CHAPTER I

Upon the highway between Cadworthy and the border village of Cornwood there stands an ancient granite cross. For many years the broken head reposed in the heather; then it was lifted upon the pedestal again and the vanished shaft restored. To north and south the white road sweeps by it; easterly tower Penshiel and Pen Beacon, and westerly rolls Shaugh Moor.

Here, upon a day one year after the death of Vivian Baskerville, there met two of his sons, and the conversation that took place between them served roughly to record the development of their affairs, together with the present situation and future interests of the family.

Ned Baskerville was riding home from Cornwood, and his brother Rupert, knowing that he must come this way, sat by St. Rumon's Cross, smoked his pipe and waited. The younger had found himself forgotten when his father's will came to be read. It was a pious fiction with Hester Baskerville that her husband had striven, when too late, against his own hasty deed. She believed that near his end the dying man attempted to repair this wrong. She declared that his eyes and his mutterings both spoke to that effect.

But the fact of disinheritance was all that remained for Rupert to face, and in his bitterness he had turned from his family and continued to toil at the china-clay works, despite his mother's entreaties and Ned's handsome propositions.

Now, however, the case was altered. After nine months of this unwisdom, Milly prevailed with Rupert to go back to Cadworthy and take her with him. His mother was thankful to welcome him home, and Ned did what he might to further the prospect.

Rupert stood within sight of marriage, and he and his wife were presently to dwell at Cadworthy. Then control of the farm would be made over by Ned Baskerville to his brother.

Now Rupert, in working clothes, sat by the cross. Opportunity to see Ned was not always easy, for the elder lived a life of pure pleasure and occupied much of his time from home. He was only concerned to spend money, but showed no interest in the sciences of administering and making it.

He rode up presently, stopped, and, bending over, shook hands with his brother, but did not dismount.

"Hullo! Don't often see you smoking and taking your ease. Look at my new mare. Isn't she a beauty? But Lord knows what Uncle Nathan will say when I come down upon him for the cash. And I've got another unpleasant surprise in store for him. I've bought a horse for Cora. It'll be my wedding-present to her, but she may as well have it now."

"Pity we couldn't have all been married together; then one fuss and flare up and expense would have done for the lot of us."

"I shouldn't have minded; but she didn't take to the idea at all. Wants to have a first-prize wedding all to herself. And about time too. I'm sick of waiting."

As a matter of fact Ned had found no difficulty in suspense. With possession of money, life's boundaries considerably enlarged for him, and he became a person of increased importance.

Cora was not jealous, and finding Ned extremely generous, she continued content with the engagement. The present year was to see her married, however; but when Nathan Baskerville suggested a triple wedding, Cora objected very strongly. She intended that her nuptials should be in a style considerably grander than those of Milly Luscombe, or Polly Baskerville; but she finally promised Ned to marry him during the following autumn.

"A nice mare," admitted Rupert; "she's got a temper, though—won't carry beer. I know the man who used to own her. She very near broke his neck for him the night after Cornwood revel."

"The horse isn't foaled that will ever throw me, I believe."

"I reckon not. Well, I'm here to meet you, Ned. I want to run over the ground. You hate business so bad that 'tis difficult to talk about it with you; but, all the same, as a man with money you must think a bit."

"Uncle Nathan thinks for me. He was paid to. Didn't father leave him fifty pounds to be trustee, or whatever 'tis?"

"But you never will look ahead. Uncle Nathan, since that bad bout of health last winter, isn't what he was. Clever enough, I grant; but he has got his own affairs, and his own worries too, for that matter. Everything be safe and proper in his hands; but suppose he fell ill? Suppose he was to die?"

"You're such a beggar for supposing. Never meet troubles half-way—that's my rule, and I've found it work very well too. I trust Uncle Nathan like the rest of the world trusts him. I sign his blessed papers and I get my quarter's allowance very regular, with a bit of money over and above when I want it, though he grumbles. I ask for no more but to be allowed to enjoy life as long as I can."

"I'm going to do this anyway," said Rupert. "I'll tell you my hopes and plans. 'Tis right and wise to make plans and look ahead and set yourself a task. And my task be to get Cadworthy Farm away from you for my own in twenty years from the time I go there."

"I shan't object—be sure of that. 'Tisn't likely I'd make hard terms with my own brother. You go in as my tenant at just what rent you please to pay in reason; and you pay me as much over and above the rent as you can afford till the price of the farm is polished off. And mother stops with you, and May stops with you. Mother has her allowance and May has hers, so they'll be no charge on you. And I stop too—till I'm married."

"That's all clear, then."

"Yes; and what I'm going to do is this. It seems there are things called sleeping partnerships—jolly convenient things too. All you do is to find a good, safe, established business that wants a bit of cash. And you put your cash in, and just go to the business once in a blue moon and sign your name in a book or two and draw your fees, and there you are! Uncle Nathan's on the look-out for some such a thing for a bit of my money. And I hope it will be in Plymouth for choice, because Cora's frightfully keen to be near Plymouth. She wants to make some decent woman pals, naturally. It's ridiculous such a girl messing about in a hole like Shaugh. She hinted at a shop, but I won't have that for a moment."

"All the same, I don't see why you shouldn't try and look out for something that would give you a bit of work. Work won't hurt her or you. You must be pretty well sick of doing nothing by this time, I should think."

"Far from it," declared Ned. "I find myself quite contented. I shall turn my hand to work presently. No hurry that I can see. I'm learning a lot, remember that. A great learner I am. The first use of money is to learn the world, Rupert. That's where that old fool at Hawk House has messed up his life. No better than a miser, that man. A spendthrift may be a fool, but a miser always is. And so it comes back to the fact that Uncle Humphrey's a fool, as I always said he was—a fool and a beast both."

"He's different enough from Uncle Nathan, I grant you—can't be soft or gentle; but he's no fool, and though he pretends he's not interested in people, he is. Things slip out. Look how he reads the newspapers."

"Yet now, for very hatred of all human beings—it can't be for anything else—'tis rumoured he'll leave Hawk House and get away from the sight of roads even. Susan Hacker told mother, not a week agone, that he was getting restless to go farther off. Pity he don't go and stick his head in Cranmere, and choke himself, and leave you and me and a few other dashing blades to spend his money. We ought to be his heirs—all of us. But we shan't see the colour of his cash, mark me."

"You won't. He hates your way of life. But he's got no quarrel with the rest of us. You never know with a man like him. I'm going over to him now; and I've got a tale of a chap that's broke his legs. He may give me five shillings for the man's wife. He's done it before to-day. 'Tis in him to do kind things, only there's no easy outlet for 'em. Keeps his goodness bottled up, as if he was afraid of it."

"You've got his blind eye, I reckon," said Ned. "It's all up with me anyway. I look t'other way when I pass him. He'll never forgive me for marrying Cora."

"Well, you'd best to go on and not keep your horse dancing about no longer."

Ned galloped off, and his brother, having sat a little longer by St. Rumon's Cross, rose and struck over Shaugh Moor in the direction of Humphrey Baskerville's dwelling.

The old man was expecting his nephew and came upon the waste to meet him. They had not spoken together for many days and Rupert was glad to see the elder again.

A year had stamped its record upon Humphrey Baskerville, and the significance of his son's death might now be perceived. Mark's passing left a permanent scar, but the expected callosity of spirit by no means overtook the sufferer.

Man, if he did not delight him, bulked upon his mind as the supreme experience. It was an added tribulation that, upon his brother's estrangement and death, one of the few living beings with whom he enjoyed the least measure of intimacy had dropped out of his life.

And now he became increasingly sensitive to the opinion of the people and developed a morbidity that was new.

Mrs. Hacker was his frank intelligencer, and more than once he smarted to hear her tell how sensible men had spoken ill of him.

Now he fell into talk with Rupert and uttered the things uppermost in his mind.

"Well enough in body, but sometimes I doubt if my brain's all it used to be. Mayhap in the head is where I'll go first."

Rupert laughed. "Not much fear of that, uncle."

"You must know," answered the other, "that every man in this life has to suffer a certain amount of injustice. From the king on his throne to the tinker in his garret, there are thorns stuffed in all pillows. Human nature misunderstands itself at every turn, and the closest, life-long friends often catch their secret hearts full of wonder and surprise at each other. But I—I've had more than my share of that. The injustice that's heaped upon me is insufferable at times. And why? Because I don't carry my heart on my sleeve, and won't palter with truth at the world's bidding."

"'Tis only fools laugh at you or grumble at you."

"You're wrong there," answered Humphrey. "The scorn of fools and the snarl of evil lips are a healthy sign. There are some men and some dogs that I would rather bark at me than not. But how is it that wise men and understanding men hold aloof and say hard things and look t'other way when I pass by?"

"Lord knows," answered Rupert. "They'm too busy to think for themselves, I suppose, and take the general opinion that you're rather—rather unsociable. You do many and many a kind thing, but they ban't known."

"No I don't. I can't—'tisn't my nature. Kind things are often terrible silly things. Leave your Uncle Nathan to do the kind things. He did a kind thing when my son died; and I felt it. For warmth of heart there never was such another. The trouble that man takes for people is very fine to see. I'm not saying he's wise. In fact, I don't think he is wise. To do other folks' work for 'em and shelter 'em from the results of their own folly is to think you know better than God Almighty."

"He's wonderful good, I'm sure. A godsend to my mother. Taken all the business over for her. When father died——"

"Leave that. Keep on about his character," said Humphrey. "There's nought so interesting to a man like me as burrowing into human nature and trying the works. Now, in your Uncle Nathan you see one that has the cleverness to make nearly every human being like him and trust him. But how does he get his hold on the heart? Is it by shutting his eyes to what people really are, like I shut my ears to Jack Head's arguments against the Bible; or is it by sheer, stupid, obstinate goodness, that can't see the weakness and folly and wickedness and craft of human beings?"

"He puts a large trust in his fellow-creatures," answered Rupert. "He believes everybody is good till he's proved 'em bad."

Humphrey nodded.

"True enough, and I'll tell you what that means in Nathan. The real secret of sympathy in this world is to be a sinner yourself. There's no end to the toleration and forgiveness and large-mindedness of people, if they know in their own hearts that they be just as bad. A wise man hedges, and never will be shocked at anything—why? Because he says, 'I may be found out too, some day.'"

He broke off and his nephew spoke.

"I know you're just as kind, really. By the same token I've come begging to-day. A poor Cornwood chap has had a bad accident. Market merry he was and got throwed off his pony. He's in hospital with both legs broke and may not recover, and his wife and four children——"

"What about his club?"

"He wasn't a member of a club."

"What's his name?"

"Coombes."

"Drunk too? And you ask me to take my money and help that sort of man? But I won't."

"Perhaps, in strict justice, he don't deserve it; but——"

"Did you ask your Uncle Nathan for him?"

"Yes. It shows the difference between you, I suppose."

"He gave?"

"He gave me ten shillings. There's a nice point to argify about. Which of you was right, Uncle Humphrey—you or Uncle Nat? You can't both be right."

"We can both be right and both be wrong," answered the old man.

"Uncle Nat was preaching at the chapel a bit ago, afore he had his illness; and me and Milly went to hear him."

"He preaches, does he?"

"Now and again—to work off his energy, he says. But never no more will he. His voice won't stand it, he says. He chose for his text a question, and he said 'twas a simple and easy thing, afore we took any step in life, to ax ourselves and say, what would the Lord do?"

"Simple enough to ask—not so simple to answer."

"He seemed to think 'twas as simple to answer as to ask."

"His brain isn't built to see the difficulties. Jack Head laughs at all these here Tory Christians. He says that a man can no more be a Tory and a Christian than he can walk on water. He says, flat out, that Christ was wrong here and there—right down wrong. Mind, I don't say so; but Head will argue for it very strong if you'll let him."

"Uncle Nat wouldn't hear of that."

"Nor would I. I've got as much faith as my brother. And as to what Christ would do or would not do in any given case, 'tis a matter for very close reasoning, because we act only seeing the outside of a puzzle; He would act seeing the inside. To say that we always know what the Lord would do, is to say we're as wise as Him. To go to the Bible for an answer to trouble is right enough though. 'Tis like a story I read in a wise book a few nights agone; for I've taken to reading a terrible lot of books lately. It told how two fellows fell out and fought like a pair of martin-cats over a bit of ground. Each said 'twas his, and presently they carried their trouble to a wise king, as reigned over a near nation, and was always happy to talk sense to anybody who had the time to listen. So to the neighbour kingdom they went, and yet never got to the king at all. And why not? Because, so soon as they were in his land, they found the spirit and wisdom of him working like barm in bread throughout the length and breadth of the place. They saw peace alive. They saw the people living in brotherly love and unity and understanding. They saw the religion of give and take at work. They saw travellers yielding the path to each other; they saw kindness and goodness and patience the rule from the cradle to the grave; and they felt so terrible ashamed of their own little pitiful quarrel that they dursn't for decency take it afore the throne, but made friends there and then and shared the strip of earth between 'em. And so 'tis with the Bible, Rupert: you bring a trouble into the Lord's kingdom and you'll find, in the clear light shining there, that it quickly takes a shape to shame you."

"'Tis pretty much what Uncle Nat said in other words. But didn't it ought to make you give me ten shillings for Coombes?"

"'Tisn't for us to stand between the State and its work."

"But his wife and children?"

"The sins of the fathers are visited on the children. Who are we to come between God Almighty and His laws?"

Rupert shrugged his shoulders.

"Christ Almighty would have done—what?" asked Mr. Baskerville.

Rupert reflected.

"He'd have done something, for certain. Why, of course! He'd have healed the man's broken legs first!"

"And that's what mankind is doing as best it can."

"And if the man dies?"

"Then the State will look after his leavings."

"You're justice itself," said Rupert; "but man's justice be frosty work."

"That's right enough. Justice and mercy is the difference between God and Christ. The one's a terrible light to show the way and mark the rock and point the channel through the storm; but 'twill dazzle your eyes if you see it too close, remember. And t'other's to the cold heart what a glowing fire be to the cold body."

"And I say that Uncle Nathan's just that—a glowing, Christlike sort of man," declared the younger fervently.

"Say so and think so," answered his uncle. "He stands for mercy; and I'll never say again that he stands for mercy, because he knows he'll stand in need of mercy. I'll never say that again. And I stand for justice, and hope I'll reap as I have sowed—neither better nor worse. But between my way and Nathan's way is yet another way; and if I could find it, then I should find the thing I'm seeking."

