CHAPTER III
When Cora Lintern returned home she brought with her a resolution. Her intentions were calculated to cause pain, and she carried them so much the quicker to execution, that the thing might be done and the blow struck as swiftly as possible. She revealed her plan to none, and only made it public when he who was chiefly involved had learned it.
Ned Baskerville called to see Cora, who had been stopping with friends; and when she had spoken upon general subjects, she made him come out with her to the wintry side of West Down, and there imparted her wintry news.
"Have you found anything to do?" was Cora's first question, and he answered that he had not.
"People don't understand me," he said. "Here is Rupert talking about labourer's work, as if it was a perfectly decent suggestion to make. My farm's gone, and he seems to think I might offer to stop there under somebody, like he has himself."
"You want something better."
"Why, of course. I might get a clerkship or some such thing, I should think. A man who has lived my life can't go and dig potatoes. But the difficulty is to get work like that away from towns. I can't be expected to live in a town, and I won't."
"Mr. Tim Waite is a friend of the people I've been stopping with," she said. "He's rich and all that. I believe he might find——"
"Thank you for nothing, Cora. I'm hardly likely to trouble him, am I?"
"Not much use talking like that."
"I'll take patronage, if I must, because beggars can't be choosers; but I'll not take it from my inferiors."
"'Inferiors'! That's a funny word for you to use. How is Timothy Waite your inferior? I don't see it."
"Don't you?" he answered, getting red. "Then you ought to see it. Damn it all, Cora, you're so cold-blooded where I'm concerned. And yet you're supposed to love me and want to marry me."
"I'm not a fool, and if 'tis cold-blooded to have a bit of common-sense, then I'm cold-blooded. Though I'm a bit tired of hearing you fling the word in my face. Timothy Waite always was as good a man as you; and why not?"
"I should call him a mean, money-grubbing sort of chap myself—close-fisted too. He's not a sportsman, anyway. You can't deny that."
"Not much good being generous, if you've got nought to be generous with. And mean he is not. He lent money to your uncle, and never pushed the claim half as hard as many smaller men. I know him a long sight better than you do. And, if you've got any sense left, you'll go to him and ask him if he can help you to find a job. I'm only thinking of you—not myself. I can go into a hat shop any day; but you—you can't do anything. What are you good for? For that matter you don't seem to be able to get a chance to show what you are good for. All your swell hunting friends are worth just what I said they were worth. Now you're down on your luck, they look t'other way."
He began to grow angry.
"You're the fair-weather sort too, then? One here and there has hinted to me that you were—your brother always said it. But never, never would I stand it from any of them. And now I see that it is so."
"No need to call names. The case is altered since Nathan Baskerville ruined you, and I'm not the sentimental kind to pretend different. As we're on this now, we'd better go through with it. You want to marry me and I wanted to marry you; but we can't live on air, I believe. I can't, anyway. It's a very simple question. You wish to marry me so soon as I please; but what do you mean to keep me on? I've got nothing—you know that; and you've got less than nothing, for there's the rent of the house we were to have lived in."
"I've let the house and I am looking round. I'm open to any reasonable offer."
"What nonsense you talk! Who are you that people should make you offers? What can you do? I ask you that again."
"By God! And you're supposed to love me!"
"When poverty comes in at the door—you know the rest. I'm not a heroine of a story-book. All very well for you; but what about me? You can't afford to marry, and I can't afford not to; so there it stands. There's only one thing in the world—only one thing—that you can be trusted to earn money at, and that's teaching people to ride horses. And that you won't do. I've thought it out, and you needn't swear and curse; because it's the truth."
"Damn it all——"
"No good raging. You're selfish, and you never think of me working my fingers to the bone and, very likely, not knowing where to look for a meal. You only want me—not my happiness and prosperity. That's not love. If you loved me, you would have come long since and released me from this engagement, and saved me the pain of all this talk. Nobody ever thinks of me and my future and my anxieties. I've only got my face and—and—you say 'damn' and I'll say it too. Damn—damn—damn—that's thrice for your once; and I hate you thrice as much as you hate me, and I've thrice the reason to. I hate you for being so selfish; and 'tis no good ever you saying you care about me again, because you never did—not really. You couldn't—else you wouldn't have put yourself first always."
