"I hate a man who never owns that he is wrong; and I do wish you'd get

rid of him. It's only fair to me. I have but few pleasures, and the

garden is one of them. He tramples and tears, and if you venture to

ask him to tidy--well, you know what happens. The next morning the

garden looks as though there had been a plague of locusts in

it--everything has gone."

"He ought to retire; but he's saved nothing worth mentioning, poor old

fool!"

"That's his affair."

"It ought to be; but you know well enough that improvidence all round

is my affair. We are faced with it everywhere. Head has just been in

here. There's a rumour about the poor people that the innkeeper

swindled. He took their savings, and there's nobody to pay them back

now he's gone. But it seems that here and there those hit

hardest--mostly women--have had their money again. Not your work, I

hope, Alice? But I know what you do with your cash. Voysey was

talking about it a little time ago, and I blamed him for not having

saved some money himself by this time. He said, 'Better spend what you

earn on yourself than give it to somebody else to save for you.' The

misfortunes of the people seemed to have pleased him a good deal.

'We'm mostly in the same box now,' he said; 'but I had the rare sense

to spend my brass myself. I've had the value of it in beer and

tobacco, if no other way.'"

"Detestable old man! And Gollop's no better. Anybody but you would

have got rid of them both years and years ago."

"They must retire soon--they simply must. They're the two eldest men

in the parish."

"And, of course, you'll pension them, or some such nonsense."

"Indeed, I shall do no such thing. Perhaps this is the end of Voysey.

He may see the sense of retiring now."

"Not he. He'll be ill for six weeks, and lie very snug and comfortable

drawing his money at home; then, when the weather gets to suit him,

he'll crawl out again. And everything that goes wrong all through next

year will be owing to his having been laid by."

"I'll talk to him," repeated her brother. "I'll talk to him and Gollop

together. Gollop has pretty well exhausted my patience, I assure you."

Miss Masterman left him with little hope, and he resumed his sermon on

the fruits of the earth.

But next Sunday the unexpected happened, and Thomas Gollop, even in the

clergyman's opinion, exceeded the bounds of decency by a scandalous

omission.

It happened thus. The sexton, going his rounds before morning service,

was confronted with an unfamiliar object in the churchyard. A

tombstone had sprung up above the dust of Nathan Baskerville. He

rubbed his eyes with astonishment, because the time for a memorial was

not yet, and Thomas must first have heard of it and made ready before

its erection. Here, however, stood what appeared to be a square slate,

similar in design to those about it; but investigation proved that an

imitation stone had been set up, and upon the boards, painted to

resemble slate, was inscribed a ribald obituary notice of the dead. It

scoffed at his pretensions, stated the worst that could be said against

him, and concluded with a scurrility in verse that consigned him to the

devil.

Now, by virtue of his office, apart from the fact of being a

responsible man enlisted on the side of all that was seemly and

decorous, Mr. Gollop should have removed this offence as quickly as

possible before any eye could mark it. Thus he would have disappointed

those of the baser sort who had placed it there by night, and arrested

an outrage before any harm was done by it. But, instead, he studied

the inscription with the liveliest interest, and found himself much in

sympathy therewith.

Here was the world's frank opinion on Nathan Baskerville. The

innkeeper deserved such a censure, and Thomas saw no particular reason

why he should interfere. He was alone, and none had observed him.

Therefore he shuffled off and, rather than fetch his spade and barrow

to dig up this calumny and remove it, left the board for others to

discover.

This they did before the bells began to ring, and when Dennis Masterman

entered the churchyard, on his way to the vestry, he was arrested by

the sight of a considerable crowd collected about the Baskerville

graves. The people were trampling over the mounds, and standing up on

the monuments to get a better view. On the outskirt of the gathering

was Ben North in a state of great excitement; but single-handed the

policeman found himself unable to cope with the crowd. A violent

quarrel was proceeding at the centre of this human ring, and Masterman

heard Gollop's voice and that of Heathman Lintern. Dennis ordered some

yelling choir-boys down off a flat tomb, then pushed his way through

his congregation. Parties had been divided as to the propriety of the

new monument, and the scene rather resembled that in the past, when

Nathan Baskerville was buried.

As the vicar arrived, Heathman Lintern, who had lost his self-control,

was just knocking Mr. Gollop backwards into the arms of his sister.

The man and woman fell together, and, with cries and hisses, others

turned on Heathman. Then a force rallied to the rescue. Sunday hats

were hurled off and trampled into the grass; Sunday coats were torn;

Sunday collars were fouled. Not until half a dozen men, still

fighting, had been thrust out of the churchyard, was Dennis able to

learn the truth. Then he examined the cause of the riot and listened

to Lintern.

The young man was bloody and breathless, but he gasped out his tale. A

dozen people were already inspecting the new gravestone when Heathman

passed the church on his way to chapel with his mother and sisters. He

left them to see the cause of interest, and, discovering it, ordered

Gollop instantly to remove it. This the sexton declined to do on the

ground that it was Sunday. Thereupon, fetching tools, Heathman himself

prepared to dig up the monument. But he was prevented. Many of the

people approved of the joke and decreed that the board must stand.

They arrested Heathman in his efforts to remove it. Then others took

his side and endeavoured to drag down the monument.

Having heard both Lintern and Gollop, the clergyman read the mock

inscription.

"D'you mean to say that you refuse to remove this outrageous thing?" he

asked the sexton; but Thomas was in no mood for further reprimand. He

had suffered a good deal in credit and temper. Now he mopped a

bleeding nose and was insolent.

"Yes, I do; and I won't break the Fourth Commandment for you or fifty

parsons. Who the mischief be you to tell me to labour on the Lord's

Day, I should like to know? You'll bid me covet my neighbour's ass and

take my neighbour's wife next, perhaps? And, when all's said, this

writing be true and a lesson to the parish. Let 'em have the truth for

once, though it do turn their tender stomachs."

"Get out of the churchyard, you old blackguard!" cried Heathman.

"You're a disgrace to any persuasion, and you did ought to be hounded

out of a decent village."

"Leave Gollop to me, Lintern. Now lend a hand here, a few of you; get

this infamous thing away and destroyed before anybody else sees it.

And the rest go into church at once. Put on your surplices quick, you

boys; and you, Jenkins, tell Miss Masterman to play another voluntary."

Dennis issued his orders and then helped to dig up this outrage among

the tombs. Thomas Gollop and his sister departed together. Ben North,

Lintern, and another assisted Mr. Masterman.

Then came Humphrey Baskerville upon his way to church, and, despite the

entreaty of the young clergyman that he would not read the thing set up

over Nathan's grave, insisted on doing so.

"I hear in the street there's been a row about a tombstone to my

brother. Who put it there? 'Tis too soon by half. I shall lift a

stone to the man when the proper time comes," he said.

"It isn't a stone, it's an unseemly insult--an outrage. Not the work

of Shaugh men, I hope. I shall investigate the thing to the bottom,"

answered Dennis.

"Let me see. Stay your hand, Lintern."

The old man put on his glasses deliberately, and read the evil words.

"Tear it down," he said. "That ban't all the truth about the man, and

half the truth is none. Quick, away with it! There's my sister-in-law

from Cadworthy coming into the gate."

The burlesque tombstone was hurried away, and Masterman went into the

vestry. Others entered church, and Heathman at last found himself

alone. The bells stopped, the organ ceased to grunt, and the service

proceeded; but young Lintern was only concerned with his own labours.

He ransacked Mr. Gollop's tool-shed adjoining the vestry. It was

locked, but he broke it open, and, finding a hatchet there, proceeded

to make splinters of the offending inscription. He chopped and chopped

until his usual equitable humour returned to him. Then, the work

completed, he returned to his father's grave and repaired the broken

mound. He was engaged upon this task to the murmur of the psalms, when

Jack Head approached and bade him 'good-morning.'

"A pretty up-store, I hear. And you in the midst of it--eh?"

"I was, and I'd do the same for any chap that did such a beastly thing.

If I thought you had any hand in it, Jack----"

The other remembered that the son of the dead was speaking to him.

"Not me," he answered. "I have a pretty big grudge against Nathan

Baskerville that was, and I won't deny it; but this here--insults on

his tomb--'tis no better than to kick the dead. Besides, what's the

use? It won't right the wrong, or put my money back in my pocket. How

did it go--the words, I mean?"

"I've forgot 'em," answered Heathman. "Least said, soonest mended, and

if it don't do one thing, and that is get Gollop the sack, I shall be a

bit astonished."

He laughed.

"You should 'a' seen the old monkey just now! He was the first to mark

this job, and he let it stand for all to see, and was glad they should

see it--shame to him."

"Wrote it himself so like as not."

"Hadn't the wit to. But he left it, and he was well pleased at it.

And then, when I ordered him as sexton to take it down, he wouldn't,

and so I lost my head and gave him a tap on the ribs, and over he went

into his sister's arms, as was standing screeching like a poll-parrot

just behind him. Both dropped; then Tom Sparkes hit me in the mouth;

and so we went on very lively till Mr. Masterman came."

"Wouldn't have missed it for money," said Jack. "But just my luck to

be t'other side the village at such a moment."

He sat down on a sepulchre and filled his pipe. He knew well why

Heathman had thrown himself so fiercely into this quarrel, and he

admired him for it. The sight of the young man reminded him of his

sister.

"So your Cora is trying a third, she tells me?"

"Yes; 'tis Tim Waite this time," answered Cora's brother. "I shouldn't

envy him much--or any man who had to live his life along with her."

"You're right there: no heart--that's what was left out when she was

a-making. She told me the news a bit ago, just when I was giving her a

rap over the knuckles on account of that other fool, Ned Baskerville.

And she got the best of the argument--I'll allow that. In fact, you

might say she scored off me proper, for I told her that no decent chap

would ever look at her again, and what does she answer? Why, that Tim

Waite's took her."

"Yes, 'tis so. He and me was talking a bit ago. He'll rule her."

"But I got it back on Cora," continued Mr. Head. "I'm not the sort to

be beat in argument and forget it. Not I! I'll wait, if need be, for

a month of Sundays afore I make my answer; but I always laugh last, and

none don't ever get the whip-hand of me for long. And last week I

caught up with her again, as we was travelling by the same road, and I

gave her hell's delights, and told her the ugly truth about herself

till she could have strangled me if she'd been strong enough."

"I know you did. She came home in a pretty tantara--blue with temper;

and she's going to tell Waite about it. But don't you sing small,

Jack; don't you let Timothy bully you."

"No man bullies me," said Head; "least and last of all a young man.

Waite have too much sense, I should hope, to fall foul of me. But if

it comes to that, I can give him better than he'll give me--a long

sight better, too."

"The Cadworthy people have been a bit off us since Cora dropped Ned,"

declared Heathman. "No wonder, neither, but my mother's cruel galled

about it. 'Twasn't her fault, however. Still, that's how it lies."

Mr. Head was examining this situation when the people began to come out

of church.

He rose, therefore, and went his way, while Heathman also departed.

Many returned to the outraged grave, but all was restored to order, and

nothing remained to see.

CHAPTER VIII

Jack Head presently carried his notorious grievances to Humphrey

Baskerville, and waited upon him one evening in summer time. They had

not met for many weeks, and Jack, though he found little leisure to

mark the ways of other people at this season, could not fail to note a

certain unwonted cheerfulness in the master of Hawk House. Humphrey's

saturnine spirit was at rest for the moment. To-night he talked upon a

personal topic, and found evident pleasure in a circumstance which,

from the standpoint of his visitor, appeared exceedingly trivial. The

usual relations of these men seemed changed, and Mr. Baskerville showed

the more reasonable and contented mind, while Jack displayed an active

distrust of everything and everybody.

"I wanted a bit of a tell with you," he began, "and thought I might

come over."

"Come in and welcome," answered Humphrey. "I hope I see you pretty

middling?"

"Yes, well enough for that matter. And you?"

"Never better. 'Tis wonnerful how the rheumatics be holding off--along

of lemons. You might stare, but 'tis a flame-new remedy of doctor's.

Lemon juice--pints of it."

"Should have reckoned there was enough lemon in your nature without

adding to it."

