Upon the highway between Cadworthy and the border village of Cornwood there stands an ancient granite cross. For many years the broken head reposed in the heather; then it was lifted upon the pedestal again and the vanished shaft restored. To north and south the white road sweeps by it; easterly tower Penshiel and Pen Beacon, and westerly rolls Shaugh Moor.
Here, upon a day one year after the death of Vivian Baskerville, there met two of his sons, and the conversation that took place between them served roughly to record the development of their affairs, together with the present situation and future interests of the family.
Ned Baskerville was riding home from Cornwood, and his brother Rupert, knowing that he must come this way, sat by St. Rumon's Cross, smoked his pipe and waited. The younger had found himself forgotten when his father's will came to be read. It was a pious fiction with Hester Baskerville that her husband had striven, when too late, against his own hasty deed. She believed that near his end the dying man attempted to repair this wrong. She declared that his eyes and his mutterings both spoke to that effect.
But the fact of disinheritance was all that remained for Rupert to face, and in his bitterness he had turned from his family and continued to toil at the china-clay works, despite his mother's entreaties and Ned's handsome propositions.
Now, however, the case was altered. After nine months of this unwisdom, Milly prevailed with Rupert to go back to Cadworthy and take her with him. His mother was thankful to welcome him home, and Ned did what he might to further the prospect.
Rupert stood within sight of marriage, and he and his wife were presently to dwell at Cadworthy. Then control of the farm would be made over by Ned Baskerville to his brother.
Now Rupert, in working clothes, sat by the cross. Opportunity to see Ned was not always easy, for the elder lived a life of pure pleasure and occupied much of his time from home. He was only concerned to spend money, but showed no interest in the sciences of administering and making it.
He rode up presently, stopped, and, bending over, shook hands with his brother, but did not dismount.
"Hullo! Don't often see you smoking and taking your ease. Look at my new mare. Isn't she a beauty? But Lord knows what Uncle Nathan will say when I come down upon him for the cash. And I've got another unpleasant surprise in store for him. I've bought a horse for Cora. It'll be my wedding-present to her, but she may as well have it now."
"Pity we couldn't have all been married together; then one fuss and flare up and expense would have done for the lot of us."
"I shouldn't have minded; but she didn't take to the idea at all. Wants to have a first-prize wedding all to herself. And about time too. I'm sick of waiting."
As a matter of fact Ned had found no difficulty in suspense. With possession of money, life's boundaries considerably enlarged for him, and he became a person of increased importance.
Cora was not jealous, and finding Ned extremely generous, she continued content with the engagement. The present year was to see her married, however; but when Nathan Baskerville suggested a triple wedding, Cora objected very strongly. She intended that her nuptials should be in a style considerably grander than those of Milly Luscombe, or Polly Baskerville; but she finally promised Ned to marry him during the following autumn.
"A nice mare," admitted Rupert; "she's got a temper, though—won't carry beer. I know the man who used to own her. She very near broke his neck for him the night after Cornwood revel."
"The horse isn't foaled that will ever throw me, I believe."
"I reckon not. Well, I'm here to meet you, Ned. I want to run over the ground. You hate business so bad that 'tis difficult to talk about it with you; but, all the same, as a man with money you must think a bit."
"Uncle Nathan thinks for me. He was paid to. Didn't father leave him fifty pounds to be trustee, or whatever 'tis?"
"But you never will look ahead. Uncle Nathan, since that bad bout of health last winter, isn't what he was. Clever enough, I grant; but he has got his own affairs, and his own worries too, for that matter. Everything be safe and proper in his hands; but suppose he fell ill? Suppose he was to die?"
"You're such a beggar for supposing. Never meet troubles half-way—that's my rule, and I've found it work very well too. I trust Uncle Nathan like the rest of the world trusts him. I sign his blessed papers and I get my quarter's allowance very regular, with a bit of money over and above when I want it, though he grumbles. I ask for no more but to be allowed to enjoy life as long as I can."
"I'm going to do this anyway," said Rupert. "I'll tell you my hopes and plans. 'Tis right and wise to make plans and look ahead and set yourself a task. And my task be to get Cadworthy Farm away from you for my own in twenty years from the time I go there."
"I shan't object—be sure of that. 'Tisn't likely I'd make hard terms with my own brother. You go in as my tenant at just what rent you please to pay in reason; and you pay me as much over and above the rent as you can afford till the price of the farm is polished off. And mother stops with you, and May stops with you. Mother has her allowance and May has hers, so they'll be no charge on you. And I stop too—till I'm married."
"That's all clear, then."
"Yes; and what I'm going to do is this. It seems there are things called sleeping partnerships—jolly convenient things too. All you do is to find a good, safe, established business that wants a bit of cash. And you put your cash in, and just go to the business once in a blue moon and sign your name in a book or two and draw your fees, and there you are! Uncle Nathan's on the look-out for some such a thing for a bit of my money. And I hope it will be in Plymouth for choice, because Cora's frightfully keen to be near Plymouth. She wants to make some decent woman pals, naturally. It's ridiculous such a girl messing about in a hole like Shaugh. She hinted at a shop, but I won't have that for a moment."
"All the same, I don't see why you shouldn't try and look out for something that would give you a bit of work. Work won't hurt her or you. You must be pretty well sick of doing nothing by this time, I should think."
"Far from it," declared Ned. "I find myself quite contented. I shall turn my hand to work presently. No hurry that I can see. I'm learning a lot, remember that. A great learner I am. The first use of money is to learn the world, Rupert. That's where that old fool at Hawk House has messed up his life. No better than a miser, that man. A spendthrift may be a fool, but a miser always is. And so it comes back to the fact that Uncle Humphrey's a fool, as I always said he was—a fool and a beast both."
"He's different enough from Uncle Nathan, I grant you—can't be soft or gentle; but he's no fool, and though he pretends he's not interested in people, he is. Things slip out. Look how he reads the newspapers."
"Yet now, for very hatred of all human beings—it can't be for anything else—'tis rumoured he'll leave Hawk House and get away from the sight of roads even. Susan Hacker told mother, not a week agone, that he was getting restless to go farther off. Pity he don't go and stick his head in Cranmere, and choke himself, and leave you and me and a few other dashing blades to spend his money. We ought to be his heirs—all of us. But we shan't see the colour of his cash, mark me."
"You won't. He hates your way of life. But he's got no quarrel with the rest of us. You never know with a man like him. I'm going over to him now; and I've got a tale of a chap that's broke his legs. He may give me five shillings for the man's wife. He's done it before to-day. 'Tis in him to do kind things, only there's no easy outlet for 'em. Keeps his goodness bottled up, as if he was afraid of it."