"The way of justice and mercy together, I suppose you mean?"

"I suppose I do. But I've never known how to mix 'em and keep at peace with my own conscience. Justice is firm ground; mercy is not. Man knows that very well. We may please our fellow-creatures with it; but for my part, so far as I have got till now, I'm prone to think that mercy be God's work only—same as vengeance is. For us 'tis enough that we try to be just, and leave all else in higher hands. Life ban't a pretty thing, and you can't hide its ugliness by decorating it with doubtful mercies, that may look beautiful to the eye but won't stand the stark light of right."

"Justice makes goodness a bit hard at the edges, however," answered his nephew. "And when all's said, if mercy be such treacherous ground, who can deny that justice may give way under us too now and again?"

They now stood at the door of Hawk House.

"Enter in," said Mr. Baskerville. "You argue well, and there's a lot in what you say. And words come all to this, as the rivers come all to the sea, that we know nothing, outside Revelation. And now let's talk about your affairs. When is your marriage going to be? Has Milly Luscombe said she wants me to come to it? Answer the truth."

CHAPTER II

Dennis Masterman took the opportunity that offered after a service to meet his parish clerk and perambulate the churchyard. For the vicar's sister had pointed out that the burying-ground of St. Edward's was ill-kept and choked with weeds.

Overhead the bells made mighty riot. Two weddings had just been celebrated, and the ringers were doing their best.

"With spring here again, this place will be a scandal," said Dennis. "You must set to work in earnest, Gollop, and if it's more than you can do single-handed, you'd better get help."

"Hay is hay," answered the other; "and the Reverend Valletort was above any fidgets like what some people suffer from nowadays. He had the churchyard hay as his right in his opinion, and, given a good year, us made a tidy little rick for him. 'All flesh is grass,' he used to say in his wise fashion, 'and grass is not the less grass because it comes off a man's grave.'"

"I think differently. To make hay in a churchyard, Thomas, is very bad form, and shows a lack of proper and delicate feeling. Anyway, there's to be a thorough clean-up. We've got a lot of very interesting graves here, and when people come and ask to see the churchyard I don't like wading through a foot of weeds. Where's the famous tomb with the music book and bass viol on it? I wanted to show it to a man only last week, and couldn't find it."

Mr. Gollop led the way and indicated a slate amid the Baskerville monuments.

"There 'tis. A riddle and an open book; and the book actually had a bit of the Old Hundredth—the music, I mean—scratched on it when first 'twas set up. But time have eaten that off, I believe. He was a fine fiddler in the days afore the organs was put in the church, and then he had to go; and he soon died after the joy of playing on Sundays was taken from him. He made up his verse himself."

Mr. Gollop drew back the herbage from this slate and read out the rhyme half hidden beneath.

"'Praises on tombs are to no purpose spent,
A man's good name is his own monument.'

"But a good name don't last as long as a good slate, when all's said. There's Vivian Baskerville's stone, you see. 'Tis a great addition to the row, and cost seven pounds odd. And there lieth the suicide, as should be yonder if justice had been done. But Humphrey Baskerville don't mean to take his place in the family row. Like him, that is. Won't even neighbour with his fellow dust."

"You oughtn't to repeat such nonsense, Gollop."

"Nonsense or no nonsense, 'tis the truth. Here's the place he's chosen, and bought it, too, right up in this corner, away from everybody; and his gravestone is to turn its back upon t'other dead folk—like he's always turned his back upon the living."

Mr. Gollop indicated a lonely corner of the churchyard.

"That's where he's going to await the trump."

"Well, that's his business, poor man. He's a good Christian, anyway."

"If coming to church makes him so, he may be; but Christian is as Christian does in my opinion. Show me a man or beast as be the better for Humphrey Baskerville, and I'll weigh up what sort of Christian he may be."

"Judge nobody; but get this place respectable and tidy. No half measures, Gollop. And you'll have to work out all those unknown mounds with a pair of shears. They are running together, and will disappear in a year or two. And that pile of broken slates in the corner had better be carted away altogether. You ought to know the graves they belong to, but of course you don't."

"No, I don't, and more don't any other living man. I ban't God Almighty, I believe. 'Tis Miss Masterman have put you on to harrying me out of my seven senses this way, and I wish she'd mind her own business and let me mind mine."

"No need to be insolent. I only ask you to mind your own business. If you'd do that we should never have a word."

Mr. Gollop grunted rudely. When conquered in argument he always reserved to himself, not the right of final speech, but the licence of final sound. On these occasions he uttered a defiant, raucous explosion, pregnant with contempt and scorn, then he hurried away. At times, under exceptional stress, he would also permit himself an offensive gesture before departing. This consisted in lifting his coat-tail and striking the part of his person that occurred beneath it. But such an insult was reserved for his acquaintance; obviously it might not be exploited against the vicar of the parish.

Now Gollop marched off to 'The White Thorn,' and Masterman, turning, found that the man of whom they had recently spoken walked alone not far off. Dennis instantly approached him. It was his wish to know this member of his congregation better, but opportunity to do so had been denied. Now there was no escape for Humphrey Baskerville, because the minister extended his hand and saluted him.

"How do you do, Mr. Baskerville? Glad to see you. A pretty pair of weddings, and two very popular young couples, I fancy."

Humphrey admitted it.

"There's no better or harder working man about here than my nephew Rupert Baskerville," he said.

"So I understand. Not much of a church-goer, though, I'm afraid. However, perhaps he'll come oftener now. The bells make the tower shake, I do believe. We've never had the tenor bell rung like your son rang it, Mr. Baskerville."

The old man shrugged his shoulders.

"I always fancy so; but then, I've a right to fancy so. I was his father. No doubt 'tis folly. One pair of hands can pull a rope as well as another. But 'as the heart thinketh, so the bell clinketh,' though the heart of man is generally wrong. My son would have done his best to-day, no doubt, though such was his nature that he'd sooner toll alone than peal in company."

"Are you going to the wedding breakfast?"

"Yes; not that they really want me. 'Twas only because the boys and girls wouldn't take 'no' for an answer that I go. I doubt whether they're in earnest. But I'm glad to be there too."

"Who was the fine young brown fellow in the Baskerville pew beside Mrs. Baskerville?"

"Nathan Baskerville the younger. Called after my brother, the innkeeper. He's just off the sea for a bit."

"A handsome man."

"He is for certain."

"Well, I'm very glad to meet you. I was telling Gollop that our graves are not worthy of us. We must make the churchyard tidier."

They had reached the lich-gate and Dennis held Mr. Baskerville's pony while he mounted it.

"Thank you," said the elder.

"By the way, I've never called at Hawk House, because I've been told you wouldn't care about it."

"As to that, 'tisn't whether I'd care or not, 'tis whether you ought to call or not."

"You're right. Then come I shall. How about next Friday?"

"I shall be there."

"I hear you're a great reader, Mr. Baskerville. I might lend you some of my books—and gladly would do so, if you'd care to have them."

"Thank you, I'm sure. A kindly thought in you. 'Tis no great art to think kindly; but let the thought blossom out into a deed and it grows alive. Yes, I read a lot now since my son died. Jack Head is a reading man, likewise; but he reads terrible dangerous books. He lent me one and I burnt it. Yes, I burnt it, and told him so."

"Probably you were right."

"No, I wasn't. He showed me very clearly that I was wrong. You can't burn a book. A bad book once out in the world is like a stone once flung—it belongs to the devil. Not but what Jack Head says many things that can't be answered—worse luck."

"I wish he'd bring his difficulties to me."

"You needn't wish that. He's got no difficulties. He's going with the wind and tide. 'Tis you, not him—'tis you and me, and the likes of us—that will be in difficulties afore long. I see that plain enough. 'Tis idle to be blind. I shall die a Christian, and so will you, and so belike will your childer, if ever you get any; but all's in a welter of change now, and very like your grandchilder will think 'twas terrible funny to have a parson for a grandfather. Jack Head says they'll put stuffed curates in the British Museum afore three generations."

"A free-thought wave," said Dennis. "Be under no concern, Mr. Baskerville. Christianity is quite unassailable. Remember the Rock it's founded on."

"'Tis the rock it will split on be the thing to consider. However, if you've got any books that stand for our side, I shall thank you to lend 'em to me. Jack's had it all his own way of late."

"I'll bring some," declared Masterman.

They parted, and Humphrey trotted off on his pony.

Meantime at 'The White Thorn' a considerable gathering had met to discuss the weddings, and Nathan Baskerville, his namesake, the sailor, Heathman Lintern, Joe Voysey, and others enjoyed a morning drink. For some the entertainment was now ended, but not a few had been bidden to the feast at Cadworthy, where a double banquet was planned, and many would soon set out on foot or in market-carts for the farm.

"One may hope for nought but good of these here weddings," said Voysey. "There's only one danger in my judgment, and that is for two of the young people to set up living with the bridegroom's mother; but Rupert ban't Hester Baskerville's favourite son, I believe. If he was it certainly wouldn't work. The poor chap would be pulled in two pieces between mother and wife. However, if the mother ban't jealous of him, it may do pretty well."

"When Master Ned marries, he'll have to go a bit further off," said the innkeeper.

"How is it brother Ned ban't married a'ready?" asked the younger Nathan. "Why, 'tis more than a year agone since I heard from my sister that he was going to marry Heathman's sister, and yet nothing done. I'd make her name the day jolly quick if 'twas me."

Heathman laughed and shook his head.

"No, you wouldn't, Nat. You don't know Cora. None will hurry her if she's not minded to hurry. Ned has done what he could, and so have I—and so has my mother. But she's in no haste. Likes being engaged and making plans, getting presents, and having a good time and being important."

"The autumn will see them married, however," declared Mr. Baskerville. "I've told Master Ned that he'll have to draw in his horns a bit, for he's not made of money, though he seems to think so. 'Twill be his best economy to marry pretty quick and settle down. Never was a man with wilder ideas about money; but Cora's different. She's a woman with brains. He'll do well to hand her over the purse."

"She wants to start a shop at Plymouth," said Heathman. "A shop for hats and women's things. But Ned's against it. He says she shan't work—not while he can help it; and as he certainly won't work himself while he can help it, we must hope they've got tons of money."

"Which they have not," answered Nathan Baskerville. "And the sooner Ned understands that and gives ear to me, the better for his peace of mind."

Mr. Gollop entered at this moment. He was ruffled and annoyed.

"That man!" he moaned, "that headstrong, rash man will be the death of me yet. Of course, I mean Masterman. Won't let the dead rest in their graves now. Wants the churchyard turned into a pleasure-ground seemingly. Must be mowing and hacking and tacking and trimming; and no more hay; and even they old holy slates in the corner to be carted off as if they was common stones."

"Lie low and do nought," advised Joe Voysey. "'Tis a sort of fever that takes the gentleman off and on. He catches the fit from his sister. She'll be down on me sometimes, with all her feathers up and everything wrong. I must set to that instant moment and tidy the garden for my dear life, till not a blade be out of place. Likes to see the grass plot so sleek as a boy's head after Sunday pomatum. But the way is to listen with all due and proper attention, as becomes us afore our betters, and then—forget it. The true kindness and charity be to let 'em have their talk out, and even meet 'em in little things here and there—if it can be done without loss of our self-respect. But we understand best. Don't you never forget that, Thomas. Where the yard and the garden be concerned, you and me must be first in the land. They be children to us, and should be treated according. We've forgot more than they ever knowed about such things."

Others came and went; Joe and Thomas matured their Fabian tactics; Nathan Baskerville, with his nephew and young Lintern, set off in a pony trap for Cadworthy. The bells still rioted and rang their ceaseless music; for these new-made wives and husbands were being honoured with the long-drawn, melodious thunder of a full five-bell 'peal.'

CHAPTER III

Cora Lintern waited for Ned Baskerville at the fork of the road above Shaugh. Here, in the vicarage wall, the stump of a village cross had been planted. Round about stitchwort flashed its spring stars, and foxgloves made ready, while to the shattered symbol clung ivy tighter than ever lost sinner seeking sanctuary.

Upon a stone beneath sat the woman in Sunday finery, and she was beautiful despite her garments. They spoke of untutored taste and a mind ignorantly attracted by the garish and the crude. But her face was fair until examined at near range. Then upon the obvious beauty, like beginning of rust in the leaf, there appeared delicate signs of the spirit within. Her eyes spoke unrest and her mouth asperity. The shadow of a permanent line connected her eyebrows and promised a network too soon to stretch its web, woven by the spiders of discontent, upon her forehead.

Cora built always upon to-morrow, and she suffered the fate of those that do so. She was ambitious and vain, and she harboured a false perspective in every matter touching her own welfare, her own desert, and her own position in the world. She largely overrated her beauty and her talents. She was satisfied with Ned Baskerville, but had ceased to be enthusiastic about him. A year of his society revealed definite limitations, and she understood that though her husband was well-to-do, he would never be capable. The power to earn money did not belong to him, and she rated his windy optimisms and promises at their just value. She perceived that the will and intellect were hers, and she knew that, once married, he would follow and not lead. The advantage of this position outweighed the disadvantages. She desired to live in a town, and rather favoured the idea of setting up a shop, to be patronised by the local leaders of rank and fashion. She loved dress, and believed herself possessed of much natural genius in matters sartorial.

At present Ned absolutely refused any suggestion of a shop; but she doubted not that power rested with her presently to insist, if she pleased to do so. He was a generous and fairly devout lover. He more than satisfied her requirements in that direction. She had, indeed, cooled his ardour a little, and she supposed that her common-sense was gradually modifying his amorous disposition. But another's common-sense is a weak weapon against lust, and Ned's sensual energies, dammed by Cora, found secret outlet elsewhere.

So it came about that he endured the ordeal of the lengthy engagement without difficulty, and the girl wore his fancied sobriety and self-control as a feather in her cap. When she related her achievement to Ned and explained to him how much his character already owed to her chastening influence, he admitted it without a blush, and solemnly assured her that she had changed his whole attitude to the sex.

Now the man arrived, and they walked together by Beatland Corner, southerly of Shaugh, upon the moor-edge.

