"I know you did. She came home in a pretty tantara—blue with temper; and she's going to tell Waite about it. But don't you sing small, Jack; don't you let Timothy bully you."
"No man bullies me," said Head; "least and last of all a young man. Waite have too much sense, I should hope, to fall foul of me. But if it comes to that, I can give him better than he'll give me—a long sight better, too."
"The Cadworthy people have been a bit off us since Cora dropped Ned," declared Heathman. "No wonder, neither, but my mother's cruel galled about it. 'Twasn't her fault, however. Still, that's how it lies."
Mr. Head was examining this situation when the people began to come out of church.
He rose, therefore, and went his way, while Heathman also departed. Many returned to the outraged grave, but all was restored to order, and nothing remained to see.
Jack Head presently carried his notorious grievances to Humphrey Baskerville, and waited upon him one evening in summer time. They had not met for many weeks, and Jack, though he found little leisure to mark the ways of other people at this season, could not fail to note a certain unwonted cheerfulness in the master of Hawk House. Humphrey's saturnine spirit was at rest for the moment. To-night he talked upon a personal topic, and found evident pleasure in a circumstance which, from the standpoint of his visitor, appeared exceedingly trivial. The usual relations of these men seemed changed, and Mr. Baskerville showed the more reasonable and contented mind, while Jack displayed an active distrust of everything and everybody.
"I wanted a bit of a tell with you," he began, "and thought I might come over."
"Come in and welcome," answered Humphrey. "I hope I see you pretty middling?"
"Yes, well enough for that matter. And you?"
"Never better. 'Tis wonnerful how the rheumatics be holding off—along of lemons. You might stare, but 'tis a flame-new remedy of doctor's. Lemon juice—pints of it."
"Should have reckoned there was enough lemon in your nature without adding to it."
"Enough and to spare. Yet you needn't rub that home to-day. I've heard a thing that's very much pleased me, I may tell you. Last news such a cranky and uncomfortable man as me might have expected."
"Wish I could hear summat that would please me, I'm sure," said Jack. "But all that ever I hear of nowadays is other people's good luck. And there's nothing more damned uninteresting after a bit. Not that I grudge t'others——"
"Of course you don't—not with your high opinions. You've said to me a score of times that there's no justice in the world, therefore 'tis no use your fretting about not getting any. We must take things as we find them."
"And what's your luck, then? More money rolling in, I suppose?"
"My luck—so to call it—mightn't look over large to another. 'Tis that my nephew Rupert and his wife want for me to be godfather to their babe. The child will be called after me, and I'm to stand godfather; and I'll confess to you, in secret, that I'm a good deal pleased about it."
Jack sniffed and spat into the fire. He took a pipe out of his pocket, stuffed it, and lighted it before he answered.
"I was going to say that little things please little minds, but I won't," he began. "If you can find pleasure in such a trifle—well, you'm fortunate. I should have reckoned with all the misery there is in the world around you, that there'd be more pain than pleasure in——"
He broke off.
"'Tis the thought," explained Mr. Baskerville. "It shows that they young people feel towards me a proper and respectful feeling. It shows that they'd trust me to be a godparent to this newborn child. I know very well that folk are often asked just for the sake of a silver spoon, or a christening mug; but my nephew Rupert and his wife Milly be very different to that. There's no truckling in them. They've thought this out, and reckoned I'm the right man—old as I am. And naturally I feel well satisfied about it."
"Let that be, then. If you're pleased, their object be gained, for naturally they want to please you. Why not? You must die sooner or later, though nobody's better content than me to hear you'm doing so clever just at present. But go you must, and then there's your mighty fortune got to be left to something or somebody."
"Mighty's not the word, Jack."
"Ban't it? Then a little bird tells the people a lot of lies. And, talking of cash, I'm here over that matter myself."
But Humphrey was not interested in cash for the moment.
"They sent me a very well-written letter on the subject," he continued. "On the subject of the child. 'Twas more respectful to me and less familiar to put it in writing—so they thought. And I've written back a long letter, and you shall hear just how I wrote, if you please. There's things in my letter I'd rather like you to hear."
Mr. Head showed impatience, and the other was swift to mark it.
"Another time, if 'tis all the same to you," Jack replied. "Let me get off what's on my chest first. Then I'll be a better listener. I ha'n't got much use for second-hand wisdom for the moment."
Mr. Baskerville had already picked up his letter; but now he flung the pages back upon his desk and his manner changed.
"Speak," he said. "You learn me a lesson. Ban't often I'm wrapped up in my own affairs, I believe. I beg your pardon, Head."
"No need to do that. Only, seen from my point, with all my misfortunes and troubles on my mind, this here twopenny-halfpenny business of naming a newborn babby looks very small. You can't picture it, no doubt—you with your riches and your money breeding like rabbits. But for a man such as me, to see the sweat of his brow swept away all at a stroke—nought else looks of much account."
"Haven't you got over that yet?"
"No, I haven't; and more wouldn't you, if somebody had hit you so hard."
"Say your say then, if 'twill do you any sort of good."
"What I want to know is this. Why for do Lawyer Popham help one man and not help t'other? Why do this person—I dare say you know who 'tis—do what he's doing and pick and choose according to his fancy? It isn't Masterman or I'd have gived him a bit of my mind about it. And if I could find out who it was, I would do so."
"The grievance is that you don't get your bit back? Are you the only one?"
"No, I'm not. There's a lot more going begging the same way. And if you know the man, you can tell him from me that he may think he'm doing a very fine thing, but in my opinion he isn't."
Mr. Baskerville had relapsed into his old mood.
"So much for your sense, then—you that pride yourself such a lot on being the only sane man among us. Have you ever looked into the figures?"
"I've looked into my own figures, and they be all I care about."
"Exactly so! But them that want to right this wrong have looked into all the figures; and so they know a great deal more about 'em than you do. You're not everybody. You're a hale, hearty creature getting good wages. More than one man that put away money with my brother is dead long ago, and there are women and children to be thought upon; and a bedridden widow, and two twin boys, both weak in the head; and a few other such items. Why for shouldn't there be picking and choosing? If you'd been going to lend a hand yourself and do a bit for charity, wouldn't you pick and choose? Ban't all life picking and choosing? Women and childer first is the rule in any shipwreck, I believe—afloat or ashore. And if you was such a born fool as to trust, because others trusted, and follow the rest, like a sheep follows his neighbour sheep, then I should reckon you deserve to whistle for your money. If this chap, who was fond of my brother and be set on clearing his name, will listen to me, you and the likes of you will have to wait a good few years yet for your bit—if you ever get it at all. You ought to know better—you as would shoulder in afore the weak! And now you can go. I don't want to see you no more, till you've got into a larger frame of mind."
