As for Rupert Baskerville, he endured very real grief; but Ned was too concerned with the bearing of this event on his own affairs to feel it deeply. He would now be free to administer his capital as he pleased. Only his mother stood between. One black cloud, however, thrust itself upon his immediate future. His wedding was postponed. Cora insisted upon it, and her mother supported her. Their motives were widely different, but they arrived at the same conclusion.
Priscilla hid her grief from all eyes but her son's; while he, less skilled, surprised the folk by his evident sorrow. They failed to understand it, and acute people laughed, judged it to be simulation, and despised the man for his display. Cora and Phyllis neither pretended nor felt grief. The elder had talked her sister round, and they arrived at a perfectly rational conclusion. It was averse from their father. It led them to regard him as a selfish and a cruel man. They considered also that he had deceived himself, and wickedly wronged the unborn that he might perform a far-fetched obligation to the dead.
Cora put the case very clearly.
"Mother won't see it, and 'tis vain to try to make her; and Heathman won't see it, because he's a fool, and only just misses being weak in his head. But I see it clear enough, and the ugly truth of the man is that for five thousand pounds he was content to let his children come into the world bastards. That's what he did, and I'm not going to pretend I care for him or shall ever respect his memory."
"It'll never come out, however," said Phyllis.
"I'm sure I hope it won't—not out of my mouth, anyway. But still it is so, and all the money he may have left behind him won't make me feel different."
"We shall be rich, I hope, anyway," speculated Phyllis.
"I suppose we shall; and that's the only bright thing about it."
"'Twill be funny not walking first behind the coffin, and not sitting in the mourners' pew after for the Sunday sermon; and we knowing all the time that's where we ought to be," said the younger; but Cora exploded the theory.
"Not at all. We've no right there—not the right of the most distant cousin twenty times removed. Mother was his mistress, and she daren't use the word 'husband' even to us, though I've seen her mouth itching to do it. 'Tis always 'your dear father.' She can't put on a widow's streamers, though it's in her heart to. She'll have to balance her black pretty cautious, I can tell you, if she don't want the people to be staring."
"Surely it must all come out if he leaves his money to us."
"He'll do it clever," said Cora bitterly. "With all his faults he was clever enough. He didn't hide this—so clever as a lapwing hides her nest—for near thirty years, to let it come out the minute he was dead."
"If I was engaged to be married, like what you are, I shouldn't be so nervous," said Phyllis.
"As to that, 'twas as well for me that it fell out now and not later. It may mean a bigger establishment after all; and even a bigger wedding, if I put it off till spring."
"My word, what'll Ned say?"
But Ned's view did not enter as a serious factor into Cora's.
"He's all right," she answered. "If I'm content, so's he."
Storm heralded the funeral day, and dawn blinked red-eyed from much weeping. It was hoped that further torrents might hold off until after the ceremony, and happily they did so, though intermittent rain fell and the wind stormed roughly out of a sad-coloured south.
"'Blessed be the carpse that the rain rains on,'" said Joe Voysey in muffled accents to Jack Head.
They were walking under the coffin, and bore it, with the assistance of six other men, to the grave.
"Ban't so blessed for them that's alive, however," answered Jack. "The mourners will be lashed out of their skins by the look of it. Death's never so busy as at a funeral."
A purple pall spread over the coffin, and while humble men carried the weight of Nathan Baskerville's dust, others of greater repute stood at the corners of the coverlet. They included Mr. Luscombe of Trowlesworthy, Timothy Waite of Coldstone Farm, Heathman Lintern as representing Undershaugh, one Mr. Popham from Cornwood, Nathan's lawyer, and others.
Humphrey Baskerville walked beside the coffin as chief mourner, and Hester Baskerville, on her son Ned's arm, followed him with the rest of the family, save Nathan's namesake, who was at sea. Other relations came after them, with Nicholas Bassett, Polly's husband, and Milly, the wife of Rupert. Cora and her mother and her sister were next in the long procession, and half a dozen private carriages stood together beneath the churchyard wall to support a convention and indicate the respect that their owners entertained towards the dead.
Flowers covered the pall and stood piled beside the grave. Crosses, wreaths, and various trophies were here, together with many little humble bunches from cottage gardens, and not a few mere gleanings from the hedgerow of scarlet and crimson berries, or the last autumnal splendour of beech and briar. The air was heavy with emotion, and many wept. A congregational minister conducted the service, and the vicar helped him. After the body had sunk to earth and the rite was nearly accomplished, the chief mourners took their last look upon the lid, according to custom. Leaves whirled in the air, and the branches overhead made a mighty sigh and swough in the brief silence. Underfoot was trampled mire and reeking grass. A pushing child slipped in the clay at the grave-mouth, and nearly fell in. She was dragged back by Thomas Gollop and despatched weeping to the rear.
Humphrey Baskerville came almost the last to look into the grave, and as others had fallen away from it when he did so, he assumed a momentary prominence. His small, bent, and sombre shape appeared alone at the edge of the cleft-in earth, with flowers piled about his knees. Then suddenly, ominously, cutting its way through the full diapason of the storm-sounds on trees and tower, there crept a different utterance. The wind shouted deep and loud; but this noise was thin and harsh—a hissing, a sharp, shrill sibilation that gained volume presently and spread epidemic into the crowded ranks of the collected men. They were mostly the young who permitted themselves this attack, but not a few of their elders joined with them. The sounds deepened; a groan or two threaded the hisses. Then Baskerville, from his abstraction, awakened to the terrific fact that here, beside his brother's grave, in the eyes of all men, a demonstration had broken out against him. Hands were pointed, even fists were shaken.
He could not immediately understand; he looked helplessly into certain angry faces, and then shrank back from the grave to where his relations stood.
"What's the meaning of this?" he asked Ned; but the young man turned and pretended not to hear him. Then the truth came hurtling like a missile. Voices shouted at him the words 'murderer' and 'brother-killer.'
The fire that lights a mob into one blaze was afoot, and leaping from heart to head. Many for a jest bellowed these insults at him, and thought it good for once to bate so unpopular a creature. A few in honest and righteous rage cried out their wrath. Of such were those who stoned the martyrs to serve their jealous gods. More stones than one now actually did fly, and Humphrey was struck upon the arm. A counter display of feeling ran like a wave against the enemies of the man, and induced a shock in the crowd. Masterman and others laboured to still the gathering storm; women's voices clacked against the gruffer noise of the men. Voysey, with admirable presence of mind, drew some boards over the dead in his grave, that no quick spirit might suddenly fall upon him.
