Slowly from that night, but surely, Cradockʼs mind began to return,
like a child to its mother, who is stretching forth her arms to it;
timid at first and wondering, and apt for a long time to reel and
stagger at very slight shocks or vibrations. Then as the water comes
over the ice in a gradual gentle thaw, beginning to gleam at the margin
first, where the reeds are and the willow–trees, then gliding slowly
and brightly on, following every skate–mark or line where a rope or
stick has been, till it flows into a limpid sheet; so crystal reason
dawned and wavered, felt its way and went on again, tracing many a
childish channel, many a dormant memory, across that dull lethargic
mind, until the bright surface was restored, and the lead line of
judgment could penetrate.
Mr. Rosedew quartered himself and his Amy at the Portland Hotel hard
by, and reckless of all expense moved Cradock into Mrs. Ducksacreʼs
very best room. He would have done this long ago, only the doctor would
not allow it. Then Amy, who did not like London at all, because there
were so few trees in it, hired some of the Christmas–grove from the
fair greengrocers, and decked out the little sitting–room, so that
Cradock had sweet visions of the Queenʼs bower mead. As for herself,
she would stay in the shop, perhaps half an hour together, and rejoice
in the ways of the children. All her pocket–money went into the till as
if you had taken a shovel to it. Barcelonas, Brazils, and cob–nuts she
was giving all day to the “warmints;” and golden oranges rolled before
her as from Atalantaʼs footstep.
It is a most wonderful fact, and far beyond my philosophy, that instead
of losing her roses in London, as a country girl ought to have done,
Amy bloomed with more Jacqueminot upon very bright occasions—more
Louise Odier constantly, with Goubalt in the dimples, then toning off
at any new fright to Malmaison, or Devoniensis—more of these roses now
carmined or mantled in the delicate turn of her cheeks than ever had
nestled and played there in the free air of the Forest. Good Aunt Doxy
was quite amazed on the Saturday afternoon, when meeting her brother
and niece at the station—for it made no difference in the outlay, and
the drive would do her good—she found, not a pale and withered child,
worn out with London racket, and freckled with dust and smokespots, but
the loveliest Amy she had ever yet seen—which was something indeed to
say,—with a brilliance of bloom which the good aunt at once proceeded
to test with her handkerchief.
But before the young lady left town—to wit, on the Friday evening—she
had a little talk with Rachel Jupp, or rather with strapping Issachar,
which nearly concerns our story.
“Oh, Miss Amy,” said Rachel that morning—”Miss Amy” sounded more
natural somehow than “Miss Rosedew” did—”so youʼre going away, miss,
after all, and never see my Looey; and a pretty child she is, and a
good one, and a quiet one, and father never lift hand to her now; and
the poor young gentleman saved her life, and he like her so much, and
she like him.”
“I will come and see her this evening, as you have so kindly asked me.
That is, with my papaʼs leave, and if you donʼt mind coming for me to
the inn at six oʼclock. I am afraid of walking by myself after dark in
London. My papa has found some books at the bookstalls, and he is so
delighted with them he never wants me after dinner.”
“Dear Miss Amy, would you mind, then—would you mind taking a drop of
tea with us?”
“To be sure I will. I mean, if it is quite convenient, and if you can
be spared here, and if—oh nothing else, Mrs. Jupp, only I shall be
most happy.” She was going to say, “and if you wonʼt make any great
preparations,” but she knew how sensitive poor people are at restraints
upon hospitality.
So grand preparations were made; and grander still they would have
been, and more formal and uncomfortable, if Amy had finished her
sentence. Rachel at once rushed off to her lord, whose barge–shaped
frame was moored alongside of his wharf, dreaming as stolidly as
none except a bargee can dream. He immediately shelled out seven and
sixpence from the cuddy of his inexpressibles, and left his wife to
her own devices, except in the matter of tea itself. The tea he was
resolved to fetch from a little shop in the barge–walk, where, as
Mother Hamp declared, who kept the tobacco–shop by the gate, they sold
tea as strong as brandy.
