Nathan then left the stage and the vicar called him back.
"You don't go off," he explained. "You stop to welcome the King of Egypt."
"Beg pardon," answered the innkeeper. "But of course, so it is. I'll take my stand here."
"You bow to the King of Egypt when he comes on," declared Gollop. "He humbly bows to me, don't he, reverend Masterman?"
"Yes," said Dennis, "he bows, of course. You'll have a train carried by two boys, Gollop; but the boys aren't here to-night, as they're both down with measles—Mrs. Bassett's youngsters."
"I'll bow to you if you bow to me, Tom," said Mr. Baskerville. "That's only right."
"Kings don't bow to common people," declared the parish clerk. "Me and my pretended darter—that's Miss Cora Lintern, who's the Princess—ban't going to bow, I should hope."
"You ought to, then," declared Jack Head. "No reason because you'm King of Egypt why you should think yourself better than other folk. Make him bow, Nathan. Don't you bow to him if he don't bow to you."
"Kings do bow," declared Dennis. "You must bow to Father Christmas, Gollop."
"He must bow first, then," argued the parish clerk.
"Damn the man! turn him out and let somebody else do it!" cried Head.
"Let neither of 'em bow," suggested Mrs. Hacker suddenly. "With all this here bowing and scraping, us shan't be done afore midnight; and I don't come in the play till the end of all things as 'tis."
"You'd better decide, your reverence," suggested Vivian. "Your word's law. I say let 'em bow simultaneous—how would that serve?"
"Excellent!" declared Dennis. "You'll bow together, please. Now, Mr. Gollop."
Thomas marched on with an amazing gait, designed to be regal.
"They'll all laugh if you do it like that, Tom," complained Mr. Voysey.
"Beggar the man! And why for shouldn't they laugh?" asked Jack Head. "Thomas don't want to make 'em cry, do he? Ban't we all to be as funny as ever we can, reverend Masterman?"
"Yes," said Dennis. "In reason—in reason, Jack. But acting is one thing, and playing the fool is another."
"Oh, Lord! I thought they was the same," declared Vivian Baskerville. "Because if I've got to act the giant——"
"Order! order!" cried the clergyman. "We must get on. Don't be annoyed, Mr. Baskerville, I quite see your point; but it will all come right at rehearsal."
"You'll have to tell me how to act then," said Vivian. "How the mischief can a man pretend to be what he isn't? A giant——"
"You're as near being a live giant as you can be," declared Nathan. "You've only got to be yourself and you'll be all right."
"No," argued Jack Head. "If the man's himself, he's not funny, and nobody will laugh. I say——"
"You can show us what you mean when you come to your own part, Jack," said Dennis desperately. "Do get on, Gollop."
"Bow then," said Mr. Gollop to Nathan.
"I'll bow when you do, and not a minute sooner," answered the innkeeper firmly.
The matter of the bow was arranged, and Mr. Gollop, in the familiar voice with which he had led the psalms for a quarter of a century, began his part.
"Here I, the King of Egypt, boldly do appear,St. Garge! St. Garge! walk in, my only son and heir;Walk in, St. Garge, my son, and boldly act thy part,That all the people here may see thy wondrous art!"
"Well done, Tom!" said Mr. Masterman, "that's splendid; but you mustn't sing it."
"I ban't singing it," answered the clerk. "I know what to do."
"All right. Now St. George, St. George, where are you?"
"Along with the girls as usual," snapped Mr. Gollop.
As a matter of fact Ned Baskerville was engaged in deep conversation with Princess Sabra and the Turkish Knight. He left them and hurried forward.
"Give tongue, Ned!" cried his father.
"You walk down to the footlights, and the King of Egypt will be on one side of you and Father Christmas on the other," explained the vicar.
"And you needn't look round for the females, 'cause they don't appear till later on," added Jack Head.
A great laugh followed this jest, whereon Miss Masterman begged her brother to try and keep order.
"If they are not going to be serious, we had better give it up, and waste no more time," she said.
"Don't take it like that, miss, I beg of you," urged Nathan. "All's prospering very well. We shall shape down. Go on, Ned."
Ned looked at his part, then put it behind his back, and then brought it out again.
"This is too bad, Baskerville," complained Dennis. "You told me yesterday that you knew every word."
"So I did yesterday, I'll swear to it. I said it out in the kitchen after supper to mother—didn't I, father?"
"You did," assented Vivian; "but that's no use if you've forgot it now."
"'Tis stage fright," explained Nathan. "You'll get over it."
"Think you'm talking to a maiden," advised Jack Head.
"Do get on!" cried Dennis. Then he prompted the faulty mummer.
"Here come I, St. George——"
Ned struck an attitude and started.
"Here come I, St. George; from Britain did I spring;I'll fight the Russian Bear, my wonders to begin.I'll pierce him through, he shall not fly;I'll cut him—cut him—cut him——"
"How does it go?"
"'I'll cut him down,'" prompted Dennis.
"Right!
"I'll cut him down, or else I'll die."
"Good! Now, come on, Bear!" said Nathan.
"You and Jack Head will have to practise the fight," explained the vicar; "and at this point, or earlier, the ladies will march in to music and take their places, because, of course, 'fair Sabra' has to see St. George conquer his foes."
"That'll suit Ned exactly!" laughed Nathan.
Then he marshalled Cora and several other young women, including May and Polly Baskerville from Cadworthy, and Cora's sister Phyllis.
"There will be a daïs lifted up at the back, you know—that's a raised platform. But for the present you must pretend these chairs are the throne. You sit by 'fair Sabra,' Thomas, and then the trumpets sound and the Bear comes on."
"Who'll play the brass music?" asked Head, "because I've got a very clever friend at Sheepstor——"
"Leave all that to me. The music is arranged. Now, come on!"
"Shall you come on and play it like a four-footed thing, or get up on your hind-legs, Jack?" asked St. George.
"I be going to come in growling and yowling on all fours," declared Mr. Head grimly. "Then I be going to do a sort of a comic bear dance; then I be going to have a bit of fun eating a plum pudding; then I thought that me and Mr. Nathan might have a bit of comic work; and then I should get up on my hind-legs and go for St. George."
"You can't do all that," declared Dennis. "Not that I want to interfere with you, or anybody, Head; but if each one is going to work out his part and put such a lot into it, we shall never get done."
"The thing is to make 'em laugh, reverend Masterman," answered Jack with firmness. "If I just come on and just say my speech, and fight and die, there's nought in it; but if——"
"Go on, then—go on. We'll talk afterwards."
"Right. Now you try not to laugh, souls, and I wager I'll make you giggle like a lot of zanies," promised Jack.
Then he licked his hands, went down upon them, and scrambled along upon all fours.