The disturbance ended as swiftly as it had begun, for Humphrey Baskerville made a bolt, dashed through the crowd, descended the churchyard steps, and reached the street. A dozen hastened to follow, but Jack Head, Lintern, Waite, Mr. Masterman, and Ben North, the policeman, resisted the rioters, and kept them within the churchyard walls as far as possible. Jack hit so hard that soon he was involved in a battle against odds on his own account.
Meantime, with a clod or two whizzing past his head, Humphrey reached the street corner and hastened round it. Here was silence and peace. He stopped, and his brain grew dizzy. Such exertion he had not made for many years. He heard the noise of men and hastened on. A chaos of ideas choked his mind and dammed all play of coherent thought. He had heard a rumour that the thing he had done for his brother was regarded differently by different men, but he knew not that so many were incensed and enraged. The shock of the discovery disarmed him now and left him frantic. He looked forward, and believed that his last hope of reconciliation with humanity was dead. He envied the eternal peace of his brother as he struggled on against the hill homeward.
Into the black and water-logged heart of Shaugh Moor he climbed presently, and from exhaustion and faintness fell there. He stopped upon the ground for a few moments; then lifted himself to his hands and knees; then sat down upon a stone and stared down into the theatre of this tragedy.
Overhead a sky as wild as his soul made huge and threatening preparations for the delayed tempest. Through the tangled skirts of the darkness westerly there strove and spread great passages of dazzling silver all tattered and torn and shredded out of the black and weltering clouds. For a moment in the midst of this radiance there opened a farewell weather-gleam, where the azure firmament was seen only to vanish instantly. Then the gloom gathered, and huddled up in ridges of purple and of lead. Aloft, from the skirt of the main cumulus, where it swept under the zenith, there hung, light as a veil, yet darker than the sky behind them, long, writhing tentacles, that twisted down and curled in sinister suspension, that waved and twined, and felt hither and thither horribly, like some aerial hydra seeking prey.
For a time these curtains of the rain swayed clear of earth; but their progress swept them against it, and they burst their vials upon the bosom of the Moor. The storm shrieked, exploded, emptied itself with howling rage out of the sudden darkness. Then the fury of these tenebrous moments passed; the hurricane sped onward, and the dim wet ray that followed struck down upon a heath whitened with ice for miles. A bitterness of cold and an ice-blink of unfamiliar radiance were thrown upwards from the crust of the hail; but soon it melted, and the waste, now running with a million rivulets, grew dark again.
The spectacle must have been impressive to any peaceful mind, but Baskerville saw nothing hyperbolic in the rage of wind and water. The storm cited by Nature was not more tremendous than that tornado now sweeping through his own soul.
END OF SECOND BOOK
Humphrey Baskerville continued to stalk the stage of life like a lonely ghost, and still obscured from all men and women the secrets of his nature, and the fierce interest of his heart in matters human. The things that he most wished to display he deliberately concealed, as a shy child who makes a toy, and longs to show it, but dares not, yet grows warm to the roots of his being if the treasure is found and applauded. Behind doubts, suspicions and jealousies he hid himself; his tongue was rough; his utterances at the outrage put upon him before the people by his brother's grave were bitter and even coarse. Nor did it abate his concern to know that the hostile explosion was as much simulated as genuine, as much mischievous as meant. It drove him in upon himself; it poisoned his opinion of human wisdom; and for a time he moved through darkest night.
Yet this transcendent gloom preceded a dawn; the crisis of his unquiet days approached; and, from the death of Nathan onward, life changed gradually for the man, and opened into a way that until now had been concealed from his scrutiny.
There chanced an hour when Humphrey Baskerville rode upon his pony under the high ground above Cornwood. He came by appointment to meet his dead brother's lawyer, and accident had postponed the interview for some weeks. The solicitor desired to see him. There were strange rumours in the air, and it was declared that a very surprising and unexpected condition of things had appeared upon the publican's passing.
Humphrey refused to hear even his own relations upon the matter, for he held Nathan's estate no concern of his; but at the urgent entreaties of Mr. Popham, the master of Hawk House now rode to see him. He had, however, already made it clear that he was to be considered in no way responsible for his brother's obligations, and felt unprepared to offer advice or engage himself in any particular.
He passed across the shoulder of Pen Beacon, through a wild world of dun-coloured hills, streaked with flitting radiance, and clouded in billowy moisture driven before a great wind. The sky was lowering, and a gale from the Atlantic swept with tremendous power along; but the nature of the scene it struck was such that little evidence of the force displayed could appear to the beholder. Stone and steep and sodden waste stared blindly at the pressure and flinched not. It remained for wandering beast or man to bend before it and reveal its might. On the pelt of the sheep and cattle, or against the figure of a wanderer, its buffet was manifest; and, in the sky, the fierce breath of it herded the clouds into flocks, that sped and spread and gathered again too swiftly for the telling. They broke in billows of sudden light; they massed into darkness and hid the earth beneath them; then again they parted, and, like a ragged flag above a broken army, the clean blue unfurled.
Over this majestic desolation suddenly there shot forth a great company of rooks, and the wind drove them before it—whirling and wheeling and tumbling in giddy dives, only to mount again. A joyous spirit clearly dominated the feathered people. They circled and cried aloud in merry exultation of the air. They swooped and soared, rushed this way and that on slanting pinions, played together and revelled in the immense force that drove them like projectiles in a wild throng before it. Even to these aerial things such speed was strange. They seemed to comment in their language upon this new experience. Then the instinct unfathomed that makes vast companies of living creatures wheel and warp together in mysterious and perfect unison, inspired them. They turned simultaneously, ascended and set their course against the wind. But they could make no headway now, and, in a cloud, they were blown together, discomforted, beaten to leeward. Whereupon they descended swiftly to the level of the ground, and, flying low, plodded together back whence they had come. At a yard or two above earth's surface they steadily flapped along, cheated the wind, and for a few moments flashed a reflected light over the Moor with their innumerable shining black bodies and pinions outspread. At a hedge they rose only to dip again, and here Humphrey, who drew up to watch them, marked how they worked in the teeth of the gale, and was near enough to see their great grey bills, their anxious, glittering eyes, and their hurtling feathers blown awry as they breasted the hedge, fought over, and dipped again.
