The Three Brothers

by Eden Phillpotts

CHAPTER XVIII

Jack Head entered the bar of 'The White Thorn,' and was glad to find Nathan Baskerville at home.

"I don't want to drink, I want to talk," he said.

"Then come into my room, Jack," answered the innkeeper, and Mr. Head followed him into a little chamber known as 'Mr. Nathan's office.'

"I've got together another five pounds," explained the labourer, "and I know you'll do for me what you do for all—put it by with the rest. We come to you, Mr. Baskerville, and we trust you with our savings, for why? Because you ban't a lawyer. You're the poor man's bank, as I always say, and I only hope you get your fair share of good for all the money you put away to goody for us."

"That's all right, Jack."

Mr. Nathan produced a ledger and turned over the pages.

"This makes twenty to you, and interest three-ten."

He wrote a receipt and handed it to the other.

"Wish I'd got your 'mazing head for figures; and so I should if I'd been properly eggicated."

"I shall have some pretty big money on my hands before long, I'm afraid," said Nathan gloomily. "Doctor called coming back from Cadworthy. 'Tis all over with my poor brother, I'm afraid."

"My stars—that mighty man to drop amongst us! Well, he's had a good life and full share of fortune."

"His own folly has finished him too—that's the worst of it. Would be doing the young men's work, and did it once too often."

"A fall, so they say. But none appear to know the rights seemingly."

"Simple enough. Vivian was carrying oats, and slipped his foot on a frosty place. Down he came with the sack on his back. He went insensible; but by the time young Humphrey, who was along with him, had fetched help, Vivian had come to again. He crept in the house and up to his bed. ''Tis nought,' he told 'em, 'just a shake up; I'll be right in the morning.' But he wasn't. He couldn't rise, and felt a lot of pain to the inwards. Doctor won't be sure what's gone, but he reckons that the poor man's ruptured spleen or liver. Anyway, he's going. Fading out fast—and suffering, too."

"Such a mountain as him. I suppose they can't reach the evil. And will all his affairs come down on your shoulders?"

"That is so. Everything will have to be done by me. The boys know nought of business. He's a rich man—I know that."

"A great responsibility, but no doubt you're up to it."

"Not that it will be so difficult either," added Nathan, "because all his money was invested pretty much as I advised. His wife is joint executor with me; but she knows nothing. I could have wished he'd drawn my brother Humphrey in and made him responsible; but he never was sure of Humphrey, I'm sorry to say; and, as bad luck would have it, just before Vivian met with this trouble, he had a terrible quarrel with Humphrey—so terrible, in fact, that when Humphrey called, after the accident, farmer wouldn't see him."

"Nor his son neither. I took hope from that, for if a man's well enough to keep up such a hatred against his own kin, it looks as if he was likely to get better."

"I'm afraid not. I'm going over this afternoon to see him and hear about his will. Please God he'll prove softer. 'Twould be a cruel thing if he clouded his great name for justice at the end by striking from the grave."

"Where should he strike?"

"Rupert, I mean. He took Rupert's going terrible to heart, and when Rupert wrote very properly last Christmas and offered his father his respects, and said as he meant to marry Saul Luscombe's niece next spring, Hester tells me that my brother pretty well threw the doors out of windows. He went to Tavistock next day, and there's an ugly fear in his wife's mind that he had his will out and tinkered it. I shall ax him this evening, and try to get him to see sense."

Elsewhere Hester Baskerville spoke with her husband, and found that he already knew what the doctor had advised her to tell him.

"You can spare speech," he said, "I saw it in the man's eyes; and I knew it afore he came, for that matter. I'm not going to get better. I'm going to die."

"There's hope still, but not enough to——"

"I'm going to die. Where's Eliza Gollop?"

"I'll call her."

"You'd best to hot up the milk he ordered. I'll try to let it down if I can. And give Eliza pen, ink, and paper."

"Don't be writing. Lie still and let her read to you."

"You needn't be afraid. My writing was done to Tavistock afore I came to grief. You're all right, and all that have treated me as a father should be treated are all right. There's tons of money. Where's Ned to?"

"He's going to ride in to the surgery for the medicine to stop that cruel pain."

"Let Humphrey get it. And send Ned to me instead of Eliza Gollop. 'Tis him I want—not her."

She pressed his hand and kissed him, and went out. The huge form lay still, breathing slowly. A fly, wakened out of hibernation by the heat of the fire, buzzed about his face. He swore, and his scarlet nightcap bobbed as he moved painfully.

Ned came in, little liking to be there. He lacked the spirit and mental courage for such a time.