"Good for you, Jack! Well done! You'm funnier than anything that's gone afore!" cried Joe Voysey.
"So you be, for certain," added Mrs. Hacker.
"For all the world like my bob-tailed sheep-dog," declared Mr. Waite.
"Now I be going to sit up on my hams and scratch myself," explained Mr. Head; "then off I go again and have a sniff at Father Christmas. Then you ought to give me a plum pudding, Mr. Baskerville, and I balance it 'pon my nose."
"Well thought on!" declared Nathan. "So I will. 'Twill make the folk die of laughing to see you."
"Come on to the battle," said Dennis.
"Must be a sort of wraslin' fight," continued Head, "because the Bear's got nought but his paws. Then, I thought, when I'd throwed St. George a fair back heel, he'd get up and draw his shining sword and stab me in the guts. Then I'd roar and roar, till the place fairly echoed round, and then I'd die in frightful agony."
"You ban't the whole play, Jack," said Mr. Gollop with much discontent. "You forget yourself, surely. You can't have the King of Egypt and these here other high characters all standing on the stage doing nought while you'm going through these here vagaries."
But Mr. Head stuck to his text.
"We'm here to make 'em laugh," he repeated with bull-dog determination. "And I'll do it if mortal man can do it. Then, when I've took the doctor's stuff, up I gets again and goes on funnier than ever."
"I wouldn't miss it for money, Jack," declared Vivian Baskerville. "Such a clever chap as you be, and none of us ever knowed it. You ought to go for Tom Fool to the riders.[3] I lay you'd make tons more money than ever you will to Trowlesworthy Warren."
[3]The Riders—a circus.
"By the way, who is to be the Doctor?" asked Ned Baskerville. "'Twasn't settled, Mr. Masterman."
Dennis collapsed blankly.
"By Jove, no! More it was," he admitted, "and I've forgotten all about it. The Doctor's very important, too. We must have him before the next rehearsal. For the present you can read it out of the book, Mark."
Mark Baskerville was prompting, and now, after St. George and the Bear had made a pretence of wrestling, and the Bear had perished with much noise and to the accompaniment of loud laughter, Mark read the Doctor's somewhat arrogant pretensions.
"All sorts of diseases—Whatever you pleases:The phthisic, the palsy, the gout,If the Devil's in, I blow him out.
* * * * * *
"I carry a bottle of alicampane,Here, Russian Bear, take a little of my flip-flap,Pour it down thy tip-tap;Rise up and fight again!"
"Well said, Mark! 'Twas splendidly given. Why for shouldn't Mark be Doctor?" asked Nathan.
"An excellent idea," declared Dennis. "I'm sure now, if the fair Queen Sabra will only put in a word——"
Mark's engagement was known. The people clapped their hands heartily and Cora blushed.
"I wish he would," said Cora.
"Your wish ought to be his law," declared Ned. "I'm sure if 'twas me——"
But Mark shook his head.
"I couldn't do it," he answered. "I would if I could; but when the time came, and the people, and the excitement of it all, I should break down, I'm sure I should."
"It's past ten o'clock," murmured Miss Masterman to her brother.
The rehearsal proceeded: Jack Head, as the Bear, was restored to life and slain again with much detail. Then Ned proceeded—
"I fought the Russian BearAnd brought him to the slaughter;By that I won fair Sabra,The King of Egypt's daughter.Where is the man that now will me defy?I'll cut his giblets full of holes and make his buttons fly."
"And when I've got my sword, of course 'twill be much finer," concluded Ned.
Mr. Gollop here raised an objection.
"I don't think the man ought to tell about cutting anybody's giblets full of holes," he said; "no, nor yet making their buttons fly. 'Tis very coarse, and the gentlefolks wouldn't like it."
"Nonsense, Tom," answered the vicar, "it's all in keeping with the play. There's no harm in it at all."
"Evil be to them as evil think," said Jack Head. "Now comes the song, reverend Masterman, and I was going to propose that the Bear, though he's dead as a nit, rises up on his front paws and sings with the rest, then drops down again—eh, souls?"
"They'll die of laughing if you do that, Jack," declared Vivian. "I vote for it."
But Dennis firmly refused permission and addressed his chorus.
"Now, girls, the song—everybody joins. The other songs are not written yet, so we need not bother about them till next time."
The girls, glad of something to do, sang vigorously, and the song went well. Then the Turkish Knight was duly slain, restored and slain again.
"We can't finish to-night," declared Dennis, looking at his watch, "so I'm sorry to have troubled you to come, Mrs. Hacker, and you, Voysey."
"They haven't wasted their time, however, because Head and I have showed them what acting means," said Nathan. "And when you do come on, Susan Hacker, you've got to quarrel and pull my beard, remember; then we make it up afterwards."
"We'll finish for to-night with the Giant," decreed Dennis. "Now speak your long speech, St. George, and then Mr. Baskerville can do the Giant."
Ned, who declared that he had as yet learned no more, read his next speech, and Vivian began behind the scenes—
"Fee—fi—fo—fum!I smell the blood of an Englishman.Let him be living, or let him be dead,I'll grind his bones to make my bread."
"You ought to throw a bit more roughness in your voice, farmer," suggested Mr. Gollop. "If you could bring it up from the innards, 'twould sound more awful, wouldn't it, reverend Masterman?"
"And when you come on, farmer, you might pass me by where I lie dead," said Jack, "and I'll up and give you a nip in the calf of the leg, and you'll jump round, and the people will roar again."
"No," declared the vicar. "No more of you, Head, till the end. Then you come to life and dance with the French Eagle—that's Voysey. But you mustn't act any more till then."
"A pity," answered Jack. "I was full of contrivances; however, if you say so——"
"Be I to dance?" asked Mr. Voysey. "This is the first I've heard tell o' that. How can I dance, and the rheumatism eating into my knees for the last twenty year?"
"I'll dance," said Head. "You can just turn round and round slowly."
"Now, Mr. Baskerville!"
Vivian strode on to the stage.
"Make your voice big, my dear," pleaded Gollop.
"Here come I, the Giant; bold Turpin is my name,And all the nations round do tremble at my fame,Where'er I go, they tremble at my sight:No lord or champion long with me will dare to fight."
"People will cheer you like thunder, Vivian," said his brother, "because they know that the nations really did tremble at your fame when you was champion wrestler of the west."
"But you mustn't stand like that, farmer," said Jack Head. "You'm too spraddlesome. For the Lord's sake, man, try and keep your feet in the same parish!"
Mr. Baskerville bellowed with laughter and slapped his immense thigh.
"Dammy! that's funnier than anything in the play," he said. "'Keep my feet in the same parish!' Was ever a better joke heard?"