"'Tis the same as life," he reflected. "Go aloft and strive for high opinions, and the wind of doubt blows you before it like a leaf. Up there you can travel with the storm, not against it. If you want to go t'other way, you've got to feel along close to earth seemingly—to earth and the manners of earth and the folk of the earth. And hard work at that; but better than driving along all alone."
He derived some consolation from this inchoate thought, and suspected a moral; but the simile broke down. His mind returned to Mr. Popham presently, and, taking leave of the Moor, he descended and arrived at the lawyer's house upon the appointed hour.
The things that he heard, though he was prepared for some such recital, astounded him by their far-reaching gravity. The fact was of a familiar character; but it came with the acidulated sting of novelty to those involved. An uproar, of which Humphrey in his isolation had heard but the dim echo, already rioted through Shaugh Prior, and far beyond it.
"I'll give you a sketch of the situation," said the man of business. "And I will then submit my own theory of it—not that any theory can alter the exceedingly unpleasant facts. It belongs merely to the moral side of the situation, and may help a little to condone our poor friend's conduct. In a word, I do not believe he was responsible."
"Begin at the other end," answered Humphrey. "Whether he was responsible or not won't help us now. And it won't prevent honest men spurning his grave, I fancy."
Mr. Popham collected his papers and read a long and dismal statement. His client had always kept his affairs closely to himself, and such was the universal trust and confidence that none ever pressed him to do otherwise. He had been given a free hand in the administration of considerable sums; he had invested where he pleased, and for many years had enjoyed the best of good fortune, despite the hazardous character of the securities he affected.
"No man was ever cursed with such an incurable gift of hope," explained the lawyer. "All along the line you'll find the same sanguine and unjustifiable methods exhibited. The rate per cent was all he cared about. His custom was to pay everybody four and a half, and keep the balance. But when companies came to grief nobody heard anything about it; he went on paying the interest, and, no doubt, went on hoping to make good the capital. This, however, he seldom appears to have done. There are about forty small people who deposited their savings with him, and there is nothing for any of them but valueless paper. He was bankrupt a dozen times over, and the thing he'd evidently pinned his last hope to—a big South American silver mine—is going the way of the others. Had it come off, the position might have been retrieved; but it is not coming off. He put five thousand pounds into it—not his own money—and hoped, I suppose, to make thirty thousand. It was his last flutter."
"Where did he get the money?"
"By mortgaging Cadworthy and by using a good deal of his late brother's capital. I mean the estate of Mr. Vivian Baskerville."
"He's a fraudulent trustee, then?"
"He is. He had already mortgaged all his own property. He was in a very tight place about the time of Mr. Vivian's death, and the money he had to handle then carried him on."
"What did he do with his own money? How did he spend that?"
"We shall never know, unless somebody comes forward and tells us. I trace the usual expenditures of a publican and other expenses. He always kept a good horse or two, and he rode to hounds until latterly, and subscribed to several hunts. He was foolishly generous at all times. I see that he gave away large sums anonymously—but unfortunately they were not his own. There is no doubt that his judgment failed completely of late years. He was so accustomed to success that he had no experience of failure, and when inevitable failures came, they found him quite unprepared with any reserves against them. To stem the tide he gambled, and when his speculations miscarried, he waded still more deeply. He was engaged in borrowing a large sum of money just before his final illness. Indeed, he came to me for it, for he kept me quite in the dark concerning existing mortgages on his property. But he forgot I should want the title-deeds. He was a devious man, but I shall always believe that he lacked moral understanding to know the terrible gravity of the things he did."
"How do we stand now?"
"The estate is from six thousand to seven thousand pounds to the bad."
"What is there against that?"
"The assets are practically nil. About forty pounds at the bank, and the furniture at 'The White Thorn' Inn. Of course, his largest creditor will be Mr. Ned Baskerville, of Cadworthy Farm. I want to say, by the way, that this state of things is quite as much of a surprise to me as to anybody. It is true that I have been his solicitor for twenty years, but my work was nominal. I had no knowledge whatever of his affairs. He never consulted me when in difficulties, or invited my opinion on any subject."
"What about the Linterns?"
"They have asked to stop at Undershaugh for the present. I fancy Mrs. Lintern was a close friend of your brother's. However, she is not communicative. The mortgagee in that case, of course, forecloses, and will, I think, be contented to let Mrs. Lintern stop where she is."
"There was no will?"
"I can find none."
"Yet I know very well he made one ten years ago. At least, he came to me once rather full of it."
"It is very likely that he destroyed it."
There was a silence; then Humphrey Baskerville asked a question.
"Well, what d'you want of me?"
The other shrugged his shoulders.
"I leave that to you. You know how much or how little you regard this disaster as a personal one."
"It has nothing whatever to do with me. I never lent him a penny. He never asked me to do so."
"You don't recognise any obligation?"
"Absolutely not a shadow of any such thing."
"The family of which you are now head——?"
"A sentimental lawyer!"
The other laughed.
"Not much room for sentimentality—at least, plenty of room, no doubt. Of course, if you don't consider——"
He broke off, but his listener did not speak.
"It is to be understood I must not ask you to help me?"
"Not in any practical way—not with money—certainly not. For the rest, if as a man of business I can be of any service——"
"For the sake of the family."
"The family is nothing to me—at least, the one hit hardest is nothing to me. He'll have to work for his living now. That's no hardship. It may be the best thing that's befallen him yet."
"Very true, indeed. Well, let us leave the main question open. The case has no very unusual features. Occasionally the world trusts a man to his grave, and then finds out, too late, that it was mistaken. It is extraordinary what a lot of people will trust a good heart, Mr. Baskerville. Trust, like hope, springs eternal in the human breast."
"Does it? I've never found much come my way. And I'm not strong in trust myself. I felt friendly to Nathan, because he was my own flesh and blood; but trust him—no."
"He didn't confide in you?"
"Never."
Mr. Baskerville rose.
"I shall see my relations no doubt pretty soon. I fancy they'll pay me some visits. Well, why not? I'm lonely, and rolling in money—so they think. And—there's a woman that I rather expect to call upon me. In fact, I've bidden her to do so. Perhaps, if she don't, I'll call on her. For the present we can leave it. If there's no money, nobody can hope to be paid. We'll talk more on that later. Who's got Cadworthy?"
"Westcott of Cann Quarries. He lent the money on it."
