Mr. Masterman and his sister made more friends than enemies. The man's good-nature and energy attracted his parishioners; while Miss Masterman, though not genial, was sincere. A certain number followed the party of Mr. Gollop and Eliza, yet, as time passed, it diminished. The surplices arrived; the girls were turned out of the choir; but the heavens did not fall. Even the Nonconformists of Shaugh Prior regarded the young vicar with friendliness, and when he called a meeting at the parish room, Mr. Nathan Baskerville and others who stood for dissent, attended it in an amiable spirit.
Rumours as to the nature of the proposition had leaked out, and they were vague; but a very general interest had been excited, and when the evening came the vicar, his churchwardens, and friends, found a considerable company assembled.
There were present Vivian and Nathan Baskerville, with most of the former's family. Mrs. Lintern and her two daughters from Undershaugh also came; while Heathman Lintern, Ned Baskerville, and other young men stood in a group at the rear of the company. From Trowlesworthy arrived the warrener, Saul Luscombe, his niece, Milly, and his man, Jack Head. People looked uneasy at sight of the last, for he was a revolutionary and firebrand. The folk suspected that he held socialistic views, and were certain that he worked harm on the morals of younger people. Susan Hacker, at her master's wish, attended the meeting and sat impassive among friends. Thomas Gollop and Joe Voysey, the vicarage gardener, sat together; but Miss Gollop was not present, because her services were occupied with the newly-born.
A buzz and babel filled the chamber and the heat increased. Jack Head opened a window. Whereupon Mr. Gollop rose and shut it again. The action typified that eternal battle of principle which waged between them. But Vivian Baskerville was on the side of fresh air.
"Let be!" he shouted. "Us don't want to be roasted alive, Thomas!"
So the window was opened once more, and Head triumphed.
Dennis Masterman swiftly explained his desire and invited the parish to support him in reviving an ancient and obsolete ceremonial.
"The oldest men among you must remember the days of the Christmas mummers," he said. "I've heard all about them from eye-witnesses, and it strikes me that to get up the famous play of 'St. George,' with the quaint old-world dialogue, would give us all something to do this winter, and be very interesting and instructive, and capital fun. There are plenty among you who could act the parts splendidly, and as the original version is rather short and barren, I should have some choruses written in, and go through it and polish it up, and perhaps even add a character or two. In the old days it was all done by the lads, but why not have some lasses in it as well? However, these are minor points to be decided later. Would you like the play? that's the first question. It is a revival of an ancient custom. It will interest a great many people outside our parish; and if it is to be done at all, it must be done really well. Probably some will be for it and some against. For my part, I only want to please the greater number. Those who are for it had better elect a spokesman, and let him say a word first; then we'll hear those who are against."
The people listened quietly; then they bent this way and that, and discussed the suggestion. Some rose and approached Vivian Baskerville, where he sat beside his brother. After some minutes of buzzing conversation, during which Vivian shook his head vigorously, and Nathan as vigorously nodded, the latter rose with reluctance, and the folk stamped their feet.
"'Tis only because of my brother's modest nature that I get up," he explained. "As a Church of England man and a leader among us, they very properly wanted for him to speak. But he won't do it, and no more will young Farmer Waite, and no more will Mr. Luscombe of Trowlesworthy; so I'll voice 'em to the best of my power. Though I'm of t'other branch of the Christian Church, yet my friends will bear me out that I've nothing but kind feeling and regard for all of them, and in such a pleasant matter as this I shall do all in my power to help your reverence, as we all shall. For I do think there's none but will make the mummers welcome again, and lend a hand to lift the fun into a great success. Me and my brother and Luscombe, and Waite and Gollop, and Joe Voysey, and a good few more, can well remember the old mumming days; and we'll all do our best to rub up our memories. So what we all say is, 'Go ahead, Mr. Masterman, and good luck to it!'"
Applause greeted Nathan. The folk were filled with admiration at his ready turn of speech. He sat down again between Mrs. Lintern and Cora. Everybody clapped their hands.
Then came a hiss from the corner where Jack Head stood.
"A dissentient voice," declared the clergyman. "Who is that?"
"My name is Jack Head, and I be gwaine to offer objections," said the man stoutly.
"Better save your wind then!" snapped Mr. Gollop. "You be one against the meeting."
Head was a middle-aged, narrow-browed, and underhung individual of an iron-grey colour. His body was long and thin; his shoulders were high; his expression aggressive, yet humorous. He had swift wits and a narrow understanding. He was observant and impressed with the misery of the world; but he possessed no philosophical formulas to balance his observation or counsel patience before the welter of life. He was honest, but scarce knew the meaning of amenity.
"One or not won't shut my mouth," he said. "I'm a member of the parish so much as you, though I don't bleat a lot of wild nonsense come every seventh day, and I say that to spend good time and waste good money this way be a disgrace, and a going back instead of going forward. What for do we want to stir up a lot of silly dead foolishness that our grandfathers invented? Ban't there nothing better to do with ourselves and our wits than dress up like a ship-load of monkeys and go play-acting? We might so well start to wassail the apple-trees and put mourning on the bee-butts when a man dies. I'm against it, and I propose instead that Mr. Masterman looks round him and sees what a miserable Jakes of a mess his parish be in, and spends his time trying to get the landlords to——"
"Order! Order! Withdraw that!" cried out Mr. Gollop furiously. "How dare this infidel man up and say the parish be in a Jakes of a mess? Where's Ben North?"
"I'm here, Thomas," said a policeman, who stood at the door.
"You'm a silly old mumphead," replied Jack. "To hear you about this parish—God's truth! I'll tell you this, my brave hero. When the devil was showing the Lord the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of 'em, he kept his thumb on Shaugh Prior, so as none should see what a dung-heap of a place it was."
"Order! Order!" cried Miss Masterman shrilly, and Mr. Gollop grew livid.
"I appeal to the chair! I appeal to the nation!" he gasped. Then he shook his fist at Jack.
"There's no chair—not yet," explained Dennis. "As soon as we decide, I'll take the chair, and we'll appoint a committee to go into the matter and arrange the parts, and so on. The first thing is, are we agreed?"
One loud shout attested to the sense of the meeting.
"Then, Mr. Head, you're in a minority of one, and I hope we may yet convince you that this innocent revival is not a bad thing," said Dennis. "And further than that, you mustn't run down Shaugh Prior in this company. We've got a cheerful conceit of ourselves, and why not? Don't think I'm dead to the dark side of human life, and the sorrows and sufferings of the poor. I hope you'll all very soon find that I'm not that sort, or my sister either. And the devil himself can't hide Shaugh Prior from the Lord and Saviour of us all, Mr. Head—have no fear of that."
"Sit down, Jack, and say you'm sorry," cried Mr. Luscombe.
"Not me," replied Head. "I've stated my views at a free meeting, and I'm on the losing side, like men of my opinions always be where parsons have a voice. But me and my friends will be up top presently."