“If you please to excuse our Zakey, miss, taking no more tea,” said
Mrs. Jupp, after Issachar had laboured very hard at it, the host being
bound, in his opinion, to feast even as the guest did; “because he
belong to the antiteatotallers, as takes nothing no stronger than gin,
miss.”
“Darrnʼt take more nor one noggin of tay, miss,” cried Mr. Jupp,
touching his short front curl with a hand scrubbed in quick–lime and
copperas; “likes it, but it donʼt like me, miss. Makes me feel quite
intemperant like,—so narvous, and queer, and staggery. Looey, dear,
dadʼs mild mixture, for to speak the young ladyʼs health in. Leastways,
by your lave, miss.”
Dadʼs mild mixture soon made its appearance in a battered half–gallon
can, and Mr. Jupp was amazed and grieved that none but himself would
quaff any. The strongest and headiest stuff it was, which even the
publicans of London, alchymists of villainy, can quassify, and
cocculise, and nux–vomicise up to proof. Then, the wrath of hunger and
thirst being mollified, Issachar begged leave to smoke, if altogether
agreeable, and it would all go up the chimney; which, however, it
refrained from doing.
Now, while he is smoking, I may admit that the contents of Mr. Juppʼs
census–paper (if, indeed, he ever made legal entries, after punching
the collectorʼs head) have not been transcribed to the satisfaction
of the Registrar–General or Home–Office, or whoever or whatever he or
it is, who or which insists upon knowing nine times as much about us
as we know about ourselves. Mr. Jupp was a bargee of Catholic views;
“it warnʼt no odds to he” whether he worked upon wharf or water, sea
or river or canal, at coal, or hay, or lime, breeze, or hop–poles, or
anything else. Now and then he went down to Gravesend, or up the river
to Kingston or Staines; but his more legitimate area was navigable
by three canals, where a chap might find time to eat his dinner,
and give his wife and nag theirʼn. Issacharʼs love of nature always
culminated at one oʼclock; and then how he loved to halt his team under
a row of alders, and see the painted meadows gay, and have grub and
pipe accordinʼ. His three canals, affording these choice delights
unequally, were the Surrey, the Regentʼs, and the Basingstoke.
That last was, indeed, to his rural mind, the nearest approach to
Paradise; but as there is in all things a system of weights and
measures, Mr. Jupp got better wages upon the other two, and so could
not very often afford to indulge his love of the beautiful. Hence he
kept his household gods within reach of the yellow Tibers, and took
them only once a year for a treat upon the Anio. Then would Rachel Jupp
and Looey spend a summer month afloat, enjoying the rural glimpses
and the sliding quietude of inland navigation, and keeping the pot
a–boiling in the state–cabin of the _Enterprise_ or the _Industrious
Maiden_.
Now Amy having formed Looʼs acquaintance, and said what was right and
pretty in gratitude for their entertainment and faithful kindness to
Cradock, was just about to leave them, when Issachar Jupp delivered
this speech, very slowly, as a man who has got to the marrow and
popeʼs–eye of his pipe:—
“Now ‘scuse me for axing of you, miss, and if any ways wrong in so
doing, be onscrupulous for to say so, and no harm done or taken. But
I has my raisons for axing, from things as Iʼve a ‘earʼd him say, and
oncommon good raisons too. If you please, what be the arkerate name
and dwellinʼ–place of the young gent as saved our Loo? Mr. Clinkers
couldnʼt find out, miss, though he knowed as it warnʼt ‘Charles
Newman.’”
“Donʼt you know his story, then?” asked Amy, in some astonishment. “I
thought you knew all about it, and were so kind to him partly through
that, though you were kind enough not to talk to me about it.”
“We guesses a piece here and there, miss, since he talk so wild in his
illness. And thatʼs what made me be axing of you; for I knowed one
name right well as he out with once or twice; not at all a common name
nother. But we knows for sartin no more nor this, that he be an onlucky
young gent, and the best as ever come into these parts.”
