The good red earth

Chapter I. Jackdaws And Heroes

SHINING upon the lap of Spring like a grey pearl, there lies an ancient and fortified manor house amid red Devon fallows, green hills, and orchard lands in full splendour of June. The hamlet of Lower Marldon straggles through a fertile valley of the west country hard by the sea ; and at the confines of this village, where a sheaf of fir trees rises and tall elms ascend about the way, shall be found Compton Castle, whose time-stained face and crown of ivy appear above an old-world garden spread with flowers. Trim plots of familiar things lie smiling beneath the front of the ruin, and fragile blue and purple, crimson and gold, of immortal blossoms yearly renew their glory before this perish-

I ing abode of former greatness. Weather-worn and rich in lichen-livery of years, the notable ruin stands. Above its windows sinister bartizans most grimly frown ; tremendous walls, lofty as a prison's, ascend about the rear quarters of the castle ; and not a few of its sombre windows and embattled towers remain intact to tell of former strength.

Where now jackdaws chiefly dwell and their harmonies echo, aforetime flourished the famous family of Gilbert; and for the Manor itself, before this stronghold arose upon it during the fifteenth century, it suffices to note that one Osolf held these happy valleys in the Confessor's time, that at Domesday Survey they pertained to Judhel of Totnes, and that during the reign of Henry II. the family of Maurice de Pola possessed them. Alice de Pola brought the Manor to the Comptons; and to the illustrious Gilberts it accrued in like fashion, for Joan Compton conveyed Compton Pole, as it was then called, to Jeffrey Gilbert for her partage in the second Edward's reign. Of their posterity are first remembered and evermore revered the sons of Otho Gilbert, whose lady, a maiden of the Champernowne family, bore not only Humphrey, the adventurer who discovered Gilbert's Straits and established the earliest British settlement of Newfoundland, but also his more famous uterine brother, Walter Ralegh. For upon that Otho Gilbert's passing, his dame mated with Walter Ralegh of Fardel, and by him produced a prodigy : the poet, statesman, soldier, courtier, explorer, and first jewel of Elizabeth's Court. A noble matron truly must have been that Katherine, mother of two such heroes ; and less only in honour to these knights were Sir Humphrey's brothers. Of these. Sir John, his senior, rendered himself acceptable to God and man by his manifold charities, his virtue and his activity in public concerns ; while Adrian Gilbert is declared to have been a gentleman very eminent for his skill in mines and other engineering projects.

Here, within these walls, a tradition, more credible than most, affirms that the half-brothers. Sir Humphrev and Sir Walter, not seldom met ; that Ralegh smoked his first pipe on English

4 THE GOOD RKD EARTH.

soil (though ancient habitations not a few claim that event) ; that the great men discussed their far-reaching plans together, while both basked in the sunshine of royal favour and universal acclaim. Yet, at the end of their triumphs, stealing grey along the avenue of years, Death, hideous in one case, violent in both, confronted each with his sudden dart.

Ancient chroniclers declare how, when the little Squirrel^ a vessel of but ten tons burthen, was bearing Sir Humphrey upon his last voyage from Newfoundland, there took shape before his vision the spectre of a lion gliding over the sea, " yawning and gaping wide as he went," and belching forth a most horrible blast of sound. Upon this monster's disappearance, there rose a tempest, wherein, to calm the shipmen's fears, Sir Humphrey uttered godly wisdom, and, lifting his voice that all the company might hear, cried out, " We are as near to heaven here at sea as at land." Near, indeed, was the great Gilbert to his faith's haven, for that hurricane soon swallowed the little vessel and all thereon. Yet I think the good knight's memory is green ; that his golden anchor, with a pearl at peak, badge of his sovereign's special grace, is not forgot ; that his crest, a squirrel, whose living prototype still leaps in the old fir trees beside his castle, is yet had in remembrance ; and also his motto, worthy of so righteous and valiant a gentleman: '■^ Malem mori^ quam mutarey The navigator passed to his great, restless resting-place in 1584; Sir Walter Ralegh, then busy with the colonisation of Virginia, did not kneel at Westminster and brush his grey hair from the path of the axe until Fate had juggled with him through four-and-thirty further years. Then his sword and pen finished their busy labours ; his wise, beautiful head fell low at the will of a coward King ; and the portion of the great, "well-doing, ill report," was won.

