CHAPTER IX
Susan Hacker and her master sat together in the kitchen. He had lighted his pipe; she was clearing away the remains of a somewhat scanty meal, and she was grumbling loudly as she did so.
"Leave it," he cried at length, "or I won't show you the christening mug for Milly's baby. It have come from Plymouth, and a rare, fine, glittering thing it is."
"I won't leave it," she answered. "You can't see the end of this, but I can. People know you've got plenty of money, but they don't know the way you're fooling it about, and presently, when you go and get ill, and your bones begin to stick through your skin, 'tis I shall be blamed."
"Not a bit of it. They all think I'm a miser, don't they? Let 'em go on thinking it. 'Tis the way of a miser's bones to stick out through his skin. Everybody knows that I live cheap from choice and always have. I hate the time given to eating and drinking."
"You've always lived like a labouring man," she admitted. "But of late, here and there, people be more friendly towards you, because you let your folk bide at Cadworthy; and I'm sick and tired of hearing Hester Baskerville tell me you don't eat enough, and Rupert and Milly too. Then there's that Gollop woman and a few other females have said things against me about the way I run this house. And 'tis bad to suffer it, for the Lord knows I've got enough on my mind without their lies."
"Get 'em off your mind, then," he answered. "You're a changed woman of late, and I'll tell you what's done it. I only found out myself a bit ago and said nought; but now I will speak. I've wondered these many weeks what had come over you, and three days since I discovered. And who was it, d'you think, told me?"
Her guilty heart thumped at Susan's ribs.
"Not Jack Head?" she asked.
"Jack? No. What does he know about you? Jack's another changed creature. He was pretty good company once, but his losses have soured him. 'Twasn't Jack. 'Twas the reverend Masterman. You've signed the pledge, I hear."
"He'd no business to tell," declared Susan. "Yes, I have signed it. I'm a wicked woman, and never another drop shall pass my lips."
"'Tis that that's made you cranky, all the same," he declared. "You was accustomed to your tipple and you miss it. However, I'm the last to say you did wrong in signing. When your organs get used to going without, you'll find yourself better company again. And don't worry about the table I keep. I live low from choice, not need. It suits me to starve a bit. I'm the better and cheerfuller for it."
But then she took up the analysis and explained to him whence his good health and spirits had sprung.
"Ban't that at all. 'Tis what you be doing have got into your blood. I know—I know. You've hid it from all of 'em, but you haven't hid it from me. I don't clean up all the rubbish you make and sift your waste-paper basket for nought. I itch to let it out! But God forgive me, I've let out enough in my time."
He turned on her angrily; then fearlessly she met his frown and he subsided.
"You're a dangerous, prying woman," he said, "and you ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"I'm all that," she admitted; "and shame isn't the word. I'm ashamed enough, and more than ashamed."
"If you let out a breath of my little games, I'll pack you off into the street that very day, Susan."
She sat down by the fire and took her knitting off the peat box where it was usually to be found.
"You needn't fear me," she answered. "I've had my lesson. If ever I tell again what I should not, you may kick me into the gutter."
He mused over the thoughts that she had awakened.
"I know a mazing deal more about the weaknesses of my brother Nathan now than ever I did while the man was in life," he began. "He was always giving—always giving, whether he had it to give or whether he hadn't. I'm not defending him, but I know what it felt like a bit now. Giving be like drink: it grows on a man the same as liquor does. Nathan ought to have taken the pledge against giving. And yet 'tis just another example of how the Bible word never errs. On the face of it you'd think 'twas better fun to receive than to give. But that isn't so. Once break down the natural inclination, shared by the dog with his bone, to stick to what you've got—once make yourself hand over a bit to somebody else—and you'll find a wonderful interest arise out of it."
"Some might. Some would break their hearts if they had to fork out like you've been doing of late."
"They be the real misers. To them their stuff is more than food and life and the welfare of the nation. And even them, if we could tear their gold away from them, might thank us after they'd got over the operation, and found themselves better instead of worse without it."