"You've got his blind eye, I reckon," said Ned. "It's all up with me anyway. I look t'other way when I pass him. He'll never forgive me for marrying Cora."
"Well, you'd best to go on and not keep your horse dancing about no longer."
Ned galloped off, and his brother, having sat a little longer by St. Rumon's Cross, rose and struck over Shaugh Moor in the direction of Humphrey Baskerville's dwelling.
The old man was expecting his nephew and came upon the waste to meet him. They had not spoken together for many days and Rupert was glad to see the elder again.
A year had stamped its record upon Humphrey Baskerville, and the significance of his son's death might now be perceived. Mark's passing left a permanent scar, but the expected callosity of spirit by no means overtook the sufferer.
Man, if he did not delight him, bulked upon his mind as the supreme experience. It was an added tribulation that, upon his brother's estrangement and death, one of the few living beings with whom he enjoyed the least measure of intimacy had dropped out of his life.
And now he became increasingly sensitive to the opinion of the people and developed a morbidity that was new.
Mrs. Hacker was his frank intelligencer, and more than once he smarted to hear her tell how sensible men had spoken ill of him.
Now he fell into talk with Rupert and uttered the things uppermost in his mind.
"Well enough in body, but sometimes I doubt if my brain's all it used to be. Mayhap in the head is where I'll go first."
Rupert laughed. "Not much fear of that, uncle."
"You must know," answered the other, "that every man in this life has to suffer a certain amount of injustice. From the king on his throne to the tinker in his garret, there are thorns stuffed in all pillows. Human nature misunderstands itself at every turn, and the closest, life-long friends often catch their secret hearts full of wonder and surprise at each other. But I—I've had more than my share of that. The injustice that's heaped upon me is insufferable at times. And why? Because I don't carry my heart on my sleeve, and won't palter with truth at the world's bidding."
"'Tis only fools laugh at you or grumble at you."
"You're wrong there," answered Humphrey. "The scorn of fools and the snarl of evil lips are a healthy sign. There are some men and some dogs that I would rather bark at me than not. But how is it that wise men and understanding men hold aloof and say hard things and look t'other way when I pass by?"
"Lord knows," answered Rupert. "They'm too busy to think for themselves, I suppose, and take the general opinion that you're rather—rather unsociable. You do many and many a kind thing, but they ban't known."
"No I don't. I can't—'tisn't my nature. Kind things are often terrible silly things. Leave your Uncle Nathan to do the kind things. He did a kind thing when my son died; and I felt it. For warmth of heart there never was such another. The trouble that man takes for people is very fine to see. I'm not saying he's wise. In fact, I don't think he is wise. To do other folks' work for 'em and shelter 'em from the results of their own folly is to think you know better than God Almighty."
"He's wonderful good, I'm sure. A godsend to my mother. Taken all the business over for her. When father died——"
"Leave that. Keep on about his character," said Humphrey. "There's nought so interesting to a man like me as burrowing into human nature and trying the works. Now, in your Uncle Nathan you see one that has the cleverness to make nearly every human being like him and trust him. But how does he get his hold on the heart? Is it by shutting his eyes to what people really are, like I shut my ears to Jack Head's arguments against the Bible; or is it by sheer, stupid, obstinate goodness, that can't see the weakness and folly and wickedness and craft of human beings?"
"He puts a large trust in his fellow-creatures," answered Rupert. "He believes everybody is good till he's proved 'em bad."
Humphrey nodded.
"True enough, and I'll tell you what that means in Nathan. The real secret of sympathy in this world is to be a sinner yourself. There's no end to the toleration and forgiveness and large-mindedness of people, if they know in their own hearts that they be just as bad. A wise man hedges, and never will be shocked at anything—why? Because he says, 'I may be found out too, some day.'"
He broke off and his nephew spoke.
"I know you're just as kind, really. By the same token I've come begging to-day. A poor Cornwood chap has had a bad accident. Market merry he was and got throwed off his pony. He's in hospital with both legs broke and may not recover, and his wife and four children——"
"What about his club?"
"He wasn't a member of a club."
"What's his name?"
"Coombes."
"Drunk too? And you ask me to take my money and help that sort of man? But I won't."
"Perhaps, in strict justice, he don't deserve it; but——"
"Did you ask your Uncle Nathan for him?"
"Yes. It shows the difference between you, I suppose."
"He gave?"
"He gave me ten shillings. There's a nice point to argify about. Which of you was right, Uncle Humphrey—you or Uncle Nat? You can't both be right."
"We can both be right and both be wrong," answered the old man.
"Uncle Nat was preaching at the chapel a bit ago, afore he had his illness; and me and Milly went to hear him."
"He preaches, does he?"
"Now and again—to work off his energy, he says. But never no more will he. His voice won't stand it, he says. He chose for his text a question, and he said 'twas a simple and easy thing, afore we took any step in life, to ax ourselves and say, what would the Lord do?"
"Simple enough to ask—not so simple to answer."
"He seemed to think 'twas as simple to answer as to ask."
"His brain isn't built to see the difficulties. Jack Head laughs at all these here Tory Christians. He says that a man can no more be a Tory and a Christian than he can walk on water. He says, flat out, that Christ was wrong here and there—right down wrong. Mind, I don't say so; but Head will argue for it very strong if you'll let him."
"Uncle Nat wouldn't hear of that."
"Nor would I. I've got as much faith as my brother. And as to what Christ would do or would not do in any given case, 'tis a matter for very close reasoning, because we act only seeing the outside of a puzzle; He would act seeing the inside. To say that we always know what the Lord would do, is to say we're as wise as Him. To go to the Bible for an answer to trouble is right enough though. 'Tis like a story I read in a wise book a few nights agone; for I've taken to reading a terrible lot of books lately. It told how two fellows fell out and fought like a pair of martin-cats over a bit of ground. Each said 'twas his, and presently they carried their trouble to a wise king, as reigned over a near nation, and was always happy to talk sense to anybody who had the time to listen. So to the neighbour kingdom they went, and yet never got to the king at all. And why not? Because, so soon as they were in his land, they found the spirit and wisdom of him working like barm in bread throughout the length and breadth of the place. They saw peace alive. They saw the people living in brotherly love and unity and understanding. They saw the religion of give and take at work. They saw travellers yielding the path to each other; they saw kindness and goodness and patience the rule from the cradle to the grave; and they felt so terrible ashamed of their own little pitiful quarrel that they dursn't for decency take it afore the throne, but made friends there and then and shared the strip of earth between 'em. And so 'tis with the Bible, Rupert: you bring a trouble into the Lord's kingdom and you'll find, in the clear light shining there, that it quickly takes a shape to shame you."