"What a cur-dog you be!" said Head, rising and scowling fiercely. "So much for Christian charity and doing to your neighbour as you would have him do to you—so much for all your cant about righteousness. You wait—that's all! Your turn will come to smart some day. And if I find out this precious fool, who's got money to squander, I'll talk a bit of sense to him too. He's no right to do things by halves, and one man's claim on that scamp, your brother, is just as lawful and proper as another man's; and because a person be poor or not poor don't make any difference in the matter of right and wrong."
"That's where you're so blind as any other thick-headed beetle," snarled back Humphrey. "For my part I've looked into the figures myself, and I quite agree with Nathan's friend. None has a shadow of reason to question him or to ask for a penny from him. 'Tis his bounty, not your right."
"Very easy to talk like that. Why don't you put your fingers in your own pocket and lend a hand yourself? Not you—a sneaking old curmudgeon! And then want people to think well of you. Why the devil should they? Close-fisted mully-grubs that you are! And hark to this, Miser Baskerville, don't you pretend your nephew wants you to stand gossip for his bleating baby to pleasure you. 'Tis because he's got his weather-eye lifting on your dross. Who's like to care for you for yourself? Not a dog. Your face be enough to turn milk sour and give the childer fits."
"Get along with you," answered Humphrey. "You—of all men! I could never have believed this—never. And all for thirty-five pounds, fifteen and sevenpence! So much for your wisdom and reason. Be off and get down on your knees, if they'll bend, and ask God to forgive you."
Head snorted and swore. Then he picked up his hat and departed in a towering rage.
Mr. Baskerville's anger lasted a shorter time. He walked to the window, threw it open, listened to Head's explosive departure and then, when silence was restored, Humphrey himself went to his doorstep and looked out upon the fair June night.
Mars and a moon nearly full sailed south together through unclouded skies, and beneath them lay, first, a low horizon, whose contour, smoothed by night's hand into dim darkness, showed neither point nor peak under the stars. Beneath all, valley-born, there shone silver radiance of mist—dense and luminous in the moonlight. Apparently quiescent, this vapour in truth drifted with ghostly proper motion before the night wind, and stole from the water-meadows upward toward the high places of the Moor.
Against these shifting passages of fog, laid along the skirts of forest and above the murmuring ways of a hidden river, ascended silhouettes of trees, all black and still against the pearly light behind them. The vapour spread in wreaths and filaments of moisture intermingled. Seen afar it was still as standing water; but to one moving beside it, the mist appeared as on a trembling loom where moonlight wove in ebony and silver. The fabric broke, ravelled, fell asunder, and then built itself up once more. Again it dislimned and shivered into separate shades that seemed to live. From staple of streams, from the cold heart of a nightly river were the shadows born; and they writhed and worshipped—poor, heart-stricken spirits of the dew—love-mad for Selene on high. Only when red Mars descended and the moon went down, did these forlorn phantoms of vapour shrink and shudder and lie closer, for comfort, to the water mother that bore them.
Hither, nigh midnight, in a frame of mind much out of tune with the nocturnal peace, passed Jack Head upon his homeward way. His loss had now become a sort of mental obsession, and he found it daily wax into a mightier outrage on humanity. He would have suffered in silence, but for the aggravation of these events whereby, from time to time, one or another of the wounded found his ill fortune healed.
Examination might have showed an impartial mind that much method distinguished the process of this alleviation.
Those responsible for it clearly possessed close knowledge of the circumstances; and they used it to minister in turn to the chief sufferers. The widows and fatherless were first indemnified; then others who least could sustain their losses.
A sane system marked the procedure; but not in the eyes of Mr. Head. First, he disputed the right of any philanthropist to select and single out in such a matter, and next, when defeated in argument on that contention, he fell back upon his own disaster and endeavoured to show how his misfortune was among the hardest and most ill-deserved.
That man after man should be compensated and himself ignored, roused Jack to a pitch of the liveliest indignation. He became a nuisance, and people fled from him and his inevitable topic of speech. And now he had heard Humphrey Baskerville upon the subject, and found him as indifferent as the rest of the world.
The old man's argument still revolved in Jack's head and, too late, came answers to it. He moved along in the very extremity of rage, and Humphrey might have smarted to hear the things that his former friend thought against him. Then, as ill chance willed, another came through the night and spoke to Head.
Timothy Waite went happily upon his homeward way and found himself in a mood as sweet as Jack's was the reverse. For Timothy was love-making, and his lady's ripe experience enabled her to give him many pleasant hours of this amusement.
Neither was sentimental, but Cora, accustomed to the ways and fancies of the courting male, affected a certain amount of femininity, and Timothy appreciated this, and told himself that his future wife possessed a woman's charms combined with a man's practical sense. He was immensely elated at the thing he had done, and he felt gratified to find that Miss Lintern made a most favourable impression amid his friends and relations.
Now, moved thereto by his own cheerful heart, he gave Jack Head 'good night' in a friendly tone of voice and added, "A beautiful evening, sure enough."
The way was overshadowed by trees and neither man recognised the other until Waite spoke. Then Mr. Head, feeling himself within the atmosphere of a happy being, grunted a churlish answer and made himself known.
Thereon Timothy's manner changed and he regretted his amenity.
"Is that Head?" he asked in an altered tone.
"You know my voice, I suppose."
"Yes, I do. I want to speak to you. And I have meant to for some time past. But the chance didn't offer, as you don't go to church, or any respectable place; and I don't frequent publics."
The other bristled instantly.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" he shouted.
"Nothing's the matter with me. But there's a lot the matter with you by all accounts, and since you can't keep a civil tongue in your head, it's time your betters took you in hand a bit."
Jack stared speechless at this blunt attack. The moon whitened his face, his lean jaw dropped and his teeth glimmered.
"Well, I'm damned! 'My betters'—eh?"
"Yes; no need for any silly pretence with me. You know what I think of your blackguard opinions and all that rot about equality and the rest. I'm not here to preach to you; but I am here to tell you to behave yourself where ladies are concerned. Miss Lintern has told me what you said to her, and she complained sharply about it. You may think it was very clever; but I'd have you to know it was very impertinent, coming from you to her. Why, if I'd been by, I'd have horsewhipped you. And if it happens again, I will. You're a lot too familiar with people, and seem to think you've a right to talk to everybody and anybody in a free and easy way—from parson downwards. But let me tell you, you forget yourself. I'd not have said these things if you'd been rude to any less person than the young lady I'm going to marry. But that I won't stand, and I order you not to speak to Miss Lintern again. Learn manners—that's what you've got to do."
Having uttered this admonition, Mr. Waite was proceeding but Jack stopped him.
"I listened to you very patient," he said. "Now you've got to listen to me, and listen you shall. Why, God stiffen it, you bumbling fool! who d'you think you are, and who d'you think any man is? You be china to my cloam, I suppose? And who was your grandfather? Come now, speak up; who was he?"
"I'm not going to argue—I've told you what I wish you to do. It doesn't matter who my grandfather was. You know who I am, and that's enough."
