CHAPTER VI
The effect of his financial tribulation on Jack Head was not good. Whatever might have been of Humphrey Baskerville's theories as to the value worldly misfortune and the tonic property of bad luck upon character, in this man's case the disappearance of his savings deranged his usual common-sense, and indicated that his rational outlook was not based upon sure foundations. From the trumpery standpoint of his personal welfare, it seemed, after all, that he appraised life; and upon his loss a native acerbity and intolerance increased. He grew morose, his quality of humour failed him, and his mind, deprived of this cathartic and salutary sense, grew stagnant. At his best Jack was never famed for a delicate choice of time or place when pushing his opinions. Propriety in this connection he took pleasure in disregarding. He flouted convention, and loved best to burst his bombshells where they were most certain to horrify and anger. Following the manner of foolish propagandists, he seldom selected the psychological moment for his onslaughts; nor did he perceive that half the battle in these cases may depend upon nice choice of opportunity.
There came an evening, some time after he had learnt the secret of the Lintern family, when Head, returning to Shaugh Prior, fell in with Cora, who walked upon the same road. He had never liked her, and now remembered certain aggressive remarks recently cast at him by her brother. The man was going slower than the woman, and had not meant to take any notice of her, but the somewhat supercilious nod she gave him touched his spleen, and he quickened his pace and went along beside her.
"Hold on," he said, "I'll have a tell with you. 'Tisn't often you hear sense, I believe."
Cora, for once in a mood wholly seraphic over private affairs, showed patience.
"I'm in a bit of a hurry, but I've always got time to hear sense," she said.
Thus unexpectedly met, Mr. Head found himself with nothing to say. One familiar complaint at that time running against Cora for the moment he forgot. Therefore he fell back upon her brother.
"You might tell Heathman I was a good bit crossed at the way he spoke to me two nights agone. I've as much right to my opinion as him, and if I say that the late Nathan Baskerville was no better than he should be, and not the straight, God-fearing man he made us think—well, I'm only saying what everybody knows."
"That's true," she said. "Certainly a good many people know that."
"Exactly so. Then why for does he jump down my throat as if I was backbiting the dead? Truth's truth, and it ban't a crime to tell the truth about a man after he's dead, any more than it be while he's alive."
"More it is. Very often you don't know the truth till a man's dead. My brother's a bit soft. All the same, you must speak of people as you find them. And Heathman had no quarrel with Mr. Baskerville, though most sensible people had seemingly. He was a tricky man, and nobody can pretend he was honest or straight. He's left a deal of misery behind him."
The relationship between Cora and Nathan Baskerville suddenly flashed into Jack's memory. Her remark told him another fact: he judged from it that she could not be aware of the truth. It seemed improbable that Cora could utter such a sentiment if she knew that she spoke of her father. Then he remembered how Heathman certainly knew the truth, and he assumed that Cora must also know it. She was, therefore, revealing her true thoughts, secure in the belief that, since her companion would be ignorant of the relationship between her and the dead, she need pretend to no conventional regard before him. At another time Jack Head might have approved her frankness, but to-day he designed to quarrel, and chose to be angered at this unfilial spirit. Upon that subject his mouth was sealed, but there returned to him the recollection of her last achievement. He reminded her of it and rated her bitterly.
"Very well for you to talk of dishonest men and crooked dealings," he retorted. "You, that don't know the meaning of a straight deed—you that flung over one chap and made him hang himself, and now have flung over another. You may flounce and flirt and walk quick, but I'll walk quick too, and I tell you you're no better than a giglet wench—heartless, greedy, good for nought. You chuck Ned Baskerville after keeping him on the hooks for years. And why? Because he came down in the world with a run, and you knew that you'd have to work if you took him, and couldn't wear fine feathers and ape the beastly people who drive about in carriages."
Her lips tightened and she flashed at him.
"You stupid fool!" she said. "You, of all others, to blame me—you, who were never tired of bawling out what a worthless thing the man was. You ought to be the first to say he's properly punished, and the first to say I'm doing the right thing; and so you would, but just because you've lost a few dirty pounds, you go yelping and snarling at everybody. You're so mighty clever that perhaps you'll tell me why I should marry a pauper, who can't find work far or near, because he's never learnt how to work. Why must I keep in with a man like that, and get children for him, and kill myself for him, and go on the parish at the end? You're so fond of putting everybody right, perhaps you'll put me right."
The other was not prepared for this vigorous counter-attack.
"Very well for you to storm," he said; "but you only do it to hide your own cowardly nature. You pretended you was in love with him, and took his gifts, and made him think you meant to marry him, and stick up for him for better, for worse; but far from it. You was only in love with his cash, and hadn't got no use for the man. I'm not saying you would do well to marry him for the minute; but to chuck him when he's down——"
"You're a one-sided idiot—like most other men," she answered. "'Tis so easy for you frosty creatures, with no more feeling than a frog, to talk about 'love' and 'waiting.' There, you make a sane woman wild! Waiting, waiting—and what becomes of me while I'm waiting? I'm a lovely woman, you old fool, don't you understand what that means? Waiting—waiting—and will time wait? Look at the crows'-feet coming. Look at the line betwixt my eyebrows and the lines from my nose, each side, to the corners of my mouth. Will they wait? No, curse 'em, they get deeper and deeper, and no rubbing will rub 'em out, and no waiting will make them lighter. So easy to bleat about 'faithfulness' and 'patience' if you're ugly as a gorilla and flat as a pancake. I'm lovely, and I'm a pauper, and I've got nought but loveliness to stand between me and a rotten life and a rotten death in the workhouse. So there it is. Don't preach no more of your cant to me, for I won't have it."