"'Tis pretty much what Uncle Nat said in other words. But didn't it ought to make you give me ten shillings for Coombes?"
"'Tisn't for us to stand between the State and its work."
"But his wife and children?"
"The sins of the fathers are visited on the children. Who are we to come between God Almighty and His laws?"
Rupert shrugged his shoulders.
"Christ Almighty would have done—what?" asked Mr. Baskerville.
Rupert reflected.
"He'd have done something, for certain. Why, of course! He'd have healed the man's broken legs first!"
"And that's what mankind is doing as best it can."
"And if the man dies?"
"Then the State will look after his leavings."
"You're justice itself," said Rupert; "but man's justice be frosty work."
"That's right enough. Justice and mercy is the difference between God and Christ. The one's a terrible light to show the way and mark the rock and point the channel through the storm; but 'twill dazzle your eyes if you see it too close, remember. And t'other's to the cold heart what a glowing fire be to the cold body."
"And I say that Uncle Nathan's just that—a glowing, Christlike sort of man," declared the younger fervently.
"Say so and think so," answered his uncle. "He stands for mercy; and I'll never say again that he stands for mercy, because he knows he'll stand in need of mercy. I'll never say that again. And I stand for justice, and hope I'll reap as I have sowed—neither better nor worse. But between my way and Nathan's way is yet another way; and if I could find it, then I should find the thing I'm seeking."
"The way of justice and mercy together, I suppose you mean?"
"I suppose I do. But I've never known how to mix 'em and keep at peace with my own conscience. Justice is firm ground; mercy is not. Man knows that very well. We may please our fellow-creatures with it; but for my part, so far as I have got till now, I'm prone to think that mercy be God's work only—same as vengeance is. For us 'tis enough that we try to be just, and leave all else in higher hands. Life ban't a pretty thing, and you can't hide its ugliness by decorating it with doubtful mercies, that may look beautiful to the eye but won't stand the stark light of right."
"Justice makes goodness a bit hard at the edges, however," answered his nephew. "And when all's said, if mercy be such treacherous ground, who can deny that justice may give way under us too now and again?"
They now stood at the door of Hawk House.
"Enter in," said Mr. Baskerville. "You argue well, and there's a lot in what you say. And words come all to this, as the rivers come all to the sea, that we know nothing, outside Revelation. And now let's talk about your affairs. When is your marriage going to be? Has Milly Luscombe said she wants me to come to it? Answer the truth."
Dennis Masterman took the opportunity that offered after a service to meet his parish clerk and perambulate the churchyard. For the vicar's sister had pointed out that the burying-ground of St. Edward's was ill-kept and choked with weeds.
Overhead the bells made mighty riot. Two weddings had just been celebrated, and the ringers were doing their best.
"With spring here again, this place will be a scandal," said Dennis. "You must set to work in earnest, Gollop, and if it's more than you can do single-handed, you'd better get help."
"Hay is hay," answered the other; "and the Reverend Valletort was above any fidgets like what some people suffer from nowadays. He had the churchyard hay as his right in his opinion, and, given a good year, us made a tidy little rick for him. 'All flesh is grass,' he used to say in his wise fashion, 'and grass is not the less grass because it comes off a man's grave.'"
"I think differently. To make hay in a churchyard, Thomas, is very bad form, and shows a lack of proper and delicate feeling. Anyway, there's to be a thorough clean-up. We've got a lot of very interesting graves here, and when people come and ask to see the churchyard I don't like wading through a foot of weeds. Where's the famous tomb with the music book and bass viol on it? I wanted to show it to a man only last week, and couldn't find it."
Mr. Gollop led the way and indicated a slate amid the Baskerville monuments.
"There 'tis. A riddle and an open book; and the book actually had a bit of the Old Hundredth—the music, I mean—scratched on it when first 'twas set up. But time have eaten that off, I believe. He was a fine fiddler in the days afore the organs was put in the church, and then he had to go; and he soon died after the joy of playing on Sundays was taken from him. He made up his verse himself."
Mr. Gollop drew back the herbage from this slate and read out the rhyme half hidden beneath.
"'Praises on tombs are to no purpose spent,A man's good name is his own monument.'
"But a good name don't last as long as a good slate, when all's said. There's Vivian Baskerville's stone, you see. 'Tis a great addition to the row, and cost seven pounds odd. And there lieth the suicide, as should be yonder if justice had been done. But Humphrey Baskerville don't mean to take his place in the family row. Like him, that is. Won't even neighbour with his fellow dust."
"You oughtn't to repeat such nonsense, Gollop."
"Nonsense or no nonsense, 'tis the truth. Here's the place he's chosen, and bought it, too, right up in this corner, away from everybody; and his gravestone is to turn its back upon t'other dead folk—like he's always turned his back upon the living."
Mr. Gollop indicated a lonely corner of the churchyard.
"That's where he's going to await the trump."
"Well, that's his business, poor man. He's a good Christian, anyway."
"If coming to church makes him so, he may be; but Christian is as Christian does in my opinion. Show me a man or beast as be the better for Humphrey Baskerville, and I'll weigh up what sort of Christian he may be."
"Judge nobody; but get this place respectable and tidy. No half measures, Gollop. And you'll have to work out all those unknown mounds with a pair of shears. They are running together, and will disappear in a year or two. And that pile of broken slates in the corner had better be carted away altogether. You ought to know the graves they belong to, but of course you don't."
"No, I don't, and more don't any other living man. I ban't God Almighty, I believe. 'Tis Miss Masterman have put you on to harrying me out of my seven senses this way, and I wish she'd mind her own business and let me mind mine."
"No need to be insolent. I only ask you to mind your own business. If you'd do that we should never have a word."
Mr. Gollop grunted rudely. When conquered in argument he always reserved to himself, not the right of final speech, but the licence of final sound. On these occasions he uttered a defiant, raucous explosion, pregnant with contempt and scorn, then he hurried away. At times, under exceptional stress, he would also permit himself an offensive gesture before departing. This consisted in lifting his coat-tail and striking the part of his person that occurred beneath it. But such an insult was reserved for his acquaintance; obviously it might not be exploited against the vicar of the parish.
Now Gollop marched off to 'The White Thorn,' and Masterman, turning, found that the man of whom they had recently spoken walked alone not far off. Dennis instantly approached him. It was his wish to know this member of his congregation better, but opportunity to do so had been denied. Now there was no escape for Humphrey Baskerville, because the minister extended his hand and saluted him.
"How do you do, Mr. Baskerville? Glad to see you. A pretty pair of weddings, and two very popular young couples, I fancy."
Humphrey admitted it.