"Enough and to spare. Yet you needn't rub that home to-day. I've

heard a thing that's very much pleased me, I may tell you. Last news

such a cranky and uncomfortable man as me might have expected."

"Wish I could hear summat that would please me, I'm sure," said Jack.

"But all that ever I hear of nowadays is other people's good luck. And

there's nothing more damned uninteresting after a bit. Not that I

grudge t'others----"

"Of course you don't--not with your high opinions. You've said to me a

score of times that there's no justice in the world, therefore 'tis no

use your fretting about not getting any. We must take things as we

find them."

"And what's your luck, then? More money rolling in, I suppose?"

"My luck--so to call it--mightn't look over large to another. 'Tis

that my nephew Rupert and his wife want for me to be godfather to their

babe. The child will be called after me, and I'm to stand godfather;

and I'll confess to you, in secret, that I'm a good deal pleased about

it."

Jack sniffed and spat into the fire. He took a pipe out of his pocket,

stuffed it, and lighted it before he answered.

"I was going to say that little things please little minds, but I

won't," he began. "If you can find pleasure in such a trifle--well,

you'm fortunate. I should have reckoned with all the misery there is

in the world around you, that there'd be more pain than pleasure in----"

He broke off.

"'Tis the thought," explained Mr. Baskerville. "It shows that they

young people feel towards me a proper and respectful feeling. It shows

that they'd trust me to be a godparent to this newborn child. I know

very well that folk are often asked just for the sake of a silver

spoon, or a christening mug; but my nephew Rupert and his wife Milly be

very different to that. There's no truckling in them. They've thought

this out, and reckoned I'm the right man--old as I am. And naturally I

feel well satisfied about it."

"Let that be, then. If you're pleased, their object be gained, for

naturally they want to please you. Why not? You must die sooner or

later, though nobody's better content than me to hear you'm doing so

clever just at present. But go you must, and then there's your mighty

fortune got to be left to something or somebody."

"Mighty's not the word, Jack."

"Ban't it? Then a little bird tells the people a lot of lies. And,

talking of cash, I'm here over that matter myself."

But Humphrey was not interested in cash for the moment.

"They sent me a very well-written letter on the subject," he continued.

"On the subject of the child. 'Twas more respectful to me and less

familiar to put it in writing--so they thought. And I've written back

a long letter, and you shall hear just how I wrote, if you please.

There's things in my letter I'd rather like you to hear."

Mr. Head showed impatience, and the other was swift to mark it.

"Another time, if 'tis all the same to you," Jack replied. "Let me get

off what's on my chest first. Then I'll be a better listener. I

ha'n't got much use for second-hand wisdom for the moment."

Mr. Baskerville had already picked up his letter; but now he flung the

pages back upon his desk and his manner changed.

"Speak," he said. "You learn me a lesson. Ban't often I'm wrapped up

in my own affairs, I believe. I beg your pardon, Head."

"No need to do that. Only, seen from my point, with all my misfortunes

and troubles on my mind, this here twopenny-halfpenny business of

naming a newborn babby looks very small. You can't picture it, no

doubt--you with your riches and your money breeding like rabbits. But

for a man such as me, to see the sweat of his brow swept away all at a

stroke--nought else looks of much account."

"Haven't you got over that yet?"

"No, I haven't; and more wouldn't you, if somebody had hit you so hard."

"Say your say then, if 'twill do you any sort of good."

"What I want to know is this. Why for do Lawyer Popham help one man

and not help t'other? Why do this person--I dare say you know who

'tis--do what he's doing and pick and choose according to his fancy?

It isn't Masterman or I'd have gived him a bit of my mind about it.

And if I could find out who it was, I would do so."

"The grievance is that you don't get your bit back? Are you the only

one?"

"No, I'm not. There's a lot more going begging the same way. And if

you know the man, you can tell him from me that he may think he'm doing

a very fine thing, but in my opinion he isn't."

Mr. Baskerville had relapsed into his old mood.

"So much for your sense, then--you that pride yourself such a lot on

being the only sane man among us. Have you ever looked into the

figures?"

"I've looked into my own figures, and they be all I care about."

"Exactly so! But them that want to right this wrong have looked into

all the figures; and so they know a great deal more about 'em than you

do. You're not everybody. You're a hale, hearty creature getting good

wages. More than one man that put away money with my brother is dead

long ago, and there are women and children to be thought upon; and a

bedridden widow, and two twin boys, both weak in the head; and a few

other such items. Why for shouldn't there be picking and choosing? If

you'd been going to lend a hand yourself and do a bit for charity,

wouldn't you pick and choose? Ban't all life picking and choosing?

Women and childer first is the rule in any shipwreck, I believe--afloat

or ashore. And if you was such a born fool as to trust, because others

trusted, and follow the rest, like a sheep follows his neighbour sheep,

then I should reckon you deserve to whistle for your money. If this

chap, who was fond of my brother and be set on clearing his name, will

listen to me, you and the likes of you will have to wait a good few

years yet for your bit--if you ever get it at all. You ought to know

better--you as would shoulder in afore the weak! And now you can go.

I don't want to see you no more, till you've got into a larger frame of

mind."

"What a cur-dog you be!" said Head, rising and scowling fiercely. "So

much for Christian charity and doing to your neighbour as you would

have him do to you--so much for all your cant about righteousness. You

wait--that's all! Your turn will come to smart some day. And if I

find out this precious fool, who's got money to squander, I'll talk a

bit of sense to him too. He's no right to do things by halves, and one

man's claim on that scamp, your brother, is just as lawful and proper

as another man's; and because a person be poor or not poor don't make

any difference in the matter of right and wrong."

"That's where you're so blind as any other thick-headed beetle,"

snarled back Humphrey. "For my part I've looked into the figures

myself, and I quite agree with Nathan's friend. None has a shadow of

reason to question him or to ask for a penny from him. 'Tis his

bounty, not your right."

"Very easy to talk like that. Why don't you put your fingers in your

own pocket and lend a hand yourself? Not you--a sneaking old

curmudgeon! And then want people to think well of you. Why the devil

should they? Close-fisted mully-grubs that you are! And hark to this,

Miser Baskerville, don't you pretend your nephew wants you to stand

gossip for his bleating baby to pleasure you. 'Tis because he's got

his weather-eye lifting on your dross. Who's like to care for you for

yourself? Not a dog. Your face be enough to turn milk sour and give

the childer fits."

"Get along with you," answered Humphrey. "You--of all men! I could

never have believed this--never. And all for thirty-five pounds,

fifteen and sevenpence! So much for your wisdom and reason. Be off

and get down on your knees, if they'll bend, and ask God to forgive

you."

Head snorted and swore. Then he picked up his hat and departed in a

towering rage.

Mr. Baskerville's anger lasted a shorter time. He walked to the

window, threw it open, listened to Head's explosive departure and then,

when silence was restored, Humphrey himself went to his doorstep and

looked out upon the fair June night.

Mars and a moon nearly full sailed south together through unclouded

skies, and beneath them lay, first, a low horizon, whose contour,

smoothed by night's hand into dim darkness, showed neither point nor

peak under the stars. Beneath all, valley-born, there shone silver

radiance of mist--dense and luminous in the moonlight. Apparently

quiescent, this vapour in truth drifted with ghostly proper motion

before the night wind, and stole from the water-meadows upward toward

the high places of the Moor.

Against these shifting passages of fog, laid along the skirts of forest

and above the murmuring ways of a hidden river, ascended silhouettes of

trees, all black and still against the pearly light behind them. The

vapour spread in wreaths and filaments of moisture intermingled. Seen

afar it was still as standing water; but to one moving beside it, the

mist appeared as on a trembling loom where moonlight wove in ebony and

silver. The fabric broke, ravelled, fell asunder, and then built

itself up once more. Again it dislimned and shivered into separate

shades that seemed to live. From staple of streams, from the cold

heart of a nightly river were the shadows born; and they writhed and

worshipped--poor, heart-stricken spirits of the dew--love-mad for

Selene on high. Only when red Mars descended and the moon went down,

did these forlorn phantoms of vapour shrink and shudder and lie closer,

for comfort, to the water mother that bore them.

Hither, nigh midnight, in a frame of mind much out of tune with the

nocturnal peace, passed Jack Head upon his homeward way. His loss had

now become a sort of mental obsession, and he found it daily wax into a

mightier outrage on humanity. He would have suffered in silence, but

for the aggravation of these events whereby, from time to time, one or

another of the wounded found his ill fortune healed.

Examination might have showed an impartial mind that much method

distinguished the process of this alleviation.

Those responsible for it clearly possessed close knowledge of the

circumstances; and they used it to minister in turn to the chief

sufferers. The widows and fatherless were first indemnified; then

others who least could sustain their losses.

A sane system marked the procedure; but not in the eyes of Mr. Head.

First, he disputed the right of any philanthropist to select and single

out in such a matter, and next, when defeated in argument on that

contention, he fell back upon his own disaster and endeavoured to show

how his misfortune was among the hardest and most ill-deserved.

That man after man should be compensated and himself ignored, roused

Jack to a pitch of the liveliest indignation. He became a nuisance,

and people fled from him and his inevitable topic of speech. And now

he had heard Humphrey Baskerville upon the subject, and found him as

indifferent as the rest of the world.

The old man's argument still revolved in Jack's head and, too late,

came answers to it. He moved along in the very extremity of rage, and

Humphrey might have smarted to hear the things that his former friend

thought against him. Then, as ill chance willed, another came through

the night and spoke to Head.

Timothy Waite went happily upon his homeward way and found himself in a

mood as sweet as Jack's was the reverse. For Timothy was love-making,

and his lady's ripe experience enabled her to give him many pleasant

hours of this amusement.

Neither was sentimental, but Cora, accustomed to the ways and fancies

of the courting male, affected a certain amount of femininity, and

Timothy appreciated this, and told himself that his future wife

possessed a woman's charms combined with a man's practical sense. He

was immensely elated at the thing he had done, and he felt gratified to

find that Miss Lintern made a most favourable impression amid his

friends and relations.

Now, moved thereto by his own cheerful heart, he gave Jack Head 'good

night' in a friendly tone of voice and added, "A beautiful evening,

sure enough."

The way was overshadowed by trees and neither man recognised the other

until Waite spoke. Then Mr. Head, feeling himself within the

atmosphere of a happy being, grunted a churlish answer and made himself

known.

Thereon Timothy's manner changed and he regretted his amenity.

"Is that Head?" he asked in an altered tone.

"You know my voice, I suppose."

"Yes, I do. I want to speak to you. And I have meant to for some time

past. But the chance didn't offer, as you don't go to church, or any

respectable place; and I don't frequent publics."

The other bristled instantly.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" he shouted.

"Nothing's the matter with me. But there's a lot the matter with you

by all accounts, and since you can't keep a civil tongue in your head,

it's time your betters took you in hand a bit."

Jack stared speechless at this blunt attack. The moon whitened his

face, his lean jaw dropped and his teeth glimmered.

"Well, I'm damned! 'My betters'--eh?"

"Yes; no need for any silly pretence with me. You know what I think of

your blackguard opinions and all that rot about equality and the rest.

I'm not here to preach to you; but I am here to tell you to behave

yourself where ladies are concerned. Miss Lintern has told me what you

said to her, and she complained sharply about it. You may think it was

very clever; but I'd have you to know it was very impertinent, coming

from you to her. Why, if I'd been by, I'd have horsewhipped you. And

if it happens again, I will. You're a lot too familiar with people,

and seem to think you've a right to talk to everybody and anybody in a

free and easy way--from parson downwards. But let me tell you, you

forget yourself. I'd not have said these things if you'd been rude to

any less person than the young lady I'm going to marry. But that I

won't stand, and I order you not to speak to Miss Lintern again. Learn

manners--that's what you've got to do."

Having uttered this admonition, Mr. Waite was proceeding but Jack

stopped him.

"I listened to you very patient," he said. "Now you've got to listen

to me, and listen you shall. Why, God stiffen it, you bumbling fool!

who d'you think you are, and who d'you think any man is? You be china

to my cloam, I suppose? And who was your grandfather? Come now, speak

up; who was he?"

