An elderly man called Abraham Elford became tenant of 'The White Thorn' after Baskerville's death. He lacked the charm of Nathan, and it was rumoured that the quality of his liquor by no means equalled that provided by the vanished master of the inn; but no choice offered of other drinking houses, and the new publican retained all former patronage.
One subject at this season proved rich enough to shut out all lesser matters from conversation, for the wide waves of concern set rolling when Nathan died had as yet by no means subsided. Each day for many days brought news of some fresh disaster to humble folk; and then came another sort of intelligence that gratified the few and angered the many.
Mr. Elford and certain of his customers, not directly interested, found the subject of Nathan's affairs exceedingly wearisome and often sought to turn talk into other channels; but not for long could they be said to succeed. Local politics and weather soon lost their power to hold the people; and those disasters spread by the late publican swiftly cropped up again to the exclusion of less pungent concerns.
A party of men was assembled at 'The White Thorn' near Christmas time, and they wrangled on over this well-trodden ground until Joe Voysey, who had not suffered, turned to the grey-headed host behind the bar and asked a question.
"Did this here fire fail afore you comed, Abraham?" he asked. "'Tis a well-known fact that 'The White Thorn' hearth haven't been cold for a hundred year—peat always smouldering, or else blazing, upon it."
"Yes, and a thousand pities," answered the other. "At the time of Mr. Baskerville's death, of course, there was a terrible deal of running about and confusion. And the fire was forgot. I knowed the old saying and was very sorry to see it black out."
"What do it matter?" asked Jack Head. He was in a quarrelsome mood and bad company on the occasion. "These silly sayings and fancies are better forgot. Who's the wiser for a thing like that? Probably, when all's said, 'tis a lie. I dare say the fire went out scores of times when Nathan was here, and somebody just lit it again and said nought about it."
"That's wrong, Jack," declared Heathman Lintern, who was present. "Mr. Baskerville took a lot of care of the fire and felt very proud of it. A score of times I've heard him tell people about it, and that the fire had never been douted for more than a hundred years."
"One thing I know, that if there was such a place as hell, he'd soon meet with a fire as would last longer still," answered Head. "A fire that never will be douted. And right well he'd deserve it."
Thomas Gollop found himself in agreement with this ferocity.
"You're right there, and there is such a place—have no fear of that, though 'tis your way to scorn it. For my part I say that there couldn't be no justice without it. He devoured widows' houses and stole the bread of the poor—what worse can any man do?"
"A man can backbite the dead, and spit out his poison against them as never hurt him in word or deed," answered Heathman Lintern. "'Tis always your way to blackguard them that be out of earshot and the power to answer; and the further a man be away, the louder you yelp. Faults or no faults, the likes of you wasn't worthy to wipe his shoes."
"You Linterns—well, I'll say nought," began Jack Head; but the subject was too attractive for him and he proceeded.
"If he left your mother any money, it's against the law, and you can tell her so. It wasn't his to leave, and if she got money from him in secret, it's my money—not hers—mine, and many other people's before it's hers. And if she was honest she'd give it back."
"You've lost your wits over this," answered Lintern, "and if you wasn't an old man, Jack, I'd hammer your face for mentioning my mother's name in such a way. She never had a penny by him, and the next man that says she did shall get a flea in his ear—old or young."
"Let it be a lesson to all sorts and conditions not to trust a Dissenter," said Gollop. "I've known pretty well what they're good for from the first moment they began to lift their heads in the land. They never were to be trusted, and never will be. And as for Nathan Baskerville, he was a double serpent, and I shall tell the truth out against him when and where I please; and why for not?"
"You don't know the meaning of truth," began Heathman; "no more don't that old cat, your sister."
"Better leave my sister alone, or 'twill be the worse for you," answered the parish clerk.
"I'll leave her alone when she leaves my mother alone, and not sooner. She a lying, foul-minded old baggage—not to be trusted in a respectable house—and if I was better to do, I'd have the law of her for the things she's said."
"You talk of the law," answered Jack. "You might just so well talk of the prophets. One's as rotten as t'other nowadays. The law's gone that weak that a man's savings can be taken out of his pocket by the first thief that comes along with an honest face; and him powerless. Five-and-thirty pound—that's what he had of mine, and the law looks on and does nought."
"Because there's nought for it to do," suggested Mr. Elford. "The law can't make bricks without straw——"
"Just what it can do—when it's writing its own bills o' costs," answered Jack. "They'm damn clever at that; but let a rogue rob me of my savings and the law don't care a brass farthing. Why? Because I'm poor."
"Is there to be nought declared in the pound?" inquired an old man beside the fire. "He had eight, ten of mine, and I was hopeful us might get back a little, if 'twas only shillings."
"You'll see nothing of it, gaffer," declared Head. "There wasn't much more than enough to pay for the man's coffin. And the tears shed at his grave! I laugh when I think of all them gulls, and the parsons, with their long faces, thinking they was burying a good man and a burning light."
"A burning light now, if he wasn't afore," said Gollop, returning to his favourite theme.
"You're a mean cur at heart, Jack," burst out the dead man's son to Mr. Head. "With all your noise about justice and liberty and right and wrong, none on God's earth can show his teeth quicker and snarl worse if his own bone be took away. You knowed Nathan Baskerville—no one knowed him better than you. And well you know that with all his faults and foolish, generous way of playing with his money and other people's—well, you know there was a big spirit in the man. He meant terrible kindly always. He didn't feather his own nest. For a hundred that curse him now, there's thousands that have blessed him in past years. But 'tis the curses come home to roost and foul a man's grave; the blessings be forgot."
The young man's eyes shone and his eloquence silenced the bar for a moment.
Jack Head stared.
"'Tis Mark Baskerville speaking," he said. "Even so he was used to talk! But I didn't know you was the soft sort too, Heathman. What was Nat to you, or you to Nat, that you can stand up for him and talk this nonsense in the face of facts? Where's my money? When you tell me that, I'll tell you——"
"Who knows whether you'm forgot after all, Jack?" interrupted Joe Voysey. "Everybody ban't ruined. There's a few here and there—especially the awful poor people—as have had their money made good."
"I know all about that," answered Head; "'tis that fool, the parson. Masterman have no more idea of justice than any other church minister, and he's just picked and chosen according to his own fancy, and made it up to this man and that man out of his own riches."
"To no man has he made it up," corrected Gollop. "'Tis only in the case of certain needy females that he've come forward. A widow here and there have been paid back in full. I made so bold as to ask Lawyer Popham about it; but he's not a very civil man, and he fobbed me off with a lawyer's answer that meant nought."
"'Tis well knowed to be Masterman, however," said Voysey.
"Yes; well knowed to us; but not to the general public. Some think it's the lawyer himself; but that's a wild saying. Last thing he'd do. He'll be out of pocket as it is."
At this juncture was presented the unusual spectacle of a woman in the bar of 'The White Thorn,' and Susan Hacker entered.
She was known to several present and men liked her. She understood the sex, and could give as good as she got. She expected little in the way of civility or sense from them, and she was seldom disappointed.