"There's no better or harder working man about here than my nephew Rupert Baskerville," he said.
"So I understand. Not much of a church-goer, though, I'm afraid. However, perhaps he'll come oftener now. The bells make the tower shake, I do believe. We've never had the tenor bell rung like your son rang it, Mr. Baskerville."
The old man shrugged his shoulders.
"I always fancy so; but then, I've a right to fancy so. I was his father. No doubt 'tis folly. One pair of hands can pull a rope as well as another. But 'as the heart thinketh, so the bell clinketh,' though the heart of man is generally wrong. My son would have done his best to-day, no doubt, though such was his nature that he'd sooner toll alone than peal in company."
"Are you going to the wedding breakfast?"
"Yes; not that they really want me. 'Twas only because the boys and girls wouldn't take 'no' for an answer that I go. I doubt whether they're in earnest. But I'm glad to be there too."
"Who was the fine young brown fellow in the Baskerville pew beside Mrs. Baskerville?"
"Nathan Baskerville the younger. Called after my brother, the innkeeper. He's just off the sea for a bit."
"A handsome man."
"He is for certain."
"Well, I'm very glad to meet you. I was telling Gollop that our graves are not worthy of us. We must make the churchyard tidier."
They had reached the lich-gate and Dennis held Mr. Baskerville's pony while he mounted it.
"Thank you," said the elder.
"By the way, I've never called at Hawk House, because I've been told you wouldn't care about it."
"As to that, 'tisn't whether I'd care or not, 'tis whether you ought to call or not."
"You're right. Then come I shall. How about next Friday?"
"I shall be there."
"I hear you're a great reader, Mr. Baskerville. I might lend you some of my books—and gladly would do so, if you'd care to have them."
"Thank you, I'm sure. A kindly thought in you. 'Tis no great art to think kindly; but let the thought blossom out into a deed and it grows alive. Yes, I read a lot now since my son died. Jack Head is a reading man, likewise; but he reads terrible dangerous books. He lent me one and I burnt it. Yes, I burnt it, and told him so."
"Probably you were right."
"No, I wasn't. He showed me very clearly that I was wrong. You can't burn a book. A bad book once out in the world is like a stone once flung—it belongs to the devil. Not but what Jack Head says many things that can't be answered—worse luck."
"I wish he'd bring his difficulties to me."
"You needn't wish that.He'sgot no difficulties.He'sgoing with the wind and tide. 'Tis you, not him—'tis you and me, and the likes of us—that will be in difficulties afore long. I see that plain enough. 'Tis idle to be blind. I shall die a Christian, and so will you, and so belike will your childer, if ever you get any; but all's in a welter of change now, and very like your grandchilder will think 'twas terrible funny to have a parson for a grandfather. Jack Head says they'll put stuffed curates in the British Museum afore three generations."
"A free-thought wave," said Dennis. "Be under no concern, Mr. Baskerville. Christianity is quite unassailable. Remember the Rock it's founded on."
"'Tis the rock it will split on be the thing to consider. However, if you've got any books that stand for our side, I shall thank you to lend 'em to me. Jack's had it all his own way of late."
"I'll bring some," declared Masterman.
They parted, and Humphrey trotted off on his pony.
Meantime at 'The White Thorn' a considerable gathering had met to discuss the weddings, and Nathan Baskerville, his namesake, the sailor, Heathman Lintern, Joe Voysey, and others enjoyed a morning drink. For some the entertainment was now ended, but not a few had been bidden to the feast at Cadworthy, where a double banquet was planned, and many would soon set out on foot or in market-carts for the farm.
"One may hope for nought but good of these here weddings," said Voysey. "There's only one danger in my judgment, and that is for two of the young people to set up living with the bridegroom's mother; but Rupert ban't Hester Baskerville's favourite son, I believe. If he was it certainly wouldn't work. The poor chap would be pulled in two pieces between mother and wife. However, if the mother ban't jealous of him, it may do pretty well."
"When Master Ned marries, he'll have to go a bit further off," said the innkeeper.
"How is it brother Ned ban't married a'ready?" asked the younger Nathan. "Why, 'tis more than a year agone since I heard from my sister that he was going to marry Heathman's sister, and yet nothing done. I'd make her name the day jolly quick if 'twas me."
Heathman laughed and shook his head.
"No, you wouldn't, Nat. You don't know Cora. None will hurry her if she's not minded to hurry. Ned has done what he could, and so have I—and so has my mother. But she's in no haste. Likes being engaged and making plans, getting presents, and having a good time and being important."
"The autumn will see them married, however," declared Mr. Baskerville. "I've told Master Ned that he'll have to draw in his horns a bit, for he's not made of money, though he seems to think so. 'Twill be his best economy to marry pretty quick and settle down. Never was a man with wilder ideas about money; but Cora's different. She's a woman with brains. He'll do well to hand her over the purse."
"She wants to start a shop at Plymouth," said Heathman. "A shop for hats and women's things. But Ned's against it. He says she shan't work—not while he can help it; and as he certainly won't work himself while he can help it, we must hope they've got tons of money."
"Which they have not," answered Nathan Baskerville. "And the sooner Ned understands that and gives ear to me, the better for his peace of mind."
Mr. Gollop entered at this moment. He was ruffled and annoyed.
"That man!" he moaned, "that headstrong, rash man will be the death of me yet. Of course, I mean Masterman. Won't let the dead rest in their graves now. Wants the churchyard turned into a pleasure-ground seemingly. Must be mowing and hacking and tacking and trimming; and no more hay; and even they old holy slates in the corner to be carted off as if they was common stones."
"Lie low and do nought," advised Joe Voysey. "'Tis a sort of fever that takes the gentleman off and on. He catches the fit from his sister. She'll be down on me sometimes, with all her feathers up and everything wrong. I must set to that instant moment and tidy the garden for my dear life, till not a blade be out of place. Likes to see the grass plot so sleek as a boy's head after Sunday pomatum. But the way is to listen with all due and proper attention, as becomes us afore our betters, and then—forget it. The true kindness and charity be to let 'em have their talk out, and even meet 'em in little things here and there—if it can be done without loss of our self-respect. But we understand best. Don't you never forget that, Thomas. Where the yard and the garden be concerned, you and me must be first in the land. They be children to us, and should be treated according. We've forgot more than they ever knowed about such things."
Others came and went; Joe and Thomas matured their Fabian tactics; Nathan Baskerville, with his nephew and young Lintern, set off in a pony trap for Cadworthy. The bells still rioted and rang their ceaseless music; for these new-made wives and husbands were being honoured with the long-drawn, melodious thunder of a full five-bell 'peal.'