"I'm not going to argue--I've told you what I wish you to do. It

doesn't matter who my grandfather was. You know who I am, and that's

enough."

"It is enough," said Jack; "it's enough to make a toad laugh; but I

don't laugh--no laughing matter to me to be told by a vain, puffed-up

booby, like you, that I'm not good enough to have speech with people.

And that tousled bitch--there--and coming on what I've just heard! If

it don't make me sick with human nature and all the breed!"

"Be sick with yourself," answered Timothy. "I don't want to be too

hard on an uneducated and self-sufficient man; but when it comes to

insulting women, somebody must intervene."

By way of answer the older man turned, walked swiftly to Waite and

struck him on the breast. The blow was a hard one and served its

purpose. Timothy hit back and Head closed.

"You blackguard anarchist," shouted the farmer. "You will have it,

will you? Then take it!"

Jack found himself no match for a strong and angry man full twenty-five

years his junior, and he reaped a very unpleasant harvest of blows, for

the master of Coldstone carried an ash sapling and when he had thrown

Mr. Head to the ground he put his foot on him and flogged him heartily

without heeding where his strokes might fall. Head yelled and cursed

and tried to reach the other's legs and bring him down. A column of

dust rose into the moonlight and Timothy's breath panted steaming upon

the air. Then, with a last cruel cut across the defeated labourer's

shoulders, he released him and went his way. But Head was soon up

again and, with a bleeding face, a torn hand and a dusty jacket, he

followed his enemy.

Rage is shrewd of inspiration. He remembered the one blow that he

could deal this man; and he struck it, hoping that it might sink far

deeper than the smarting surface-wounds that now made his own body ache.

"Devil--coward--garotter!" he screamed out. "You that hit old men in

the dark--listen to me!"

Waite stopped.

"If you want any more, you can have it," he answered. "But don't go

telling lies around the country and saying I did anything you didn't

well deserve. You struck me first, and if you are mad enough to strike

your betters, then you'll find they will strike back."

"I'll strike--yes, I'll strike--don't fear that. I'll strike--a harder

blow than your evil hand knows how. I'll strike with truth--and that's

a weapon goes deeper than your bully's stick. Hear me, and hear a bit

about your young lady--'young lady'! A woman without a father--a child

got--ax her mother where and how--and then go to blazing hell--you and

your nameless female both. I know--I know--and I'll tell you if you

want to know. She's Nathan Baskerville's bastard--that's what your

'young lady' is! There's gall for yours. There's stroke for stroke!

And see which of us smarts longest now!"

Jack took his bruises homeward and the other, dazed at such a storm,

also went his way. He scoffed at such malice and put this evil thing

behind him. He hastened forward, as one hastens from sudden incidence

of a foul smell.

But the wounded man had sped a poison more pestilential far than any

born of physical cause. The germ thus despatched grew while Waite

slept; and with morning light its dimensions were increased.

Under the moon, he had laughed at this furious assault, and scorned it

as the vile imagining of a beaten creature; but with daylight he

laughed no longer. The barb was fast; other rumours set floating after

the innkeeper's death now hurtled like lesser arrows into his bosom;

and Mr. Waite felt that until a drastic operation was performed and

these wounds cleansed, his peace of mind would not return.

He debated between the propriety of speaking to Cora about her father,

or to Mrs. Lintern on the subject of her husband; and he decided that

the latter course would be more proper.

CHAPTER IX

Susan Hacker and her master sat together in the kitchen. He had

lighted his pipe; she was clearing away the remains of a somewhat

scanty meal, and she was grumbling loudly as she did so.

"Leave it," he cried at length, "or I won't show you the christening

mug for Milly's baby. It have come from Plymouth, and a rare, fine,

glittering thing it is."

"I won't leave it," she answered. "You can't see the end of this, but

I can. People know you've got plenty of money, but they don't know the

way you're fooling it about, and presently, when you go and get ill,

and your bones begin to stick through your skin, 'tis I shall be

blamed."

"Not a bit of it. They all think I'm a miser, don't they? Let 'em go

on thinking it. 'Tis the way of a miser's bones to stick out through

his skin. Everybody knows that I live cheap from choice and always

have. I hate the time given to eating and drinking."

"You've always lived like a labouring man," she admitted. "But of

late, here and there, people be more friendly towards you, because you

let your folk bide at Cadworthy; and I'm sick and tired of hearing

Hester Baskerville tell me you don't eat enough, and Rupert and Milly

too. Then there's that Gollop woman and a few other females have said

things against me about the way I run this house. And 'tis bad to

suffer it, for the Lord knows I've got enough on my mind without their

lies."

"Get 'em off your mind, then," he answered. "You're a changed woman of

late, and I'll tell you what's done it. I only found out myself a bit

ago and said nought; but now I will speak. I've wondered these many

weeks what had come over you, and three days since I discovered. And

who was it, d'you think, told me?"

Her guilty heart thumped at Susan's ribs.

"Not Jack Head?" she asked.

"Jack? No. What does he know about you? Jack's another changed

creature. He was pretty good company once, but his losses have soured

him. 'Twasn't Jack. 'Twas the reverend Masterman. You've signed the

pledge, I hear."

"He'd no business to tell," declared Susan. "Yes, I have signed it.

I'm a wicked woman, and never another drop shall pass my lips."

"'Tis that that's made you cranky, all the same," he declared. "You

was accustomed to your tipple and you miss it. However, I'm the last

to say you did wrong in signing. When your organs get used to going

without, you'll find yourself better company again. And don't worry

about the table I keep. I live low from choice, not need. It suits me

to starve a bit. I'm the better and cheerfuller for it."

But then she took up the analysis and explained to him whence his good

health and spirits had sprung.

"Ban't that at all. 'Tis what you be doing have got into your blood.

I know--I know. You've hid it from all of 'em, but you haven't hid it

from me. I don't clean up all the rubbish you make and sift your

waste-paper basket for nought. I itch to let it out! But God forgive

me, I've let out enough in my time."

He turned on her angrily; then fearlessly she met his frown and he

subsided.

"You're a dangerous, prying woman," he said, "and you ought to be

ashamed of yourself."

"I'm all that," she admitted; "and shame isn't the word. I'm ashamed

enough, and more than ashamed."

"If you let out a breath of my little games, I'll pack you off into the

street that very day, Susan."

She sat down by the fire and took her knitting off the peat box where

it was usually to be found.

"You needn't fear me," she answered. "I've had my lesson. If ever I

tell again what I should not, you may kick me into the gutter."

He mused over the thoughts that she had awakened.

"I know a mazing deal more about the weaknesses of my brother Nathan

now than ever I did while the man was in life," he began. "He was

always giving--always giving, whether he had it to give or whether he

hadn't. I'm not defending him, but I know what it felt like a bit now.

Giving be like drink: it grows on a man the same as liquor does.

Nathan ought to have taken the pledge against giving. And yet 'tis

just another example of how the Bible word never errs. On the face of

it you'd think 'twas better fun to receive than to give. But that

isn't so. Once break down the natural inclination, shared by the dog

with his bone, to stick to what you've got--once make yourself hand

over a bit to somebody else--and you'll find a wonderful interest arise

out of it."

"Some might. Some would break their hearts if they had to fork out

like you've been doing of late."

"They be the real misers. To them their stuff is more than food and

life and the welfare of the nation. And even them, if we could tear

their gold away from them, might thank us after they'd got over the

operation, and found themselves better instead of worse without it."

"All that's too deep for me," she answered. "The thing that's most

difficult to me be this: How do you get any good out of helping these

poor folk all underhand and unknown? Surely if a man or woman does

good to others, he's a right to the only payment the poor can make him.

And that's gratitude. Why won't you out with it and let them thank

you?"

"You're wrong," he said. "I've lived too many years in the world to

want that. I'm a fool here and there, Susan; but I'm not the sort of

fool that asks from men and women what's harder to give than any other

thing. To put a fellow-creature under an obligation is to have a faith

in human nature that I never have had, and never shall have. No, I

don't want that payment; I'm getting better value for my money than

that."

"So long as you're satisfied----"

Silence followed and each pursued a private line of thought. Humphrey

puffed his pipe; Susan knitted, and her wooden needles tapped and

rattled a regular tune. She was wondering whether the confession that

she desired to make might be uttered at this auspicious moment. Her

conscience tortured her; and it was the weight of a great misery on her

mind, not the fact of giving up liquor, that had of late soured her

temper. She had nearly strung herself to tell him of her sins when he,

from the depths of his being, spoke again. But he was scarcely

conscious of a listener.

"To think that a man like me--so dark and distrustful--to think that

even such a man--I, that thought my heart was cracked for ever when my

son died--I, that said to myself 'no more, no more can any earthly

thing fret you now.' And yet all the time, like a withered

pippin--brown, dry as dust--there was that within that only wanted

something--some heat to the pulp of me--to plump me out again. To

think that the like of me must have some other thing to--to cherish and

foster! To think my shrivelled heart-strings could ever stretch and

seek for aught to twine around again! Who'd believe it of such a man

as me? God A'mighty! I didn't believe it of myself!"

"But I knowed it," said Susan. "You always went hunger-starved for

people to think a bit kindly of you; you always fretted when decent

folk didn't like you."

"Not that--not that now. I wanted their good-will; but I've found

something a lot higher than that. To see a poor soul happy is better

far than to see 'em grateful. What does that matter? To mark their

downward eye uplifted again; to note their fear for the future gone; to

see hope creep back to 'em; to watch 'em walk cheerful and work

cheerful; to know they laugh in their going once more; that they lie

themselves down with a sigh of happiness and not of grief--ban't all

that grander than their gratitude? Gratitude must fade sooner or late,

for the largest-hearted can't feel it for ever, try as he may.

Benefits forgot are dust and ashes to the giver--if he remembers. But

none can take from me the good I've won from others' good; and none can

make that memory dim."

"'Tis a fairy story," murmured Mrs. Hacker.

"No," he said, "'tis a little child's story--the thing they learn at a

mother's knees; and because I was a growed-up man, I missed it. 'Tis a

riddle a generous child could have guessed in a minute; but it took one

stiff-necked fool from his adult days into old age afore he did."

Susan's mind moved to her purpose, and she knew that never again might

fall so timely a moment. She put down her knitting, flung a peat on

the fire, and spoke.

"You be full of wonderful tales to-night, but now I'll please ask you

to listen to me," she began. "And mark this: you can't well be too

hard upon me. I've got a pack of sins to confess, and if, when you've

heard 'em, you won't do with me no more, then do without me, and send

me through that door. I deserve it. There's nought that's bad I don't

deserve."

He started up.

"What's this?" he said. "You haven't told anybody?"

"No, no, no. Ban't nothing about your affairs. In a word, I overheard

a secret. I listened. I did it out of woman's cursed curiosity. And,

as if that weren't enough, I got drunk as a fly down to 'The White

Thorn' a while back and let out the truth. And nought's too bad for

me--nought in nature, I'm sure."

Mr. Baskerville put down his pipe and turned to her.

"Don't get excited. Begin at the beginning. What did you hear?"

"I heard Mrs. Lintern tell you she was your brother's mistress. I

heard her tell you her children was also his."

"And you're scourged for knowing it. Let that be a lesson to you,

woman."

"That's only the beginning. I ban't scourged for that. I'm scourged

because I've let it out again."

"I'm shocked at you," he answered. "Yes, I'm very much shocked at you;

but I'm not at all surprised. I knew as sure as I knew anything that

'twould out. The Lord chooses His own time and His own tool. But that

don't make your sin smaller. You're a wicked woman."

"I've signed the pledge, however, and not another drop----"

"How many of 'em did you tell?"

"But one. Of course, I chose the man with the longest tongue. Jack

Head saw me up the hill after closing time and--there 'twas--I had to

squeak. But I made him swear as solemn as he knowed how that he

wouldn't."

"He's not what he was. We had a proper row a month ago. I doubt if

he'll ever speak to me again. And until he makes a humble apology for

what he spoke, I won't hear him."

"He swore he wouldn't tell."

"Be that as it may, it will be known. It's started and it won't stop."

They talked for two hours upon the problems involved in these facts.

Then there came a knock at the door and Susan went to answer it.