"All that's too deep for me," she answered. "The thing that's most difficult to me be this: How do you get any good out of helping these poor folk all underhand and unknown? Surely if a man or woman does good to others, he's a right to the only payment the poor can make him. And that's gratitude. Why won't you out with it and let them thank you?"
"You're wrong," he said. "I've lived too many years in the world to want that. I'm a fool here and there, Susan; but I'm not the sort of fool that asks from men and women what's harder to give than any other thing. To put a fellow-creature under an obligation is to have a faith in human nature that I never have had, and never shall have. No, I don't want that payment; I'm getting better value for my money than that."
"So long as you're satisfied——"
Silence followed and each pursued a private line of thought. Humphrey puffed his pipe; Susan knitted, and her wooden needles tapped and rattled a regular tune. She was wondering whether the confession that she desired to make might be uttered at this auspicious moment. Her conscience tortured her; and it was the weight of a great misery on her mind, not the fact of giving up liquor, that had of late soured her temper. She had nearly strung herself to tell him of her sins when he, from the depths of his being, spoke again. But he was scarcely conscious of a listener.
"To think that a man like me—so dark and distrustful—to think that even such a man—I, that thought my heart was cracked for ever when my son died—I, that said to myself 'no more, no more can any earthly thing fret you now.' And yet all the time, like a withered pippin—brown, dry as dust—there was that within that only wanted something—some heat to the pulp of me—to plump me out again. To think that the like of me must have some other thing to—to cherish and foster! To think my shrivelled heart-strings could ever stretch and seek for aught to twine around again! Who'd believe it of such a man as me? God A'mighty! I didn't believe it of myself!"
"But I knowed it," said Susan. "You always went hunger-starved for people to think a bit kindly of you; you always fretted when decent folk didn't like you."
"Not that—not that now. I wanted their good-will; but I've found something a lot higher than that. To see a poor soul happy is better far than to see 'em grateful. What does that matter? To mark their downward eye uplifted again; to note their fear for the future gone; to see hope creep back to 'em; to watch 'em walk cheerful and work cheerful; to know they laugh in their going once more; that they lie themselves down with a sigh of happiness and not of grief—ban't all that grander than their gratitude? Gratitude must fade sooner or late, for the largest-hearted can't feel it for ever, try as he may. Benefits forgot are dust and ashes to the giver—if he remembers. But none can take from me the good I've won from others' good; and none can make that memory dim."
"'Tis a fairy story," murmured Mrs. Hacker.
"No," he said, "'tis a little child's story—the thing they learn at a mother's knees; and because I was a growed-up man, I missed it. 'Tis a riddle a generous child could have guessed in a minute; but it took one stiff-necked fool from his adult days into old age afore he did."
Susan's mind moved to her purpose, and she knew that never again might fall so timely a moment. She put down her knitting, flung a peat on the fire, and spoke.
"You be full of wonderful tales to-night, but now I'll please ask you to listen to me," she began. "And mark this: you can't well be too hard upon me. I've got a pack of sins to confess, and if, when you've heard 'em, you won't do with me no more, then do without me, and send me through that door. I deserve it. There's nought that's bad I don't deserve."
He started up.
"What's this?" he said. "You haven't told anybody?"
"No, no, no. Ban't nothing about your affairs. In a word, I overheard a secret. I listened. I did it out of woman's cursed curiosity. And, as if that weren't enough, I got drunk as a fly down to 'The White Thorn' a while back and let out the truth. And nought's too bad for me—nought in nature, I'm sure."
Mr. Baskerville put down his pipe and turned to her.
"Don't get excited. Begin at the beginning. What did you hear?"
"I heard Mrs. Lintern tell you she was your brother's mistress. I heard her tell you her children was also his."
"And you're scourged for knowing it. Let that be a lesson to you, woman."
"That's only the beginning. I ban't scourged for that. I'm scourged because I've let it out again."