Cora Lintern waited for Ned Baskerville at the fork of the road above Shaugh. Here, in the vicarage wall, the stump of a village cross had been planted. Round about stitchwort flashed its spring stars, and foxgloves made ready, while to the shattered symbol clung ivy tighter than ever lost sinner seeking sanctuary.
Upon a stone beneath sat the woman in Sunday finery, and she was beautiful despite her garments. They spoke of untutored taste and a mind ignorantly attracted by the garish and the crude. But her face was fair until examined at near range. Then upon the obvious beauty, like beginning of rust in the leaf, there appeared delicate signs of the spirit within. Her eyes spoke unrest and her mouth asperity. The shadow of a permanent line connected her eyebrows and promised a network too soon to stretch its web, woven by the spiders of discontent, upon her forehead.
Cora built always upon to-morrow, and she suffered the fate of those that do so. She was ambitious and vain, and she harboured a false perspective in every matter touching her own welfare, her own desert, and her own position in the world. She largely overrated her beauty and her talents. She was satisfied with Ned Baskerville, but had ceased to be enthusiastic about him. A year of his society revealed definite limitations, and she understood that though her husband was well-to-do, he would never be capable. The power to earn money did not belong to him, and she rated his windy optimisms and promises at their just value. She perceived that the will and intellect were hers, and she knew that, once married, he would follow and not lead. The advantage of this position outweighed the disadvantages. She desired to live in a town, and rather favoured the idea of setting up a shop, to be patronised by the local leaders of rank and fashion. She loved dress, and believed herself possessed of much natural genius in matters sartorial.
At present Ned absolutely refused any suggestion of a shop; but she doubted not that power rested with her presently to insist, if she pleased to do so. He was a generous and fairly devout lover. He more than satisfied her requirements in that direction. She had, indeed, cooled his ardour a little, and she supposed that her common-sense was gradually modifying his amorous disposition. But another's common-sense is a weak weapon against lust, and Ned's sensual energies, dammed by Cora, found secret outlet elsewhere.
So it came about that he endured the ordeal of the lengthy engagement without difficulty, and the girl wore his fancied sobriety and self-control as a feather in her cap. When she related her achievement to Ned and explained to him how much his character already owed to her chastening influence, he admitted it without a blush, and solemnly assured her that she had changed his whole attitude to the sex.
Now the man arrived, and they walked together by Beatland Corner, southerly of Shaugh, upon the moor-edge.
Their talk was of the autumn wedding and the necessity for some active efforts to decide their domicile. Cora was for a suburb of Plymouth, but Ned wanted to live in the country outside. The shop she did not mention after his recent strong expressions of aversion from it; but she desired the first step to be such that transition to town might easily follow, when marriage was accomplished and her power became paramount.
They decided, at length, to visit certain places that stood between town and country above Plymouth. There were Stoke and Mannamead to see. A villa was Cora's ambition—a villa and two servants. Ned's instincts, on the other hand, led to a small house and a large stable. He owned some horses and took great part of his pleasure upon them. Since possession of her own steed, however, Cora's regard for riding had diminished. It was her way to be quickly satisfied with a new toy. Now she spoke of a 'victoria,' so that when she was married she might drive daily upon her shopping and her visiting.
"The thing is to begin well," she said. "People call according to your house, and often the difference between nice blinds and common blinds will decide women whether they'll visit a newcomer or not. With my taste you can trust the outside of your home to look all right, Ned. At Mannamead I saw the very sort of house I'd like for us to have. Such a style, and I couldn't think what 'twas about it till I saw the short blinds was all hung in bright shining brass rods across the windows, and the window-boxes was all painted peacock-blue. 'I'll have my house just like that!' I thought."
"So you shall—or any colour you please. And I'll have my stable smart too, I promise you. White tiles all through. I shall have to do a bit myself, you know—looking after the horses, I mean—but nobody will know it."
"You'll keep a man, of course?"'
"A cheap one. Uncle Nathan went into figures with me last week. He was a bit vague, and I was a bit impatient and soon had enough of it. 'All I want to know,' I told him, 'is just exactly what income I can count upon,' and he said five hundred a year was the outside figure. Then, against that, you must set that he's getting a bit old and, of course, being another person's money, he's extra cautious. He admitted that if I sold out some shares and bought others, I could get pretty near another one hundred a year by it. But, of course, we've got to take a bite out of the money for furnishing and all the rest of it. My idea, as you know, is to invest a bit in a sleeping partnership, but he hasn't found anything of the sort yet, apparently. He's not the man he was at finding a bargain."
Here opened a good opportunity for her ambitions, and Cora ventured to take it.
"I wish you'd think twice about letting me start a little business. It's quite a ladylike thing, or I wouldn't offer it, but with my natural cleverness about clothes, and with all the time I've given to the fashions and all that—especially with the hats I can make—it seems a pity not to let me do it. You don't want much money to start with, and I should soon draw the custom."
"No," he said. "Time enough if ever we get hard up. I'm not going to have you making money. 'Tis your business to spend it. You'll be a lady, with your own servants and all the rest of it. You'll walk about, and pick the flowers in your garden, and pay visits; and if you do have a little trap, you can drive out to the meets sometimes when I go hunting. Why, damn it all, Cora, I should have thought you was the last girl who would ever want to do such a thing!"
"That's all you know," she said. "People who keep hat shops often get in with much bigger swells than ever we're likely to know at Mannamead, or Stoke either. They come into the shop and they see, of course, I'm a lady, and I explain that I only keep the shop for fun, and then I get to know them. I'd make more swell friends in my hat shop than ever you do on your horse out fox-hunting."
"I know a lot of swells, for that matter."
"Ask 'em to come to tea and then you'll see if you know 'em," she said. "'Tis no use for us to be silly. We're poor people, compared to rich ones, and we always shall be, so far as I can see. We must be content with getting up the ladder a bit—and that's all I ask or expect."
"I know my place all right, if that's what you mean," answered Ned. "I'm not anxious to get in with my betters, for they're not much use to me. I'm easily satisfied. I want for you to have a good time, and I mean for myself to have a good time. You can only live your life once, and a man's a fool to let worry come into his life if he can escape from it. The great thing in the world is to find people who think as you do yourself. That's worth a bit of trouble; and when you've found them, stick to them. A jolly good motto too."
They spilt words to feeble purpose for another half-hour, and then there came an acquaintance. Timothy Waite appeared on his way from Coldstone Farm. He overtook them and walked beside them.
"I suppose you don't want company," he said, "but I'll leave you half a mile further on."
"We do want company, and always shall," declared Cora. "And yours most of all, I'm sure. We're past the silly spooning stage. In fact, we never got into it, did we, Edward?"