“There can be no harm in my telling you, such faithful friends as you
are. And the sad tale is known to every one, far and wide, in our part
of Hampshire.”
“Hampshire, ah!” said Mr. Jupp, with a very mysterious look; “we knowed
Mr. Rosedew come from Hampshire, and that set us the more a–thinkinʼ
of it. Loo, child, run for dadʼs bacco–box, as were left to Mother
Richardsonʼs, and if it ainʼt there, try at Blinkin’ Davyʼs, and if he
ainʼt got it, try Mother Hamp.”
The child, sadly disappointed, for her eyes were large with hopes of
a secret about her “dear gentleman,” as she called Cradock, departed
upon her long errand. Then Amy told, as briefly as possible, all she
knew of the great mishap, and the misery which followed it. From time
to time her soft voice shook, and her tears would not be disciplined;
while Rachel Juppʼs strayed anyhow. But Issachar listened dryly and
sternly, with one great brown hand on his forehead. Not once did he
interrupt the young lady, by gesture, look, or question. But when she
had finished, he said very quietly,
“One name, miss, as have summat to do with it, Iʼve not ‘earʼd you
sinnify; and it were the sound o’ that very name as fust raised my
coorosity. ‘Scuse me, miss, but I wouldnʼt ax, only for good raison.”
“I hardly know what right I have to mention any other names,” replied
Amy, blushing and hesitating, for she did not wish to speak of Pearl
Garnet; “there is only one other name connected at all with the matter,
and that one of no importance.”
“Ah,” returned Jupp, with a glance as intense as a catʼs through a
dairy keyhole, “maybe the tow–rope ainʼt nothin’ to do with the goin’
of the barge, miss. That name didnʼt happen permiskious now to be the
name of Garnet, maʼam?”
“Yes, indeed it did. But how could you know that, Mr. Jupp?”
“Pearl Garnet were the name I ‘earʼd on, and that ainʼt a very common
name, leastways to my experience. Now, could it ‘ave ‘appened by a
haxident that her good fatherʼs name were Bull Garnet?”
Amy drew back, for Mr. Jupp, in his triumph and excitement, had laid
down his pipe, and was stretching out his unpeeled crate of a hand, as
if to take her by the shoulder, and shake the whole truth out of her.
It was his fashion with Rachel, and he quite forgot the difference.
Mrs. Jupp cried, “Zakey, Zakey!” in a tone of strong remonstrance. But
he was not abashed very seriously.
“It couldnʼt be now, could it, miss; it wornʼt in any way possible that
Pearl Garnetʼs father was ever known by the name of Bull Garnet?”
“But indeed that is his name, Mr. Jupp. Why should you be so
incredulous?”
“Oncredulous it be, miss; oncredulous, as I be a sinner. Rachey, whoʼd
ha’ thought it? How things does come about, to be sure! Now please to
tell me, miss—very careful, and not passinʼ lightly of anything; never
you mind how small it seem—every word you knows about Pearl Garnet and
that there—job there; and all you knows on her father too.”
“You must prove to me first, Mr. Jupp, that I have any right to do so.”
Issachar now was strongly excited, a condition most unusual with him,
except when his wife rebelled, and that she had, years ago, ceased to
do. He put his long black face, which was working so that the high
cheek–bones almost shut the little eyes, quite close to Amyʼs little
white ear, and whispered,
“If ye dunna tell me, yeʼll cry for it arl the life long, yeʼll never
right the innocent, and yeʼll let the guilty ride over ye. I canna
tell no more just now, but every word is gospel. I be no liar, miss,
though I be rough enough, God knows. Supposes He made me so.”
