CHAPTER X
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.