"You didn't," said her betrothed, "and as you didn't, I couldn't. Spooning takes two."
Mr. Waite remained a bachelor and no woman had ever been mentioned in connection with him. He was highly eligible and, indeed, a husband much to be desired. He enjoyed prosperity, good looks, and a reputation for sense and industry.
Cora he had always admired, and still did so. At heart he wondered why she had chosen Ned Baskerville, and sometimes, since the marriage hung fire, he suspected that she was not entirely satisfied of her bargain and might yet change her mind.
He would have married her willingly, for there was that in her practical and unsentimental character which appealed to him. He had indeed contemplated proposing when the announcement of young Baskerville's engagement reached him. He met Cora sometimes and always admired her outlook on life. He did so now, yet knowing Ned too, doubted at heart whether the woman had arrested his propensities as completely as she asserted.
"The question on our lips when you came along was where we should set up shop," said Ned.
"A shop is what I really and truly want to set up," declared Cora; "but Edward won't hear of it—more fool him, I say. He can't earn money, but that's no reason why I shouldn't try to."
Mr. Waite entirely agreed with her.
"No reason why you shouldn't. If Cadworthy's to be handed over to Rupert and you're going to live in Plymouth, as I hear," he said, "then why not business? There's nothing against it that I know, and there's nothing like it. If I wasn't a farmer, I'd keep a shop. For that matter a farmer does keep a shop. Only difference that I can see is that he has fields instead of cupboards and loses good money through the middleman between him and his customers. I'm going to take another stall in Plymouth market after Midsummer. There's nought like market work for saving cash."
"And as nearly half our money will come from the rent that Rupert pays for Cadworthy, we shall be living by a shop in a sense whether you pretend to or not," added Cora.
But Ned denied this. He aired his views on political economy, while Waite, who valued money, yet valued making it still more, reduced the other's opinions to their proper fatuity and laughed at him into the bargain.
Timothy's contempt for Baskerville was not concealed. He even permitted himself a sly jest or two at the expense of the other's mental endowments; and these thrusts, while unfelt by the victim, stabbed Cora's breast somewhat keenly. Even Timothy's laughter, she told herself, was more sane and manly than Ned's.
She fell into her own vice of contrasting the thing she had with the thing she had not, to the detriment of the former. It was an instinct with her to under-value her own possessions; but the instinct stopped at herself—an unusual circumstance.
With herself and her attributes of mind and body, she never quarrelled; it was only her environment that by no possibility compared favourably with that of other people. Her mother, her sister, her brother, her betrothed, and her prospects—none but seemed really unworthy of Cora when dispassionately judged by herself.
Now she weighed Timothy's decision against Ned's doubt, his knowledge against Ned's ignorance, his sense against Ned's nonsense. She felt the farmer's allusions, and she throbbed with discomfort because Ned did not also feel them and retort upon Mr. Waite in like manner. She told herself that the difference between them was the radical difference between a wise man and a fool. Then she fell back in self-defence of her own judgment, and assured herself that, physically, there could be no comparison, and that Ned had a better heart and would make a gentler husband.
Timothy had admired her—she remembered that; but he was caution personified and, while he had considered, Ned had plunged. She strove to see this as a virtue in Ned. Yet Timothy's old attitude to her forbade any slighting of him. She remembered very well how, when he congratulated her on her engagement, he had pointedly praised Ned for one thing alone: his precipitation. A fault at other seasons may be a virtue in the love season.
"I thought him not very clever," said Timothy on that occasion; "but now I see he was cleverer than any of us. Because he was too clever to waste a moment in getting what every other chap wanted. We learn these things too late."
He said that and said it with great significance. It comforted Cora now to remember the circumstance. Whatever else Ned might not know, he knew a good deal about women; and that would surely make him by so much a better husband. Then her wits told her the opposite might be argued from this premise. She was not enjoying herself, and she felt glad when Waite left them. Anon Ned rallied her for lengthened taciturnity and even hinted, as a jest, that he believed she was regretting her choice.
They turned presently and went back over Shaugh Moor to drink tea at the man's home. But upon the threshold Cora changed her mind. She pleaded headache and some anxiety about her health.
"I've got a cold coming—else I wouldn't be so low-spirited," she said. "I'll get back through North Wood and go to bed early."
He instantly expressed utmost solicitation and concern.
"I'll come back with you, then. If you like, I'll put in the pony and drive you," he said. But she would neither of these things.
"I shall be all right. You go in and have your tea, and don't trouble. I'll get back by the wood path, and you'll find I shall be better to-morrow."
"'Tis that flimsy dress that lets the wind through like a net," he said. "The weather's not right for such clothes as you will wear."
But she laughed and told him to mind his own business. Then she kissed him on the cheek and went away.
He stood doubtful. First he felt moved to follow her, and then he changed his mind. He knew Cora better than she thought he did, and he was aware that at the present moment she felt perfectly well but desired to be alone.
He had not missed the significance of Mr. Waite's views on his sweetheart's mind, though he had failed to appreciate Timothy's sly humour at his own expense.
Now, therefore, he let Cora have her will and made no further effort to overtake her. He waited only until she looked back, as he knew she would; then he kissed his hand, turned, and departed.
She passed along through the forest homeward, and, when hidden in a silent place, dusted a stone and sat down to think.
A wild apple tree rose above her, half smothered in a great ivy-tod. But through the darkness of the parasite, infant sprays of bright young foliage sprang and splashed the gloomy evergreen with verdure.
Aloft, crowning this gnarled and elbowed crab, burst out a triumphant wreath of pale pink blossom—dainty, diaphanous, and curled. Full of light and pearly purity it feathered on the bough, and its tender brightness was splashed with crimson beads of the flower-buds that waited their time and turn to open.
Higher still, dominating the tree, thrust forth a crooked, naked bough or two. They towered, black, dead, and grim above the loveliness of the living thing beneath.
From reflections not agreeable, this good sight attracted Cora and turned the tide of her thoughts.
Even here the instinct of business dominated any sentiment that might have wakened in another spirit before such beauty. She gazed at it, then rose and plucked a few sprays of the apple-blossom. Next she took off her hat and began to try the effect of the natural flowers therein. Her efforts pleased her not a little.
"Lord! What a hand I have for it!" she said aloud. Then, refreshened by this evidence of her skill, she rose and proceeded to Shaugh. "I know one thing," she thought, "and that is, man or no man, I shall always be able to make my living single-handed in a town. 'Tisn't for that I want a husband. And be it as 'twill, when master Ned finds a lot more money coming in, he'd very soon give over crying out at a shop."
Humphrey Baskerville still sought to determine his need, and sometimes supposed that he had done so. More than once he had contemplated the possibility of peace by flight; then there happened incidents to change his mind.