"It is enough," said Jack; "it's enough to make a toad laugh; but I don't laugh—no laughing matter to me to be told by a vain, puffed-up booby, like you, that I'm not good enough to have speech with people. And that tousled bitch—there—and coming on what I've just heard! If it don't make me sick with human nature and all the breed!"
"Be sick with yourself," answered Timothy. "I don't want to be too hard on an uneducated and self-sufficient man; but when it comes to insulting women, somebody must intervene."
By way of answer the older man turned, walked swiftly to Waite and struck him on the breast. The blow was a hard one and served its purpose. Timothy hit back and Head closed.
"You blackguard anarchist," shouted the farmer. "You will have it, will you? Then take it!"
Jack found himself no match for a strong and angry man full twenty-five years his junior, and he reaped a very unpleasant harvest of blows, for the master of Coldstone carried an ash sapling and when he had thrown Mr. Head to the ground he put his foot on him and flogged him heartily without heeding where his strokes might fall. Head yelled and cursed and tried to reach the other's legs and bring him down. A column of dust rose into the moonlight and Timothy's breath panted steaming upon the air. Then, with a last cruel cut across the defeated labourer's shoulders, he released him and went his way. But Head was soon up again and, with a bleeding face, a torn hand and a dusty jacket, he followed his enemy.
Rage is shrewd of inspiration. He remembered the one blow that he could deal this man; and he struck it, hoping that it might sink far deeper than the smarting surface-wounds that now made his own body ache.
"Devil—coward—garotter!" he screamed out. "You that hit old men in the dark—listen to me!"
Waite stopped.
"If you want any more, you can have it," he answered. "But don't go telling lies around the country and saying I did anything you didn't well deserve. You struck me first, and if you are mad enough to strike your betters, then you'll find they will strike back."
"I'll strike—yes, I'll strike—don't fear that. I'll strike—a harder blow than your evil hand knows how. I'll strike with truth—and that's a weapon goes deeper than your bully's stick. Hear me, and hear a bit about your young lady—'young lady'! A woman without a father—a child got—ax her mother where and how—and then go to blazing hell—you and your nameless female both. I know—I know—and I'll tell you if you want to know. She's Nathan Baskerville's bastard—that's what your 'young lady' is! There's gall for yours. There's stroke for stroke! And see which of us smarts longest now!"
Jack took his bruises homeward and the other, dazed at such a storm, also went his way. He scoffed at such malice and put this evil thing behind him. He hastened forward, as one hastens from sudden incidence of a foul smell.
But the wounded man had sped a poison more pestilential far than any born of physical cause. The germ thus despatched grew while Waite slept; and with morning light its dimensions were increased.
Under the moon, he had laughed at this furious assault, and scorned it as the vile imagining of a beaten creature; but with daylight he laughed no longer. The barb was fast; other rumours set floating after the innkeeper's death now hurtled like lesser arrows into his bosom; and Mr. Waite felt that until a drastic operation was performed and these wounds cleansed, his peace of mind would not return.
He debated between the propriety of speaking to Cora about her father, or to Mrs. Lintern on the subject of her husband; and he decided that the latter course would be more proper.
Susan Hacker and her master sat together in the kitchen. He had lighted his pipe; she was clearing away the remains of a somewhat scanty meal, and she was grumbling loudly as she did so.
"Leave it," he cried at length, "or I won't show you the christening mug for Milly's baby. It have come from Plymouth, and a rare, fine, glittering thing it is."
"I won't leave it," she answered. "You can't see the end of this, but I can. People know you've got plenty of money, but they don't know the way you're fooling it about, and presently, when you go and get ill, and your bones begin to stick through your skin, 'tis I shall be blamed."
"Not a bit of it. They all think I'm a miser, don't they? Let 'em go on thinking it. 'Tis the way of a miser's bones to stick out through his skin. Everybody knows that I live cheap from choice and always have. I hate the time given to eating and drinking."
"You've always lived like a labouring man," she admitted. "But of late, here and there, people be more friendly towards you, because you let your folk bide at Cadworthy; and I'm sick and tired of hearing Hester Baskerville tell me you don't eat enough, and Rupert and Milly too. Then there's that Gollop woman and a few other females have said things against me about the way I run this house. And 'tis bad to suffer it, for the Lord knows I've got enough on my mind without their lies."
"Get 'em off your mind, then," he answered. "You're a changed woman of late, and I'll tell you what's done it. I only found out myself a bit ago and said nought; but now I will speak. I've wondered these many weeks what had come over you, and three days since I discovered. And who was it, d'you think, told me?"
Her guilty heart thumped at Susan's ribs.
"Not Jack Head?" she asked.
"Jack? No. What does he know about you? Jack's another changed creature. He was pretty good company once, but his losses have soured him. 'Twasn't Jack. 'Twas the reverend Masterman. You've signed the pledge, I hear."
"He'd no business to tell," declared Susan. "Yes, I have signed it. I'm a wicked woman, and never another drop shall pass my lips."
"'Tis that that's made you cranky, all the same," he declared. "You was accustomed to your tipple and you miss it. However, I'm the last to say you did wrong in signing. When your organs get used to going without, you'll find yourself better company again. And don't worry about the table I keep. I live low from choice, not need. It suits me to starve a bit. I'm the better and cheerfuller for it."
But then she took up the analysis and explained to him whence his good health and spirits had sprung.
"Ban't that at all. 'Tis what you be doing have got into your blood. I know—I know. You've hid it from all of 'em, but you haven't hid it from me. I don't clean up all the rubbish you make and sift your waste-paper basket for nought. I itch to let it out! But God forgive me, I've let out enough in my time."
He turned on her angrily; then fearlessly she met his frown and he subsided.
"You're a dangerous, prying woman," he said, "and you ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"I'm all that," she admitted; "and shame isn't the word. I'm ashamed enough, and more than ashamed."
"If you let out a breath of my little games, I'll pack you off into the street that very day, Susan."
She sat down by the fire and took her knitting off the peat box where it was usually to be found.
"You needn't fear me," she answered. "I've had my lesson. If ever I tell again what I should not, you may kick me into the gutter."
He mused over the thoughts that she had awakened.
"I know a mazing deal more about the weaknesses of my brother Nathan now than ever I did while the man was in life," he began. "He was always giving—always giving, whether he had it to give or whether he hadn't. I'm not defending him, but I know what it felt like a bit now. Giving be like drink: it grows on a man the same as liquor does. Nathan ought to have taken the pledge against giving. And yet 'tis just another example of how the Bible word never errs. On the face of it you'd think 'twas better fun to receive than to give. But that isn't so. Once break down the natural inclination, shared by the dog with his bone, to stick to what you've got—once make yourself hand over a bit to somebody else—and you'll find a wonderful interest arise out of it."
"Some might. Some would break their hearts if they had to fork out like you've been doing of late."
