CHAPTER XV
Some weeks after Christmas had passed, Mr. Joseph Voysey and others met at 'The White Thorn' and played chorus to affairs according to their custom. The great subject of discussion was still the play. It had been enacted twice to different audiences, and it proved but an indifferent success. Everybody agreed that the entertainment promised better than its ultimate performance. At rehearsal all went well; upon the night of the display a thousand mishaps combined to lessen its effect.
Joe Voysey summed up to Thomas Gollop, who sat and drank with him.
"What with us all being so busy about Christmas, and the weather, and Nathan here getting a cold on his chest and only being able to croak like a frog, and parson losing his temper with Head at the last rehearsal, and other things, it certainly failed. 'Tis a case of least said soonest mended; but I'm keeping this mask of the French Eagle what I wore, for it makes a very pretty ornament hanged over my parlour mantelshelf."
"In my judgment," declared Nathan, "'twas Jack Head that played the mischief with the show. After parson cooled him down at rehearsal, I allow he went a bit lighter on his part and didn't act quite so forcible, but well I knew he was saving it up for the night; and so he was. 'Twas all Jack all the time, and even when he was supposed to be dead, he must still keep growling to make the people laugh. He's had a right down row with Mr. Masterman since."
"A make-strife sort of man; and yet a cheerful man; and yet, again, a very rebellious man against the powers," said Voysey.
"Well, 'tis over and it shows, like everything else do, how much may grow out of little," added Nathan. "Just a bit of fun at Christmas, you'd say, wouldn't leave no very great mark, yet—look at it—how far-reaching."
"It's brought the eyes of the county on us, as I said it would," replied the parish clerk. "The Rural Dean was here afterwards and took his luncheon at the vicarage and came to the church to see the font-cover; but Nancy Mumford—maiden to the vicarage—waits at table, and she told my sister that his reverence said to Mr. Masterman that we'd fallen between two stools and that the performance was a sort of a mongrel between a modern pantomime and the old miracle play, and that the masks and such-like were out of order. And Miss Masterman was a bit acid with the Rural Dean and said, to his face, that if he'd only had to see the thing through, as they had, she was sure that he'd be more charitable like about it."
"Us shan't have no more play-acting, mark me," foretold Joe Voysey; then others entered the bar, among them being Saul Luscombe from Trowlesworthy and Heathman Lintern. The warrener was on his way home and stayed only for a pint and a few friendly words.
"You should hear Jack Head tell about the play," he said.
"And he should hear us tell about him," answered Voysey. "Jack, so near as damn it, spoilt the play. In fact, innkeeper here thinks he did do so."
"He vows that he saved the whole job from being a hugeous failure. And young farmer Waite swears 'twas Miss Lintern as the Princess that saved it; and Mr. Ned, your nephew, Nathan—he swears 'twas himself that saved it."
"And I think 'twas I that saved it," declared Thomas. "However, enough said. 'Tis of the past and will soon be forgot, like a dead man out of mind."
"That's where you're wrong, Tom," said Heathman. "You can't forget a thing so easy. Besides, there's all that hangs to it. There's Polly Baskerville, that was one of Cora's maidens in the play, got engaged to be married on the strength of it—to Nick Bassett—him as waited on the Turkish Knight. And now—bigger news still for me and mine. Cora's taken Ned Baskerville!"
"I knew it was going to happen," admitted Nathan. "'Tis a very delicate thing, for she's only broken with the man's cousin a matter of a few months. Her mother asked me about it a bit ago."
"You've got to remember this," said Heathman. "I should have been the first to make a row—me being Cora's only brother and the only man responsible to look after her. I say I should have been the first to make a row, for I was terrible savage with her and thought it hard for her to throw over Mark, just because his father was an old carmudgeon. But seeing how Mark took it——"
"To the eye, I grant you that; but these quiet chaps as hide their feelings often feel a lot more than they show," said Mr. Luscombe.
"He was hard hit, and well I know it, for his father told me so," continued Nathan Baskerville. "My brother, Humphrey, in a sort of way, blamed me and Mrs. Lintern, and, in fact, everybody but himself. One minute he said that Mark was well out of it, and the next he got to be very jealous for Mark and told me that people were caballing against his son. I go in fear of meeting my brother now, for when he hears that Cora Lintern is going to take Ned Baskerville, he'll think 'twas all a plot and he'll rage on Mark's account."