"Hullo!" cried Head. "Be you on the downward path then, Susan? 'Tis your old man driving you to drink without a doubt!"
The abundant woman pushed Jack out of her way and came to the counter.
"Don't you pay no heed to that there sauce-box," she said. "And him old enough and ugly enough to know better, you'd think. A drop of gin hot, please. I be finger-cold and I've got to speed home yet."
"How's 'the Hawk'?" asked Mr. Voysey. "We all thought when poor old Nathan was took off that he'd come forward with his money bags—knowing the man, didn't we, souls?"
This excellent jest awakened laughter till Susan stopped it. She took her drink to the fire, loosed a mangy little fur tippet from her great shoulders and warmed her feet alternately.
"A funny old fool you are, Joe—just funny enough to make other fools laugh. And why should Humphrey Baskerville waste his money on a lot of silly people? Which of you would come forward and help him if he was hard up?"
"I would," said Jack Head. "With my opinions I'd help any thrifty person let in by this dead man—if I could. But I was let in myself. And you're in the truth to call us fools, for so we were."
"It's reason, every way, that your master might think of his brother's good name and right the wrong done by the man who was here afore me," declared Mr. Elford impartially.
"Why?" asked Mrs. Hacker. "Why do you say 'tis reason? If 'tis reason for him, 'tis just as much reason for every other man who can afford to mend it."
"That's what I say," argued Jack Head, but none agreed with him.
"Ban't our business, but 'tis Humphrey Baskerville's," declared the publican. "The dead man was his own brother and his only one. For the credit of the family he ought to come forward, and not leave the parson and other outsiders to do it."
"Because your brother does wrong, 'tis no business of yours to right the wrong," answered Mrs. Hacker. "Besides, 'tis well known that charity begins at home."
"And stops there," suggested Gollop. "No doubt at Hawk House, you and him be as snug as beetles in the tree bark, while other people don't know where to turn for a roof to cover 'em."
"They'd have poor speed if they was to turn to you, anyway," she said. "'Tis like your round-eyed, silly impudence to speak like that of a better man than ever you was or will be, or know how to be. He ban't bound to tell you where he spends his money, I believe; and if you was half as good a man—but there, what can you expect from a Gollop but a grunt? You'm a poor generation, you and your sister—God knows which is the worse."
"Bravo, Susan! Have another drop along o' me," cried Heathman Lintern, and she agreed to do so.
"What do you know and what don't you know?" asked Head presently. "Be your old party going to do anything or nothing?"
"I don't know. But this I do know, that all your wild tales down here about his money be silly lies. We live hard enough, I can promise that, whatever you may think. If every man here spent his money so wise as Humphrey Baskerville, you wouldn't all be boozing in this bar now, but along with your lawful wives and families, helping the poor women to find a bit of pleasure in life. But I know you; you get a shipload of brats and leave their mothers to do all the horrid work of 'em, while you come in here every night like lords, and soak and twaddle and waste your money and put the world right, then go home not fit company for a dog——"
"Steady on—no preaching here—rule of the bar," said Mr. Voysey. "You think we're all blanks because you drew a blank, Susan. Yes, a blank you drew, though you might have had me in the early forties."
"You! I'd make a better man than you with a dozen pea-sticks," retorted Susan. "And I didn't draw a blank, I drawed Hacker, who'd be here now teaching you chaps to drink, if the Lord had spared him. You can't even drink now—so feeble have you growed. Hacker, with all his faults, was a fine man; and so's Humphrey Baskerville in his way."
"Talk on; but talk to the purpose, Susan. What have he done? That's the question. You ain't going to tell me he's done nought," suggested Mr. Head.
"I ain't going to tell you nothing at all, because I don't know nothing at all. He wouldn't ax me how to spend his money—nor you neither."
"Tell us who he's helping—if anybody," persisted the man. "How is it none haven't handed me back my money? You can mention—if you've got the pluck to do it—that I want my bit back so well as t'others; and mine be quite as much to me as Ned Baskerville's thousands was to him."
"Charity begins at home," repeated Susan, "and I'll lay you my hat, though the fog's took the feather out of curl, that if he does anything, 'twill be for his own first. He's that sort, I believe."
"They people at Cadworthy?"
"Yes. Not that I think he'll do aught; but if he does, 'twill be there. Mrs. Baskerville be taking very unkindly to the thought of leaving. She've lived here all her married life and brought all her childer there. But she've got to go. They're all off after Lady Day. Too much rent wanted by the new owner."
"Same with us," said Heathman. "These here men, who have got the places on their hands now, 'pear to think a Dartmoor farm's a gold mine. Me and my mother clear out too."
Mrs. Hacker drank again.
"And after this glass, one of you chaps will have to see me up over," she said.
"We'll all come, if you'll promise another drink at t'other end," declared Heathman; but Susan turned to Jack Head.
"You'd best to come, Jack," she declared.
He exhibited indifference, but she pressed him and he agreed.
"If I've got a man to look after me, there's no hurry," she concluded. "I'm in for a wigging as 'tis."
The easy soul stopped on until closing time, and then Mr. Head fulfilled his promise and walked homeward beside her through a foggy night. She rested repeatedly while climbing the hill to the Moor, and she talked without ceasing. Susan was exhilarated and loquacious as the result of too much to drink. Head, however, bore with her and acquired a most startling and unexpected piece of information.
He mentioned the attitude of Heathman Lintern and his fiery championship of the dead.
"I thought he'd have come across and hit me down, because I told the naked truth about the man. And he denied that his mother was the better by a penny when Nathan died. But how about it when he was alive?"
"Truth's truth," answered Susan. "You might have knocked me down with a feather when—but there, what am I saying?"
He smelt a secret and angled for it.
"Of course, you're like one of the Baskerville family yourself, and I've no right to ask you things; only such a man as me with a credit for sense be different to the talking sort. Truth's truth, as you say, and the truth will out. But Eliza Gollop—of course she knows nothing. She couldn't keep a secret like you or me."
Mrs. Hacker stood still again and breathed hard in the darkness. Her tongue itched to tell a tremendous thing known to her; but her muddled senses fought against this impropriety.
"Two can often keep a secret that pretty well busts one," said Mr. Head with craft. He believed that Humphrey Baskerville was paying some of his brother's debts; and since this procedure might reach to him, he felt the keenest interest in it. Mrs. Lintern did not concern him. He had merely mentioned her. But Priscilla was the subject which filled Susan's mind to the exclusion of all lesser things, and she throbbed to impart her knowledge. No temptation to confide in another had forced itself upon her until the present; yet with wits loosened and honour fogged by drink, she now yearned to speak. At any other moment such a desire must have been silenced, by reason of the confession of personal wrongdoing that it entailed. Now, however, she did not remember that. She was only lusting to tell, and quite forgot how she had learned. Thus, while Head, to gain private ends, endeavoured to find whether Mr. Baskerville was paying his brother's debts, Susan supposed that his mind ran upon quite another matter: the relations between Priscilla Lintern and Humphrey's dead brother.