Then Amy, trembling at his words, and thinking that she had hurt his
feelings, put her soft little hand, for amends, into Zakeyʼs great
black piece of hold, which looked like the bilge of a barge; and he
wondered what to do with it, such a sort of chap as he was. He had
never heard of kissing a hand, and even if he had it would scarcely
be a timely offering, for he was having a chaw to compose himself—yet
he knew that he ought not, in good manners, to let go her hand in a
hurry; so what did he do but slip off a ring (one of those so–called
galvanic rings, in which sailors and bargemen have wonderful faith as
an antidote to rheumatics, tick dolorous, and the Caroline Morgan), and
this ring he passed down two of her fingers, for all females do love
trinkets so. Amy kept it carefully, and will put it on her chatelaine,
if ever she institutes one.
Then, being convinced by his words and manner, she told him everything
she knew about the Garnet family—their behaviour in and after the
great misfortune; the strange seclusion of Pearl, and Mr. Garnetʼs
illness. And then she recurred to some vague rumours which had preceded
their settlement in the New Forest. To all this Issachar listened,
without a word or a nod, but with his narrow forehead radiant with
concentration, his lips screwed up in a serrate ring, after the manner
of a medlar, and a series of winks so intensely sage that his barge
might have turned a corner with a team of eight blind horses, and no
nod wanted for one of them.
“Ainʼt there no more nor that, miss?” he asked, with some
disappointment, when the little tale was ended; “canʼt you racollack no
more?”
“No, indeed I cannot. And if you had not some important object, I
should be quite ashamed of telling you so much gossip. If I may ask you
a question now, what more did you expect me to tell you?”
“That they had knowʼd, miss, as Bull Garnet were Sir Cradock Nowellʼs
brother.”
“Mr. Garnet Sir Cradockʼs brother! You must be mistaken, Mr. Jupp. My
father has known Sir Cradock Nowell ever since he was ten years old;
and he could not have failed to know it, if it had been so.”
“Most like he do know it, miss. But dunna you tell him now, nor any
other charp. It be true as gospel for all that, though.”
“Then Robert and Pearl are Cradockʼs first cousins, and Mr. Garnet is
his uncle!”
“Not ezackly as you counts things,” answered the bargeman, looking at
the fire; “but in the way as we does.”
Amy felt that she must ask no more, at least upon that subject; and
that she was not likely to speak of it even to her father.
“Let him go, miss,” continued Issachar, referring now to Cradock; “let
him go for a long sea–vohoyage, same as doctor horders un. He be better
out of the way for a spell or two. The Basingstoke ainʼt fur enoo, whur
I meant to ‘ave took him. ‘A mun be quite out o’ the kintry till this
job be over like. And niver a word as to what I thinks to coom anigh
his ear, miss, if so be you vallies his raison.”
“But you forget, Mr. Jupp, that you have not told me, as yet, at all
what it is you do think. You said some things which frightened me, and
you told me one which astonished me. Beyond that I know nothing.”
“And better so, my dear young leddy, a vast deal better so. Only you
have the very best hopes, and keep your spirits roaring. Zakey Jupp
never take a thing in hand but what he go well through with it. Ask
Rachey about that. Now this were a casooal haxident, mind you, only a
casooal haxident——”
“Of course we all know that, Mr. Jupp. No one would dare to think
anything else.”
“Yes, yes; all right, miss. And weʼll find out who did the casooal
haxident—thatʼs all, miss, thatʼs all. Only you hold your tongue.”
She was obliged to be content with this, and on the whole it greatly
encouraged her. Then she returned to the Portland Hotel under convoy
of all the Jupp family, and Issachar got into two or three rows by
hustling every one out of her way. Although poor Amy was frightened
at this, no doubt it increased her faith in him through some feminine
process of dialectics unknown to the author of the Organon.
Though Amy could not bear to keep anything secret from her father,
having given her word she of course observed it, and John was greatly
surprised at the spirits in which his daughter took leave of Cradock.
But there were many points in Amyʼs character, as has been observed
before, which her father never understood; and he concluded that this
was a specimen of them, and was delighted to see her so cheerful.
