Milly and her husband Rupert came on a Sunday to drink tea at Hawk House. They found Humphrey from home, but he had left a message with Susan Hacker to say that he would return before five o'clock.
"He's got the rheumatics," said Mrs. Hacker. "They have fastened cruel in his shoulder-blades, and he've started on his pony and gone off to see the doctor. Won't have none of my cautcheries, though I know what's good for rheumatics well enough, and I've cured three cases to common knowledge that neither doctor nor that Eliza Gollop could budge, do as they would."
Rupert expressed concern, and went out to meet his uncle, while Milly stopped and helped Susan Hacker to prepare tea.
"And how do 'e like being married?" asked the elder.
"Very well; but not quite so well as I thought to," answered Milly with her usual frankness.
"Ah! same with most, though few have the pluck to confess it."
"Being married is a very fine thing if you've got such a husband as Rupert; but living along with your husband's people ain't so fine, if you understand me. You see, he's farmer now, and he will have his way—a terrible resolute chap where the land and the things be concerned. But sometimes his mother gets a bit restive at Rupert's orders, and sometimes she says, in her quiet way, as her husband never would have held with this or that. 'Tis a thought awkward now and again, because, you see, Rupert ban't the favourite, and never was."
"You side with him, of course?"
"Always, and always shall do—right or wrong."
"Maybe when Master Ned's married and away Mrs. Baskerville will go easier."
"Don't think I'm grumbling. She's a kind woman, but, like all old married folk, seem to think young married folk be only playing at it. The truth is that I haven't got enough to do for the minute."
Mr. Baskerville returned in half an hour, and Rupert walked beside him. Then, with some silent suffering, the old man alighted, and a boy took the pony to its stable.
"Doctor was out," he said, "so I'll have to trouble you to make up a bit of your ointment after all."
"And so I will," answered Susan. "And if you'd gone to that Gollop woman for the beastliness she pretends will cure everything, I'd never have forgiven you. She helped to kill off your brother, no doubt, but that's no reason why you should give her a chance to kill you."
"You're all alike," he said; "a jealous generation. But if you can have your physic ready in an hour, so much the better; then Rupert shall give my back a good rub before he goes."
Mrs. Hacker was doubtful.
"Better I do it," she said. "'Tis the way it's rubbed in makes the cure."
"He's stronger and can rub harder," answered the patient.
"Uncle Nathan's none too grand, neither," declared his nephew. "Won't say what's amiss, but I do think he's not all he might be. I asked Mrs. Lintern, who knows more about him than anybody, I reckon, and she told me 'twas nothing much in her opinion—only his throat a bit queer."
"You and Uncle Nathan ought to have wives to look after you," declared Milly as she poured out tea. "You men be unfinished, awkward things alone. You'm always wanting us at every turn, for one reason or another, and after middle age a man looks a fool half his time if he haven't got a woman for his own. Men do the big things and alter the face of the earth and all that, but what becomes of their clever greatness without our clever littleness?"
"Cant!—cant! You all talk that stuff and 'tisn't worth answering. Ask the sailors if they can't sew better than their sweethearts."
Mr. Baskerville was in a hard mood and would allow no credit to the sex. He endured his pain without comment, but it echoed itself in impatient and rather bitter speeches. Rupert fell back on other members of the family, and spoke of his uncle, the master of 'The White Thorn.'
"The good that man does isn't guessed," he said. "The little things—you'd be surprised—yet 'tisn't surprising neither, for every soul you meet speaks well of him; and a man can't win to that without being a wonder. He's made of human kindness, and yet never remembers the kind things he does—no memory for 'em at all."
Humphrey conceded the nobility of this trait, and Milly spoke.
"Not like some we could name, who'll give a gift to-day and fling it in your face to-morrow."
"There are such. My mother's father was such a one," said Mr. Baskerville. "He never forgot a kindness—that he'd done himself. He checked his good angel's record terrible sharp, did that man."
There came an interruption here, and unexpected visitors in the shape of Nicholas Bassett, the young man who had married Polly Baskerville, and Polly herself. Nicholas was nervous and stood behind his wife; Polly was also nervous, but the sight of her brother Rupert gave her courage.
Her uncle welcomed her with astonishment.
"Wonders never cease," he said. "I didn't count to get a visit from you, Polly, or your husband either. You needn't stand there turning your Sunday hat round and round, Bassett. I shan't eat you, though people here do seem to think I'm a man-eater."
"We came for advice," said Polly, "and I made bold to bring Nicholas. In fact, 'twas his idea that I should speak to you."
Mr. Baskerville was gratified, but his nature forbade him to show it.
"A new thing to come to Uncle Humphrey when you might go to Uncle Nathan," he said.
"'Tis just about Uncle Nathan is the difficulty," declared his niece. Then she turned to her husband. "You speak, Nick. You must know that Nick's rather slow of speech, and can't get his words always, but he's improving. Tell Uncle Humphrey how 'tis, Nick."
Mr. Bassett nodded, dried a damp brow with a red handkerchief, and spoke.
"'Tis like this here," he began. "Under Mr. Vivian Baskerville's will—him being my wife's father—she had five hundred pound."
"We all know that," said Rupert. "And May, too."
"Well, the law of the will was that the money should be handed over when the girls was wedded, or when they comed to the age of five-and-twenty. Therefore, surely it's clear as my wife ought to have her five hundred—eh?"
"Perfectly clear—on the day she married you," said Rupert. "I thought you'd got it, Polly."
"But I haven't. There's legal difficulties—so Uncle Nathan says; and he told Nicholas that there was a doubt in his mind whether—what was it, Nick?"
"The man said that as trustee for everybody he was very unwilling to disturb the money. He said 'twas out at interest and doing very well; and he said he'd pay us five per centum upon it, which comed to twenty-five pounds a year."
"You're entitled to the capital if you want it," declared Mr. Baskerville. "It can't be withheld."
"I've been to the man twice since," said Polly's husband, "and he's always terrible busy, or else just going into it in a few days, or something like that. We've had six months' interest on it; but we want the money—at least, half of it—because we've got ideas about leasing a field where we live to Bickleigh, and buying a cow in calf and a lot of poultry. With all Polly's farm cleverness we can do better with a bit of money than leave it in the bank. At least, that's what we think."
"Ask Rupert here to help," suggested her uncle. "He's on very good terms with Uncle Nat, and he's a man of business now, and Polly's elder brother, and a right to be heard. No doubt, if he says plain and clear that he wants you to have your money without delay, you'll get it."
"I'd leave it till autumn, after Ned's marriage," said Rupert, "then I'd press him to clear things up. Ned will want tons of money then, and I believe Cora Lintern is to have a money present from Uncle Nathan. She got the secret out of her mother, and, of course, told Ned; and now everybody knows. But nobody knows the figure. Therefore, I say Polly had better do nought till the wedding."
"Mr. Nathan's temper isn't what it was," said Rupert's wife. "His health be fretting him a lot, I believe."