Mrs. Hacker knew the truth. She had acquired it in the crudest manner, by listening at the door during an interview between Nathan's mistress and her master. This tremendous information had burnt her soul to misery ever since; but a thousand reasons for keeping the secret existed. Her own good name was involved as much as another's. She could not whisper a word for her credit's sake; and a cause that weighed far heavier with her was the credit of Eliza Gollop.
Eliza had guessed darkly at what Susan now knew; but as a result of her subterranean hints, Eliza had suffered in the public esteem, for few believed her.
To confirm Eliza and ratify her implications was quite the last thing that Mrs. Hacker would have desired to do; and yet such was the magic sleight of alcohol to masquerade in the shape of reason, justice, and right—such also its potency to conceal danger—that now this muddled woman fell. She was intelligent enough to make Jack promise on Bible oaths that he would keep her secret; and then she told him the last thing that he expected to hear.
With acute interest he waited to know Humphrey's future intentions respecting his brother's creditors; instead he listened to widely different facts.
"I'll tell you if you'll swear by the Book to keep it to yourself. I'll be the better for telling it. 'Tis too large a thing for one woman—there—all that gin—I know 'tis that have loosed my tongue even while I'm speaking. And yet, why not? You're honest. I'm sure I can't tell what I ought to do. You might say 'twas no business of mine, and I don't wish one of 'em any harm—not for the wide world do I."
"I'll swear to keep quiet enough, my dear woman. And 'tis your sense, not your thimble of liquor, makes you want to talk to me. If not me, who? I'm the sort that knows how to keep a secret, like the grave knows how to keep its dead. I'm a friend to you and Mr. Baskerville both—his greatest friend, you might say."
"In a word, 'tis natural that young Lintern—you swear, Jack—on your Bible you swear that you won't squeak?"[1]
[1]Squeak—break silence.
"I ain't got one; but I'll swear on yours. You can trust me."
"'Twas natural as Lintern got vexed down there then, and you was lucky not to feel the weight of his fist. For why—for why? He's Nathan's son! Gospel truth. They'm all his: Cora, t'other girl, and Heathman. The mother of 'em told my master in so many words; and I heard her tell him. I was just going into the room, but stopped at the door for some reason, and, before I could get out of earshot, I'd catched it. There!"
"Say you was eavesdropping and have done with it," said Mr. Head. He took this startling news very quietly, and advised Susan to do the like.
"The less you think about it, the better. What's done be done. We don't know none of the rights of it, and I'm not the sort to blame anybody—woman or man—for their private actions. 'Tis only Nathan's public actions I jumped on him for, and if Heathman was twice his son, I'd not fear to speak if 'twas a matter of justice."
"I didn't ought to have told you, but my mind's a sieve if there's a drop of gin in my stomach. I had to let it go to-night. If I hadn't told you what I knowed, so like as not I'd have told Mr. Baskerville hisself when I got back; and then 'twould have comed out that I'd listened at the door—for I did, God forgive me."
Susan became lachrymose, but Jack renewed his promises and left her tolerably collected. The confession had eased her mind, calmed its excitement, and silenced her tongue also.
Jack tried to learn more of the thing that interested him personally, but upon that subject she knew nothing. She believed the general report: that Mr. Masterman, by secret understanding with the lawyer, was relieving the poorest of Nathan's creditors; and she inclined to the opinion that her master had no hand in this philanthropy.
They parted at the garden wicket of Susan's home, and Mr. Head left her there; but not before she had made him swear again with all solemnity to keep the secret.
As Humphrey Baskerville had pointed out to his nephew Ned, disaster usually hits the weak harder than the strong, and the lazy man suffers more at sudden reverses than his neighbour, who can earn a living, come what trouble may.
Rupert and his wife were prepared to seek a new home, and Milly, at the bottom of her heart, suffered less from these tribulations than any of her husband's relations. The blow had robbed him of nothing, since he possessed nothing. To work to win Cadworthy was no longer possible, but he might do as well and save money as steadily elsewhere; and the change in their lives for Milly meant something worth having. In her heart was a secret wish that her coming child might be born in her own home. As for her husband he now waited his time, and did not immediately seek work, because Humphrey Baskerville directed delay. His reason was not given, nor would he commit himself to any promise; but he offered the advice, and Rupert took it.
Mrs. Baskerville's grief at leaving her home proved excessive. She belonged to the easy sort of people who are glad to trust their affairs in any capable control, and she suffered now at this sudden catastrophe, even as Ned suffered. She had very little money, and was constrained to look to her sons for sustenance. It was proposed that she and May should find a cottage at Shaugh; but to display her poverty daily before eyes that had seen her prosperity was not good to her. She found it hard to decide, and finally hoped to continue life in a more distant hamlet. All was still in abeyance, and the spring had come. Until Ned's future theatre of toil was certain, his mother would not settle anything. She trusted that he might win a respectable post, but employment did not offer. Hester's youngest son Humphrey had been provided for by a friend, and he was now working with Saul Luscombe at Trowlesworthy.
Then came a date within six weeks of the family's departure. The packing was advanced, and still nothing had been quite determined. Ned was anxious and troubled; Rupert waited for his uncle to speak. He knew of good work at Cornwood, and it was decided that his mother and May should also move to a cottage in that churchtown, unless Ned achieved any sort of work within the next few weeks. Then his plans might help to determine their own.
At this juncture, unexpectedly on a March evening, came their kinsman from Hawk House, and Rupert met him at the outer gate.
"Is your mother here?" asked the rider, and when he heard that the family was within—save Ned, who stayed at Tavistock on his quest—he dismounted and came among them.
A litter and disorder marked the house. There were packing-cases in every room; but less than a moiety of Hester's goods would leave her home. She must dwell in a small cottage henceforth, and her furniture, with much of her china and other precious things, was presently destined to be sold. The period of her greatest grief had long passed; she had faced the future with resignation for many months, and returned to her usual placidity. She and her daughter could even plan their little possessions in a new cottage, and smile together again. They had fitted their minds to the changed condition; they had calculated the probable result of the sale, and Mrs. Baskerville, thrown by these large reverses from her former easy and tranquil optimism, had fallen upon the opposite extreme.
She now looked for no amelioration of the future, foresaw no possibility of adequate work for Ned, and was as dumb as a wounded horse or cow, even at the tragical suggestion of her son's enlistment. This he had openly discussed, but finding that none exhibited any horror before the possibility, soon dropped it again.
To these people came Mr. Baskerville—small, grey, saturnine. His eyes were causing him some trouble, and their rims were grown red. They thought in secret that he had never looked uglier, and he declared openly that he had seldom felt worse.
"'Tis the season of the year that always troubles me," he said. "Gout, gravel, rheumatism, lumbagy—all at me together. Nature is a usurer, Hester, as you may live to find out yet, for all you keep so healthy. She bankrupts three parts of the men you meet, long afore they pay back the pinch of dust they have borrowed from her. The rate of interest on life runs too high, and that's a fact, even though you be as thrifty of your powers as you please, and a miser of your vital parts, as I have always been."
"Your eyes are inflamed seemingly," said his sister-in-law. "Vivian's went the same once, but doctor soon cured 'em."