Mr. Baskerville heard a protracted mumble and finally, after some

argument, Mrs. Hacker shut the door and returned into the kitchen with

a man.

It was Jack himself.

He explained the reason for his unduly late visit. He was anxious and

troubled. He spoke without his usual fluency.

"I didn't come to see you," he said. "I waited till 'twas past your

hour for going to bed. But knowing that Mrs. Hacker was always later,

I thought to speak to her. However, nothing would do but I came in,

and here I be."

"I'll have nought to say to you, Head--not a single word--until you

make a solemn apology for your infernal impudence last time you stood

here afore me," said the master of Hawk House, surveying his visitor.

"So Susan tells me, and so I will then," replied Jack. "So solemn as

ever you like. You was right and I was wrong, and I did ought to have

been kicked from here to Cosdon Beacon and back for what I said to you.

We'm always punished for losing of our tempers. And I was damn soon

punished for losing mine, as you shall hear. But first I confess that

I was wrong and ax you, man to man, to forgive me."

"Which I will do, and here's my hand on it," said the other.

The old men shook hands and Susan wept. Her emotion was audible and

Humphrey told her to go to bed. She refused.

"I'm in this," she said. "'Tis all my wicked fault from beginning to

end, and I'm going to hear it out. I shall weep my eyes blistered

afore morning."

"Don't begin now, then. If you're going to stop here, be silent," said

Humphrey.

She sniffed, wiped her face, and then fetched a black bottle, some

drinking water, and two glasses.

"Light your pipe and say what you feel called upon to say," concluded

Humphrey to Mr. Head.

"'Tis like this," answered the other. "Every man wants to boss

somebody in this world. That's a failing of human nature, and if we

ain't strong enough to lord it over a fellow-creature, we try to reign

over a hoss or even a dog. Something we have to be master of. Well,

long since I marked that, and then, thanks to my understanding and

sense, I comed to see--or I may have read it--that 'twas greater far to

lord it over yourself than any other created thing."

"And harder far," said Humphrey.

"Without doubt you'm right. And I set about it, and I had myself in

hand something wonderful; and very proud I felt of it, as I had the

right to feel."

"Then the Lord, seeing you puffed up, sent a hard stroke to try whether

you was as clever as you thought you was--and He found you were not,"

suggested Mr. Baskerville.

"I don't care nothing about that nonsense," answered Jack; "and,

knowing my opinions, there ain't no call to drag the Lord in. All I do

know is that my hard-earned savings went, and--and--well, I got my

monkey up about it, and I got out of hand. Yes, I got out of hand.

The awful shock of losing my thirty-five pounds odd took me off my

balance. For a bit I couldn't stand square against it, and I did some

vain things, and just sank to be a common, everyday fool, like most

other people."

"'Tis a good thing you can see it, for 'twill end by righting your

opinion of yourself."

"My opinion of myself was a thought too high. I admit it," answered

Jack. "For the moment I was adrift--but only for the moment. Now I've

come back to my common-sense and my high ideas, I can assure you. But

the mischief is that just while I was dancing with rage and out of hand

altogether, I did some mistaken things. Enough I had on my mind to

make me do 'em, too. But I won't excuse 'em. I'll say, out and out,

that they were very wrong. You've agreed to overlook one of those

things, and you say you'll forgive me for talking a lot of rubbish

against you, for which I'm terrible sorry. So that's all right, and no

lasting harm there. But t'other job's worse."

Jack stopped for breath, and Susan sighed from the bottom of her

immense bosom. Humphrey poured out some gin and water for his guest.

Then he helped himself more sparingly.

"Here's to you," said Jack. "To drink under this roof is to be

forgiven. Now I'll go on with my tale, and tell you about the second

piece of work."

He related how he had left Hawk House in wrath, how he had met with

Timothy Waite; how he had been reproved and how he had hit back both

with his fists and his tongue.

"He knocked me down and gave me the truth of music with his heavy

stick. I hit him first, and I'm not saying anything about what he did,

though there may be thirty years between us; but anyway he roused Cain

in me and I told him, in a word, that the woman he was going to marry

was the natural child of Nathan Baskerville. 'Twas a double offence

against right-doing, because I'd promised Susan here not to let it out,

and because to tell Waite, of all men, was a cowardly deed against the

girl, seeing he meant to marry her. But I'd quarrelled with her

already, and tell him I did; and now I tell you."

He drank and stared into the fire. For some time Humphrey did not

reply; but at last he expressed his opinion.

"It all depends on the sort of chap that Waite may prove to be. He'll

either believe you, or he won't. If he don't, no harm's done. If he

do, then 'tis his character and opinions will decide him. For his own

sake we'll trust he'll throw her off, for woe betide the man that

marries her; but if he loves her better than her havage, he'll go his

way and care nothing. If he looks at it different, and thinks the

matter can't rest there, he'll go further. For my part I can't say I

care much about it. All I know is that Priscilla Lintern has rare

virtues, though she weren't virtuous, and she've lived on no bed of

roses, for all the brave way in which she stands up for my late

brother. She won't be sorry the murder's out. When she told me--or

when I told her--I made it plain that in my opinion this ought to be

known. She stood for the children, not herself, and said it never must

be known for their sakes. Well, now we shall see who hears it next.

As for you two, you've got your consciences, and it ban't for me to

come between you and them."

"Well, I've told my story, and admitted my failings like a man," said

Jack, "and, having done so, I can do no more. My conscience is

cleared, and I defy it to trouble me again; and I may add that I'll

take mighty good care not to give it the chance. So there you are.

And come what may, I can stand to that."

"How if they deny it and have you up for libel?" asked Mr. Baskerville;

but Jack flouted the idea.

"Not them," he said. "Have no fear on that score. I've got this woman

for witness, and I've got you. For that matter, even if 'twas known,

nobody wouldn't die of astonishment. Since the things Eliza Gollop

said after Nathan died, 'twould come as a very gentle surprise, I

believe. And, when all's said, who's the worse, except what be called

public morals?"

Mr. Baskerville nodded.

"There's some sense in what you say, Jack. And I'm glad we're friends

again. And now I'm going to bed, so I'll ax you to be gone."

Head rose, finished his refreshment, and shook Mr. Baskerville's hand.

"And I'm the better for knowing as you've been large-minded enough to

forgive me," he said. "And as you can, I suppose Susan here can. I

know I'm very much in her black books, and I deserve that too, and I'd

make it up to her in any way I can--except to marry her. That I never

will do for any woman as long as I live."

"No, and never will get the chance to," replied Susan; "and I only

trust to God 'twill all die out, and we hear no more of it."

Head turned at the door and spoke a final word.

"It may interest you to know that everybody have had their money

now--everybody but me and Thomas Coode, the drunken farmer at Meavy.

'Tis strange I should be put in the same class with Coode; but so it

is. However, I've larned my lesson. I shall say no more about that.

Think of it I must, being but mortal, but speak I won't."

"You'll do well to forget it," answered Mr. Baskerville. "The man, or

woman if 'twas one, be probably settled in their mind not to pay you or

Coode back--since you're so little deserving."

Jack shrugged his shoulders, but kept his recent promise and went out

silently.

CHAPTER X

A jay, with flash of azure and rose, fluttered screaming along from

point to point of a coppice hard by Hawk House, and Cora Lintern saw

it. She frowned, for this bird was associated in her mind with a

recent and an unpleasant incident. Her brother Heathman, whose

disparate nature striking against her own produced many explosions, had

recently told her that the jay was her bird--showy, tuneless,

hard-hearted. She remembered the occasion of this attack, but for the

moment had no energy at leisure with which to hate him; for

difficulties were rampant in her own path, and chance began to treat

her much as she had treated other people in the past.

In a word, her lover grew colder. As yet she had no knowledge of the

reason, but the fact could not be denied, and her uneasiness increased.

He saw somewhat less of her, and he made no effort to determine the

time of the wedding. Neither did he invite her to do so. He had come

twice to see Mrs. Lintern when Cora was not by, and an account of these

visits was reported by her mother.

"I don't exactly know why he dropped in either time," said Mrs.

Lintern. "He kept talking on everyday matters, and never named your

name. 'Twas curious, in fact, the way he kept it out. All business,

but nothing about the business of marrying you. Yet there was plenty

on his mind, I do believe. I should reckon as he'd come for a special

purpose, but finding himself here, it stuck in his throat. He's strong

with men, but weak with women. Have he told you of aught that's

fretting him?"

Her daughter could remember nothing of the sort. Neither did she

confess what she did know--that Waite was unquestionably cooler than of

old.

"'Tis time the day was named," declared Priscilla. "And you'd better

suggest it when next you meet with him."

But Cora did not do so, because there was much in Timothy's manner that

told her he desired no expedition. Some time had now elapsed since

last she saw him, and to-day she was going, in obedience to a note

brought by a labourer, to meet him at the Rut, half a mile from

Coldstone Farm. That he should have thus invited her to come to him

was typical of the change in his sentiments. Formerly he would have

walked or ridden to her. The tone of his brief note chilled her, but

she obeyed it, and was now approaching their tryst at evening time in

early September.

In a little field nigh Hawk House she heard the purr of a corn-cutting

machine. It was clinking round and round, shearing at each revolution

a slice from the island of oats that still stood in the midst of a sea

of fallen grain. A boy drove the machine, and behind it followed

Humphrey Baskerville and Rupert. The younger man had come over to help

garner the crop. Together they worked, gathered up the oats, and set

them in little sheaves. The waning sunlight gilded the standing oats.

Now and then a dog barked and darted round the vanishing island in the

midst, for there--separated from safety by half an acre of

stubble--certain rabbits squatted together, and waited for the moment

when they must bolt and make their final run to death.

Cora, unseen, watched this spectacle; then Mrs. Hacker appeared with a

tray, on which were three mugs and a jug of cider.

The girl was early for her appointment, but she sauntered forward

presently and marked Timothy Waite in the lower part of the valley.

It was the Rut's tamest hour of late summer, for the brightness of the

flowers had ceased to shine; the scanty heath made little display, and

autumn had as yet lighted no beacon fire. Stunted thorn trees ripened

their harvest, but the round masses of the greater furze were dim; a

prevalent and heavy green spread over the Rut, and the only colour

contrast was that presented by long stretches of dead brake fern. The

litter had been cut several weeks before and allowed to dry and ripen.

It had now taken upon itself a dark colour, widely different from the

richer, more lustrous, and gold-sprinkled splendour of auburn that

follows natural death. The dull brown stuff was being raked together

ready for the cart; and Cora, from behind a furze clump, watched her

sweetheart carry immense trusses of the bracken and heave them up to

the growing pile upon a wain that waited for the load. All she could

see was a pair of straight legs in black gaiters moving under a little

stack of the fern; then the litter was lifted, to reveal Timothy Waite.

Presently he looked at his watch and marked that the time of meeting

was nearly come. Whereupon he donned his coat, made tidy his

neckcloth, handed his fork to a labourer, and left the working party.

He strolled slowly up the coomb along the way that she must approach,

while she left her hiding-place and set out to meet him. He shook

hands, but he did not kiss her, and he did not look into her eyes.

Instead, he evaded her own glance, spoke quickly, and walked quickly in

unconscious obedience to his own mental turmoil.

"I can't run," she said. "If you want me to hear what you're saying,

Timothy, you must go slower, or else sit down in the hedge."

"It's terrible," he answered. "It's terrible, and it's made an old man

of me. But some things you seem to know from the first are true, and

some you seem to know are not. And when first I heard it I said to

myself, t 'Tis a damned lie of a wicked and venomous man'; but then,

with time and thought, and God knows how many sleepless nights, I got

to see 'twas true enough. And why wasn't I told? I ask you that. Why

wasn't I told?"

Her heart sank and her head grew giddy. She translated this speech

with lightning intuition, and knew too well all that it must mean. It

explained his increasing coolness, his absences and evasions. It

signified that he had changed his mind upon learning the secret of the

Linterns.

A natural feminine, histrionic instinct made her pretend utmost

astonishment, though she doubted whether it would deceive him.

"What you're talking about I haven't the slightest idea," she said.