Their talk was of the autumn wedding and the necessity for some active efforts to decide their domicile. Cora was for a suburb of Plymouth, but Ned wanted to live in the country outside. The shop she did not mention after his recent strong expressions of aversion from it; but she desired the first step to be such that transition to town might easily follow, when marriage was accomplished and her power became paramount.

They decided, at length, to visit certain places that stood between town and country above Plymouth. There were Stoke and Mannamead to see. A villa was Cora's ambition—a villa and two servants. Ned's instincts, on the other hand, led to a small house and a large stable. He owned some horses and took great part of his pleasure upon them. Since possession of her own steed, however, Cora's regard for riding had diminished. It was her way to be quickly satisfied with a new toy. Now she spoke of a 'victoria,' so that when she was married she might drive daily upon her shopping and her visiting.

"The thing is to begin well," she said. "People call according to your house, and often the difference between nice blinds and common blinds will decide women whether they'll visit a newcomer or not. With my taste you can trust the outside of your home to look all right, Ned. At Mannamead I saw the very sort of house I'd like for us to have. Such a style, and I couldn't think what 'twas about it till I saw the short blinds was all hung in bright shining brass rods across the windows, and the window-boxes was all painted peacock-blue. 'I'll have my house just like that!' I thought."

"So you shall—or any colour you please. And I'll have my stable smart too, I promise you. White tiles all through. I shall have to do a bit myself, you know—looking after the horses, I mean—but nobody will know it."

"You'll keep a man, of course?"'

"A cheap one. Uncle Nathan went into figures with me last week. He was a bit vague, and I was a bit impatient and soon had enough of it. 'All I want to know,' I told him, 'is just exactly what income I can count upon,' and he said five hundred a year was the outside figure. Then, against that, you must set that he's getting a bit old and, of course, being another person's money, he's extra cautious. He admitted that if I sold out some shares and bought others, I could get pretty near another one hundred a year by it. But, of course, we've got to take a bite out of the money for furnishing and all the rest of it. My idea, as you know, is to invest a bit in a sleeping partnership, but he hasn't found anything of the sort yet, apparently. He's not the man he was at finding a bargain."

Here opened a good opportunity for her ambitions, and Cora ventured to take it.

"I wish you'd think twice about letting me start a little business. It's quite a ladylike thing, or I wouldn't offer it, but with my natural cleverness about clothes, and with all the time I've given to the fashions and all that—especially with the hats I can make—it seems a pity not to let me do it. You don't want much money to start with, and I should soon draw the custom."

"No," he said. "Time enough if ever we get hard up. I'm not going to have you making money. 'Tis your business to spend it. You'll be a lady, with your own servants and all the rest of it. You'll walk about, and pick the flowers in your garden, and pay visits; and if you do have a little trap, you can drive out to the meets sometimes when I go hunting. Why, damn it all, Cora, I should have thought you was the last girl who would ever want to do such a thing!"

"That's all you know," she said. "People who keep hat shops often get in with much bigger swells than ever we're likely to know at Mannamead, or Stoke either. They come into the shop and they see, of course, I'm a lady, and I explain that I only keep the shop for fun, and then I get to know them. I'd make more swell friends in my hat shop than ever you do on your horse out fox-hunting."

"I know a lot of swells, for that matter."

"Ask 'em to come to tea and then you'll see if you know 'em," she said. "'Tis no use for us to be silly. We're poor people, compared to rich ones, and we always shall be, so far as I can see. We must be content with getting up the ladder a bit—and that's all I ask or expect."

"I know my place all right, if that's what you mean," answered Ned. "I'm not anxious to get in with my betters, for they're not much use to me. I'm easily satisfied. I want for you to have a good time, and I mean for myself to have a good time. You can only live your life once, and a man's a fool to let worry come into his life if he can escape from it. The great thing in the world is to find people who think as you do yourself. That's worth a bit of trouble; and when you've found them, stick to them. A jolly good motto too."

They spilt words to feeble purpose for another half-hour, and then there came an acquaintance. Timothy Waite appeared on his way from Coldstone Farm. He overtook them and walked beside them.

"I suppose you don't want company," he said, "but I'll leave you half a mile further on."

"We do want company, and always shall," declared Cora. "And yours most of all, I'm sure. We're past the silly spooning stage. In fact, we never got into it, did we, Edward?"

"You didn't," said her betrothed, "and as you didn't, I couldn't. Spooning takes two."

Mr. Waite remained a bachelor and no woman had ever been mentioned in connection with him. He was highly eligible and, indeed, a husband much to be desired. He enjoyed prosperity, good looks, and a reputation for sense and industry.

Cora he had always admired, and still did so. At heart he wondered why she had chosen Ned Baskerville, and sometimes, since the marriage hung fire, he suspected that she was not entirely satisfied of her bargain and might yet change her mind.

He would have married her willingly, for there was that in her practical and unsentimental character which appealed to him. He had indeed contemplated proposing when the announcement of young Baskerville's engagement reached him. He met Cora sometimes and always admired her outlook on life. He did so now, yet knowing Ned too, doubted at heart whether the woman had arrested his propensities as completely as she asserted.

"The question on our lips when you came along was where we should set up shop," said Ned.

"A shop is what I really and truly want to set up," declared Cora; "but Edward won't hear of it—more fool him, I say. He can't earn money, but that's no reason why I shouldn't try to."

Mr. Waite entirely agreed with her.

"No reason why you shouldn't. If Cadworthy's to be handed over to Rupert and you're going to live in Plymouth, as I hear," he said, "then why not business? There's nothing against it that I know, and there's nothing like it. If I wasn't a farmer, I'd keep a shop. For that matter a farmer does keep a shop. Only difference that I can see is that he has fields instead of cupboards and loses good money through the middleman between him and his customers. I'm going to take another stall in Plymouth market after Midsummer. There's nought like market work for saving cash."

"And as nearly half our money will come from the rent that Rupert pays for Cadworthy, we shall be living by a shop in a sense whether you pretend to or not," added Cora.

But Ned denied this. He aired his views on political economy, while Waite, who valued money, yet valued making it still more, reduced the other's opinions to their proper fatuity and laughed at him into the bargain.

Timothy's contempt for Baskerville was not concealed. He even permitted himself a sly jest or two at the expense of the other's mental endowments; and these thrusts, while unfelt by the victim, stabbed Cora's breast somewhat keenly. Even Timothy's laughter, she told herself, was more sane and manly than Ned's.

She fell into her own vice of contrasting the thing she had with the thing she had not, to the detriment of the former. It was an instinct with her to under-value her own possessions; but the instinct stopped at herself—an unusual circumstance.

With herself and her attributes of mind and body, she never quarrelled; it was only her environment that by no possibility compared favourably with that of other people. Her mother, her sister, her brother, her betrothed, and her prospects—none but seemed really unworthy of Cora when dispassionately judged by herself.

Now she weighed Timothy's decision against Ned's doubt, his knowledge against Ned's ignorance, his sense against Ned's nonsense. She felt the farmer's allusions, and she throbbed with discomfort because Ned did not also feel them and retort upon Mr. Waite in like manner. She told herself that the difference between them was the radical difference between a wise man and a fool. Then she fell back in self-defence of her own judgment, and assured herself that, physically, there could be no comparison, and that Ned had a better heart and would make a gentler husband.

Timothy had admired her—she remembered that; but he was caution personified and, while he had considered, Ned had plunged. She strove to see this as a virtue in Ned. Yet Timothy's old attitude to her forbade any slighting of him. She remembered very well how, when he congratulated her on her engagement, he had pointedly praised Ned for one thing alone: his precipitation. A fault at other seasons may be a virtue in the love season.

"I thought him not very clever," said Timothy on that occasion; "but now I see he was cleverer than any of us. Because he was too clever to waste a moment in getting what every other chap wanted. We learn these things too late."

He said that and said it with great significance. It comforted Cora now to remember the circumstance. Whatever else Ned might not know, he knew a good deal about women; and that would surely make him by so much a better husband. Then her wits told her the opposite might be argued from this premise. She was not enjoying herself, and she felt glad when Waite left them. Anon Ned rallied her for lengthened taciturnity and even hinted, as a jest, that he believed she was regretting her choice.

They turned presently and went back over Shaugh Moor to drink tea at the man's home. But upon the threshold Cora changed her mind. She pleaded headache and some anxiety about her health.

"I've got a cold coming—else I wouldn't be so low-spirited," she said. "I'll get back through North Wood and go to bed early."

He instantly expressed utmost solicitation and concern.

"I'll come back with you, then. If you like, I'll put in the pony and drive you," he said. But she would neither of these things.

"I shall be all right. You go in and have your tea, and don't trouble. I'll get back by the wood path, and you'll find I shall be better to-morrow."

"'Tis that flimsy dress that lets the wind through like a net," he said. "The weather's not right for such clothes as you will wear."

But she laughed and told him to mind his own business. Then she kissed him on the cheek and went away.

He stood doubtful. First he felt moved to follow her, and then he changed his mind. He knew Cora better than she thought he did, and he was aware that at the present moment she felt perfectly well but desired to be alone.

He had not missed the significance of Mr. Waite's views on his sweetheart's mind, though he had failed to appreciate Timothy's sly humour at his own expense.

Now, therefore, he let Cora have her will and made no further effort to overtake her. He waited only until she looked back, as he knew she would; then he kissed his hand, turned, and departed.

She passed along through the forest homeward, and, when hidden in a silent place, dusted a stone and sat down to think.

A wild apple tree rose above her, half smothered in a great ivy-tod. But through the darkness of the parasite, infant sprays of bright young foliage sprang and splashed the gloomy evergreen with verdure.

Aloft, crowning this gnarled and elbowed crab, burst out a triumphant wreath of pale pink blossom—dainty, diaphanous, and curled. Full of light and pearly purity it feathered on the bough, and its tender brightness was splashed with crimson beads of the flower-buds that waited their time and turn to open.

Higher still, dominating the tree, thrust forth a crooked, naked bough or two. They towered, black, dead, and grim above the loveliness of the living thing beneath.

From reflections not agreeable, this good sight attracted Cora and turned the tide of her thoughts.

Even here the instinct of business dominated any sentiment that might have wakened in another spirit before such beauty. She gazed at it, then rose and plucked a few sprays of the apple-blossom. Next she took off her hat and began to try the effect of the natural flowers therein. Her efforts pleased her not a little.

"Lord! What a hand I have for it!" she said aloud. Then, refreshened by this evidence of her skill, she rose and proceeded to Shaugh. "I know one thing," she thought, "and that is, man or no man, I shall always be able to make my living single-handed in a town. 'Tisn't for that I want a husband. And be it as 'twill, when master Ned finds a lot more money coming in, he'd very soon give over crying out at a shop."

CHAPTER IV

Humphrey Baskerville still sought to determine his need, and sometimes supposed that he had done so. More than once he had contemplated the possibility of peace by flight; then there happened incidents to change his mind.

Of late the idea of a home further from distracting influences had again seemed good to him. More than once he considered the advantages of isolation; more than once he rode upon the Moor and distracted his gloom with visions of imaginary dwellings in regions remote.

The folly of these thoughts often thrust him with a rebound into the life of his fellow-beings, and those who knew him best observed a rhythmic alternation in Humphrey.

After periods of abstention and loneliness would follow some return to a more sociable style of living. From a fierce hectic of mind that sent him sore and savage into the heart of the wilderness, he cooled and grew temperate again as the intermittent fever passed.

And then, when the effort towards his kind had failed by his own ineptitude and the world's mistrust, he retreated once more to suffer, and banished himself behind the clouds of his own restless soul.

Humanity has no leisure to decipher these difficult spirits; the pathos of their attempts must demand a philosophic eye to perceive it; and unless kind chance offers the key, unless opportunity affords an explanation, the lonely but hungry heart passes away unfathomed, sinks to the grave unread and unreconciled.

Inner darkness turned Baskerville to the Moor again, and he rode—where often he had already ridden: to inspect the ruin of an old dwelling upon the side of a great hill above the waters of Plym.

Brilliant summer smiled upon this pilgrimage, and as he went, he fell in with a friend, where Jack Head tramped the high road upon his way to Trowlesworthy. Jack now dwelt at Shaugh, but was head man of Saul Luscombe's farm and rabbit warren.

"A fine day," said Humphrey as he slowed his pony.

"Yes, and a finer coming," answered the other. Mr. Baskerville was quick to note the militant tone.

"Been at your silly books again, I warrant," he said. "There's one book I could wish you'd read along with t'others, Jack. 'Tis the salt to all other books, for all you scorn it."

"Bible's a broken reed, master, as you'll live to find out yet."

"No, Jack. 'Tis what makes all other writing but a broken reed. A fountain that never runs dry, I promise you. No man will ever get the whole truth out of the Bible."

"No, by Gor! Because it ban't there," said the other.

"It's there all right—hidden for the little children to find it. You bandage your eyes and then you say you can't see—a fool's trick that."

"I can see so far as you. 'Tis you put coloured spectacles on your nose to make things look as you'd have 'em. Your book be played out, master. Let the childer read it, if you like, along with the other fairy tales; but don't think grown men be going to waste their time with it. The whole truth is that the book be built on a lie. There never was no Jehovah and never will be. Moses invented Him to frighten the folk from their naughtiness, same as you invent a scarecrow to frighten the birds from the seed. And the scarecrow works better than Jehovah did, by all accounts."

"You talk out of your narrow, bitter books, Jack."

"No need to call my books names. That's all your side can do. Why don't they try to answer 'em instead of blackguarding 'em?"

"'Tis a great danger to the poor that they begin to think so much."

"Don't you say that. Knowledge be the weapon the poor have been waiting for all these years and years. 'Tis the only weapon for a poor man. And what will it soon show 'em? It'll show 'em that the most powerful thing on this earth be the poor. They are just going to find it out; then you rich people will hear of something that will terrible astonish you."

"You're a rank Socialist, Jack. I've no patience with you."

"There you are: 'no patience!' But that's another thing we men of the soil be going to teach you chaps who own the soil. 'Patience,' you say. There's a time coming when the rich people will have to be mighty patient, I warn you! And if you're impatient—why, 'tis all one to us, for never was heard that any impatient man could stop the tide flowing."

"I believe that," said Baskerville grimly. "You'll pay us presently for teaching you, and clothing you, and helping to enlarge your minds. When you're learned enough, you'll turn round, like the snake, and bite the hand that fed you. Gratitude the common soul never knows and never will, whatever else it may learn. Knowledge is poison to low natures, and we ought to have kept you ignorant and harmless."

