitied, not killed.

He'll meddle with none as don't meddle with him. I've watched 'em

scores an' scores o' times. They be only humble worms that go upon

their bellies dirt low, but they gaze upward for ever with their

wonnerful eyes. Belike Satan looked thus when they flinged him out of

heaven."

"You beat me," said Rupert. "You can always find excuses for varmints,

never for men."

His uncle grunted.

"Most men are varmints," he answered.

CHAPTER VI

The effect of his financial tribulation on Jack Head was not good.

Whatever might have been of Humphrey Baskerville's theories as to the

value worldly misfortune and the tonic property of bad luck upon

character, in this man's case the disappearance of his savings deranged

his usual common-sense, and indicated that his rational outlook was not

based upon sure foundations. From the trumpery standpoint of his

personal welfare, it seemed, after all, that he appraised life; and

upon his loss a native acerbity and intolerance increased. He grew

morose, his quality of humour failed him, and his mind, deprived of

this cathartic and salutary sense, grew stagnant. At his best Jack was

never famed for a delicate choice of time or place when pushing his

opinions. Propriety in this connection he took pleasure in

disregarding. He flouted convention, and loved best to burst his

bombshells where they were most certain to horrify and anger.

Following the manner of foolish propagandists, he seldom selected the

psychological moment for his onslaughts; nor did he perceive that half

the battle in these cases may depend upon nice choice of opportunity.

There came an evening, some time after he had learnt the secret of the

Lintern family, when Head, returning to Shaugh Prior, fell in with

Cora, who walked upon the same road. He had never liked her, and now

remembered certain aggressive remarks recently cast at him by her

brother. The man was going slower than the woman, and had not meant to

take any notice of her, but the somewhat supercilious nod she gave him

touched his spleen, and he quickened his pace and went along beside her.

"Hold on," he said, "I'll have a tell with you. 'Tisn't often you hear

sense, I believe."

Cora, for once in a mood wholly seraphic over private affairs, showed

patience.

"I'm in a bit of a hurry, but I've always got time to hear sense," she

said.

Thus unexpectedly met, Mr. Head found himself with nothing to say. One

familiar complaint at that time running against Cora for the moment he

forgot. Therefore he fell back upon her brother.

"You might tell Heathman I was a good bit crossed at the way he spoke

to me two nights agone. I've as much right to my opinion as him, and

if I say that the late Nathan Baskerville was no better than he should

be, and not the straight, God-fearing man he made us think--well, I'm

only saying what everybody knows."

"That's true," she said. "Certainly a good many people know that."

"Exactly so. Then why for does he jump down my throat as if I was

backbiting the dead? Truth's truth, and it ban't a crime to tell the

truth about a man after he's dead, any more than it be while he's

alive."

"More it is. Very often you don't know the truth till a man's dead.

My brother's a bit soft. All the same, you must speak of people as you

find them. And Heathman had no quarrel with Mr. Baskerville, though

most sensible people had seemingly. He was a tricky man, and nobody

can pretend he was honest or straight. He's left a deal of misery

behind him."

The relationship between Cora and Nathan Baskerville suddenly flashed

into Jack's memory. Her remark told him another fact: he judged from

it that she could not be aware of the truth. It seemed improbable that

Cora could utter such a sentiment if she knew that she spoke of her

father. Then he remembered how Heathman certainly knew the truth, and

he assumed that Cora must also know it. She was, therefore, revealing

her true thoughts, secure in the belief that, since her companion would

be ignorant of the relationship between her and the dead, she need

pretend to no conventional regard before him. At another time Jack

Head might have approved her frankness, but to-day he designed to

quarrel, and chose to be angered at this unfilial spirit. Upon that

subject his mouth was sealed, but there returned to him the

recollection of her last achievement. He reminded her of it and rated

her bitterly.

"Very well for you to talk of dishonest men and crooked dealings," he

retorted. "You, that don't know the meaning of a straight deed--you

that flung over one chap and made him hang himself, and now have flung

over another. You may flounce and flirt and walk quick, but I'll walk

quick too, and I tell you you're no better than a giglet

wench--heartless, greedy, good for nought. You chuck Ned Baskerville

after keeping him on the hooks for years. And why? Because he came

down in the world with a run, and you knew that you'd have to work if

you took him, and couldn't wear fine feathers and ape the beastly

people who drive about in carriages."

Her lips tightened and she flashed at him.

"You stupid fool!" she said. "You, of all others, to blame me--you,

who were never tired of bawling out what a worthless thing the man was.