At gloaming time, when the jackdaws make an end for the day, when weary birds rustle in the ivy ere they sleep, and evensong of thrushes throbs through the dimpsy light, loving hearts and eyes, gifted to feel and see a little above the level prose of working hours, shall yet conceive these heroes of old time as moving within their deserted courts. Some chambers are still whole, and bats sidle through their naked windows at the call of dusk ; some are thrown open to sun and rain and storm; the chapel stands intact ; the scoop for holy water lies still within the thickness of its wall. But aloft, where rich arras once hid the stone and silver sconces held the torch, Nature now sets her hand, brings spleenwort and hart's-tongue, trails the ivy, the speedwell, and the toadflax. Bird-sown saplings suck life from the crumbling mortar ; pellitory-of-the-wall hangs its foliage for tapestry ; and the huge throats of the chimneys are choked with accretions of dead sticks piled by generation upon generation of industrious daws. A marvellous delicacy of tone pervades the face of this ruin, and ebony, ochre, grey, and white lichens, spread in a rich texture upon it from fern-crowned battlement to mossy foundation. The great planes of subdued colour sweep from harmony to harmony, shine rosy in the dawnlight, or grey under the rain. The sun loves their faces ; moonlight weaves them into dream-pictures of ebony and silver. Secret chambers lie hidden within the thickness of the walls ; old subterranean ways are suspected ; antique hinges and the staples of vanished doors still paint the stones with red rust. Upon the southern side of the quadrangle a kitchen stands ; but the banqueting-hall and much of the upper regions have disappeared, for time has so fretted the granite, so changed its contours, that only antiquary may speculate or architect hazard of what aspect was the manor house in its youth and prime.

Ivy-mantled, solemn, silent, it stands like a sentient thing, and broods with blind eyes upon ages forgotten ; when these grey stones still echoed neigh of horse and bay of hound, rattle of steel, blare of trump, and bustle of great retinues, where was open house in the spacious days. Under June's soft green shadows the castle lies ; and History has no thriUing page devoted to it, for Compton's scanty story is at once inglorious and unstained. No unhappy spirit haunts its desolation, and the mighty dead, despite their taking off, revisit these glimpses of the moon no more. Good red tilth winds round about, and the clank of plough and cry of man answers the chime of the jackdaws ; grey boughs of ancient orchards stretch to the walls ; bluebells, forget-me-nots, pansies, and columbines are budding at the great entrance ; a tortoiseshell cat, her little paws tucked beneath her, sits upon the " upping-stock " or mounting-block, wherefrom many a hero leapt to horse in Devon's golden age.

So we find the place, at the time of misty-eyed young Spring, and observe within this theatre from olden days the figures of a man and a woman.

Chapter II. A Trust

THE Castle of Compton was not wholly deserted, for in the past a caretaker occupied some chambers at the southern corner of it. Thomasin Hatherley's tenure dated back to memories already more than a generation old ; for after long and worthy service with the Baskervilles — latter-day Lords of the Manor — she had been rewarded with this sinecure, and since dwelt very comfortably at Compton. Evidences of splendour marked the rooms rendered habitable for a caretaker's needs, and in chambers, lofty and airy for the time of their erection, the widow Hatherley dwelt with a grandchild, and a brother some twenty years younger than herself. So at least the relationship obtaining between these three persons was understood by all men, from Sir Archer Baskerville, Squire of the Marldons, downward. Sibella Hatherley ministered to her aged grandmother, did the necessary work of the household, and conducted chance visitors over the ruined castle — a labour her grandparent had reluctantly relinquished after she reached the age of eightv-five ; Joshua Hatherley — a man of lowly intelligence — worked as a labourer on the farm of the Gilberts, where it rose in a nest of orchards upon a slope over against Compton ; and ancient Thomasin herself, now fallen upon the last waning dusk of a life unusually long, sat and dreamed — by the ingle during winter, among the flowers in summer-time — of the days left far behind her.