"What the devil does he want with it?" asked Mr. Baskerville.
"That I can't tell you. Probably he doesn't want it. He's foreclosed, of course. It was only out of friendship and regard for Mr. Nathan that he lent so much money on the place. He tells me that your brother explained to him that it was for a year or so to help Ned; and out of respect for the family he gladly obliged."
"Didn't know Westcott was so rich."
"You never know who's got the money in these parts. But 'tis safe to bet that it isn't the man who spends most. There's Mr. Timothy Waite, too, he lent Nathan a thousand, six months ago. Some cock-and-bull story your poor brother told him, and of course, for such a man, he gladly obliged. Each that he raised money from thought he was the only one asked, of course."
"He was a rogue, and the worst sort of rogue—a chapel-going, preaching, generous-handed, warm-hearted rogue. Such men are the thieves of virtue. 'Tis an infamous story."
The lawyer stared, and Humphrey continued.
"Such men are robbers, I tell you—robbers of more than money and widows' houses. They are always seeming honest, and never being so. They run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. They get the benefit of being rogues, and the credit of honest men. They are imitation good men, and at heart know not the meaning of real goodness. They have the name of being generous and kind—they are neither. Look what this man has left behind him—blessings turned to curses. All a sham, and a lifelong theft of men's admiration and esteem—a theft; for he won it by false pretences and lived a lie."
"He is dead, however."
"Yes, he is dead; and I suppose you are the sort who like to palter with facts and never speak ill of the dead. Why should we not tell the truth about those who are gone? Does it hurt them to say it? No; but it may do the living some good to say it. If living knaves see us condoning and forgiving dead ones, will they turn from their knavery any the quicker? We're a slack-twisted, sentimental generation. Justice is the last thing thought of. It's so easy to be merciful to people who have sinned against somebody else. But mercy's slow poison, if you ask me. It rots the very roots of justice."
The other shrugged his shoulders.
"The first of Christian virtues, Mr. Baskerville, we must remember that. But argument won't alter facts. You don't see your way to do anything definite, so there's an end of it. Of course, there is no shadow of obligation."
"You're right. I'll visit you again presently. Meantime you might let me have a copy of the claims. I'm interested in knowing how many fools trusted my dead brother with their money. I should like to know what manner of man and woman put their savings into another man's pocket without security. It seems contrary to human nature."
"There's no objection at all. They are all clamouring for their money. And if the South American silver mine had done all that was hoped, not only would they have had their cash, but your brother must have saved his own situation, cleared his responsibilities, and died solvent."
"'If.' There's generally a rather big 'if' with a South American anything, I believe."
They parted, and Humphrey Baskerville rode home again. Upon the way he deeply pondered all the things that he had heard, and not until he was back at Hawk House did distraction from these thoughts come. Then he found that a woman waited to see him. It was Priscilla Lintern, who had called at his invitation; and now he remembered that he had asked her, and half regretted the act.
Mrs. Lintern arrived by appointment, for while one instinct of his nature pressed Humphrey to evade this problem and take no hand in the solution, another and more instant impulse acted in opposition.
He surveyed the sweep of events as they struck at those involved in Nathan's ruin and death; and acting upon reasons now to be divulged, he sent first for the mistress of Undershaugh; because in his judgment her right to consideration was paramount.
Even in the act of summoning her, he told himself that these claims were no business of his to investigate; and that he was a fool to meddle. He repudiated responsibility at one breath, and deliberately assumed it with the next. His own motives he did not pause to examine.
Introspection irritated him and he turned from his conflicting ideas with impatience. In himself he only saw a very ill-balanced, imprudent, and impertinent person; yet he proceeded.
Now came Mrs. Lintern to know what he would have, and he saw her with an emotion of hearty regret that he had invited her.
In answer to his first question she assured him that she and her children were well.
"I'm afraid putting off the wedding has annoyed your nephew a good bit," she said; "but Cora felt that it was better; and so did I."
"Why did you think so?"
"Well, your brother held it so much to heart; and he was Ned's uncle. We could only have made a very quiet business of it in decency; and Cora felt 'twould be sad to marry under the cloud of death."
"Half the sorrow in the world is wasted on what can't be helped. It's folly to mourn what's beyond altering—just as great folly as to mourn the past. Surely you know that?"
"No doubt; but who can help it that's made on a human pattern?"
"The world would be a cheerful place if none wept for what can't be altered. There was nothing in reason to stand between us and the wedding. 'Twas my brother's last wish, for that matter."
She did not answer and a silence fell between them. He was determined that she should break it, and at length she did so.
"Your brother was very fond of Cora. Of course, we at Undershaugh miss him a very great deal."
"You would—naturally."
"At present the idea is that they get married in spring; and that won't be none too soon, for everything's altered now. They'll have to sell half they bought, and get rid of their fine house and their horses, and much else. This business has entirely altered the future for them, poor things."
"Utterly, of course. 'Twill have to be real love to stand this pinch. Better they wait a bit and see how they feel about it. They may change their minds. Both are pretty good at that."
She sighed.
"They understand each other, I believe. But Ned won't change, whatever Cora does. He's wrapped up heart and soul in her."
"He'll have to seek work now."
"Yes; he is doing so."
"The one thing he's never looked for. Harder to find work than foxes."
"He's not good for much."
"You say that of your future son-in-law?"
"Truth's truth. A harmless and useless man. I can't for the life of me think what he'll find to do."
"Nathan would have given him a job—eh? How wonderful he was at finding work for people. And what does Cora think of it all?":
"She's a very secret girl."
"And Heathman?"
"Heathman be going to make my home for me—somewhere. 'Tisn't decided where we go."
"You leave Undershaugh, then?"
"Yes."
"Nathan wouldn't have wished that, I'm sure."
"We were to have stopped, but the new owner wants to raise the rent to nearly as much again."
"What used you to pay?"
She hesitated. Like many people whose position has forced them into the telling of countless lies, she was still tender of truth in trifles.
"No matter," he said. "I can guess the figure very easily, and nought's the shape of it."
A sinister foreboding flashed through her mind. It seemed impossible to suppose such an innuendo innocent. Miss Gollop had said many offensive things concerning her after Nathan's death; but few had believed them, and still fewer shown the least interest in the subject. It was absurd to suppose that Humphrey Baskerville would trouble his head with such a rumour.
"Your brother was generous to all," she answered.
"Why, he was. And if charity shouldn't begin at home, where should it?"