"They be the real misers. To them their stuff is more than food and life and the welfare of the nation. And even them, if we could tear their gold away from them, might thank us after they'd got over the operation, and found themselves better instead of worse without it."
"All that's too deep for me," she answered. "The thing that's most difficult to me be this: How do you get any good out of helping these poor folk all underhand and unknown? Surely if a man or woman does good to others, he's a right to the only payment the poor can make him. And that's gratitude. Why won't you out with it and let them thank you?"
"You're wrong," he said. "I've lived too many years in the world to want that. I'm a fool here and there, Susan; but I'm not the sort of fool that asks from men and women what's harder to give than any other thing. To put a fellow-creature under an obligation is to have a faith in human nature that I never have had, and never shall have. No, I don't want that payment; I'm getting better value for my money than that."
"So long as you're satisfied——"
Silence followed and each pursued a private line of thought. Humphrey puffed his pipe; Susan knitted, and her wooden needles tapped and rattled a regular tune. She was wondering whether the confession that she desired to make might be uttered at this auspicious moment. Her conscience tortured her; and it was the weight of a great misery on her mind, not the fact of giving up liquor, that had of late soured her temper. She had nearly strung herself to tell him of her sins when he, from the depths of his being, spoke again. But he was scarcely conscious of a listener.
"To think that a man like me—so dark and distrustful—to think that even such a man—I, that thought my heart was cracked for ever when my son died—I, that said to myself 'no more, no more can any earthly thing fret you now.' And yet all the time, like a withered pippin—brown, dry as dust—there was that within that only wanted something—some heat to the pulp of me—to plump me out again. To think that the like of me must have some other thing to—to cherish and foster! To think my shrivelled heart-strings could ever stretch and seek for aught to twine around again! Who'd believe it of such a man as me? God A'mighty! I didn't believe it of myself!"
"But I knowed it," said Susan. "You always went hunger-starved for people to think a bit kindly of you; you always fretted when decent folk didn't like you."
"Not that—not that now. I wanted their good-will; but I've found something a lot higher than that. To see a poor soul happy is better far than to see 'em grateful. What does that matter? To mark their downward eye uplifted again; to note their fear for the future gone; to see hope creep back to 'em; to watch 'em walk cheerful and work cheerful; to know they laugh in their going once more; that they lie themselves down with a sigh of happiness and not of grief—ban't all that grander than their gratitude? Gratitude must fade sooner or late, for the largest-hearted can't feel it for ever, try as he may. Benefits forgot are dust and ashes to the giver—if he remembers. But none can take from me the good I've won from others' good; and none can make that memory dim."
"'Tis a fairy story," murmured Mrs. Hacker.
"No," he said, "'tis a little child's story—the thing they learn at a mother's knees; and because I was a growed-up man, I missed it. 'Tis a riddle a generous child could have guessed in a minute; but it took one stiff-necked fool from his adult days into old age afore he did."
Susan's mind moved to her purpose, and she knew that never again might fall so timely a moment. She put down her knitting, flung a peat on the fire, and spoke.
"You be full of wonderful tales to-night, but now I'll please ask you to listen to me," she began. "And mark this: you can't well be too hard upon me. I've got a pack of sins to confess, and if, when you've heard 'em, you won't do with me no more, then do without me, and send me through that door. I deserve it. There's nought that's bad I don't deserve."
He started up.
"What's this?" he said. "You haven't told anybody?"
"No, no, no. Ban't nothing about your affairs. In a word, I overheard a secret. I listened. I did it out of woman's cursed curiosity. And, as if that weren't enough, I got drunk as a fly down to 'The White Thorn' a while back and let out the truth. And nought's too bad for me—nought in nature, I'm sure."
Mr. Baskerville put down his pipe and turned to her.
"Don't get excited. Begin at the beginning. What did you hear?"
"I heard Mrs. Lintern tell you she was your brother's mistress. I heard her tell you her children was also his."
"And you're scourged for knowing it. Let that be a lesson to you, woman."
"That's only the beginning. I ban't scourged for that. I'm scourged because I've let it out again."
"I'm shocked at you," he answered. "Yes, I'm very much shocked at you; but I'm not at all surprised. I knew as sure as I knew anything that 'twould out. The Lord chooses His own time and His own tool. But that don't make your sin smaller. You're a wicked woman."
"I've signed the pledge, however, and not another drop——"
"How many of 'em did you tell?"
"But one. Of course, I chose the man with the longest tongue. Jack Head saw me up the hill after closing time and—there 'twas—I had to squeak. But I made him swear as solemn as he knowed how that he wouldn't."
"He's not what he was. We had a proper row a month ago. I doubt if he'll ever speak to me again. And until he makes a humble apology for what he spoke, I won't hear him."
"He swore he wouldn't tell."
"Be that as it may, it will be known. It's started and it won't stop."
They talked for two hours upon the problems involved in these facts. Then there came a knock at the door and Susan went to answer it.
Mr. Baskerville heard a protracted mumble and finally, after some argument, Mrs. Hacker shut the door and returned into the kitchen with a man.
It was Jack himself.
He explained the reason for his unduly late visit. He was anxious and troubled. He spoke without his usual fluency.
"I didn't come to see you," he said. "I waited till 'twas past your hour for going to bed. But knowing that Mrs. Hacker was always later, I thought to speak to her. However, nothing would do but I came in, and here I be."
"I'll have nought to say to you, Head—not a single word—until you make a solemn apology for your infernal impudence last time you stood here afore me," said the master of Hawk House, surveying his visitor.
"So Susan tells me, and so I will then," replied Jack. "So solemn as ever you like. You was right and I was wrong, and I did ought to have been kicked from here to Cosdon Beacon and back for what I said to you. We'm always punished for losing of our tempers. And I was damn soon punished for losing mine, as you shall hear. But first I confess that I was wrong and ax you, man to man, to forgive me."
"Which I will do, and here's my hand on it," said the other.
The old men shook hands and Susan wept. Her emotion was audible and Humphrey told her to go to bed. She refused.
"I'm in this," she said. "'Tis all my wicked fault from beginning to end, and I'm going to hear it out. I shall weep my eyes blistered afore morning."
"Don't begin now, then. If you're going to stop here, be silent," said Humphrey.
She sniffed, wiped her face, and then fetched a black bottle, some drinking water, and two glasses.
"Light your pipe and say what you feel called upon to say," concluded Humphrey to Mr. Head.
"'Tis like this," answered the other. "Every man wants to boss somebody in this world. That's a failing of human nature, and if we ain't strong enough to lord it over a fellow-creature, we try to reign over a hoss or even a dog. Something we have to be master of. Well, long since I marked that, and then, thanks to my understanding and sense, I comed to see—or I may have read it—that 'twas greater far to lord it over yourself than any other created thing."
"And harder far," said Humphrey.
"Without doubt you'm right. And I set about it, and I had myself in hand something wonderful; and very proud I felt of it, as I had the right to feel."
