"I believe not," answered Miss Masterman. "However, what my brother has got to say regarding his intentions can come later. For the present he will hear you."
"If you don't want a clerk, I've done," answered Mr. Gollop blankly. "But I'll make bold to think you can't ezacally mean that. Us'll leave it, and I'll tell my tale about the people. The Lillicraps be a harmless folk, and humble and fertile as coneys. You'll have no trouble along with them. The Baskervilles be valuable and powerful; and Mr. Humphrey and his son is Church, and Mr. Vivian and his family is Church also, and his darters sing in the choir."
"We shall manage without women in the choir," said Miss Masterman.
"You may think so, but I doubt it," answered Eliza Gollop almost fiercely. "You'll have to manage without anybody in the church also, if you be for up-turning the whole order of divine service!" She was excited, and her large bosom heaved.
"Not up-turning—not up-turning," declared the clergyman. "Call it reorganisation. Frankly, I propose a surpliced choir. I have the bishop's permission; he wishes it. Now, go on."
"Then the Lord help you," said Thomas. "We'd better be going, Eliza. We've heard almost enough for one evening."
"Be reasonable," urged Miss Masterman with admirable self-command. "We are here to do our duty. We hope and expect to be helped by all sensible people—not hindered. Let Mr. Gollop tell us what he came to tell us."
"Well—as to reason—I ask no more, but where is it?" murmured Thomas. "'Twas the Baskervilles," he continued, wiping his forehead. "The other of 'em—Nathan—be unfortunately a chapel member; and if you be going to play these here May games in the House of the Lord, I'm very much afeared he'll draw a good few after him. They won't stand it—mark me."
"Where do the people at Undershaugh worship? I did not see Mrs. Lintern and her family last Sunday."
"They'm all chapel too."
Mr. Masterman nodded.
"Thank you for these various facts. Is there anything more?"
"I've only just begun. But I comed with warnings chiefly. There be six Radicals in this parish, and only six."
"Though the Lord knows how many there will be when they hear about the choir," said Eliza Gollop.
"I'm an old-fashioned Liberal myself," declared the vicar. "But I hope your Radicals are sound churchmen, whatever else they may be."
"Humphrey Baskerville is—and so's his son."
"Is that young Mark Baskerville?"
"Yes—tenor bell among the ringers. A very uneven-minded man. He's a wonderful ringer and wrapped up in tenor bell, as if 'twas a heathen idol. In fact, he'm not the good Christian he might be, and he'll ring oftener than he'll pray. Then Saul Luscombe to Trowlesworthy Warren—farmer and rabbit-catcher—be a very hard nut, and so's his man, Jack Head. You won't get either of them inside the church. They say in their wicked way they ain't got no need for sleeping after breakfast of a Sunday—atheists, in fact. The other labouring man from Trowlesworthy is a good Christian, however. He can read, but 'tis doubtful whether he can write."
"You'll have to go to keep your appointment, Dennis," remarked his sister.
"Plenty of time. Is there anything more that's particularly important, Gollop?"
"Lots more. Still, if I'm to be shouted down every minute—— I comed to encourage and fortify you. I comed to tell you to have no fear, because me and sister was on your side, and always ready to fight to the death for righteousness. But you've took the wind out of our sails, in a manner of speaking. If you ban't going to walk in the old paths, I'm terrible afraid you'll find us against you."
"This is impertinence," said Miss Masterman.
"Not at all," answered the clerk's sister. "It's sense. 'Tis a free country, and if you'm going to set a lot of God-fearing, right-minded, sensible people by the ears, the sin be on your shoulders. You'd best to come home, Thomas."
Mr. Masterman looked helplessly at his watch.
"We shall soon arrive at—at—amodus vivendi," he said.
"I don't know what that may be, your reverence," she answered; "but if 'tis an empty church, and sour looks, and trouble behind every hedge, then you certainly will arrive at it—and even sooner than you think for."
"He's going to give ear to the Radicals—'tis too clear," moaned Thomas, as he rose and picked up his hat.
"I can only trust that you two good people do not represent the parish," continued the vicar.
"You'll terrible soon find as we do," said Miss Gollop.
"So much the worse. However, it is well that we understand one another. Next Sunday I shall invite my leading parishioners to meet me in the schoolroom on the following evening. I shall then state my intentions, and listen to the opinions and objections of every man among you."
"And only the men will be invited to the meeting," added Miss Masterman.
"'Tis a parlous come-along-of-it," moaned the parish clerk. "I meant well. You can bear me out, Eliza, that I meant well—never man meant better."
"Good evening," said Miss Masterman, and left them.
"Be sure that we shall soon settle down," prophesied the vicar. "I know you mean well, Gollop; and I mean well, too. Where sensible people are concerned, friction is reduced to a minimum. We shall very soon understand one another and respect one another's opinions."
"If you respect people's opinions, you abide by 'em," declared Miss Gollop.
"Us shan't be able to keep the cart on the wheels—not with a night-gowned choir," foretold her brother.
Then Dennis saw them to the door; they took their leave, and as they went down the vicarage drive, their voices bumbled together, like two slow, shard-borne beetles droning on the night.
Both the yeoman and gentle families of Devon have undergone a wide and deep disintegration during the recent past. Many are swept away, and the downfall dates back beyond the eighteenth century, when war, dice, and the bottle laid foundations of subsequent ruin; but the descendants of many an ancient stock are still with us, and noble names shall be found at the plough-handle; historical patronymics, on the land.
The race of Baskerville had borne arms and stood for the king in Stuart times. The family was broken in the Parliamentary Wars and languished for certain centuries; then it took heart and lifted head once more. The three brothers who now carried on their line were doubly enriched, for their father had died in good case and left a little fortune behind him; while an uncle, blessed with some tincture of the gipsy blood that had flowed into the native stock a hundred years before, found Devon too small a theatre for his activities and migrated to Australia. He died a bachelor, and left his money to his nephews.
Thus the trio began life under fortunate circumstances; and it appeared that two had prospered and justified existence; while concerning the other little could be affirmed, save a latent and general dislike founded on vague hearsay.
They were different as men well could be, yet each displayed strong individuality and an assertive temperament. All inherited some ancestral strength, but disparities existed between their tastes, their judgments, and their ambitions.
Vivian Baskerville was generous, self-opinionated, and kind-hearted. He loved, before all things, work, yet, in direct opposition to this ruling passion, tolerated and spoiled a lazy eldest son. From the rest of his family he exacted full measure of labour and very perfect obedience. He was a man of crystallised opinions—one who resented change, and built on blind tradition.
Nathan Baskerville had a volatile and swift-minded spirit. He was sympathetic, but not so sympathetic as his manner made him appear. He had a histrionic knack to seem more than he felt; yet this was not all acting, but a mixture of art and instinct. He trusted to tact, to a sense of humour with its accompanying tolerance, and to swift appraisal of human character. Adaptability was his watchword.