"Turn him out, Ben North!" shouted Mr. Gollop; but Ben North refused. Indeed, he was of Jack's party.
"He've done nought but say his say, and I shan't turn him out," the policeman answered. "There's nobody in the chair yet, and therefore there's none here with power to command the Law to move."
A committee was swiftly formed. It consisted of the clergyman and certain parishioners. Nathan joined it for his family; Mr. Luscombe also joined, and Dennis promised that certain local antiquaries and the lord of the manor would assist the enterprise.
"While we are here," he said, "we may as well get the thing well advanced and decide about the characters. All those interested are here, so why not let me read through the old play as it stands? Then we'll settle the parts, and each can copy his or her part in turn."
"There's nothing like being fore-handed," admitted Nathan. "Let's have it by all means. We shall want young and old to play, if my memory serves me."
"We shall, and a good company to sing the songs that I hope to add. My sister, our organist, will undertake the music."
"And right well she'll do it, without a doubt," declared Nathan. "On all hands 'tis admitted how the church music has mended a lot since she took it up."
Mr. Masterman then read a version of the old play, and its ingenuous humour woke laughter.
"Now," said the vicar when his recital was at an end, "I'll ask those among us who will volunteer to act—ladies and gentlemen—to come forward. Especially I appeal to the ladies. They'll have to say very little."
"Only to look nice, and I'm sure that won't cost 'em an effort, for they can't help it," declared Nathan.
None immediately rose. Then Ned Baskerville strolled down the room.
"Best-looking young man in Shaugh," cried an anonymous voice.
"And the laziest!" answered another unknown.
There was a laugh and Ned turned ruddy.
"Thou'lt never take trouble enough to learn thy part, Ned!" cried Heathman Lintern.
"Play Turkish knight, my son," said his father. "Then thou can'st be knocked on the head and die comfortable without more trouble."
Others followed Ned, and Mr. Masterman called for Mark.
"You'll not desert us, Mark? I shall want your help, I know."
"And glad to give it," answered the young man. He grew very hot and nervous to find himself named. His voice broke, he coughed and cut a poor figure. Somebody patted him on the back.
"Don't be frighted, Mark," said Vivian Baskerville; "his reverence only wants for you to do what you can. He wouldn't ask impossibilities."
Mrs. Baskerville compared her handsome son to stammering Mark and felt satisfied. Cora Lintern also contrasted the young men, and in her bosom was anything but satisfaction.
"You needn't act, but you must help in many ways. You're so well up in the old lore—all about our legends and customs," explained the clergyman. "We count on you. And now we want some of the older men among you, and when we've settled them we must come to the ladies. We're getting on splendidly. Now—come—you set a good example, Thomas."
"Me!" cried Mr. Gollop. "Me to play-act! Whoever heard the like?"
"You must play, Thomas," urged Vivian Baskerville of Cadworthy. "Such a voice can't be lost. What a King of Egypt the man will make!"
"I'll do a part if you will, but not else," returned Gollop, and the Baskerville family lifted a laugh at their father's expense.
"For that matter I've took the stage often enough," admitted Vivian; "but 'twas to work, not to talk. All the same, if his reverence would like for me to play a part, why, I'm ready and willing, so long as there isn't much to say to it."
"Hurrah for Mr. Baskerville!" shouted several present.
"And Mr. Nathan must play, too," declared Joe Voysey. "No revel would be complete without him."
"If you'll listen I'll tell you what I think," said the clergyman. "I've considered your parts during the last five minutes, and they go like this in my mind. Let's take them in order:—
"St. George, Mr. Ned Baskerville. Will you do St. George, Ned?"
"Yes, if you can't find a better," said the young man.
"Good! Now the Turkish knight comes next. He must be young and a bit of a fighter. Will you be Turkish knight, Mr. Waite?"
He addressed a young, good-looking, dark man, who farmed land in the parish, and dwelt a few miles off.
Mr. Waite laughed and nodded.
"Right—I'll try."
"Well done! Now"—Mr. Masterman smiled and looked at Jack Head—"will Mr. Head play the Bear—to oblige us all?"
Everybody laughed, including Jack himself.
"The very living man for Bear!" cried Mr. Luscombe. "I command you, Jack, to be Bear!"
"You ain't got much to do but growl and fight, Jack, and you're a oner at both," said Heathman.
"Well, I've said my say," returned Mr. Head, "and I was in a minority. But since this parish wants for me to be Bear, I'll Bear it out so well as I can; and if I give St. George a bit of a hug afore he bowls me over, he mustn't mind that."
"Capital! Thank you, Jack Head. Now, who'll be Father Christmas? I vote for Mr. Nathan Baskerville."
Applause greeted the suggestion, but Miss Masterman bent over from her seat and whispered to her brother. He shook his head, however, and answered under his breath.
"It doesn't matter a button about his being a dissenter. So much the better. Let's draw them in all we can."
"You ought to choose the church people first."
"It's done now, anyway," he replied. "Everybody likes the man. We must have him in it, or half the folk won't come."
"The King of Egypt is next," said Nathan, after he had been duly elected to Father Christmas. "I say Thomas Gollop here for the part."
"I don't play nought," answered Thomas firmly, "unless Vivian Baskerville do. He's promised."
"I'll be Giant, then, and say 'Fee-fo-fum!" answered the farmer. "'Twill be a terrible come-along-of-it for Ned here, and I warn him that if he don't fight properly valiant, I won't die."
"The very man—the only man for Giant," declared Dennis Masterman. "So that's settled. Now, who's for Doctor? That's a very important part. I suppose your father wouldn't do it, Mark? He's just the wise-looking face for a doctor."
"My brother!" cried Vivian. "Good Lord! he'd so soon stand on his head in the market-place as lend a hand in a bit of nonsense like this. Ask Luscombe here. Will you be Doctor, Saul?"
But Mr. Luscombe refused.
"Not in my line. Here's Joe Voysey—he's doctored a lot of things in his time—haven't you, Joe?"
"Will you be Doctor, Joe?" asked Mr. Masterman.
But Joe refused.
"Too much to say," he answered. "I might larn it with a bit of sweat, but I should never call it home when the time came."
"Be the French Eagle, Joe," suggested Mark Baskerville. "You've got but little to say, and St. George soon settles you."
"And the very living nose for it, Joe," urged Mr. Gollop.
"Very well, if the meeting is for it, I'll be Eagle," assented Mr. Voysey.
The part of Doctor remained unfilled for the present.
"Now there's the fair Princess Sabra and Mother Dorothy," explained the vicar. "Princess Sabra, the King of Egypt's daughter, will be a novelty, for she didn't come into the old play in person. She doesn't say anything, but she must be there."
"Miss Lintern for Princess Sabra!" said Mark.
Everybody laughed, and the young man came in for some chaff; but Dennis approved, and Mrs. Lintern nodded and smiled. Cora blushed and Nathan patted Mark on the back.