They sat in the kitchen and he spoke to May.
"If you'll hurry tea and brew me a strong cup, I'll thank you. I feel just as if 'twould do me a deal of good."
She obeyed at once, and Humphrey, exhibiting a most unusual garrulity and egotism, continued to discuss himself.
"For all my carcase be under the weather, my mind is pretty clear for me. Things be going well, I'm glad to say, and you might almost think I—— However, no matter for that. Perhaps it ban't the minute to expect you to take pleasure at any other's prosperity. There's nothing like health, after all. You'll find yourself more peaceful now, Hester, now you know the worst of it?"
"Peaceful enough," she said. "I don't blame myself, and 'tis vain to blame the dead. Master trusted his brother Nathan, like you trust spring to bring the leaves. Therefore it was right and proper that I should do the same. 'Twas all put in his hands when Vivian died. Even if I would have, I wasn't allowed to do anything. But, of course, I trusted Nathan too. Who didn't?"
"I didn't, never—Rupert will bear me out in that. I never trusted him, though I envied the whole-hearted respect and regard the world paid him. We envy in another what's denied to ourselves—even faults sometimes. Yet I'm pretty cheerful here and there—for me. Have you heard any more said about his death and my hand in it?"
"A lot," answered Mrs. Baskerville. "And most understanding creatures have quite come round to seeing your side. Only a man here and there holds out that you were wrong."
"I may tell you that the reverend Masterman couldn't find no argument against it. He came to see me not long since. He wouldn't be kept to the case in point, but argued against the principle at large. When I pinned him to Nathan at last, he said, though reluctantly, that he believed he would have done no less for his own brother. That's a pretty good one to me—eh?"
"My Uncle Luscombe thinks you did the proper thing," declared Milly.
Presently May called them to the table and handed Humphrey his tea.
He thanked her.
"No sugar," he said, "and you ought not to take none neither, May. Trouble haven't made you grow no narrower at the waist seemingly."
The girl tried to smile, and her family stared. Jocosity in this man was an exhibition almost unparalleled. If he ever laughed it was bitterly against the order of things; yet now he jested genially. The result was somewhat painful, and none concealed an emotion of discomfort and restraint.
The old man perceived their surprise and returned into himself a little.
"You'll wonder how I come to talk so much about my own affairs, perhaps? 'Tisn't often that I do, I believe. Well, let's drop 'em and come to yours. Have you found work, Rupert?"
"I can, when you give the word. There's Martin at Cornwood wants me, and mother can come there. We've seen two houses, either of which would suit her and May very well. One, near the church, she likes best. There's a cottage that will fit me and Milly not far off."
"Why go and have an expensive move when you can live at Shaugh Prior?"
"I've got my feelings," answered the widow rather warmly. "You can't expect me to go there."
Mr. Baskerville asked another question.
"So much for you all, then. And what of Ned?"
"At Tavistock, wearing out his shoe-leather trying to find work."
"If he's only wearing out shoe-leather, no harm's done."
"He told us what you offered last year, and I'm sure 'twas over and above what many men would have done," declared Ned's mother.
"I was safe to offer it," he answered. "'Tis only to say I'll double nought. He's not worth a box of matches a week to any man."
"They very near took him on at the riding-school when he offered to go there."
"But not quite."
"And that gave him the idea to 'list in the horse soldiers. He knows all about it, along of being in the yeomanry."
"To enlist? Well, soldiering's man's work by all accounts, though I hold 'tis devil's work myself—just the last mischief Satan finds for idle hands to do."
"It would knock sense into Ned, all the same," argued Rupert. "The discipline of it would be good for him, and he might rise."
"But he's not done it, you say?"
"No," answered Mrs. Baskerville. "He's not done it. I've suffered so much, for my part, that when he broke the dreadful thing upon me, I hadn't a tear left to shed. And the calm way I took it rather disappointed him, poor fellow. He had a right to expect to see me and May, if not Rupert, terrible stricken at such a thought; but we've been through such a lot a'ready that we couldn't for the life of us take on about it. I'm sure we both cried rivers—cried ourselves dry, you might say—when Cora Lintern threw him over; but that was the last straw. Anything more happening leaves us dazed and stupid, like a sheep as watches another sheep being killed. We can't suffer no more."
"Even when Ned went out rather vexed because we took it so calm, and said he'd end his life, we didn't do anything—did we, mother?" asked May.
"No," answered Hester. "We was past doing or caring then—even for Ned. Besides, he's offered to make a hole in the water so terrible often, poor dear fellow. 'Twas a case where I felt the Lord would look after His own. Ned may do some useful thing in the world yet. He's been very brave over this business—brave as a lion. 'Tis nought to me. I'm old, and shan't be here much longer. But for him and May 'twas a terrible come-along-of-it."
"Ned's a zany, and ever will be," declared Humphrey. "Rupert, here, is different, and never was afraid of work. Fortune didn't fall to him, and yet 'twas his good fortune to have to face bad fortune, if you understand that. Money, till you have learned the use of it, be a gun in a fool's hand; and success in any shape's the same. If it comes afore you know the value and power of it, 'tis a curse and a danger. It makes you look awry at life, and carry yourself too proud, and cometh to harm and bitterness. I know, none so well."
They did not answer. Then May rose and began to collect the tea things.
Humphrey looked round the dismantled room, and his eyes rested on the naked mantelshelf.
"Where are all the joanies?"[1] he asked. "You used to have two big china figures up there."
[1]Joanies—ornaments of glass or china.
"Some are packed, and some will go into the sale. They two you mean are worth money, I'm told," explained Mrs. Baskerville.
Then the visitor said a thing that much astonished her.
"'Twill give you trouble now," he remarked, "but 'twill save trouble in the end. Let me see them put back again."
Milly looked at May in wonder. To argue the matter was her first thought; but May acted.
"They be only in the next room, with other things to be sold," she said. "You can see them again, uncle, if you mind to."
Rupert spoke while she was from the room.
"Why don't you buy 'em, uncle? They'd look fine at your place."
"Put 'em back on the shelf," answered Mr. Baskerville. "And, what's more, you may, or may not, be glad to know they can stop there. 'Tis a matter of no account at all, and I won't have no talk about it, but you can feel yourself free to stay, Hester, if you'd rather not make a change at your time of life. You must settle it with Rupert and your darter. In a word, I've had a tell with the owner of the farm and he's agreeable."
"I know he's agreeable," answered Humphrey's nephew, "but I'm not agreeable to his rent."
"If you'd keep your mouth shut till you'd heard me, 'twould be better. I was going to say that Mr. Westcott of Cann Quarries, who foreclosed on the mortgage of this place when your uncle died—Mr. Westcott is agreeable to let me have Cadworthy; and, in a word, Cadworthy's mine."
May came in at this moment with the old china figures. She entered a profound silence, and returned the puppets to their old places on the mantelpiece. It seemed that this act carried with it support and confirmation of the startling thing that Hester Baskerville had just heard.
Humphrey spoke again.