He started, quite reduced to silence by this assault. She struck him dumb, but his look infuriated her.
"You won't make me draw back, so you needn't think it," she cried. "I'm not ashamed of a word I've said. 'Tis you ought to be ashamed. And I'm not sorry for you neither, for you've never once been sorry for me. After the crash, not one word of trouble for my loss and my disappointment did you utter—'twas only whining about your horses, and the house at Plympton, and all the rest of it. Vain cursing of the man in his grave; when you ought to have cursed yourself for letting him have the power to do what he did. I'd have stuck to you, money or no money, if you'd been a different man—I swear that. I'd have taken you and set to work—as I shall now, single-handed—but how can any decent girl with a proper conceit of herself sink herself to your level and become your drudge? Am I to work for us both? Are you going to live on the money I make out of women's bonnets?"
"No!" he answered. "Don't think that. I'm dull, I know, and slow-witted. Such a fool was I that I never believed anything bad of a woman, or ever thought an unkind thought of anything in petticoats. But you use very straight English always, and you make your meaning perfectly clear. I know it won't be easy for me to get the work I want. I may be poor for a long time—perhaps always. I'll release you, Cora, if that's what you wish. No doubt I ought to have thought of it; but I'll swear I never did. I thought you loved me, and everything else was small by comparison. If anybody had said 'release her,' I'd have told him that he didn't know what love of woman meant—or a woman's love of man. But you can be free and welcome, and put the fault on my shoulders. They can bear it. Go to Timothy. He's always wanted you."
"You needn't be coarse. I'm sick and tired of all you men. You don't know what love means—none of you. And since you say I'm to go, I'll go. And I'll find peace somewhere, somehow; but not with none of you."
He laughed savagely.
"You've ruined me—that's what you've done. Meat and drink to you, I'll wager! Ruined me worse than ever my uncle did. I could have stood up against that. I did. I'd pretty well got over the pinch of it. Though 'twas far more to me than anybody, I took it better than anybody, and my own mother will tell you so. But why? Because I thought I'd got you safe enough and nothing else mattered. I never thought this misfortune meant that you'd give me the slip. If any man had hinted such a thing, I'd have knocked his teeth down his throat. But I was wrong as usual."
"You gave me credit for being a fool as usual."
"Never that, Cora. I always knew very well you were clever, but I thought you were something more. You crafty things—all of you! And now—what? 'Twill be said I've jilted another girl—not that the only woman I ever honestly worshipped with all my heart have jilted me."
"No need to use ugly, silly words about it. All that will be said by sensible people is that we've both seen reason and cut our coats according to our cloth. The people will only say you've got more wits than they thought. Let it be understood we were of the same mind, and so we both get a bit of credit for sense."
"Never!" he burst out passionately. "You're a hard-hearted, cruel devil. You know where the fault is and who's to blame. You think of nought but your own blasted comfort and pleasure, and you never cared no more for me than you cared for my cousin before me. But I'll not hang myself—be sure of that!"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"You might do worse, all the same," she said. "For you're only cumbering the earth that I can see."
Thereupon he swore wild oaths and rushed off and left her on the hillside alone.
When he was gone she went her own way, but not to Undershaugh. By deep lanes and field-paths familiar to her she took a long walk, and at the end of it found herself at Coldstone Farm, the abode of Mr. Timothy Waite. He was from home, and she asked for pen and paper that she might leave a note for him. Her communication was short, and when she had written it and sealed it with exceeding care, she set off again for home.
Anon Mr. Waite opened it and was much disappointed at the length. But Cora's matter atoned for this shortcoming.
"Have settled with N.B. Yours, C."
And elsewhere, while she retraced her way from Coldstone, the discarded lover came to a wild conclusion with himself. He steadied his steps, stood at the Moor edge in two minds, then turned and set off for Hawk House.