"He was very generous to all," she repeated.
"I've been seeing Mr. Popham to-day."
"He's a true kind man, and wishful to do what he can. The rent asked now for Undershaugh is too high, even in the good state we've made it. So I've got to leave."
"'Twill be a wrench."
"Yes, indeed."
"But not such a bad one as his death?"
"That's true."
He probed her.
"Never to see him come down your path with his bustling gait; never to hear the laughter of the man. You held his hand when he went out of life. He loved you—'twas the master passion of him."
A flush of colour leapt and spread over her face. She gasped but said nothing.
"A cruel thing that he left you as he did."
"What was I?" she began, alert and ready to fight at once and crush this suspicion. "What are you saying? We were nothing——"
He held up his hand.
"A fool's trick—a lifelong fool's trick to hide it—a cruel, witless thing—a wrong against generations unborn—scandalous—infamous—beyond belief in a sane man."
"I don't understand you. God's my——"
"Hush—hush! I'm not an enemy. You needn't put out your claws; you needn't lie to me. You needn't break oaths to me. It's a secret still; but I know it—only me. You were his mistress, Priscilla Lintern—his mistress and the mother of his children."
"He never told you that."
"Not he."
"Who did tell you?"
"Cora told me."
"She'd rather have——"
"She told me—not in words; but every other way. I knew it the hour she came to see me, after she was engaged to marry my son. She strokes her chin like Nat stroked his beard. Have you marked that? She thinks just like Nat thought in a lot of ways, though she's not got his heart. She's not near so silly as he was. Her voice was the echo to his as soon as I got the clue. Her eyes were his again. She handles her knife and fork just like he was wont to do it; she sets her head o' one side to listen to anybody in the way he did. There's birds do it too—when they gather worms out of the grass. And from that I took to marking t'others. Your second girl be more like you; but Heathman will be nearer his father every day as he gets older. If he growed a beard, he'd be nearer him now. Wait and watch. And he's got his heart. Don't speak till you hear more. From finding out that much, I sounded Nathan himself. Little he guessed it, but what I didn't know, I soon learned from him. Cora was the apple of his eye. She could do no wrong. 'Twas Vivian and Ned over again. He spoke of you very guarded, but I knew what was behind. It came out when he was dying, and he was too far gone to hide it. And let me say this: I'll never forgive him for doing such a wicked thing—never. God may; but I won't. I wouldn't forgive myself if I forgave him. But you—you—dull man as I am, I can see a bit of what your life was."
"A better life—a more precious life than mine no woman ever lived."
He took a deep breath.
Here she tacitly confessed to all that he had declared. She did not even confirm it in words, but granted it and proceeded with the argument. And yet his whole theory had been built upon presumption. If she had denied the truth, he possessed no shadow of power to prove it.
"If ever I pitied anybody, I pity you; and I admire you in a sort of left-handed way. You're a very uncommon creature to have hid it in the face of such a village as Shaugh Prior."
"What I am he made me. He was a man in ten thousand."
"I hope he was. Leave him. Let me say this afore we get on. I don't judge you and, God knows it, I'm alive to this thing from your point of view. You loved him well enough even for that. But there's no will. He had nothing to leave; therefore—unless you've saved money during his lifetime——?"
"I don't want you to have anything to do with my affairs, Mr. Baskerville."
"As you please. But there are your children to be considered. Now it may very much surprise you to know that I have thought a lot about them. Should you say, speaking as an outsider, that I'm under any obligation to serve them?"
The sudden and most unexpected question again startled the blood from Mrs. Lintern's heart.
"What a terrible curious man you are! What a question to ask me!" she said.
"Answer it, however—as if you wasn't interested in it."
"No," she declared presently. "None can say that they are anything to do with you. You wasn't your brother's keeper. They be no kin of yours in law or justice."
"In law—no. In justice they are of my blood. Not that that's anything. You're right. They are nought to me. And you are less than nought. But——" He stopped.
"Why have you told me that you have found this out?" she asked. "What good can come of it? You'll admit at least 'tis a sacred secret, and you've no right whatever to breathe it to a living soul? You won't deny that?"
"There again—there's such a lot of sides to it. You might argue for and against. Justice is terrible difficult. Suppose, for instance, that I held, like Jack Head holds and many such, that 'tis a very improper thing and a treachery to the unborn to let first cousins mate—suppose I held to that? Ought I to sit by and let Cora marry Ned? Now there's a nice question for an honest man.
"You were going to let Cora marry your own son."
"I don't know so much about that. They were engaged to each other before I found it out, and then, as she soon flung him over, there was no need for me to speak. Now, the question is, shall I let these two of the same blood breed and maybe bring feebler things than themselves into the world?"
"This is all too deep for me. One thing I know, and that is you can say nought. You've come to the truth, by the terrible, wonderful brains in your head; but you've no right to make it known."
"You're ashamed of it?"
She looked at him almost with contempt.
"You can ask that and know me, even so little as you do? God's my judge that I'd shout it out from the top of the church tower to-morrow; I'd be proud for the world to know; and so much the louder I'd sing it because he's gone down to his grave unloved and in darkness. It would make life worth living to me, even now, if I could open my mouth and fight for him against the world. Not a good word do I hear now—all curse him—all forget the other side of him—all forget how his heart went out to the sorrowful and sad.... But there—what's the use of talking? He don't want me to fight for him."
"If you feel that, why don't you stand up before the people and tell 'em?"
"There's my children."
"Be they more to you than he was?"
"No; but they are next."
"I hate deceit. Who'll think the worse of them?"
"Who won't?"
"None that are worth considering."
"You know very little about the world, for all that you are deep as the dark and can find out things hidden. What about my darters? No, it wouldn't be a fair thing to let it out."
"I hold it very important."
"It shan't be, I tell you. You can't do it; you never would."
"You're right. I never would. But that's not to say I don't wish it to come out. For them, mind you, I speak. I leave you out now. I put you first and you say you'd like it known. So I go on to them, and I tell you that for their peace of mind and well-being in the future, 'tis better a thousand times they should start open and fair, without the need of this lie between them and the world."
"I don't agree with that. When the truth was told them on his deathbed, 'twas settled it should never go no further."
"Wait and think a moment before you decide. What has it been to you to hide the truth all your life?"
"A necessity. I soon grew used to it. Nobody was hurt by it. And Nathan kept his money."