She sat there now on a June morning in an old canvas chair made for her by a husband dead these thirty years. Beside the dame stood an open Bible on a little table ; and all around was the flow of the sap, the full choir of the birds, and the pulses of a world waking again, quickening again to the last seed in the sun-kissed furrow, to the least spore of fern within some mossy cranny of the castle walls.

Full of thought sat Thomasin, and she ran one bony finger up and down over the knotted veins that laced her other hand.

" Gone ! " she was thinking. " Cut off in the fulness of his strength. A man as might have stood to work for twenty year an' more accordin' to Nature. An' me laggin' wi' three figures starin' me in the faace a'most. Then who's to keep my secret for Sib? Who's to be trusted now? Somebody must knaw fDr certain ; but when a body gets to fourscore an' ten, her doan't put no gert behef in men folks. . . . Parson might have been thought worthy ; but he thinks of nought but foxes, an' he's dazzled by the Pope of Rome seemin'ly — do preach in a windin'-sheet, or some such fantastic contrivance, 'stead of a orderly black gownd. Who'd trust such a perilous popinjay wi' bank-notes? . . . Gilbert gone! 'Twas awnly essterday 1 was mindin' the old time an' the far-reachin' bitterness when Mary Gilbert — maiden name Moss — took the farmer when she might have had the Squire. An' Baskervilles be that peacock-proud, by reason that they comed to England wi' the French afare the Word of God, like they Pomeroys and other foreigners of high renown. . . . Who to tell ? Who to trust ? There's Dick Gilbert, of course ; but he'm avvnly a green youth, an' so set 'pon Sib that "

The dame's musings were cut short at this juncture, and she dismissed a problem very disquieting and too difficult for her aged brains. A man appeared and came slowly towards the Castle ; then, stopping before Gammer Hatherley, he set down a large wicker basket covered with American cloth, mopped his forehead, and shook hands with the ancient woman.

" Ah, Maister Newte, you'm always a pleasant sight for a auld sawl," she said.

Some, however, might have differed from the dame. Alpheus Newte was plump and florid and, at present, very warm. A great humour lighted his small eyes, and they twinkled like a pig's from between fat lids and under black eyebrows. His clean shorn face was round, his forehead broad and pimply, his mouth large, and his teeth faulty. An almost clerical garb was affected by Mr. Newte, although his occupation — of travelling pedlar — might not seem at first glance to promise a mind cast in particularly pious mould. But this packman had more talents than one, as shall appear, and he never allowed a natural fluency of speech and a predilection for public speaking to remain unexercised. These gifts were of unquestioned service, and our "Johnny Fortnight," as such itinerant wanderers were called fifty years ago in the South, contrived to make a very respectable living by employment of a wide tact, ready humour, and a native shrewdness that rose almost to genius in rare moments, but sank to craft more often.

To look at him was to laugh, despite his dirty white tie and respectable hat ; but he knew when and where to trust his comic gifts, when to conceal them, when to quote Scripture. Those who called him "Johnny" were most numerous, and they urged him to abandon the chapman's life, become a mountebank, and add a little to the world's laughter. Others, who spoke always of " Mr. Alpheus Newte," and rebuked the lighter sort for their opinion, also believed that this man was spending his time to poor purpose ; but they held that his place was the ministry. There seemed to be the germ or nucleus of a new sect in Alpheus Newte, and Mr. Cloberry, a seriousminded farmer from Upper Marldon, held so Hrmly to this opinion, that he offered the wanderer a lofty and well-ventilated barn, standing upon the high road to the mother church of the district, and promised to fit it up with all necessary furniture, if Alpheus would play pastor, and henceforth confine himself to a local career in that capacity.

This matter was now under Mr. Newte's consideration, and the prospect appealed to him in various ways ; yet he had almost decided against it, for the chances of practical success were doubtful. The Church was strong in Upper Marldon, and Farmer Cloberry had blown hot and cold on more than one occasion.

Now ancient Thomasin was of those who held Alpheus a leader of men.