"I wish I had our money, anyhow," declared Mr. Bassett; "but if you say wait till autumn, of course we will do so."
Humphrey Baskerville spoke but little. He had fallen into deep private thought upon this news, and now was only aroused by his niece getting up to depart.
"I hope you'll forgive us for troubling you," said Polly; "but we've talked it over a thousand times, and we felt we ought to take the opinion of some wiser person. Still, if you say wait, we'll wait."
"I didn't say wait," answered her uncle, "and I don't take any responsibility for it. Rupert advised you to wait, not me. If a man owed me twopence under a will—let alone five hundred pound—I'd have it, and wouldn't wait a minute."
The young couple departed in a good deal of agitation, and debated this advice very earnestly all the way home; but Rupert stuck to his own opinion, and, when they were gone, chode Humphrey for giving such counsel.
"I'm sure such a thing would hurt Uncle Nathan cruelly," he said. "'Tis as much as to say that you don't trust him—don't trust a man who is trusted by the countryside as none ever was before."
"Easy to be large-minded about other people's money," answered his uncle. "Only if 'twas yours, and not your sister's, I rather think you'd be a bit less patient with the man that held it from you."
Yet another visitor appeared and the family matter was dropped.
Mrs. Hacker brought in Mr. Head.
"Looks as if the whole countryside was coming here," she declared. "Here's Jack for a cup of tea; and the ointment will be cool enough to use in half an hour."
"Hullo, Bear!" said Rupert. "Who'd have thought of seeing you?"
"I was axed to tea when I felt in a mind to come," replied Mr. Head; "and here I am, if not in the way. And as to being a bear, I'm the sort that needs a lot of stirring up afore I roar—your wife will back me up in that. How's Mr. Baskerville faring?"
"Got the rheumatism," answered Humphrey. "Rupert here be going to rub in some ointment presently."
"I hope 'twill break the heart of it, I'm sure. There's nothing worse. It tells us the truth about our parts better than any sermon. I'm not too gay to-day myself. We was at it hammer and tongs in 'The White Thorn' last night—me and your brother. Such a Tory was never seen in the land afore. I very soon settled Tom Gollop and a few others like him, but Mr. Nathan's got more learning and more power of argument. We drank, too—more than usual, owing to the thirstiness of the night and the flow of speech. Quarts I must have took, and when Ben North looked in to say 'twas closing time, nothing would do but a few of us went in your brother's room, after house was shut, and went at it again."
"Say you were drunk in a word, Jack," suggested Rupert.
"Not drunk, Rupert—still, near it. We all got in sight of it. There's no prophet like the next morning after a wet night. As a man fond of the flesh I say it. And the older you grow, the sharper comes the day after a bust-up. Then Nature gives you a proper talking to, and your heart swells with good resolutions against beer and other things. And then, as soon as you are as right as ninepence—just by keeping those good resolves—blest if Nature don't tumble down what she's set up, and tempt you with all her might to go on the loose again. You can't steady her, though she can mighty soon steady you. Preaches to you one minute, and then starts off to get you into mischief the next. That's her way—no more sense than any other female."
"Then so much the less reason to put your trust in her," answered Mr. Baskerville. "She's a poor, untaught, savage thing at best. 'Tis madness to trust her, for nothing is weaker than she."
"Nothing is stronger or so strong," declared Jack. "Nature knows what she wants, and she gets what she wants. You can't deny that. She's just, and never does nothing without a reason. Very different to a woman there. She'm digging her claws into your back because you've been doing some foolish thing, I'll warrant."
He drank his tea and aired his opinions. But Mr. Baskerville was in no mood for Jack's philosophy. He retired presently with Rupert, stripped to the waist, and endured a great and forcible application of Mrs. Hacker's ointment. The friction brought comfort with it, and he declared himself better as a result. But he did not again descend from his chamber, and presently the three visitors departed together.
Mr. Head expressed great admiration for Susan Hacker.
"I should like to be better acquaint with that woman," he declared. "For sense in few words there's not her equal about."
"If you want to please her, cuss Eliza Gollop," explained Rupert.
The setting sun burnt upon Dewerstone's shoulder and beat in a sea of light against the western face of North Wood, until the wind-worn forest edge, taking colour on trunk and bough, glowed heartily.
Already the first summer splendour was dimmed, for these lofty domains suffered full fret of storm and asperity of season. A proleptic instinct, stamped by the centuries, inspired this wood; it anticipated more sheltered neighbours in autumn, though it lagged behind them in spring. Upon its boughs the last vernal splendour fluttered into being, and the first autumnal stain was always visible. Now beech and larch revealed a shadow in their texture of leaf and needle though August had not passed, for their foliage was born into elemental strife. Here homed the west wind, and the salt south storms emptied their vials; here the last snows lingered, and May frost pinched the young green things.
Now roseal and gracious light penetrated the heart of the wood, warmed its recesses, and dwelt upon a grass-grown track that wound through the midst. Toward this path by convergent ways there came a man and woman. As yet half a mile separated them, for they had entered the wood at opposite places; but one desire actuated both, and they moved slowly nearer until they met at a tryst in the deep heart of the trees. Undergrowth rose about them, and their resort was carefully chosen and perfectly concealed. Here oak closely clad the hill, and granite boulders offered an inner rampart against observation. The man and woman were elderly, yet she was still personable, and he retained a measure of unusual good looks. They came to perform a little rite, sacred and secret, an event celebrated these many years, and unknown to any other human beings but themselves.
Nathan Baskerville put his arms round Priscilla Lintern and drew her beside him and kissed her.
"We shall never find it this year, I'm much afraid," he said. "The time is past. 'Tis always later far than other lilies in the garden, but not so late as this. However, I'll do my best."
"No matter for the flower," she answered, "so long as we keep up our custom."
A slant flame from the sunset stole deliciously through the dusky hiding-places of the wood, and played on the deep mosses and fern-crowns and the tawny motley of the earth, spread like a coverlet beneath. Here dead litter of leaf and twig made the covering of the ground, and through it sprang various seedling things, presently to bear their part in the commonwealth and succeed their forefathers. The ground was amber-bright where the sunshine won to it, and everywhere stretched ivy and bramble, gleamed the lemon light of malempyre, sparkled green sorrel, and rose dim woodbine that wound its arms around the sapling oaks. Wood-rush and wood-sage prospered together, and where water spouted out of the hill there spread green and ruddy mosses, embroidered with foliage of marsh violet and crowned by pallid umbels of angelica. The silver of birches flashed hard by, and the rowan's berries already warmed to scarlet.
Hither after their meeting came the man and woman, and then Nathan, searching sharply, uttered a cry of triumph, and pointed where, at their feet, grew certain dark green twayblade leaves that sprouted from the grass. Here dwelt lilies-of-the-valley—their only wild haunt in Devon—and the man now made haste to find a blossom and present it to his mistress. But he failed to do so. Only a dead spike or two appeared, and presently he gave up the search with some disappointment.