"Past candle-teening, and snow offering from the north. I must be gone. Fetch up my pony, Rupert, and then you can travel a bit of the way back along with me."
His nephew was glad to be gone. A highly emotional spirit began to charge the air. Hester had spoken to May, and her daughter, grown white and round-eyed, was trying to speak.
"You mean—you mean we can all stop, and Rupert can go on here?" she said at last.
"If he thinks it good enough. He'd bought back a bit of the place a'ready, as he thought, from Ned. I can go into all that with him. And for you women—well, you're used to the rounds of Cadworthy, and I'm used to your being here. You've done nought but trust a weak man. I don't want all the blue[2] to be off the plum for you yet. But I waited till now, because you'll see, looking back, that you'll be none the worse for smarting a few months. I've smarted all my life, and I'm not very much the worse, I suppose. So now I'll be gone, and you can unpack when you please."
[2]Blue—bloom.
They could not instantly grasp this great reversal of fortune.
"Be you sure?" asked his niece. "Oh, uncle, be you sure?"
"Sure and sure, and double sure. A very good investment, with a man like your brother Rupert to work it for me. But let him see the rent's paid on the nail."
He rose, and Mrs. Baskerville tried to rise also, but her legs refused to carry her.
"Get my salts," she said to Milly; then she spoke to her brother-in-law.
"I'm a bit dashed at such news," she began. "It have made my bones go to a jelly. 'Tis almost too much at my age. The old can't stand joy like the young; they'm better tuned to face trouble. But to stop here—to stop here—'tis like coming back after I'd thought I was gone. I can't believe 'tis true. My God, I'd said 'good-bye' to it all. The worst was over."
"No, it wasn't," answered Humphrey. "You think 'twas; but I know better. The worst would have come the day the cart waited, and you got up and drove off. Now cheer yourself and drink a drop of spirits. And don't expect Rupert home till late. I'll take him back with me to supper."
He offered his hand, and the woman kissed it. Whereupon he uttered a sound of irritation, looked wildly at her, and glared at his fingers as though there had been blood upon them instead of tears. Milly stopped with Mrs. Baskerville; May went to the door with her uncle and helped him into his coat.
"I can't say nothing," she whispered. "It won't bear talking about—only—only—— If you knew how I loved mother——"
"Be quiet," he answered. "Don't you play the fool too. I let you fret to get your fat down a bit—that was the main reason, I do believe; and now you'll only get stouter than ever, of course. Go back to her, and let's have no nonsense; and, mind, when I come over again, that my house is tidy. I never see such a jakes of a mess as you've got it in."
He went out and met Rupert at the gate.
"You'd best to come back with me," he said. "I've told them you'll sup at Hawk House. 'Twill give 'em time to calm down. It takes nought to fluster a woman."
"'Nought'! You call this 'nought'!"
Rupert helped Mr. Baskerville on to his pony and walked beside him. It was now nearly dark, and a few flakes of snow already fell.
"Winter have waited for March," said Humphrey; "and I waited for March. You might ask why for I let 'em have all this trouble. 'Twas done for their good. They'll rate what they've got all the higher now that it had slipped from them; and so will you."
Rupert said nothing.
"Yes," repeated his uncle; "winter waited for the new year, and so did I. And now 'tis for you to say whether you'll stop at my farm or no."
"Of course, I'll stop."
"No silly promises, mind. This is business. You needn't be thanking me; and in justice we've got to think of that fool, your elder brother. But be it as it will, 'tis Hester's home for her time."
"I'll stop so long as my mother lives."
"And a bit after, I hope, if you don't want to quarrel with me. But I shall be dead myself, come to think of it. What shall I forget next? So much for that. We'll go into figures after supper."
"I know you don't want no thanks nor nothing of that sort," said Rupert; "but you know me pretty well, and you know what I feel upon it. 'Tis a masterpiece of goodness in you to do such a thing."
"Say no more. I've killed two birds with one stone, as my crafty manner is. That's all. 'Tis a very good farm, and I've got it cheap; and I've got you cheap—thanks to your mother. I benefit most—my usual way in business."
They passed along, and the snow silenced the footfall of horse and man. Near Hawk House came the sudden elfin cry of a screech-owl from the darkness of the woods.
"Hush!" said Humphrey, drawing up. "List to that. I'm glad we heard it. A keeper down along boasted to me a week ago that he'd shot every owl for a mile round; but there's a brave bird there yet, looking round for his supper."
The owl cried again.
"'Tis a sound I'm very much addicted to," explained Mr. Baskerville. "And likewise I'm glad to hear the noise of they kris-hawks sporting, and the bark of a fox. They be brave things that know no fear, and go cheerful through a world of enemies. I respect 'em."
"You never kill a snake, 'tis said."
"Not I—I never kill nought. A snake's to be pitied, not killed. He'll meddle with none as don't meddle with him. I've watched 'em scores an' scores o' times. They be only humble worms that go upon their bellies dirt low, but they gaze upward for ever with their wonnerful eyes. Belike Satan looked thus when they flinged him out of heaven."
"You beat me," said Rupert. "You can always find excuses for varmints, never for men."
His uncle grunted.
"Most men are varmints," he answered.
The effect of his financial tribulation on Jack Head was not good. Whatever might have been of Humphrey Baskerville's theories as to the value worldly misfortune and the tonic property of bad luck upon character, in this man's case the disappearance of his savings deranged his usual common-sense, and indicated that his rational outlook was not based upon sure foundations. From the trumpery standpoint of his personal welfare, it seemed, after all, that he appraised life; and upon his loss a native acerbity and intolerance increased. He grew morose, his quality of humour failed him, and his mind, deprived of this cathartic and salutary sense, grew stagnant. At his best Jack was never famed for a delicate choice of time or place when pushing his opinions. Propriety in this connection he took pleasure in disregarding. He flouted convention, and loved best to burst his bombshells where they were most certain to horrify and anger. Following the manner of foolish propagandists, he seldom selected the psychological moment for his onslaughts; nor did he perceive that half the battle in these cases may depend upon nice choice of opportunity.
There came an evening, some time after he had learnt the secret of the Lintern family, when Head, returning to Shaugh Prior, fell in with Cora, who walked upon the same road. He had never liked her, and now remembered certain aggressive remarks recently cast at him by her brother. The man was going slower than the woman, and had not meant to take any notice of her, but the somewhat supercilious nod she gave him touched his spleen, and he quickened his pace and went along beside her.
"Hold on," he said, "I'll have a tell with you. 'Tisn't often you hear sense, I believe."
Cora, for once in a mood wholly seraphic over private affairs, showed patience.
"I'm in a bit of a hurry, but I've always got time to hear sense," she said.
Thus unexpectedly met, Mr. Head found himself with nothing to say. One familiar complaint at that time running against Cora for the moment he forgot. Therefore he fell back upon her brother.
"You might tell Heathman I was a good bit crossed at the way he spoke to me two nights agone. I've as much right to my opinion as him, and if I say that the late Nathan Baskerville was no better than he should be, and not the straight, God-fearing man he made us think—well, I'm only saying what everybody knows."