Of late the idea of a home further from distracting influences had again seemed good to him. More than once he considered the advantages of isolation; more than once he rode upon the Moor and distracted his gloom with visions of imaginary dwellings in regions remote.
The folly of these thoughts often thrust him with a rebound into the life of his fellow-beings, and those who knew him best observed a rhythmic alternation in Humphrey.
After periods of abstention and loneliness would follow some return to a more sociable style of living. From a fierce hectic of mind that sent him sore and savage into the heart of the wilderness, he cooled and grew temperate again as the intermittent fever passed.
And then, when the effort towards his kind had failed by his own ineptitude and the world's mistrust, he retreated once more to suffer, and banished himself behind the clouds of his own restless soul.
Humanity has no leisure to decipher these difficult spirits; the pathos of their attempts must demand a philosophic eye to perceive it; and unless kind chance offers the key, unless opportunity affords an explanation, the lonely but hungry heart passes away unfathomed, sinks to the grave unread and unreconciled.
Inner darkness turned Baskerville to the Moor again, and he rode—where often he had already ridden: to inspect the ruin of an old dwelling upon the side of a great hill above the waters of Plym.
Brilliant summer smiled upon this pilgrimage, and as he went, he fell in with a friend, where Jack Head tramped the high road upon his way to Trowlesworthy. Jack now dwelt at Shaugh, but was head man of Saul Luscombe's farm and rabbit warren.
"A fine day," said Humphrey as he slowed his pony.
"Yes, and a finer coming," answered the other. Mr. Baskerville was quick to note the militant tone.
"Been at your silly books again, I warrant," he said. "There's one book I could wish you'd read along with t'others, Jack. 'Tis the salt to all other books, for all you scorn it."
"Bible's a broken reed, master, as you'll live to find out yet."
"No, Jack. 'Tis what makes all other writing but a broken reed. A fountain that never runs dry, I promise you. No man will ever get the whole truth out of the Bible."
"No, by Gor! Because it ban't there," said the other.
"It's there all right—hidden for the little children to find it. You bandage your eyes and then you say you can't see—a fool's trick that."
"I can see so far as you. 'Tis you put coloured spectacles on your nose to make things look as you'd have 'em. Your book be played out, master. Let the childer read it, if you like, along with the other fairy tales; but don't think grown men be going to waste their time with it. The whole truth is that the book be built on a lie. There never was no Jehovah and never will be. Moses invented Him to frighten the folk from their naughtiness, same as you invent a scarecrow to frighten the birds from the seed. And the scarecrow works better than Jehovah did, by all accounts."
"You talk out of your narrow, bitter books, Jack."
"No need to call my books names. That's all your side can do. Why don't they try to answer 'em instead of blackguarding 'em?"
"'Tis a great danger to the poor that they begin to think so much."
"Don't you say that. Knowledge be the weapon the poor have been waiting for all these years and years. 'Tis the only weapon for a poor man. And what will it soon show 'em? It'll show 'em that the most powerful thing on this earth be the poor. They are just going to find it out; then you rich people will hear of something that will terrible astonish you."
"You're a rank Socialist, Jack. I've no patience with you."
"There you are: 'no patience!' But that's another thing we men of the soil be going to teach you chaps who own the soil. 'Patience,' you say. There's a time coming when the rich people will have to be mighty patient, I warn you! And if you're impatient—why, 'tis all one to us, for never was heard that any impatient man could stop the tide flowing."
"I believe that," said Baskerville grimly. "You'll pay us presently for teaching you, and clothing you, and helping to enlarge your minds. When you're learned enough, you'll turn round, like the snake, and bite the hand that fed you. Gratitude the common soul never knows and never will, whatever else it may learn. Knowledge is poison to low natures, and we ought to have kept you ignorant and harmless."
Jack Head stared.
"That's a pretty speech!" he said. "That's a good healthy bit of Christian charity—eh? Why for should you ax so much credit for your side? Take me. What's the rich man done for me? A workhouse boy I was."
"And look at you now—a prosperous man and saving money. Who fed you and taught you and brought you up? The State. Society saved you; society played mother to you; and now you want to kick her. That's how you'd pay your debts. You take a base and a narrow view—dishonest too. The State have got to look after the rich as well as the poor. Why not? The poor aren't everybody. You're the sort that think no man can be a decent member of society unless he was born in a gutter. Class prejudice 'tis called, and some of the chaps who think they're the salt of the earth, stink of it."
"Class be damned," said Mr. Head. "Class is all stuff and nonsense. There are only two classes—good men and bad ones. The difference between a duke and me be difference between a pig with a ring in his nose and another without one. We'm built the same to the last bone in our bodies, and I've got more sense than half the dukes in the kingdom."
"And t'other half have got more sense than you," returned the rider. "It's summed up in a word. Class there will be, because class there must be. The poor we have always with us—you know that well enough. Your books, though they deny most things, can't deny that."
"Another of your silly Christian sayings. We have got the poor with us—but it won't be always. So long as we have the rich with us, we shall have the poor, and no longer. No longer, master! Finish off the one and you'll finish off t'other. That's a bit of home-grown wisdom, that is got from no book at all."
"Wisdom, you call it! And what power is going to root out the rich? How are you clever folk going to alter human nature, and say to this man you shan't save your money and to this man you shall save yours? While some men and women are born to thrift and sense, and some to folly and squandering, there must be rich and poor; and while men are born to hunger for power, there must be war. These things can't be changed. And you can't say where any man can reach to; you can't put up a mark and tell your fellow-man, 'you shan't go higher than that.'"
"Granted. You can't say where they shall reach to; but you can say where they shall start from. Half the world's handicapped at the starting-post. I only ax for the race to be a fair one. I only ax for my son to start fair with yours. If yours be the better man, then let him win; but don't let him win because he's got too long a start. That's not justice but tyranny. Give every man his chance and make every man work—that's all I ask. If a man's only got the wits to break stones, then see that he breaks 'em; and let them who can do better and earn better money not grudge the stone-breaker a little over and above what his poor wits earn in the market."
"I grant that's good," admitted Baskerville. "Let the strong help the weak. 'Twas Christ found that out, not you Socialists."
"'Tis found out anyway," said Jack Head. "And 'tis true; and therefore it will happen and we can't go back on it. And it follows from that law of strong helping weak that nobody ought to be too rich, any more than they ought to be too poor. Let the State be a millionaire a million times over, if you like—and only the State. So long as the hive be rich, no bee is poor."
Humphrey did not immediately reply. He was following Head's argument to a still larger conclusion.