"Kill this blasted fly, will 'e? Then get pen and ink. 'Tis a very old custom in our race, Ned, to write our own epitaphs when we can. I've put mine off and off, along of a silly fancy about doing it; but the time be ripe, and my head's clear."

"Don't say things like that, father. You may get better yet. He's going to fetch another doctor to-morrow."

"Let him fetch twenty—they can do nought. 'Tis the last back-heel that none ever stand against. I don't grumble. I'm only sorry that 'twas my own son has struck his father. Death don't matter, but 'tis a bitter death to know the fruit of your loins—— His work I was doing: let him know that—his work. An old man doing a young man's work. If Rupert had been here, he'd have been shifting they sacks. Let none deny it. 'Tis solemn truth."

Ned knew the extreme falsity of this impression, but he made no effort to contradict his father.

"What I done to Tavistock a month agone, I might have undone afore I went," continued the sick man. "But not now—not when I remember 'twas his wickedness has hurried me into my grave. Where be my son Nathan's ship to now?"

"Don't know, father."

"You ought to know, then. Him that I would see I can't see; and him that would see me I won't see."

"You might see him, father, for his peace."

"'Peace'! Damn his peace! What peace shall he have that killed his own father? He don't deserve to look upon me again, and he shan't—living nor dead—mark that. Tell your mother that when I'm dead, Rupert ban't to see me. Only the coffin lid shall he see."

The old man snorted and groaned. Then he spoke again.

"Have you got pen and ink ready?"

"Yes, father."

"Turn to the first leaf of the Bible, then, and see my date."

Ned opened the family register and read the time of his father's birth.

"Born June, died January—and just over the allotted span. Let me see, how shall the stone read? There's good things on the Baskerville stones. 'Sacred to the memory of Vivian Baskerville, of Cadworthy Farm, in this parish, yeoman.' You can begin like that."

"Shall you say anything about being champion of the west country at wrestling?" asked Ned.

"No. That ban't a thing for the grave—at least, perhaps it might be. Your uncle, the great musicker, had a fiddle cut 'pon his stone very clever. If 'twas thought that the silver belt could be copied upon my slate—— But no, let that pass, 'tis but a small matter."

"Better leave it to us to think about. Uncle Nathan will know best."

"So he will, then. And we must work in a rhyme, for certain; but first, I've got a fine thought to put down."

Ned waited, pen in hand; then his father continued to dictate:—

"'What it pleased the great I AM'—capital letters for I AM—'what it pleased the great I AM to give me in shape of a body in eighteen hundred and eighteen, it likewise pleased Him to call home again in eighteen hundred and eighty-nine.' How does that sound?"

"Splendid, father."

"Now there's the rhyme to follow. I want to work in 'breath' and 'death' if it can be done. You ought to be able to do it, seeing all the learning you've had and what it cost."

Ned frowned and puzzled. Then, while Vivian groaned, he had an inspiration, and wrote rapidly.

"How's this, father?" he asked. "It just flashed in my mind." Then he read:—

"Three score years and ten I kept my breath;
So long I felt no fear of Death."

"It goes very well, but I haven't got no more fear of death now than ever I had. You must alter that."

Silence fell again and Ned mended his rhyme.

"How would this answer?" he asked:—

"Three score years and ten I kept my breath
And stood up like a man and feared not Death."

"Yes, that's very good indeed. Now us must make two more lines to finish—that is, if we can be clever enough to think of 'em."

Ned's pen squeaked and stopped, squeaked and stopped again. He scratched out and wrote for several minutes.

"Listen to this, father," he said at length, "'tis better even than the first." He read once more:—

"Yet now I'm gone, my thread is spun,
And I know my God will say, 'Well done!'"

"The cleverness of it! And didn't I always say you were crammed up with cleverness? But the last line won't do."

"'Tis the best of all, father."

"Won't do, I tell you. Who be I to know my God will pat me on the back? Little enough to be pleased with—little enough. Put, 'I hope my God will say, "Well done!"'"

"You may only hope, but all else know that He will," declared Ned stoutly.

As he finished writing Nathan Baskerville entered with the wife of the sufferer. Hester brought a cup of hot milk, but Vivian in his excitement would not taste until the epitaph had been rehearsed.

"Ned's thought," he said. "And I helped him. And I shall be proud to lie under it—any man might. Give me the paper."

His son handed it to him, and he read the rhyme aloud with great satisfaction.

"Three score years and ten I kept my breath,
And stood up like a man and feared not Death;
Yet now I'm gone, my thread is spun,
And I hope my God will say, 'Well done!'"