"That's true," she said. "Certainly a good many people know that."
"Exactly so. Then why for does he jump down my throat as if I was backbiting the dead? Truth's truth, and it ban't a crime to tell the truth about a man after he's dead, any more than it be while he's alive."
"More it is. Very often you don't know the truth till a man's dead. My brother's a bit soft. All the same, you must speak of people as you find them. And Heathman had no quarrel with Mr. Baskerville, though most sensible people had seemingly. He was a tricky man, and nobody can pretend he was honest or straight. He's left a deal of misery behind him."
The relationship between Cora and Nathan Baskerville suddenly flashed into Jack's memory. Her remark told him another fact: he judged from it that she could not be aware of the truth. It seemed improbable that Cora could utter such a sentiment if she knew that she spoke of her father. Then he remembered how Heathman certainly knew the truth, and he assumed that Cora must also know it. She was, therefore, revealing her true thoughts, secure in the belief that, since her companion would be ignorant of the relationship between her and the dead, she need pretend to no conventional regard before him. At another time Jack Head might have approved her frankness, but to-day he designed to quarrel, and chose to be angered at this unfilial spirit. Upon that subject his mouth was sealed, but there returned to him the recollection of her last achievement. He reminded her of it and rated her bitterly.
"Very well for you to talk of dishonest men and crooked dealings," he retorted. "You, that don't know the meaning of a straight deed—you that flung over one chap and made him hang himself, and now have flung over another. You may flounce and flirt and walk quick, but I'll walk quick too, and I tell you you're no better than a giglet wench—heartless, greedy, good for nought. You chuck Ned Baskerville after keeping him on the hooks for years. And why? Because he came down in the world with a run, and you knew that you'd have to work if you took him, and couldn't wear fine feathers and ape the beastly people who drive about in carriages."
Her lips tightened and she flashed at him.
"You stupid fool!" she said. "You, of all others, to blame me—you, who were never tired of bawling out what a worthless thing the man was. You ought to be the first to say he's properly punished, and the first to say I'm doing the right thing; and so you would, but just because you've lost a few dirty pounds, you go yelping and snarling at everybody. You're so mighty clever that perhaps you'll tell me why I should marry a pauper, who can't find work far or near, because he's never learnt how to work. Why must I keep in with a man like that, and get children for him, and kill myself for him, and go on the parish at the end? You're so fond of putting everybody right, perhaps you'll put me right."
The other was not prepared for this vigorous counter-attack.
"Very well for you to storm," he said; "but you only do it to hide your own cowardly nature. You pretended you was in love with him, and took his gifts, and made him think you meant to marry him, and stick up for him for better, for worse; but far from it. You was only in love with his cash, and hadn't got no use for the man. I'm not saying you would do well to marry him for the minute; but to chuck him when he's down——"
"You're a one-sided idiot—like most other men," she answered. "'Tis so easy for you frosty creatures, with no more feeling than a frog, to talk about 'love' and 'waiting.' There, you make a sane woman wild! Waiting, waiting—and what becomes of me while I'm waiting? I'm a lovely woman, you old fool, don't you understand what that means? Waiting—waiting—and will time wait? Look at the crows'-feet coming. Look at the line betwixt my eyebrows and the lines from my nose, each side, to the corners of my mouth. Will they wait? No, curse 'em, they get deeper and deeper, and no rubbing will rub 'em out, and no waiting will make them lighter. So easy to bleat about 'faithfulness' and 'patience' if you're ugly as a gorilla and flat as a pancake. I'm lovely, and I'm a pauper, and I've got nought but loveliness to stand between me and a rotten life and a rotten death in the workhouse. So there it is. Don't preach no more of your cant to me, for I won't have it."
She was furious; the good things in her mind had slipped for the moment away. While uttering this tirade she stood still, and Mr. Head did the like. He saw her argument perfectly well. He perceived that she had reason on her side, but her impatience and scorn angered him. Her main position he could not shake, but he turned upon a minor issue and made feeble retort.
His answer failed dismally in every way. Of its smallness and weakness she took instant advantage; and, further, it reminded her of the satisfactory event that Mr. Head had for the moment banished from her mind.
"Hard words won't make the case better for you," he began. "And to be well-looking outside is nought if you're damned ugly inside; and that's what you be; and that's what everybody very well knows by now."
She sneered at him.
"Parson's talk—and poor at that. If you want to snuffle that sort of trash you'd better ask Mr. Masterman to teach you how. You, of all folk—so wise and such a book-reader! What's the good of telling that to me? 'Tis the outside we see, and the outside we judge by; and, for the rest, you'll do well to mind your own business, and not presume to lecture your betters."
"Very grand! Very high and mighty, to be sure. That's how you talked to Humphrey Baskerville, I suppose, and got a flea in your ear for your pains. And I'll give you another. 'Tis the inside that matters, and not the out, though your empty mind thinks different. And mark this: you'll go begging now till you're an old woman; and 'twon't be long before you'll have your age dashed in your face by every female you anger. Yes, you'll go begging now—none will have you—none will take you with your record behind you. An old maid you'll be, and an old maid you'll deserve to be. You just chew the end of that."
"What a beast you are!" she retorted. "What a low-minded, cowardly creature to strike a woman so. But you spoke too soon as usual. The likes of you to dare to say that! You, that don't know so much about women as you do about rabbits!"
"I know enough about men, anyhow, and I know no man will ever look at you again."
"Liar! A man asked me to marry him months ago! But little did I think you'd be the first to know it when we decided that it should be known. He asked, and he was a man worth calling one, and I took him, so you may just swallow your own lies again and choke yourself with 'em. You're terrible fond of saying everybody's a fool—well, 'twill take you all your time to find a bigger one than yourself after to-day. And don't you never speak to me again, because I won't have it. Like your cheek—a common labouring man!—ever to have spoke to me at all. And if you do again, I'll tell Mr. Timothy Waite to put his whip round your shoulders, so now then!"
"Him!"
"Yes, 'him'; and now you can go further off, and keep further off in future."
She hastened forward to carry her news to other ears, and Jack Head stood still until she was out of sight. He felt exceedingly angry, but his anger swiftly diminished, and he even found it possible to laugh at himself before he reached Shaugh Prior. He knew right well that he must look a fool, but the knowledge did not increase his liking for Cora Lintern. He reflected on what he had heard, and saw her making fun of him in many quarters. He even debated a revenge, but no way offered. Once he speculated as to what her betrothed would say if he knew the truth of Cora's paternity; but, to do him justice, not the faintest thought of revealing the secret tempted Jack.
"Leave it, and she'll most likely wreck herself with him," he thought. "Waite's a sharp chap, and not easily hoodwinked. So like as not, when he's seen a bit of her mean soul he'll think twice while there's time."