Jack Head stared.

"That's a pretty speech!" he said. "That's a good healthy bit of Christian charity—eh? Why for should you ax so much credit for your side? Take me. What's the rich man done for me? A workhouse boy I was."

"And look at you now—a prosperous man and saving money. Who fed you and taught you and brought you up? The State. Society saved you; society played mother to you; and now you want to kick her. That's how you'd pay your debts. You take a base and a narrow view—dishonest too. The State have got to look after the rich as well as the poor. Why not? The poor aren't everybody. You're the sort that think no man can be a decent member of society unless he was born in a gutter. Class prejudice 'tis called, and some of the chaps who think they're the salt of the earth, stink of it."

"Class be damned," said Mr. Head. "Class is all stuff and nonsense. There are only two classes—good men and bad ones. The difference between a duke and me be difference between a pig with a ring in his nose and another without one. We'm built the same to the last bone in our bodies, and I've got more sense than half the dukes in the kingdom."

"And t'other half have got more sense than you," returned the rider. "It's summed up in a word. Class there will be, because class there must be. The poor we have always with us—you know that well enough. Your books, though they deny most things, can't deny that."

"Another of your silly Christian sayings. We have got the poor with us—but it won't be always. So long as we have the rich with us, we shall have the poor, and no longer. No longer, master! Finish off the one and you'll finish off t'other. That's a bit of home-grown wisdom, that is got from no book at all."

"Wisdom, you call it! And what power is going to root out the rich? How are you clever folk going to alter human nature, and say to this man you shan't save your money and to this man you shall save yours? While some men and women are born to thrift and sense, and some to folly and squandering, there must be rich and poor; and while men are born to hunger for power, there must be war. These things can't be changed. And you can't say where any man can reach to; you can't put up a mark and tell your fellow-man, 'you shan't go higher than that.'"

"Granted. You can't say where they shall reach to; but you can say where they shall start from. Half the world's handicapped at the starting-post. I only ax for the race to be a fair one. I only ax for my son to start fair with yours. If yours be the better man, then let him win; but don't let him win because he's got too long a start. That's not justice but tyranny. Give every man his chance and make every man work—that's all I ask. If a man's only got the wits to break stones, then see that he breaks 'em; and let them who can do better and earn better money not grudge the stone-breaker a little over and above what his poor wits earn in the market."

"I grant that's good," admitted Baskerville. "Let the strong help the weak. 'Twas Christ found that out, not you Socialists."

"'Tis found out anyway," said Jack Head. "And 'tis true; and therefore it will happen and we can't go back on it. And it follows from that law of strong helping weak that nobody ought to be too rich, any more than they ought to be too poor. Let the State be a millionaire a million times over, if you like—and only the State. So long as the hive be rich, no bee is poor."

Humphrey did not immediately reply. He was following Head's argument to a still larger conclusion.

"And you'd argue that as the strong man can help the weak one, so in time the strong State might help the weak one instead of hindering it, and the powerful of the earth give of their abundance to strengthen the humble and feeble?"

"Why not? Instead of that, the great Powers be bristling with fighting men, and all the sinews of the world be wasted on war. And it shows the uselessness of the Book, anyway, that the Christian nations—so-called—keep the biggest armies and the largest number of men idle, rotting their bodies and souls away in barracks and battleships."

Baskerville nodded.

"There's sense of a lop-sided sort in much that you say, Jack. But 'tisn't the Book that's to blame—'tis the world that misunderstands the Book and daren't go by the Book—because of the nations around that don't go by it."

"Then why do they pretend they'm Christians? They know if they went by the Book they'd go down; yet they want to drive it into the heads of the next generation. The child hears his father damning the Government because they ban't building enough men-of-war, and next day when the boy comes home with a black eye, his father turns round and tells him to mind his Bible and remember that the peacemakers be blessed."

"I could wish a Government would give Christianity a chance," confessed Mr. Baskerville; "but I suppose 'tis much the same thing as Free Trade—a fine thing if everybody played the game, but a poor thing for one nation if t'others are all for Protection."

"That's a lie," answered Mr. Head. "We've shown Free Trade is a fine thing—single-handed we've shown it, and why? Because Free Trade's a strong sword; but Christianity's rusty and won't stand the strain no longer. We've passed that stage; and if we was to start Christianity now and offer the cheek to the smiter—well, he'd damn soon smite, and then where are we?"

They chattered on and set the world right according to their outlook, instinct, and understanding. Then the conversation turned into personal channels, and Mr. Baskerville, while admitting the justice of much that Jack asserted, yet blamed him for a certain impatience and bitterness.

"If evolution is going to set all right and the unborn will come into a better world, why get so hot?" he asked.

"Because I'm a thinking, feeling man," answered the other. "Because I hate to see wrong done in the name of right. And you're the same—only you haven't got as much sense as me seemingly. I'm useful—you only want to be useful and don't see how."

"I want to do my part in the world; but just the right way is difficult to choose out among the many roads that offer, Jack. You are positive, and that saves a deal of trouble, no doubt. The positive people go the furthest—for good or evil. But I'm not so certain. I see deeper than you because I've been better educated, though I'm not so clever by nature. Then there's another thing—sympathy. People don't like me, and to be disliked limits a man's usefulness a lot."

"That's stuff," answered Jack; "no more than a maggot got in your head. If they don't like you, there's a reason. They'm feared of your sharp tongue, and think 'tis the key to a hard heart. Then 'tis for you to show 'em what they can't see. I'll tell you what you are: you'm a man sitting hungry in a wheat-field, because you don't know and won't larn how to turn corn into bread. That's you in a word."

Trowlesworthy was reached and Jack went his way.

"You might come and drink a dish of tea some Sunday," said Mr. Baskerville, and the other promised to do so. Then Humphrey proceeded beside the river, and presently ascended a rough slope to his destination. The ruin that alternately drew and repelled him lay below; but for the moment he did not seek it. He climbed to the high ground, dismounted, turned his pony loose, and took his pipe out of his pocket.

The great cone of granite known as Hen Tor lies high upon the eastern bank of Plym, between that streamlet and the bog-foundered table-land of Shavercombe beyond. From its crown the visitor marked Cornwall's coastline far-spreading into the west, and Whitsand Bay reflecting silver morning light along the darker boundaries of earth.

Spaces of grass and fern extended about the tor, and far below a midget that was a man moved along the edge of the ripe bracken and mowed it down with a scythe.

Half a dozen carrion crows took wing and flapped with loud croaking away as Humphrey ascended the tor and sat upon its summit. Again he traversed the familiar scene in his mind, again perceived the difficulties of transit to this place. Occasionally, before these problems, he had set to work obstinately and sought solutions.

Once he had determined to rebuild the ruin in the valley, so that he might turn his back on man and make trial of the anchorite's isolation and hermit's bastard peace; but to-day he was in no mood for such experiments; his misanthropic fit passed upon the west wind, and his thoughts took to themselves a brighter colour.

Where he sat two roof-trees were visible, separated by the distant height of Legis Tor. Trowlesworthy and Ditsworthy alone appeared, and for the rest the river roamed between them, and flocks and herds wandered upon the hills around. The man still moved below, and long ribbons of fallen fern spread regularly behind him.

A foul smell struck on Baskerville's nostrils, and he saw death not far distant, where the crows had been frightened from their meal. He climbed away from the main pile of the tor and sat in a natural chair hollowed from the side of an immense block of granite that stands hard by. He smoked, and his pony grazed.

A storm of rain fell and passed. The sun succeeded upon it, and for a little while the moor glittered with moisture. Then the wind dried all again. The old man was now entirely out of tune with any thought of a dwelling here. He did not even descend the hill and inspect the ruin beneath. But he had come to spend the day alone, and was contented to do so. His mind busied itself with the last thing that a fellow-man had said to him. He repeated Jack Head's word over and over to himself. Presently he ate the food that he had brought with him, drank at a spring, and walked about to warm his body. The carrion crows cried in air, soared hither and thither, settled again on the rocks at hand and waited, with the perfect patience of unconscious nature, for him to depart. But he remained until the end of the day.

Then occurred a magnificent spectacle. After gold of evening had scattered the Moor and made dark peat and grey rock burn, there rolled up from the south an immense fog, that spread its nacreous sea under the sunset. Born of far-off fierce heat upon the ocean, it advanced and enveloped earth, valley by valley, and ridge by ridge. Only the highest peaks evaded this flood of vapours, and upon them presently sank the sun. His light descending touched many points and uplifted sprays of mist; whereon, like magic, a thousand galleons rode over the pearl and advanced in a golden flotilla upon this fleeting sea. The rare, brief wonder passed, and the sky above it faded; the sun sank; the fog rolled forward—heavy, cold, a burden for the wet wings of night.

Humphrey set off, and the carrion crows, full hungry, returned to sup.

In Baskerville's mind certain words reverberated still, as they had often done since they were spoken during the morning. They chimed to the natural sounds that had fallen upon his ear throughout the day; they were echoed in the wind and the distant water-murmur; in the cry of birds and call of beasts; in the steady rasping of his pony's teeth through the herbage; and now, in its hoof-beat as it trotted by a sheep-track homeward.

And louder than all these repetitions of it, louder than the natural music that seemed to utter the words in many voices, there came the drumming of his own pulse, laden with the same message, and the answering beat of his heart that affirmed the truth of it.

"A man sitting hungry in a wheat-field, because you don't know and won't learn how to turn corn into bread."

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.

CHAPTER VI

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.

CHAPTER VII

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.

CHAPTER VIII

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.

CHAPTER IX

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."

Thanks more to the diplomacy of Nathan Baskerville than Ned's own skill in reconciliation, Cora forgave her lover and their marriage day was fixed. Not a few noticed that the master of 'The White Thorn' held this union much to heart, and indeed appeared more interested in its achievement than any other save Ned himself.

A change had come over Nathan and his strength failed him. The affection of his throat gained upon him and his voice grew weaker. He resented allusions to the fact and declared that he was well. Only his doctor and Priscilla Lintern knew the truth; and only she understood that much more than physical tribulation was responsible for the innkeeper's feverish activity of mind and unsleeping energy poured forth in secret upon affairs.

The extent of this immense diligence and devotion was hidden even from her. She supposed that a temporary cloud had passed away; and she ceased not, therefore, from begging him to save his powers and so afford himself an opportunity to recover.

But the man believed that he was doomed, and suspected that his life could only be held upon uncertain tenure of months.

The doctor would not go so far as this gloomy opinion; yet he did not deny that it might be justified.

Nathan felt no doubt in his own mind, and he believed that Cora's wedding was the last considerable event of a personal and precious nature that he could hope to see accomplished.

Afterwards, but not until he found himself upon his deathbed, the innkeeper designed a confession. Circumstances and justice, as he conceived it, must make this avowal private; but those most interested were destined to know the hidden truth concerning themselves. He had debated the matter with Priscilla, since decision rested with her; but she was of his mind and, indeed, had been the first to suggest this course.

Cora's shopping roused all the household of Undershaugh to a high pitch of exasperation. Much to the girl's surprise her mother produced fifty pounds for a wedding outfit, and the bride employed agreeable days in Plymouth while she expended this handsome gift.

A house had been taken at Plympton. The face of it was 'genteel' in Cora's estimation; but the back was not. However, the rear premises satisfied Ned, and its position with respect to town and country suited them both.

There remained contracts and settlements, in which Nathan Baskerville represented both parties. Ned was generous and indifferent; Cora exhibited interest and a faculty for grasping details. She told herself that it was only reasonable and wise to do so.

At any time the reckless Ned might break his neck; at any time the amorous Ned might find her not all-sufficing. No sentiment obscured Cora's outlook. She astounded Nathan Baskerville by the shrewdness of her stipulations.

Few prophesied much joy of this marriage, and even Priscilla, albeit Nathan was impatient at her doubts, none the less entertained misgivings. She knew the truth of her daughter, and had long since learned the truth concerning young Baskerville.

Those who desired to comfort her foretold that man and wife would go each their own way and mind each their own business and pleasure. Not the most sanguine pretended to suppose that Ned and Cora would unite in any bonds of close and durable affection.

The man's mother trusted that Cora's common-sense and practical spirit might serve as a steady strain to curb his slothful nature; but May Baskerville was the only living soul who, out of her warm heart and trusting disposition, put faith in his marriage to lift her brother toward a seemly and steadfast position in the ranks of men.

At Hawk House the subject of the wedding might not be mentioned. In consequence renewed coolness had arisen between the brothers. Then came a rumour to Humphrey's ear that Nathan was ill, and he felt concern. The old man had no eye to mark physical changes. He was slow to discern moods or read the differences of facial expression, begot by mental trouble on the one hand and bodily suffering on the other.

Now, greatly to his surprise, he heard that Nathan began to be very seriously indisposed. The news came to him one morning a month before Cora's wedding. Heathman Lintern called upon the subject of a stallion, and mentioned casually that Humphrey's brother had lost his voice and might never regain it.

"'Tis terrible queer in the bar at 'The White Thorn' not to hear him and to know we never may no more," he said. "He's gone down and down very gradual; but now he can only whisper. 'Tis a wisht thing to lose the power of speech—like a living death, you might say."

"When did this happen? I've marked no change, though 'tis a good few weeks now since I spoke with him."

"It comed gradual, poor chap."

Humphrey rose and prepared on the instant to start for Shaugh.

"I must see the man," he said. "We're out for the minute owing to this wedding. But, since he's fallen ill, I must go to him. We'll hope 'tis of no account."

They set out together and Heathman was mildly surprised to learn the other's ignorance.

"He keeps it so close; but you can't hide your face. We've all marked it. The beard of the man's grown so white as if the snow had settled on it, and his cheeks be drawed too. For my part I never felt nothing in life to make me go down-daunted afore, except when your son Mark died; but, somehow, Nat Baskerville be a part of the place and the best part. I've got a great feeling towards him. 'Tis making us all very uncomfortable. Especially my mother. He talks to her a lot, feeling how more than common wise she be; and she knows a lot about him. She's terrible down over it and, in fact, 'tis a bad job all round, I'm afraid."

Humphrey's answer was to quicken his pace.

"He kept it from me," he replied. "I suppose he thought I ought to have seen it for myself. Or he might have wrongly fancied I didn't care."