"They must have bloomed just when I was ill and couldn't come," he said.
"'Tis no matter at all," she answered. "The thought and the meeting here are the good thing. We'll go back into the wood now, further from the path. To me 'tis marvellous, Nat, to think the crafty world has never guessed."
"It is," he admitted. "And sometimes in my dark moments—however, we can leave that to-day. We're near at the end of our labours, so far as the children are concerned. Cora was always the most difficult. But the future's bright, save for the cash side. I hope to God 'twill come right afore the wedding; but——"
"Go on," she said. "We can't pretend to be so happy as usual this year. Let's face it. I know you're worried to death. But money's nought alongside your health. You're better again; you've shown me that clear enough. And nothing else matters to us."
"Yes, I'm all right, I hope. But I'm a bit under the weather. Things have gone curiously crooked ever since Vivian died. I was a fool. I won't disguise that; but somehow my luck seemed so good that a few little troubles never looked worth considering. Then, just before he went, I got into a regular thunderstorm. It blew up against the steady wind of my good fortune, as thunderstorms will. Vivian did me a good turn by dying just when he did—I can't deny it; and everything is all right now—for all practical purposes. The silver mine will be a wonder of the world by all accounts. Still, I've had a good deal to trouble me, and things look worse when a man's sick."
"Shall you be giving Polly Bassett her money soon? Heathman tells me her husband's grumbling a bit."
"All in good time. When our Cora is married I shall try and fork out a good slice of Vivian's estate. Ned must have the capital he wants, and I've got to find a hundred for Cora's wedding gift."
"Why do that yet?"
"I'll do it if I have to sell myself up," he said fiercely. "Isn't she my first favourite of our three? Don't I worship the ground she goes on, and love her better than anything in the world after you yourself?"
She sighed.
"How it weighs heavier and heavier after all these years! And I always thought 'twould weigh lighter and lighter. We were fools to have childer. But for them we could have let the world know and been married, and gived back the five thousand to your wife's people. But not now—never now, for the children's sake, I suppose."
"They'll know in good time, and none else. When I come to my end, I'm going to tell 'em I'm their father, according to your wish, and because I've promised you on my oath to do it; but none else must ever know it; and it would be a wiser thing, Priscilla, if you could only see it so, that they didn't either."
"They must know, and they shall."
"Well, it may be sooner than anybody thinks. The position is clear enough: I might have married and still kept the five thousand, because the lawyers said that my dead wife's wish wouldn't hold water in law; but I didn't know that till 'twas too late, and your first child had come. Then we talked it out, and you was content and so was I. Now there are three of them, and though I'd face the music so brave as you and go to my grave spurned by all men, if necessary, what would better it for them? Nothing short of an Act of Parliament would make 'em legitimate now. I kept the condition of my dead wife, because you urged me to do it and weren't feared of the consequences; but now, though I can make you my lawful wife, I can't make them my lawful children, and therefore surely 'tis better they shall never know they are my children at all?"
"'Twas a promise," she said, "and I hold you to it. I'm fixed on it that they shall know."
"Very well, so it shall be, then. Only for God's sake look to it for everybody's sake that it don't get out after, and ruin you all. I shouldn't sleep in my grave if I thought the life-long secret was common knowledge."
"You can trust them to keep it, I should think."
"The girls, yes; but Heathman's so easy and careless."
"Suppose you was to marry me even now, Nat, would that help?"
"I'll do it, as I've always said I'll do it. But that means I should be in honour bound to pay five thousand to my first wife's people. Well, I can't—I can't at this moment—not a penny of it. Just now I'm a good deal driven. In a year or two I might, no doubt; but there's that tells me a year or two——"
He put up his hand to his throat.
"You swore to me on your oath that you were better, last time you came down by night."
"I was; but—it's here, Priscilla—deep down and—— Maybe 'twill lift again, and maybe it won't. But we must be ready. I'd give my eternal soul if things were a little straighter; but time—plenty of time—is wanted for that, and 'tis just time I can't count upon. I'm not so young as I was, and I've not the head for figures I used to have."
"If you don't marry, you've got absolute power to dispose of that five thousand. 'Tis yours, in fact. Yet at best that's a paltry quibble, as you've admitted sometimes."
"Leave it," he said. "Don't let this day be nought but cloud. We're married afore God, but not afore man, because to do that would have lost me five thousand pounds. When I die, I've the right to make over that money to you—at least, what's left of it."
"That's a certainty for me and Heathman and Phyllis?"
"Leave it—leave it," he cried irritably. "You know that what a man can do I shall do. You're more to me than any living thing—much, much more. You're my life, and you've been my life for thirty years—and you will be to the end of my life. I know where I stand and how I stand."
"Don't think I'd care to live a day longer than you do, Nat. Don't think I'm careful for myself after you be gone. 'Tis only for your boy and girl as I care to know anything."
He took her hand.
"I know you well enough—you priceless woman!" he answered. "Let's go a bit further through the forest. Come what may, all's got to be bright and cheerful at Cora's wedding; and after, when they've got their money, I'll have a good go into things with Mr. Popham, my lawyer at Cornwood. He's heard nothing yet, but he shall hear everything. Have no fear of the upshot. I know where I've always trusted, and never in vain."
Like two children they walked hand in hand together. For a long time neither spoke, then she addressed him.
"You've taught me to be brave and put a bright face on life afore the world, and now I'll not be wanting."
"Well I know that. 'Brave!' 'Tis too mild a a word for you. You've come through your life in a way that would maze the people with wonder if they only knew it. So secret, so patient, so clever. Never was heard or known the like. A wonderful wife—a wife in ten thousand."
The sun began to sink where Cornwall, like a purple cloud, rose far off against the sky; yet still the undulations of the land, mingling with glory, melted into each other under the sunset, and still North Wood shone above the shadows. But a deep darkness began to stretch upwards into it, where the Dewerstone's immense shade was projected across the valley. At length only the corner of the forest flashed a final fire; then that, too, vanished, and the benighted trees sighed and shivered and massed themselves into amorphous dimness under the twilight.
The man and woman stopped together a while longer, and after that their converse ended. They caressed and prepared to go back by different ways into the world.
"Come good or evil, fair weather or foul, may we have a few happy returns yet of this day; and may I live to find you the lily-of-the-valley again once or twice before the end," he said.
For answer she kissed him again, but could not trust herself to speak.
Life is a compromise and a concession. According to the measure of our diplomacy, so much shall we win from our fellows; according to our physical endowment, so much will Nature grant. All men are envoys to the court of the world, and it depends upon the power behind them whether they are heard and heeded, or slighted and ignored. To change the figure, each among us sets up his little shop in the social mart and tries to tempt the buyer; but few are they who expose even necessary wares, and fewer still the contemporary purchasers who know a treasure when they see it.