Now, being returned to Nowelhurst, he held counsel with sister
Eudoxia, who thoroughly deserved to have a vote after contributing so
to the revenue. And the result of their Lateran—for they both were
bricks—council was as follows: That John was bound, howsoever much
it went against his proud stomach after his previous treatment, to
make one last appeal from the father according to the spirit to the
father according to the flesh, in favour of the unlucky son who was
now condemned to exile, so as at least to send him away in a manner
suitable to his birth. That, if this appeal were rejected, and the
appellant treated unpleasantly—which was almost sure to follow—he
could not, consistently with his honour and his clerical dignity, hold
any longer the benefices (paltry as they were), the gifts of a giver
now proved unkind. That thereupon Mr. Rosedew should first provide
for Cradockʼs voyage so far as his humble means and small influence
permitted; and after that should settle at Oxford, where he might get
parochial duty, and where his old tutorial fame and repute (now growing
European from a life of learning) would earn him plenty of pupils——
“And a professorship at least!” Miss Eudoxia broke in; for, much as she
nagged at her brother, she was proud as could be of his knowledge.
“Marry, ay, and a bishopric,” John answered, smiling pleasantly; “you
have often menaced me, Doxy dear, with Jemimaʼs apron.”
So, on a bright day in January, John Rosedew said to Jem Pottles,
“Saddle me the horse, James.” And they saddled him the “horse”—not so
called by his master through any false aggrandisement (such as maketh
us talk of “the servants,” when we have only got a maid–of–all–work),
but because the parson, in pure faith, regarded him as a horse of full
equine stature and super–equine powers.
After tightening up the girths, then—for that noble cob, at the
saddling period, blew himself out with a large sense of humour
(unappreciated by the biped who bestraddled him unwarily), an abdominal
sense of humour which, as one touch of nature makes the whole world
kin, induced the pigskin to circulate after the manner of a brass dogʼs
collar—tush, I mean a dogʼs brass collar—in order to learn what the
joke was down in those festive regions; therefore, having buckled him
up six inches, till the witty nag creaked like a tight–laced maid,
away rode the parson towards the Hall. Much liefer would he have walked
by the well–known and pleasant footpath, but he felt himself bound, as
one may say, to go in real style, sir.
The more he reflected upon the nature of his errand, the fainter grew
his hopes of success; he even feared that his ancient friendship would
not procure him a hearing, so absorbed were all the echoes of memory in
the pique of parental jealousy, and the cajoleries of a woman. And the
consequences of failure—how bitter they must be to him and his little
household! Moreover, he dearly loved his two little quiet parishes;
and, though he reaped more tithe from them in kindness than in kind or
by commutation, to his contented mind they were far sweeter than the
incumbency of Libya–cum–Gades, and both Pœni for his beadles.
He thought of Amy with a bitter pang, and of his sister with heaviness,
as he laid his hand—for he never used whip—on the fat flank of the pony
to urge him almost to a good round trot, that suspense might sooner be
done with. And when the Hall was at last before him, he rode up, not to
the little postern hard by the housekeeperʼs snuggery (which had seemed
of old to be made for him), but to the grand front entrance, where the
orange–trees in tubs were, and the myrtles, and the pilasters.
Most of the trees had been removed, with the aid of little go–carts,
before the frosts began; but they impressed John Rosedew none
the less, so far as his placid and simple mind was open to small
impressions.
Dismounting from Coræbus, whose rusty snaffle and mildewed reins would
have been a disgrace to any horse, as Amy said every day, he rang the
main entrance bell, and wondered whether they would let him in.
That journey had cost him a very severe battle, to bear himself humbly
before the wrong, and to do it in the cause of the injured. In the true
and noble sense of pride, there could not be a prouder man than the
gentle parson. But he ruled that noble human pride with its grander
element, left in it by the Son of God, His incarnationʼs legacy, the
pride which never apes, but is itself humility.