"I'm shocked at you," he answered. "Yes, I'm very much shocked at you; but I'm not at all surprised. I knew as sure as I knew anything that 'twould out. The Lord chooses His own time and His own tool. But that don't make your sin smaller. You're a wicked woman."
"I've signed the pledge, however, and not another drop——"
"How many of 'em did you tell?"
"But one. Of course, I chose the man with the longest tongue. Jack Head saw me up the hill after closing time and—there 'twas—I had to squeak. But I made him swear as solemn as he knowed how that he wouldn't."
"He's not what he was. We had a proper row a month ago. I doubt if he'll ever speak to me again. And until he makes a humble apology for what he spoke, I won't hear him."
"He swore he wouldn't tell."
"Be that as it may, it will be known. It's started and it won't stop."
They talked for two hours upon the problems involved in these facts. Then there came a knock at the door and Susan went to answer it.
Mr. Baskerville heard a protracted mumble and finally, after some argument, Mrs. Hacker shut the door and returned into the kitchen with a man.
It was Jack himself.
He explained the reason for his unduly late visit. He was anxious and troubled. He spoke without his usual fluency.
"I didn't come to see you," he said. "I waited till 'twas past your hour for going to bed. But knowing that Mrs. Hacker was always later, I thought to speak to her. However, nothing would do but I came in, and here I be."
"I'll have nought to say to you, Head—not a single word—until you make a solemn apology for your infernal impudence last time you stood here afore me," said the master of Hawk House, surveying his visitor.
"So Susan tells me, and so I will then," replied Jack. "So solemn as ever you like. You was right and I was wrong, and I did ought to have been kicked from here to Cosdon Beacon and back for what I said to you. We'm always punished for losing of our tempers. And I was damn soon punished for losing mine, as you shall hear. But first I confess that I was wrong and ax you, man to man, to forgive me."
"Which I will do, and here's my hand on it," said the other.
The old men shook hands and Susan wept. Her emotion was audible and Humphrey told her to go to bed. She refused.
"I'm in this," she said. "'Tis all my wicked fault from beginning to end, and I'm going to hear it out. I shall weep my eyes blistered afore morning."
"Don't begin now, then. If you're going to stop here, be silent," said Humphrey.
She sniffed, wiped her face, and then fetched a black bottle, some drinking water, and two glasses.
"Light your pipe and say what you feel called upon to say," concluded Humphrey to Mr. Head.
"'Tis like this," answered the other. "Every man wants to boss somebody in this world. That's a failing of human nature, and if we ain't strong enough to lord it over a fellow-creature, we try to reign over a hoss or even a dog. Something we have to be master of. Well, long since I marked that, and then, thanks to my understanding and sense, I comed to see—or I may have read it—that 'twas greater far to lord it over yourself than any other created thing."
"And harder far," said Humphrey.
"Without doubt you'm right. And I set about it, and I had myself in hand something wonderful; and very proud I felt of it, as I had the right to feel."
"Then the Lord, seeing you puffed up, sent a hard stroke to try whether you was as clever as you thought you was—and He found you were not," suggested Mr. Baskerville.
"I don't care nothing about that nonsense," answered Jack; "and, knowing my opinions, there ain't no call to drag the Lord in. All I do know is that my hard-earned savings went, and—and—well, I got my monkey up about it, and I got out of hand. Yes, I got out of hand. The awful shock of losing my thirty-five pounds odd took me off my balance. For a bit I couldn't stand square against it, and I did some vain things, and just sank to be a common, everyday fool, like most other people."
"'Tis a good thing you can see it, for 'twill end by righting your opinion of yourself."
"My opinion of myself was a thought too high. I admit it," answered Jack. "For the moment I was adrift—but only for the moment. Now I've come back to my common-sense and my high ideas, I can assure you. But the mischief is that just while I was dancing with rage and out of hand altogether, I did some mistaken things. Enough I had on my mind to make me do 'em, too. But I won't excuse 'em. I'll say, out and out, that they were very wrong. You've agreed to overlook one of those things, and you say you'll forgive me for talking a lot of rubbish against you, for which I'm terrible sorry. So that's all right, and no lasting harm there. But t'other job's worse."