"Now, St. George, kill the Giant," commanded Dennis. "The Giant will have a club, and he'll try to smash you; then you run him through the body."
"Take care you don't hit Ned in real earnest, however, else you'd settle him and spoil the play," said Mr. Voysey. "'Twould be a terrible tantarra for certain if the Giant went and whipped St. George."
"'Twouldn't be the first time, however," said Mr. Baskerville. "Would it, Ned?"
Nathan and Ned's sisters appreciated this family joke. Then Mr. Gollop advanced a sentimental objection.
"I may be wrong," he admitted, "but I can't help thinking it might be a bit ondecent for Ned Baskerville here to kill his father, even in play. You see, though everybody will know 'tis Ned and his parent, and that they'm only pretending, yet it might shock a serious-minded person here and there to see the son kill the father. I don't say I mind, as 'tis all make-believe and the frolic of a night; but—well, there 'tis."
"You'm a silly old grandmother, and never no King of Egypt was such a fool afore," said Jack. "Pay no heed to him, reverend Masterman."
Gollop snarled at Head, and they began to wrangle fiercely.
Then Dennis closed the rehearsal.
"That'll do for the present," he announced. "We've made a splendid start, and the thing to remember is that we meet here again this day week, at seven o'clock. And mind you know your part, Ned. Another of the songs will be ready by then; and the new harmonium will have come that my sister is going to play. And do look about, all of you, to find somebody who will take the Doctor."
"We shall have the nation's eyes on us—not for the first time," declared Mr. Gollop as he tied a white wool muffler round his throat; "and I'm sure I hope one and all will do the best that's in 'em."
The actors departed; the oil lamps were extinguished, and the vicar and his sister returned home. She said little by the way, and her severe silence made him rather nervous.
"Well," he broke out at length, "jolly good, I think, for a first attempt—eh, Alice?"
"I'm glad you were satisfied, dear. Everything depends upon us—that seems quite clear, at any rate. They'll all get terribly self-conscious and silly, I'm afraid, long before the time comes. However, we must hope for the best. But I shouldn't be in a hurry to ask anybody who really matters."
In a triangle the wild land of the Rut sloped down from Hawk House to the valley beneath, and its solitary time of splendour belonged to Spring, when the great furzes were blooming and the white thorns filled the valley with light. Hither came Mark to keep tryst with Cora beside the stream. He walked not loverly but languid, for his mind was in trouble, and his gait reflected it.
To water's brink he came, sat on a familiar stump above Torry Brook, and watched sunshine play over the ripples and a dance of flies upon the sunshine.
Looked at in a mass, the insects seemed no more than a glimmering, like a heat haze, over the water and against the background of the woods; but noted closer the plan and pattern of these myriads showed method: the little storm of flies gyrated in a circle, and while the whole cluster swept this way and that with the proper motion of the mass, yet each individual, like planets round the sun, revolved about a definite but shifting centre. The insects whirled round and round, rose and sank again, each atom describing repeated circles; and though the united motion of this company suspended here in air appeared inconceivably rapid and dazzling, yet the progress of each single gnat was not fast.
Mark observed this little galaxy of glittering lives, and, knowing some natural history, he considered intelligently the thing he saw. For a moment it distracted him. A warm noon had wakened innumerable brief existences that a cold night would still again. All this immense energy must soon cease and the ephemeral atoms perish at the chill touch of evening; but to Nature it mattered neither more nor less if a dance of nebulæ or a dance of gnats should make an end that night. Countless successions of both were a part of her work. From awful marriages of ancient suns new suns would certainly be born; and out of this midge dance here above the water, potential dances for another day were ensured, before the little system sank to rest, the aureole of living light became extinguished.
He turned from the whirl and wail of the gnats to his own thoughts, and found them also revolving restlessly. But their sun and centre was Cora. He had asked her to meet him here, in a favourite and secret place, that he might speak harsh things to her. There was no love-making toward just now. She had angered him once and again. He considered his grievances, strove to palliate them, and see all with due allowance; but his habit of mind, if vague, was not unjust. He loved her passionately, but that she should put deliberate indignities upon him argued a faulty reciprocity of love. Time had revealed that Cora did not care for Mark as well as he cared for her; and that would not have mattered—he held it reasonable. But he desired a larger measure of affection and respect than he had received. Then to his quick senses even the existing affection diminished, and respect appeared to die.
These dire shadows had risen out of the rehearsals for the play. Cora's attitude towards other young men first astonished Mark and then annoyed him. He kept his annoyance to himself, however, for fear of being laughed at. Then, thanks to his cousin, Ned Baskerville, and the young farmer, Timothy Waite, he was laughed at, for Cora found these youths better company than Mark himself, and Jack Head and others did not hesitate to rally him about his indifferent lady.
"She's more gracious with either of them than with me," he reflected. "Why, actually, when I offered as usual to walk home with her last week, she said yonder man had promised to do so and she need not trouble me!"
As he spoke he lifted his eyes where a farm showed on the hills westerly through the trees. Coldstone was a prosperous place, and the freehold of a prosperous man, young Waite, the Turkish Knight of the play.
He had seen Cora home according to her wish, and Mark had kept his temper and afterwards made the present appointment by letter. Now Cora came to him, late from another interview—but concerning it she said nothing.
On her way from Undershaugh it happened that she had fallen in with Mark's father. The old man rode his pony, and Cora was passing him hastily when he stopped and called her to him. They had not met since the occasion of the girl's first and last visit to Hawk House.
"Come hither," he said. "I've fretted you, it seems, and set you against me. I'm sorry for that. You should be made of stouter stuff. Shake hands with me, Cora, please."
He held out his hand and she took it silently.
"I'll turn and go a bit of your road. If you intend to marry my son, you must make shift to be my daughter, you see. What was it made you so cross that you ran away? But I know—I spoke against your clothes."
"You spoke against everything. I felt in every drop of blood in my body that you didn't like me. That's why I had to run."
He was silent a moment. Suddenly he pointed to one faint gold torch above their heads, where a single bough of an elm was autumn-painted, and began to glow on the bosom of a tree still green. It stood out shining against the deep summer darkness of the foliage.
"What d'you make of that?" he asked.
She looked up.
"'Tis winter coming again, I suppose."
"Yes—winter for us, death for the leaves. I'm like that—I'm frost-bitten here and there—in places. 'Twas a frosty day with me when you came to dinner. I'm sorry I hurt you. But you must be sensible. It's a lot harder to be a good wife than a popular maiden. My son Mark will need a strong-minded woman, not a silly one. The question is, are you going to rise to it? However, we'll leave that. How did you know in every drop of your blood, as you say, that you'd failed to please me?"