An accident now lifted the curtain from Humphrey Baskerville's nature, threw him for a day into the companionship of his kind, and revealed to passing eyes a gleam of the things hidden within him. No conscious effort on his part contributed to this illumination, for he was incapable of making such. His curse lay in this: that he desired to sell, yet lacked wit to win the ear of humanity, or waken interest in any buyer's bosom. Yet now the goods he offered with such ill grace challenged attention. Accident focussed him in a crowd; and first the people were constrained to admit his presence of mind at a crisis, and then they could not choose but grant the man a heart.
It happened that on the day before Princetown pony fair Mr. Baskerville's groom fell ill and had to keep his bed; but twenty ponies were already at Princetown. Only Humphrey and his man knew their exact value, and the market promised to be unusually good. His stock represented several hundred pounds, for Mr. Baskerville bred a special strain possessing the Dartmoor stamina with added qualities of speed and style. The irony of chance ordained that one who despised all sport should produce some of the best polo ponies in the West of England.
Mr. Baskerville saw nothing for it but to sell by deputy at loss, or withdraw his stock from the fair. He debated the point with Mrs. Hacker, and her common-sense revealed an alternative.
"Lord, man alive, what are you frightened of?" she asked. "Can't you go up along, like any other chap with summat to sell, and get rid of your beasts yourself? You did use to do it thirty year ago, and nobody was any the worse, I believe."
He stared at her.
"Go in a crowd like that and barter my things like a huckster?"
"Well, why not? You'm only made of flesh and bone like t'others. You won't melt away. 'Tis just because you always avoid 'em, that they think you give yourself airs, and reckon they ban't good enough company for you."
"I don't avoid 'em."
"Yes, you do. But you'm not the only honest man in the world, though sometimes you think you are. And if you'd ope your eyes wider, you'd find a plenty others. For my part, if I was paid for it, I couldn't number more rogues in Shaugh than I can count upon the fingers of both hands."
"To go up myself! Who'd believe it was me if they saw me?"
"They want your ponies, not you; and when it came to paying the price of the ponies, they'd soon know 'twas you then."
"I suppose you think I charge too much. Like your impudence! Are you going?" he asked.
"Why, of course I'm going. 'Tis my only 'out' for the year."
"They'll fancy 'tis the end of the world up at 'Duchy Inn' if I come along and take my place at the ordinary."
"No, they won't: they'll be a deal too busy to trouble about you. You go, master, and you'll stand a lot better in your own eyes for going. 'Twill be a great adventure in your life. You'm a deal too much up on the hill there, along with the foxes and other wild things; and you know it."
"I haven't the cut for a revel. 'Tis nonsense to think of my going up."
"To think of it can't do no harm, anyway," she said. "You think and think, and you'll find 'tis your duty as a sensible creature to go."
"Not my duty. 'Twill hurt none if I stay away."
"'Twill hurt your pocket. You know right well 'tis the proper thing that you go. And if you do, I'll ax for a fairing. And if you get me one, I'll get you one."
"You can put off old age like a garment and be a girl again," he said.
"So I can, then. 'Tis your brother sets that wise fashion, not you. He's as lively as a kitten when there's a frolic in the air. And so be I—though all sixty-five. You should have seen me at giglet market in my youth!"
He did not answer; but the next morning he appeared shamefaced and clad for the fair.
"Well done, you!" cried Mrs. Hacker. "Be you going to drive the black gig? I was riding up in the pony-cart along with Mr. Waite's housekeeper from Coldstone, but——"
"You can come with me, if you please. All foolery, and 'tis offering to rain—however, I'm going through with the job now. And mind you don't take too much liquor up there. I know your ways when you get with a lot of silly people."
They started presently, and Humphrey made sour remarks at the expense of Susan's bonnet. Then by steep ascent and descent they went their way and fell in with other folk also bound for the festivity. Some they passed and some passed them. Cora Lintern and Ned Baskerville drove together in a flashy, high-wheeled dog-cart; and the sight of Cora brought a cloud upon Mr. Baskerville. She was soon gone, however. The lofty vehicle slipped by with a glitter of wheels, a puff of dust, a shout from Ned as he lifted his whip hand, and a flutter of pale pink and blue where Cora sat in her finery.
"Heartless minx!" growled the old man. "A parrot and a popinjay. No loss to the world if that pair was to break their necks together."
"Don't you tell such speeches as that, there's a good man," answered Mrs. Hacker. "The mischief with your sort is that you be always crying out nasty things you don't think; which is just the opposite of us sensible people, as only think the nasty things, but take very good care for our credit's sake not to say 'em. None like you for barking; and them as hear you bark take it for granted you bite as well. And when I tell 'em you don't bite, they won't believe it."
"Take care I never bite you for so much plain speaking," he said; "and I'll thank you to lay hold on the reins while we walk up this hill; for I want to read a letter. 'Tis about the ponies from a would-be buyer."
He read and Mrs. Hacker drove. They traversed the miles of moorland at a slow pace, and not a few who passed them displayed surprise at the spectacle of Mr. Baskerville on his way to the fair.
At Devil's Bridge, beneath the last long hill into Princetown, a vehicle from Shaugh overtook them and the Linterns appeared. Heathman was driving, and beside him sat his mother; while at the back of the cart were Nathan Baskerville and Phyllis Lintern.
"Hullo! Wonders never cease!" cried the publican. "Good luck and long life to you, Humphrey! Now I couldn't have seen a better sight than this. Hold on! I want to have a talk afore the fair."
"If you want to talk, I'll onlight and you do the same," said Nathan's brother. "The women can drive on, and we'll walk into Princetown."
Priscilla Lintern and Mrs. Hacker kept their places and drove slowly up the hill side by side; but not before Nat had chaffed Susan and applauded her holiday bonnet. Heathman and his sister walked on together; the brothers remained behind.
The younger was in uproarious mood. He laughed and jested and congratulated Humphrey on his courage in thus coming among the people.
None would have recognised in this jovial spirit that man who walked not long before with a woman in North Wood, and moved heavily under the burdens of sickness and of care. But to Nathan belonged the art of dropping life's load occasionally and proceeding awhile in freedom. He felt physically a little better, and intended to enjoy himself to-day to the best of his power. Resolutely he banished the dark clouds from his horizon and let laughter and pleasure possess him.
"How's your throat?" asked Humphrey. "You don't look amiss, but they tell me you're not well."
"I hope it may mend. 'Tis up and down with me. I can't talk so loud as once I could, and I can't eat easy; but what's the odds as long as I can drink? I'm all right, and shall be perfectly well again soon, no doubt. And you—what in the name of wonder brings you to a revel?"
"My ponies. There's twenty and all extra good. Chapman goes and falls ill after the ponies was brought up here. The fool would bring 'em though there's no need. Buyers are very well content to come to my paddocks. But custom is a tyrant to the old, and if I didn't send to the sales, Chapman would think something had gone wrong with the world."
"I'm right glad you're here, and I hope 'tis the beginning of more gadding about for you. 'Tis men like you and me that lend weight to these meetings. We ought to go. 'Tis our duty."
"You're better pleased with yourself than I am, as usual."