"But if you have a grievance, so have I--and more than one. You wasn't

used to order me here and there six weeks ago. 'Twas you that would

come and see me then; now I've got to weary my legs to tramp to do your

bidding."

He paid no heed to her protest.

"If you don't understand, then you must, and before we part, too. I

can't go on like this. No living man could do it. I called twice to

see your mother about it, for it seemed to me that 'twas more seemly I

should speak to her than to you; but when I faced her I couldn't open

my mouth, much as I wanted to do so. She shook me almost, and I'd have

been thankful to be shook; but 'tis the craft and cunning of the thing

that's too much for me. I've been hoodwinked in this, and no doubt

laughed at behind my back. That's what's made me feel as I do now. I

waited and hoped on, and loved you for years, and saw you chuck two

other men, and found I'd got you at last, and reckoned I was well

rewarded for all my patience; and--then--then--this----"

"What? This what? Are you mad? What didn't you dare to speak to my

mother, and yet you can speak to me? What have I done that's set you

against me? What sin have I committed? Don't think I'm blind. I've

seen you cooling off clear enough, and for the life of me I couldn't

guess the reason, try as I would and sorrow about it as I would. But

since you've ordered me here for this, perhaps you'll go straight on

and tell me what's all the matter."

"I want you to answer me one question. The answer you must know, and I

ask you to swear afore your Maker that you'll tell me the truth. Mind

this, I know the truth. It's scorched into me like a burn this many a

day. But I must hear it from you too, Cora."

She guessed his question, and also guessed that in truth lay her last

hope. He spoke positively, and she doubted not that he knew. His fear

before her mother was natural. She perceived how easily a man might

have gone to a woman with this momentous question on his mind, and how

naturally the presence of the woman might strike him dumb at the actual

meeting. None knew better than Cora how different is the reality of a

conversation with a fellow-creature from the imaginary interview

formulated before the event. There was but one problem in her mind

now--the advantage or disadvantage of truth. She judged that the case

was desperate, but that her only hope lay in honesty.

"Speak," she said. "And I swear I'll answer nought but the truth--if I

know the truth."

He hesitated, and considered her answer. He was fond of her still, but

the circumstance of this deception, to which he supposed her a party,

had gone far to shake his affection. The grievance was that the facts

should have been hidden from him after his proposal. He held that then

was the time when Cora's paternity should have been divulged. He

believed that had he known it then, it would have made small difference

to his love. It was not so much the fact as the hiding of the fact

that had troubled him.

"Who was your father?" he asked at length, and the words burst out of

him in a heap, like an explosion.

"I know who he was," she answered.

"Name him, then."

"You see, Timothy, you never asked. I often thought whether there was

any reason to tell you, and often and often I felt you ought to know;

but you're a wise and far-seeing man, and I wasn't the only one to be

thought on. I'd have told you from the first, even at the risk of

angering you, but there was mother. I couldn't do it--knowing what

she'd feel. I was a daughter afore I was a sweetheart. Would you have

done it when you came to think on your mother?"

"Name him."

"Nathan Baskerville was my father, and my sister's and brother's

father. My mother was his wife all but in name, and they only didn't

marry because it meant losing money. You understand why I didn't tell

you--because of my poor mother. Now you can do as you please. I'm

myself anyway, and I'm not going to suffer for another's sins more than

I can help. There's no stain on me, and well you know it."

"Nathan was your father?"

"He was. I suppose Heathman told you. He's threatened to oft enough."

"No matter for that. 'Tis so, and 'twas deliberately hidden from me."

"'Twas hidden from all the world. And why not? I did no wrong by

hiding it, feel as I might. There was four to think of."

"'Twasn't hidden from all the world, and 'tisn't hidden. I didn't

learn it from Heathman. You've brought this on yourself in a way. If

you hadn't quarrelled with a certain man I shouldn't have done so

either. Jack Head told me after I'd thrashed him for insulting you;

and I suppose if he hadn't I might have gone to church with you, and

very likely gone to my grave at last, and never known what you was."

"I should have told you when my mother died."

"D'you swear that?"

"I tell you it is so. I'm going to swear no more at your bidding.

'Tis for me to speak now. You've cut me to the quick to-day, and I

doubt if I shall ever get over it. 'Tisn't a very manly way to treat

an innocent girl, I should think. However, I forgive everything and

always shall, for I love the ground you walk on, and you know it, and

'twasn't from any wish to treat you without proper respect that I hid

away this cruel thing. I said to myself, 'It can't hurt dear Tim not

to know it, and it would hurt my mother and my sister terribly if 'twas

known.' So, right or wrong, I did what I did; and now you're in

judgment over me, and I can't--I can't live another moment, dear

Timothy, till I know how you feel about it."

She had begun in a spirit rather dictatorial, but changed swiftly into

this milder appeal when she marked the expression of his face. He was

prepared to stand little. From the first she felt almost hopeless that

she would have power to move him.

"Who told Jack Head?" asked Timothy.

"God knows. My brother, I should think. There's none else in the

world but mother and Phyllis that knew it."

"Others were told, but not me. I was deceived by all of you."

"That's not true," she answered as her fighting instinct got the better

of tact. "'Twasn't to deceive you not to tell you. All families have

got secrets--yours too."

"You did wrong to me. 'Tisn't even like as if I was nobody. I come of

pretty good havage on my mother's side, and I think a lot of such

things."

"Well, the Baskervilles----"

"Don't be foolish, woman! D'you think I'm ----? There, 'tisn't a case

for talk that I can see. The thing be done and can't be undone. I'd

have overlooked it, so like as not, if you'd made a clean breast of the

truth when I offered for you; but to let me go on blind--I can't

forgive that."

Perceiving what had hurt him, Cora set herself to lessen the sting as

much as possible; but she failed. They talked to no purpose for an

hour, while she used every argument that occurred to her, and he

opposed to her swift mind and subtle reasoning a blank, impassive wall

of sulky anger and wounded pride. It began to grow dark before the

conclusion came, and they had walked half-way back to Shaugh. At the

top of the hill he left her, and the battle ended in wrath on both

sides and a parting irrevocable.

Her failure it was that made Cora lose her temper, and when she did so,

he, thankful for the excuse, spoke harshly, and absolved his own uneasy

spirit for so doing.

The final scene was brief, and the woman, wearied in mind and body with

her efforts to propitiate him, drew it down upon them.

"Why don't you speak out like a man, then?" she said at last. "Why

d'you keep growling in your throat, like a brute, and not answering my

questions? 'Tis because you can't answer them in right and justice.

But one word you've got to find a tongue to, though well you may be

shamed to do it. It shan't be said I've thrown you over, if that's the

cowardly thing you're playing up for. I promised to marry you, and I

would marry you; but you don't want to marry me, it seems, and you've

pitched on this paltry thing to get out of it."

"'Paltry thing'! You're shameless."

"Yes, it is paltry; and everybody would say so; and you'll hear what

decent people think of you pretty soon if you throw me over, I can tell

you. How can a child help its own father, or see whether its parents

be properly married? You're cruel and mad both."

"We'll see, then," he answered. "Since you're bent on hearing me

speak, I will. And don't pretend as I'm growling and you're not

hearing. I'll tell you what I mean, and my words shall be as clear as

my mind is about it. I won't marry you now, and I wouldn't if you was

all you ought to be. I've had a taste of your tongue this evening

that's opened my mind a good bit to what you are. You've shown me a

lot more about yourself than you think for. And if I did growl, like a

brute, my ears was open and my wits was wide awake, like a man. And I

won't marry you, and I've a perfect right not to do so after this."

"You dirty coward! No, you shan't marry me, and you shouldn't if you

crawled to me across the whole world on your knees, and prayed to me to

forgive you. And if you're well out of it, what am I? And don't you

think you've heard the last of this, because you have not. I've got

good friends and strong friends in the world, though you'd like to

fancy as I was friendless and outcast, for men like you to spit on.

But I can fight my own battles very well, come to that, as you shall

find; and I'll have you up for breach, God's my judge; and if decent

men don't bring in proper, terrifying damages against you, I'll ask you

to forgive me. Yes, I'll make your name laughed at from one end of the

Moor to t'other, as you shall find afore you'm many days older."

He stood still before this threat, and, finding that he did not answer,

she left him and hastened home.

There she blazed her startling news. Cora's own attitude towards the

truth was now one of indifference. She raged against her fate, and for

the time being could not look forward. Phyllis alone displayed grief.

She was engaged to a young baker at Cornwood, and feared for her own

romance: therefore she wept and revealed the liveliest concern. But

Heathman, perceiving Priscilla's indifference, exhibited the like. It

appeared that mother and son were glad rather than regretful at this

escape of truth.

Mrs. Lintern, however, exhibited exceeding wonder, if little dismay.

She was sorry for Cora, but not for herself.

"I had a feeling, strong as death in me, that 'twould come to light,"

she said. "Somehow I always knew that the thing must struggle out

sometime. Many and many actually knew it in their hearts, by a sort of

understanding--like a dog's reason. And I knew they knew it. But the

truth was never openly thrust in my face till he died, and Eliza Gollop

spoke it. And, she being what she is, none believed her; and 'twas

enough that she should whisper scandal for the better sort to flout her

and turn a deaf ear. And now it's out, and the great wonder in me

ban't that 'tis out, but who let it out. For the moment it looks as if

'twas a miracle; yet, no doubt, time will clear that too."

"I suppose you'll go now," said Cora. "Anyway, if you don't, I shall.

There's been nought but trouble and misery for me in this hole from my

childhood upward."

CHAPTER XI

There visited Cadworthy Farm, on a Sunday afternoon, Priscilla Lintern

with her son and her younger daughter.

They came unexpectedly, though Rupert had told Heathman they would not

be unwelcome. May was from home, and the business of preparing tea

fell upon Milly Baskerville. Phyllis helped Rupert's wife in this

operation, and while they were absent in the kitchen and the men went

to the farm, Hester and Priscilla spoke together. The one discussed

her son, the other her daughter and herself.

"I've been coming over to see you this longful time," said Mrs.

Baskerville, "but what with the weather and--and----"

"The things that are being said, perhaps?"

"No, not them. I'm an old woman now, and if I've not got patience at

my age, when shall I get it? Good things have happed to me--better

than I deserved--and I'm only sorry for them as have had less fortune.

I never pay no heed to stories at any time. My master taught me that."

"I merely want to tell you that 'tis all true. For my children's sake

I should never have told it, but since it had to come I'm right glad."

"I'd rather you spared yourself," said Mrs. Baskerville. "You've had

enough to bear, I should reckon. Leave it. I've always felt a very

great respect for you, and always shall do so; and I've no wish to hear

anything about it. Well I know what men are, and what life is. He was

lucky--lucky in you and lucky in his brothers. What he took away from

me, Humphrey has given back. Now we'll go on as before. Mr. Waite

have thrown your maiden over, I hear. What's she going to do?"

"Thank you for being kind," answered Mrs. Lintern. "I've been a good

deal astonished to find how easily the people have took this thing.

The world's a larger-minded place than I, for one, had any idea of.

The neighbours, save here and there, seem to be like you, and reckon

that 'tis no business of theirs. My son's terrible pleased that it

have got out; and the young man who is going to marry Phyllis don't

mean to alter his plans. And your brother is glad also, I suppose, for

he wished it. But to Cora, this business of being flung over hit her

very hard, and she wanted to bring an action for breach of promise

against Timothy. She went to see Mr. Popham about it; only he didn't

seem to think she'd get much, and advised her to do no such thing."

"Why ban't she along with you to-day?"

"She won't go nowhere. She'll be off pretty soon to a milliner's to

Plymouth. She wants to clear away from everything so quick as may be."

"Natural enough. Let her go in a shop somewhere and begin again. My

Ned, I may tell you, have found----

"Work, I hope?"

"No. Another girl to marry him. It looks as if it might go through

this time, though I can't see him really married after all his

adventures with the maidens. 'Tis the daughter of the livery-stable

keeper at Tavistock. And she's the only one--and King--that's her

father's name--worships the ground she goes on. It's like to happen

after Christmas. And Ned's been straight about it, and he've broke in

a young horse or two very clever for Mr. King, so I suppose he'll let

them wed for the girl's sake. He's there to-day."