She was furious; the good things in her mind had slipped for the moment away. While uttering this tirade she stood still, and Mr. Head did the like. He saw her argument perfectly well. He perceived that she had reason on her side, but her impatience and scorn angered him. Her main position he could not shake, but he turned upon a minor issue and made feeble retort.
His answer failed dismally in every way. Of its smallness and weakness she took instant advantage; and, further, it reminded her of the satisfactory event that Mr. Head had for the moment banished from her mind.
"Hard words won't make the case better for you," he began. "And to be well-looking outside is nought if you're damned ugly inside; and that's what you be; and that's what everybody very well knows by now."
She sneered at him.
"Parson's talk—and poor at that. If you want to snuffle that sort of trash you'd better ask Mr. Masterman to teach you how. You, of all folk—so wise and such a book-reader! What's the good of telling that to me? 'Tis the outside we see, and the outside we judge by; and, for the rest, you'll do well to mind your own business, and not presume to lecture your betters."
"Very grand! Very high and mighty, to be sure. That's how you talked to Humphrey Baskerville, I suppose, and got a flea in your ear for your pains. And I'll give you another. 'Tis the inside that matters, and not the out, though your empty mind thinks different. And mark this: you'll go begging now till you're an old woman; and 'twon't be long before you'll have your age dashed in your face by every female you anger. Yes, you'll go begging now—none will have you—none will take you with your record behind you. An old maid you'll be, and an old maid you'll deserve to be. You just chew the end of that."
"What a beast you are!" she retorted. "What a low-minded, cowardly creature to strike a woman so. But you spoke too soon as usual. The likes of you to dare to say that! You, that don't know so much about women as you do about rabbits!"
"I know enough about men, anyhow, and I know no man will ever look at you again."
"Liar! A man asked me to marry him months ago! But little did I think you'd be the first to know it when we decided that it should be known. He asked, and he was a man worth calling one, and I took him, so you may just swallow your own lies again and choke yourself with 'em. You're terrible fond of saying everybody's a fool—well, 'twill take you all your time to find a bigger one than yourself after to-day. And don't you never speak to me again, because I won't have it. Like your cheek—a common labouring man!—ever to have spoke to me at all. And if you do again, I'll tell Mr. Timothy Waite to put his whip round your shoulders, so now then!"
"Him!"
"Yes, 'him'; and now you can go further off, and keep further off in future."
She hastened forward to carry her news to other ears, and Jack Head stood still until she was out of sight. He felt exceedingly angry, but his anger swiftly diminished, and he even found it possible to laugh at himself before he reached Shaugh Prior. He knew right well that he must look a fool, but the knowledge did not increase his liking for Cora Lintern. He reflected on what he had heard, and saw her making fun of him in many quarters. He even debated a revenge, but no way offered. Once he speculated as to what her betrothed would say if he knew the truth of Cora's paternity; but, to do him justice, not the faintest thought of revealing the secret tempted Jack.
"Leave it, and she'll most likely wreck herself with him," he thought. "Waite's a sharp chap, and not easily hoodwinked. So like as not, when he's seen a bit of her mean soul he'll think twice while there's time."
Mr. Head began to reflect again upon his own affairs, and, finding himself at the vicarage gate, went in and asked for Dennis Masterman. The rumour persisted, and even grew, that Dennis was paying back certain losses incurred at Nathan Baskerville's death among the poorest of the community. The fact had wounded Mr. Head's sense of justice, and he was determined to throw some light on Masterman's foggy philanthropy. The vicar happened to be in, and soon Mr. Head appeared before him. Their interview lasted exactly five minutes, and Jack was in the street again. He explained his theory at some length, and gave it as his opinion that to pick and choose the cases was not defensible. He then explained his own loss, and invited Mr. Masterman to say whether a more deserving and unfortunate man might be found within the quarters of the parish. The clergyman listened patiently and answered with brevity.
"I hear some of the people are being helped, but personally the donor is not known to me. I have nothing to do with it. He, or she—probably a lady, for they do that sort of thing oftenest—is not responsible to anybody; but, as far as I have heard, a very good choice has been made among the worst sufferers. As to your case, Jack, it isn't such a very hard one. You are strong and hale still, and you've got nobody to think of but yourself. We know, at any rate, that Mr. Nathan Baskerville did a lot of good with other people's money. Isn't that what you Socialists are all wanting to do? But I dare say this misfortune has modified your views a little here and there. I've never yet met a man with fifty pounds in the bank who was what I call a Socialist. Good-evening to you, Jack."