"Then the Lord, seeing you puffed up, sent a hard stroke to try whether you was as clever as you thought you was—and He found you were not," suggested Mr. Baskerville.
"I don't care nothing about that nonsense," answered Jack; "and, knowing my opinions, there ain't no call to drag the Lord in. All I do know is that my hard-earned savings went, and—and—well, I got my monkey up about it, and I got out of hand. Yes, I got out of hand. The awful shock of losing my thirty-five pounds odd took me off my balance. For a bit I couldn't stand square against it, and I did some vain things, and just sank to be a common, everyday fool, like most other people."
"'Tis a good thing you can see it, for 'twill end by righting your opinion of yourself."
"My opinion of myself was a thought too high. I admit it," answered Jack. "For the moment I was adrift—but only for the moment. Now I've come back to my common-sense and my high ideas, I can assure you. But the mischief is that just while I was dancing with rage and out of hand altogether, I did some mistaken things. Enough I had on my mind to make me do 'em, too. But I won't excuse 'em. I'll say, out and out, that they were very wrong. You've agreed to overlook one of those things, and you say you'll forgive me for talking a lot of rubbish against you, for which I'm terrible sorry. So that's all right, and no lasting harm there. But t'other job's worse."
Jack stopped for breath, and Susan sighed from the bottom of her immense bosom. Humphrey poured out some gin and water for his guest. Then he helped himself more sparingly.
"Here's to you," said Jack. "To drink under this roof is to be forgiven. Now I'll go on with my tale, and tell you about the second piece of work."
He related how he had left Hawk House in wrath, how he had met with Timothy Waite; how he had been reproved and how he had hit back both with his fists and his tongue.
"He knocked me down and gave me the truth of music with his heavy stick. I hit him first, and I'm not saying anything about what he did, though there may be thirty years between us; but anyway he roused Cain in me and I told him, in a word, that the woman he was going to marry was the natural child of Nathan Baskerville. 'Twas a double offence against right-doing, because I'd promised Susan here not to let it out, and because to tell Waite, of all men, was a cowardly deed against the girl, seeing he meant to marry her. But I'd quarrelled with her already, and tell him I did; and now I tell you."
He drank and stared into the fire. For some time Humphrey did not reply; but at last he expressed his opinion.
"It all depends on the sort of chap that Waite may prove to be. He'll either believe you, or he won't. If he don't, no harm's done. If he do, then 'tis his character and opinions will decide him. For his own sake we'll trust he'll throw her off, for woe betide the man that marries her; but if he loves her better than her havage, he'll go his way and care nothing. If he looks at it different, and thinks the matter can't rest there, he'll go further. For my part I can't say I care much about it. All I know is that Priscilla Lintern has rare virtues, though she weren't virtuous, and she've lived on no bed of roses, for all the brave way in which she stands up for my late brother. She won't be sorry the murder's out. When she told me—or when I told her—I made it plain that in my opinion this ought to be known. She stood for the children, not herself, and said it never must be known for their sakes. Well, now we shall see who hears it next. As for you two, you've got your consciences, and it ban't for me to come between you and them."
"Well, I've told my story, and admitted my failings like a man," said Jack, "and, having done so, I can do no more. My conscience is cleared, and I defy it to trouble me again; and I may add that I'll take mighty good care not to give it the chance. So there you are. And come what may, I can stand to that."
"How if they deny it and have you up for libel?" asked Mr. Baskerville; but Jack flouted the idea.
"Not them," he said. "Have no fear on that score. I've got this woman for witness, and I've got you. For that matter, even if 'twas known, nobody wouldn't die of astonishment. Since the things Eliza Gollop said after Nathan died, 'twould come as a very gentle surprise, I believe. And, when all's said, who's the worse, except what be called public morals?"
Mr. Baskerville nodded.
"There's some sense in what you say, Jack. And I'm glad we're friends again. And now I'm going to bed, so I'll ax you to be gone."
Head rose, finished his refreshment, and shook Mr. Baskerville's hand.
"And I'm the better for knowing as you've been large-minded enough to forgive me," he said. "And as you can, I suppose Susan here can. I know I'm very much in her black books, and I deserve that too, and I'd make it up to her in any way I can—except to marry her. That I never will do for any woman as long as I live."
"No, and never will get the chance to," replied Susan; "and I only trust to God 'twill all die out, and we hear no more of it."
Head turned at the door and spoke a final word.
"It may interest you to know that everybody have had their money now—everybody but me and Thomas Coode, the drunken farmer at Meavy. 'Tis strange I should be put in the same class with Coode; but so it is. However, I've larned my lesson. I shall say no more about that. Think of it I must, being but mortal, but speak I won't."
"You'll do well to forget it," answered Mr. Baskerville. "The man, or woman if 'twas one, be probably settled in their mind not to pay you or Coode back—since you're so little deserving."
Jack shrugged his shoulders, but kept his recent promise and went out silently.
A jay, with flash of azure and rose, fluttered screaming along from point to point of a coppice hard by Hawk House, and Cora Lintern saw it. She frowned, for this bird was associated in her mind with a recent and an unpleasant incident. Her brother Heathman, whose disparate nature striking against her own produced many explosions, had recently told her that the jay was her bird—showy, tuneless, hard-hearted. She remembered the occasion of this attack, but for the moment had no energy at leisure with which to hate him; for difficulties were rampant in her own path, and chance began to treat her much as she had treated other people in the past.
In a word, her lover grew colder. As yet she had no knowledge of the reason, but the fact could not be denied, and her uneasiness increased. He saw somewhat less of her, and he made no effort to determine the time of the wedding. Neither did he invite her to do so. He had come twice to see Mrs. Lintern when Cora was not by, and an account of these visits was reported by her mother.
"I don't exactly know why he dropped in either time," said Mrs. Lintern. "He kept talking on everyday matters, and never named your name. 'Twas curious, in fact, the way he kept it out. All business, but nothing about the business of marrying you. Yet there was plenty on his mind, I do believe. I should reckon as he'd come for a special purpose, but finding himself here, it stuck in his throat. He's strong with men, but weak with women. Have he told you of aught that's fretting him?"
Her daughter could remember nothing of the sort. Neither did she confess what she did know—that Waite was unquestionably cooler than of old.
"'Tis time the day was named," declared Priscilla. "And you'd better suggest it when next you meet with him."
But Cora did not do so, because there was much in Timothy's manner that told her he desired no expedition. Some time had now elapsed since last she saw him, and to-day she was going, in obedience to a note brought by a labourer, to meet him at the Rut, half a mile from Coldstone Farm. That he should have thus invited her to come to him was typical of the change in his sentiments. Formerly he would have walked or ridden to her. The tone of his brief note chilled her, but she obeyed it, and was now approaching their tryst at evening time in early September.