"A good idea, and we're all for it," he said.
To Cora, as the belle of the village, belonged the part by right. She was surprised and gratified at this sudden access of importance.
Then the vicar prepared to close his meeting.
"For Mother Dorothy we want a lady of mature years and experience. The part is often played by a man, but I would sooner a lady played it, if we can persuade one to do so," he said.
"Mrs. Hacker! Mrs. Hacker!" shouted a mischievous young man at the back of the hall.
"Never," said Susan Hacker calmly. "Not that I'd mind; but whatever would my master say?"
"Let my sister play the part," suggested Thomas. "Eliza Gollop fears nought on two legs. She'll go bravely through with it."
Mr. Nathan's heart sank, but he could not object.
The company was divided. Then, to the surprise of not a few, Mrs. Hacker spoke again. The hated name had dispelled her doubts.
"I'll do it, and chance master," she said. "Yes, there's no false shame in me, I believe. I'll do it rather than——"
"You're made for the part, ma'am," declared Mr. Nathan, much relieved. "And very fine you'll look. You've got to kiss Father Christmas at the end of the play, though. I hope you don't mind that."
"That's why she's going to act the part!" shouted Heathman, and laughter drowned Mrs. Hacker's reply.
In good spirits the company broke up, and the young folk went away excited, the old people interested and amused.
Merriment sounded on the grey July night; many women chattered about the play till long after their usual hour for sleep; and plenty of coarse jests as to the promised entertainment were uttered at the bar of 'The White Thorn' presently.
As for the vicar and his sister, they felt that they had achieved a triumph. Two shadows alone darkened the outlook in Miss Masterman's eyes. She objected to the Nonconformist element as undesirable or unnecessary; and she did not like the introduction of Queen Sabra.
"That showy girl is quite conceited enough already," she said.
But her brother was young and warm-hearted.
"She's lovely, though," he said. "By Jove! the play will be worth doing, if only to see her got up like a princess!"
"Don't be silly, Dennis," answered his sister. "She's a rude wretch, and the Linterns are the most independent people in the parish."
At high summer two men and two maids kept public holiday and wove romance under the great crown of Pen Beacon. From this border height the South Hams spread in a mighty vision of rounded hills and plains; whole forests were reduced to squat, green cushions laid upon the broad earth's bosom; and amid them glimmered wedges and squares of ripening corn, shone root crops, smiled water meadows, and spread the emerald faces of shorn hayfields.
It was a day of lowering clouds and illumination breaking through them. Fans of light fell between the piled-up cumuli, and the earth was mottled with immense, alternate patches of shadow and sunshine. Thick and visible strata of air hung heavy between earth and sky at this early hour. They presaged doubt, and comprehended a condition that might presently diffuse and lift into unclouded glory of August light, or darken to thunderstorm. Southerly the nakedness of Hanger Down and the crags of Eastern and Western Beacons towered; while to the east were Quickbeam Hill, Three Barrows, and the featureless expanses of Stall Moor. Northerly towered Penshiel, and the waste spread beyond it in long leagues, whose planes were flattened out by distance and distinguished against each other by sleeping darkness and waking light.
A fuliginous heaviness, that stained air at earth's surface, persisted even on this lofty ground, and the highest passages of aerial radiance were not about the sun, but far beneath it upon the horizon.
Rupert Baskerville trudged doubtfully forward, sniffing the air and watching the sky, while beside him came Milly Luscombe; and a quarter of a mile behind them walked Mark and Cora Lintern. The men had arranged to spend their holiday up aloft, and Milly was well pleased; but Cora held the expedition vain save for what it should accomplish. To dawdle in the Moor when she might have been at a holiday revel was not her idea of pleasure; but as soon as Mark issued his invitation she guessed that he did so with an object, and promised to join him.
As yet the definite word had not passed his lips, though it had hovered there; but to-day Miss Lintern was resolved to return from Pen Beacon betrothed. As for Mark, his hope chimed with her intention. Cora was always gracious and free of her time, while he played the devout lover and sincerely held her above him every way. Only the week before Heathman, obviously inspired to do so, had asked him why he kept off, and declared that it would better become him to speak. And now, feeling that the meal presently to be taken would be of a more joyous character after than before the deed, he stopped Cora while yet a mile remained to trudge before they should reach the top of the tor.
"Rest a bit," he said. "Let Rupert and Milly go forward. They don't want us, and we shall all meet in the old roundy-poundies up over, where we're going to eat our dinner."
"Looks as if 'twas offering for bad weather," she answered, lifting her eyes to the sky. "I'm glad I didn't put on my new muslin."
She sat on a stone and felt that he was now going to ask her to marry him. She was not enthusiastic about him at the bottom of her heart; but she knew that he would be rich and a good match for a girl in her position. She was prone to exaggerate her beauty, and had hoped better things from it than Mark Baskerville; but certain minor romances with more important men had come to nothing. She was practical and made herself see the bright side of the contract. He was humble and she could influence him as she pleased. He worshipped her and would doubtless continue to do so.
Once his wife she proposed to waken in him a better conceit of himself and, when his father died, she would be able to 'blossom out,' as she put it to her sister, and hold her head high in the land. There were prospects. Nathan Baskerville was rich also, and he was childless. He liked Mark well, and on one occasion, when she came into the farm kitchen at Undershaugh suddenly, she overheard Nathan say to her mother, "No objection—none at all—a capital match for her."
Mark put down the basket that carried their meal and took a seat beside Cora.
"'Tisn't going to rain," he said. "I always know by my head if there's thunder in the elements. It gets a sort of heavy, aching feeling. Look yonder, the clouds are levelling off above the Moor so true as if they'd been planed. That's the wind's work. Why, there's enough blue showing to make you a new dress a'ready, Cora."
"I'd love a dress of such blue as that. Blue's my colour," she said.
"Yes, it is—though you look lovely enough in any colour."
"I like to please you, Mark."
"Oh, Cora, and don't you please me? Little you know—little you know. I've had it on my tongue a thousand times—yet it seems too bold—from such as me to you. Why, there's none you mightn't look to; and if you'd come of a higher havage, you'd have been among the loveliest ladies in the land. And so you are now, for that matter—only you're hid away in this savage old place—like a beautiful pearl under the wild sea."
This had long been Cora's own opinion. She smiled and touched the hair on her hot forehead.
"If there comes on a fog, I shall go out of curl in a minute," she said. Then, seeing that this prophecy silenced him, she spoke again.
"I love to hear you tell these kind things, Mark. I'd sooner please you than any man living. Perhaps 'tis over-bold in me to say so; but I'm telling nought but truth."