"We ought to be pleased," answered the other complacently. "We are the salt of the earth—the rock that society is built on."
"Glad you're so well satisfied."
"Not with myself specially; but I'm very well pleased with my class, and the older I grow the better I think of it."
"People be like yonder pool—scum at the top and dirt at the bottom," declared Humphrey. "The sweet water is in the middle; and the useful part of the people be the middle part."
"In a way, yes. We of the lower middle-class are the backbone: the nation has to depend on us; but I'm not for saying the swells haven't their uses. Only they'd be nought without us."
"It takes all sorts to make a world. But leave that. I ban't up here to talk politics. What does doctor say about your throat?"
"Leave that too. I'm not here to talk about my health. I want to forget it for a few hours. The wedding is on my mind just now. Mrs. Lintern and her daughter intend it to be a bit out of the common; and so do I. But the bride's mother's set on it taking place at our chapel, and Hester wants it to be at church. Ned don't care a rush, of course."
"It ought to be at church."
"Don't see any pressing reason. Toss up, I say."
"You should know better than to talk like that. You Dissenters——"
"No arguments, Humphrey. But all the same they must be married in church or chapel, and since there's such a division of opinion—I'm anxious to see Ned married. 'Tis more than time and certainly no fault of his that they didn't join sooner. But Cora had her own ideas and——"
"Oblige me by not naming either of them. You can't expect me to be interested. Even if they were different from what they are, I should remember the cruel past too keenly to feel anything good towards either of them."
"Let the past go. You're too wise a man to harbour unkind thoughts against headstrong youth. Let 'em be happy while they can. They'll have their troubles presently, like the rest of us."
"They'll have what they're brewing, no doubt. Empty, heartless wretches—I will say it, feel as you may for Cora."
"I hope you'll live to see her better part. She's a sensible woman and a loving one, for all you think not. At any rate, you'll come and see them married, Humphrey?"
"You can ask me such a thing?"
"Let bygones be bygones."
"What was it you wanted to speak to me about?"
"Just that—the wedding. I must make it a personal matter. I attach a good deal of importance to it. I'm very interested in the Linterns—wrapped up in them wouldn't be too strong a word for it. I'll confess to you that the mother is a good deal to me—my best friend in this world. I owe a lot of my happiness to her. She's made my life less lonely and often said the word in season. You know what a wise woman can be: you was married yourself."
Humphrey did not answer and his brother spoke again.
"There's only us two left now—you and me. You might pleasure me in this matter and come. Somehow it's grown to be a feeling with me that your absence will mar all."
"Stuff! I've been the death's-head at too many feasts in our family. In a word, I won't do it. I won't be there. I don't approve of either of 'em, and I've not interest enough in 'em now to take me across the road to see them."
"If you'll come, the marriage shall be in church. Priscilla will agree if I press it. I can't offer more than that."
"I won't come, so leave it."
Nathan's high spirits sank for a little while; then Princetown was reached and he left his brother and strove to put this pain from him for the present, as he had banished all other sources of tribulation. He was soon shaking hands with his acquaintance and making merry among many friends. But Humphrey proceeded to the place where his ponies were stalled, and immediately began to transact business with those who were waiting for him.
Gipsy blood runs thin in England to-day, but a trickle shall be found to survive among the people of the booth and caravan; and glimpses of a veritable Romany spirit may yet be enjoyed at lesser fairs and revels throughout the country. By their levity and insolence; by their quick heels and dark faces; by the artist in them; by their love of beauty and of music; by their skill to charm money from the pockets of the slow-thinking folk; and by their nimble wits you shall know them.
A few mongrels of the race annually find Princetown, and upon days of revel may there be seen at shooting-galleries, 'high-fliers,' and 'roundabouts.'
Here they are chaffing the spectators and cajoling pennies from young and old; here, astounding the people by their lack of self-consciousness; here, singing or dancing; here, chafering; here, driving hard bargains for the local ponies; here, changing their doubtful coins for good ones, or raising strife between market-merry folk and prospering from the quarrels of honest men, after the manner of their kind.
Two streams of holiday-makers drifted through each other and through the little fair. They passed up and down the solitary street, loitered and chattered, greeted friends, listened to the din of the music, to the altercations of the customers and salesmen, to the ceaseless laughter of children and whinny of the ponies.
On either side of that open space spread in the village midst, an array of carts had been drawn up, and against these barricades were tethered various animals which the vehicles had brought. They stood or reposed on litter of fern and straw cast down for them.
Here were pigs, flesh-coloured and black, and great raddled rams in a panting row. Amid the brutes tramped farmers and their men.
The air was full of the smell of live mutton and swine; and among them—drifting, stopping in thoughtful knots, arguing, and laughing heavily, the slow-eyed yokels came and went. The rams bleated and dribbled and showed in a dozen ways their hatred of this publicity; the pigs cared not, but exhibited a stoic patience.
Upon the greensward beside the road stood separate clusters of guarded ponies. Old and young they were, gainly and ungainly, white, black, and brown, with their long manes and tails often bleached to a rusty pallor by the wind and sun.
In agitated groups the little creatures stood. Company cried to company with equine language, and the air was full of their squealings, uttered in long-drawn protests or sudden angry explosions.
Occasionally a new drove from afar would arrive and trot to its place in double and treble ranks—a passing billow of black and bright russet or dull brown, with foam of tossing manes, flash of frightened eyes, and soft thud and thunder of many unshod hoofs.
The people now came close, now scattered before a pair of uplifted heels where a pony, out of fear, showed temper. The exhibits were very unequal. Here a prosperous man marshalled a dozen colts; here his humbler neighbour could bring but three or four to market. Sometimes the group consisted of no more than a mare and foal at foot.
Round about were children, who from far off had ridden some solitary pony to the fair, and hoped that they might get the appointed price and carry money home to their parents or kinsfolk.
Hanging close on every side to the main business and thrusting in where space offered for a stall, rows of small booths sprang up; while beyond them on waste land stood the merry-go-rounds, spinning to bray of steam-driven organs, the boxing-tent, the beast show and the arena, where cocoanuts were lifted on posts against a cloth.
Here worked the wanderers and played their parts with shout and song; but at the heart of the fair more serious merchants stood above their varied wares, and with unequal skill and subtlety won purchasers. These men displayed divergent methods, all based on practical experience of human nature.
A self-assertive and defiant spirit sold braces and leather thongs and buckles. His art was to pretend the utmost indifference to his audience; he seemed not to care whether they purchased his goods or no, yet let it be clearly understood that none but a fool would miss the opportunities he offered.
A cheap-jack over against the leather-seller relied upon humour and sleight of hand. He sold watches that he asserted to be gold; but he was also prepared to furnish clocks of baser metal for more modest purses. He dwelt upon the quality of the goods, and defied his audience to find within the width and breadth of the United Kingdom such machinery at such a price. He explained also very fully that he proposed to return among them next year, with a special purpose to make good any defective timepieces that might by evil chance lurk unsuspected amid his stock. He reminded them he had been among them during the previous year also, as a guarantee of his good faith.