"And you'd argue that as the strong man can help the weak one, so in time the strong State might help the weak one instead of hindering it, and the powerful of the earth give of their abundance to strengthen the humble and feeble?"
"Why not? Instead of that, the great Powers be bristling with fighting men, and all the sinews of the world be wasted on war. And it shows the uselessness of the Book, anyway, that the Christian nations—so-called—keep the biggest armies and the largest number of men idle, rotting their bodies and souls away in barracks and battleships."
Baskerville nodded.
"There's sense of a lop-sided sort in much that you say, Jack. But 'tisn't the Book that's to blame—'tis the world that misunderstands the Book and daren't go by the Book—because of the nations around that don't go by it."
"Then why do they pretend they'm Christians? They know if they went by the Book they'd go down; yet they want to drive it into the heads of the next generation. The child hears his father damning the Government because they ban't building enough men-of-war, and next day when the boy comes home with a black eye, his father turns round and tells him to mind his Bible and remember that the peacemakers be blessed."
"I could wish a Government would give Christianity a chance," confessed Mr. Baskerville; "but I suppose 'tis much the same thing as Free Trade—a fine thing if everybody played the game, but a poor thing for one nation if t'others are all for Protection."
"That's a lie," answered Mr. Head. "We've shown Free Trade is a fine thing—single-handed we've shown it, and why? Because Free Trade's a strong sword; but Christianity's rusty and won't stand the strain no longer. We've passed that stage; and if we was to start Christianity now and offer the cheek to the smiter—well, he'd damn soon smite, and then where are we?"
They chattered on and set the world right according to their outlook, instinct, and understanding. Then the conversation turned into personal channels, and Mr. Baskerville, while admitting the justice of much that Jack asserted, yet blamed him for a certain impatience and bitterness.
"If evolution is going to set all right and the unborn will come into a better world, why get so hot?" he asked.
"Because I'm a thinking, feeling man," answered the other. "Because I hate to see wrong done in the name of right. And you're the same—only you haven't got as much sense as me seemingly. I'm useful—you only want to be useful and don't see how."
"I want to do my part in the world; but just the right way is difficult to choose out among the many roads that offer, Jack. You are positive, and that saves a deal of trouble, no doubt. The positive people go the furthest—for good or evil. But I'm not so certain. I see deeper than you because I've been better educated, though I'm not so clever by nature. Then there's another thing—sympathy. People don't like me, and to be disliked limits a man's usefulness a lot."
"That's stuff," answered Jack; "no more than a maggot got in your head. If they don't like you, there's a reason. They'm feared of your sharp tongue, and think 'tis the key to a hard heart. Then 'tis for you to show 'em what they can't see. I'll tell you what you are: you'm a man sitting hungry in a wheat-field, because you don't know and won't larn how to turn corn into bread. That's you in a word."
Trowlesworthy was reached and Jack went his way.
"You might come and drink a dish of tea some Sunday," said Mr. Baskerville, and the other promised to do so. Then Humphrey proceeded beside the river, and presently ascended a rough slope to his destination. The ruin that alternately drew and repelled him lay below; but for the moment he did not seek it. He climbed to the high ground, dismounted, turned his pony loose, and took his pipe out of his pocket.
The great cone of granite known as Hen Tor lies high upon the eastern bank of Plym, between that streamlet and the bog-foundered table-land of Shavercombe beyond. From its crown the visitor marked Cornwall's coastline far-spreading into the west, and Whitsand Bay reflecting silver morning light along the darker boundaries of earth.
Spaces of grass and fern extended about the tor, and far below a midget that was a man moved along the edge of the ripe bracken and mowed it down with a scythe.
Half a dozen carrion crows took wing and flapped with loud croaking away as Humphrey ascended the tor and sat upon its summit. Again he traversed the familiar scene in his mind, again perceived the difficulties of transit to this place. Occasionally, before these problems, he had set to work obstinately and sought solutions.
Once he had determined to rebuild the ruin in the valley, so that he might turn his back on man and make trial of the anchorite's isolation and hermit's bastard peace; but to-day he was in no mood for such experiments; his misanthropic fit passed upon the west wind, and his thoughts took to themselves a brighter colour.
Where he sat two roof-trees were visible, separated by the distant height of Legis Tor. Trowlesworthy and Ditsworthy alone appeared, and for the rest the river roamed between them, and flocks and herds wandered upon the hills around. The man still moved below, and long ribbons of fallen fern spread regularly behind him.
A foul smell struck on Baskerville's nostrils, and he saw death not far distant, where the crows had been frightened from their meal. He climbed away from the main pile of the tor and sat in a natural chair hollowed from the side of an immense block of granite that stands hard by. He smoked, and his pony grazed.
A storm of rain fell and passed. The sun succeeded upon it, and for a little while the moor glittered with moisture. Then the wind dried all again. The old man was now entirely out of tune with any thought of a dwelling here. He did not even descend the hill and inspect the ruin beneath. But he had come to spend the day alone, and was contented to do so. His mind busied itself with the last thing that a fellow-man had said to him. He repeated Jack Head's word over and over to himself. Presently he ate the food that he had brought with him, drank at a spring, and walked about to warm his body. The carrion crows cried in air, soared hither and thither, settled again on the rocks at hand and waited, with the perfect patience of unconscious nature, for him to depart. But he remained until the end of the day.
Then occurred a magnificent spectacle. After gold of evening had scattered the Moor and made dark peat and grey rock burn, there rolled up from the south an immense fog, that spread its nacreous sea under the sunset. Born of far-off fierce heat upon the ocean, it advanced and enveloped earth, valley by valley, and ridge by ridge. Only the highest peaks evaded this flood of vapours, and upon them presently sank the sun. His light descending touched many points and uplifted sprays of mist; whereon, like magic, a thousand galleons rode over the pearl and advanced in a golden flotilla upon this fleeting sea. The rare, brief wonder passed, and the sky above it faded; the sun sank; the fog rolled forward—heavy, cold, a burden for the wet wings of night.
Humphrey set off, and the carrion crows, full hungry, returned to sup.
In Baskerville's mind certain words reverberated still, as they had often done since they were spoken during the morning. They chimed to the natural sounds that had fallen upon his ear throughout the day; they were echoed in the wind and the distant water-murmur; in the cry of birds and call of beasts; in the steady rasping of his pony's teeth through the herbage; and now, in its hoof-beat as it trotted by a sheep-track homeward.
And louder than all these repetitions of it, louder than the natural music that seemed to utter the words in many voices, there came the drumming of his own pulse, laden with the same message, and the answering beat of his heart that affirmed the truth of it.
"A man sitting hungry in a wheat-field, because you don't know and won't learn how to turn corn into bread."