"Truth ban't often so beautiful as that," he said slowly. "And 'tis like your brave heart to say it out; and here's truth for your truth, Cora. If you care to hear me say I think well of you, then I care to hear you speak well of me; and more: nobody else's good word is better than wind in the trees against your slightest whisper. So that I please you, I care nothing for all the world; and if you'll let me, I'll live for you and die for you. For that matter I've lived for only you these many days, and if you'll marry me—there—'tis out. I'm a vain chap even to dare to say it; but 'tis you have made me so—'tis your kind words and thoughts for me—little thoughts that peep out and dear little kind things done by you and forgotten by you; but never by me, Cora. Can you do it? Can you sink down to me, or is it too much of a drop? Others have lowered themselves for love and never regretted it. 'Tis a fall for such a bright, lovely star as you; but my love's ready to catch you, so you shan't hurt yourself. I—I——"
He broke off and she seemed really moved. She put her hand on his two, which were knotted together; and then she looked love into his straining eyes and nodded.
His hands opened and seized hers and squeezed them till she drew in her breath. Then he put his arms round her and kissed her.
"Don't move, for God's sake!" he said. "D'you know what you've done?"
"Given myself to a dear good chap," she answered.
In her heart she was thanking heaven that she had not worn the new muslin dress.
"Weather or no weather, he'd have creased it and mangled it all over and ruined it for ever," she thought.
They proceeded presently, but made no haste to overtake their companions. Their talk was of the future and marriage. He pressed for an early union; she was in no hurry.
"You must learn a bit more about me first," she told him. "Maybe I'm not half as nice as you think. And there's your father. I'm terrible frightened of him."
"You need not be, Cora. He's not against early marriage. You must come and see him pretty soon. He'll be right glad for my sake, though he'll be sure to tell me I've had better luck than I deserve."
She considered awhile without speaking.
"I'm afraid I shan't bring you much money," she said.
"What's money? That's the least thing. I shall have plenty enough, no doubt."
"What will your father do? Then there's your uncle, Mr. Nathan. He's terrible rich, by all accounts, and he thinks very well of you."
"I shall be all right. But I'm a lazy man—too lazy. I shall turn my hand to something steady when we're married."
"Such a dreamer you are. Not but what, with all your great cleverness, you ban't worth all the young men put together for brains."
"I'm going to set to. My father's often at me about wasting my life. But, though he'd scorn the word, he's a bit of a dreamer too—in his way. You'd never guess it; but he spends many long hours all alone, brooding about things. And he's a very sharp-eyed, clever man. He marks the seasons by the things that happen out of doors. He'll come down off our tor that cheerful sometimes, you wouldn't believe 'twas him. 'Curlew's back on the Moor,' he'll say one day; then another day, 'Oaks are budding'; then again, 'First frost to-night,' or 'Thunder's coming.' His bark is worse than his bite, really."
"'Tis his terrible eyes I fear. They look through you. He makes me feel small, and I always hate anybody that does that."
"You mustn't hate him. Too many do already. But 'twould be better to feel sorry for him. He's often a very unhappy old man. I feel it, but I can't see the reason, and he says nothing."
She pouted.
"I wish I hadn't got to see him. Why, his own brother—your Uncle Nathan—even he can't hit it off with him. And I'm sure there must be something wrong with a man that can't get on with Mr. Nathan. Everybody is fond of him; but I've often heard him say——"
"Leave it," interrupted Mark. "I know all that, Cora. 'Tis just one of those puzzles that happen. 'Tis no good fretting about anybody else: what you've got to do is to make my father love you. And you've only got to be yourself and he must love you."
"Of course I'll do my best."
"Give me just one more lovely kiss, before we get over the hill-top and come in sight of them. We're to meet at the 'old men's' camp."
She kissed him and then silence fell between them. It lasted a long while until he broke it.
"Don't fancy because I'm so still that I'm not bursting with joy," he said. "But when I think of what's happened to me this minute, I feel 'tis too big for words. The thoughts in me can't be spoken, Cora. They are too large to cram into little pitiful speeches."
"I'm getting hungry; and there's Milly waving," she answered.
"Milly's hungry too, belike."
Eastward, under Pen Beacon, lay an ancient lodge of the neolithic people. The circles of scattered granite shone grey, set in foliage and fruit of the bilberry, with lichens on the stone and mosses woven into the grass about them. A semicircle of hills extended beyond and formed a mighty theatre where dawn and storm played their parts, where falling night was pictured largely and moonshine slept upon lonely heights and valleys. In the glen beneath spread Dendles Wood, with fringes of larch and pine hiding the River Yealm and spreading a verdant medley of deep summer green in the lap of the grey hills. Gold autumn furzes flashed along the waste, and the pink ling broke into her first tremble of colourless light that precedes the blush of fulness.
The party of four sat in a hut circle and spoke little while they ate and drank. Rupert, unknown to the rest, and much to his own inconvenience, had dragged up six stone bottles of ginger-beer hidden under his coat. These he produced and was much applauded. A spring broke at hand, and the bottles were sunk therein to cool them.
They talked together after a very practical and businesslike fashion. Milly and Rupert were definitely engaged in their own opinion, and now when Mark, who could not keep in the stupendous event of the moment, announced it, they congratulated the newly engaged couple with the wisdom and experience of those who had long entered that state.
"'Tis a devilish unrestful condition, I can promise you," said Rupert, "and the man always finds it so if the girl don't. Hanging on is just hell—especially in my case, where I can't get father to see with my eyes. But, thank God, Milly's jonic. She won't change."
"No," said Milly, "I shan't change. 'Tis you have got to change. I respect your father very much, like the rest of the world, but because he didn't marry till he was turned forty-five, that's no reason why you should wait twenty years for it. Anyway, if you must, so will I—only I shall be a thought elderly for the business by that time. However, it rests with you."
"I'm going—that's what she means," explained Rupert. "Jack Head and me have had a talk, and he's thrown a lot of light on things in general. I can't be bound hand and foot to my father like this; and if he won't meet me, I must take things into my own hands and leave home."
Mark was staggered at the enormity of such a plan.
"Don't do anything in a hurry and without due thought."
"Very well for you to talk," said Milly. "You do nought but ring the bells on Sundays, and play at work the rest of the week. Mr. Humphrey won't stand in your way. I suppose you could be married afore Christmas, if you pleased."
She sighed at the glorious possibility.
"I hope we shall be; but Cora's in no hurry, I'm afraid."
"And when I've got work," continued Rupert, "then I shall just look round and take a house and marry; and why not?"
"Your father will never let you go. It isn't to be thought upon," declared Mark.
"Then he must be reasonable. He appears to forget I'm nearly twenty-four," answered his cousin.
Conversation ranged over their problems and their hopes. Then Rupert touched another matrimonial disappointment.
"It looks as if we were not to be fortunate in love," he said. "There's Ned terrible down on his luck. He's offered marriage again—to Farmer Chave's second daughter; and 'twas as good as done; but Mr. Chave wouldn't hear of it, and he's talked the girl round and Ned's got chucked."
"Serve him right," said Milly. "He jilted two girls. 'Twill do him good to smart a bit himself."
"The Chaves are a lot too high for us," asserted Mark. "He's a very well-born and rich man, and his father was a Justice of the Peace, and known in London. He only farms to amuse himself."