" Sit down," she said. " Get a chair out the kitchen an* bide in the shade ; then speak a comfortin' word to a auld woman. A burnin' an' a shinin' light, like what you be, didn't ought trapse the country wi' a gert basket tull o' fal-lals an* trinkrums — all foolish toys to catch sweethearts."

" Burning an* shining I am, mother; but 'tis the sudden fierceness of the sun on a carcase prone to fatness. There's nothing like an honest heart to breed fat. The Word, I see. What a lesson you are to the rising generation I — a beautiful Christian life, with the blessed Word always within a yard of your elbow, as it should be."

"You've got it in your head, which be better. But memory's a vain thing at my time of life — an' power of sight be likewise vain. Tell a comfortin' speech, will 'e, as soon as you've got your wind back. I be down-daunted this marnin' along o' F'armer Gilbert's sudden death."

" Like the grass of the field — a glory to-day, to-morrow cast into the 6ven. Not that there's any oven heating for Gregory Gilbert — a very good, upright man."

" He was proud, however, an' reckoned he corned of better stock than Squire's self Gilbert's was a gert name wance, and built this rubbishy auld place, so I was taught when I corned here; but he — the man that's dead — couldn't show no certain claim, for his folks have been working farmers and cider-makers so long as any livin' body can mind. An' that's enough to go upon. But a gude man ; an' his death's a trouble to me for more reasons than wan. Now cheer me, will 'e ? I've failed back 'pon the Auld Testament of late ; an' it do look a'most as if God A'mighty were busier then than now. He was down 'pon the evil-doer like Doom in them days ; now 'tis shocking the number of rascals that flourish even wi'in a walk of this parish, to name no names."

" His eye is on them, ma'am ; the Lord's hand will fall just at the critical pitch. 'Twas always the same. He gives this generation plenty of rope — to hang itself with. There's a day of reckoning, and that nearer than some of us guess. No son of Adam will escape."

He mopped his face, dried his hot neck underneath the collar, then turned to the Bible.

" Been readin' about the man awnly this marnin' — Adam, I mean," said Gammer Hatherley. " Very fust word he tells is fulish — as if anybody could hide hisself from the Lard ! "

" A many have wanted to, however," said Mr. Newte. " And 'twas a decent wish, come to think of it, for the good soul hadn't a stitch to his name at the time."

" He wasn't very well eggicated, poor twoad, for sartain," allowed the old woman, tolerantly. "'Mazin' thing is how much he did knaw. But for the mercy of God he'd have been a full grawed zany — a fool, to say it wi'out onkindness."

" A fool, no doubt, mother," admitted Alpheus. " And the fools have done more harm in this world than the knaves, as you can very well see in Adam's case. For why ? Because there are more of them, and they breed wonderfully free, do fools. You may have noticed that, if you've cast any particular thought to the parents of long families. Yes, one of the most unfortunate things that ever happened, Mrs. Hatherley, is that God Almighty, in His inscrutable wisdom, made our first parent so simple. To think of missing the Tree of Life — planted there under his nose! I speak as a mere man when I say it, of course."

Mrs. Hatherley nodded. It was a subject that greatly interested her.

" And growin' still in some outlandish foreign plaace so like as not," she said.

Mr. Newte smiled at the thought.

" If I had a hope to find it, I would go to the tropics as a missionary," he declared. " To think the tree's there, and nobody to eat of it and become immortal but monkeys ! An immortal ape, ma'am, is a very unquieting thought, I assure you."

" So 'tis then, an' a creepy beast best of times. Such things better not be spoke even by you. Now tell a bit if you'm rested. Theer's many matters I want to put afore 'e to-day."

Mr. Newte sat down, took the great Book upon his knees, scanned the family history boldly written upon the first leaf, and then, turning to the New Testament, read the first verse that met his eye, and proceeded to expound it in an amiable, pedestrian fashion. The humorous bent of his mind led him in one direction ; the necessity of keeping his reputation with Mother Hatherley chastened his tongue. He spoke for half an hour with glib choice of words, then ceased and asked for some cider.

With grunts and groans the old woman rose and bid her friend accompany her into the house. Here certain old chambers above stairs were turned into sleeping-rooms, a back place was used for washing and cooking, and in a front apartment the Hatherleys dwelt.