Mr. Head began to reflect again upon his own affairs, and, finding himself at the vicarage gate, went in and asked for Dennis Masterman. The rumour persisted, and even grew, that Dennis was paying back certain losses incurred at Nathan Baskerville's death among the poorest of the community. The fact had wounded Mr. Head's sense of justice, and he was determined to throw some light on Masterman's foggy philanthropy. The vicar happened to be in, and soon Mr. Head appeared before him. Their interview lasted exactly five minutes, and Jack was in the street again. He explained his theory at some length, and gave it as his opinion that to pick and choose the cases was not defensible. He then explained his own loss, and invited Mr. Masterman to say whether a more deserving and unfortunate man might be found within the quarters of the parish. The clergyman listened patiently and answered with brevity.
"I hear some of the people are being helped, but personally the donor is not known to me. I have nothing to do with it. He, or she—probably a lady, for they do that sort of thing oftenest—is not responsible to anybody; but, as far as I have heard, a very good choice has been made among the worst sufferers. As to your case, Jack, it isn't such a very hard one. You are strong and hale still, and you've got nobody to think of but yourself. We know, at any rate, that Mr. Nathan Baskerville did a lot of good with other people's money. Isn't that what you Socialists are all wanting to do? But I dare say this misfortune has modified your views a little here and there. I've never yet met a man with fifty pounds in the bank who was what I call a Socialist. Good-evening to you, Jack."
Alice Masterman, the vicar's sister, came in to speak with Dennis after Jack Head had gone. He was composing a sermon, but set it aside at once, for the tone of her voice declared that she could brook no denial.
"It's Voysey," she said. "I'm sorry to trouble you about him again, but he's got bronchitis."
"Well, send him some soup or something. Has that last dozen of parish port all gone yet?"
"I was thinking of another side to it," she confessed. "Don't you think this might be an excellent opportunity to get rid of him?"
"Isn't that rather hitting a man when he's down?"
"Well, it's perfectly certain you'll never hit him when he's up again. If you only realised how the man robs us—indirectly, I mean. He doesn't actually steal, I suppose, but look at the seed and the thousand and one things he's always wanting in the garden, and nothing to show but weeds."
"You must be fair, Alice. There are miles of large, fat cabbages out there."
"Cabbages, yes; and when I almost go down on my knees for one, he says they're not ready and mustn't be touched. He caught the cook getting a sprig of parsley yesterday, and was most insolent. She says that if he opens his mouth to her again she'll give warning; and she means it. And even you know that cooks are a thousand times harder to get than gardeners."
Dennis sighed and looked at his manuscript.
"Funny you should say these things—I'm preaching about the fruits of the earth next Sunday."
"The man's maddening—always ready with an excuse. The garden must be swarming with every blight and horror that was ever known, according to him. And somehow I always feel he's being impertinent all the time he's speaking to me, though there's nothing you can catch hold of. Now it's mice, and now it's birds, and now it's canker in the air, or some nonsense; and now it's the east wind, and now it's the west wind—I'm sick of it; and if you ask for an onion he reminds you, with quite an injured air, that he took three into the house last week. There's a wretched cauliflower we had ages ago, and he's always talking about it still, as if it had been a pineapple at least."
"I know he's tiresome. I tell you what—wait till he's back, and then I'll give him a serious talking to."
"Only two days ago I met him lumbering up with that ridiculous basket he always will carry—a huge thing, large enough to hold a sack of potatoes. And in the bottom were three ridiculous little lettuces from the frame, about as long as your thumb. I remonstrated, and, of course, he was ready. 'I know to a leaf what his reverence eats,' he said; 'and if that woman in the kitchen, miscalled a cook, don't serve 'em up proper, that's not my fault.' He didn't seem to think I ever ate anything out of the garden."
"Old scoundrel! I'll talk to him severely. I've had a rod in pickle ever since last year."
Dennis laughed suddenly, but his sister was in no laughing mood.
"I really can't see the funny side," she declared.
"Of course not. There is none. He's a fraud; but I remembered what Travers said last year—you recollect? The thrips and bug and all sorts of things got into the vines, and we asked Travers what was the matter, and he explained what a shameful muddle Voysey had made. Then, when Joe had gone chattering off, saying the grapes were worth five shillings a pound in open market, and that they'd only lost their bloom because we kept fingering them, Travers said he looked as if he was infested with thrips and mealy bug himself. I shall always laugh when I think of that—it was so jolly true."
"I hate a man who never owns that he is wrong; and I do wish you'd get rid of him. It's only fair to me. I have but few pleasures, and the garden is one of them. He tramples and tears, and if you venture to ask him to tidy—well, you know what happens. The next morning the garden looks as though there had been a plague of locusts in it—everything has gone."
"He ought to retire; but he's saved nothing worth mentioning, poor old fool!"
"That's his affair."
"It ought to be; but you know well enough that improvidence all round is my affair. We are faced with it everywhere. Head has just been in here. There's a rumour about the poor people that the innkeeper swindled. He took their savings, and there's nobody to pay them back now he's gone. But it seems that here and there those hit hardest—mostly women—have had their money again. Not your work, I hope, Alice? But I know what you do with your cash. Voysey was talking about it a little time ago, and I blamed him for not having saved some money himself by this time. He said, 'Better spend what you earn on yourself than give it to somebody else to save for you.' The misfortunes of the people seemed to have pleased him a good deal. 'We'm mostly in the same box now,' he said; 'but I had the rare sense to spend my brass myself. I've had the value of it in beer and tobacco, if no other way.'"
"Detestable old man! And Gollop's no better. Anybody but you would have got rid of them both years and years ago."
"They must retire soon—they simply must. They're the two eldest men in the parish."
"And, of course, you'll pension them, or some such nonsense."
"Indeed, I shall do no such thing. Perhaps this is the end of Voysey. He may see the sense of retiring now."
"Not he. He'll be ill for six weeks, and lie very snug and comfortable drawing his money at home; then, when the weather gets to suit him, he'll crawl out again. And everything that goes wrong all through next year will be owing to his having been laid by."
"I'll talk to him," repeated her brother. "I'll talk to him and Gollop together. Gollop has pretty well exhausted my patience, I assure you."
Miss Masterman left him with little hope, and he resumed his sermon on the fruits of the earth.
But next Sunday the unexpected happened, and Thomas Gollop, even in the clergyman's opinion, exceeded the bounds of decency by a scandalous omission.
It happened thus. The sexton, going his rounds before morning service, was confronted with an unfamiliar object in the churchyard. A tombstone had sprung up above the dust of Nathan Baskerville. He rubbed his eyes with astonishment, because the time for a memorial was not yet, and Thomas must first have heard of it and made ready before its erection. Here, however, stood what appeared to be a square slate, similar in design to those about it; but investigation proved that an imitation stone had been set up, and upon the boards, painted to resemble slate, was inscribed a ribald obituary notice of the dead. It scoffed at his pretensions, stated the worst that could be said against him, and concluded with a scurrility in verse that consigned him to the devil.
Now, by virtue of his office, apart from the fact of being a responsible man enlisted on the side of all that was seemly and decorous, Mr. Gollop should have removed this offence as quickly as possible before any eye could mark it. Thus he would have disappointed those of the baser sort who had placed it there by night, and arrested an outrage before any harm was done by it. But, instead, he studied the inscription with the liveliest interest, and found himself much in sympathy therewith.