"Don't fool yourself to think that none was hurt by it. Everybody was hurt by it. A prosperous lie be like a prosperous thistle: it never yet flourished without ripening seed and increasing its own poisonous stock a thousandfold. The world's full of that thistledown. Your children know the truth themselves; therefore I say it should come out. They've no right to stand between you and the thing you want to do. I'll wager Heathman don't care—it's only your daughters."
"More than that. Nathan would never have wished it known."
"No argument at all. He was soaked in crookedness and couldn't see straight for years afore he died."
"I won't have it and I won't argue about it."
"Well, your word's law. But you're wrong; and you'll live to know you're wrong. Now what are you going to do? We'll start as though I knew nought of this for the moment."
"I stop at Undershaugh till spring. I've got no money to name. We shall settle between ourselves—me and Heathman."
"I'll——"
He stopped.
"No," he said; "I can't promise anything, come to think of it; and I can't commit myself. 'Tis folly to say, 'let the position be as though I didn't know the truth.' It can't be. I do know it, and I'm influenced by it. I'll do nothing at all for any of you unless this comes out. I say that, not because I don't care for my brother's children, but because I do care for them."
"I don't want you to do anything. I've got my son. I refuse absolutely to speak. Until my children are all of one mind about it, the thing must be hidden up—yes, hidden up for evermore. I won't argue the right or the wrong. 'Tis out of my hands, and so long as one of them says 'no,' I hold it my duty to keep silent. And, of course, 'tis yours also."
"Who knows what my duty would be if Ned was going to marry Cora? I'd sacrifice the unborn to you; but not to your daughter and my nephew. There have been enough tongues to curse that worthless pair already. You don't want their own children to do the same in the time to come? But perhaps I know as much about Cora as you do about Ned. Wait and see if she changes her mind, since he has lost his fortune."
Priscilla rose.
"I will go now," she said. "Of course, you can't guess how this looks to a woman—especially to me of all women. To find that you knew—and no doubt you thought I'd come here and drop dead afore you of shame."
"No, I didn't. If you'd been that sort, I shouldn't have plumped it out so straight. You are a brave creature, and must always have been so. Well, I won't deny you the name of wife in secret—if you like to claim it."
She was moved and thanked him. Satisfaction rather than concern dominated her mind as she returned homeward. She felt glad that Nathan's brother knew, and no shadow of fear dimmed her satisfaction; for she was positive that, despite any declared doubts, he would never make the truth public.
Her own attitude was even as she had described it. She would have joyed to declare her close companionship, if only to stop the tongues of those who hesitated not to vilify the dead before her.
Eliza Gollop had told many stories concerning Mrs. Lintern's attendance in the sick room; but few were interested in them or smelt a scandal. They never identified Priscilla with the vanished innkeeper; they did not scruple to censure Nathan before her and heap obloquy on his fallen head.
Often with heart and soul she longed to fight for him; often she had some ado to hide her impotent anger; but a lifetime of dissimulation had skilled her in the art of self-control. She listened and looked upon the angry man or woman; she even acquiesced in the abuse by silence. Seldom did she defend the dead man, excepting in secret against her daughters.
When Cora Lintern returned home she brought with her a resolution. Her intentions were calculated to cause pain, and she carried them so much the quicker to execution, that the thing might be done and the blow struck as swiftly as possible. She revealed her plan to none, and only made it public when he who was chiefly involved had learned it.
Ned Baskerville called to see Cora, who had been stopping with friends; and when she had spoken upon general subjects, she made him come out with her to the wintry side of West Down, and there imparted her wintry news.
"Have you found anything to do?" was Cora's first question, and he answered that he had not.
"People don't understand me," he said. "Here is Rupert talking about labourer's work, as if it was a perfectly decent suggestion to make. My farm's gone, and he seems to think I might offer to stop there under somebody, like he has himself."
"You want something better."
"Why, of course. I might get a clerkship or some such thing, I should think. A man who has lived my life can't go and dig potatoes. But the difficulty is to get work like that away from towns. I can't be expected to live in a town, and I won't."
"Mr. Tim Waite is a friend of the people I've been stopping with," she said. "He's rich and all that. I believe he might find——"
"Thank you for nothing, Cora. I'm hardly likely to trouble him, am I?"
"Not much use talking like that."
"I'll take patronage, if I must, because beggars can't be choosers; but I'll not take it from my inferiors."
"'Inferiors'! That's a funny word for you to use. How is Timothy Waite your inferior? I don't see it."
"Don't you?" he answered, getting red. "Then you ought to see it. Damn it all, Cora, you're so cold-blooded where I'm concerned. And yet you're supposed to love me and want to marry me."
"I'm not a fool, and if 'tis cold-blooded to have a bit of common-sense, then I'm cold-blooded. Though I'm a bit tired of hearing you fling the word in my face. Timothy Waite always was as good a man as you; and why not?"
"I should call him a mean, money-grubbing sort of chap myself—close-fisted too. He's not a sportsman, anyway. You can't deny that."
"Not much good being generous, if you've got nought to be generous with. And mean he is not. He lent money to your uncle, and never pushed the claim half as hard as many smaller men. I know him a long sight better than you do. And, if you've got any sense left, you'll go to him and ask him if he can help you to find a job. I'm only thinking of you—not myself. I can go into a hat shop any day; but you—you can't do anything. What are you good for? For that matter you don't seem to be able to get a chance to show what you are good for. All your swell hunting friends are worth just what I said they were worth. Now you're down on your luck, they look t'other way."
He began to grow angry.
"You're the fair-weather sort too, then? One here and there has hinted to me that you were—your brother always said it. But never, never would I stand it from any of them. And now I see that it is so."
"No need to call names. The case is altered since Nathan Baskerville ruined you, and I'm not the sentimental kind to pretend different. As we're on this now, we'd better go through with it. You want to marry me and I wanted to marry you; but we can't live on air, I believe. I can't, anyway. It's a very simple question. You wish to marry me so soon as I please; but what do you mean to keep me on? I've got nothing—you know that; and you've got less than nothing, for there's the rent of the house we were to have lived in."
"I've let the house and I am looking round. I'm open to any reasonable offer."
"What nonsense you talk! Who are you that people should make you offers? What can you do? I ask you that again."
"By God! And you're supposed to love me!"