Mrs. Lintern nodded.

"Where's May?" she asked. "Away too?"

"Only till evening. She's drinking tea along with her Uncle Humphrey

at Hawk House."

"A strange man he is."

"'Tis strange for any man to be so good."

"He first found out about me and his brother. And how d'you reckon?

From Cora. His sharp eyes saw her father in her long before Nathan

died. I've been to Hawk House since it came out. He was content that

Cora had suffered so sharp, and said so."

"He thinks a great deal of you and Heathman, however."

Milly brought the tea at this moment and called Heathman and Rupert,

who were smoking in the farmyard. They appeared, and Milly's baby was

carried to join the company. Rupert showed the cup that his godfather

had given to the child.

The Baskervilles made it clear that they designed no change in their

relations with Mrs. Lintern. A sharp estrangement had followed Ned's

jilting, but that belonged to the past. Amity reigned, and Milly

expressed regret at Mrs. Lintern's determination to leave Shaugh Prior

in the following spring.

"They'll both be gone--both girls," she explained, "and Heathman here

haven't got no need of a wife yet, he says, so he and I shall find a

smaller and a cheaper place than Undershaugh."

"Cora will marry yet," foretold Rupert. "Third time's lucky, they say."

"'Twill be the fourth time," corrected Milly.

They ate and drank, and spoke on general subjects; then the Linterns

prepared to start, and Priscilla uttered a final word to Hester before

the younger people.

"I thank you for letting the past go. There was but few mattered to

me, and you were the first of them."

They departed, and the Baskervilles talked about them.

Behind her back, they spoke gently of Priscilla, and old Mrs.

Baskerville revealed even a measure of imagination in her speech.

"The worst was surely after he sank into his grave and the storm

broke," said Hester. "To think she was standing there, his unknown,

unlawful wife, yet a wife in spirit, with all a wife's love and all a

wife's belief in him. To think that her ear had to hear, and her heart

had to break, and her mouth had to be dumb. Gall and vinegar that

woman have had for her portion these many days--yet she goes unsoured."

"She's got a rare good son to stand by her," declared Rupert.

"And so have I," murmured Milly, squeezing the baby who was sucking her

breast.

"And I've got four," answered Mrs. Baskerville. "Four brave boys--one

on sea and three on land. Things be divided curious; but our part is

to thank God for what we've got, and not worry because them that

deserve more have so much less. That's His work, and the balance will

swing true again in His own good time."

Elsewhere, upon their journey home, the Linterns fell in with May. She

was excited, and turned back and walked beside them for half a mile.

"I'm just bursting with news," she said, "and I hope you haven't heard

it."

"The world be full of news," answered Heathman. "There's a bit down to

Shaugh as I meant to tell Rupert just now and forgot, owing to press of

other matters. It proves as I'm a prophet too, for I've said this

three year that it was bound to happen. And that disgrace in the

churchyard over my father's grave have brought it to a climax. I mean

Tommy Gollop and that other old rip, Joe Voysey. Both have got the

sack! The reverend Masterman have hit out right and left and floored

the pair of 'em. Mind you tell Rupert that. 'Twill make him die of

laughing. The old boys be showing their teeth too, I promise you."

"I'll tell him."

"And what was your news?" asked Mrs. Lintern.

"Very good; yet perhaps no news neither to many folk who understand

things better than me. Yet I'd often thought in my mind that 'twas my

uncle Humphrey clearing off Uncle Nathan's----"

She stopped, brought to silence by the recollection of their

relationship.

"Say it," said Priscilla. "I know what's on your lips. Don't fear to

say it."

"That 'twas Uncle Humphrey made all right," continued May. "And paid

back what had been lost. We can't say how it might have gone if Uncle

Nathan had lived. No doubt, sooner or late, he'd have done the same,

for never would he let man or woman suffer if he could help it.

Anyway, all be in the fair way to have their money again. And I asked

Lawyer Popham long ago, when he came to Cadworthy, who 'twas, and he

wouldn't say; but had no doubt we could guess. And then I asked Susan

Hacker, and she wouldn't say, but yet came so near saying that there

was little left to know. And to-day I tackled Uncle Humphrey and gave

him no peace till 'twas out. 'To please himself' he's done it."

She panted for breath, and then continued--

"And there's more yet. 'Twas him paid up my married sister's legacy,

and even Ned's not forgot--for justice. And when Uncle Humphrey

dies--and far be it off--my brother Rupert's to have Cadworthy! I got

that out of him too. But I've solemnly promised not to tell Rupert.

He's going to tell him himself."

"A useful old fairy, and no mistake," laughed Heathman. "He'll beggar

himself afore he's finished, and then you'll all have to set to work to

keep him out of the workhouse!"

"He said that very thing," answered May, "and Susan said the same. Not

that it makes any difference to him, for he hasn't got any comforts

round him, and gets savage if you ask him so much as to take a hot

brick to bed with him to warm himself in winter."

"All these things," said Mrs. Lintern, "have been done for honour of

the name. Your folk go back along far--far into the past, and there's

never been a cloud between them and honest dealing. But, when

Heathman's father was cut off with his work unfinished, it happed that

he left no money, and the many things that he had planned all fell

short, without his mastermind to pick up the threads and bring them

through. Then came Humphrey Baskerville, and for love of his brother

and for love of the name, did these good deeds. And to beggar himself

in money be nought in the eyes of that man, if he leaves his family

rich in credit afore the eyes of the world. Such another was your own

father, May; and such another is your brother Rupert; and such another

was your cousin Mark. They had their own sight and looked at the world

their own way and all saw it different, maybe; but they never saw

justice different."

"And such be I," declared Heathman. "I can't call myself a

Baskerville, and shan't get no thinner for that; but I'm the son of my

mother, and she's worth a shipload of any other sort--better than the

whole flight of you Baskervilles, May--good though you be. And I'm

very well pleased to be kin to you all, if you like, and if you don't

like, you can leave it."

They parted then, and May returned home. Heathman showed himself

highly gratified at what he had heard, and his sister shared his

satisfaction. But their mother was sunk deep in the hidden places of

her own heart, and they left her alone while they spoke together.

CHAPTER XII

Joe Voysey walked over one evening to talk with his lifelong friend

Thomas Gollop. The gardener felt choked to the throat with injustice,

and regarded his dismissal from the vicarage as an outrage upon

society; while Mr. Gollop laboured under similar emotions.

Both declared that the ingratitude of Dennis Masterman was what

principally stung them. To retire into private life caused them no

pain; but to have been invited to do so was a bitter grievance.

Miss Eliza Gollop chanced to be out, and Thomas sat by the fire alone.

His Bible stood on the table, but he was not reading it. Only when

Voysey's knock sounded at the cottage door did Thomas wheel round from

the fire, open the book and appear to be buried in its pages.

He had rather expected a visit from Mr. Masterman, hence these

preparations; but when Voysey entered, Thomas modified his devout

attitude and shut the Bible again.

"I half thought as that wretched man from the vicarage might call this

evening," he said.

"He won't, then," replied Joe, "for he've got together all they fools

who have fallen in with his wish about yowling carols at Christmas.

Him and her be down at the schoolroom; and there's row enough rising up

to fright the moon."

"Carol-singing! I wish the time was come for him to sing to his God

for mercy," said Thomas.

Then he went to a cupboard and brought out a bottle of spirits.

"Have he said anything to you about a pension?" asked Voysey.

"No, not yet. I thought he might be coming in about that to-night. My

father afore me got a pension--a shilling a day for life--and I ought

to have twice as much, in my opinion, though I don't expect it. And

when I've got all I can, I'm going to shake the dust off my boots

against the man and his church too. Never again, till I'm carried in

to my grave, will I go across the threshold--not so long as he be

there. I'm going to take up with the Dissenters, and I advise you to

do the same."

"That woman have told me about my pension," answered Joe--"Alice

Masterman, I mean. I won't call her 'Miss' no more, for 'tis too

respectful. She've worked on her brother--so she says--to give me

three half-crowns a week. But I doubt she had anything to do with

it--such a beastly stinge as her. However, that's the money; and who

d'you think they've took on? That anointed fool the policeman's

brother! He've been learning a lot of silliness down to a nurseryman

at Plymouth, and he'm coming here, so bold as brass, and so noisy as a

drum, to show what can be done with that garden. And if I don't look

over the wall sometimes and have a laugh at him, 'tis pity!"

Gollop nodded moodily, but he did not answer. Then Joe proceeded with

malevolent glee.

"I clear out on the last day of the year," he said; "and if I haven't

picked the eyes out of his garden and got 'em settled in my patch afore

that day----! She met me taking over a lot of mint plants a bit ago.

'Where be you taking they mint plants?' she said. 'To a neighbour,' I

said. 'He wants 'em, and we can spare 'em.' 'You'll ask me, please,

before you give things away, Voysey,' she said. And now I ax, humble

as a maggot, if I may take this or that to a neighbour afore I move a

leaf. And she always says, 'Yes, if we can spare it.' Had her

there--eh?"

"As for me," said Gollop, "I shall be the last regular right down

parish clerk we ever have--unless the good old times come back later.

A sexton he must use, since people have got to be buried, but who

'twill be I neither know nor care."

"Mind you take the tools," said Joe. "They be fairly your property,

and you can sell 'em again if you don't want 'em yourself. I've made a

good few shillings that way during the last forty years. But as for

leaving the church, I shouldn't do that, because of the Christmas

boxes. 'Tis well knowed in Shaugh that your Christmas boxes run into a

tidy figure, and some people go so far as to say that what you take at

the door, when the bettermost come out after Christmas morning prayer,

is pretty near so good as what be dropped in the bags for the

offerings."

"Lies," declared Thomas. "All envious lies. I never got near what the

people thought. Still, I hadn't remembered. That's yet another thing

where he'll have robbed me."

When Miss Eliza Gollop appeared half an hour later, she was cold and

dispirited.

"What be you doing in here?" she said to Mr. Voysey.

"Having a tell with Thomas. We be both wishing to God we could strike

them hateful people to the vicarage. Harm be bound to come to 'em, for

their unchristian ways; but me and your brother would like to be in it."

"You'll be in it alone, then," she answered; "for this place have gone

daft where they're concerned. They can't do no wrong seemingly--except

to us. The people babble about him, and even her, as if they was

angels that had lost their wings."

"'Tis all lax and lawless and going to the dogs," said Thomas.

"There's no truth and honesty and manliness left in Shaugh. The man

found a human thigh-bone kicking about up under the top hedge of the

churchyard yesterday. Lord knows where it had come from. I never seed

it nowhere; but he turned on me and said 'twas sacrilege, and I know

not what else. 'Where there's churchyards, there'll also be bones,' I

said to the fool; 'and if one here and there works to the top, along of

the natural heaving of the earth, how can a sexton or any other man

help it?' A feeble creature, and making the young men feeble too.

Carol-singing! Who wants carols? However, I've done with him. I've

stood between him and his folly time and again; but never no more. Let

him go."

"'Tis a knock-kneed generation," declared Mr. Voysey. "All for comfort

and luxury. Tea, with sugar in it, have took the place of the good,

honest, sour cider like what every man had in harvest days of old. But

now, these here young youths, they say sharp cider turns their innards!

It never used to turn ours. 'Tis all of a piece, and the nation's on

the downward road, along of too much cosseting."

"For my part, I think 'tis more the weakness of mind than the weakness

of body that be ruining us," observed Miss Gollop. "As a nurse I see

more than you men can, and, as a female, I hear more than you do. And

I will say that the way the people have taken these here doings of that

scarlet woman to Undershaugh is a sin and a scandal. At first they

wouldn't believe it, though I blew the trumpet of truth in their ears

from the moment that Dissenter died; but, afterwards, when 'twas known

as a fact and the parties couldn't deny it, and Mr. Waite throwed over

Cora Lintern, as any respecting man would when he heard the shameful

truth--then who came to me and said, 'Ah, you was right, Eliza, and I

was wrong'? Not one of 'em! And what's worse is the spirit they've

taken it in. Nobody cares, though everybody ought to care!"

"Every person says 'tis none of their business," explained Voysey.