Humphrey Baskerville personified doubt. His apparent chill indifference crushed the young and irritated the old. An outward gloominess of manner and a pessimistic attitude to affairs sufficed to turn the folk from him. While he seemed the spirit of negation made alive, he was, nevertheless, a steadfast Christian, and his dark mind, chaotic though it continued to be even into age, enjoyed one precious attribute of chaos and continued plastic and open to impressions. None understood this quality in him. He did not wholly understand it himself. But he was ever seeking for content, and the search had thus far taken him into many fruitless places and landed him in blind alleys not a few.
These adventures, following his wife's death, had served to sour him in some directions; and the late ripening of a costive but keen intelligence did not as yet appear to his neighbours. It remained to be seen whether time would ever achieve a larger wisdom, patience, and understanding in him—whether considerable mental endowments would ultimately lift him nearer peace and content, or plunge him deeper into despondence and incorrigible gloom. He was as interesting as Nathan was attractive and Vivian, obvious.
The attitude of the brothers each to the other may be recorded in a sentence. Vivian immensely admired the innkeeper and depended no little upon his judgment in temporal affairs, but Humphrey he did not understand; Nathan patronised his eldest brother and resented Humphrey's ill-concealed dislike; while the master of Hawk House held Vivian in regard, as an honest and single-minded man, but did not share the world's esteem for Nathan. They always preserved reciprocal amenities and were accounted on friendly terms.
Upon the occasion of the eldest brother's seventieth birthday, both Vivian and Nathan stood at the outer gate of Cadworthy and welcomed Humphrey when he alighted off his semi-blind pony.
Years sat lightly on the farmer. He was a man of huge girth and height above the average. He had a red moon face, with a great fleshy jowl set in white whiskers. His brow was broad and low; his small, pig-like eyes twinkled with kindliness. It was a favourite jest with him that he weighed within a stone or two as much as his brothers put together.
They shook hands and went in, while Mark and Rupert took the ponies. The three brothers all wore Sunday black; and Vivian had a yellow tie on that made disharmony with the crimson of his great cheeks. This mountain of a man walked between the others, and Nathan came to his ear and Humphrey did not reach his shoulder. The last looked a mere shadow beside his brother.
"Seventy year to-day, and have moved two ton of sacks—a hundredweight to the sack—'twixt breaksis and noon. And never felt better than this minute," he told them.
"'Tis folly, all the same—this heavy work that you delight in," declared Nathan. "I'm sure Humphrey's of my mind. You oughtn't to do such a lot of young man's work. 'Tis foolish and quite uncalled for."
"The young men can't do it, maybe," said Humphrey. "Vivian be three men rolled into one—with the strength of three for all his threescore and ten years. But you're in the right. He's too old for these deeds. There's no call for weight-lifting and all this sweating labour, though he is such a mighty man of his hands still."
Mr. Baskerville of Cadworthy laughed.
"You be such brainy blids—the pair of you—that you haven't got no patience with me and my schoolboy fun. But, then, I never had no intellects like you—all ran into muscle and bone. And 'tis my pleasure to show the young generation what strength be. The Reverend Masterman preached from a very onusual text Sunday, 'There were giants in those days,' it was—or some such words, if my memory serves me. And Rupert and May, as were along with me, said as surely I belonged to the giant race!"
He laughed with a loud, simple explosion of ingenuous merriment, and led the way to the parlour.
There his wife, in black silk, welcomed her brothers-in-law and received their congratulations. Humphrey fumbled at a parcel which he produced from his breast. He untied the string, wound it up, and put it into his pocket.
"'Tis a book as I heard well spoken of," he said. "There's only one Book for you and me, I believe, Vivian; but an old man as I know came by this, and he said 'twas light in his darkness; so I went and bought a copy for you by way of something to mark the day. Very like 'tis all rubbish, and if so you can throw it behind the fire."
"Sermons, and good ones without a doubt," answered the farmer. "I'm very fond of sermons, and I'll lay on to 'em without delay and let you know what I think. Not that my opinion of such a thing do count; but I can tell to a hair if they'm within the meaning of Scripture, and that be all that matters. And thank you kindly, I'm sure."
"Tom Gollop's got terrible down-daunted about Mr. Masterman," said Nathan. "He says that your parson is a Radical, and will bring down dreadful things on the parish."
"Old fool," answered Humphrey. "'Tis just what we want, within the meaning of reason, to have a few of the cobwebs swept away."
"But you're a Radical too, and all for sweeping away," argued his eldest brother doubtfully.
"I'm for folly and nonsense being swept away, certainly. I'm for all this cant about humility and our duty to our superiors being swept away. I hate to see chaps pulling their hair to other men no better than themselves, and all that knock-kneed, servile rubbish."
Nathan felt this to be a challenge.
"We take off our hats to the blood in a man's veins, if 'tis blue enough—not to the man."
"And hate the man all the time, maybe—and so act a lie when we cap to him and pretend what isn't true."
"You go too far," declared Nathan.
"I say that we hate anything that's stronger than we are," continued his brother. "We hate brains that's stronger than our own, or pockets that's deeper. The only folk that we smile upon honestly be those we reckon greater fools than ourselves."
Vivian laughed loud at this.
"What a sharp tongue the man hath!" he exclaimed. "But he's wrong, for all that. For if I only smiled at them who had less brains than myself, I should go glum from morn till night."
"Don't say it, father!" cried his wife. "Too humble-minded you be, and always will be."
"'Tis only a very wise man that knows himself for a fool, all the same," declared Nathan. "As for Humphrey here, maybe 'tis because men hate brains bigger than their own, as he says, that he hasn't got a larger circle of friends himself. We all know he's the cleverest man among us."
Humphrey was about to speak again, but restrained the inclination and turned to his nieces who now appeared.
Polly lacked character and existed as the right hand of her mother; but May took physically after Vivian, and represented his first joy and the apple of his eye. She was a girl of great breadth and bulk every way. The beauty of youth still belonged to her clean white and red face, and her yellow hair was magnificent; but it required no prophet to foretell that poor May, when her present colt-like life of physical activity decreased, must swiftly grow too vast for her own comfort or the temptation of the average lover.
The youngest of the family—his Uncle Humphrey's namesake—followed his sisters. He was a brown boy, well set up and shy. Of all men he feared the elder Humphrey most. Now he shook hands evasively.
"Don't stare at the ceiling and the floor, but look me in the eyes. I hate a chap as glances athwart his nose like that," said the master of Hawk House. Whereat the lesser Humphrey scowled and flushed. Then he braced himself for the ordeal and stared steadily into his uncle's eyes.
The duel lasted full two minutes, and the boy's father laughed and applauded him. At last young Humphrey's eyes fell.
"That's better," said Humphrey the elder. "You learn to keep your gaze on the eyes of other people, my lad, if you want to know the truth about 'em. A voice will teach you a lot, but the eyes are the book for me—eh, Nathan?"