"When poverty comes in at the door—you know the rest. I'm not a heroine of a story-book. All very well for you; but what about me? You can't afford to marry, and I can't afford not to; so there it stands. There's only one thing in the world—only one thing—that you can be trusted to earn money at, and that's teaching people to ride horses. And that you won't do. I've thought it out, and you needn't swear and curse; because it's the truth."
"Damn it all——"
"No good raging. You're selfish, and you never think of me working my fingers to the bone and, very likely, not knowing where to look for a meal. You only want me—not my happiness and prosperity. That's not love. If you loved me, you would have come long since and released me from this engagement, and saved me the pain of all this talk. Nobody ever thinks of me and my future and my anxieties. I've only got my face and—and—you say 'damn' and I'll say it too. Damn—damn—damn—that's thrice for your once; and I hate you thrice as much as you hate me, and I've thrice the reason to. I hate you for being so selfish; and 'tis no good ever you saying you care about me again, because you never did—not really. You couldn't—else you wouldn't have put yourself first always."
He started, quite reduced to silence by this assault. She struck him dumb, but his look infuriated her.
"You won't make me draw back, so you needn't think it," she cried. "I'm not ashamed of a word I've said. 'Tis you ought to be ashamed. And I'm not sorry for you neither, for you've never once been sorry for me. After the crash, not one word of trouble for my loss and my disappointment did you utter—'twas only whining about your horses, and the house at Plympton, and all the rest of it. Vain cursing of the man in his grave; when you ought to have cursed yourself for letting him have the power to do what he did. I'd have stuck to you, money or no money, if you'd been a different man—I swear that. I'd have taken you and set to work—as I shall now, single-handed—but how can any decent girl with a proper conceit of herself sink herself to your level and become your drudge? Am I to work for us both? Are you going to live on the money I make out of women's bonnets?"
"No!" he answered. "Don't think that. I'm dull, I know, and slow-witted. Such a fool was I that I never believed anything bad of a woman, or ever thought an unkind thought of anything in petticoats. But you use very straight English always, and you make your meaning perfectly clear. I know it won't be easy for me to get the work I want. I may be poor for a long time—perhaps always. I'll release you, Cora, if that's what you wish. No doubt I ought to have thought of it; but I'll swear I never did. I thought you loved me, and everything else was small by comparison. If anybody had said 'release her,' I'd have told him that he didn't know what love of woman meant—or a woman's love of man. But you can be free and welcome, and put the fault on my shoulders. They can bear it. Go to Timothy. He's always wanted you."
"You needn't be coarse. I'm sick and tired of all you men. You don't know what love means—none of you. And since you say I'm to go, I'll go. And I'll find peace somewhere, somehow; but not with none of you."
He laughed savagely.
"You've ruined me—that's what you've done. Meat and drink to you, I'll wager! Ruined me worse than ever my uncle did. I could have stood up against that. I did. I'd pretty well got over the pinch of it. Though 'twas far more to me than anybody, I took it better than anybody, and my own mother will tell you so. But why? Because I thought I'd got you safe enough and nothing else mattered. I never thought this misfortune meant that you'd give me the slip. If any man had hinted such a thing, I'd have knocked his teeth down his throat. But I was wrong as usual."
"You gave me credit for being a fool as usual."
"Never that, Cora. I always knew very well you were clever, but I thought you were something more. You crafty things—all of you! And now—what? 'Twill be said I've jilted another girl—not that the only woman I ever honestly worshipped with all my heart have jilted me."
"No need to use ugly, silly words about it. All that will be said by sensible people is that we've both seen reason and cut our coats according to our cloth. The people will only say you've got more wits than they thought. Let it be understood we were of the same mind, and so we both get a bit of credit for sense."
"Never!" he burst out passionately. "You're a hard-hearted, cruel devil. You know where the fault is and who's to blame. You think of nought but your own blasted comfort and pleasure, and you never cared no more for me than you cared for my cousin before me. But I'll not hang myself—be sure of that!"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"You might do worse, all the same," she said. "For you're only cumbering the earth that I can see."
Thereupon he swore wild oaths and rushed off and left her on the hillside alone.
When he was gone she went her own way, but not to Undershaugh. By deep lanes and field-paths familiar to her she took a long walk, and at the end of it found herself at Coldstone Farm, the abode of Mr. Timothy Waite. He was from home, and she asked for pen and paper that she might leave a note for him. Her communication was short, and when she had written it and sealed it with exceeding care, she set off again for home.
Anon Mr. Waite opened it and was much disappointed at the length. But Cora's matter atoned for this shortcoming.
"Have settled with N.B. Yours, C."
And elsewhere, while she retraced her way from Coldstone, the discarded lover came to a wild conclusion with himself. He steadied his steps, stood at the Moor edge in two minds, then turned and set off for Hawk House.
This blow had staggered him, had even awakened him from the fatuous dream in which he passed his days. He had a vague idea that Humphrey might be glad to know of this broken engagement; that it might even put his uncle into a more amiable temper. Ned had been advised by Rupert to see Mr. Baskerville; but had declined to do so until the present time.
At Hawk House Mrs. Hacker met him and made no effort to hide astonishment.
"Wonders never cease, I'm sure! You, of all men! Master be on the Moor, riding somewheres, but if you want him, you can wait for him. He always comes in at dusk. How's your young woman?"
The man was in no mood for talk with Susan and cut her short.
"I'll wait, then," he said. "I'll wait in the garden."
He walked up and down amid the nut trees for an hour. Then Humphrey returned.
Tea was served for them in the kitchen; Susan went out and the way opened for Ned.
"You might be surprised to see me," he began; "but though I know you don't like me—natural enough too—still, I'm your eldest nephew, and I felt at a time like this you'd not refuse to let me speak to you."
"Speak, and welcome."
"Of course, all our lives are turned upside down by this terrible business."
"Not all. In these cases 'tis the drones, not the workers, that are hit hardest. If you've got wit enough to understand what you see under your eyes, you'll find that your brother Rupert, for instance, can go on with his life much as before; and scores of others—-they've lost a bit of money—cheated out of it by my brother, the late Nathan Baskerville—but it don't wreck them. 'Tis only such as you—accustomed all your life to idle and grow fat on other men's earnings—'tis only such as you that are stranded by a thing like this. I suppose you want to get back into the hive—like t'other drones when the pinch of winter comes—and the world won't let you in?"
This uncompromising speech shook Ned and, under the circumstances, he felt that it was more than he could bear.