"'Twas Ned's face, I reckon," said Cora. "They Chave women are both terrible stuck up. Makes me sick to see 'em in church all in their town-made clothes. But fine feathers won't make fine birds of them. They'm both flat as a plate, and a lot older than they pretend. Ned is well out of it, I reckon."
"He don't think so, however," replied Rupert. "I've never known him take any of his affairs to heart like this one. Moped and gallied he is, and creeps about with a face as long as a fiddle; and off his food too."
"Poor chap," said Cora feelingly.
"Even talks of ending it and making away with himself. Terrible hard hit, I do believe."
"Your mother must be in a bad way about him," said Milly.
"She is. Why, he took mother down to the river last Sunday and showed her a big hole there, where Plym comes over the rocks and the waters all a-boil and twelve feet deep. 'That's where you'll find me, mother,' he says. And she, poor soul, was frightened out of her wits. And father's worried too, for Ned can't go wrong with him. Ned may always do what he likes, though I may not."
Cora declared her sympathy, but Mark did not take the incident as grave.
"You needn't fear," he assured Ned's brother. "Men that talk openly of killing themselves, never do it. Words are a safety-valve. 'Tis the sort that go silent and cheerful under a great blow that be nearest death."
Cora spoke of Ned's looks with admiration and feared that this great disappointment might spoil them; but Milly was not so sympathetic.
"If he stood to work and didn't think so much about the maidens, they might think a bit more about him," she said.
"He swears he won't play St. George now," added Rupert. "He haven't got the heart to go play-acting no more."
"He'll find twenty girls to go philandering after afore winter," foretold Milly. "And if Cora here was to ask him, he'd play St. George fast enough."
"'Twill be a very poor compliment to me if he cries off now," declared Cora. "For I'm to be the princess, and 'tis pretended in the play that he's my true lover."
"Mark will be jealous then. 'Tis a pity he don't play St. George," said Milly.
But Mark laughed.
"A pretty St. George me!" he answered. "No, no; I'm not jealous of Ned. Safety in numbers, they say. Let him be St. George and welcome; and very noble he'll look—if ever he's got brains enough in his empty noddle to get the words and remember them."
Cora cast a swift side glance at her betrothed. She did not speak, but the look was not all love. Discontent haunted her for a little space.
The ginger-beer was drunk and the repast finished. The men lighted their pipes; the girls talked together.
Milly congratulated Cora very heartily.
"He's a fine, witty chap, as I've always said. Different to most of us, along of being better eggicated. But that modest and retiring, few people know what a clever man he is."
These things pleased the other, and she was still more pleased when Milly discussed Mark's father.
"I often see him," she said—"oftener than you might think for. He'll ride to Trowlesworthy twice and thrice a month sometimes. Why for? To see my uncle, you might fancy. But that's not the reason. To talk with Jack he comes. Jack Head and me be the only people in these parts that ban't afraid of him. And that's what he likes. You be fearless of him, Cora, or he'll think nought of thee. Fearless and attentive to what he says—that's the rule with him. And pretend nothing, or he'll see through it and pull you to pieces. Him and Jack Head says the most tremendous things about the world and its ways. They take Uncle Saul's breath away sometimes, and mine too. But don't let him frighten you—that's the fatal thing. If a creature's feared of him, he despises it. Never look surprised at his speeches."
Cora listened to this advice and thanked the other girl for it.
"Why should I care a button for the old man, anyway?" she asked. "If it comes to that, I'm as good as him. There's nought to fear really, when all's said. And I won't fear."
The men strolled about the old village and gathered whortleberries; then Rupert judged that the storm that had skulked so long to the north, was coming at last.
"We'd best be getting down-along," he said. "Let's go across to Trowlesworthy; then, if it breaks, we can slip into the warren house a bit till the worst be over.
"You be all coming to drink tea there," said Milly. "Uncle Saul and Jack Head are away, but aunt be home, and I made the cakes specially o' Saturday."
Drifting apart by a half a mile or so, the young couples left the Beacon, climbed Penshiel, and thence passed over the waste to where the red tor rose above Milly Luscombe's home.
A sort of twilight stole at four o'clock over the earth, and it seemed that night hastened up while yet the hidden sun was high. The sinister sky darkened and frowned to bursting; yet no rain fell, and later it grew light again, as the sun, sinking beneath the ridges of the clouds, flooded the Moor with the greatest brightness that the day had known.
Some few weeks after it was known that young Mark Baskerville would marry Cora Lintern, a small company drank beer at 'The White Thorn' and discussed local politics in general, and the engagement in particular. The time was three in the afternoon.
"They'll look to you for a wedding present without a doubt," said Mr. Gollop to Nathan, who stood behind his bar.
"And they'll be right," answered the innkeeper. "I'm very fond of 'em both."
"You'll be put to it to find rich gifts for all your young people, however."
"That's as may be. If the Lord don't send you sons, the Devil will send you nephews—you know the old saying. Not but what Vivian's boys and girls are a very nice lot—I like 'em all very well indeed. Mark's different—clever enough, but made of another clay. His mother was a retiring, humble woman—frightened of her own shadow, you might say. However, Cora will wake him into a cheerfuller conceit of himself."
There was an interruption, for Dennis Masterman suddenly filled the doorway.
"The very men I want," he said; then he entered.
"Fine sweltering weather for the harvest, your honour," piped an old fellow who sat on a settle by the window with a mug of beer beside him.
"So it is, Abel, and I hope there's another month of it to come. Give me half a pint of the mild, will you, Baskerville? 'Tis about the rehearsal I've looked in. Thursday week is the day—at seven o'clock sharp, remember. And I'm very anxious that everybody shall know their words. It will save a lot of trouble and help us on."
"I've got mine very near," said Nathan.
"So have I," declared Mr. Gollop. "Here I, the King of Egypt, boldly do appear; St. Garge, St. Garge, walk in, my only son and heir!"
"Yes, but you mustn't say 'heir'; the h isn't sounded, you know. Has anybody seen Ned Baskerville? I heard that he was in trouble."
"Not at all," said Nathan. "He's all right—a lazy rascal. 'Twas only another of his silly bits of work with the girls. Running after Mr. Chave's daughter. Like his cheek!"
Mr. Masterman looked astonished.
"I thought Mr. Chave——" he said.
"Exactly, vicar; you thought right. 'Tis just his handsome face makes my nephew so pushing. We be a yeoman race, we Baskervilles, though said to be higher once; but of course, as things are, Ned looking there was just infernal impudence, though his good old pig-headed father, my brother, couldn't see it. He's only blind when Ned's the matter."
"'Twas said he was going to jump in the river," declared the ancient Abel.
"Nonsense and rubbish!" declared Nathan. "Ned's not that sort. Wait till he sees himself in the glittering armour of St. George, and he'll soon forget his troubles."
"We must talk about the dresses after rehearsal. A good many can be made at home."