"I knew it by—oh, by everything. By your eyes and by the tone of your voice. You said you wanted to talk to me."
"Well, I did."
"You never asked me nothing."
"There was no need, you told me everything."
"I said nought, I'm sure."
"You said all I wanted to hear and told me a lot more than I wanted, or expected, to hear for that matter."
"I'm sure I don't understand you, Mr. Baskerville."
"No need—no need. That's only to say you're like the rest. They wonder how 'tis they don't understand me—fools that they are!—and yet how many understand themselves? I'll tell you this: you're not the right wife for Mark."
"Then I won't marry him. There's quite as good as him, and better, for that matter."
"Plenty. Take young Waite from Coldstone Farm, for instance. A strong man he is. My son Mark is a weak man—a gentle character he hath. 'Tis the strong men—they that want things—that alter the face of the world, and make history, and help the breed—not such as Mark. He'd spoil you and bring out all the very worst of you. Such a man as Waite would do different. He'd not stand your airs and graces, and little silly whims and fancies. He'd break you in; he'd tame you; and you'd look back afterwards and thank God you fell to a strong man and not a weak one."
"Women marry for love, not for taming," she said.
"Some, perhaps, but not you. You ban't built to love, if you want to know the whole truth," he answered calmly. "You belong to a sort of woman who takes all and gives nought. I wish I could ope your eyes to yourself, but I suppose that's beyond human power. But this I'll say: I wish you nothing but good; and the best good of all for such a one as you is to get a glimpse of yourself through a sensible and not unkindly pair of eyes. If you are going to marry Mark, and want to be a happy woman and wish him to be a happy man, you must think of a lot of things beside your wedding frock."
"For two pins I wouldn't marry him at all after this," she said. "You'd break any girl's heart, speaking so straight and coarse to her. I ban't accustomed to be talked to so cruel, and I won't stand it."
"I do beg you to think again," he said, stopping his pony. "I'm only telling you what I've often told myself. I'm always open to hear sense from any man, save now and again when I find myself in a black mood and won't hear anything. But you—a green girl as haven't seen one glimpse of the grey side yet—why, 'tis frank foolishness to refuse good advice from an old man."
"You don't want to give me good advice," she answered, and her face was red and her voice high; "you only want to make me think small things of myself, and despise myself, and to choke me off Mark."
"To choke you off Mark might be the best advice anybody could give you, for that matter, my dear; and as to your thinking small things of yourself—no such luck I see. You'll go on thinking a lot of your little, empty self till you stop thinking for good and all. Life ban't going to teach you anything worth knowing, because you've stuffed up your ears with self-conceit and vanity. So go your way; but if you get a grain of sense come back to me, and I shall be very glad to hear about it."
He left her standing still in a mighty temper. She felt inclined to fling a stone after him. And yet she rejoiced at the bottom of her heart, because this scene made her future actions easier. Only one thing still held her to Mark Baskerville, and that was his money. The sickly ghost of regard for him, which she was pleased to call love, existed merely as the answer to her own appeal to her conscience. She had never loved him, but when the opportunity came, she could not refuse his worldly wealth and the future of successful comfort it promised.
Now, however, were appearing others who attracted her far more. Two men had entered into her life since the rehearsals, and both pleased her better than Mark. One she liked for his person and for his charms of manner and of speech; the other for his masterful character and large prosperity. One was better looking than Mark, and knew far better how to worship a woman; the other was perhaps as rich as Mark would be, and he appealed to her much more by virtue of his masculinity and vigour. Mr. Baskerville had actually mentioned this individual during the recent conversation; and it was of him, too, that Mark considered where he sat and waited for Cora by the stream.
But though she felt Timothy Waite's value, yet a thing even stronger drew her to the other man. Ned Baskerville was the handsomest, gallantest, most fascinating creature that Cora had ever known. Chance threw them little together until the rehearsals, but since then they had met often, and advanced far along a road of mutual admiration. Like clove to like, and the emptiness of each heart struck a kindred echo from the other; but neither appreciated the hollowness of the sound.
Under these circumstances Humphrey Baskerville's strictures, though exceedingly painful to her self-love, were not unwelcome, for they made the thing that she designed to do reasonable and proper. It would be simple to quote his father to her betrothed when she threw him over.
In this temper Cora now appeared to Mark. Had he been aware of it he might have hesitated before adding further fuel to the flames. But he began in a friendly fashion, rose and kissed her.
"You're late, Cora. Look here. Sit down and get cool and watch these flies. The merry dancers, they are called, and well they may be. 'Tis a regular old country measure they seem to tread in the air—figure in and cross over and all—just like you do when you go through the old dance in the play."
But she was in no mood of softness.
"A tidy lot of dancing I'll get when I'm married to you! You know you hate it, and hate everything else with any joy and happiness to it. You're only your father over again, when all's said, and God defend me from him! I can't stand no more of him, and I won't."
"You've met him?" said Mark. "I was afraid you might. I'm sorry for that."
"Not so sorry as I am. If I was dirt by the road he couldn't have treated me worse. And I'm not going to suffer it—never once more—not if he was ten times your father!"
"What did he say?"
"What didn't he say? Not a kind word, anyway. And 'tis vain your sticking up for him, because he don't think any better of you than he do of me seemingly. 'Twas to that man he pointed." She raised her arm towards the farm through the trees. "He thinks a lot more of Timothy Waite than he does of you, I can tell you."
"I'll talk to father. This can't go on."
"No, it can't go on. Life's too short for this sort of thing. I won't be bullied by anybody. People seem to forget who I am."
"You mustn't talk so, Cora. I'm terrible sorry about it; but father's father, and he'll go his own rough way, and you ought to know what way that is by now. Don't take it to heart—he means well."
"'Heart!' I've got no heart according to him—no heart, no sense, no nothing. Just a dummy to show off pretty clothes."
"He never said that!"
"Yes, he did; and worse, and I'm tired of it. You're not the only man in the world."
"Nothing is gained by my quarrelling with father."
"I suppose not; but I've got my self-respect, and I can't marry the son of a man that despises me openly like he does. I won't be bullied by him, I promise you—a cruel hunks he is, and would gore me to pieces if he dared! No better than a mad bull, I call him."
"'Tis no good your blackguarding my father, Cora," said Mark.
"Perhaps not; and 'tis no good his blackguarding me. Very different to your Uncle Vivian, I'm sure. Always a kind word and a pat on the cheek he've got; and so have your Uncle Nathan."
"Uncle Vivian can be hard enough too—as my cousin Rupert that means to marry Milly Luscombe will tell you. In fact, Rupert's going away because he won't stand his father."
"Why don't you go away then? If you were worth your salt, you'd turn your back on any man living who has treated me so badly as your father has."