At last the door was opened, not by the spruce young footman (who
used to look so much at Amy, and speer about as to her expectations,
because she was only a parsonʼs daughter), but by that ancient and most
respectable Job Hogstaff, patriarch of butlers. Dull and dim as his
eyes were growing, Job, who now spent most of his time in looking for
those who never came, had made out Mr. Rosedewʼs approach, by virtue of
the ponyʼs most unmistakable shamble. Therefore he pulled down his best
coat from a jug–crook, twitched his white hair to due stiffness, pushed
the ostiary footman back with a scorn which rankled for many a day
under a zebra waistcoat, and hobbled off at his utmost pace to admit
the visitor now so strange, though once it was strange without him.
Mr. Rosedew walked in very slowly and stiffly, then turned aside to a
tufted mat, and began to wipe his shoes in the most elaborate manner,
though there was not a particle of dirt upon them. Old Jobʼs eyes
blinked vaguely at him: he felt there was something wrong in that.
“Donʼt ye do that, sir, now; for Godʼs sake donʼt do that. I canʼt
abear it; and thatʼs the truth.”
Full well the old man remembered how different, in the happy days, had
been John Rosedewʼs entrance; and now every scrub on the mat was a rub
on his shaky hard–worn heart.
Mr. Rosedew looked mildly surprised, for his apprehension (as we know)
was swifter on paper than pavement. But he held forth his firm strong
hand, and the old man bowed tearfully over it.
“Any news of our boy, sir? Any news of my boy as was?”
“Yes, Job; very bad news. He has been terribly ill in London, and
nobody there to care for him.”
“Then Iʼll throw up my situation, sir. Manyʼs the time I have
threatened them, but didnʼt like to be too hard like. And pretty goings
on thereʼd be, without old Job in the pantry. But I bainʼt bound
to stand everything for the saving of them as goes on so. And that
Hismallitish woman, as find fault with my buckles, and nice things
she herself wear—Iʼd a given notice a week next Monday, but that I
likes Miss Oa so, and feel myself bound, as you may say, to see out
this Sir Cradock; folk would say I were shabby to leave him now he be
gettin’ elderly. Man and boy for sixty year, and began no more than
boot–cleaning; man and boy for sixty–three year, come next Lammas–tide.
I should like it upon my tombstone, sir, with what God pleases added,
if I not make too bold, and you the master of the churchyard, if so be
you should live long enough, when my turn come, God willing.”
“It will not be in my power, Job. But if ever it is, you may trust me.”
“And I wants that in I was tellin’ my niece about, ‘Put Thy hand in the
hollow of my thigh.’ Holy Bible, you know, sir, and none canʼt object
to that.”
“Come, Job, my good friend, you must not talk so sepulchrally. Leave
His own good time to God.”
“To be sure, sir; I bainʼt in no hurry yet. Iʼve a sight of things to
see to, and my master must go first, he be so very particular. Iʼll
live to see the young master yet, as my duty is for to do. _He_ ‘ont
carry on with a Hismallitish woman; _he_ ‘ont say, ‘What, Hogstaff, are
your wits gone wool–gatherinʼ?’ and his own wits all the time, sir,
fleeced, fleeced, fleeced——”
Here John Rosedew cut short the contrast between the present and the
future master (which would soon have assumed a golden tinge as of the
Fourth Eclogue), for the parson was too much a gentleman to foster
millennial views at the expense of the head of the household.
“Job, take my card to your master; and tell him, with my compliments,
that I wish to see him alone, if he will so far oblige me. By–the–by,
I ought to have written first, to request an interview; but it never
occurred to me.”
He could scarcely help sighing as he thought of formality
re–established on the ruins of familiarity.
“Heʼll be in the little coved room, no doubt, long o’ that Hismallitish
woman. But step in here a moment, sir.”
Instead of passing the doorway, which the butler had thrown open for
him, Mr. Rosedew stood scrupulously on the mat, as if it marked his
territory, until the old man came back and showed him into the black
oak parlour.