You ought to be the first to say he's properly punished, and the first

to say I'm doing the right thing; and so you would, but just because

you've lost a few dirty pounds, you go yelping and snarling at

everybody. You're so mighty clever that perhaps you'll tell me why I

should marry a pauper, who can't find work far or near, because he's

never learnt how to work. Why must I keep in with a man like that, and

get children for him, and kill myself for him, and go on the parish at

the end? You're so fond of putting everybody right, perhaps you'll put

me right."

The other was not prepared for this vigorous counter-attack.

"Very well for you to storm," he said; "but you only do it to hide your

own cowardly nature. You pretended you was in love with him, and took

his gifts, and made him think you meant to marry him, and stick up for

him for better, for worse; but far from it. You was only in love with

his cash, and hadn't got no use for the man. I'm not saying you would

do well to marry him for the minute; but to chuck him when he's

down----"

"You're a one-sided idiot--like most other men," she answered. "'Tis

so easy for you frosty creatures, with no more feeling than a frog, to

talk about 'love' and 'waiting.' There, you make a sane woman wild!

Waiting, waiting--and what becomes of me while I'm waiting? I'm a

lovely woman, you old fool, don't you understand what that means?

Waiting--waiting--and will time wait? Look at the crows'-feet coming.

Look at the line betwixt my eyebrows and the lines from my nose, each

side, to the corners of my mouth. Will they wait? No, curse 'em, they

get deeper and deeper, and no rubbing will rub 'em out, and no waiting

will make them lighter. So easy to bleat about 'faithfulness' and

'patience' if you're ugly as a gorilla and flat as a pancake. I'm

lovely, and I'm a pauper, and I've got nought but loveliness to stand

between me and a rotten life and a rotten death in the workhouse. So

there it is. Don't preach no more of your cant to me, for I won't have

it."

She was furious; the good things in her mind had slipped for the moment

away. While uttering this tirade she stood still, and Mr. Head did the

like. He saw her argument perfectly well. He perceived that she had

reason on her side, but her impatience and scorn angered him. Her main

position he could not shake, but he turned upon a minor issue and made

feeble retort.

His answer failed dismally in every way. Of its smallness and weakness

she took instant advantage; and, further, it reminded her of the

satisfactory event that Mr. Head had for the moment banished from her

mind.

"Hard words won't make the case better for you," he began. "And to be

well-looking outside is nought if you're damned ugly inside; and that's

what you be; and that's what everybody very well knows by now."

She sneered at him.

"Parson's talk--and poor at that. If you want to snuffle that sort of

trash you'd better ask Mr. Masterman to teach you how. You, of all

folk--so wise and such a book-reader! What's the good of telling that

to me? 'Tis the outside we see, and the outside we judge by; and, for

the rest, you'll do well to mind your own business, and not presume to

lecture your betters."

"Very grand! Very high and mighty, to be sure. That's how you talked

to Humphrey Baskerville, I suppose, and got a flea in your ear for your

pains. And I'll give you another. 'Tis the inside that matters, and

not the out, though your empty mind thinks different. And mark this:

you'll go begging now till you're an old woman; and 'twon't be long

before you'll have your age dashed in your face by every female you

anger. Yes, you'll go begging now--none will have you--none will take

you with your record behind you. An old maid you'll be, and an old

maid you'll deserve to be. You just chew the end of that."

"What a beast you are!" she retorted. "What a low-minded, cowardly

creature to strike a woman so. But you spoke too soon as usual. The

likes of you to dare to say that! You, that don't know so much about

women as you do about rabbits!"

"I know enough about men, anyhow, and I know no man will ever look at

you again."

"Liar! A man asked me to marry him months ago! But little did I think

you'd be the first to know it when we decided that it should be known.

He asked, and he was a man worth calling one, and I took him, so you

may just swallow your own lies again and choke yourself with 'em.

You're terrible fond of saying everybody's a fool--well, 'twill take

you all your time to find a bigger one than yourself after to-day. And

don't you never speak to me again, because I won't have it. Like your

cheek--a common labouring man!--ever to have spoke to me at all. And

if you do again, I'll tell Mr. Timothy Waite to put his whip round your

shoulders, so now then!"

"Him!"

"Yes, 'him'; and now you can go further off, and keep further off in

future."

She hastened forward to carry her news to other ears, and Jack Head

stood still until she was out of sight. He felt exceedingly angry, but

his anger swiftly diminished, and he even found it possible to laugh at

himself before he reached Shaugh Prior. He knew right well that he

must look a fool, but the knowledge did not increase his liking for

Cora Lintern. He reflected on what he had heard, and saw her making

fun of him in many quarters. He even debated a revenge, but no way

offered. Once he speculated as to what her betrothed would say if he

knew the truth of Cora's paternity; but, to do him justice, not the

faintest thought of revealing the secret tempted Jack.

"Leave it, and she'll most likely wreck herself with him," he thought.