Hither came Thomasin, after Newte, familiar with its position, had visited the cider barrel. Then she bid him sit down and listen to her difficulties.

" You must knaw," she said, " that Gregory Gilbert an' me have been friends since boy an' gal, though he, an' his faither afore him, was alius in a much higher way of life than me an' mine — my faither bein' no more'n gamekeeper to Sir Archer Baskerville's grandfather. But chance thrawed us together here an' theer ; an' in the matter of his wife, Mary Gilbert, I did un a gude turn now an' again an' carried letters between 'em. About the lifelong hatred betwixt the Baskerville of this generation an' the Gilberts, I need not tell 'e. That's not to the point. All I want from you is to take a trust an' fill Greg. Gilbert's shoes in the matter of my gal Sibella. Parson I don't trust, for the man's a heathen, an' won't even promise me that little lew corner in Marldon churchyard my heart's been set on these forty year. He sez in his lewd way, ' Fust come, fust sarved,' which han't a purty fashion to speak to a auld woman ; an' now the graves have reached the very place I be hankering arter, an' as that Tabby Strickland up the village is like to die afore me, though younger by two year, her'll have the spot, an' I'll be put out in the sun, wheer they baggerin' childer play between school. An' so I won't trust the man ; but you'm diffcr'nt. 1 can trust you. A poor orphan would be safe in your hands."

*' I hope so, indeed. Was Gilbert a trustee for your granddaughter then ? "

" I don't knaw nothing about such words as that; but I left him wi' a secret, and as he'm gone afore me, 'tis time I looked around for somewan else to carry it. Do 'e see thickly li'l piece o' furniture in the corner o' the room ? "

" I do. It's worth a good bit of money. Old Sheraton, and a very beautiful specimen."

"So Squire sez. Fle've oftered me five pound for it; an' wance, when I reckon he was marketmerry, to say so wi'out disrespect, he offered me ten pound. But theer 'tis, an* I won't part wi' it, though the thing may be sold for Sib arter I'm gone if she pleases. My husband got it at a li'l sale down Brixham way, an' awnly paid ten shillin' for it, awin' to nobody knowin' nought about its value. An' theer's the fust li'l socks as ever Sibella's faither wore in 't, wi' other family matters. Now take the key from out of that yellow stoneware dog 'pon the mantelshelf, will 'e ? Then unlock the cabinet."

Mr. Newte obeyed, and opening the door of the little bureau, peered in with bright black eyes.

"Ah, you'm glazin' sharp, my son, but you don't see nought, do 'e ? "

" Only a pair of infant's socks, mother. Beautiful wool, too. We don't spin such wool in these days."

"He lies in heathen ground, under heathen trees, poor blid. A good son accordin' to his lights, but not so good as my eldest what was took off by a reapin' machine. Now press floor of the thing an' pinch the little knob underneath; then you'll see."

The man did as he was bid ; whereupon a gap suddenly appeared at the back of the cabinet, and

22 THE GOOn RED EARTH.

a secret receptacle stood revealed. Within it he found a bundle of blue documents fastened and sealed with red wax, and a flat tin box.

" Leave the papers, but fetch out the box. Then open it an' count 'em."

Johnny Fortnight gazed with frank admiration. He licked his lips, then his finger.

" Ten pound notes they be, an' never in a dirty hand vet. Count 'em, please. That's my Sib's money. It goodied up to a thousand pound five years ago. Then Gilbert, as had it out to interest for me, told me something had gone scat, an' I growed frightened, an' reckoned I wouldn't trust the stuff out in the wicked world no more. My husband sweated fifty year for it as undergardener to the Court, an' I worked my fingers to the bone for it up to West Lodge, and at the House too — not to name the extra hundred when I was wet-nurse to present Squire, an' saved his life by all accounts. An' I'll have the money onder my own eye henceforth till I pass away. There's a thousand pounds, or I'm a liar."

" A thousand pounds to a penny. 'Tis a great deal of money to have here, Mrs. Hatherlev."