"Everybody cares—such a wonderful good sort as him. 'Twill cast a gloom over this blessed wedding. I wish to God 'twas over and done with—the wedding, I mean—since it's got to be."

"Why do you wish that?"

"Because I'm sick of the thing and that awnself[1] baggage, my sister. God's truth! To watch her getting ready. Everything's got to go down afore her, like the grass afore the scythe. You may work your fingers to the bone and never get a thank you. I had a row with her last night, and she got lashing me with her tongue till I rose up and fetched her a damned hard box on the ear, grown woman though she is. My word, it tamed her too! 'There!' I said. 'That's better than all the words in the dictionary. You keep your snake's tongue between your teeth,' I said. There's no answering her with words, but if her husband has got a pinch of sense, which he hasn't, he'll do well to give her a hiding at the start. It acted like a charm." [1] Awnself—selfish.

"Don't want to hear nothing about that. They're making their own bed, and 'twill be uneasy lying," said Humphrey. "Leave them, and talk of other things."

"Very pleased," answered Lintern. "Ban't a subject I'm fond of. Undershaugh without Cora would be a better place to live in—I know that and I say it. And my mother knows it too; though say it she won't."

They talked on various subjects, and Heathman informed Mr. Baskerville that he would soon be a great-uncle.

"Rupert's wife be going to have a babby—that's the last news. I heard it yester-eve at 'The White Thorn.'"

"Is that so? They might have told me, you'd think. Yet none has. They kept it from me."

"Holding it for a surprise; or maybe they didn't think 'twould interest you."

"No doubt that was the reason," answered Humphrey.

And then he spoke no more, but worked his own thoughts into a ferment of jealous bitterness until the village was reached. Arrived, he took no leave of Heathman, but forgot his presence and hastened to the inn. Nathan was standing at the door in his apron, and the brothers entered together.

"What's this I hear?" said Humphrey as they entered the other's private chamber.

"Well, I'm ill, to be frank. In fact, very ill. I'd hoped to hide it up till after the wedding; but my voice has pretty well gone, you see. Gone for good. You'll never hear it again. But that won't trouble you much—eh?"

"I should have marked something wrong when last we met, no doubt. But you angered me a bit, and angry men are like drunken ones; their senses fail them. I didn't see or hear what had happed to you. Now I look and listen, I mark you're bad. What does the doctor say?"

"'Tis what he don't say. But I've got it out of him. He took me to Plymouth a month ago—to some very clever man there. I've talked such a lot in my life that I deserve to be struck dumb—such a chatterbox as I have been."

"Is that all?"

"For the present. We needn't go beyond that. I shall soon get used to listening instead of talking. Maybe I'll grow wiser for it."

"That wasn't all they told you?"

Nathan looked round and shut the door which stood ajar behind them.

"There's no hiding anything from you that you want to find out. As a matter of fact, I'm booked. I know it. 'Tis only a question of—of months—few or many. They give me time to put things as straight—as straight as I can."

"So like as not they lie. You'll do better to go off to London while you may, and get the best opinion up there."

"I would, if 'twas only to pleasure you. But that's no use now."

"Can you let down your food easy?"

Nathan shook his head.

"I dare not eat in company no more," he said; "it's here." He put his hand to his throat and then drew it down.

"You don't suffer, I hope?"

Nathan nodded.

"I can tell you, but I trust you not to let it out to any soul. We must have the wedding off cheerful and bright. I shall keep going till then, if I'm careful. Only a month now."

"You ought to be lying up close, and never put your nose out this coarse weather."

"Time enough. Leave it now. I'm all right. I've had a good life—better than you might think for. I wish for my sake, and knowing that I've got my end in sight, you'd do the last thing you can for me and countenance this wedding. Perhaps I've no right to ask; but if you knew—if you knew how hard life can be when the flesh gives way and there's such a lot left to do and think about. If you only knew——"

"You say 'the last thing I can do for you.' Are you sure of that?"

A strange and yearning expression crossed the face of the younger man. He stroked his beard nervously and Humphrey, now awake to physical accidents, marked that his hands were grown very thin and his skin had taken on it a yellowish tinge of colour.

There was silence between them for some moments. Then Nathan shook his head and forced a smile upon his face.

"Nothing else—nothing at all. But it's no small thing that I ask. I know that. You've a right to feel little affection for either of them—Ned or Cora. But my case is different. Cora's mother——"

Again he stopped, but Humphrey did not speak.

"Cora's mother has been a good friend to me in many ways. She is a clever woman and can keep her own counsel. There's more of Priscilla Lintern in Cora than you might think. You'll never know how terribly Cora felt Mark's death; but she did. Only she hid it close. As to Ned——"

He began to cough and suffered evident pain in the process. When the cough ceased it was some time before he could speak. Then, to Humphrey's discomfort, his brother began to weep.

"There—there," he said, as one talks to a child. "What I can do, I'll do. God knows this is a harsh shock to me. I didn't dream of such a thing overtaking you. How old are you?"

"In my sixty-third year."

"Hope despite 'em. They don't know everything. Pray to the Almighty about it. You're weak. You ought to drink, if you can't eat. I'll come to the wedding and I'll give the woman a gift—for your sake and her mother's—not for her own."

Nathan, now unnerved, could not reply. But he took his brother's hand and held it.

"God bless you for this," he whispered. "If you could but understand me better and believe that with all my black faults I've meant well, I should die easier, Humphrey."

"Don't talk about dying. You're a bit low. I haven't forgotten when Mark went. Now 'tis my turn. Why don't you trust me?"

"You never trusted me, Humphrey."

The other darted a glance and Nathan's eyes fell.

"Never—and you were right not to," he added.

Humphrey rose.

"I'm your brother and your friend. I can't be different to what I am. I don't respect you—never did. But—well—a silly word most times, but I'll use it—I love you well enough. Why shouldn't I? You're my brother—all I've got left. I'm cut up about this. I wish I could lighten your load, and I'm willing to do it if 'tis in my power."

"You have. If you come to that wedding I shall die a happy man."

"That's nought. Ban't there anything deeper I can do—for you yourself and your peace of mind?"

Again Nathan struggled with his desires. But pride kept him silent. He could not tell the truth.

"No," he answered at last. "Nothing for me myself."

"Or for any other?"

The innkeeper became agitated.

"No, no. You've done a good day's work. No more for the present. I've not thrown up the sponge yet. Will you take a glass of the old sloe gin before you go?"

Humphrey shook his head.

"Not for me. When's the wedding?"

"Third of November."

"I shall be there, and your—Cora Lintern will have a letter from me next week."

"You make me a happier man than you know, Humphrey."

"Let it rest then. I'll see you again o' Sunday."

They parted, and while one put on his hat and hastened with tremulous excitement to Undershaugh, the other breasted the hill homewards, and buttoned his coat to the wind which sent leaves flying in wild companies at the spinney edge by Beatland Corner.

The sick man rejoiced upon his way; the hale man went moodily.

"I can do no more," said Humphrey to himself. "He's a Baskerville, despite the grip of death on him. Perhaps I was a fool to tell him I didn't respect him. He'll think of it again when he's got time for thought by night, and 'twill rasp home."

Following upon this incident it seemed for a season that Nathan's health mended. His disease delayed a little upon its progress, and he even hoped in secret that his brother might be right and the physicians wrong. He flashed with a spark of his old fire. He whispered jokes that woke noisy laughter. In secret he ticked off the days that remained before Ned and Cora should be married.

It wanted less than a fortnight to the event, and all was in readiness for it. Humphrey Baskerville had sent Cora twenty pounds, and she had visited him and thanked him personally for his goodness. The old man had also seen Ned, and although his nephew heard few compliments and came from the interview in a very indignant frame of mind, yet it was felt to be well that Humphrey had thus openly suffered the past to be obliterated.

Then came a midnight when Priscilla Lintern, lying awake and full of anxious thoughts, heard upon the silence a sound. At first she believed it to be the four feet of some wandering horse as he struck the ground with his hoofs in leisurely fashion, and slowly passed along the deserted road; then she perceived that it was the two feet of a man moving briskly and carrying him swiftly forward. The feet stopped, the outer wicket gate was opened, and some one came to the door. Priscilla's window looked forth from a thatched dormer above, and now she threw it up and leant out. She knew by intuition the name of the man below.

"Is that you, Jim?" she asked.

"Yes'm. Master's took cruel bad and can't fetch his breath. He knocked me up, and I went first for Miss Gollop, who was to home luckily. Then I comed for you."

Mrs. Lintern was already putting on her clothes.

"You'd best to go back," she said. "I'll be up over at once, after I've waked up my son and sent him riding for doctor."

Fifteen minutes later Heathman, still half asleep, cantered on a pony through a rainy night for medical help, and his mother hastened up to 'The White Thorn,' and steeled her heart for what she might find there.

She had long learned to conceal all emotion of spirit, and she knew that under no possible stress of grief or terror would truth have power to escape the prison of her heart.

CHAPTER XI

The accident of a heavy cold had suddenly aggravated the morbid condition of Nathan Baskerville's throat, and set all doubt of the truth at rest. Often on previous occasions he had anticipated death at short notice, and prepared to face it; but now he trusted fate not to deal the final blow before his daughter's marriage. His only concern was to be on his feet again swiftly, that none of the plans for the wedding should be changed.

The doctor warned him that he was very ill, and took the gravest view of his condition; but Nathan, out of a sanguine heart, declared that he would make at least a transient recovery. He obeyed the medical man's directions very carefully, however; he kept his bed and put himself into the hands of the parish nurse.

In sombre triumph she came to this important case, and brought with her certain errors of judgment and idiosyncrasies of character that went far to counter-balance real ability begot of experience. She was a good nurse, but an obstinate and foolish woman. No more conscientious creature ruled a sick room or obeyed a doctor's mandate; but she added to her prescribed duties certain gratuitous moral ministrations which were not required by science or demanded by reason.

Mrs. Lintern saw Mr. Baskerville often, and sometimes shared the night watches with Eliza Gollop. The latter viewed her attentions to Nathan and her emotion before his suffering with a suspicious eye. But she reserved comment until after the end. The case was not likely to be a long one in her opinion. For one week little happened of a definite character, and during that time Nathan Baskerville saw his relations and several of his more intimate friends. Then ensued a malignant change, and at the dawn of this deterioration, after the doctor had left him, Miss Gollop sat alone with her patient and endeavoured to elevate his emotions.

"I've flashed a bit of light on a wandering soul at many a deathbed," she declared; "and I hope I shall be spared to do so at many more. There's not a few men and women that wouldn't hear me in health, but they listened, meek as worms, when the end was in sight, and they hadn't strength left to move an eye-lash. That's the time to drive truth home, Mr. Baskerville, and I've done it. But always cheerful, mind. I'm not the sort to give up hoping."

"I'm sure not," he whispered. "Wasn't Christ's first and last message hope?"

"Don't you talk. Let me do the talking. Yes, 'twas hope He brought into this hopeless world. But even hope can be trusted too much. You must put your hope in the next world now, not in this one, I'm afraid."

"Did he say so?"

"Yes—I knew he would. Death was in his eyes when he went out of your chamber. Still, there's plenty of time. Things may mend. He's going to send a new physic."

"What's the good of that if I've got to go?"

"You'll know presently, my poor man. 'Tis to ease what be bound to creep over you later on."

"Bodily pain's nought. Haven't I suffered all that man can suffer?"

"No, you haven't—not yet. Don't talk about that part. You shan't suffer while I'm here—not if I can help it in reason, and under doctor's orders. But I won't stray beyond them; I was never known to take anything upon myself, like some of they hospital chits, that call themselves nurses, do."

"When is Mrs. Lintern coming?"

Eliza's lips tightened.

"Very soon, without a doubt; though why, I can't ezacally say. Listen to me a little afore she's here. 'Tis my duty to say these things to you, and you're not one that ever stood between man or woman and their duty."

"I'll not see them married now. That's cruel hard after——"

"How can you say that? You may be there in the spirit, if not in the flesh. I suppose you ban't one of they godless ones that say ghosts don't walk? Haven't I beheld 'em with these eyes? Didn't I go down to Mrs. Wonnacott at Shaugh Bridge in the dimpsy of the evening two year ago; and didn't I see a wishtness coming along out of they claypits there? 'Tis well known I seed it; and if it weren't the spirit of Abraham Vosper, as worked there for fifty year and then was run over by his own team of hosses and fractured to death in five places, whose spirit was it? So you may be at your nephew's wedding with the best; and, for my part, I shall know you be there, and feel none the less cheerful for it."

"So much to do—so many to save—and no strength and no time—no time," he said.

The air was dark and hurtling with awful wings for Nathan Baskerville. He heard and saw the storm coming. But others would feel it. He was safe from the actual hurricane, but, by anticipation, dreadfully he endured it now. Death would be no release save from physical disaster. His place was with the living, not with the dead. Cruelly the living must need him presently; the dead had no need of him.

Miss Gollop supposed that she read her patient's heart.

"'Tis your own soul you must seek to save, Mr. Baskerville. None can save our souls but ourselves. And as for time, thanks to the rivers of blood Christ shed, there's always time for a dip in 'em. You're well thought on. But that's nought. 'Tis the bird's-eye view the Almighty takes that will decide. And our conscience tells us what that view's like to be. 'Tis a good sign you be shaken about it. The best sort generally are. I've seen an evil liver go to his doom like a babby dropping asleep off its mother's nipple; and I've seen a pious saint, such as my own father was, get into a terrible tear at the finish, as if he seed all the devils in hell hotting up against his coming."

She ministered to the sick man, then sat down and droned on again. But he was not listening; his strength had nearly gone, his gaiety had vanished for ever. Not a smile was left. The next world at this juncture looked inexpressibly vain and futile. He cared not a straw about it. He was only concerned with his present environment and the significance of passing from it at this juncture.

"Run out—all run out!" he whispered to himself.

Would there be no final parenthesis of strength to deal with the manifold matters now tumbling to chaos? Was the end so near? He brushed aside lesser things and began to think of the one paramount obligation.

"Why don't she come? Why don't she come?" he whispered; but Miss Gollop did not hear him.

This was a sort of moment when she felt the call of her faith mighty upon her. She had often inopportunely striven to drag a dying's man's mind away from earth to the spectacle of heaven and the immense difficulty of winning it.