Here was the world's frank opinion on Nathan Baskerville. The innkeeper deserved such a censure, and Thomas saw no particular reason why he should interfere. He was alone, and none had observed him. Therefore he shuffled off and, rather than fetch his spade and barrow to dig up this calumny and remove it, left the board for others to discover.
This they did before the bells began to ring, and when Dennis Masterman entered the churchyard, on his way to the vestry, he was arrested by the sight of a considerable crowd collected about the Baskerville graves. The people were trampling over the mounds, and standing up on the monuments to get a better view. On the outskirt of the gathering was Ben North in a state of great excitement; but single-handed the policeman found himself unable to cope with the crowd. A violent quarrel was proceeding at the centre of this human ring, and Masterman heard Gollop's voice and that of Heathman Lintern. Dennis ordered some yelling choir-boys down off a flat tomb, then pushed his way through his congregation. Parties had been divided as to the propriety of the new monument, and the scene rather resembled that in the past, when Nathan Baskerville was buried.
As the vicar arrived, Heathman Lintern, who had lost his self-control, was just knocking Mr. Gollop backwards into the arms of his sister. The man and woman fell together, and, with cries and hisses, others turned on Heathman. Then a force rallied to the rescue. Sunday hats were hurled off and trampled into the grass; Sunday coats were torn; Sunday collars were fouled. Not until half a dozen men, still fighting, had been thrust out of the churchyard, was Dennis able to learn the truth. Then he examined the cause of the riot and listened to Lintern.
The young man was bloody and breathless, but he gasped out his tale. A dozen people were already inspecting the new gravestone when Heathman passed the church on his way to chapel with his mother and sisters. He left them to see the cause of interest, and, discovering it, ordered Gollop instantly to remove it. This the sexton declined to do on the ground that it was Sunday. Thereupon, fetching tools, Heathman himself prepared to dig up the monument. But he was prevented. Many of the people approved of the joke and decreed that the board must stand. They arrested Heathman in his efforts to remove it. Then others took his side and endeavoured to drag down the monument.
Having heard both Lintern and Gollop, the clergyman read the mock inscription.
"D'you mean to say that you refuse to remove this outrageous thing?" he asked the sexton; but Thomas was in no mood for further reprimand. He had suffered a good deal in credit and temper. Now he mopped a bleeding nose and was insolent.
"Yes, I do; and I won't break the Fourth Commandment for you or fifty parsons. Who the mischief be you to tell me to labour on the Lord's Day, I should like to know? You'll bid me covet my neighbour's ass and take my neighbour's wife next, perhaps? And, when all's said, this writing be true and a lesson to the parish. Let 'em have the truth for once, though it do turn their tender stomachs."
"Get out of the churchyard, you old blackguard!" cried Heathman. "You're a disgrace to any persuasion, and you did ought to be hounded out of a decent village."
"Leave Gollop to me, Lintern. Now lend a hand here, a few of you; get this infamous thing away and destroyed before anybody else sees it. And the rest go into church at once. Put on your surplices quick, you boys; and you, Jenkins, tell Miss Masterman to play another voluntary."
Dennis issued his orders and then helped to dig up this outrage among the tombs. Thomas Gollop and his sister departed together. Ben North, Lintern, and another assisted Mr. Masterman.
Then came Humphrey Baskerville upon his way to church, and, despite the entreaty of the young clergyman that he would not read the thing set up over Nathan's grave, insisted on doing so.
"I hear in the street there's been a row about a tombstone to my brother. Who put it there? 'Tis too soon by half. I shall lift a stone to the man when the proper time comes," he said.
"It isn't a stone, it's an unseemly insult—an outrage. Not the work of Shaugh men, I hope. I shall investigate the thing to the bottom," answered Dennis.
"Let me see. Stay your hand, Lintern."
The old man put on his glasses deliberately, and read the evil words.
"Tear it down," he said. "That ban't all the truth about the man, and half the truth is none. Quick, away with it! There's my sister-in-law from Cadworthy coming into the gate."
The burlesque tombstone was hurried away, and Masterman went into the vestry. Others entered church, and Heathman at last found himself alone. The bells stopped, the organ ceased to grunt, and the service proceeded; but young Lintern was only concerned with his own labours. He ransacked Mr. Gollop's tool-shed adjoining the vestry. It was locked, but he broke it open, and, finding a hatchet there, proceeded to make splinters of the offending inscription. He chopped and chopped until his usual equitable humour returned to him. Then, the work completed, he returned to his father's grave and repaired the broken mound. He was engaged upon this task to the murmur of the psalms, when Jack Head approached and bade him 'good-morning.'
"A pretty up-store, I hear. And you in the midst of it—eh?"
"I was, and I'd do the same for any chap that did such a beastly thing. If I thought you had any hand in it, Jack——"
The other remembered that the son of the dead was speaking to him.
"Not me," he answered. "I have a pretty big grudge against Nathan Baskerville that was, and I won't deny it; but this here—insults on his tomb—'tis no better than to kick the dead. Besides, what's the use? It won't right the wrong, or put my money back in my pocket. How did it go—the words, I mean?"
"I've forgot 'em," answered Heathman. "Least said, soonest mended, and if it don't do one thing, and that is get Gollop the sack, I shall be a bit astonished."
He laughed.
"You should 'a' seen the old monkey just now! He was the first to mark this job, and he let it stand for all to see, and was glad they should see it—shame to him."
"Wrote it himself so like as not."
"Hadn't the wit to. But he left it, and he was well pleased at it. And then, when I ordered him as sexton to take it down, he wouldn't, and so I lost my head and gave him a tap on the ribs, and over he went into his sister's arms, as was standing screeching like a poll-parrot just behind him. Both dropped; then Tom Sparkes hit me in the mouth; and so we went on very lively till Mr. Masterman came."
"Wouldn't have missed it for money," said Jack. "But just my luck to be t'other side the village at such a moment."
He sat down on a sepulchre and filled his pipe. He knew well why Heathman had thrown himself so fiercely into this quarrel, and he admired him for it. The sight of the young man reminded him of his sister.
"So your Cora is trying a third, she tells me?"
"Yes; 'tis Tim Waite this time," answered Cora's brother. "I shouldn't envy him much—or any man who had to live his life along with her."
"You're right there: no heart—that's what was left out when she was a-making. She told me the news a bit ago, just when I was giving her a rap over the knuckles on account of that other fool, Ned Baskerville. And she got the best of the argument—I'll allow that. In fact, you might say she scored off me proper, for I told her that no decent chap would ever look at her again, and what does she answer? Why, that Tim Waite's took her."
"Yes, 'tis so. He and me was talking a bit ago. He'll rule her."
"But I got it back on Cora," continued Mr. Head. "I'm not the sort to be beat in argument and forget it. Not I! I'll wait, if need be, for a month of Sundays afore I make my answer; but I always laugh last, and none don't ever get the whip-hand of me for long. And last week I caught up with her again, as we was travelling by the same road, and I gave her hell's delights, and told her the ugly truth about herself till she could have strangled me if she'd been strong enough."