"More shame to 'em!" declared Thomas. "As if it wasn't the business of

all decent men and women. Time was when such an incontinent terror of

a woman would have been stoned out of the village in the name of law

and righteousness. Yet now, mention the thing where I will, 'tis taken

with a heathen calmness that makes my blood boil. And Masterman worst

of all, mind! If it wasn't a case for a scorching sermon, when was

there one? Yet not a word. And not a word from the Dissenters

neither--not in the meeting-house--though 'tis a subject they'm very

great against most times. However, I've inquired and I find it has

been passed over."

"No godly anger anywhere," admitted Eliza, "and not one word of sorrow

to me for the hard things what were spoken when I stood up

single-handed and told the truth."

"Religion be dying out of the nation," summed up Thomas. "My father

always said that me and Eliza would live to see antichrist ascend his

throne; and it begins to look as if the times were very near ripe for

the man. And 'twill be harder than ever now--now I'm driven out from

being parish clerk. For I shall have to look on and yet be powerless

to strike a blow."

They drank in gloomy silence; but Mr. Voysey was not similarly

oppressed by the moral breakdown of the times. He strove to bring

conversation back to the vicarage, and failing to do so, soon took his

leave.

After he had gone the brother and sister debated long, and Thomas gave

it as his opinion that it would be well for them to leave Shaugh and

end their days in a more Christian and congenial atmosphere.

"There's nought to keep us now," he said; "all have gone down afore

that Masterman, and 'tis something of a question whether such as we

ought to bide here, simply as common folk with no more voice in the

parish. If we go, the blame lies on his shoulders; but once I make up

my mind, I won't stop--not though the people come before me and beg on

their bended knees for me to do so."

"'Twould be like Adam and Eve being driven out of the Garden if we'm

forced to go," declared Eliza.

"With this difference, however, that the blame ban't with us, though

the punishment may be. There's nobody can say we've ever done wrong

here, or gone outside our duty to God or man by a hair. If we go, 'tis

them that drive us out will have to pay for their wickedness."

"They'll certainly smart, if 'tis only in the long run," confessed

Eliza. "'Twill be brought home against them at the appointed time."

Thomas nodded drearily.

"Cold comfort," he said, "but the only satisfaction there is to be got

out of it by us. Yes, I shall go; I shall shake off the dust for a

witness. I wish I thought as 'twould choke a party here and there;

but, thank God, I know my place. I never offered to do His almighty

work, and I never will. I never wanted to call down thunder from

heaven on the evil-doer. But 'tis always a tower of faith to a

righteous man when he sees the Lord strike. And to them as be weak in

faith, 'tis often a puzzle and a temptation to see how long the Lord

holds off, when justice cries aloud to Him to rise up and do His worst."

CHAPTER XIII

At the approach of another Christmas, Humphrey Baskerville stood in the

churchyard of St. Edward's and watched two masons lodge the stone that

he had raised to his brother Nathan. It conformed to the usual pattern

of the Baskerville memorials, and was of slate. The lettering had been

cut deep and plain without addition of any ornament. The accidental

severity and simplicity of the stone contrasted to advantage with

Vivian's ornate and tasteless marble beside it.

Dennis Masterman walked across the churchyard presently and, seeing

Humphrey, turned and approached.

"Good morning," he said. "Glad you've put a slate here. I like them

better than these garish things. They are more suited to this grey

Moor world of ours."

"'Tis a foolish waste to spend money on the dead," answered Mr.

Baskerville. "When all the living be clothed and fed, then we can

fling away our money over graves. 'Tis only done to please ourselves,

not to please them."

"You've a right to speak," said the clergyman. "To praise you would be

an impertinence; but as the priest of Him we both worship, I rejoice to

think of what you have done to clear the clouded memory of this man."

Humphrey took no verbal notice of these remarks. He shrugged his

shoulders and spoke of the gravestone.

"I'll thank you to read what I've put over him, and say whether 'tis

not right and just."

The other obeyed. After particulars of Nathan's age and the date of

his death, there followed only the first verse of the forty-first

Psalm--

"Blessed is he that considereth the poor: the Lord

will deliver him in time of trouble."

"You see," explained Mr. Baskerville, "my brother did consider the

poor--and none else. That he made a botch of it, along of bad judgment

and too much hope and too much trust in himself, is neither here nor

there; for I hold his point of view was well-meaning though mistaken.

If we see a man's point of view, it often leads--I won't say to mercy,

for that's no business of ours in my opinion--but to the higher

justice. To judge by results is worldly sense, but I'm doubtful if

'tis heavenly sense. Anyway, that's how I feel about my brother now,

though 'twas only brought home to me after a year of thinking; and as

for the end of the text, certainly that happened, because none can

doubt the Lord delivered him in the time of trouble. His death was a

deliverance, as every death must be, but none more than Nathan's afore

the tempest broke."

Masterman--knowing as little as the other what Nathan's death had

brought to Nathan of mental agony before the end--conceded these points

freely. They walked together in the churchyard and spoke of moral

topics and religious instruction. At a point in the enclosure, the

younger stopped and indicated a space remote from the lodges of the

silent people.

"You design to lie here--is it not so? Gollop, I remember, told me, a

long time ago now."

The old man regarded the spot indifferently and shook his head.

"I meant it once--not now. We change our most fixed purposes under the

battering of the world; and small enough our old thoughts often look,

when seen again, after things have happened and years have passed.

I'll creep to join my own, if you please. They won't mind, I reckon,

if I sink into the pit beside 'em. I'll go by my wife and my son and

my brothers. We'll all rise and brave the Trump together, as well as

erring man may."

The stone was set in its place presently and Mr. Baskerville, well

pleased with the result, set off homeward. His tethered pony stood at

the gate, and he mounted and went slowly up the hill.

CHAPTER XIV

"Some say they believe the old saying and some say they don't,"

declared Mr. Abraham Elford to a thin bar at six o'clock on Christmas

Eve; "but for my part I know what I've proved to be true with my own

eyes, and I will stick to it that apples picked at wane of moon do

shrivel and scrump up cruel. In fact, for hoarding they be no use at

all."

"And you swear that you've proved that?" asked Mr. Head in his most

judicial manner. "You stand there, a man up home sixty years of age,

and steadfastly declare that apples gathered when the moon be on the

wane do dry up quicker than others that be plucked when it begins to

grow?"

"Yes, I do," declared the innkeeper. "Don't I tell you that I've

proved it? Pick your apples when the moon be first horning, that's my

advice."

They wrangled upon the question, and missed its real interest as an

example of the value of evidence and the influence of superstition and

individual idiosyncrasy on all human testimony.

Jack scoffed, Abraham Elford grew warm; for who is there that can

endure to hear his depositions brushed aside as worthless?

Upon this great topic of the shrinking of apples at wane of moon, some

sided with Mr. Head; while others, who held lunar influence as a force

reaching into dark mysteries of matter and mind, supported the publican.

The contention was brisk, and not until it began to interfere with the

nightly sale of his liquor, did Elford awake to its danger and stop it.

He conceded nothing, but declared the argument must cease.

"'Tis Christman Eve," said he, "and no occasion for any short words or

sharp sayings. Me and Head both know that we'm right, and mountains

wouldn't move either of us from our opinions, so let it be."

He lifted a great earthen pot from the fire in the bar parlour. It

contained cider with pieces of toast floating in it.

"Pretty drinking, as I'm certain sure that one and all of you will

say," foretold the host.

Apples, however, rose again to be first topic of conversation before

this fine wassail, and Jack spoke once more.

"Time was, down to the in country, that on this night--or else Old

Christman Eve, I forget which--we gawks should all have marched out

solemn to the orchards and sung lucky songs, and poured out cider, and

fired our guns into the branches, and made all-round heathen fools of

ourselves. And why? Because 'twas thought that to do so improved the

next year's crop a thousandfold! And when we remember that 'twas no

further back than our fathers that they did such witless things, it did

ought to make us feel humble, I'm sure."

"Don't talk no more about cider, drink it," said Heathman Lintern, who

was of the company. "Drink it while 'tis hot, and 'twill warm your

bones and soften your opinions. You'm so peart to-night and so sharp

at the corners, that I reckon you've got your money back at last."

This direct attack reduced Mr. Head to a less energetic and dogmatic

frame of mind.

"No," he answered. "I have not, and I happen to know that I never

shall. Me and the old chap fell out, and I dressed him down too sharp.

I was wrong, and I've since admitted it, for I'm the rare, fearless

sort that grant I'm wrong the first minute it can be proved against me.

Though when a man's built on that large pattern, you may be sure he

ban't wrong very often. 'Tis only the peddling, small creatures that

won't admit they're mistaken--out of a natural fear that if they once

allow it, they'll never be thought right again. But though he's

forgiven me, I've strained the friendship. So we live and learn."

"Coode's had his money again," said the host of 'The White Thorn.'

"He has--the drunken dog? There's only me left," returned Jack.

"It wasn't till after he lost his money that he took to swilling,

however," declared the innkeeper. "I know him well. The misfortune

ruined his character."

"His daughter's been paid back, all the same," said Lintern. "She

keeps his house, and the old boy gave the money to her, to be used or

saved according as she thinks best."

"That leaves only me," said Jack.

"Me and Rupert was running over the figures a bit ago," continued

Heathman. "We made out that the sporting old blade had dropped upwards

of six thousand over this job, and we was wondering how much that is

out of all he's got."

"A fleabite, I reckon," answered Head; but the other doubted it.

"Rupert says he thinks 'tis pretty near half of his fortune, if not

more. He goes shabbier than ever, and he eats little better than orts

for his food."

"That's no new thing," said another man as he held a mug for some more

of the hot cider; "'twas always so, as Susan Hacker will tell you. My

wife have heard her grumbling off and on these ten years about it. His

food's poor and coarse, like his baccy and his cider. His clothes be

kept on his back till there ban't enough of the web left to hold 'em

together any longer. Susan offered an old coat to a tramp once,

thinking to get it away afore Baskerville missed it; and the tramp

looked it over--through and through, you might say--and he thanked

Susan as saucy as you please, and told her that when he was going to

set up for a mommet[1] he'd let her know, but 'twouldn't be yet."

[1] _Mommet_--scarecrow.

"A strange old night-hawk, and always have been," said Head. "Not a

man--not even me, though I know him best--can measure him altogether.

Never was such a mixture. Now he's so good-natured as the best stone,

and you'll go gaily driving into him and then, suddenly, you'll strike

flint, and get a spark in your eye, and wish to God you'd left the man

alone. He's beyond any well-balanced mind to understand, as I've told

him more than once."

"Meek as Moses one minute, then all claws and prickles the next--so

they tell me," declared Abraham Elford. "But whether 'tis true or not,

I can't say from experience," he added, "for the man don't come in

here."

"And why?" said Heathman. "That's another queer side of him. I axed

him that same question, and he said because to his eyes the place was

haunted by my father. 'I should see Nathan's long beard wagging behind

the bar,' he said to me, 'and I couldn't abide it.'"

"He's above common men, no doubt," declared another speaker. "We can

only leave him at that. He's a riddle none here will ever guess, and

that's the last word about him."

Rupert Baskerville came in at this moment and saw Heathman. Both were

in Dennis Masterman's carol choir, and it was time that they gathered

with the rest at the vicarage, for a long round of singing awaited them.

"A mild night and the roads pretty passable," he announced. "We're

away in half an hour wi' books and lanterns; but no musickers be coming

with us, like in the good old days. Only voices to carry it off."

He stopped to drink, and the sight of Jack Head reminded him of a

commission.

"I want you, Jack," he said. "Come out in the ope-way for half a

moment."

They departed together, and in a few moments returned. Rupert was

laughing, Mr. Head exhibited the liveliest excitement. In one hand he

waved three ten-pound notes; with the other he chinked some gold and

silver.

"Money! Money! Money, souls!" he shouted. "If that baggering old

hero haven't paid me after all! Give it a name, boys, drinks round!"

They congratulated him and liquor flowed. Head was full of rejoicing.

He even exhibited gratitude.

"You might say 'twas no more than justice," he began; "but I tell you

he's more than just--he's a very generous old man, and nobody can deny

it, and I for one would like to do something to pay him back."