"No doubt there's a deal in that."
"And if 'twas followed, perhaps we shouldn't take our hats off to certain people quite so often as we do," added Humphrey, harking back to the old grievance. "What's the good of being respectful to those you don't respect and ought not to respect?"
"The man's hungry!" said Vivian. "'Tis starvation making him so crusty and so clever. Come now, ban't dinner ready?"
Mrs. Baskerville had departed and Polly with her.
"Hurry 'em up," cried Vivian, and his youngest son hastened to do so.
Meantime Nathan, who was also hungry, and who also desired to display agility of mind before his elder brother, resumed the argument with Humphrey and answered his last question.
"Because we've everything to gain by being civil, and nought to gain by being otherwise, as things are nowadays. Civility costs nothing and the rich expect it of the poor, and gentle expect it of simple. Why not? You can't mar them by being rude; but you can mar yourself. 'The golden rule for a pushing man is to be well thought upon.' That's what our father used to say. And it's sound sense, if you ask me. Of course, I'm not speaking for us, but for the younger generation, and if they can prosper by tact and civility to their betters, why not? We like the younger and humbler people to be civil to us; then why shouldn't they be civil to parson and squire?"
"How if parson be no good, and squire a drinker or a rascal?"
"That's neither here nor there. 'Tis their calling and rank and the weight behind 'em."
"Trash!" said Humphrey sourly. "Let every man be weighed in his own balance and show himself what he is. That's what I demand. Why should we pretend and give people the credit of what they stand for, if they don't stand for it?"
"For a lot of reasons——" began Nathan; then the boy Humphrey returned to say that dinner was ready.
They sat down, and through the steam that rose from a dish of ducks Humphrey looked at Nathan and spoke.
"What reasons?" he said. "For your credit's sake you can't leave it there."
"If you will have it, you will have it—though this isn't the time or place; but Vivian must blame you, not me. Life's largely a game of make-believe and pretence, and, right or wrong, we've got to suffer it. We should all be no better than lonely monkeys or Red Indians, if we didn't pretend a bit more than we meant and say a bit more than we'd swear to. Monkeys don't pretend, and what's the result? They've all gone under."
They wrangled until the food was on the plates, then Vivian, who had been puffing out his cheeks, rolling his eyes and showing uneasiness in other ways, displayed a sudden irritability.
"God damn it!" he cried. "Let's have no more of this! Be the meal to be sarved with no sauce but all this blasted nonsense? Get the drink, Rupert."
Nathan expressed instant regret and strove to lift the tone of the company. But the cloud did not pass so easily. Vivian himself soon forgot the incident; his children and his wife found it difficult. The young people, indeed, maintained a very dogged taciturnity and only talked among themselves in subdued tones. May and Polly waited upon the rest between the intervals of their own meal. They changed the dishes and went to and from the kitchen. Rupert and his youngest brother helped them, but Ned did not.
Some cheerfulness returned with the beer, and even Humphrey Baskerville strove to assist the general jollity; but he lacked the power. His mind was of the discomfortable sort that cannot suffer opinions, believed erroneous, to pass unchallenged. Sometimes he expressed no more than doubt; sometimes he dissented forcibly to Nathan's generalities. But after Vivian's heat at the beginning of the entertainment, his brother from 'The White Thorn' was cautious, and took care to raise no more dust of controversy.
The talk ran on the new vicar, and the master of Cadworthy spoke well of him.
"An understanding man, and for my part, though I can't pretend to like new things, yet I ban't going to quarrel for nothing. And if he likes to put the boys in surplices and make the maidens sit with the congregation, I don't see no great harm. They can sing praises to God wi' their noses to the east just so easy as they can facing north."
"Well said," declared Humphrey. "I've no patience with such fools as Gollop."
"As one outside and after a different persuasion, I can look on impartial," declared Nathan. "And I think with you both that Masterman is a useful and promising man. As for Gollop, he's the sort that can't see further than the end of the parish, and don't want to do so."
"For why? He'd tell you there's nought beyond," said Humphrey. "He foxes himself to think that the world can go on without change. He fancies that he alone of us all be a solid lighthouse, stuck up to watch the waves roll by. 'Tis a sign of a terrible weak intellect to think that everybody's changeable but ourselves, and that we only be the ones that know no shadow of changing. Yet I've seen many such men—with a cheerful conceit of themselves too."
"There's lots like that—common as blackberries in my bar," declared Nathan. "Old fellows most times, that reckon they are the only steadfast creatures left on earth, while everybody else be like feathers blown about in a gale of change."
"Every mortal man and woman be bound to change," answered his brother. "'Tis the law of nature. I'd give nought for a man of hard and fast opinions. Such stand high and dry behind the times."
But Vivian would not allow this.
"No, no, Humphrey; that won't do. If us wasn't fixed and firm, the world couldn't go on."
"Vivian means we must have a lever of solid opinions to lift our load in the world," explained Nathan. "Of course, no grown man wants to be flying to a new thing every day of his life, like the young people do."
"The lever's the Bible," declared Humphrey. "I've nought to do with any man who goes beyond that; but, outside that, there's a margin for change as the world grows, and 'tis vain to run your life away from the new facts the wise men find out."
"I don't hold with you," declared Vivian. "At such a gait us would never use the same soap or wear the same clothes two years together. If you'm going to run your life by the newspapers, you'm in the same case with the chaps and the donkey in the fable. What father believed and held to, I shall believe and hold to; for he was a better man than me and knowed a lot more."
Humphrey shook his head.
"If we all thought so, the world would stand still," he replied. "'Tis the very argument pushed in the papers to-day about teaching the young people. 'Tis said they must be taught just what their parents want for 'm to be taught. And who knows best, I should like to know—the parents and guardians, as have finished their learning years ago and be miles behind-hand in their knowledge, or the schoolmasters and mistresses as be up to date in their larning and full of the latest things put into books? There's no standing still with the world any more than there's standing still with the sun. It can't be. Law's against it."
"We must have change," admitted Nathan.
"For sure we must. 'Tis the only way to keep sweet—like water running forward. If you block it in a pond, it goes stagnant; and if you block your brains, they rot."
"Then let us leave it at that," said Vivian's wife. "And now, if you men have done your drink, you can go off and smoke while we tidy up."
But there was yet a duty to perform, and Nathan rose and whispered in Humphrey's ear.
"I think the time's come for drinking his health. It must be done. Will you propose it?"
His brother answered aloud.
"Nathan wants for me to propose your good health, Vivian. But I ban't going to. That sort of thing isn't in my line. I wish you nought but well, and there's an end on't."
"Then I'll say a word," declared the innkeeper, returning to his place. "Fill your glasses—just a drop more, Hester, you must drink—isn't it to your own husband? And I say here, in this family party, that 'tis a proud and a happy thing to have for the head of the family such a man as our brother—your husband, Hester; and your father, you boys and girls. Long may he be spared to stand up among us and set us a good example of what's brave and comely in man; long may he be spared, I say, and from my heart I bless him for a good brother and husband and father, and wish him many happy returns of his birthday. My love and honour to you, Vivian!"