This blow had staggered him, had even awakened him from the fatuous dream in which he passed his days. He had a vague idea that Humphrey might be glad to know of this broken engagement; that it might even put his uncle into a more amiable temper. Ned had been advised by Rupert to see Mr. Baskerville; but had declined to do so until the present time.
At Hawk House Mrs. Hacker met him and made no effort to hide astonishment.
"Wonders never cease, I'm sure! You, of all men! Master be on the Moor, riding somewheres, but if you want him, you can wait for him. He always comes in at dusk. How's your young woman?"
The man was in no mood for talk with Susan and cut her short.
"I'll wait, then," he said. "I'll wait in the garden."
He walked up and down amid the nut trees for an hour. Then Humphrey returned.
Tea was served for them in the kitchen; Susan went out and the way opened for Ned.
"You might be surprised to see me," he began; "but though I know you don't like me—natural enough too—still, I'm your eldest nephew, and I felt at a time like this you'd not refuse to let me speak to you."
"Speak, and welcome."
"Of course, all our lives are turned upside down by this terrible business."
"Not all. In these cases 'tis the drones, not the workers, that are hit hardest. If you've got wit enough to understand what you see under your eyes, you'll find that your brother Rupert, for instance, can go on with his life much as before; and scores of others—-they've lost a bit of money—cheated out of it by my brother, the late Nathan Baskerville—but it don't wreck them. 'Tis only such as you—accustomed all your life to idle and grow fat on other men's earnings—'tis only such as you that are stranded by a thing like this. I suppose you want to get back into the hive—like t'other drones when the pinch of winter comes—and the world won't let you in?"
This uncompromising speech shook Ned and, under the circumstances, he felt that it was more than he could bear.
"If you knew what had happened to me to-day, you'd not speak so harsh, Uncle Humphrey," he answered. "I may tell you that I've been struck a very cruel blow in the quarter I least expected it. Cora Lintern's thrown me over."
"Cat-hearted little bitch," he said. "And you bleat about a 'cruel blow'! Why, you young fool, escape from her is the best piece of fortune that ever fell to your lot—or is ever likely to. And you ask me to be sorry for you! Fool's luck is always the best luck. You've had better fortune far than ever you deserved if she's quitted you."
"You can't look at it as I do; you can't see what my life must be without her."
"Eat your meat and don't babble that stuff."
Ned shook his head.
"Don't want nothing, thank you."
"Well, hear me," said Humphrey. "You sought me of your own free will, and so you may as well listen. You've come, because you think I can do you a turn—eh?"
"I'm down on my luck, and I thought perhaps that you—anyway, if you can help, or if you can't, you might advise me. I've looked very hard and very far for a bit of work such as I could do; and I've not found it."
"The work you can do won't be easily found. Begin at the beginning. You're Godless—always have been."
"Let God alone and He'll let you alone—that's my experience," said Ned.
"Is it? Well, your experience don't reach far. You've come to the place where God's waiting for you now—waiting, and none too pleased at what you bring afore Him. You're a fool, and though we mourn for a wise man after he's dead, we mourn for a fool all the days of his life. D'you know where that comes from? Of course you don't."
"I can mend, I suppose? Anyway, I've got to be myself. Nobody can be different to their own character."
"Granted—you can't rise above your own character; but you can easily sink below it. That's what you have done, and your father helped you from the first."
"I won't hear you say nothing against him, Uncle Humphrey. Good or bad, he was all goodness to me."
"You think so, but you're wrong. Well, I'll leave him. But 'tis vain to judge you too hard when I remember your up-bringing."
"All the same, I will say this for myself: when you pull me to pieces, you'll find no wickedness in me worth mentioning. Whatever I may be, I've always behaved like a gentleman and a sportsman, and none will deny it," declared Ned.
"The biggest fool can be witty when it comes to excusing his own vices to his conscience," replied the old man. "Fox yourself with that rubbish, if you can, not me. To behave like a gentleman is to be a gentleman, I should think, and I understand the word very different from you. You're a selfish, worthless thing—a man that's reached near to thirty without putting away his childish toys—a man that's grown to man's estate and stature without doing so much good in the world as my blind pony—nay, nor so much good as the worm that pulls the autumn leaves into the wet ground. And you pride yourself on being a gentleman! Better larn to be a man first and a gentleman afterwards."