In a little field nigh Hawk House she heard the purr of a corn-cutting machine. It was clinking round and round, shearing at each revolution a slice from the island of oats that still stood in the midst of a sea of fallen grain. A boy drove the machine, and behind it followed Humphrey Baskerville and Rupert. The younger man had come over to help garner the crop. Together they worked, gathered up the oats, and set them in little sheaves. The waning sunlight gilded the standing oats. Now and then a dog barked and darted round the vanishing island in the midst, for there—separated from safety by half an acre of stubble—certain rabbits squatted together, and waited for the moment when they must bolt and make their final run to death.
Cora, unseen, watched this spectacle; then Mrs. Hacker appeared with a tray, on which were three mugs and a jug of cider.
The girl was early for her appointment, but she sauntered forward presently and marked Timothy Waite in the lower part of the valley.
It was the Rut's tamest hour of late summer, for the brightness of the flowers had ceased to shine; the scanty heath made little display, and autumn had as yet lighted no beacon fire. Stunted thorn trees ripened their harvest, but the round masses of the greater furze were dim; a prevalent and heavy green spread over the Rut, and the only colour contrast was that presented by long stretches of dead brake fern. The litter had been cut several weeks before and allowed to dry and ripen. It had now taken upon itself a dark colour, widely different from the richer, more lustrous, and gold-sprinkled splendour of auburn that follows natural death. The dull brown stuff was being raked together ready for the cart; and Cora, from behind a furze clump, watched her sweetheart carry immense trusses of the bracken and heave them up to the growing pile upon a wain that waited for the load. All she could see was a pair of straight legs in black gaiters moving under a little stack of the fern; then the litter was lifted, to reveal Timothy Waite.
Presently he looked at his watch and marked that the time of meeting was nearly come. Whereupon he donned his coat, made tidy his neckcloth, handed his fork to a labourer, and left the working party. He strolled slowly up the coomb along the way that she must approach, while she left her hiding-place and set out to meet him. He shook hands, but he did not kiss her, and he did not look into her eyes. Instead, he evaded her own glance, spoke quickly, and walked quickly in unconscious obedience to his own mental turmoil.
"I can't run," she said. "If you want me to hear what you're saying, Timothy, you must go slower, or else sit down in the hedge."
"It's terrible," he answered. "It's terrible, and it's made an old man of me. But some things you seem to know from the first are true, and some you seem to know are not. And when first I heard it I said to myself, t 'Tis a damned lie of a wicked and venomous man'; but then, with time and thought, and God knows how many sleepless nights, I got to see 'twas true enough. And why wasn't I told? I ask you that. Why wasn't I told?"
Her heart sank and her head grew giddy. She translated this speech with lightning intuition, and knew too well all that it must mean. It explained his increasing coolness, his absences and evasions. It signified that he had changed his mind upon learning the secret of the Linterns.
A natural feminine, histrionic instinct made her pretend utmost astonishment, though she doubted whether it would deceive him.
"What you're talking about I haven't the slightest idea," she said. "But if you have a grievance, so have I—and more than one. You wasn't used to order me here and there six weeks ago. 'Twas you that would come and see me then; now I've got to weary my legs to tramp to do your bidding."
He paid no heed to her protest.
"If you don't understand, then you must, and before we part, too. I can't go on like this. No living man could do it. I called twice to see your mother about it, for it seemed to me that 'twas more seemly I should speak to her than to you; but when I faced her I couldn't open my mouth, much as I wanted to do so. She shook me almost, and I'd have been thankful to be shook; but 'tis the craft and cunning of the thing that's too much for me. I've been hoodwinked in this, and no doubt laughed at behind my back. That's what's made me feel as I do now. I waited and hoped on, and loved you for years, and saw you chuck two other men, and found I'd got you at last, and reckoned I was well rewarded for all my patience; and—then—then—this——"
"What? This what? Are you mad? What didn't you dare to speak to my mother, and yet you can speak to me? What have I done that's set you against me? What sin have I committed? Don't think I'm blind. I've seen you cooling off clear enough, and for the life of me I couldn't guess the reason, try as I would and sorrow about it as I would. But since you've ordered me here for this, perhaps you'll go straight on and tell me what's all the matter."
"I want you to answer me one question. The answer you must know, and I ask you to swear afore your Maker that you'll tell me the truth. Mind this, I know the truth. It's scorched into me like a burn this many a day. But I must hear it from you too, Cora."
She guessed his question, and also guessed that in truth lay her last hope. He spoke positively, and she doubted not that he knew. His fear before her mother was natural. She perceived how easily a man might have gone to a woman with this momentous question on his mind, and how naturally the presence of the woman might strike him dumb at the actual meeting. None knew better than Cora how different is the reality of a conversation with a fellow-creature from the imaginary interview formulated before the event. There was but one problem in her mind now—the advantage or disadvantage of truth. She judged that the case was desperate, but that her only hope lay in honesty.
"Speak," she said. "And I swear I'll answer nought but the truth—if I know the truth."
He hesitated, and considered her answer. He was fond of her still, but the circumstance of this deception, to which he supposed her a party, had gone far to shake his affection. The grievance was that the facts should have been hidden from him after his proposal. He held that then was the time when Cora's paternity should have been divulged. He believed that had he known it then, it would have made small difference to his love. It was not so much the fact as the hiding of the fact that had troubled him.
"Who was your father?" he asked at length, and the words burst out of him in a heap, like an explosion.
"I know who he was," she answered.
"Name him, then."
"You see, Timothy, you never asked. I often thought whether there was any reason to tell you, and often and often I felt you ought to know; but you're a wise and far-seeing man, and I wasn't the only one to be thought on. I'd have told you from the first, even at the risk of angering you, but there was mother. I couldn't do it—knowing what she'd feel. I was a daughter afore I was a sweetheart. Would you have done it when you came to think on your mother?"
"Name him."
"Nathan Baskerville was my father, and my sister's and brother's father. My mother was his wife all but in name, and they only didn't marry because it meant losing money. You understand why I didn't tell you—because of my poor mother. Now you can do as you please. I'm myself anyway, and I'm not going to suffer for another's sins more than I can help. There's no stain on me, and well you know it."
"Nathan was your father?"
"He was. I suppose Heathman told you. He's threatened to oft enough."
"No matter for that. 'Tis so, and 'twas deliberately hidden from me."
"'Twas hidden from all the world. And why not? I did no wrong by hiding it, feel as I might. There was four to think of."
"'Twasn't hidden from all the world, and 'tisn't hidden. I didn't learn it from Heathman. You've brought this on yourself in a way. If you hadn't quarrelled with a certain man I shouldn't have done so either. Jack Head told me after I'd thrashed him for insulting you; and I suppose if he hadn't I might have gone to church with you, and very likely gone to my grave at last, and never known what you was."
"I should have told you when my mother died."
"D'you swear that?"