They all rose and spoke after the custom of the clan.
"My love and honour to you, brother," said Humphrey.
"My love and honour to you, Vivian Baskerville," said his wife.
"Love and honour to you, father," murmured the boys and girls.
And Mark said, "Love and honour to you, uncle."
There was a gulching of liquor in the silence that followed, and Mr. Baskerville's little eyes twinkled.
"You silly folk!" he said. "God knows there's small need of this. But thank you all—wife, children, brothers, and nephew. I be getting up home to my tether's end now, and can't look with certainty for over and above another ten birthdays or thereabouts; but such as come we'll keep together, if it pleases you. And if you be drinking, then here's to you all at a breath—to you all, not forgetting my son Nathan that's sailing on the sea."
"I'll write to Nat and tell him every blessed word of it, and what we've had for dinner and all," said May.
The company grew hilarious and Nathan, leaving them, went to the trap that had brought him from Shaugh Prior and returned with a bottle.
"'Tis a pretty cordial," he said, "and a thimbleful all round will steady what's gone and warm our hearts. Not but what they'm warm enough already."
The liquor was broached and all drank but Humphrey.
"Enough's as good as a feast. And you can saddle my pony, Mark. I'm going home now. I'm glad to have been here to-day; but I'm going now."
They pressed him to remain, but he judged the invitation to be half-hearted. However, he was tranquil and amiable at leave-taking. To Rupert he even extended an invitation.
Rupert was the only one of his brother's family for whom he even pretended regard.
"You can come and see me when you've got the time," he said. "I'll go for a walk along with you and hear what you have to say."
Then he rode off, but Mark stopped and finished the day with his cousins.
He talked to Rupert and, with secret excitement, heard the opinions of May and Polly on the subject of Cora Lintern.
A very glowing and genial atmosphere settled over Cadworthy after the departure of Humphrey Baskerville. Even the nervous Mark consented to sing a song or two. The musical traditions of the Baskervilles had reawakened in him, and on rare occasions he favoured his friends with old ballads. But in church he never sang, and often only went there to ring the tenor bell.
Mr. Nathan also rendered certain comic songs, and May played the aged piano. Then there was dancing and dust and noise, and presently the meal called 'high tea.' Hester Baskerville protested at last against her brother-in-law's absurdities, for everybody began to roll about and ache with laughter; but he challenged her criticism.
"Clever though you all are," he said, "no woman that ever I met was clever enough to play the fool. 'Tis only the male creature can accomplish that."
"No woman ever wanted to, I should hope," she answered; and he retorted triumphantly—
"There you are! There's my argument in a nutshell!"
She was puzzled.
"What d'you mean by that?" she asked, and, from the standpoint of his nimble wit, he roared.
"There you are again!" he said. "I can't explain; but the lack in you be summed in the question."
"You'm a hopeless case," she said. "We all laugh at you, and yet couldn't for the life of us tell what on earth 'tis we be laughing at."
"That's the very highest art and practice of playing the fool!" he told them.
Where Wigmore Down descends in mighty shoulders clad with oak, there meet the rivers Plym and Mew, after their diverse journeyings on Dartmoor. The first roars wild and broken from its cradle aloft on the midmost waste, and falls with thunder under Cadworthy and beneath the Dewerstone; the other, as becomes a stream that has run through peaceful valleys by bridges and the hamlets of men, shall be found to wander with more gentle current before she passes into the throbbing bosom of her sister. Above them, on a day in early summer, the hill ascended washed with light, spread hugely for the pomp of the leaf.
From Plym beneath, flashing arrowy under their lowermost branches, to the granite tonsure of the hill above, ten thousand trees ascended in a shining raiment of all greens—a garment that fitted close to the contours of each winding ridge, sharp cleeve, and uplifted knoll of the elevation that they covered. Lustrous and shimmering, this forest garb exhibited every vernal tint that nature knows, for upon a prevalent, triumphant fabric of golden-green were cast particular jewels and patterns; against the oaken undertones, where they spread a dappled verdure of amber and carmine, there sprang the tardy ash, shone the rowan's brightness, sparkled the whitethorn at river's brink, and rose the emerald pavilions of the larch. Beeches thrust their diaphanous foliage in veils athwart the shadows; here a patchwork of blue firs added new harmonies to the hill; here the glittering birch reflected light from every tiny leaf; and here the holly's sobriety was broken by inflorescence and infant foliage, young and bright.
The forest spread its new-born leaves under a still, grey evening, upon which, suddenly, the sun thrust through before it sank. Shafts of light, falling from west to east upon the planes of the woods, struck out a path of sudden glory along the pine-tops and thrust down in rain of red gold even to the river's face; while on Dewerstone's self, where it towered above the trees and broke the green with grey, this gracious light briefly brooded and flashed genial into dark crevices and hidden nests of birds.
The great rock falls by abrupt acclivity to the water; it towers with pinnacle and peak aloft. Planted in the side of the forest it stands veined, scarred; it is fretted with many colours, cut and torn into all manner of fantastic shapes by work of roots and rain, by centuries of storm and the chisel of the lightning. Bedded here, with ivy on its front, the smile of evening for a crown, and the forest like a green sea breaking in foam of leaves around it, the Water Stone stood. Night was already come upon its eaves and cornices; from its feet ascended musical thunder of Plym in a riot of rocks; and aloft, clashing, echoing and re-echoing from scarp and precipice, there rang the cheerful chiming music of unnumbered jackdaws, who made these crags their home.
Mark Baskerville, descending into the valley from Shaugh, beheld this scene with understanding. He had been well educated; he was sentimental; he regarded wild Nature in a manner rare amid those born and bred upon her bosom. Beauty did not find him indifferent; old legends gave him joy. He knew the folk-tales of the land and dwelt upon them still with pleasure—an instinct surviving from boyhood, and deliberately suffered to survive. He loved the emotion of awe and cultivated it; he led a life from choice much secluded; he had walked hitherto blind, in so far as women were concerned; but now a woman had entered his life, and Nature shone glorified throughout by the experience.
Mark was in love with Cora Lintern; yet this prime fact did not lessen his regard for the earth and the old stories concerning it. He found the things that were good aforetime still good, but changed. His emotions were all sharpened and intensified. His strength was stronger; his weakness was weaker than of yore. She was never out of his thoughts; she made the sunlight warmer, the bird's song sweeter, the night more wonderful. He woke and found himself brave enough to approach her in the deep, small hours of morning; but with dawn came fear, and with day his courage melted. By night also he made rhymes that seemed beautiful to him and brought moisture to his eyes; but when the sun came and he repeated his stumbling periods, he blushed at them and banished them.