"How many houses have you got, Mr. Baskerville?" she asked abruptly; and in a mechanical fashion he heard and answered her.

"Six—two here and four at Bickleigh; at least, they can't be called mine, I'm afraid, they're all——"

"And you'd give the lot for one little corner in a heavenly mansion—wouldn't you, Mr. Baskerville?"

"No doubt—no doubt," he said. "Don't talk for a bit. I'm broken; I'm terrible anxious; I must see—— Give me something to drink, please."

While she obeyed him Mrs. Lintern came in. The doctor, who had perceived her tragic interest in the patient, kept her closely informed of his condition, and Priscilla had learned within the hour that Nathan was growing worse.

Now she came, and Mr. Baskerville asked Miss Gollop to leave them.

"I can't think why," murmured Eliza. "I'm not generally told to go out except afore relations. Still, I can take my walk now instead of this afternoon. And if the new physic comes, don't you give him none, Mrs. Lintern, please. 'Tis very powerful and dangerous, and only for skilled hands to handle."

Neither spoke until the nurse had departed.

"And I shall be gone exactly twenty minutes and no more," she said. "I've got my reputation, I believe, if some of us haven't; but with chapel people——"

The exact problem respecting chapel people she left unstated, and in closing the door behind her made some unnecessary noise.

Then Priscilla folded Nathan in her arms and kissed him. He held her hand and shut his eyes while she talked; but presently he roused himself and indicated that the confession to his children must not in safety be longer delayed.

"I don't feel particular worse, though I had a bit of a fight for wind last night; but I am worse, and I may soon be a lot worse. They'd better all come to-day—this afternoon."

"They shall," she promised.

"If that was all—my God, if that was all, Priscilla!"

"It is all that matters."

"'Tis the least—the very least of it. Dark—dark wherever I turn. Plots miscarried, plans failed, good intentions all gone astray."

She thought that he wandered.

"Don't talk, 'tis bad for you. If you've got to go, go you must—God pity me without you! But you are all right, such a steadfast man as you. The poor will call you blessed, and your full tale of well-doing will never be told."

"Well-meaning, that's all—not well-doing. A dead man's motives don't count, 'tis his deeds we rate him by. He's gone. He can't explain what he meant. Pray for me to live a bit longer, Priscilla. Beg 'em for their prayers at the chapel; beg 'em for their prayers at church. I'm terrible, terrible frighted to go just now, and that's truth. Frighted for those I leave—for those I leave."

She calmed him and sought to banish his fears. But he entered upon a phase of mental excitement, deepening to frenzy. He was bathed in sweat and staring fixedly before him when the nurse returned.

After noon the man had regained his nerve and found himself ready for the ordeal. A dose of the new drug brought ease and peace. He was astonished and sanguine to feel such comfort. But his voice from the strain of the morning had almost become extinguished.

When Priscilla and his children came round him and the family were alone, he bade the woman speak.

"Tell them," he said. "I'm not feared to do it, since you wish them to know, but my throat is dumb."

Heathman stood at the bottom of the bed and his mother sat beside it. Cora and Phyllis were in chairs by the fire. They looked and saw Mrs. Lintern clasp her hands over Nathan Baskerville's. The act inspired her, and she met the astonished glances of her children.

"For all these years," she said, "you've been kept without hearing the truth, you three. You only knew I was a widow, and that Mr. Baskerville was a widower, and that we were friends always, and that he never married again because his dead wife didn't want him to. But there's more to know. After Mrs. Baskerville died, Nathan here found me an orphan girl, working for my living in a china and glass shop at Bath. I hadn't a relation or friend in the world, and he got to love me, and he wanted to marry me. But I wouldn't have it, because, in honour to his wife's relations, if he'd married me he'd have had to give up five thousand pound. And they would have taken very good care he did so. The law was his side, but truth was against it, since his wife gave him the money only if he didn't wed. She couldn't enforce such a thing, but he acted as if she could. I went to live with him, and you three children were born. Then, a bit after, he came back here, and of course I came with him. He's your father, but there's no call for any else to know it but us. I don't care, and never shall care if everybody knows it. A better man won't breathe God's air in this world than your father, and no woman have been blessed with a kinder husband in the eye of the Almighty. But there's you three to think of, and 'twould be against you if this was known now. He didn't even want to tell you; but I was determined that you should know it afore either of us died. And now it's pleased God to shorten your dear father's days; and you've got to hear that he is your father."

There was a silence.

"I ask them to forgive me," whispered Nathan Baskerville. "I ask my son and my daughters to forgive me for what I've done."

"No need for that," answered Priscilla. "Lie down and be easy, and don't get excited."

He had sat up and was holding his beard, and stroking it nervously.

Mrs. Lintern shook his pillow and took his hand again. Then she looked at her son, who stood with his mouth open, staring at the sick man. His expression indicated no dismay, but immense astonishment.

"Well, I'm damned!" he said. "This beats cock-fighting! You my father! And now you'm going to drop out—just when I might have been some use to you. There! what a 'mazing thing, to be sure."

"Call him by his right name then—for my sake, Heathman," urged his mother.

"Why—good God!—I will for his own," answered the man. "I don't care a curse about such things as laws and all the rest of it. He's been a rare good sort all his life; and no man could have a better father, whichever side the blanket he was got. I'll call him father, and welcome, and I wish to Christ he wasn't going to die."

Heathman came and took Nathan's hand, and his mother broke down at his words, buried her face in the counterpane and wept.

"Tell them to come over," whispered Mr. Baskerville to his son. "And thank you, and God bless you, son. You've done more than you know to lighten a cruel load."

"Come here, you two, and kiss your father," said Heathman.

The girls came, and first Phyllis kissed Nathan nervously, and then the touch that he hungered for rested a moment on his cheek. With Cora's kiss the tension subsided; he sank back, and Priscilla drew the sheet up to his beard, and again lifted the pillow.

"Now I shall go in some sort of peace, though an erring and a sinful man," he murmured. "If you can forgive me, so will my Saviour. And let this secret be a secret for ever. Remember that, all of you. 'Tis beyond human power to make you legitimate Baskervilles; but Baskervilles you are, and, please God, will lead a better and wiser life than I have led. No need to tell anybody the truth. Forgive your father, and forget him so soon as ever you can; but worship your mother always—to your dying day worship her; protect her and shield her, and stand between her and the rough wind, and be proud of having such a blessed brave woman for a mother."

"You needn't tell me that," said Heathman.

The other stopped, but held up his hand for silence. After a little rest he proceeded.

"The time's coming when she will need all the love and wit you've got among you. 'Tis no good talking much about that, and I haven't the human courage left to meet your hard faces, or tears, or frowns. All I say is, forgive me, and love your mother through thick and thin. All the blame is mine—none of it belongs to her."

He held his hand out to Cora. She was sitting on the edge of the bed looking out of the window.

"You'll remember, my Cora," he said. "And—and let me hear you call me 'father' just once—if you can bring yourself to do it."

"The money, dear father?" she asked.

He smiled, and it was the last time that he ever did so.

"Like my sensible Cora," he answered. But he did not continue the subject.

"You'd best all to go now," declared Priscilla. She rose and looked straight into the eyes of her children each in turn. The girls flinched; the son went to her and kissed her.

"Don't you think this will make any difference to me," said Heathman. "You're a damned sight too good a mother for me, whether or no—or for them women either; and this man here—our father, I should say—needn't worrit about you, for I'll always put you afore anything else in the world."

"And so will I, mother," said Phyllis.

"Of course, we all will," added Cora; "and the great thing must be for us all to keep as dumb as newts about it. 'Twould never do for it to come out—for mother's sake more than ours, even. I don't say it for our sakes, but for mother's sake, and for father's good name, too."

"Such wisdom—such wisdom!" said Nathan. "You've all treated me better than I deserved—far better. And God will reward you for such high forgiveness to a wicked wretch. I'll see you all again once before I die. Promise that. Promise you'll come again, Cora."

"I will come again," she said; "and please, father, make mother promise on her oath to be quiet and sensible and not run no risks. If it got out now—you never know. We're above such small things, but many people would cold shoulder us if they heard of it. You know what people are."

Her mother looked at her without love. The girl was excited; she began to appreciate the significance of what she had heard; her eyes were wet and her voice shook.

"I'll be 'quiet and sensible,' Cora Lintern," said the mother. "I've been 'quiet and sensible' for a good many years, I believe, and I shan't begin to be noisy and foolish now. You're quite safe. Better you all go away now and leave us for the present."

They departed silently, and, once below, the girls crept off together, like guilty things, to their home, while Lintern dallied in the bar below and drank. He was perfectly indifferent to the serious side of his discovery, and, save for his mother's sake, would have liked to tell the men in the bar all about it. He regarded it rather as a matter of congratulation than not. No spark of mercenary feeling touched his emotion. That he was a rich man's son had not yet occurred to him; but that he was a good man's son and a popular man's son pleased him.

Mrs. Lintern suffered no detraction in his eyes. He felt wonder when he considered her power of hiding this secret for so many years, and he experienced honest sorrow for her that the long clandestine union was now to end. The day's event, indeed, merely added fuel to the flame of his affection for her.

But it was otherwise with the sisters. Phyllis usually took on the colour of Cora's thought, and now the elder, with no little perspicacity, examined the situation from every point of view.

"The only really bright side it's got is that there'll be plenty of money, I suppose. I'd give a sovereign, Phyllis, to see the will. Father—how funny it sounds to say it—poor father was always terrible fond of me, and I've often wondered why for. Now, of course, 'tis easy to explain."

"What about the wedding?" asked Phyllis. "'Twill have to be cruel quiet now, I suppose."

"Certainly not," answered her sister. "'Twill have to be put off, that's all. I won't have a scrubbly little wedding smothered up in half mourning, or some such thing; but, come to think of it, we shan't figure among the mourners in any case—though we shall be among them really. 'Twill be terrible difficult to help giving ourselves away over this. I think the best thing would be for mother to take the money and clear out, and go and live somewhere else—the further off the better. For that matter, when the will's read, everybody will guess how it is."

"Heathman might go on with the public-house."

"Yes, he might. But I hope he'll do no such thing," answered her sister. "He's always the thorn in my side, and always will be. Don't know the meaning of the word 'decency.' However, he's not like to trouble us much when we're married. I shan't be sorry to change my name now, Phyllis. And the sooner you cease to be called Lintern, too, the better."

"About mother?"

"I shouldn't presume to say a word about mother, one way or the other," answered Cora. "I'm not a fool, and I'm not going to trouble myself about the things that other people do; but all the same, I shall be glad to get out of it and start with a clean slate among a different class of people."

"What amazing cleverness to hide it all their lives like that," speculated Phyllis. "I'm sure us never would have been so clever as to do it."

"It became a habit, no doubt. 'Twas salt to their lives, I reckon, and made 'em all the fonder of each other," declared Cora. "Everyday married life must have looked terrible tame to them—doing what they did. Their time was one long love-making in secret."

"I'm awful sorry for mother now, though," continued Phyllis; "because when he dies she can't put on weeds and go and hear the funeral sermon, and do all the things a proper widow does do."

"No," admitted her sister; "that she certainly can't. She'll have to hide the truth pretty close from this day forward, that's very clear. She owes that to me—and to you; and I shall see she pays her debt."

"She will, of course," replied the other. "She's a terrible brave woman, and always has been. She'll hide it up close enough—so close as we shall, for that matter. Heathman's the only one who's like to let it out. You know what a careless creature he is."

Cora frowned.

"I do," she said. "And I know there's no love lost between him and me. A coarse man, he is, and don't care what gutter he chooses his friends out of. Take one thing with another, it might be so well to marry Ned at the appointed time, and get it hard and fast."

So they talked, and misprized Heathman from the frosty standpoint of their own hearts. Rather than bring one shadow on his mother's fame, the brother of these girls would have bitten out his tongue and swallowed it.

CHAPTER XII

Nathan Baskerville's bedroom faced the south. A text was nailed upon the wall over his head, and an old photograph of his father stood upon the mantelpiece. To right and left of this memorial appeared trinkets made of shells. A pair of old carriage lamps, precious from association, decorated either end of the mantelshelf. An old print of Niagara Falls, that his mother had valued, was nailed above it.

A white curtain covered the window, but there was no blind, for this man always welcomed daylight. On the window-ledge there languished a cactus in a pot. It was a gift under the will of an old dead woman who had tended it and cherished it for twenty years. One easy chair stood beside the bed, and on a table at hand were food and medicine.

Many came to see the dying man, and Humphrey Baskerville visited him twice or thrice in every week.

More than once Nathan had desired to speak of private matters to his brother, but now he lacked the courage, and soon all inclination to discuss mundane affairs departed from him.

There followed a feverish week, in which Nathan only desired to listen to religious conversation. Recorded promises of hope for the sinner were his penultimate interest on earth. He made use of a strange expression very often, and desired again and again to hear the Bible narrative that embraced it.

"'This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise,'" he said to Humphrey and to many others. "I cling to that. It was spoken to a thief and a failure."

All strove to comfort him, but a great mental incubus haunted his declining hours. His old sanguine character seemed entirely to have perished; and its place was taken by spirits of darkness and of terror.

"'The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,'" he said to Eliza Gollop, when she was alone with him. "If I'd marked that better, I might now have got beyond that stage and learned to love Him. But I'm in fear—my life hasn't took me further than that—all's fearful still."

"No need in your case, I hope, so far as mortal man can say," she answered. "'Tis natural to be uneasy when the journey's end falls in sight; and we all ought to be. But then comes Christ and casts out fear. You've a right, so far as man can say, to trust Him and fear nought."

"But man doesn't know. Yet He forgave the dying thief."

"He did so, though us have no right to say whether 'twas a bit of rare kindness in Him, or whether he made a practice of it. But for my part I steadfastly believe that He do forgive everything but the sin against the Holy Ghost. Of course, that's beyond His power, and would never do."

Mrs. Lintern spent much time at 'The White Thorn,' and since her visits relieved Eliza of work, she acquiesced in them, while reserving the right of private judgment. Priscilla and her children all saw the sufferer together more than once; and then came a day when Heathman, Cora, and Phyllis took their leave of him.

The young man then secreted his emotion and roamed for an hour alone upon the Moor; the girls felt it but little.

Cora declared afterwards to Phyllis that since this great confession had been made, her mind dimly remembered her tender youth and a man in it. This man she had regarded as her father.