The little coved room was calmly and sweetly equal to the emergency.
The moment Jobʼs heels were out of sight, Mrs. Corklemore, who had
been indulging in a nice little chat with Sir Cradock, “when she
ought to have been at work all the while, plain–sewing for her little
household, for who was to keep the wolf from the door, if she shrank
from a womanʼs mission—though irksome to her, she must confess, for it
did hurt her poor fingers so”—here she held up a dish–cloth rather
rougher than a coal–sack, which she had stolen cleverly from her hostʼs
own lower regions, and did not know from a glass–cloth; but it suited
her because it was brown, and set off her lily hands so;—”oh, Uncle
Cradock, in all this there is something sweetly sacred, because it
speaks of _home_!” She was darning it all the while with white silk,
and took good care to push it away when any servant came in. It had
lasted her now for a week, and had earned her a hundred guineas, having
made the most profound impression upon its legitimate owner. She would
earn another hundred before the week was out by knitting a pair of
rough worsted socks for her little Flore, “though it made her heart
bleed to think how that poor child hated the feel of them.”
Now she rose in haste from her chair, and pushed the fortunate
dish–cloth, with a very expressive air, into her pretty work–basket,
and drew the strings loudly over it.
“What are you going for, Georgie? You need not leave the room, I am
sure.”
“Yes, uncle dear, I must. You are so clear and so honest, I know; and
most likely I take it from you. But I could not have anything to do
with any secret dealings, uncle, even though you wished it, which I am
sure you never could. I never could keep a secret, uncle, because I
am so shallow. Whenever secrecy is requested, I feel as if there was
something dishonest, either done or contemplated. Very foolish of me, I
know, but my nature is so childishly open. And of course Mr. Rosedew
has a perfect right, and is indeed very wise, to conceal his scheme
with respect to his daughter.”
“Georgie, stay in this room, if you please; he is not coming here.”
“But that poor simple Amy will, if he has brought her with him. Well, I
will stay here and lecture her, uncle, about her behaviour to you.”
After all this the old man set forth, in some little irritation, to
receive his once–loved friend. He entered the black oak parlour in a
cold and stately manner, and bowed without a word to John, who had
crossed the room to meet him. The parson held out his hand, as a lover
and preacher of peace should do; but the offer, ay, and the honour too,
not being at all appreciated, he withdrew it with a crimson blush all
over his bright clear cheeks, as deep as his daughterʼs would have been.
Then Sir Cradock Nowell, trying to seem quite calm and collected,
addressed his visitor thus:
“Sir, I am indebted to you for the honour of this visit. I apologize
for receiving you in a room without a fire. Pray take a chair. I have
no doubt that your intentions are kind towards me.”
“I thank you,” replied the parson, speaking much faster than usual,
and with the frill of his shirt–front rising; “I thank you, Sir
Cradock Nowell; but I will not sit down in the house of a gentleman
who declines to take my hand. I am here much against my own wishes,
and only because I supposed that it was my duty to come. I am here
on behalf of your son, a noble but most unfortunate youth, and now in
great trouble of mind.”
If he had only said “in great bodily danger,” it might have made a
difference.
“Your interest in him is very kind; and I trust that he will be
grateful, which he never was to me. He has left his home in defiance of
me. I can do nothing for him until he comes back, and is penitent. But
surely the question concerns me rather than you, Mr. Rosedew.”
“I am sorry to find,” answered John, quite calmly, “that you think me
guilty of impertinent meddling. But even that I would bear, as becomes
my age and my profession,”—here he gave Sir Cradock a glance, which was
thoroughly understood, because they had been at school together,—”and
more than that I would do, Cradock Nowell, for a man I have loved like
you, sir.”