"There's nought you can do," declared Elford, "but be large-minded

about it, and overlook the little smart that always touches a big mind

when it's asked to accept favours."

"Not a big mind," corrected Rupert. "'Tis only a small mind can't take

favours. And the thought of giving that smart would pain my uncle, for

he's terrible tender and he's smarted all his life, and knows what 'tis

to feel so."

"Smart be damned!" said Mr. Head. "There's no smart about getting back

your own. I'm only glad that he felt the call to pay; and, though I

was kept to the last, I shan't quarrel about that. If Rupert here, as

be his nephew and his right hand by all accounts, could hit on a thing

for us to do that would please the man, then I say us might do it

without loss of credit. There's nobody has anything serious against

him, I believe, nowadays, unless it be Abraham here, because he never

comes inside his bar."

The publican shrugged his shoulders.

"I can't quarrel for that," he said, "since he goeth nowhere else

either."

They considered the possible ways of bringing any satisfaction to

Humphrey Baskerville, but could hit on no happy project. Head, indeed,

was fertile of ideas, but Rupert found objections to all of them.

"If us could only do something that meant a lot of different chaps all

of one mind," said Heathman. "The old bird always thinks that the

people hate him or laugh at him, and if we could somehow work a trick

that showed a score of folk all meaning well to him and thinking well

of him for once---- But Lord knows what."

Then came an interruption in the shape of Dennis Masterman. He was

warm and somewhat annoyed. He turned upon the guilty Rupert and

Heathman.

"This is too bad, you fellows!" he said. "Here we're all waiting and

waiting, and, despite my express wishes, you turn in to drink. I blame

you both."

They expressed the liveliest regret, and Dennis was speedily mollified

when he heard the great argument that had made these men forget the

business of the night.

"There's no time now," he answered, "but you're in the right to think

of such a thing, and, after Christmas, I shall be only too glad to lend

a hand. A very admirable idea, and I'm glad you've hit on it."

"Just a thimbleful of my wassail, your honour, for luck," said the

host, and Masterman, protesting, took the glass handed to him.

A sudden and violent explosion from Mr. Head made the clergyman nearly

choke in the middle of his drinking.

"I've got it!" cried Jack so loudly that the company started. He

slapped his leg at the same moment and then danced with exaggerated

rejoicing.

"Got what? D.T.'s?" asked Heathman.

"Go up along to Hawk House! I beg and pray your reverence to go there

first of all," urged Jack. "Surely 'tis the very thing. 'Tis just

what we was trying to light upon--summat that meant the showing of

general friendship--summat that meant a bit of trouble and thought

taken for him--all your blessed Christmas vartues put

together--goodwill and all the rest of it. If you was to steal up

through the garden by the greenside and then burst forth like one

man--why, there 'tis! Who can deny 'tis a noble idea? And you can go

and holler to the quality afterwards."

"Good for you, Jack!" answered Rupert. "And I say ditto with all my

heart if Mr. Masterman----"

"Come, then," interrupted Dennis. "The night will be gone before we

start. We'll go to Hawk House right away. I can't gainsay such a

wish, though it's a mile out of the beat we had planned. Come!"

The clergyman, with Rupert Baskerville and Heathman Lintern, hurried

off, and a few of the younger men, accompanied by Jack Head, followed

after them.

"I must just pop in my house and lock up this dollop of money," said

Jack; "then us'll go up over with the singers to see how the old Hawk

takes it. He'll be scared first; and then he'll try to look as if he

was going to fling brickbats out of the windows, or set the dogs at us;

and all the time we shall very well know that he's bubbling over with

surprise to find what a number of respectable people have got to

thinking well of him."

The crowd of men and boys moved on ahead of Jack and his friends. The

shrill cries and laughter of the youngsters and a bass rumble of adult

voices wakened night, and a dozen lanterns flashed among the company as

they ascended into the silent darkness of Dartmoor.

CHAPTER XV

Humphrey Baskerville had hoped that his nephew might visit him on

Christmas Eve; but he learned that it was impossible, because Rupert

had joined the carol-singers, and would be occupied with them on a wide

circle of song.

After dark he sat alone until near seven o'clock; then Mrs. Hacker

returned home and they took their supper together.

The meal ended, she cleared it away and settled to her knitting. Talk

passed between them not unmarked by sentiment, for it concerned the

past and related to those changes the year had brought. On the

following day Humphrey was to eat his Christmas dinner at Cadworthy,

and Susan hoped to spend the festival with friends in Shaugh.

"I've got Heathman and his mother to be of the company," said Mr.

Baskerville. "The daughters are both about their own business, and one

goes to her sweetheart, and Cora's down to Plymouth, so we shall escape

from them and no harm done. But Heathman and his mother will be there.

They are rather a puzzle to me, Susan."

"No doubt," she replied. "You'll go on puzzling yourself over this

party or that till you've puzzled yourself into the workhouse. Haven't

you paid all the creditors to the last penny?"

"Not so," he answered. "That's where it lies. A man's children and

their mother are his first creditors, I should reckon. They've got

first call in justice, if not in law. I judge that there's a fine bit

of duty there, and the way they look at life--so much my own way

'tis--makes me feel---- I wrote to that bad Cora yesterday. She's

working hard, I'm told."

Susan sniffed.

"So does the Devil," she said. "'Tis all very well for you, I suppose;

because when you wake up some morning and discover as you've got nought

left in the world but your night-shirt, you'll go about to them you've

befriended to seek for your own again--and lucky you'll be if you find

it, or half of it; but what of me?"

"You'll never want," he declared. "You're the sort always to fall on

your feet."

"So's young Lintern for that matter. No need to worry about him. He's

a lesson, if you like. The man to be contented whatever haps."

"I know it. I've marked it. I've learnt no little from him. A big

heart and a mighty power of taking life as it comes without fuss.

There's a bad side to it, however, as well as a good. I've worked that

out. It's good for a man to be contented, but no good for the place he

lives in. Contented people never stir up things, or throw light into

dark corners, or let air into stuffy places. Content means stagnation

so oft as not."

"They mind their own business, however."

"They mostly do; and that's selfish wisdom so oft as not. Now Jack

Head's never content, and never will be."

"Don't name that man on Christmas Eve!" said Mrs. Hacker testily. "I

hate to think of him any day of the week, for that matter."

"Yet him and the east wind both be useful, little as you like 'em. For

my part, I've been a neighbour to the east wind all my life and shared

its quality in the eyes of most folk--till now. But the wind of God be

turning out of the east for me, Susan."

"So long as you be pleased with yourself---- And as for content,

'tisn't a vartue, 'tis an accident, like red hair or bow legs. You

can't get it, nor yet get away from it, by taking thought."

He nodded.

"You're in the right there. One man will make more noise if he

scratches his finger than another if he breaks his leg. 'Tis part of

the build of the mind, and don't depend on chance. Same with

misery--that's a matter of character, not condition, I know men that

won't be wretched while they can draw their breath; and some won't be

happy, though they've got thrice their share of good fortune. No doubt

that's how Providence levels up, and gives the one what he can't enjoy,

to balance him with the other, who's got nought, but who's also got the

blessed power of making happiness out of nought."

"You've found the middle way, I suppose," she said; "and, like others

who think they're on the sure road to happiness, you be pushing along

too fast."

"Running myself out of breath--eh? But you're wrong. I'm too cautious

for that. If I'm a miser, as the people still think here and there,

then 'tis for peace I'm a miser. 'Twas always peace of mind that I

hungered and hankered for, yet went in doubt if such a thing there was.

And even now, though I seem three-parts along the road to it, I feel a

cold fear often enough whether my way will stand all weathers. It may

break down yet."

"Not while your money lasts," she answered with a short laugh.

He followed his own thoughts in silence, and then spoke aloud again.

"Restless as the fox, and hungrier than ever he was. Every man's hand

against me, as I thought, and mine held out to every man; but they

wouldn't see it. None to come to my hearth willingly, though 'twas

always hot for 'em; none to look into my meaning, though that meaning

was always meant for kindness. But who shall blame any living creature

that they thought me an enemy and not a friend? How should they know?

Didn't I hide the scant good that was in me, more careful than the bird

her nest?"

"They be up to your tricks now, anyway; and I've helped to show 'em

better, though you may not believe it," declared Susan. "What a

long-tongued, well-meaning female could do I've done for you; and I

always shall say so."

"I know that," he said. "There's no good thing on earth than can't be

made better, but one thing. And that's the thing in all Christian

minds this night--I mean the thing called love. You know it--you deal

in it. Out of your kind soul you've always felt friendly to me, and

you saw what I had the wish but not the power to show to others; and

you've done your share of the work to make the people like me better.

Maybe 'tis mostly your doing, if we could but read into the truth of

it."

This work-a-day world must for ever fall far short of the humblest

ethical ideal, and doubtless even those who fell prostrate at the shout

of their Thunder Spirit, or worshipped the sun and the sea in the

morning of days, guessed dimly how their kind lacked much of

perfection. To them the brooding soul of humanity revealed the road,

though little knew those early men the length of it; little they

understood that the goal of any faultless standard must remain a

shifting ideal within reach of mind alone.

At certain points Baskerville darkly suspected weak places in this new

armour of light. While his days had, indeed, achieved a consummation

and orbicular completeness beyond all hope; while, looking backward, he

could not fail to contrast noontide gloom with sunset light, the fierce

equinox of autumn with this unfolding period of a gracious Indian

summer now following upon it; yet, even here, there fell a narrow

shadow of cloud; there wakened a wind not unedged. In deep and secret

thought he had drifted upon that negation of justice involved by the

Golden Rule. He saw, what every intellect worthy a name must see: that

to do as you would be done by, to withhold the scourge from the guilty

shoulder, to suffer the weed to flourish in the garden, to shield our

fellow-men from the consequence of their evil or folly, is to put the

individual higher than society, and to follow a precept that ethics in

evolution has long rejected.

But he shirked his dilemma: he believed it not necessary to pursue the

paradox to its bitter end. The Golden Rule he hypostatised into a

living and an omnipresent creed; henceforth it was destined to be his

criterion of every action; and to his doubting spirit he replied, that

if not practicable in youth, if not convenient for middle age, this

principle might most justly direct the performance and stimulate the

thought of the old. Thus he was, and knew himself, untrue to the

clearer, colder conviction of his reasoning past; but in practice this

defection brought a peace so exalted, a content so steady, a

recognition so precious, that he rested his spirit upon it in faith and

sought no further.

Now he retraced his time, and made a brief and pregnant summary thereof

for Susan's ear.

"'Tis to be spoken in a score of words," he said. "My life has been a

storm in a teacup; but none the less a terrible storm for me until I

won the grace to still it. Port to the sailor-man be a blessed thing

according to the voyage that's gone afore. The worse that, the better

the peace of the haven when he comes to it."

She was going to speak, but a sound on the stillness of night stopped

her.

"Hark!" was all she said.

Together they rose and went to his outer door.

The gibbous moon sailed through a sky of thin cloud, and light fell

dimly upon the open spaces, but sparkled in the great darkness of

evergreen things about the garden. Earth rolled night-hidden to the

southern hills, and its breast was touched with sparks of flame, where

glimmered those few habitations visible from this place. A lattice of

naked boughs meshed the moonlight under the slope of the hill, and from

beneath their shadows ascended a moving thread of men and boys. They

broke the stillness with speech and laughter, and their red

lantern-light struck to right and left and killed the wan moonshine as

they came.

"What's toward now?" asked Mr. Baskerville, staring blankly before him.

"Why," cried Susan, "'tis the carol-singers without a doubt! They'll

want an ocean of beer presently, and where shall us get it from?"

"Coming to me--coming to sing to _me_!" he mumbled. "Good God, a thing

far beyond my utmost thought is this!"

The crowd rolled clattering up, and the woman stayed to welcome them;

but the man ran back into his house, sat down in his chair, bent

forward to listen and clasped his hands tightly between his knees.

Acute emotion marked his countenance; but this painful tension passed

when out of the night there rolled the melodious thunder of an ancient

tune.

"Singing for me!" he murmured many times while the old song throbbed.