"I tell you it is so. I'm going to swear no more at your bidding. 'Tis for me to speak now. You've cut me to the quick to-day, and I doubt if I shall ever get over it. 'Tisn't a very manly way to treat an innocent girl, I should think. However, I forgive everything and always shall, for I love the ground you walk on, and you know it, and 'twasn't from any wish to treat you without proper respect that I hid away this cruel thing. I said to myself, 'It can't hurt dear Tim not to know it, and it would hurt my mother and my sister terribly if 'twas known.' So, right or wrong, I did what I did; and now you're in judgment over me, and I can't—I can't live another moment, dear Timothy, till I know how you feel about it."
She had begun in a spirit rather dictatorial, but changed swiftly into this milder appeal when she marked the expression of his face. He was prepared to stand little. From the first she felt almost hopeless that she would have power to move him.
"Who told Jack Head?" asked Timothy.
"God knows. My brother, I should think. There's none else in the world but mother and Phyllis that knew it."
"Others were told, but not me. I was deceived by all of you."
"That's not true," she answered as her fighting instinct got the better of tact. "'Twasn't to deceive you not to tell you. All families have got secrets—yours too."
"You did wrong to me. 'Tisn't even like as if I was nobody. I come of pretty good havage on my mother's side, and I think a lot of such things."
"Well, the Baskervilles——"
"Don't be foolish, woman! D'you think I'm ——? There, 'tisn't a case for talk that I can see. The thing be done and can't be undone. I'd have overlooked it, so like as not, if you'd made a clean breast of the truth when I offered for you; but to let me go on blind—I can't forgive that."
Perceiving what had hurt him, Cora set herself to lessen the sting as much as possible; but she failed. They talked to no purpose for an hour, while she used every argument that occurred to her, and he opposed to her swift mind and subtle reasoning a blank, impassive wall of sulky anger and wounded pride. It began to grow dark before the conclusion came, and they had walked half-way back to Shaugh. At the top of the hill he left her, and the battle ended in wrath on both sides and a parting irrevocable.
Her failure it was that made Cora lose her temper, and when she did so, he, thankful for the excuse, spoke harshly, and absolved his own uneasy spirit for so doing.
The final scene was brief, and the woman, wearied in mind and body with her efforts to propitiate him, drew it down upon them.
"Why don't you speak out like a man, then?" she said at last. "Why d'you keep growling in your throat, like a brute, and not answering my questions? 'Tis because you can't answer them in right and justice. But one word you've got to find a tongue to, though well you may be shamed to do it. It shan't be said I've thrown you over, if that's the cowardly thing you're playing up for. I promised to marry you, and I would marry you; but you don't want to marry me, it seems, and you've pitched on this paltry thing to get out of it."
"'Paltry thing'! You're shameless."
"Yes, it is paltry; and everybody would say so; and you'll hear what decent people think of you pretty soon if you throw me over, I can tell you. How can a child help its own father, or see whether its parents be properly married? You're cruel and mad both."
"We'll see, then," he answered. "Since you're bent on hearing me speak, I will. And don't pretend as I'm growling and you're not hearing. I'll tell you what I mean, and my words shall be as clear as my mind is about it. I won't marry you now, and I wouldn't if you was all you ought to be. I've had a taste of your tongue this evening that's opened my mind a good bit to what you are. You've shown me a lot more about yourself than you think for. And if I did growl, like a brute, my ears was open and my wits was wide awake, like a man. And I won't marry you, and I've a perfect right not to do so after this."
"You dirty coward! No, you shan't marry me, and you shouldn't if you crawled to me across the whole world on your knees, and prayed to me to forgive you. And if you're well out of it, what am I? And don't you think you've heard the last of this, because you have not. I've got good friends and strong friends in the world, though you'd like to fancy as I was friendless and outcast, for men like you to spit on. But I can fight my own battles very well, come to that, as you shall find; and I'll have you up for breach, God's my judge; and if decent men don't bring in proper, terrifying damages against you, I'll ask you to forgive me. Yes, I'll make your name laughed at from one end of the Moor to t'other, as you shall find afore you'm many days older."
He stood still before this threat, and, finding that he did not answer, she left him and hastened home.
There she blazed her startling news. Cora's own attitude towards the truth was now one of indifference. She raged against her fate, and for the time being could not look forward. Phyllis alone displayed grief. She was engaged to a young baker at Cornwood, and feared for her own romance: therefore she wept and revealed the liveliest concern. But Heathman, perceiving Priscilla's indifference, exhibited the like. It appeared that mother and son were glad rather than regretful at this escape of truth.
Mrs. Lintern, however, exhibited exceeding wonder, if little dismay. She was sorry for Cora, but not for herself.
"I had a feeling, strong as death in me, that 'twould come to light," she said. "Somehow I always knew that the thing must struggle out sometime. Many and many actually knew it in their hearts, by a sort of understanding—like a dog's reason. And I knew they knew it. But the truth was never openly thrust in my face till he died, and Eliza Gollop spoke it. And, she being what she is, none believed her; and 'twas enough that she should whisper scandal for the better sort to flout her and turn a deaf ear. And now it's out, and the great wonder in me ban't that 'tis out, but who let it out. For the moment it looks as if 'twas a miracle; yet, no doubt, time will clear that too."
"I suppose you'll go now," said Cora. "Anyway, if you don't, I shall. There's been nought but trouble and misery for me in this hole from my childhood upward."
There visited Cadworthy Farm, on a Sunday afternoon, Priscilla Lintern with her son and her younger daughter.
They came unexpectedly, though Rupert had told Heathman they would not be unwelcome. May was from home, and the business of preparing tea fell upon Milly Baskerville. Phyllis helped Rupert's wife in this operation, and while they were absent in the kitchen and the men went to the farm, Hester and Priscilla spoke together. The one discussed her son, the other her daughter and herself.
"I've been coming over to see you this longful time," said Mrs. Baskerville, "but what with the weather and—and——"
"The things that are being said, perhaps?"
"No, not them. I'm an old woman now, and if I've not got patience at my age, when shall I get it? Good things have happed to me—better than I deserved—and I'm only sorry for them as have had less fortune. I never pay no heed to stories at any time. My master taught me that."
"I merely want to tell you that 'tis all true. For my children's sake I should never have told it, but since it had to come I'm right glad."
"I'd rather you spared yourself," said Mrs. Baskerville. "You've had enough to bear, I should reckon. Leave it. I've always felt a very great respect for you, and always shall do so; and I've no wish to hear anything about it. Well I know what men are, and what life is. He was lucky—lucky in you and lucky in his brothers. What he took away from me, Humphrey has given back. Now we'll go on as before. Mr. Waite have thrown your maiden over, I hear. What's she going to do?"
"Thank you for being kind," answered Mrs. Lintern. "I've been a good deal astonished to find how easily the people have took this thing. The world's a larger-minded place than I, for one, had any idea of. The neighbours, save here and there, seem to be like you, and reckon that 'tis no business of theirs. My son's terrible pleased that it have got out; and the young man who is going to marry Phyllis don't mean to alter his plans. And your brother is glad also, I suppose, for he wished it. But to Cora, this business of being flung over hit her very hard, and she wanted to bring an action for breach of promise against Timothy. She went to see Mr. Popham about it; only he didn't seem to think she'd get much, and advised her to do no such thing."