"Waite's a sharp chap, and not easily hoodwinked. So like as not, when

he's seen a bit of her mean soul he'll think twice while there's time."

Mr. Head began to reflect again upon his own affairs, and, finding

himself at the vicarage gate, went in and asked for Dennis Masterman.

The rumour persisted, and even grew, that Dennis was paying back

certain losses incurred at Nathan Baskerville's death among the poorest

of the community. The fact had wounded Mr. Head's sense of justice,

and he was determined to throw some light on Masterman's foggy

philanthropy. The vicar happened to be in, and soon Mr. Head appeared

before him. Their interview lasted exactly five minutes, and Jack was

in the street again. He explained his theory at some length, and gave

it as his opinion that to pick and choose the cases was not defensible.

He then explained his own loss, and invited Mr. Masterman to say

whether a more deserving and unfortunate man might be found within the

quarters of the parish. The clergyman listened patiently and answered

with brevity.

"I hear some of the people are being helped, but personally the donor

is not known to me. I have nothing to do with it. He, or

she--probably a lady, for they do that sort of thing oftenest--is not

responsible to anybody; but, as far as I have heard, a very good choice

has been made among the worst sufferers. As to your case, Jack, it

isn't such a very hard one. You are strong and hale still, and you've

got nobody to think of but yourself. We know, at any rate, that Mr.

Nathan Baskerville did a lot of good with other people's money. Isn't

that what you Socialists are all wanting to do? But I dare say this

misfortune has modified your views a little here and there. I've never

yet met a man with fifty pounds in the bank who was what I call a

Socialist. Good-evening to you, Jack."

CHAPTER VII

Alice Masterman, the vicar's sister, came in to speak with Dennis after

Jack Head had gone. He was composing a sermon, but set it aside at

once, for the tone of her voice declared that she could brook no denial.

"It's Voysey," she said. "I'm sorry to trouble you about him again,

but he's got bronchitis."

"Well, send him some soup or something. Has that last dozen of parish

port all gone yet?"

"I was thinking of another side to it," she confessed. "Don't you

think this might be an excellent opportunity to get rid of him?"

"Isn't that rather hitting a man when he's down?"

"Well, it's perfectly certain you'll never hit him when he's up again.

If you only realised how the man robs us--indirectly, I mean. He

doesn't actually steal, I suppose, but look at the seed and the

thousand and one things he's always wanting in the garden, and nothing

to show but weeds."

"You must be fair, Alice. There are miles of large, fat cabbages out

there."

"Cabbages, yes; and when I almost go down on my knees for one, he says

they're not ready and mustn't be touched. He caught the cook getting a

sprig of parsley yesterday, and was most insolent. She says that if he

opens his mouth to her again she'll give warning; and she means it.

And even you know that cooks are a thousand times harder to get than

gardeners."

Dennis sighed and looked at his manuscript.

"Funny you should say these things--I'm preaching about the fruits of

the earth next Sunday."

"The man's maddening--always ready with an excuse. The garden must be

swarming with every blight and horror that was ever known, according to

him. And somehow I always feel he's being impertinent all the time

he's speaking to me, though there's nothing you can catch hold of. Now

it's mice, and now it's birds, and now it's canker in the air, or some

nonsense; and now it's the east wind, and now it's the west wind--I'm

sick of it; and if you ask for an onion he reminds you, with quite an

injured air, that he took three into the house last week. There's a

wretched cauliflower we had ages ago, and he's always talking about it

still, as if it had been a pineapple at least."

"I know he's tiresome. I tell you what--wait till he's back, and then

I'll give him a serious talking to."

"Only two days ago I met him lumbering up with that ridiculous basket

he always will carry--a huge thing, large enough to hold a sack of

potatoes. And in the bottom were three ridiculous little lettuces from

the frame, about as long as your thumb. I remonstrated, and, of

course, he was ready. 'I know to a leaf what his reverence eats,' he

said; 'and if that woman in the kitchen, miscalled a cook, don't serve

'em up proper, that's not my fault.' He didn't seem to think I ever

ate anything out of the garden."

"Old scoundrel! I'll talk to him severely. I've had a rod in pickle

ever since last year."

Dennis laughed suddenly, but his sister was in no laughing mood.

"I really can't see the funny side," she declared.

"Of course not. There is none. He's a fraud; but I remembered what

Travers said last year--you recollect? The thrips and bug and all

sorts of things got into the vines, and we asked Travers what was the

matter, and he explained what a shameful muddle Voysey had made. Then,

when Joe had gone chattering off, saying the grapes were worth five

shillings a pound in open market, and that they'd only lost their bloom

because we kept fingering them, Travers said he looked as if he was

infested with thrips and mealy bug himself. I shall always laugh when

I think of that--it was so jolly true."