"We're in for a row, it seems," answered Mark, "and I'd better begin and get a painful job over. When you've heard me, I'll hear you. In the matter of my father I'll do what a son can do—that I promise you; but there's something on my side too."
"Say it out then—the sooner the better."
She found herself heartily hating Mark and was anxious to break with him while angry; because anger would make an unpleasant task more easy.
"In a word, it's Ned Baskerville and that man over there—Waite. These rehearsals of the play—you know very well how you carry on, Cora; and you know very well 'tisn't right or seemly. You've promised to marry me, and you are my life and soul; but I can't share you with no other man. You can't flirt with Ned while you're engaged to me; you can't ask Waite to see you home of a night while you're engaged to me. You don't know what you're doing."
"Why ban't you more dashing then?" she asked. "You slink about so mean and humble. Why don't you take a part in the play, and do as other men, and talk louder and look people in the face, as if you wasn't feared to death of 'em? If you grumble, then I'll grumble too. You haven't got enough pluck for me. Ned's different, and so's t'other man, for that matter. I see how much they admire me; I know how they would go through fire and water for me."
"Not they! Master Ned—why—he can roll his eyes and roll his voice; but—there—go on! Finish what you've got to say."
"I've only got to say that there's a deal about Ned you might very well copy in my opinion. He's a man, anyway, and a handsome man for that matter. And if you're going to fall out with your father, then you'll lose your money, and——"
"I'm not going to fall out with him. You needn't fear that."
"Then more shame to you, for keeping friendly with a man that hates me. Call that love! Ned——"
"Have done about Ned!" he cried out. "Ned's a lazy, caddling good-for-nought—the laughing-stock of every decent man and sane woman in Shaugh. A wastrel—worthless. You think he's fond of you, I suppose?"
"I know he is. And you know it."
"Yes, just as fond of you as he is of every other girl that will let him be. Anything that wears a petticoat can get to his empty heart—poor fool. Love! What does he know of that—a great, bleating baby! His love isn't worth the wind he takes to utter it; and you'll very soon find that out—like other girls have—if you listen to him."
"He knows what pleases a woman, anyway."
"Cora! Cora! What are you saying? D'you want to drive me mad?"
He started up and stared at her.
"'Twouldn't be driving you far. Better sit down again and listen to me now."
"I'll listen to nothing. I'm choking—I'm stifling! To think that you—oh, Cora—good God Almighty—and for such a man as that——"
He rushed away frantically and she saw him no more. He had not given her time to strike the definite blow. But she supposed that it was as good as struck. After such a departure and such words, they could not meet again even as friends. The engagement was definitely at an end in her mind, for by no stretch of imagination might this be described as a lovers' quarrel.
All was over; she rejoiced at her renewal of liberty and resolved not to see Mark any more, no matter how much he desired it.
She flung away the luncheon that she had brought and set off for home, trusting that she might meet Humphrey Baskerville upon the way. She longed to see him again now and repay him for a little of the indignity that he had put upon her.
But she did not meet Mark's father.
On the evening of the same day a congenial spirit won slight concessions from her. Ned Baskerville arrived on some pretext concerning the play. He knew very well by this time that, in the matter of her engagement, Cora was a victim, and he felt, as he had often felt before in other cases, that she was the only woman on earth to make him a happy man. He despised Mark and experienced little compunction with respect to him.
Upon this night Mrs. Lintern was out, and Cora made no objection to putting on her hat and going to the high ground above Shaugh Prior to look at the moon.
"'Twon't take above ten minutes, and then I'll see you back," said Ned.
They went together, and he flattered her and paid her many compliments and humbled himself before her. She purred and was pleased. They moved along together and he told her that she was like the princess in the play.
"You say nought, but, my God, you look every inch a princess! If 'twas real life, I'd slay fifty giants and a hundred bears for you, Cora."
"Don't you begin that silliness. I'm sure you don't mean a word of it, Ned."
"If you could see my heart, Cora, you'd see only one name there—I swear it."
"What about t'other names—all rubbed out, I suppose?"
"They never were there. All the other girls were ghosts beside you. Not one of them——"
Suddenly near at hand the church bells began to throb and tremble upon the peace of moonlit night.
"Mark's out of the way then," said Ned. "Not that I'm afraid of him, or any other man. You're too good for Mark, Cora—a million times too good for him. I'm bound to tell you so."
"I'm sick of him and his bell-ringing," she said violently.
"Hullo! That's strong," he exclaimed.
"So would any maiden be. He puts tenor bell afore me. 'Tis more to him than ever I was. In a word, I've done with the man!"
"You splendid, plucky creature! 'Twas bound to come. Such a spirit as yours never could have brooked a worm like him! You're free then?"
"Yes, I am."
Elsewhere in the belfry Mark rang himself into better humour. The labour physicked his grief and soothed his soul. He told himself that all the fault was his, and when the chimes were still, he put on his coat and went to Undershaugh to beg forgiveness.
Phyllis met him.
"Cora's out walking," she said.
"Out walking! Who with?" he asked.
But Phyllis was nothing if not cautious. She had more heart, but not more conscience than her sister.
"I don't know—alone, I think," she answered.
A day of storm buffeted the Moor. Fitful streaks of light roamed through a wild and silver welter of low cloud; and now they rested on a pool or river, and the water flashed; and now they fired the crests of the high lands or made the ruddy brake-fern flame. Behind Shaugh Moor was storm-cloud, and beneath it, oozing out into the valleys, extended the sullen green of water-logged fields hemmed in with autumnal hedges.
Hither came Mark Baskerville on his way to Shaugh, and then a man stopped him and changed his plan. For some time he had neither seen nor heard from Cora, and unable longer to live with this cloud between them, Mark was now on his way to visit her.
Consideration had convinced him that he was much in fault, and that she did well to keep aloof until he came penitent back again; but he had already striven more than once to do so, and she had refused to see him. He told himself that it was natural she should feel angered at the past, and natural that she should be in no haste to make up so serious a quarrel.
But the catastrophe had now shrunk somewhat in his estimation, and he doubted not that Cora, during the passage of many days, also began to see it in its proper perspective. He did not wholly regret their difference, and certain words that she had spoken still stung painfully when he considered them; but the dominant hunger in his mind was to get back to her, kiss her lips and hear her voice again. He would be very circumspect henceforth, and doubtless so would she. He felt sure that Cora regretted their difference now, and that the time was over-ripe for reconciliation.
The next rehearsal would take place upon the following day, and Mark felt that friendly relations must be re-established before that event. He was on his road to see Cora and take no further denial, when her brother met him and stopped him.
"Lucky I ran against you," said Heathman; "I've got a letter for you from my sister, and meant to leave it on my way out over to Lee Moor. Coarse weather coming by the look of it."