"Why ban't she along with you to-day?"
"She won't go nowhere. She'll be off pretty soon to a milliner's to Plymouth. She wants to clear away from everything so quick as may be."
"Natural enough. Let her go in a shop somewhere and begin again. My Ned, I may tell you, have found——
"Work, I hope?"
"No. Another girl to marry him. It looks as if it might go through this time, though I can't see him really married after all his adventures with the maidens. 'Tis the daughter of the livery-stable keeper at Tavistock. And she's the only one—and King—that's her father's name—worships the ground she goes on. It's like to happen after Christmas. And Ned's been straight about it, and he've broke in a young horse or two very clever for Mr. King, so I suppose he'll let them wed for the girl's sake. He's there to-day."
Mrs. Lintern nodded.
"Where's May?" she asked. "Away too?"
"Only till evening. She's drinking tea along with her Uncle Humphrey at Hawk House."
"A strange man he is."
"'Tis strange for any man to be so good."
"He first found out about me and his brother. And how d'you reckon? From Cora. His sharp eyes saw her father in her long before Nathan died. I've been to Hawk House since it came out. He was content that Cora had suffered so sharp, and said so."
"He thinks a great deal of you and Heathman, however."
Milly brought the tea at this moment and called Heathman and Rupert, who were smoking in the farmyard. They appeared, and Milly's baby was carried to join the company. Rupert showed the cup that his godfather had given to the child.
The Baskervilles made it clear that they designed no change in their relations with Mrs. Lintern. A sharp estrangement had followed Ned's jilting, but that belonged to the past. Amity reigned, and Milly expressed regret at Mrs. Lintern's determination to leave Shaugh Prior in the following spring.
"They'll both be gone—both girls," she explained, "and Heathman here haven't got no need of a wife yet, he says, so he and I shall find a smaller and a cheaper place than Undershaugh."
"Cora will marry yet," foretold Rupert. "Third time's lucky, they say."
"'Twill be the fourth time," corrected Milly.
They ate and drank, and spoke on general subjects; then the Linterns prepared to start, and Priscilla uttered a final word to Hester before the younger people.
"I thank you for letting the past go. There was but few mattered to me, and you were the first of them."
They departed, and the Baskervilles talked about them.
Behind her back, they spoke gently of Priscilla, and old Mrs. Baskerville revealed even a measure of imagination in her speech.
"The worst was surely after he sank into his grave and the storm broke," said Hester. "To think she was standing there, his unknown, unlawful wife, yet a wife in spirit, with all a wife's love and all a wife's belief in him. To think that her ear had to hear, and her heart had to break, and her mouth had to be dumb. Gall and vinegar that woman have had for her portion these many days—yet she goes unsoured."
"She's got a rare good son to stand by her," declared Rupert.
"And so have I," murmured Milly, squeezing the baby who was sucking her breast.
"And I've got four," answered Mrs. Baskerville. "Four brave boys—one on sea and three on land. Things be divided curious; but our part is to thank God for what we've got, and not worry because them that deserve more have so much less. That's His work, and the balance will swing true again in His own good time."
Elsewhere, upon their journey home, the Linterns fell in with May. She was excited, and turned back and walked beside them for half a mile.
"I'm just bursting with news," she said, "and I hope you haven't heard it."
"The world be full of news," answered Heathman. "There's a bit down to Shaugh as I meant to tell Rupert just now and forgot, owing to press of other matters. It proves as I'm a prophet too, for I've said this three year that it was bound to happen. And that disgrace in the churchyard over my father's grave have brought it to a climax. I mean Tommy Gollop and that other old rip, Joe Voysey. Both have got the sack! The reverend Masterman have hit out right and left and floored the pair of 'em. Mind you tell Rupert that. 'Twill make him die of laughing. The old boys be showing their teeth too, I promise you."
"I'll tell him."
"And what was your news?" asked Mrs. Lintern.
"Very good; yet perhaps no news neither to many folk who understand things better than me. Yet I'd often thought in my mind that 'twas my uncle Humphrey clearing off Uncle Nathan's——"
She stopped, brought to silence by the recollection of their relationship.
"Say it," said Priscilla. "I know what's on your lips. Don't fear to say it."
"That 'twas Uncle Humphrey made all right," continued May. "And paid back what had been lost. We can't say how it might have gone if Uncle Nathan had lived. No doubt, sooner or late, he'd have done the same, for never would he let man or woman suffer if he could help it. Anyway, all be in the fair way to have their money again. And I asked Lawyer Popham long ago, when he came to Cadworthy, who 'twas, and he wouldn't say; but had no doubt we could guess. And then I asked Susan Hacker, and she wouldn't say, but yet came so near saying that there was little left to know. And to-day I tackled Uncle Humphrey and gave him no peace till 'twas out. 'To please himself' he's done it."
She panted for breath, and then continued—
"And there's more yet. 'Twas him paid up my married sister's legacy, and even Ned's not forgot—for justice. And when Uncle Humphrey dies—and far be it off—my brother Rupert's to have Cadworthy! I got that out of him too. But I've solemnly promised not to tell Rupert. He's going to tell him himself."
"A useful old fairy, and no mistake," laughed Heathman. "He'll beggar himself afore he's finished, and then you'll all have to set to work to keep him out of the workhouse!"
"He said that very thing," answered May, "and Susan said the same. Not that it makes any difference to him, for he hasn't got any comforts round him, and gets savage if you ask him so much as to take a hot brick to bed with him to warm himself in winter."
"All these things," said Mrs. Lintern, "have been done for honour of the name. Your folk go back along far—far into the past, and there's never been a cloud between them and honest dealing. But, when Heathman's father was cut off with his work unfinished, it happed that he left no money, and the many things that he had planned all fell short, without his mastermind to pick up the threads and bring them through. Then came Humphrey Baskerville, and for love of his brother and for love of the name, did these good deeds. And to beggar himself in money be nought in the eyes of that man, if he leaves his family rich in credit afore the eyes of the world. Such another was your own father, May; and such another is your brother Rupert; and such another was your cousin Mark. They had their own sight and looked at the world their own way and all saw it different, maybe; but they never saw justice different."
"And such be I," declared Heathman. "I can't call myself a Baskerville, and shan't get no thinner for that; but I'm the son of my mother, and she's worth a shipload of any other sort—better than the whole flight of you Baskervilles, May—good though you be. And I'm very well pleased to be kin to you all, if you like, and if you don't like, you can leave it."
They parted then, and May returned home. Heathman showed himself highly gratified at what he had heard, and his sister shared his satisfaction. But their mother was sunk deep in the hidden places of her own heart, and they left her alone while they spoke together.