Beyond him a big, brown half-caste sold herb pills and relied upon a pulpit manner for his success. He came with a message of physical salvation from the God of the Christians.
He mingled dietetics and dogma; he prayed openly; he showed emotion; he spoke of Nature and the Power above Nature; he called his Maker to witness that nothing but the herbs of the field had gone to make his medicine.
He had good store of long words with which to comfort rustic ears. He spoke of 'a palliative,' 'a febrifuge,' and 'a panacea.' He wanted but three-pence for each box, and asserted that the blessing of the Lord accompanied his physic.
"Why am I here?" he asked. "Who sent me? I tell you, men and women, that God sent me. We must not carry our light under a bushel. We must not hide a secret that will turn a million unhappy men and women into a million happy men and women. God gave me this secret, and though I would much sooner be sitting at home in my luxurious surroundings, which have come to me as the result of selling this blessed corrective of all ills of the digestion and alimentary canals, yet—no—this world is no place for idleness and laziness. So I am here with my pills, and I shall do my Master's work so long as I have hands to make the medicine and a voice to proclaim it. And in Christ's own blessed words I can say that where two or three just persons are gathered together, there am I in the midst of them, my friends—there am I in the midst of them!"
Amid the welter of earth-colour, dun and grey there flashed yellow or scarlet, where certain Italian women moved in the crowd. They sold trinkets, or offered to tell fortunes with the aid of little green parakeets in cages.
The blare and grunt of coarse melody persisted; and the people at the booths babbled ceaselessly where they sold their sweetmeats, cakes, and fruit. Some were anchored under little awnings; some moved their goods about on wheels with flags fluttering to attract attention.
Old and young perambulated the maze. Every manner of man was gathered here. Aged and middle-aged, youthful and young, grey and white, black and brown, bearded and shorn, all came and went together. Some passed suspicious and moody; some stood garrulous, genial, sanguine, according to their fortunes or fancied fortunes in the matter of sale and barter.
And later in the day, by the various roads that stretch north, south, and west from Princetown, droves of ponies began to wend, some with cheerful new masters; many with gloomy owners, who had nothing to show but their trouble for their pains.
This spacious scene was hemmed in by a rim of sad-coloured waste and ragged hills, while overhead the grey-ribbed sky hung low and shredded mist.
Humphrey Baskerville had sold his ponies in an hour, and was preparing to make a swift departure when accident threw him into the heart of a disturbance and opened the way to significant incidents.
The old man met Jack Head and was speaking with him, but suddenly Jack caught the other by his shoulders and pulled him aside just in time to escape being knocked over. A dozen over-driven bullocks hurtled past them with sweating flanks and dripping mouths. Behind came two drovers, and a brace of barking dogs hung upon the flanks of the weary and frightened cattle.
Suddenly, as the people parted, a big brute, dazed and maddened by the yelping dogs now at his throat, now at his heels, turned and dashed into the open gate of a cottage by the way.
The door of the dwelling stood open and before man or sheepdog had time to turn him, the reeking bullock had rushed into the house. There was a crash within, the agonised yell of a child and the scream of a woman.
Then rose terrified bellowings from the bullock, where it stood jammed in a passageway with two frantic dogs at its rear.
A crowd collected, and Mr. Baskerville amazed himself by rushing forward and shouting a direction. "Get round, somebody, and ope the back door!"
A woman appeared at the cottage window with a screaming and bloody child in her arms.
"There's no way out; there's no way out," she cried. "There's no door to the garden!"
"Get round; get round! Climb over the back wall," repeated Baskerville. Then he turned to the woman. "Ope the window and come here, you silly fool!" he said.
She obeyed, and Humphrey found the injured child was not much hurt, save for a wound on its arm. Men soon opened the rear door of the cottage and drove the bullock out of the house; then they turned him round in the garden and drove him back again through the house into the street.
The hysterical woman regarded Mr. Baskerville as her saviour and refused to leave his side. The first drover offered her a shilling for the damage and the second stopped to wrangle with Jack Head, who blamed him forcibly.
"'Twas the dogs' fault—anybody could see that," he declared. "We're not to blame."
"The dogs can't pay, you silly fool," answered Head. "If you let loose a dog that don't know his business, you've got to look out for the trouble he makes. 'Tis the devil's own luck for you as that yowling child wasn't killed. And now you want to get out of it for nought! There's a pound's worth of cloam smashed in there."
The woman, who was alone, sent messengers for her husband, but they failed to find him; then she declared that Mr. Baskerville should assess the amount of her claim and the people upheld her. Thus most reluctantly he was thrust into a sort of prominence.
"You was the only one with sense to tell 'em what to do; and so you'd better finish your good job and fix the price of the breakages," said Jack.
The man with the bullocks, when satisfied that Humphrey would be impartial and indifferent to either party, agreed to this proposal, and Mr. Baskerville, quite bewildered by such a sudden notoriety, entered the cottage, calculated the damage done, and soon returned.
"You've got to pay ten shillings," he said. "Your bullock upset a tray and smashed a terrible lot of glass and china. He also broke down four rails of the balusters and broke a lamp that hung over his head. The doctor will charge a shilling for seeing to the child's arm also. So that's the lowest figure in fairness. Less it can't be."
The drover cursed and swore at this. He was a poor man and would be ruined. His master would not pay, and if the incident reached headquarters his work must certainly be taken from him. None offered to help and Humphrey was firm.
"Either pay and thank God you're out of it so easily," he said, "or tell us where you come from."
The drovers talked together, and then they strove to bate the charges brought against them. Their victim, now grown calmer, agreed to take seven shillings, but Mr. Baskerville would not hear of this. He insisted upon observance of his ruling, and the man with the bullocks at length brought out a leather purse and counted from it seven shillings. To these his companion added three.
Then the leader flung the money on the ground, and to accompaniment of laughter and hisses hastened after his stock. The cattle were not for Princetown, and soon both men and their cavalcade plodded onward again into the peace and silence of a mist-clad moor.
They cursed themselves weary, kicked the offending dog and, with a brute instinct to revenge their mishap, smote and bruised the head of the bullock responsible for this misfortune when it stopped to drink at a pool beside the road.
Humphrey Baskerville won a full measure of applause on this occasion. He took himself off as swiftly as possible afterwards; but words were spoken of approval and appreciation, and he could not help hearing them. His heart grew hot within him. A man shouted after him, "Good for the old Hawk!"
Before he had driven off, Nathan Baskerville met him at 'The Duchy Hotel' and strove to make him drink.
"A drop you must have along with me," he said. "Why, there's a dozen fellows in the street told me how you handled those drovers. You ought to have the Commission of the Peace, that's what you ought to have. You're cut out for it."
"A lot of lunatics," answered the elder. "No presence of mind in fifty of 'em. Nought was done by me. The job might have cost a life, but it didn't, so enough's said. I won't drink. I must get back home."
"Did the ponies go off well?"
