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.'