She was friendly and not averse; but she was clever, and had many friends among young men. Nathan Baskerville rejoiced in her, and often foretold a notable match for Cora. What Mark could offer seemed very little to Mark himself. His father, indeed, was reputed rich; but life at Hawk House revealed no sign of it. They lived hard, and Humphrey Baskerville affected a frugality that would have been unusual in the homes of humbler people.
Humphrey had often told his son that he did not know how to spend money; and as for Mark, until the present, he had shared his father's indifference and been well content. But he felt that Cora might be fond of money; and he was glad sometimes that his father spent so little; because, if all went well, there must surely come a time when he would be able to rejoice Cora with great riches. The obstacle, however, he felt to be himself. His distrust of himself was morbid; the folk said that he was frightened of his own voice, and only spoke through the tenor bell of St. Edward's.
Now he descended into the shadows of the valley and moved along the brink of Plym, seeking for certain young wood, ripe for cutting. Presently Mark found what he sought, but made no immediate effort to begin work. He flung down a frail which contained a bill-hook and saw. Then he sat upon a rock overhanging the river and buried himself in his own thoughts.
A path wound beside the stream, and along it sauntered suddenly the maiden of this man's dream. She looked fair enough and moved in deep apparent unconsciousness of any human presence.
But her ignorance was simulated. She had seen young Baskerville pass over the hill; she had known his destination, and by a detour she had entered the valley from below.
Now she started and exhibited astonishment.
"Mark! Whoever would have thought——! What be you doing here all alone like this—and you not a fisherman?"
He stammered, and grew pale.
"Fancy meeting; and I might ask what brought you, Cora?"
"Oh, just a silly fondness for the river and the trees and my own thoughts. I like being about among the wild things, though I dare say you won't believe it."
"Of course, I'll believe it—gladly too. Don't I like being about among 'em better than anything else? I'm very pleased to meet you, I'm sure. There's no lovelier bit of the river than here."
"Dewerstone do look fine to-night," she said, glancing up at the crags above them.
"It does, then. The Water Stone I always call it, since I read in a book that that was what it meant. 'Tis the great stone by the water, you see. Have you ever heard tell of the Black Hunter, Cora? But perhaps you don't hold with such old wife's tales?"
She put him at his ease and assured him that she loved ancient fables and liked to go on believing them, despite her better knowledge.
"Just the same as me!" he cried eagerly. "The very thing I do. How wonderful you should feel the same! I know 'tis rubbish, yet I let it go sadly. I'd believe in the pixies, if I could!"
"Who was the Black Hunter, if you don't mind telling me?" she asked. "I'll sit here a bit afore I go on, if it won't be to hinder you."
"Proud I am, I'm sure," he said. "And as for him, the Black Hunter, that's no more than another name for the Devil himself. 'Twas thought that he'd come here by night with his great, bellowing, red-eyed dogs, and go forth to hunt souls. A coal-black horse he rode; but sometimes he'd set out afoot, for 'tis well remembered how once in the deep snow, on a winter morn, human footprints, along with hoofmarks, were traced to the top of the hill, but not down again!"
"The devil flew away with somebody?"
"So the old story says. But I like the thought of the little Heath Hounds better. For they hunt and harry old Nick's self. They are the spirits of the young children who die before they are baptised; and the legend hath it that they win to heaven soon or late by hunting the Prince of Darkness. 'Tis the children that we bury with maimed rites upon 'Chrisomers' Hill' in the churchyard. They put that poor woman who killed herself in the same place, because the old parson wouldn't read 'sure and certain hope' over her."
But Cora was not interested in his conversation, though she pretended to be. She endeavoured to turn speech into a more personal road.
"What have you come here for? I hadn't any idea you ever took walks alone."
"I take hundreds—terrible poor hand at neighbouring with people, I am—like my father. But I'm here to work—getting handles for tools. There's no wood for light tools like alder. You know the old rhyme—
'When aller's leaf is so big as a penny,The stick will wear so tough as any.'
That's true enough, for I've proved it."
"Set to work and I'll watch you, if I may."
"Proud, I'm sure. And I'll see you home after. But there's no haste. I was thinking that bare, dark corner in the garden at Undershaugh might do very nice for ferns—if you'd care——?"
"The very thing! How kind to think of it. I love the garden and the flowers. But none else cares about them. D'you think you could get me one of they king ferns? But I suppose that would be too much to ask."
"I'll get you more than one."
"I'll try to plant 'em then, but I'm not very clever."
"I'll come and make a bit of a rockery myself, if—if you like."
"'Like!" I should love it. But 'tis very good of you to bother about a stupid girl."
"Don't you say that. Far, far from stupid. Never was a cleverer girl, I'm sure."
She shook her head and talked about the ferns. Then she became personal.
"I've always felt somehow with you; but I suppose it ban't maidenly to say such things—but I've always felt as you understood me, Mark."
"Ah!" he said. "And as for me, I've felt—God, He knows what I've felt."
The man broke off, and she smiled at him and dropped her eyes. She knew the thing that shared his heart with her, and now spoke of it.
"And through you I've got to love tenor bell almost as much as you do. Of a Sunday the day isn't complete till I've heard the beautiful note of your bell and thought of you at the rope. I always somehow think of you when I hear that bell; and I think of the bell when I see you! Ban't that strange?"
"'Tis your wonderful quick mind, and you couldn't say anything to please me better."
"I wanted to ask you about the bells. I'm so ignorant; but I thought, if 'twasn't silly of me, I'd ask you about 'em. I suppose they'm awful difficult to ring?"
"Not a bit. Only wants steady practice. The whole business is little understood, but 'tis simple enough. I've gone into it all from the beginning, and I'm glad—very glad—you care about it. The first thing is for a ring of bells to be in harmony with itself, and founders ought to be free to make 'em so. The bells are never better than when they are broken out of the moulds, and every touch of the lathe, or chip of the chisel, is music lost. The thickness of the sound-bow should be one-thirteenth of the diameter, you must know; but modern bells are made for cheapness. Long in the waist and high in the shoulder they should be for true fineness of sound; but they cast 'em with short waists and flat shoulders now. 'Tis easier to hang and ring them so; but they don't give the same music. My tenor is a wonderful good bell—a maiden bell, as we say—one cast true, that has never had a chip at the sound-bow. 'I call the quick to church and dead to grave,' is her motto. A Pennington bell she is, and no bell-founder ever cast a better. Every year makes her sweeter, for there's nothing improves bell-metal like time."
"I suppose it wouldn't be possible for me actually to see the bells?"
"It can be done and shall be," he promised. Then he went off again.
"I've been in nearly every bell-cot and bell-turret in Devonshire, one time and another, and I've took a hand in change-ringing far and wide; but our ring of six, for its size and weight, can't be beat in the county, and there's no sweeter tenor that I've heard than mine. And I'm very hopeful that Mr. Masterman will take my advice and have our wheels and gear looked to, and the bell-chamber cleaned out. 'Tis the home of birds, and the nest litter lies feet deep up there. The ladder's all rotten too. We ought to have stays and slides; and our ropes are a bit too heavy, and lack tuftings for the sally. I'm hopeful he'll have a care for these things."