"I've never had no occasion to work till now. Nobody ever asked me to; nobody ever wanted me to. It was natural that I shouldn't. A man can't help his character, and I can't help mine. I hate work and always shall."
"That's clear, then. And I can't help my character either. I hate idleness and always shall. Never have I given a loafer a helping hand, and never will I. A man ought to be like Providence and only help those who help themselves."
"But I mean to work; I need to work; I must work."
"Laziness is a cancer," said Mr. Baskerville. "'Tis just as much a cancer as the human ill we call by that name. And 'tis a modern thing. There's something rotten with the world where any man can live without earning the right to. When next you find yourself caddling about on the Moor wasting your time, take a look at the roundy-poundies—they circles of stones cast about on the hillsides and by the streams. My son Mark knew all about them. They were set up by men like ourselves who lived on the Moor very long ago. Life was real then. Nought but their own sweat stood between the old men and destruction. The first business of life was to keep life in them days. They hunted to live, not for pleasure. They hunted and were hunted. No time to be lazy then. Did they help beggars? Did they keep paupers? No; all had to toil for the common good; and if a man didn't labour, he didn't eat. They had their work cut out for 'em to wring a bare living out of the earth and the creatures on it. No softness of mind or body then. No holidays and pleasurings and revels then. And I'd have it so again to-morrow, if I could. Work and eat; idle and starve—that's what I'd say to my fellow-creatures."
"I mean to work; I'm ready for work."
"All very well to say that now. You may be ready for work; but what sort of work is ready for you? What can you do? Can you break stones? There's a Cornish proverb hits you this minute: 'Them as can't scheme must lowster.' Your father was very fond of using it—to every lazy body but you. It means that if you haven't the wits to make a living with your brains, you must do it with your hands. It all comes back to work."
"I know it does. I keep on telling you I'm ready for it—any amount of it. But not breaking stones. I've got brains in my head, though I know you don't think so. I came to-day to know if you would give those brains a trial. I'm a free man now. Cora has flung me over, so there's no obligation anywhere. I'm free to stand up and show what I'm good for. I've sold my horses and given up hunting already. That's something."
"Something you couldn't help. How much did you get for that big bright bay?"
"Forty-five guineas."
"And gave?"
"Seventy. But, of course, I've not got enough capital all told to be much practical use in buying into anything. What I really want is five hundred pounds."
"A common want."
"And I thought perhaps that you—I thought of it as I came here to see you."
"And still you try to make out you're not a fool?"
"I can give interest and security."
"Yes—like your Uncle Nathan, perhaps. In a word, I'll not do anything. Not a farthing of money and not a hand of help. But——"
He stopped as the younger man rose.
"I didn't ask for money; I only suggested a loan."
"I'll loan no loans to you or any man. But this I will do, because you are the head of our family now, and I don't want anybody to say I helped to cast you lower when you were down. This I will do: I'll double the money you earn."
"Double it!" exclaimed Ned.
"That's my word; and now the boot's on the other leg, and I'm the fool for my pains, no doubt. But understand me. 'Tis what you earn, not what you get. When you come to me and say, 'I've found a job, and I'm paid so much a week for doing it by an independent man,' then I'll double what he gives you. But let there be no hookemsnivey dealings, for I'll very soon find them out if you try it. Let it be figures, let it be horses, let it be clay, let it be stones by the road—I'll double what you earn for five years. By that time, maybe, you'll know what work means, and thank Heaven, that's taught you what it means. Go and find work—that's what you've got to do; go and find what you're worth in the open market of men. And you needn't thank me for what I offer. 'Twill be little enough, I promise you—as you'll find when you come to hear the money value of your earning powers."
"All the same I do thank you, and I thank you with all my heart," said Ned: "and perhaps you'll be a bit more astonished than you think for, Uncle Humphrey, when you find what I can do."
Then his nephew went away in doubt whether to be elated or cast down.