"Be you going to charge at the doors?" asked Mr. Gollop. "I don't see why for we shouldn't."
"Yes, certainly I am," answered Dennis. "The money will go to rehanging the bells. That's settled. Well, remember. And stir up Joe Voysey, Thomas. You can do anything with him, but I can't. Remind him about the French Eagle. He's only got to learn six lines, but he says it makes his head ache so badly that he's sure he'll never do it."
"I'll try and fire the man's pride," declared Mr. Gollop. "Joe's not a day over sixty-eight, and he's got a very fair share of intellect. He shall learn it, if I've got to teach him."
"That's right. Now I must be off."
When the vicar was gone Gollop reviewed the situation created by young Masterman's energy and tact.
"I never could have foreseen it, yet the people somehow make shift to do with him. It don't say much for him, but it says a lot for us—for our sense and patience. We'm always ready to lend the man a hand in reason, and I wish he was more grateful; but I shouldn't call him a grateful man. Of course, this here play-acting will draw the eyes of the country on us, and he'll get the credit, no doubt; yet 'twill be us two men here in this bar—me and you, Nathan—as will make or mar all."
"I'm very glad to help him. He's a good chap, and my sort. Lots of fun in the man when you know him."
"Can't say I look at him like that. He's not enough beholden to the past, in my opinion. However, I believe he's woke up a bit to who I am and what my sister is," answered Gollop.
"Not your fault if he hasn't."
"And another thing—he don't take himself seriously enough," continued the parish clerk. "As a man I grant you he has got nought to take seriously. He's young, and he's riddled with evil, modern ideas that would land the country in ruin if followed. But, apart from that, as a minister he ought to be different. I hate to see him running after the ball at cricket, like a school-child. 'Tisn't decent, and it lessens the force of the man in the pulpit come Sunday, just as it lessened the force of physician Dawe to Tavistock when he took to singing comic songs at the penny readings. Why, 'twas money out of the doctor's pocket, as he lived to find out, too late. When Old Master Trelawny lay dying, and they axed un to let Dawe have a slap at un, he wouldn't do it. 'Be that the man that sang the song about locking his mother-in-law into the coal-cellar?' he axed. 'The same,' said they; 'but he's a terrible clever chap at the stomach, and may save you yet if there be enough of your organs left for him to work upon.' 'No, no,' says old Trelawny. 'Such a light-minded feller as that couldn't be trusted with a dying man's belly.' I don't say 'twas altogether reasonable, because the wisest must unbend the bow now and again; but I will maintain that that minister of the Lord didn't ought to take off his coat and get in a common sweat afore the people assembled at a cricket match. 'Tis worse than David making a circus of himself afore the holy ark; and if he does so, he must take the consequences."
"The consequences be that everybody will think a lot better of him, as a manly and sensible chap, wishful to help the young men," declared Mr. Baskerville. "One thing I can bear witness to: I don't get the Saturday custom I used to get, and that's to the good, anyway." Then he looked at his watch and changed the subject.
"Mrs. Lintern's daughter is paying a sort of solemn visit to my brother to-day, and they are all a little nervous about it."
"He'll terrify her out of her wits," said Mr. Gollop. "He takes a dark delight in scaring the young people."
"'Tisn't that, 'tis his manner. He don't mean to hurt 'em. A difficult man, however, as I know only too well."
"If he can't get on with you, there's a screw loose in him," remarked the old man, sitting on the settle.
"I won't say that, Abel; but I don't know why 'tis that he's got no use for me."
"No loss, however," asserted Thomas. "A cranky and heartless creature. The likes of him couldn't neighbour with the likes of us—not enough human kindness in him."
"Like our father afore him, and yet harder," explained the publican. "I can see my parent now—dark and grim, and awful old to my young eyes. Well I remember the first time I felt the sting of him. A terrible small boy I was—hadn't cast my short frocks, I believe—but I'd sinned in some little matter, and he give me my first flogging. And the picture I've got of father be a man with a hard, set face, with a bit of a grim smile on it, and his right hand hidden behind him. But I knowed what was in it! A great believer in the rod. He beat us often—all three of us—till we'd wriggle and twine like a worm on a hook; but our uncle, the musicker, he was as different as you please—soft and gentle, like my nephew Mark, and all for spoiling childer with sweeties and toys."
Mr. Gollop rose to depart, and others entered. Then Nathan called a pot-man and left the bar.
"I promised Mrs. Lintern as I'd go down to hear what Cora had to say," he explained. "I'm very hopeful that she's had the art to win Humphrey, for 'twill smooth the future a good bit for the people at Undershaugh if my brother takes to the wench. You'd think nobody could help it—such a lovely face as she has. However, we shall know how it fell out inside an hour or so."
Meanwhile Cora, clad in her new muslin, had faced Humphrey Baskerville, and faced him alone. For her future father-in-law expressly wished this, and Mark was from home on the occasion of his sweetheart's visit. Cora arrived twenty minutes before dinner, and watched Susan Hacker dish it up. She had even offered to assist, but Susan would not permit it.
"Better you go into the parlour and keep cool, my dear," she said. "You'll need to be. Master's not in the best of tempers to-day. And your young man left a message. He be gone to Plympton, and will be back by four o'clock; so, when you take your leave, you are to go down the Rut and meet him at Torry Brook stepping-stones, if you please."
"Where's Mr. Baskerville?"
"Taking the air up 'pon top the tor. He bides there most mornings till the dinner hour, and he'd forget his meal altogether so often as not, but I go to the hedge and ring the dinner bell. Then he comes down."
"How can I best please him, Susan?"
"By listening first, and by talking afterwards. He don't like a chatterbox, but he don't like young folk to be too silent neither. 'Twill be a hugeous heave-up of luck if you can get on his blind side. Few can—I warn you of that. He's very fond of natural, wild things. If you was to talk about the flowers and show him you be fond of nature, it might be well. However, do as you will, he'll find out the truth of 'e."
"I'm all of a tremor. I wish you hadn't told me that."
"Mark might have told you. Still, for your comfort it may be said you're built the right way. You'll be near so full-blown as I be, come you pass fifty. He hates the pinikin,[1] pin-tailed sort. Be cheerful,
[1]Pinikin—delicate.
eat hearty, don't leave nothing on your plate, and wait for him to say grace afore and after meat. The rest must fall out according to your own sense and wit. Now I be going to ring the bell."
"I half thought that he might come part of the way to meet me."
"You thought wrong, then. He don't do that sort of thing."
"I wish Mark was here, Susan."
"So does Mark. But master has his own way of doing things, and 'tis generally the last way that other people would use."
Mrs. Hacker rang the bell, and the thin, black figure of Humphrey Baskerville appeared and began to creep down the side of the hill. He had, of course, met Cora on previous occasions, but this was the first time that he had spoken with the girl since her betrothal.
He shook hands and hoped that her mother was well.
"A harvest to make up for last year," he said. "You ought to be lending a hand by rights."