"Thank you," answered Mark. "You've saved me a journey then. I was bound for Undershaugh."
Heathman, who knew that he bore evil news, departed quickly, while the other, with true instinct of sybarite, held the precious letter a moment before opening it.
It happened that Cora seldom wrote to him, for they met very often; but now, having a difficult thing to say, she sought this medium, and Mark, knowing not the truth, was glad.
"Like me—couldn't keep it up no more," he thought. "I almost wish she'd let me say I was sorry first; but she might have heard me say so a week ago, if she'd liked. Thank Heaven we shall be happy again before dark. I'll promise everything in the world she wants to-night—even to the ring with the blue stone she hungered after at Plymouth."
He looked round, then the wind hustled him and the rain broke in a tattered veil along the edge of the hill.
"I'll get up to Hawk Tor, and lie snug there, and read her letter in the lew place I filled with fern for her," he thought.
There was a natural cavern facing west upon this height, and here, in a nook sacred to Cora, he sat presently and lighted his pipe and so came to the pleasant task. He determined that having read her plea for forgiveness, it would be impossible to wait until nightfall without seeing her.
"I'll go down and take dinner with them," he decided: then he read the letter:—
"DEAR MARK,
"After what happened a little while ago you cannot be surprised if I say I will not marry you. There is nothing to be said about it except that I have quite made up my mind. I have thought about it ever since, and not done nothing in a hurry. We would not suit one another, and the older we grew, the worse we should quarrel. So it will be better to part before any harm is done. You will easily find a quieter sort of girl, without so much spirit as me. And she will suit you better than what I do. I have told my mother that I am not going to marry you. And Mr. Nathan Baskerville, your own uncle, though he is very sorry indeed about it, is our family friend and adviser, and he says it is better we understand and part at once. I hope you won't make any fuss, asnothing will change me. And you will have the pleasure of knowing your father will be thankful. No doubt you will soon find a better-looking and nicer girl than me, and somebody that your father won't treat the same as he treated
"Yours truly,"CORA LINTERN."
Through the man's stunned grief and above the chaos of his thoughts, one paramount and irrevocable conviction reigned. Cora meant what she wrote, and nothing that he had power to say or to do would win her back again. She would never change; she had seen him in anger and the sight had determined her; she had met his father and had felt that such antagonism must ruin her life.
He possessed imagination and was able swiftly to feel what life must mean without her. He believed that his days would be impossible henceforth. He read the letter again and marked how she began with restraint and gradually wrote herself into anger.
She smarted when she reflected on his father; and he soon convinced himself that it was his father who had driven her to these conclusions. He told himself that he did not blame her. The pipe in his mouth had been given to him by Cora. He emptied it now, put it into its case, rose up and went home. He planned the things to say to his father and determined to show him the letter. Mark desired to make his father suffer, and did not doubt but that he would suffer when this catastrophe came to his ears.
Then his father appeared before him, far off, driven by the wind; and Mark, out of his tortured mind, marvelled to think that a thing so small as this dim spot, hastening like a dead leaf along, should have been powerful enough, and cruel enough, deliberately to ruin his life. For he was now obsessed by the belief that his father alone must be thanked for the misfortune.
They came together, and Humphrey shouted to be heard against the riot of the wind. His hat was pressed over his ears; the tails of his coat and the hair on his head leapt and danced; his eyes were watering.
"A brave wind! Might blow sense into a man, if anything could. What are you doing up here?"
"Read that," said the other, and his father stopped and stared at him. Despite the rough air and the wild music of heath and stone, Mark's passion was not hidden and his face as well as his voice proclaimed it. "See what you have done for your only son," he cried.
Humphrey held out his hand for the letter, took it and turned his back to the wind. He read it slowly, then returned it to Mark.
"She means that," he answered. "This isn't the time to speak to you. I know all that's moving in you, and I guess how hard life looks. But I warn you: be just. I'm used to be misread by the people and care nought; but I'd not like for you to misread me. You think that I've done this."
"I know you have—and done it with malice aforethought too. The only thing I've ever loved in life—the only thing that ever comed into my days to make 'em worth living—and you go to work behind my back to take it away from me. And me as good a son to you as my nature would allow—always—always."
"As good a son as need be hoped for—I grant that. But show a little more sense in this. Use your brains, of which you've got too many for your happiness, and see the truth. Can a father choke a girl off a man if she loves the man? Was it ever heard that mother or father stopped son or daughter from loving? 'Tis against nature, and nought I could have said, and nought I could have done would have come between her and you—never, if she'd loved you worth a curse. But she didn't. She loved the promise of your money. She loved the thought of being the grey mare and playing with a weak man's purse. She loved to think on the future, when I was underground and her way clear. And that hope would have held with her just as strong after knowing me, as before knowing me. The passing trouble of me, and my straight, sour speeches, and my eyes looking through her into her dirty little heart, wouldn't have turned the girl away from you, if she'd loved you honestly. Why, even lust of money would have been too strong to break down under that—let alone love of man. 'Tis not I but somebody else has sloked[1] her away from thee. And the time will come when you may live to thank your God that it's happened so. But enough of that. I can bear your hard words, Mark; and bitter though 'twill sound upon your ear, I'll tell you this: I'm thankful above measure she's flung you over. 'Tis the greatest escape of your life, and a blessing in disguise—for more reasons than you know, or ever will. And as for him that's done it, nought that you can wish him be likely to turn out much worse than what he'll get if he marries that woman."
[1]Sloked—enticed and tempted.
"Shouldn't I know if 'twas another man? She was friendly and frank with all. She hadn't a secret from me. 'Twas only my own blind jealousy made me think twice about it when she talked with other men."
"But she did talk with 'em and you did think twice? And you didn't like it? And you quarrelled -eh? And that was the sense in you—the sense trying to lift you above the blind instinct you'd got for her. Would you have quarrelled for nothing? Are you that sort? Too fond of taking affronts and offering the other cheek, you are—like I was once. You can't blind me. You've suffered at her hands already, and spoken, and this is her slap back at you. No need to drag me in at all then; though I did give her raw sense for her dinner when she came to see me. Look further on than your father for the meaning of this letter. Look to yourself first, and if that don't throw light, look afield."
"There's none—none more than another—I'll swear it."
"Seek a man with money and with a face like a barber's image and not over-much sense. That's the sort will win her; and that's the sort will suit her. And now I've done."
They walked together and said the same things over and over again, as people are prone to do in argument. Then they separated in heat, for the father lost patience and again declared his pleasure at this accident.