How's that, Nat? So good as the musicker's own in my judgment."

"Splendid! Splendid!" declared Nathan. He was much moved. He blew his nose and went to the window awhile. Then, Vivian being relieved and fed, the innkeeper returned to him and sat beside him. Hester Baskerville and her son went out and left the brothers together.

"Us'll talk business, Nat," said the sick man presently.

"And first I want you to know that you'll have more than your trouble for your pains. 'Tis a common thing with dying people to leave a lot of work behind 'em for somebody to do, and never a penny piece of payment for doing it. But not me. There's fifty pound for you, Nat. I've scrimped in reason all my life. I've——"

He was stopped by pain.

"Ban't far off, I reckon. Can't talk much more. You'll do all right and proper. I trust my widow and childer to you. My boy Ned be no good at figures, so I look to you."

"To the very best of my power I'll do by them all. Leave that now. You're the sort who isn't taken unprepared. I want to say a word about Rupert, if you'll let me."

"Not a word—not a breath! That book is closed, not to be opened no more. You don't want to add another pang to my end, do you? Let me forget him. I've forgiven him—that's enough."

"'Tisn't to forgive him, my dear Vivian, if you have cut him off with nought."

"I'll hear no more!" cried the other. "I'll think no more of him, nor yet of Humphrey. 'Tis they have cruelly and wickedly wronged me. 'Tis Rupert have brought me here, and hastened me into my grave ten years afore the time, and he'll have to answer to his God for it."

"Leave it then—leave it and talk of other things. You'll like Ned to take Cora Lintern? You'll like that? And I shall do something for Cora. I'm very fond of her."

They talked for half an hour. Then Vivian cried out for his wife and Nathan left him.

That evening Dennis Masterman came to see the farmer, and on the following day he called again. None knew what passed between them, but it seemed that by some happy inspiration the clergyman achieved what Vivian Baskerville's wife and brother had failed to do. Dennis had heard, from the master of 'The White Thorn,' that the sick man was passing at enmity with his brother and with his son; but he strove successfully against this determination and, before he left Cadworthy, Vivian agreed to see his relations. The day was already waning when Ned Baskerville himself rode to fetch Rupert, and the lad Humphrey hastened to Hawk House.

Eliza Gollop told the sequel to her brother afterwards.

"It got to be a race towards the end, for the poor man fell away all of a sudden after three o'clock. Nature gived out, as it will sometimes, like a douted candle. He'd forgot all about everything afore he died. Only his grave stuck in his mind, and I read over the epitaph till I was weary of it. Then he went frightened all of a sudden. 'To think o' me lying there alone among dead folk of evenings, wi' nought but the leather-birds[[1]] squeaking over the graves,' he said. 'You won't be there, my dear,' I told him. 'You'll be up where there's no sun nor yet moon, bathing for evermore in the light of righteousness.' Then he flickered and he flickered, and wandered in his speech, and the last words I could catch was, 'What's all this pucker about? I shall be my own man again in a day or two.' He was hollow-eyed and his nose growed so sharp as a cobbler's awl, poor dear, and I knowed he'd soon be out of his misery. His wife was along with him when he died, her and the two daughters; and poor Hester—Hester I call her, for she let me use the Christian name without a murmur—she was cut in half listening to his death-rattle o' one side and hoping to hear her son Rupert gallop up 'pon the other. 'Twas a race, as I say; but Rupert had been long ways off to work, and Ned had to find him, and what with one thing and another, his father had been out of the world twenty good minutes afore he came. He runned up the stairs white from the clay-works. But there was only more clay on the bed to welcome him. I left 'em at that sacred moment, as my custom is, and went down house, and was just in time to see Humphrey Baskerville ride up in hot haste on his one-eyed pony. 'How is it with him?' he said, getting off very spry. 'I hope, as he could send for me, that he finds hisself better.' 'Not at all,' I answered him. 'The poor man sent because he was worse, and felt himself slipping away.' 'Then I'd best be quick,' he replied to me; and I broke it to him that 'twas too late. 'He's gone, sir,' I said. 'Like the dew upon the fleece he be gone. Half an hour ago he died, and suffered very little at the end, so far as a mortal but experienced woman can tell you.' He stared slap through me, in that awful way he has, then he turned his back and got up on his beast and rode off without a word or a sign. Lord, He knows what that old pony must have thought of it all. 'Twas sweating and staggering, and, no doubt, full of wonder and rage at being pushed along so fast."

[[1]] Leather-birds—bats.

END OF FIRST BOOK