"I don't think Mr. Baskerville would like for Polly and me to do that. 'Tis too hot," she said.
"Nathan wouldn't? Surely he would. Many hands make light work and save the time. You're a strong girl, aren't you?"
"Strong as a pony, sir."
"Don't call me 'sir.' And you're fond of wild nature and the country—so Mark tells me."
"That I am, and the wild flowers."
"Why didn't you wear a bunch of 'em then? Better them than that davered[2] rose stuck in your belt. Gold by the look of it—the belt I mean."
[2]Davered—withered.
She laughed.
"I'll let you into the secret," she said. "I wanted to be smart to-day, and so I took one of my treasures. You'll never guess where this gold belt came from, Mr. Baskerville?"
"Don't like it, anyway," he answered.
"Why, 'twas the hat-band round my grandfather's hat! He was a beadle up to some place nigh London; and 'twas an heirloom when he died; and mother gived it to me, and here it is."
He regarded the relic curiously.
"A funny world, to be sure," he said. "Little did that bygone man think of such a thing when he put his braided hat on his head, I'll warrant."
He relapsed into a long silence, and Cora's remarks were rewarded with no more than nods of affirmation or negation. Then, suddenly, he broke out on the subject of apparel long after she thought that he had forgotten it.
"Terrible tearing fine I suppose you think your clothes are, young woman—terrible tearing fine; but I hate 'em, and they ill become a poor man's wife and a poor man's daughter. My mother wore her hair frapped back light and plain, with a forehead cloth, and a little blue baize rochet over her breast, and a blue apron and short gown and hob-nailed shoon; and she looked ten thousand times finer than ever you looked in your life—or ever can in that piebald flimsy, with those Godless smashed birds on your head. What care you for nature to put a bit of a dead creature 'pon top of your hair? A nasty fashion, and I'm sorry you follow it."
She kept her temper well under this terrific onslaught.
"We must follow the fashion, Mr. Baskerville. But I'll not wear this hat again afore you, since you don't like it."
"Going to be married and live up to your knees in clover, eh? So you both think. Now tell me what you feel like to my son, please."
"I love him dearly, I'm sure, and I think he's a very clever chap, and quite the gentleman in all his ways. Though he might dress a bit smarter, and not be so friendly with the other bellringers. Because they are commoner men than him, of course."
"'Quite the gentleman'—eh? What's a gentleman?"
"Oh, dear, Mr. Baskerville, you'll spoil my dinner with such a lot of questions. To be a gentleman is to be like Mark, I suppose—kind and quick to see what a girl wants; and to be handsome and be well thought of by everybody, and all the rest of it."
"You go a bit too high at instep," he said. "You're too vain of your pretty face, and you answer rather pertly. You don't know what a gentleman is, for all you think yourself a fine lady. And I'll tell you this: very few people do know what a gentleman is. You can tell a lot about people by hearing them answer when you ask them what a gentleman is. Where would you like to live?"
"Where 'twould please Mark best. And if the things I say offend you, I'm sorry for it. You must make allowances, Mr. Baskerville. I'm young, and I've not got much sense yet; but I want to please you—I want to please everybody, for that matter."
This last remark much interested her listener. He started and looked at the girl fixedly. Then his expression changed, and he appeared to stare through her at somebody or something beyond. Behind Cora the old man did, indeed, see another very clearly in his mind's eye.
After a painful silence she spoke again, and her tone was troubled.
"I want to say the thing that will please you, if I can. But I must be myself. I'm sorry if you don't like me."
"You must be yourself, and so must I," he answered; "and if I'm not liking you, you're loathing me. But we're getting through our dinner very nicely. Will you have any more of this cherry tart?"
"No, I've done well."
"You've eaten nought to name. I've spoiled your appetite, and you—well, you've done more than you think, and taught me more than you know yourself."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Mark says puzzling things like that sometimes."
There was another silence.
"You ride a pony, don't you?" he asked presently; and the girl brightened up. Mr. Baskerville possessed some of the best ponies on Dartmoor, and sold a noted strain of his own raising.
"He's going to make it up with a pony!" thought sanguine Cora.
"I do. I'm very fond of riding."
"Like it better than walking, I dare say?"
"Yes, I do."
"And you'd like driving better still, perhaps?"
"No, I wouldn't."
"What are the strangles?" he asked suddenly and grimly.
"It's something the ponies get the matter with them."
"Of course; but what is it? How does it come, and why? Is it infectious? Is it ever fatal to them?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know nothing about things like that."
"No use having a pony if you don't understand it. The strangles are infectious and sometimes fatal. Don't forget that."
Cora felt her temper struggling to break loose. She poured out a glass of water.
"I promise not to forget it," she answered. "Shall I put the cheese on the table for you??
"No, I thank you—unless you'll eat some."
"Nothing more, I'm sure."
"We'll walk out in the air, then. With your love of nature, you'll like the growing things up on top of my hill. Mark will be back for tea, I think. But maybe you'll not stop quite so long as that."
"I'll stop just as long as you like," she said. "But I don't want to tire you."
"You've got your mother's patience, and plenty of it, I see. That's a good mark for you. Patience goes a long way. You can keep your temper, too—well for you that you can. Though whether 'tis nature or art in you——"
He broke off and she followed him out of doors.
Upon the tor he asked her many things concerning the clouds above them, the cries of the birds, and the names of the flowers. The ordeal proved terrible, because her ignorance of these matters was almost absolute. At last, unable to endure more, she fled from him, pleaded a sudden recollection of an engagement for the afternoon, and hastened homeward as fast as she could walk. Once out of sight of the old man she slowed down, and her wrongs and affronts crowded upon her and made her bosom pant. She clenched her hands and bit her handkerchief. She desired to weep, but intended that others should see her tears. Therefore she controlled them until she reached home, and then she cried copiously in the presence of her mother, her sister, and Nathan Baskerville, who had come to learn of her success.
The directions of Mark, to meet him at Torry stepping-stones, Cora had entirely forgotten. Nor would she have kept the appointment had she remembered it. In her storm of passion she hated even Mark for being his father's son.
Nathan was indignant at the recital, and Mrs. Lintern showed sorrow, but not surprise.
"'Twas bound to be difficult," she said. "He sent Mark away, you see. He meant to get to the bottom of her."
"A very wanton, unmanly thing," declared Nathan. "I'm ashamed of him."
"Don't you take it too much to heart," answered the mother. "Maybe he thought better of Cora than he seemed to do. He's always harsh and hard like that to young people; but it means nought. I believe that Cora's a bit frightened, that's all."
"We must see him," said Nathan. "At least, I must. I make this my affair."
"'Twill be better for me to do so."