He prattled on, for it was his subject and always loosed his tongue. She was bored to death, but from time to time, when he feared that he wearied her, she assured him that her interest did not wane and was only less than his own. He showed unusual excitement at this meeting, was lifted out of himself, and talked until grey gloaming sank over the valley and the jackdaws were silent. Then Cora started up and declared that she must return home quickly.
"Listening to you has made me forget all about the time and everything," she said. "They'll wonder whatever has befallen me."
"I'll see you home," he answered. "'Tis my fault you'll be late, and I must take the blame."
"And I've kept you from your work, I'm afraid."
"That's no matter at all. To-morrow will do just as well for the alder."
He rose and walked beside her. She asked him to help her at one place in the wood, and her cool, firm hand thrilled him. Once or twice he thought to take this noble opportunity and utter the thing in his heart; but he could not bring himself to do it. Then, at her gate, he left her, and they exchanged many assurances of mutual thanks and obligation. He promised to bring the ferns in three days' time, and undertook to spend an evening with the Linterns, build the rockery, and stay to supper with the family afterwards.
He walked home treading on air, with his mind full of hope and happiness. Cora had never been so close as on this day; she had never vouchsafed such an intimate glimpse of her beautiful spirit before. Each word, each look seemed to bring her nearer; and yet, when he reflected on his own imperfections, a wave of doubt swept coldly over him. He supped in silence, but, after the meal, he confessed the thoughts in his mind.
"Never broke a twig this evening," he said. "Was just going to begin, when who should come along but Cora Lintern."
"Has she forgiven parson for turning her out of the choir? Can't practise that side-glance at the men no more now."
"She's not that sort, father."
"Not with a face like hers? That girl would rather go hungry than without admiration and flattering. A little peacock, and so vain as one."
"You're wrong there. I'll swear it. She's very different to what you reckon. Why, this very evening, there she was under the Water Stone all alone—walking along by herself just for love of the place. Often goes there, she tells me."
"Very surprised to find you there—eh?"
"That she was. And somehow I got talking—such a silent man as me most times. But I found myself chattering about the bells and one thing and another. We've got a lot more in common than you might think."
Mr. Baskerville smoked and looked into the fire.
"Well, don't be in a hurry. I'm not against marriage for the young men. But bide your time, till you've got more understanding of women."
"I'll never find another like her. I'm sure she'd please you, father."
"You'll be rich in a small way, as the world goes, presently. Remember, she knows that as well as you do."
"She never speaks of money. Just so simple and easily pleased as I am myself, for that matter. She loves natural things—just the things you care about yourself."
"And very much interested in tenor bell, no doubt?"
"How did you guess that? But 'tis perfectly true. She is; and she said a very kind thing that was very hopeful to me to hear. She said that the bell always put her in mind of me, and I always put her in mind of the bell."
"I wonder! And did you tell her what was writ on the bell?"
"Yes, I did, father."
"And d'you know what she thought?"
Mark shook his head.
"She thought that the sooner it called you and her to church together, and the sooner it called me to my grave, the pleasanter life would look for her hard eyes."
"Father! 'Tis cruel and unjust to say such things."
"Haven't I seen her there o' Sundays ever since she growed up? There's nought tells you more about people than their ways in church. As bright as a bee and smart and shining; but hard—hard as the nether millstone, that woman's heart. Have a care of her; that's all I'll say to you."
"I hope to God you'll know her better some day, father."
"And I hope you will, my lad; and I'll use your strong words too, and hope to God you'll know her better afore 'tis too late."
"This is cruel, and I'm bitter sorry to hear you say it," answered the young man, rising. Then he went out and left his father alone.
Elsewhere Phyllis Lintern had eagerly inquired of Cora as to the interview with the bellringer.
The girls shared many secrets and were close friends. They knew unconsciously that their brother was more to the mother than were they. Heathman adored Mrs. Lintern and never wearied of showing it; but for his sisters he cared little, and they felt no interest in him.
Now Phyllis sympathised with Cora's ambitions and romances.
"How was it?" she asked. "I warrant you brought him to the scratch!"
"'Tis all right," declared her sister. "'Tis so good as done. The word was on his tongue coming up-along in the dimpsy; but it stuck in his throat. I know the signs well enough. However, 'twill slip out pretty soon, I reckon. He's a good sort, though fidgety, but he's gotten lovely eyes. I'll wake him up and smarten him up, too—presently."
When man builds a house on Dartmoor, he plants trees to protect it. Sometimes they perish; sometimes they endure to shield his dwelling from the riotous and seldom-sleeping winds. Round the abode of Humphrey Baskerville stood beech and pine. A solid old house lurked beneath, like a bear in its grove. People likened its face to the master's—the grey, worn, tar-pitched roof to his hair, and the small windows on either side of the door to his eyes. A few apple trees were in the garden, and currant and gooseberry bushes prospered indifferent well beneath them. Rhubarb and a row of elders also flourished here. The latter were permitted to exist for their fruit, and of the berries Mrs. Susan Hacker, Humphrey's widowed housekeeper, made medicinal preparations supposed to possess value.
Hawk House lay under a tor, and behind it the land towered to a stony waste that culminated in wild masses of piled granite, where the rowan grew and the vixen laid her cubs. From this spot one might take a bird's-eye survey of Humphrey Baskerville's domain. Gold lichens had fastened on the roof, and the folk conceited that since there was no more room in the old man's house for his money, it began to ooze out through the tiles.
Humphrey himself now sat on a favourite stone aloft and surveyed his possessions and the scene around them. It was his custom in fair weather to spend many hours sequestered upon the tor. Dwarf oaks grew in the clitters, and he marked the passage of the time by their activity, by the coming of migrant birds, by the appearance of the infant foxes and by other natural signs and tokens. Beneath Hawk House there subtended a great furze-clad space flanked with woods. The Rut, as it was called, fell away to farms and fertile fields, and terminated in a glen through which the little Torry river passed upon her way to Plym. Cann Wood fringed the neighbouring heights, and far away to the south Laira's lake extended and Plymouth appeared—faint, grey, glittering under a gauze of smoke.
The tor itself was loved by hawks and stoats, crows and foxes. Not a few people, familiar with the fact that Humphrey here took his solitary walks and kept long vigils, would affirm that he held a sort of converse with these predatory things and learned from them their winged and four-footed cunning. His sympathy, indeed, was with fox and hawk rather than with hunter and hound. He admitted it, but in no sense of companionship with craft did he interest himself in the wild creatures. He made no fatuous imputation of cruelty to the hawk, or cunning to the fox. His bent of mind, none the less, inclined him to admire their singlehanded fight for life against long odds; and thus he, too, fell into fallacy; but his opinion took a practical turn and was not swiftly shattered, as such emotions are apt to be, when the pitied outlaw offers to the sentimental spectator a personal taste of his quality.