" Safer here than out in the world. Only you knows about it, now Gilbert's gone. I wouldn't tell my awn brother, 'cause he've got sticky fingers where money's the question ; nor vet Sibella. Because a gal as knawed she'd got all that to her fortune would be like to toss her head tu high an' grow spoiled. 'Tis to be hers when I die — not afore."

" Her age at present ? "

" Nineteen."

"And the documents ? "

" They'm hers tu ; though what's in 'em I don't know more'n the dead. Not so well for that matter, for, thank God, I was never curious. You see two children was all ever I had. Fust died 'pon the land — a braave young youth stricken down in his strength by wan of them cussed new-fangled things, wi' more knives to 'un than the dowl's got teeth ; t'other went to furrin paarts, havin' a call as some do to turn his back 'pon his native plaace. Africa 'twas he went — wheerever that may be. Faither knawed — my husband I mean — but I never did. He went at thirty, and he married outways, a English gal.

24 THE (iC)OD RED EARTH.

There was ii darter as the mother Hved to kiss, an' no more. An' come a tew year later, my WilHam sent the Httle maid home aK)ng wi' fifty poiuul. An' a wliile after, just afore he was comin' back hisself to pay us a visit, the black savages failed upon him, and tore down his farm and killed him, as we heard long after. But them papers comed with the little child, an' a message that the whole packet was to be give to Sib 'pon her turnin' one-an'-twentv. 'Tis about her mother's people; an' I ban't noways interested in them; though Sib must see to 'em for herself, it she so wills, when she comes to read what's set down."

Mr, Newte stroked the money.

" Dear little maid," he said. " Your unfailing good sense, mother, seems to show itself in this choice of me, if I may say so without self-praise. Your secret will be safe enough. 1 will share it with the old cabinet; and after you have gone to your reward, I vyill be — a — grandmother to dear Sibella. I cannot take your place, but I will watch her and shield her for love of you."

*' Caan't sav no fiiirer ; an' I'd ax you to take just a slip of that tissue yourself, Maister Newte ; awnlv I knaw such things is all wind in the trees and vanity to a man of vour high stamp."

Mr. Newte stroked the money again.

" Mere paper," he said. " Thank God, mere paper — to me. Yet more powerful than gunpowder— the stuff that spins the world, ma'am. Yes, she shall have it safely, and the documents also, in fulness of time."

" I'm sure you've took a weight off of me, and if you could but ordain for me to lie in that lew corner of the churchyard, I'd die happy to-morrow. Here's the maid comin'. Pop the money away quick, will 'e ? "

Sibella entered, as Alpheus Newte hastily closed the cabinet.

" Funeral's for Thursday, granny dear," she said; "an' 'tis hoped you'll go if a good day with you. Mrs. Gilbert be goin' herself Dear sawl, she's heart-broke, Dick believes, but awnly he guesses her sorrow, for none can see it."

" Stern stuff. Woman of fewest words ever I met," said Gammer Hatherley. " Shc've gude call to weep whether or no, for never a better man than her husband filled a grave tu soon."

" It occurs to me," murmured Mr. Newte, " that I might go across to the Farm at once. A word in season — balm for the sore spirit, mother. Yes, and some neat mourning rings, not to mention certain trinkets in bog oak and some black satin ribbon and various jet adornments. My basket is fitted with compartments. At the mention of death my eye grows sad, and I turn to the bottom of it. A birth finds me in the upper stratum — soft flannels, corals, violet powder, dill-water, and so forth. Yes, and a wedding— that's the largest division in the middle. All summed up, you see, in those three compartments— all there — the whole needs and necessities of human clay, from a napkin to a winding-sheet. And cheap — God, He knows how cheap. I often wonder mvself bv what means I live. However, He feedeth the sparrows."

" Honesty be the best policy," said Mrs. Hatherley.

" And generosity the worst," declared Alpheus.

" Yet some people's smiles are as good as other people's money, and I've got a heart like butter. Sibella, my dear, here's a little thing in my basket that will be proper to this sad ceremony. It need only cost a ' thank you.' "

She followed him, and presently returned with a large black locket on which the letter S appeared.

" He had a whole alphabet of them in the funeral compartment," she explained. "And it opens, granny, and there's a place inside for the hair of the person that's dead — or somebody