"I tried that hard to please the man," sobbed Cora; "but he looked me through—tore me to pieces with his eyes like a savage dog. Nothing was right from my head to my heels. Flouted my clothes—flouted my talk—was angered, seemingly, because I couldn't tell him how to cure a pony of strangles—wanted me to tell the name of every bird on the bough, and weed in the gutter. And not a spark of hope or kindness from first to last. He did say that I'd got my mother's patience, and that's the only pat on the back he gave me. Patient! I could have sclowed his ugly face down with my nails!"
Her mother stroked her shoulder.
"Hush!" she said. "Don't take on about it. We shall hear what Mark has got to tell."
"I don't care what he's got to tell. I'm not going to be scared out of my life, and bullied and trampled on by that old beast!"
"No more you shall be," cried Nathan. "He'll say 'tis no business of mine, but everything to do with Undershaugh is my business. I'll see him. He's always hard on me; now I'll be hard on him and learn him how to treat a woman."
"Don't go in heat," urged Mrs. Lintern after Cora had departed with the sympathetic Phyllis. "There's another side, you know. Cora's not his sort. No doubt her fine clothes—she would go in 'em, though I advised her not—no doubt they made him cranky; and then things went from bad to worse."
"'Tis not a bit of use talking to me, Hester. I'm angered, and naturally angered. In a way this was meant to anger me, I'm afraid. He well knows how much you all at Undershaugh are to me. 'Twas to make me feel small, as much as anything, that he snubbed her so cruel. No—I'll not hear you on the subject—not now. I'll see him to-day."
"I shouldn't—wiser far to wait till you are cool. He'll be more reasonable too, to-morrow, when he's forgotten a little."
"What is there to forget? The prettiest and cleverest girl in Shaugh—or in the county, for that matter. Don't stop me. I'm going this instant."
"It's dangerous, Nat. He'll only tell you to mind your own business."
"No, he won't. Even he can't tax me with not doing that. Everything is my business, if I choose to make it so. Anyway, all at Undershaugh are my business."
He left her; but by the time he arrived at Beatland Corner, on the way to Hawk House, Nathan Baskerville had changed his mind. Another aspect of the case suddenly presented itself to him, and, as he grew calmer, he decided to keep out of this quarrel, though natural instincts drew him into it.
A few moments later, as thought progressed with him, he found himself wishing that Humphrey would die. But the desire neither surprised nor shocked him, for he had often wished it before. Humphrey's life was of no apparent service to Humphrey, while to certain other people it could only be regarded in the light of a hindrance.
Some days later Mark Baskerville spoke with Mrs. Lintern, and she was relieved to find that Cora's fears had been exaggerated.
"He said very little indeed about her, except that he didn't like her clothes and that she had a poor appetite," explained Mark. "Of course, I asked him a thousand questions, but he wouldn't answer them. I don't think he knows in the least how he flustered Cora. He said one queer thing that I couldn't see sense in, though perhaps you may. He said, 'She's told me more about herself than she knows herself—and more than I'll tell again—even to you, though some might think it a reason against her.' Whatever did he mean by that? But it don't much matter, anyway, and my Cora's quite wrong to think she was a failure or anything of that kind. He asked only this morning, as natural as possible, when she was coming over again."
These statements satisfied the girl's mother, but they failed to calm Cora herself. She took the matter much to heart, caused her lover many unquiet and anxious hours, and refused point-blank for the present to see Mr. Baskerville.
Then fell the great first rehearsal of the Christmas play, and Dennis Masterman found that he had been wise to take time by the forelock in this matter. The mummers assembled in the parish room, and the vicar and his sister, with Nathan Baskerville's assistance, strove to lead them through the drama.
"It's not going to be quite like the version that a kind friend has sent me, and from which your parts are written," explained Dennis. "I've arranged for an introduction in the shape of a prologue. I shall do this myself, and appear before the curtain and speak a speech to explain what it is all about. This answers Mr. Waite here, who is going to be the Turkish Knight. He didn't want to begin the piece. Now I shall have broken the ice, and then he will be discovered as the curtain rises."
Mr. Timothy Waite on this occasion, however, began proceedings, as the vicar's prologue was not yet written. He proved letter-perfect but exceedingly nervous.
"Open your doors and let me in,I hope your favours I shall win.Whether I rise or whether I fall,I'll do my best to please you all!"
Mr. Waite spoke jerkily, and his voice proved a little out of control, but everybody congratulated him.
"How he rolls his eyes to be sure," said Vivian Baskerville. "A very daps of a Turk, for sartain."
"You ought to stride about more, Waite," suggested Ned Baskerville, who had cheered up of recent days, and was now standing beside Cora and other girls destined to assist the play. "The great thing is to stride about and look alive—isn't it, Mr. Masterman?"
"We'll talk afterwards," answered Dennis. "We mustn't interfere with the action. You have got your speech off very well, Waite, but you said it much too fast. We must be slow and distinct, so that not a word is missed."
Timothy, who enjoyed the praise of his friends, liked this censure less.
"As for speaking fast," he said, "the man would speak fast. Because he expects St. George will be on his tail in a minute. He says, 'I know he'll pierce my skin.' In fact, he's pretty well sweating with terror from the first moment he comes on the stage, I should reckon."
But Mr. Masterman was unprepared for any such subtle rendering of the Turkish Knight, and he only hoped that the more ancient play-actors would not come armed with equally obstinate opinions.
"We'll talk about it afterwards," he said. "Now you go off to the right, Waite, and Father Christmas comes on at the left. Mr. Baskerville—Father Christmas, please."
Nathan put his part into his pocket, marched on to the imaginary stage and bowed. Everybody cheered.
"You needn't bow," explained Dennis; but the innkeeper differed from him.
"I'm afraid I must, your reverence. When I appear before them, the people will give me a lot of applause in their usual kindly fashion. Why, even these here—just t'other actors do, you see—so you may be sure that the countryside will. Therefore I had better practise the bow at rehearsal, if you've no great argument against it."
"All right, push on," said Dennis.
"We must really be quicker," declared Miss Masterman. "Half an hour has gone, and we've hardly started."
"Off I go then; and I want you chaps—especially you, Vivian, and you, Jack Head, and you, Tom Gollop—to watch me acting. Acting ban't the same as ordinary talking. If I was just talking, I should say all quiet, without flinging my arms about, and walking round, and stopping, and then away again. But in acting you do all these things, and instead of merely saying your speeches, as we would, just man to man, over my bar or in the street, you have to bawl 'em out so that every soul in the audience catches 'em."
Having thus explained his theory of histrionics Mr. Baskerville started, and with immense and original emphasis, and sudden actions and gestures, introduced himself.
"Here come I, the dear old Father Christmas.Welcome or welcome not,I hope old Father ChristmasWill never be forgot.A room—make room here, gallant boys,And give us room to rhyme——"
Nathan broke off to explain his reading of the part.
"When I say 'make room' I fly all round the stage, as if I was pushing the people back to give me room."
He finished his speech, and panted and mopped his head.
"That's acting, and what d'you think of it?" he asked.
They all applauded vigorously excepting Mr. Gollop, who now prepared to take his part.