If a hawk stooped above his chickens, he felt a sort of contempt for the screaming, flying fowls—let the hawk help itself if it could—and did not run for his gun. Indeed, he had no gun. As men said of this or that obstinate ancient that he had never travelled in a train, so they affirmed, concerning Humphrey Baskerville, that he had never in his life fired a gun.
He sat and smoked a wooden pipe and reflected on the puzzles of his days. He knew that he was held in little esteem, but that had never troubled him. His inquiring spirit rose above his fellow-creatures; and he prided himself upon the fact, and did not see that just in this particular of a flight too lofty did he fail of the landmarks and sure ground he sought.
A discontent, in substance very distinguished and noble, imbued his consciousness. He was still seeking solace out of life and a way that should lead to rest. But he could not find it. He was in arms on the wrong road. He missed the fundamental fact that from humanity and service arise not only the first duties of life, but also the highest rewards that life can offer. He had little desire towards his fellow-creatures. His mind appeared to magnify their deficiencies and weakness. He was ungenerous in his interpretation of motives. Mankind awoke his highest impatience. He sneered at his own shortcomings daily, and had no more mercy for the manifold disabilities of human nature in general. In the light of his religion and his learning, he conceived that man should be by many degrees a nobler and a wiser thing than he found him; and this conclusion awoke impatience and a fiery aversion. He groped therefore in a blind alley, for as yet service of man had not brought its revelation to his spirit, or opened the portals of content. He failed to perceive that the man who lives rationally for men, with all thereby involved in his duty to himself, is justifying his own existence to the limit of human capacity.
Instead, he fulfilled obligations to his particular God with all his might, and supposed this rule of conduct embraced every necessity. He despised his neighbour, but he despised himself also. Thus he was logical, but such a rule of conduct left him lonely. Hence it came about that darkness clothed him like a garment, and that his kind shunned him, and cared not to consider him.
He sat silent and motionless. His gift of stillness had often won some little intimate glimpse of Nature, and it did so now. A fox went by him at close quarters. It passed absorbed in its own affairs, incautious and without fear. Then suddenly it saw him, braced its muscles and slipped away like a streak of cinnamon light through the stones.
It made for the dwarf oaks beneath the head of the tor, and the watcher saw its red stern rise and its white-tipped brush jerk this way and that as it leapt from boulder to boulder. A big and powerful fox—so Humphrey perceived; one that had doubtless stood before hounds in his time, and would again.
Arrived at the confines of the wood, the brute hurried himself no more; but rested awhile and, with a sort of highwayman insolence, surveyed the object of alarm. Then it disappeared, and the man smiled to himself and was glad that he had seen this particular neighbour.
At the poultry-house far below, moved Mrs. Hacker. Viewed from this elevation she presented nothing but a sun-bonnet and a great white square of apron. She wore black, and her bust disappeared seen thus far away, though her capacious person might be noted at a mile. Susan Hacker was florid, taciturn, and staunch to her master. If she had a hero, it was Mr. Baskerville; and if she had an antipathy, Miss Eliza Gollop stood for that repugnance.
Of Susan it might be said that she was honest and not honest. In her case, though, she would have scorned to take a crust; she listened at doors. To steal a spoon was beyond her power; but to steal information not intended for her ears did not outrage her moral sense. Her rare triumphs were concerned with Humphrey's ragged wardrobe; and when she could prevail with him to buy a new suit of clothes, or burn an old one, she felt the day had justified itself.
Now, through the clitters beneath him, there ascended a man, and Humphrey prepared to meet his nephew. He had marked Rupert speak with Mrs. Hacker and seen her point to the tor. It pleased the uncle that this youth should sometimes call unasked upon him, for he rated Rupert as the sanest and usefulest of his kindred. In a sense Rupert pleased Humphrey better than his own son did. A vague instinct to poetry and sentiment and things of abstract beauty, which belonged as an ingredient to Mark's character, found no echo in his father's breast.
"I be come to eat my dinner along with you and fetch a message for Mark," began the young man. "Mr. Masterman's meeting, to tell everybody about the play, will be held in the parish room early next month, and parson specially wants you and Mark to be there. There's an idea of reviving some old-fangled customs. I dare say 'tis a very good idea, and there will be plenty to lend a hand; but I doubt whether Mark will dress up and spout poetry for him—any more than I would."
"He means to perform 'St. George' next Christmas and invite the countryside," said Mr. Baskerville. "Well, one man's meat is another man's poison. He's young and energetic. He'll carry it through somehow with such material as lies about him. The maidens will all want to be in it, no doubt."
"I think 'tis foolery, uncle."
"You think wrong, then. Ban't always foolery to hark back to old ways. He's got his ideas for waking the people up. You and me might say, 'don't wake 'em up'; but 'tisn't our business. It is his business, as a minister, to open their eyes and polish their senses. So let him try with childish things first—not that he'll succeed, for he won't."
"Then what's the good of trying?"
"The man must earn his money."
"Fancy coming to a dead-alive hole like this! Why, even Jack Head from Trowlesworthy—him as works for Mr. Luscombe—even he laughs at Shaugh."
"He's a rare Radical, is Head. 'Tis the likes of him the upper people don't want to teach to read or to think—for fear of pickling a rod for themselves. But Head will be thinking. He's made so. I like him."
"He laughed at me for one," said Rupert; "and though I laughed back, I smarted under his tongue. He says for a young and strapping chap like me to stop at Cadworthy doing labourer's work for my father, be a poor-spirited and even a shameful thing. He says I ought to blush to follow a plough or move muck, with the learning I've learnt. Of course, 'tis a small, mean life, in a manner of speaking, for a man of energy as loves work like I do."
Mr. Baskerville scratched his head with the mouthpiece of his pipe, and surveyed Rupert for some time without speaking.
Then he rose, sniffed the air, and buttoned up his coat.
"We'll walk a bit and I'll show you something," he said.
They set out over Shaugh Moor and Rupert proceeded.
"I do feel rather down on my luck, somehow—especially about Milly Luscombe. It don't seem right or fair exactly—as if Providence wasn't on my side."
"Don't bleat that nonsensical stuff," said his uncle. "You're the sort that cry out to Providence if you fall into a bed of nettles—instead of getting up quick and looking for a dock-leaf. Time to cry to Providence when you're in a fix you can't get out of single-handed. If you begin at your time of life, and all about nothing too, belike 'twill come to be like the cry of 'Wolf, wolf!' and then, when you really do get into trouble and holloa out, Providence won't heed."
"Milly Luscombe's not a small thing, anyway. How can I go on digging and delving while father withstands me and won't hear a word about her?"
"She's too good for you."
"I know it; but she don't think so, thank the Lord."