Whereon Mark cried out against him for a callous and brutal spirit, and so left him, and turned blindly homeward. He did not know what to do or how to fight this great tribulation. He could not believe it. He came back to Hawk House at last and found himself in an angle of the dwelling, out of the wind.
Here reigned artificial silence and peace. The great gale roared overhead; but beneath, in this nook, not a straw stirred. He stood and stared at his fallen hopes and ruined plans; while from a dry spot beside the wall, there came to him the sweet, sleepy chirruping of chickens that cuddled together under their mother's wings.
While the desolation of Mark Baskerville came to be learnt, and some sympathised with him and some held that Cora Lintern had showed a very proper spirit to refuse a man cursed with such a father, lesser trouble haunted Cadworthy Farm, for the parent of Rupert Baskerville declared himself to be suffering from a great grievance.
Vivian was an obstinate man and would not yield to his son's demand; but the situation rapidly reached a climax, for Rupert would not yield either.
Night was the farmer's time for long discussions with his wife; and there came a moment when he faced the present crisis with her and strove for some solution of the difficulty.
"Unray yourself and turn out the light and come to bed," he said to Mrs. Baskerville. He already lay in their great four-poster, and, solid though the monster was, it creaked when Vivian's immense bulk turned upon it.
His wife soon joined him and then he began to talk. He prided himself especially on his reasonableness, after the fashion of unreasonable men.
"It can't go on and it shan't," he said. "Never was heard such a thing as a son defying his father this way. If he'd only given the girl up, then I should have been the first to relax authority and tell him he might have her in due season if she liked to wait. But for him to cleave to her against my express order—'tis a very improper and undutiful thing—specially when you take into account what a father I've been to the man."
"And he've been a good son, too."
"And why not? I was a good son—better than ever Rupert was. And would I have done this? I never thought of marriage till my parents were gone."
"Work was enough for you."
"And so it should be for every young man. But, nowadays, they think of nought but revels and outings and the girls. A poor, slack-twisted generation. My arm would make a leg for any youth I come across nowadays."
"You must remember you'm a wonder, my dear. We can't all be like you."
"My own sons ought to be, anyway. And I've a right to demand it of 'em."
"Rupert works as hard as a man can work—harder a thousand times than Ned."
"I won't have you name 'em together," he answered. "A man's firstborn is always a bit different to the rest. Ned is more given to reading and brain work."
She laughed fearlessly and he snorted like a bull beside her.
"What are you laughing at?" he said.
"At your silliness. Such a sharp chap and so wise as you are; and yet our handsome eldest—why, he can't do wrong! And Lord knows he can't do wrong in my eyes neither. Still, when it comes to work——"
"We'll leave Ned," answered the father. "He can work all right, and when you've seed him play St. George and marked his intellects and power of speech, you'll be the first to say what a 'mazing deal of cleverness be hid in him. His mind's above the land, and why not? We can't all be farmers. But Rupert's a born farmer, and seeing as he be going to follow my calling, he ought to follow my example and bide a bachelor for a good ten years more."
"She's a nice girl, however."
"She may be, or she may not be. Anyway, she's been advising him to go away from home, and that's not much to her credit."
"She loves him and hates for him to be here so miserable."
"He'll find himself a mighty sight more miserable away. Don't I pay him good money? Ban't he saving and prospering? What the deuce do he want to put a wife and children round his neck for till he's learned to keep his own head above water?"
"'Twas Mr. Luscombe's man that's determined him, I do think," declared Hester Baskerville. "Jack Head is just the sort to unsettle the young, with his mischievous ideas. All the same, I wish to God you could meet Rupert. He's a dear good son, and there's lots of room, and for my part I'd love to see him here with Milly. 'Tis high time you was a grandfather."
"You foolish women! Let him bide his turn then. The eldest first, I say. 'Tis quite in reason that Ned, with his fashion of mind, should take a wife. I've nought against that——"
"You silly men!" she said. "Ned! Why, what sensible girl will look at such a Jack-o'-lantern as him—bless him! He's too fond of all the girls ever to take one. And if he don't throw them over, after a bit of keeping company, they throw him over. If you could but see yourself and him! 'Tis as good as play-acting! 'There's only one lazy man in the world that your husband forgives for being lazy,' said Jack Head to me but yesterday. 'And who might that be?' said I, well knowing. 'Why, Ned, of course,' he answers back."
"I must talk to Jack's master. A lot too free of speech he's getting—just because they be going to let him perform the Bear at Christmas. But, when all's said, the wise man makes up his own mind; and that have been my habit from my youth up."
"You think so," she answered.
"I know so. And Rupert may go. He'll soon come back."
"Never, master."
"He'll come back, I tell you. He'll find the outer world very different from Cadworthy."
"I wish you'd let that poor boy, Mark, be a lesson to you. Your love story ran suent, so you can't think what 'tis for a young thing to be crossed where the heart is set. It looks a small matter to us, as have forgotten the fret and fever, if we ever felt it, but to them 'tis life or death."
"That's all moonshine and story-books. And my story ran suent along of my own patience and good sense—no other reason. And I may tell you that Mark have took the blow in a very sensible spirit. I saw my brother a bit ago—Nathan I mean. He was terrible cut up for both of 'em, being as soft as a woman where young people are concerned. But he'd had a long talk with Mark and found him perfectly patient and resigned about it."
"The belving[1] cow soonest forgets her calf. 'Tis the quiet sort that don't make a row and call out their misfortunes in every ear, that feel the most. It's cut him to the heart and gone far to ruin his life—that's what it's done. You don't want to have your son in the same case?"
[1]Belving—bellowing.
"Rupert's very different to that. 'Tis his will against mine, and if he disobeys, he must stand the brunt and see what life be like without me behind him. When Nathan went for a sailor, I said nothing. They couldn't all bide here, and 'twas a manly calling. But Rupert was brought up to take my place, owing to Ned's superior brain power; and now if he's going to fling off about a girl and defy me—well, he may go; but they laugh best who laugh last. He'll suffer for it."
"I'm much feared nought we can do will change him. That girl be everything to him. A terrible pity, too, for after you, I never knowed a man so greedy of work. 'Sundays! There are too many Sundays,' he said to Ned in my hearing not long since. 'What do a healthy man want to waste every seventh day for?' It might have been you talking."
"Not at all," answered her husband. "Very far from it. That's Jack Head's impious opinion. Who be we to question the Lord's ordaining? The seventh's the Lord's, and I don't think no better of Rupert for saying that, hard though it may sometimes be to keep your hands in your pockets, especially at hay harvest."
"Well, if you ban't going to budge, he'll go."
"Then let him go—and he can tell the people that he haven't got no father no more, for that's how 'twill be if he does go."
"Don't you say that, master."
"Why for not? Truth's truth. And now us will go to sleep, if you please."