"Very. If you see Susan Hacker, tell her I've gone. The old fool's on one of they roundabouts, I expect. And if she breaks it down, she needn't come back to me for the damages."
"A joke! A joke from you! This is a day of wonders, to be sure!" cried Nathan. "Now crown all and come along o' me, and we'll find the rest of the family and the Linterns, and all have a merry-go-round together!"
But his brother was gone, and Nathan turned and rejoined a party of ram-buyers in the street.
Elsewhere Mrs. Lintern and Mrs. Baskerville walked together. Their hearts were not in the fair, but they spoke of the pending marriage and hoped that a happy union was in store for Ned and Cora.
The young couple themselves tasted such humble delights as the fair could offer, but Cora's pleasure was represented by the side glances of other girls, and she regarded the gathering as a mere theatre for her own display. Ned left her now and again and then returned. Each time he came back he lifted his hat to her and exhibited some new sign of possession.
Cora affected great airs and a supercilious play of eyebrow that impressed the other young women. She condescended to walk round the fair and regarded this perambulation as a triumph, until the man who sold watches marked her among his listeners, observed her vanity, and raised a laugh at her expense. Then she lost her temper and declared her wish to depart. She was actually going when there came up Milly and her husband, Rupert Baskerville.
Ned whispered to his sister-in-law to save the situation if possible, and Milly with some tact and some good fortune managed to do so.
Cora smoothed her ruffled feathers and joined the rest of the family at the inn. There all partook of the special ordinary furnished on this great occasion to the countryside.
In another quarter Thomas Gollop, Joe Voysey and their friends took pleasure after their fashion. Every man won some sort of satisfaction from the fair and held his day as well spent.
Perhaps few could have explained what drew them thither or kept them for many hours wandering up and down, now drinking, now watching the events of the fair, now eating, now drinking again. But so the day passed with most among them, and not until evening darkened did the mist thicken into rain and seriously damp the proceedings.
Humphrey Baskerville, well pleased with his sales and even better pleased with the trivial incident of the bullock, went his way homeward and was glad to be gone. His state of mind was such that he gave alms to two mournful men limping slowly on crutches into Princetown. Each of these wounded creatures had lost a leg, and one lacked an arm also. They dragged along a little barrel-organ that played hymns, and their faces were thin, anxious, hunger-bitten.
These men stopped Mr. Baskerville, but not to beg. They desired to know the distance yet left to traverse before they reached the fair.
"We set out afore light from Dousland, but we didn't know what a terrible road 'twas," said one. "You see, with but a pair o' legs between us, we can't travel very fast."
Humphrey considered, and his heart being uplifted above its customary level of caution, he acted with most unusual impulse and served these maimed musicians in a manner that astounded them. His only terror was that somebody might mark the deed; but this did not happen, and he accomplished his charity unseen.
"It's up this hill," he said; "but the hill's a steep one, and the fair will be half over afore you get there at this gait."
The men shrugged their shoulders and prepared to stump on.
"Get in," said Mr. Baskerville. "Get in, the pair of you, and I'll run you to the top."
He alighted and helped them to lift their organ up behind, while they thanked him to the best of their power. They talked and he listened as he drove them; and outside the village, on level ground, he dropped them again and gave them half-a-crown. Much heartened and too astonished to display great gratitude, they crawled upon their way while Humphrey turned again.
The taste of the giving was good to the old man, and its flavour astonished him. He overtook the drovers and their cattle presently, and it struck him that this company it was who had made the day so remarkable for him.
He half determined with himself to stop and speak with them and even restore the money he had exacted; for well he knew the gravity of their loss.
But, unfortunately for themselves, the twain little guessed what was in his mind; they still smarted from their disaster, and when they saw the cause of it they swore at him, shook their fists and threatened to do him evil if opportunity offered.
Whereupon Mr. Baskerville hardened his heart, kept his money in his pocket and drove forward.
The sensitive Cora could endure no shadow of ridicule. To laugh at her was to anger her, for she took herself too seriously, the common error of those who do not take their fellow-creatures seriously enough. When, therefore, she committed a stupid error and Ned chaffed her about it, there sprang up a quarrel between them, and Cora, in her wounded dignity, even went so far as to talk of postponing marriage.
Nathan Baskerville explained the complication to a full bar; and when he had done so the tide of opinion set somewhat against Ned's future bride.
"You must know that Phyllis Lintern has gone away from home, and last thing she did before she went was to ask Cora to look after a nice little lot of young ducks that belonged to her and were coming forward very hopeful. Of course, Cora said she would, and one day, mentioning it to my nephew Rupert's wife, Milly told her that the heads of nettles, well chopped up, were splendid food for young ducks. Wishful to please Phyllis and bring on the birds, what does Cora do but busy herself for 'em? She gets the nettle-tops and chops 'em up and gives 'em to the ducklings; and of course the poor wretches all sting their throats and suffocate themselves. For why? Because she let 'em have the food raw! We all know she ought to have boiled the nettles. And a good few have laughed at her about it and made her a bit savage."
"That's no reason, surely, why she should quarrel with her sweetheart. 'Twasn't his fault," declared Jack Head, who was in the bar.
"None in the world; but Ned joked her and made her rather snappy. In fact, he went on a bit too long. You can easily overdo a thing like that. And none of us like a joke at our expense to be pushed too far."
"It shows what a clever woman she is, all the same," declared Mr. Voysey; "for when Ned poked fun at her first, which he did coming out of church on Sunday, I was by and heard her. What d'you think she said? 'You don't boil thistles for a donkey,' says she, 'so how was anybody to know you boil nettles for a duck?' Pretty peart that—eh?"
"So it was," declared Nathan. "Very sharp, and a good argument for that matter. I've bought Phyllis a dozen new birds and nothing more need come of it; but Ned's a bit of a fool here and there, and he hadn't the sense to let well alone; and now she's turned on him."
"He'll fetch her round, a chap so clever with the girls as him," said Voysey; whereupon Timothy Waite, who was of the company, laughed scornfully.
"How can that man be clever at anything?" he asked. "Here's his own uncle. Be Ned clever at anything on God's earth but spending money, Mr. Baskerville? Come now! An honest answer."
"Yes," replied Nathan promptly. "He was never known to fall off a horse."
The laugh rose against Timothy, for the farmer's various abilities did not extend to horsemanship. He had been thrown a week before and still went a little lame.
"Ned's all right," added Jack Head. "Lazy, no doubt—like everybody else who can be. But he's generous and good-hearted, and no man's enemy. The girl's a fool to keep him dangling. A little more of it and he'll—however, I'll not meddle in other people's business."
Mr. Gollop entered at this moment and saw his foe.
"Do I hear John Head saying that he don't meddle with other people's business?" asked the sexton. "Gin cold, please. Well, well; since when have Head made that fine rule?"
"Drink your gin," said Jack, "and then have another. You ban't worth talking to till you've got a drop of liquor in you. When you're tuned up I'll answer you. How's Masterman getting on? He must be a patient man, or else a terrible weak one, to have you still messing about the church."