"Your father's a man that moves in a groove. Maybe you go safer that way; but not further. The beaten track be his motto. He married late in life, and it worked very well; so it follows to his narrow mind that late in life is the right and only time to marry."
"I wish you'd tell him that you hold with Milly and think a lot of her. Father has a great opinion of your cleverness, I'm sure."
"Not he! 'Tis your uncle Nathan that he sets store by. Quite natural that he should. He's a much cleverer man than me, and knows a lot more about human nature. See how well all folk speak of him. Can't you get him your side? Your father would soon give ear to you if Uncle Nathan approved."
"'Tis an idea. And Uncle Nat certainly be kind always. I might try and get him to do something. He's very friendly with Mr. Saul Luscombe, Milly's uncle."
"How does Luscombe view it?"
"He'll be glad to have Milly off his hands."
"More fool him then. For there's no more understanding girl about."
"So Jack Head says. Ban't often he's got a good word for anybody; but he's told me, in so many words, that Milly be bang out of the common. He said it because his savage opinions never fluster her."
They stood on Hawk Tor, and beneath them stretched, first, the carpet of the heath. Then the ground fell into a valley, where water meadows spread about a stream, and beyond, by woods and homesteads, the earth ascended again to Shaugh Prior. The village, perched upon the apex of the hill, twinkled like a jewel. Glitter of whitewash and rosy-wash shone under the grey roofs; sunlight and foliage sparkled and intermingled round the church tower; light roamed upon the hills, revealing and obscuring detail in its passage. To the far west, above deep valleys, the world appeared again; but now it had receded and faded and merged in tender blue to the horizon. Earth spread before the men in three huge and simple planes: of heath and stone sloping from north to south; of hillside and village and hamlet perched upon their proper crest; of the dim, dreaming distance swept with the haze of summer and rising to sky-line.
"That's not small—that's big," said Humphrey Baskerville. "Plenty of room here for the best or worse that one boy can do."
But Rupert doubted.
"Think of the world out of sight, uncle. This bit spread here be little more than a picture in its frame."
"Granted; but the frame's wide enough to cage all that your wits will ever work. You can run here and wear your fingers to the bone without bruising yourself against any bars. Go down in the churchyard and take a look at the Baskerville slates—fifty of 'em if there's one: your grandfather, your great-uncle, the musicker, and all the rest. And every man and woman of the lot lived and died, and suffered and sweated, and did good or evil within this picture-frame."
"All save the richest—him that went to foreign parts and made a fortune and sent back tons of money to father and you and Uncle Nat."
Humphrey laughed.
"Thou hast me there!" he said. "But don't be discontented. Bide a bit and see how the wind blows. I'm not against a man following the spirit that calls him; but wait and find out whether 'tis a true voice or only a lying echo. What does Milly say?"
"'Tis Milly have put the thought into me, for that matter. She's terrible large in her opinions. She holds that father haven't got no right to refuse to let us be tokened. She'd come and talk to him, if I'd let her. A regular fear-nothing, she is."
"What would she have you do?"
"Gird up and be off. She comes of a very wandering family, and, of course, one must allow for that. I've nought to say against it. But they can't bide in one spot long. Something calls 'em to be roaming."
"The tribe of Esau."
They talked on, and Rupert found himself the better for some caustic but sane counsel.
"'Tis no good asking impossibilities from you, and I'm the last to do it," said Humphrey. "There are some things we can't escape from, and our characters are one of them. There's no more sense in trying to run from your character than in trying to run from your shadow. Too often your character is your shadow, come to think on it; and cruel black at that. But don't be impatient. Wait and watch yourself as well as other people. If these thoughts have been put in your head by the girl, they may not be natural to you, and they may not be digested by you. See how your own character takes 'em. I'm not against courting, mind, nor against early marriages; and if this woman be made of the stuff to mix well and close with your own character, then marry her and defy the devil and all his angels to harm you. To take such a woman is the best day's work that even the hardest working man can do in this world. But meantime don't whine, but go ahead and gather wisdom and learn a little about the things that happen outside the picture-frame—as I do."
They turned presently and went back to dinner.
Rupert praised his uncle, and declared that life looked the easier for his advice.
"'Tis no good being called 'The Hawk' if you can't sharpen your wits as well as your claws," said the old man. "Yes—you're astonished—but I know what they call me well enough."
"I knocked a chap down last Sunday on Cadworthy bridge for saying it," declared Rupert.
"Very thoughtful and very proper to stand up for your family; but I'm not hurt. Maybe there's truth in it. I've no quarrel with the hawks—or the herons either—for all they do eat the trout. By all accounts there was birds to eat trout afore there was men to eat 'em. We humans have invented a saying that possession is nine points of the law; but we never thought much of that when it comed to knocking our weaker neighbours on the head—whether they be birds or men."
"You've made me a lot more contented with the outlook, anyway."
"I'm glad to hear it. Content's the one thing I'd wish you—and wish myself. I can't see the way very clear yet. Let me know if ever you come by it."
"You! Why, you'm the most contented of any of us."
"Come and eat, and don't talk of what you know nought," said Mr. Baskerville.
They went through the back yard of the homestead presently, where a hot, distinctive odour of pigs saturated the air. As they passed by, some young, very dirty, pink porkers grunted with fat, amiable voices and cuddled to their lean mother, where she lay in a lair of ordure.
"That's content," explained Humphrey; "it belongs to brainless things, and only to them. I haven't found it among men and women yet, and I never count to. Rainbow gold in this world. Yet, don't mistake me, I'm seeking after it still."
"Why seek for it, if there's no such thing, uncle?"
"Well may you ask that. But the answer's easy. Because 'tis part of my character to seek for it, Rupert. Character be stronger than reason's self, if you can understand that. I seek because I'm driven."
"You might find it after all, uncle. There must be such a thing—else there'd be no word for it."
The older sighed.
"A young and hopeful fashion of thought," he said. "But you're out there. Men have made up words for many a fine, fancied thing their hearts long for; but the word is all—stillborn out of poor human hope."
He brooded deep into his own soul upon this thought and spoke little more that day. But Mark was waiting for his dinner when they returned, and he and Rupert found themes in common to occupy them through the meal.
The great project of the new vicar chiefly supplied conversation. Rupert felt indifferent, but Mark was much interested.
"I'm very willing to lend a hand all I can, and I expect the parish will support it," he said. "But as for play-acting myself, and taking a part, I wouldn't for all the world. It beats me how anybody can get up on a platform and speak a speech afore his fellow-creatures assembled."
"The girls will like it," foretold Rupert.
"Cora Lintern is to play a part," declared Mark; "and no doubt she'll do it amazing well."
Rupert was up in arms at once.
"I should think they'll ask Milly Luscombe too. She's got more wits than any of 'em."
"She may have as much as Cora, but not more, I can assure you of that," answered Mark firmly.
He rarely contradicted a statement or opposed an assertion; but upon this great subject his courage was colossal.