Soon his mighty snore thundered through the darkness; but Mrs. Baskerville was well seasoned to the sound; and thoughts of her son, not the noisy repose of her husband, banished sleep.
Others had debated these vexed questions of late, and the dark, short days were made darker for certain sympathetic people by the troubles of Mark and the anxieties of his cousin, Rupert.
Nathan Baskerville discussed the situation with Mrs. Lintern a week before the great production of 'St. George.' Matters had now advanced and the situation was developed.
"That old fool, Gollop!" he said. "He goeth now as if the eye of the world was on him. You'd think Shaugh Prior was the hub of the universe, as the Yankees say, and that Thomas was the lynch-pin of the wheel!"
"He's found time to see which way the cat's jumping, all the same," answered Mrs. Lintern. "Full of Ned Baskerville and our Cora now! Says that 'tis a case and everybody knows it."
Nathan shrugged his shoulders.
"Yes—well, these things can't be arranged for them. The young must go their own road. A splendid couple they make without a doubt. They'll look magnificent in their finery at the revel. But I wish nephew Ned wasn't quite so vain of his good parts."
Cora herself entered at this moment, and had that to say which awoke no small interest in her mother.
"I've fallen in with Mark," she said; "and I was passing, but he spoke and 'tis all well, I believe. He was very quiet and you might almost say cheerful."
"Thank the Lord he's got over it then," answered Nathan; but Mrs. Lintern doubted.
"Don't feel too sure of that. He ban't one to wear his heart on his sleeve, anyway."
"He's took it surprising well, everybody says," said Cora, in a voice that made the innkeeper laugh.
"Poor Mark!—but I see Cora here isn't too pleased that he's weathered the storm so easily. She'd have liked him to be a bit more down in the mouth."
"I'm very pleased indeed," she answered. "You never gave better advice than when you bade me write to him. The truth is that he's not made to marry. Tenor bell be enough wife for him."
"I wonder who'll ring it when you're wedded," mused Nathan. "No man have touched that bell since my nephew took it up."
"Time enough. Not that he'd mind ringing for me, I believe. Such a bloodless thing as he is really—no fight in him at all seemingly."
"If you talk like that we shall begin to think you're sorry he took you at your word," said Mr. Baskerville; but Cora protested; and when he had gone, she spoke more openly to her mother.
"'Tis a very merciful escape for me, and perhaps for him. I didn't understand my own mind; and since he's took it so wonderful cool, I guess he didn't know his mind either."
"You haven't heard the last of him. I've met the like. For my part I'd rather hear he was daft and frantic than so calm and reasonable. 'Tis the sort that keep their trouble out of sight suffer most."
"I'd have forgiven him everything but being a coward," declared Cora fiercely. "What's the use of a man that goes under the thumb of his father? If he'd said 'I hate my father, and I'll never see him again, and we'll run away and be married and teach him a lesson,' then I'd have respected him. But not a bit of it. And to take what I wrote like that! Not even to try and make me think better of it. A very poor-spirited chap."
Mrs. Lintern smiled, not at the picture of Mark's sorrows, but at her daughter's suggestion, that she would have run away with the young man and married him and defied consequences.
"How we fool ourselves," she said. "You think you would have run with him. You wouldn't have run a yard, Cora. The moment you found things was contrary with his father, you was off him—why? Because your first thought always is, and always has been, the main chance. You meant to marry him for his money—you and me know that very well, if none else does."
The daughter showed no concern at this attack.
"I shan't marry a pauper, certainly. My face is all the fortune you seem like to give me, and I'm not going to fling it away for nought. I do set store by money, and I do long to have some; and so do every other woman in her senses. The only difference between me and others is that they pretend money ban't everything, and I say it is, and don't pretend different."
"Milly Luscombe be going to stick to Rupert Baskerville, however, though 'tis said his father will cut him off with a shilling if he leaves Cadworthy."
Cora sniffed.
"There'll be so much the more for the others then. They Baskerville fathers always seem to stand in the way of their sons when it comes to marrying. Mr. Nathan would have been different if he'd had a family. He understands the young generation. Not that Vivian Baskerville will object to Ned marrying, for Ned told me so."
"No doubt he'll be glad for Ned to be prevented from making a fool of himself any more."
Mrs. Lintern's daughter flushed.
"He's long ways off a fool," she said. "He ban't the man who comes all through the wood and brings out a crooked stick after all. He knows what women are very well."
"Yes; and I suppose Mr. Waite knows too?"
"He's different to Ned Baskerville. More cautious like and prouder. I'd sooner have Ned's vanity than t'other's pride. What did he want to be up here talking with you for?—Timothy Waite I mean."
"No matter."
"'Twasn't farming, anyway?"
"Might have been, or might not. But, mark this, he's a very shrewd, sensible young man and knows his business, and how to work, and the value of money, and what it takes to save money. He'll wear well—for all you toss your head."
"He's a very good chap. I've got nothing against him; but——"
"But t'other suits you better? Well, have a care. Don't be in no hurry. Get to know a bit more about him; and be decent, Cora. 'Twouldn't be decent by no means to pick up with him while everybody knows you've just jilted his cousin."
"Didn't do no such thing. I've got my side and 'tisn't over-kind in you to use such a word as that," answered her daughter sharply. "However, you never did have no sympathy with me, and I can't look for it. I'll go my way all the same, and if some fine day I'm up in the world, I'll treat you better than you've treated me."
But Mrs. Lintern was not impressed by these sentiments. She knew her daughter's heart sufficiently well.
"'Twill be a pair of you if you take Ned Baskerville," she said. "And you needn't pretend to be angered with me. You can't help being what you are. I'm not chiding you; I'm only reminding you that you must be seemly and give t'other matter time to be forgot. You owe the other man something, if 'tis only respect—Mark, I mean."
"He'll be comforted mighty quick," answered Cora. "Perhaps he'll let his father choose the next for him; then 'twill work easier and everybody will be pleased. As for me, I'm in no hurry; and you needn't drag in Ned's name, for he haven't axed me yet and very like he'd get 'no' for his answer if he did."
Mrs. Lintern prepared to depart and Cora spoke again.
"And as for Mark, he's all right and up for anything. He chatted free and friendly about the play and the dresses we're going to wear. He's to be prompter on the night and 'tis settled that the schoolmaster from Bickleigh be going to be Doctor, because there's none in this parish will do it. And Mark says that after the play's over, he shall very like do the same as Rupert and leave home."
"He said that?"
"Yes; and I said, 'None can ring tenor bell like you, I'm sure.' Then he looked at me as if he could have said a lot, but he didn't."
"I hope he will go and see a bit of the world. 'Twill help him to forget you," said her mother.