All the children were deceived at an early age. They had, indeed, been led implicitly to suppose that their father died soon after the birth of Phyllis.

One last conversation with his brother, Humphrey long remembered. It was the final occasion on which Nathan seemed acutely conscious, and his uneasiness of mind clearly appeared.

They were alone, and the elder perceived that Nathan desired and yet feared to make some statement of a personal character. That he might ease the other's mind and open the way to any special conversation he desired, Mr. Baskerville uttered certain general speeches concerning their past, their parents, and the different characteristics of temperament that had belonged to Vivian and themselves.

"We were all as opposite as men can be, and looked at life opposite, and set ourselves to win opposite good from it. Who shall say which comes out best? On the whole, perhaps Vivian did. He died without a doubt. There are some men bound to be pretty happy through native stupidity and the lack of power to feel; and there are some men—mighty few—rise as high as happiness, and glimpse content by the riches of their native wisdom. I've found the real fools and the real wise men both seem to be happy. A small brain keeps a man cheerful as a bird, and a big one leads to what's higher than cheerfulness; but 'tis the middle bulk of us be so often miserable. We'm too witty to feed on the fool's pap of ignorance; and not witty enough to know the top of wisdom. I speak for myself in that; but you've been a happy, hopeful man all your days; so belike, after all, you're wiser than I granted you to be."

"Me wise! My God! Don't you say that. My happiness was a fool's happiness; my laughter a fool's laughter all the time. At least—not all the time; but at first. We do the mad things at the mad age, and after, when the bill comes in—to find us grown up and in our right minds—we curse Nature for not giving us the brains first and the powers afterwards. Man's days be a cruel knife in the hand of a child. Too often the heedless wretch cuts hisself afore he's learned how to handle it, and carries the scar for ever."

"True for you. Nature's a terrible poor master, as I've always said, and always shall. We know it; but who stands up between a young man and his youth to protect him therefrom? We old blids see 'em thinking the same vain things, and doing the same vain things, and burning their fingers and scorching their hearts at the same vain fires; and we look on and grin, like the idiots we are, and make no effort to help 'em. Not you, though—not you. You was always the young man's friend. You never was a young man yourself exactly. An old head on young shoulders you always carried; and so did I."

"Don't think it—not of me. 'Tisn't so. No man was madder than me; none was crueller; none committed worse sins for others' backs to bear. The best that any man will be able to say of me a month after I'm in my grave is that I meant well. And maybe not many will even say that. Death's no evil to me, Humphrey, but dying now is a very cruel evil, I assure you. The cloud lies behind, not in front."

"So it does with every man struck down in the midst of his work. Shall you write your own verse according to our old custom?"

The other shook his head.

"No. I'll stick up no pious thought for men to spit upon when they pass my grave. I'd rather that no stone marked it. 'Twill be remembered—in one heart—and that's more than ever I'll deserve."

"Don't be downcast. Leave afterwards to me. I think better of you for hearing you talk like this. You tried to brace me against the death of my son; now I'll brace you against your own death. You don't fear the thing, and that's to the good. But, like all busy men, it finds you with a lot of threads tangled, I suppose. That's the fate of every one who tries to do other people's work besides his own, and takes off the shoulders of others what properly belongs there. They'll have to look to their own affairs all round when you go."

Nathan's answer was a groan, and with the return of the nurse, Humphrey went away.

From that hour the final phases of the illness began; suffering dimmed the patient's mind, and turned his thoughts away from everything but his own physical struggle between the intervals of sleep. His torments increased; his consciousness, flinging over all else, was reduced to its last earthly interest. He kept his eyes and his attention ceaselessly fixed upon one thing so long as his mind continued under his control.

Not grief at the past; not concern at the future; not the face of Priscilla, and not the touch of her hand absorbed his intelligence now; but the sight of a small bottle that held the anodyne to his misery. That he steadfastly regarded, and pointed impatiently to the clock upon the mantelpiece when the blessed hour of administration struck.

The medicine was guarded jealously by Eliza Gollop, and once, when frenzied at the man's sufferings, Priscilla had sought to administer a dose, the other woman came between and sharply rebuked her.

"It's death!" she whispered under her voice. "D'you want to murder him? He's taking just what the doctor allows—the utmost limit."

After three days of unutterable grief, Nathan's brother became aware of the situation, and perceived that the end tarried. He debated on this long-drawn horror for a night, and next day spoke to the doctor.

He put the case without evasion or obscurity, and the professional man heard him in patience and explained at once his deep sympathy and his utter powerlessness to do more.

"He's dying—you grant that?"

"Certainly, he's dying—the quicker the better now, poor fellow. The glands are involved, and the end must come tolerably soon."

"How long?"

"Impossible to say. A few days probably. He keeps his strength wonderfully well."

"But it would be better if he didn't? Wouldn't it be better if he died to-night?"

"Much—for all our sakes," admitted the physician.

"Can't you help him out of it, then?"

"Impossible."

"Why? You'd do as much for a horse or dog."

"My business is to prolong life, not hasten death. The profession recognises no interference of that sort."

"Who knows anything about it? A dying man dies, and there's an end."

"I cannot listen to you, Mr. Baskerville. We must think of the greatest good and the greatest safety to the greatest number. The law is very definite in this matter, and I have my profession to consider. You look at an individual case; the law looks at the larger question of what is convenient for a State. Your brother is having medicinal doses of morphia as often as it is possible to give them to him without danger to life."

"In fact, Nature must kill him her own hard way."

"Much is being done to lessen his pain."

"But a double dose of your physic would——"

"End his life."

"How?"

"He would become unconscious and in three, or possibly four, hours he would die."

"You'd call that murder?"

"That is the only name for it as the law stands."

"You won't do that?"

"No, Mr. Baskerville. I wish I could help him. But, in a word, I have no power to do so."

"Is it because you think 'twould be a wrong thing, or because you know 'tis unlawful?" asked the elder. "You might say 'twas impertinent to ask it, as it touches religion; but I'm ignorant and old, and want to know how it looks to the conscience of a learned man like you—you, that have been educated in all manner of deep subjects and the secrets of life."

The doctor reflected. He was experienced and efficient; but like many other professional men, he had refused his reason any entrance into the arcanum of his religious opinions. These were of the customary nebulous character, based on tradition, on convention, on the necessity for pleasing all in a general practice, on the murmur of a mother's voice in his childhood.

"I am a Christian," he said. "And I think it wrong to lessen by one moment the appointed life of any man."

"But not wrong to lengthen it?"

"That we cannot do."

"Then surely you cannot shorten it, either? Tell me this, sir: why would you poison a dog that's dying, so that its misery may be ended?"

"I will not argue about it. The cases are not parallel. Common humanity would, of course, put a period to the agony of any unconscious beast."

"But wouldn't free an immortal soul from its perishing dirt?"

"No. I am diminishing his pain enormously. I can do no more. Remember, Mr. Baskerville, that our Lord and Master healed the sick and restored the dead to life. He never shortened any man's days; He prolonged them."

"I'm answered," replied the elder. "Your conscience is—where it should be: on the side of the law. I'm answered; but I'm not convinced."

They parted, and Humphrey found the other's argument not strong enough to satisfy him. He wrestled with the problem for some time and ere long his impression grew into a conviction, his conviction ripened to a resolve.

In the afternoon of that day he returned to 'The White Thorn' and found Mrs. Lintern with his brother.

Eliza had gone out for a while. Nathan appeared to be half unconscious, but his mind clearly pursued some private train of thought.

Priscilla rose from her chair beside the bed and shook hands with Humphrey. Nathan spoke, but not to them.

"A mighty man of valour. His burning words melted the wax in a man's ears, I warn you.... Melted the wax in a man's ears.... Melted the wax.... Oh, Christ, help me! Isn't it time for the medicine yet?"

He stared at the bottle. It was placed on a bracket in his sight.

"What did the doctor say to-day?" asked Humphrey.

"Said it was wonderful—the strength. There's nothing to stop him living three or four days yet."

"D'you want him to?"

"My God, no! I'd—I'd do all a woman could do to end it."

Humphrey regarded her searchingly.

"Will he come to his consciousness again?"

"I asked the doctor the same question. He said he might, but it was doubtful."

The sick man groaned. Agony had long stamped its impress on his face.

"When is he to have the medicine?"

"When Miss Gollop comes back," she said. "There's an hour yet. The Lord knows what an hour is to me, watching. What must it be to him?"

"Why, it may be a lifetime to him—a whole lifetime of torment yet before he's gone," admitted Humphrey.

"I pray to God day and night to take him. If I could only bear it for him!"

Mr. Baskerville knelt beside his brother, spoke loudly, squeezed the sufferer's hand and tried to rouse him.

"My physic, Eliza, for your humanity, Eliza—the clock's struck—I heard it—I swear—oh, my merciful Maker, why can't I have it?"

He writhed in slow suffocation.

"I'll give him his medicine," said Humphrey. "This shan't go on."

"She'll make trouble if you do."

"I hope not, and it's no great matter if she does."

He crossed the room, examined the bottle, took it to the light and poured out rather more than a double dose. He crossed the room with it, heaved a long breath, steadied himself and then put his arm round his brother and lifted him.

"Here you are, Nat. You'll sleep awhile after this. 'Twill soon ease you."

Nathan Baskerville seized the glass like one perishing of thirst, and drank eagerly.

He continued to talk a little afterwards, but was swiftly easier. Presently the drug silenced him and he lay still.

Humphrey looked at his watch.

"I can tell you," he said. "Because you'll understand. His troubles are ended for ever now. He won't have another pang. I've taken it upon myself. You're a wise and patient woman. You've got other secrets. Better keep this with the rest."

He was excited. His forehead grew wet and he mopped it with the sheet of the bed.

Priscilla did not reply; but she went on her knees beside Nathan and listened.

"At six o'clock, or maybe a bit earlier, he'll stop. Till then he'll sleep in peace. When does Eliza Gollop come back?"

"After four."

"I'll wait then."

"You're a brave man. 'Tisn't many would do so much as that, even for a brother."

"Do as you would be done by covers it. 'Tis a disgrace to the living that dying men should suffer worse terror and pain than dying beasts. Terror they must, perhaps, since they can think; but pain—no need for that."

"I'll bless you for this to my own last day," she said. She rose then and fetched a chair. She held Nathan's hand. He was insensible and breathing faintly but easily.

Suddenly Mrs. Lintern got up and hastened across the room to the medicine bottle.

"We must think of that," she said.

"Leave it. He's had enough."

"He's had too much," she answered. "There's the danger. When that woman comes back she'll know to half a drop what's gone. She guessed the wish in me to do this very thing two days ago. She read it in my eyes, I believe. And God knows the will was in my heart; but I hadn't the courage."

"Let her find out."

"No—not her. Some—perhaps many—wouldn't matter; but not her."

Priscilla took the bottle, lifted it and let it fall upon the floor. It broke, and the medicine was spilled.

"There," she said. "That will answer the purpose. You had given him his dose and, putting the bottle back, it broke. I'll send Heathman off quick to Yelverton for another bottle, so it shall be here before the next dose is due. Then you won't be suspected."

He listened, and perceived how easily came the devious thought to her swift mind. It did not astonish him that she was skilled in the art to deceive.

"I've taken the chances—all of them," he said. "I've thought long about this. I needn't have told you to keep the secret, for it can't be kept. And I don't want it to be kept really. You can't hide it from the nurse. She'll know by the peace of poor Nat here how it is."

Priscilla looked again. Profound calm brooded over the busy man of Shaugh Prior. He was sinking out of life without one tremor.

"There's an awful side to it," the woman murmured.

"There was," he said. "The awfulness was to see Nature strangling him by inches. There's nought awful now, but the awfulness of all death. 'Tis meant to be an awful thing to the living—not to the dying."

For half an hour they sat silent. Then Priscilla lifted the clothes and put her hand to Nathan's feet.

"He's cold," she said.

"Cold or heat are all one to him now."

A little later Eliza Gollop returned. She came at the exact hour for administration of the medicine, and she sought the bottle before she took off her bonnet and cloak.

"Where—why——?" she cried out.

"I gave him his physic a bit ago," said Mr. Baskerville. "The bottle is broke."

The nurse hurried to her patient and examined him closely. She perceived the change.

"He's dying!" she said.

"So he was when you went away."

She broke off and panted into anger.

"You've—you've—this is murder—I won't stop in the house. I—oh, you wicked woman!"

She turned upon Mrs. Lintern and poured out a torrent of invective.

Then Humphrey took her by the shoulders and put her out of the room.

"You can go," he said. "You'll not be wanted any more."

She hastened from the inn and then went off to the vicarage as fast as her legs would carry her.

Another half-hour passed and none came to them. From time to time Priscilla put her ear to Nathan's face.

"I don't think he's breathing any more," she said.

Then came a noise and a grumbling of men's voices below. A violent strife of words clashed in the bar. The day had waned and it was growing dark.

"They'll be against you, I'm fearing," said Priscilla.

"'Tis of no account. They always are."

Presently Dennis Masterman entered the room.

"I hear poor Baskerville is going and they can't find his minister. Can I be of any comfort to him?"

He made no allusion to the things that he had heard, and Humphrey did not immediately answer him. He was leaning over his brother. Then he took out his watch, opened it, and put the polished inner case to Nathan's lips.

"Light a candle and bring it here," he said to Priscilla.

She obeyed, and he examined the polished metal.

"No stain—he's dead, I suppose."

Then Mr. Baskerville turned to the clergyman.

"If you can pray, I'll be glad for you to do it."

Dennis immediately knelt down; the old man also went slowly on his knees and the weeping woman did the same.

"O Almighty God, Who has been pleased to take our brother from his sufferings and liberate an immortal soul from mortal clay, be Thou beside him now, that he may pass over the dark river with his hand in his Saviour's, and enter as a good and faithful servant into the joy of his Lord. And support the sorrows of those who—who cared for him on earth, and help them and all men to profit by the lesson of his charity and lovingkindness and ready ear for the trouble of his fellow-creatures. Let us walk in the way that he walked, and pass in peace at the end as he has passed. And this we beg for the sake of our Mediator and Comforter, our Blessed Lord and Redeemer, Thy Son, Jesus Christ."

"Amen," said Mr. Baskerville, "and thank you."