"If you knew what had happened to me to-day, you'd not speak so harsh, Uncle Humphrey," he answered. "I may tell you that I've been struck a very cruel blow in the quarter I least expected it. Cora Lintern's thrown me over."
"Cat-hearted little bitch," he said. "And you bleat about a 'cruel blow'! Why, you young fool, escape from her is the best piece of fortune that ever fell to your lot—or is ever likely to. And you ask me to be sorry for you! Fool's luck is always the best luck. You've had better fortune far than ever you deserved if she's quitted you."
"You can't look at it as I do; you can't see what my life must be without her."
"Eat your meat and don't babble that stuff."
Ned shook his head.
"Don't want nothing, thank you."
"Well, hear me," said Humphrey. "You sought me of your own free will, and so you may as well listen. You've come, because you think I can do you a turn—eh?"
"I'm down on my luck, and I thought perhaps that you—anyway, if you can help, or if you can't, you might advise me. I've looked very hard and very far for a bit of work such as I could do; and I've not found it."
"The work you can do won't be easily found. Begin at the beginning. You're Godless—always have been."
"Let God alone and He'll let you alone—that's my experience," said Ned.
"Is it? Well, your experience don't reach far. You've come to the place where God's waiting for you now—waiting, and none too pleased at what you bring afore Him. You're a fool, and though we mourn for a wise man after he's dead, we mourn for a fool all the days of his life. D'you know where that comes from? Of course you don't."
"I can mend, I suppose? Anyway, I've got to be myself. Nobody can be different to their own character."
"Granted—you can't rise above your own character; but you can easily sink below it. That's what you have done, and your father helped you from the first."
"I won't hear you say nothing against him, Uncle Humphrey. Good or bad, he was all goodness to me."
"You think so, but you're wrong. Well, I'll leave him. But 'tis vain to judge you too hard when I remember your up-bringing."
"All the same, I will say this for myself: when you pull me to pieces, you'll find no wickedness in me worth mentioning. Whatever I may be, I've always behaved like a gentleman and a sportsman, and none will deny it," declared Ned.
"The biggest fool can be witty when it comes to excusing his own vices to his conscience," replied the old man. "Fox yourself with that rubbish, if you can, not me. To behave like a gentleman is to be a gentleman, I should think, and I understand the word very different from you. You're a selfish, worthless thing—a man that's reached near to thirty without putting away his childish toys—a man that's grown to man's estate and stature without doing so much good in the world as my blind pony—nay, nor so much good as the worm that pulls the autumn leaves into the wet ground. And you pride yourself on being a gentleman! Better larn to be a man first and a gentleman afterwards."
"I've never had no occasion to work till now. Nobody ever asked me to; nobody ever wanted me to. It was natural that I shouldn't. A man can't help his character, and I can't help mine. I hate work and always shall."
"That's clear, then. And I can't help my character either. I hate idleness and always shall. Never have I given a loafer a helping hand, and never will I. A man ought to be like Providence and only help those who help themselves."
"But I mean to work; I need to work; I must work."
"Laziness is a cancer," said Mr. Baskerville. "'Tis just as much a cancer as the human ill we call by that name. And 'tis a modern thing. There's something rotten with the world where any man can live without earning the right to. When next you find yourself caddling about on the Moor wasting your time, take a look at the roundy-poundies—they circles of stones cast about on the hillsides and by the streams. My son Mark knew all about them. They were set up by men like ourselves who lived on the Moor very long ago. Life was real then. Nought but their own sweat stood between the old men and destruction. The first business of life was to keep life in them days. They hunted to live, not for pleasure. They hunted and were hunted. No time to be lazy then. Did they help beggars? Did they keep paupers? No; all had to toil for the common good; and if a man didn't labour, he didn't eat. They had their work cut out for 'em to wring a bare living out of the earth and the creatures on it. No softness of mind or body then. No holidays and pleasurings and revels then. And I'd have it so again to-morrow, if I could. Work and eat; idle and starve—that's what I'd say to my fellow-creatures."
"I mean to work; I'm ready for work."
"All very well to say that now. You may be ready for work; but what sort of work is ready for you? What can you do? Can you break stones? There's a Cornish proverb hits you this minute: 'Them as can't scheme must lowster.' Your father was very fond of using it—to every lazy body but you. It means that if you haven't the wits to make a living with your brains, you must do it with your hands. It all comes back to work."
"I know it does. I keep on telling you I'm ready for it—any amount of it. But not breaking stones. I've got brains in my head, though I know you don't think so. I came to-day to know if you would give those brains a trial. I'm a free man now. Cora has flung me over, so there's no obligation anywhere. I'm free to stand up and show what I'm good for. I've sold my horses and given up hunting already. That's something."
"Something you couldn't help. How much did you get for that big bright bay?"
"Forty-five guineas."
"And gave?"
"Seventy. But, of course, I've not got enough capital all told to be much practical use in buying into anything. What I really want is five hundred pounds."
"A common want."
"And I thought perhaps that you—I thought of it as I came here to see you."
"And still you try to make out you're not a fool?"
"I can give interest and security."
"Yes—like your Uncle Nathan, perhaps. In a word, I'll not do anything. Not a farthing of money and not a hand of help. But——"
He stopped as the younger man rose.
"I didn't ask for money; I only suggested a loan."
"I'll loan no loans to you or any man. But this I will do, because you are the head of our family now, and I don't want anybody to say I helped to cast you lower when you were down. This I will do: I'll double the money you earn."
"Double it!" exclaimed Ned.
"That's my word; and now the boot's on the other leg, and I'm the fool for my pains, no doubt. But understand me. 'Tis what youearn, not what you get. When you come to me and say, 'I've found a job, and I'm paid so much a week for doing it by an independent man,' then I'll double what he gives you. But let there be no hookemsnivey dealings, for I'll very soon find them out if you try it. Let it be figures, let it be horses, let it be clay, let it be stones by the road—I'll double what you earn for five years. By that time, maybe, you'll know what work means, and thank Heaven, that's taught you what it means. Go and find work—that's what you've got to do; go and find what you're worth in the open market of men. And you needn't thank me for what I offer. 'Twill be little enough, I promise you—as you'll find when you come to hear the money value of your earning powers."
"All the same I do thank you, and I thank you with all my heart," said Ned: "and perhaps you'll be a bit more astonished than you think for, Uncle Humphrey, when you find what I can do."
Then his nephew went away in doubt whether to be elated or cast down.