"Better you leave the church alone," retorted Thomas. "You'd pull down every church in the land if you could; and if it wasn't for men like me, as withstand your sort and defy you, there'd very soon be no law and order in the State."
"'Tis your blessed church where there's no law and order," answered Jack. "The State's all right so long as the Liberals be in; but a house divided against itself falleth. You won't deny that. And that's the hobble you Christians have come to. And so much the easier work for my side—to sweep the whole quarrelsome, narrow-minded boiling of you to the devil."
"Stop there, Jack!" cried Mr. Baskerville. "No religion in this bar and no politics. You know the rules."
"Let him go on," said Gollop gloomily. "There's a bitter truth in what he says. We're not shoulder to shoulder and none can pretend we are. Take Masterman—that man! What did he say only this morning in vestry? 'Gollop,' he said, 'the roots are being starved. If we don't get rain pretty quick there'll be no turnips—no, nor mangolds neither.'"
Half a dozen raised their voices in support of this assertion.
"That's truth anyway," declared Timothy. "Never knew such a beastly drought at this season. Even rain will not bring the crop up to average weight now. It's beyond nature to do it."
"Well, he's going to pray for rain," said Gollop. "Next Sunday we shall ax for 'moderate rain and showers.'"
"Well, why not?" asked Nathan. "That's what the man's there for surely."
"Why not? Because the glass is up 'pon top of everything, and the wind's in the east steady as a rock. That's why not. You don't want prayer to be turned into a laughing-stock. We don't want our ministers to fly in the face of Providence, do we? To pray for rain at present be equally mad as to pray for snow. 'Tis just courting failure. Then this here man, Jack Head, and other poisonous members, will laugh, like Elijah when he drawed on them false prophets, and say our Jehovah be asleep."
"Not me," answered Head. "'Tis your faith be asleep. You've given your side away properly now, my bold hero! So you've got such a poor opinion of your Jehovah that you reckon to ax Him to take the wind out of the east be going too far? But you're right. Your God can't do it. All the same, Masterman's a better Christian than you."
"You speak as a rank atheist, Jack," said Timothy Waite. "And what sense there is in you is all spoiled because you're so fierce and sour."
"Not me—far from it. We was talking of Jehovah, I believe, and there's no law against free speech now, so I've a right to say my say without being called to order by you or any man. Tom here don't trust his God to bring rain when the glass is set fair; and I say that he be perfectly right—that's all. Gollop ought to have the faith that moves mountains, no doubt; but he hasn't. He can't help feeling terrible shaky when it comes to a challenge. That's the good my side's doing, though he do swear at us. We're making the people common-sensible. Faith have had a long run for its money. Now we're going to give Works a bit of a show. Masterman fawns on Jehovah like a spaniel bitch, and thinks that all this shoe-licking be going to soften the God of the stars. But if there was a God, He'd be made of sterner stuff than man makes Him. We shouldn't get round Him, like a naughty boy round a weak father. In fact, you might so well try to stop a runaway steam-roller by offering it a cabbage-leaf, as to come round a working God by offering Him prayers."
"How you can stand this under your roof, Nathan, I'm blessed if I know," grumbled Mr. Gollop. "'Tis very evil speaking, and no good will come to you by it."
"Light will shine even on this man afore the end," declared the innkeeper. "God will explain as much as is good for Jack to know. He shows each of us as much as we can bear to see—like He did Moses. If Jehovah was to shine too bright on the likes of Head here, He'd dazzle the man and blind him."
"God will explain—eh? That's what you said, Nat. Then why don't He explain? I'm a reasonable man. I'm quite ready and willing to hear. But 'twill take God all His time to explain some of His hookem-snivey tricks played on honest, harmless humans. Let's hear first why He let the snake into the garden at all, to fool those two poor grown-up children. You talk about original sin! 'Tis a dirty lie against human nature. If you're in the right, 'twas your God sent it—stuck the tree under Eve's nose—just as if I put a bunch of poison berries in a baby's hand and said, 'You mustn't eat 'em,' and then left the rest to chance and an enemy. Who'd be blamed if the child ate and died? Why, I should. And jury would bring it in murder—quite right too. Look at your God's blackguard doings against all they peaceful people He set His precious Jews against! Shameful, I call it. Driving 'em out of their countries, harrying 'em, killing 'em by miracles, because He knowed the Jews wasn't good men enough to do it. Chosen people! A pretty choice! He's been judging us ever since He made us; now let's judge Him a bit, and see what His games look like to the eyes of a decently taught Board School boy."
"You'll roast for this, John Head, and well you'll deserve it," said Mr. Gollop.
"Not I, Thomas. I've just as much right to crack a joke against your ugly, short-tempered Jehovah as you would have to laugh at the tuft of feathers on the end of a pole that foreign savages might call God. There's not a pin to choose betwixt them and you."
"We can only hope you'll have the light afore you've gone too far, Jack," said Nathan. "You're getting up home to sixty, and I'm sure I hope God's signal-post will rise up on your path afore you go much further."
"'Tis certainly time," answered Head. "And if your God's in earnest and wants to put me right, the sooner He begins the better for us both—for my salvation and His credit."
"He's got His holy self-respect, however," argued Gollop. "If I was Him, I'd not give myself a thought over the likes of you. 'Good riddance'—that's what I should say."
"If you was God for five minutes I wonder what you'd do, Tom," speculated Joe Voysey. "Give me a new back, I hope. That's the first favour I should ax."
"I'd catch you up into heaven, Joe. That's the kindest thing the Almighty could do for you."
But Voysey looked doubtful.
"If you was to wait till I gived the word, 'twould be better," he said. "Nobody wants to leave his job unfinished."
"A good brain gone to rot—that's what's happened to you, Jack," said Nathan sadly. "Lord, He only knows why you are allowed to think such thoughts. No doubt there's a reason for it, since nought can happen without a reason; but the why and wherefore are hid from us common men, like much else that's puzzling. Anyway, we can stick to this—we Christians: though you've got no use for God, Jack, 'tis certain that God's got a use for you; and there may be those among us who will live to see what that use is."
"Well, I'm ready for a whisper," declared the free-thinker. "He won't have to tell me twice—if He only makes His meaning clear the first time."
They talked a little longer, and then Heathman Lintern came among them.
"Be Jack Head here?" he asked. "The chimney to his house have took fire seemingly, and policeman's made a note of it. But 'twas pretty near out when I come by."
"Hell!" cried Jack. "That's another five shilling gone!"
He left hurriedly to the tune of laughter, and failed to hear Gollop's triumphant final argument.
"There! There!" shouted the sexton. "There 'tis—'hell' in his everyday speech! He can't get away from it: 'tis part of nature and a common item—just as natural as heaven. And argue as he pleases, the moment he's took out of himself, the truth slips. Well may he say 'hell'! There's nobody living round here will ever have more cause to say it. And that he'll find long afore I, or another, drop the clod on his bones."