"'Tis Mark that I fear for," said Heathman; then Gollop suddenly stopped him.
"Hush!" he cried, and held up his hand. After a brief silence, however, he begged young Lintern to proceed.
"Beg your pardon," he said. "I thought I heard something."
"I fear for Mark," continued the other, "because I happen to know that he still secretly hoped a bit. I don't like my sister Cora none too well, and I reckon Mark's worth a million of her, and I told him I was glad to see him so cheerful about it. 'You'm very wise to keep up your pecker, Mark,' I said to the man; 'because she'm not your sort really. I know her better than you do and can testify to it.' But he said I mustn't talk so, and he told me, very private, that he hadn't gived up all hope. Poor chap, I can let it out now, for he knows 'tis all over now. 'While she's free, there's a chance,' he told me. 'I won't never think,' he said, 'that all that's passed between us is to be blown away at a breath of trouble like this.' That's how he put it, and I could see by the hollow, wisht state of his eyes and his nerves all ajolt, that he'd been through a terrible lot."
"He'd built on her coming round, poor fellow—eh? That's why he put such a brave face on it then," murmured Nathan.
Then Voysey spoke again.
"As it happens, I can tell you the latest thing about him," he said. "I was to work two days agone 'pon the edge of our garden, doing nought in particular because the frost was got in the ground and you couldn't put a spade in. But I was busy as a bee according to my wont—tying up pea-sticks I think 'twas, or setting a rat-trap, or some such thing—when who should pass down t'other side of the hedge but Mark Baskerville? Us fell into talk about the play, and I took him down to my house to show him where my grand-darter had stuck the mask what made me into the French Eagle. Then I said there were changes in the air, and he said so too. I remarked as Rupert Baskerville had left Cadworthy and gone to work at the Lee Moor china clay, and he said 'Yes; and I be going too.' 'Never!' I said. 'What'll Mr. Humphrey do without you?' But he didn't know or care. 'Who ever will ring your bell when you're gone?' I asked him, and——"
Thomas Gollop again interrupted.
"'Tis a terrible queer thing you should name the bell, Joe," he said, "for I'll take my oath somebody's ringing it now!"
"Ringing the bell! What be talking of?" asked Heathman. "Why, 'tis hard on ten o'clock."
"Yet I'm right."
At this moment Saul Luscombe, who had set out a minute sooner, returned.
"Who's ago?" he asked. "The bell's tolling."
They crowded to the door, stood under the clear stillness of night, and heard the bell. At intervals of a minute the deep, sonorous note throbbed from aloft where the church tower rose against the stars.
"There's nobody sick to death that I know about," said Nathan. "'Twill be Mark ringing, no doubt. None touches tenor bell but him."
Mr. Luscombe remounted his pony.
"Cold bites shrewd after your bar, Nathan. Good night, souls. Us shall hear who 'tis to-morrow."
The bell tolled thrice more; then it stopped.
"Bide a minute and I'll come back," said Mr. Gollop. "I can't sleep this night without knowing who 'tis. A very terrible sudden seizure, for certain. Eliza may know."
He crossed the road and entered his own house, which stood against the churchyard wall. They waited and he returned in a minute.
"She knows nought," he said. "Mark dropped in a little bit ago and axed for the key. 'What do 'e want in belfry now, Mr. Baskerville?' she axed him. 'Passing bell,' he said; and Eliza was all agog, of course, for 'twas the first she'd heard of it. 'What's the name?' she said; but he answered nought and went down the steps and away. A minute after the bell began."
"'Tis over now, anyway. I'll step across and meet Mark," said Mr. Baskerville.
One or two others accompanied him; but there was no sign of the ringer. Then, led by Gollop, they entered the silent church and shouted.
"Where be you, Mark Baskerville, and who's dead?" cried Gollop.
In the belfry profound silence reigned, and the ropes hanging from their places above, touched the men as they groped in the darkness.
"He's gone, anyway," declared Nathan. Then suddenly a man's boot rubbed against his face. The impact moved it a moment; but it swung back heavily again.
The innkeeper yelled aloud, while Gollop fetched a lantern and lighted it. Then they found that Mark Baskerville had fastened a length of stout cord to the great rope of the tenor bell at twenty feet above the floor. He had mounted a ladder, drawn a tight loop round his neck, jumped into the air, and so destroyed himself.