Jack stopped for breath, and Susan sighed from the bottom of her immense bosom. Humphrey poured out some gin and water for his guest. Then he helped himself more sparingly.
"Here's to you," said Jack. "To drink under this roof is to be forgiven. Now I'll go on with my tale, and tell you about the second piece of work."
He related how he had left Hawk House in wrath, how he had met with Timothy Waite; how he had been reproved and how he had hit back both with his fists and his tongue.
"He knocked me down and gave me the truth of music with his heavy stick. I hit him first, and I'm not saying anything about what he did, though there may be thirty years between us; but anyway he roused Cain in me and I told him, in a word, that the woman he was going to marry was the natural child of Nathan Baskerville. 'Twas a double offence against right-doing, because I'd promised Susan here not to let it out, and because to tell Waite, of all men, was a cowardly deed against the girl, seeing he meant to marry her. But I'd quarrelled with her already, and tell him I did; and now I tell you."
He drank and stared into the fire. For some time Humphrey did not reply; but at last he expressed his opinion.
"It all depends on the sort of chap that Waite may prove to be. He'll either believe you, or he won't. If he don't, no harm's done. If he do, then 'tis his character and opinions will decide him. For his own sake we'll trust he'll throw her off, for woe betide the man that marries her; but if he loves her better than her havage, he'll go his way and care nothing. If he looks at it different, and thinks the matter can't rest there, he'll go further. For my part I can't say I care much about it. All I know is that Priscilla Lintern has rare virtues, though she weren't virtuous, and she've lived on no bed of roses, for all the brave way in which she stands up for my late brother. She won't be sorry the murder's out. When she told me—or when I told her—I made it plain that in my opinion this ought to be known. She stood for the children, not herself, and said it never must be known for their sakes. Well, now we shall see who hears it next. As for you two, you've got your consciences, and it ban't for me to come between you and them."
"Well, I've told my story, and admitted my failings like a man," said Jack, "and, having done so, I can do no more. My conscience is cleared, and I defy it to trouble me again; and I may add that I'll take mighty good care not to give it the chance. So there you are. And come what may, I can stand to that."
"How if they deny it and have you up for libel?" asked Mr. Baskerville; but Jack flouted the idea.
"Not them," he said. "Have no fear on that score. I've got this woman for witness, and I've got you. For that matter, even if 'twas known, nobody wouldn't die of astonishment. Since the things Eliza Gollop said after Nathan died, 'twould come as a very gentle surprise, I believe. And, when all's said, who's the worse, except what be called public morals?"
Mr. Baskerville nodded.
"There's some sense in what you say, Jack. And I'm glad we're friends again. And now I'm going to bed, so I'll ax you to be gone."
Head rose, finished his refreshment, and shook Mr. Baskerville's hand.
"And I'm the better for knowing as you've been large-minded enough to forgive me," he said. "And as you can, I suppose Susan here can. I know I'm very much in her black books, and I deserve that too, and I'd make it up to her in any way I can—except to marry her. That I never will do for any woman as long as I live."
"No, and never will get the chance to," replied Susan; "and I only trust to God 'twill all die out, and we hear no more of it."
Head turned at the door and spoke a final word.
"It may interest you to know that everybody have had their money now—everybody but me and Thomas Coode, the drunken farmer at Meavy. 'Tis strange I should be put in the same class with Coode; but so it is. However, I've larned my lesson. I shall say no more about that. Think of it I must, being but mortal, but speak I won't."
"You'll do well to forget it," answered Mr. Baskerville. "The man, or woman if 'twas one, be probably settled in their mind not to pay you or Coode back—since you're so little deserving."
Jack shrugged his shoulders, but kept his recent promise and went out silently.