He rose, cast one glance at the grief-stricken woman by the bed, then looked upon his brother and then prepared to depart.

But he returned for a moment.

"Will you do the rest?" he asked of Mrs. Lintern. "Or shall I tell 'em to send?"

"No, I daren't. Tell him to send. I must go home," she answered.

A loud noise persisted in the bar, but he did not enter it. He took his hat and an old umbrella from the corner of the sick-room, then descended and went out into the night.

CHAPTER XIII

The doctor who attended Nathan Baskerville in his last illness heard from Eliza Gollop what had been done, and he took a serious view of it. From the standpoint of his opinions Humphrey Baskerville had struck a blow at society and the established order.

The physician was sober-minded and earnest. He communicated with the coroner of the district, stated the case impartially and left the official to act as seemed proper to him. But the coroner was also a medical man, and he reduced the problem to its simplest possible dimensions.

Death had been hastened by an uncertain measure of time for one who was enduring extreme agony. He judged the case on its own merits, after a rare judicial faculty peculiar to himself. He made no effort to consider its general bearing and tendency; he did not enlarge his survey to the principles involved. His sympathy was entirely on the side of Humphrey Baskerville; he applauded the old man in his heart and declared no inquest necessary. None was therefore held.

Those interested in Nathan's end took opposite views, and as for Humphrey himself, he was hidden for a time from the people and did not appear again in public until his brother's funeral. He failed, therefore, to learn the public opinion.

Jack Head and those who thought as he did, upheld the action; but not a few shared the faith of Thomas Gollop, openly expressed at the bar of 'The White Thorn' while still the dead master lay above.

For two days Nathan kept a sort of humble state, and the folk from far and near enjoyed the spectacle of his corpse. Many tramped ten miles to see him.

The humblest people appeared; the most unexpected persons acknowledged debts of unrecorded kindness. He lay in his coffin with a face placid and small behind the bush of his silver beard. Women wept at the sight and took a morbid joy in touching his folded hands.

Then he was hidden for ever and carried with difficulty down the narrow and winding stair of the inn.

Thomas Gollop dug the grave and Joe Voysey helped him. No younger men assisted them. They felt a sort of sentiment in the matter.

"'Tis the last pit I shall open, Joe," said Mr. Gollop; "and for my part, if I had my way, I shouldn't make it very deep. In these cases the law, though slow, is sure, and it may come about that he'll have to be digged up again inside a month to prove murder against that dark, awful man to Hawk House."

"'Tis the point of view. I don't look at it quite the same. For my part, in my business, I see a lot of death—not men but plants. And when a bush or what not be going home, I don't stand in the way. 'No good tinkering,' I often says to Miss Masterman, for the silly woman seems to think a gardener can stand between a plant and death. 'The herb be going home,' I says, 'and us can't stay the appointed time.' 'But I don't want it to go home—it mustn't go home,' she'll answer me—like a silly child talking. However, when her back be turned, I do my duty. The bonfire's the place. Jack Head looked over the kitchen-garden wall a bit agone and seed me firing up; and he said, 'Ah, Joe, your bonfire's like charity: it covers a multitude of sins!' A biting tongue that man hath!"

Joe chuckled at the recollection, but Gollop was not amused.

"A plant and a man are very different," he answered. "Scripture tells us that the fire is the place for the withered branch, but where there's a soul working out its salvation in fear and trembling, who be we worms to stand up and say 'go'?"

"It might be the Lord put it in Mr. Baskerville's heart," argued Voysey.

"The Lord ban't in the habit of putting murder in people's hearts, I believe."

"You didn't ought to use the word. He might have you up if he come to hear it."

"I wish he would; I only wish he would," declared Thomas. "Fearless you'd find me, with Eliza's evidence behind me, I can promise you. But not him: he knows too well for that."

They stood and rested where Nathan's grave began to yawn beside that of his brother. White marble shone out above Vivian, and not only his farewell verse, but also a palestric trophy representing the old wrestler's championship belt, was carved there.

"'Twill make history in more ways than one—this death will," foretold Thomas.

"What do you think? Parson's going to help with the funeral!"

"Why not?"

"'Why not?' You ask that! Nat was a Dissenter and his dissenting minister be going to bury him; but Masterman says, seeing how highly thought upon he was by all parties, that it becomes all parties to be at his grave. And he's going to be there; and if the bishop comed to learn of it, there'd be a flare-up that might shake England in my opinion."

"If his reverence says he'll be there, there he'll be."

"I don't doubt that. My belief is that all's well knowed at headquarters, and they're giving the man rope enough to hang hisself with. This may be the last straw."

Comforted by the reflection, Thomas resumed his labours.

"He'll lie cheek by jowl with his brother," he said. "Go easy in that corner, Joe; us'll be getting to the shoulder of Vivian's bricks afore long."

The circumstance of Nathan's passing had been received with very real grief by most of his relations. Even distant kindred mourned and not a few of the race, who were strangers to the Baskervilles of Shaugh Prior, appeared at the funeral. Mrs. Baskerville of Cadworthy felt helpless and faced almost with a second widowhood, for all her financial affairs had rested in Nathan's willing hand since her husband died. Her daughters also mourned in very genuine fashion. Their uncle had been kind, helpful, and generous to them. Only Mr. Bassett did not greatly suffer, for now he knew that his wife must inherit her own and hoped, indeed, for some addition under the will of the departed innkeeper.

As for Rupert Baskerville, he endured very real grief; but Ned was too concerned with the bearing of this event on his own affairs to feel it deeply. He would now be free to administer his capital as he pleased. Only his mother stood between. One black cloud, however, thrust itself upon his immediate future. His wedding was postponed. Cora insisted upon it, and her mother supported her. Their motives were widely different, but they arrived at the same conclusion.

Priscilla hid her grief from all eyes but her son's; while he, less skilled, surprised the folk by his evident sorrow. They failed to understand it, and acute people laughed, judged it to be simulation, and despised the man for his display. Cora and Phyllis neither pretended nor felt grief. The elder had talked her sister round, and they arrived at a perfectly rational conclusion. It was averse from their father. It led them to regard him as a selfish and a cruel man. They considered also that he had deceived himself, and wickedly wronged the unborn that he might perform a far-fetched obligation to the dead.

Cora put the case very clearly.

"Mother won't see it, and 'tis vain to try to make her; and Heathman won't see it, because he's a fool, and only just misses being weak in his head. But I see it clear enough, and the ugly truth of the man is that for five thousand pounds he was content to let his children come into the world bastards. That's what he did, and I'm not going to pretend I care for him or shall ever respect his memory."

"It'll never come out, however," said Phyllis.

"I'm sure I hope it won't—not out of my mouth, anyway. But still it is so, and all the money he may have left behind him won't make me feel different."

"We shall be rich, I hope, anyway," speculated Phyllis.

"I suppose we shall; and that's the only bright thing about it."

"'Twill be funny not walking first behind the coffin, and not sitting in the mourners' pew after for the Sunday sermon; and we knowing all the time that's where we ought to be," said the younger; but Cora exploded the theory.

"Not at all. We've no right there—not the right of the most distant cousin twenty times removed. Mother was his mistress, and she daren't use the word 'husband' even to us, though I've seen her mouth itching to do it. 'Tis always 'your dear father.' She can't put on a widow's streamers, though it's in her heart to. She'll have to balance her black pretty cautious, I can tell you, if she don't want the people to be staring."

"Surely it must all come out if he leaves his money to us."

"He'll do it clever," said Cora bitterly. "With all his faults he was clever enough. He didn't hide this—so clever as a lapwing hides her nest—for near thirty years, to let it come out the minute he was dead."

"If I was engaged to be married, like what you are, I shouldn't be so nervous," said Phyllis.

"As to that, 'twas as well for me that it fell out now and not later. It may mean a bigger establishment after all; and even a bigger wedding, if I put it off till spring."

"My word, what'll Ned say?"

But Ned's view did not enter as a serious factor into Cora's.

"He's all right," she answered. "If I'm content, so's he."

Storm heralded the funeral day, and dawn blinked red-eyed from much weeping. It was hoped that further torrents might hold off until after the ceremony, and happily they did so, though intermittent rain fell and the wind stormed roughly out of a sad-coloured south.

"'Blessed be the carpse that the rain rains on,'" said Joe Voysey in muffled accents to Jack Head.

They were walking under the coffin, and bore it, with the assistance of six other men, to the grave.

"Ban't so blessed for them that's alive, however," answered Jack. "The mourners will be lashed out of their skins by the look of it. Death's never so busy as at a funeral."

A purple pall spread over the coffin, and while humble men carried the weight of Nathan Baskerville's dust, others of greater repute stood at the corners of the coverlet. They included Mr. Luscombe of Trowlesworthy, Timothy Waite of Coldstone Farm, Heathman Lintern as representing Undershaugh, one Mr. Popham from Cornwood, Nathan's lawyer, and others.

Humphrey Baskerville walked beside the coffin as chief mourner, and Hester Baskerville, on her son Ned's arm, followed him with the rest of the family, save Nathan's namesake, who was at sea. Other relations came after them, with Nicholas Bassett, Polly's husband, and Milly, the wife of Rupert. Cora and her mother and her sister were next in the long procession, and half a dozen private carriages stood together beneath the churchyard wall to support a convention and indicate the respect that their owners entertained towards the dead.

Flowers covered the pall and stood piled beside the grave. Crosses, wreaths, and various trophies were here, together with many little humble bunches from cottage gardens, and not a few mere gleanings from the hedgerow of scarlet and crimson berries, or the last autumnal splendour of beech and briar. The air was heavy with emotion, and many wept. A congregational minister conducted the service, and the vicar helped him. After the body had sunk to earth and the rite was nearly accomplished, the chief mourners took their last look upon the lid, according to custom. Leaves whirled in the air, and the branches overhead made a mighty sigh and swough in the brief silence. Underfoot was trampled mire and reeking grass. A pushing child slipped in the clay at the grave-mouth, and nearly fell in. She was dragged back by Thomas Gollop and despatched weeping to the rear.

Humphrey Baskerville came almost the last to look into the grave, and as others had fallen away from it when he did so, he assumed a momentary prominence. His small, bent, and sombre shape appeared alone at the edge of the cleft-in earth, with flowers piled about his knees. Then suddenly, ominously, cutting its way through the full diapason of the storm-sounds on trees and tower, there crept a different utterance. The wind shouted deep and loud; but this noise was thin and harsh—a hissing, a sharp, shrill sibilation that gained volume presently and spread epidemic into the crowded ranks of the collected men. They were mostly the young who permitted themselves this attack, but not a few of their elders joined with them. The sounds deepened; a groan or two threaded the hisses. Then Baskerville, from his abstraction, awakened to the terrific fact that here, beside his brother's grave, in the eyes of all men, a demonstration had broken out against him. Hands were pointed, even fists were shaken.

He could not immediately understand; he looked helplessly into certain angry faces, and then shrank back from the grave to where his relations stood.

"What's the meaning of this?" he asked Ned; but the young man turned and pretended not to hear him. Then the truth came hurtling like a missile. Voices shouted at him the words 'murderer' and 'brother-killer.'

The fire that lights a mob into one blaze was afoot, and leaping from heart to head. Many for a jest bellowed these insults at him, and thought it good for once to bate so unpopular a creature. A few in honest and righteous rage cried out their wrath. Of such were those who stoned the martyrs to serve their jealous gods. More stones than one now actually did fly, and Humphrey was struck upon the arm. A counter display of feeling ran like a wave against the enemies of the man, and induced a shock in the crowd. Masterman and others laboured to still the gathering storm; women's voices clacked against the gruffer noise of the men. Voysey, with admirable presence of mind, drew some boards over the dead in his grave, that no quick spirit might suddenly fall upon him.

The disturbance ended as swiftly as it had begun, for Humphrey Baskerville made a bolt, dashed through the crowd, descended the churchyard steps, and reached the street. A dozen hastened to follow, but Jack Head, Lintern, Waite, Mr. Masterman, and Ben North, the policeman, resisted the rioters, and kept them within the churchyard walls as far as possible. Jack hit so hard that soon he was involved in a battle against odds on his own account.

Meantime, with a clod or two whizzing past his head, Humphrey reached the street corner and hastened round it. Here was silence and peace. He stopped, and his brain grew dizzy. Such exertion he had not made for many years. He heard the noise of men and hastened on. A chaos of ideas choked his mind and dammed all play of coherent thought. He had heard a rumour that the thing he had done for his brother was regarded differently by different men, but he knew not that so many were incensed and enraged. The shock of the discovery disarmed him now and left him frantic. He looked forward, and believed that his last hope of reconciliation with humanity was dead. He envied the eternal peace of his brother as he struggled on against the hill homeward.

Into the black and water-logged heart of Shaugh Moor he climbed presently, and from exhaustion and faintness fell there. He stopped upon the ground for a few moments; then lifted himself to his hands and knees; then sat down upon a stone and stared down into the theatre of this tragedy.

Overhead a sky as wild as his soul made huge and threatening preparations for the delayed tempest. Through the tangled skirts of the darkness westerly there strove and spread great passages of dazzling silver all tattered and torn and shredded out of the black and weltering clouds. For a moment in the midst of this radiance there opened a farewell weather-gleam, where the azure firmament was seen only to vanish instantly. Then the gloom gathered, and huddled up in ridges of purple and of lead. Aloft, from the skirt of the main cumulus, where it swept under the zenith, there hung, light as a veil, yet darker than the sky behind them, long, writhing tentacles, that twisted down and curled in sinister suspension, that waved and twined, and felt hither and thither horribly, like some aerial hydra seeking prey.

For a time these curtains of the rain swayed clear of earth; but their progress swept them against it, and they burst their vials upon the bosom of the Moor. The storm shrieked, exploded, emptied itself with howling rage out of the sudden darkness. Then the fury of these tenebrous moments passed; the hurricane sped onward, and the dim wet ray that followed struck down upon a heath whitened with ice for miles. A bitterness of cold and an ice-blink of unfamiliar radiance were thrown upwards from the crust of the hail; but soon it melted, and the waste, now running with a million rivulets, grew dark again.

The spectacle must have been impressive to any peaceful mind, but Baskerville saw nothing hyperbolic in the rage of wind and water. The storm cited by Nature was not more tremendous than that tornado now sweeping through his own soul.

END OF SECOND BOOK