That “sir” came out very oddly. John poked it in, as a retractation
for having called him “Cradock Nowell,” and as a salve to his own
self–respect, lest he should have been too appealing. And to follow up
this view of the subject, he made a bow such as no man makes to one
from whom he begs anything. But Sir Cradock Nowell lost altogether the
excellence of the bow. The parson had put up his knee in a way which
took the old man back to Sherborne. His mind was there playing cob–nut
as fifty years since, with John Rosedew. Once more he saw the ruddy,
and then pugnacious, John bringing his calf up, and priming his knee,
for the cob–nut to lie upon it. This he always used to do, and not care
a flip for the whack upon it, instead of using his blue cloth cap, as
all the rest of the boys did; because his father and mother were poor,
and could only afford him one cap in a year.
And so the grand bow was wasted, as most formalities are: but if John
had only known when to stop, it might have been all right after all, in
spite of Georgie Corklemore. But urged by the last infirmity (except
gout) of noble minds, our parsons never do know the proper time to
stop. Excellent men, and admirable, they make us shrink from eternity,
by proving themselves the type of it. Mr. Rosedew spoke well and
eloquently, as he was sure to do; but it would have been better for his
cause if he had simply described the sonʼs distress, and left the rest
to the fatherʼs heart. At one time, indeed, poor old Sir Cradock, who
was obstinate and misguided, rather than cold and unloving, began to
relent, and a fatherly yearning fluttered in his grey–lashed eyes.
But at this critical moment, three little kicks at the door were heard,
and the handle rattled briskly; then a shrill little voice came through
the keyhole:
“Oh pease let Fore tum in. Pease do, pease do, pease do. Me ‘ost me
ummy top. Oh you naughty bad door!”
Then another kick was administered by small but passionate toe–toes. Of
course your mother did not send you, innocent bright–haired popples,
and with a lie so pat and glib in that pouting pearl–set mouth. Foolish
mother, if she did, though it seal Attalic bargain!
Sir Cradock went to the door, and gently ordered the child away. But
the interruption had been enough—_ibi omnis effusus labor_. When he
returned and faced John Rosedew the manner of his visage was altered.
The child had reminded him of her mother, and that graceful, gushing,
loving nature, which tried so hard not to doubt the minister. So he did
what a man in the wrong generally does instinctively; he swept back the
tide of war into his adversaryʼs country.
“You take a very strong interest, sir, in one whose nearest relations
have been compelled to abandon him.”
“I thought that your greatest grievance with him was that he had
abandoned you.”
“Excuse me; I cannot split hairs. All I mean is that something has come
to my knowledge—not through the proper channel, not from those who
ought to have told me—something which makes your advocacy seem a little
less disinterested than I might have supposed it to be.”
“Have the kindness to tell me what it is.”
“Oh, perhaps a mere nothing. But it seems a significant rumour.”
“What rumour, if you please?”
“That my—that Cradock Nowell is attached to your daughter, who behaved
so ill to me. Of course, it is not true?”
“Perfectly true, every word of it.” And John Rosedew looked at Sir
Cradock Nowell as proudly as ever a father looked. Amy, in his opinion,
was peeress for any mortal. And perhaps he was not presumptuous.
“Ah!” was the only reply he received: an “ah” drawn out into half an
ell.
“Why, I would have told you long ago, the moment that I knew it, but
for your great trouble, and your bitterness towards him. You have often
wished that a son of yours should marry my daughter Amy. Surely you
will not blame him for desiring to do as you wished?”
“No, because he is young and foolish; but I may blame you for
encouraging it, now that he is the only one.”
“Do you dare to think that I am in any way influenced by interested
motives?”
“I dare to think what I please. No bullying here, John, if you please.
We all know how combative you are. And, now you have forced me to it,
I will tell you what will be the conviction, ay, and the expression of
every one in this county, except those who are afraid of you. ‘Mr.
Rosedew has entrapped the future Sir Cradock Nowell, hushed up the
crime, and made all snug for his daughter at Nowelhurst Hall.’”
Sir Cradock did not mean half his words, any more than the rest of us
do, when hurt; and he was bitterly sorry for them the moment they were
uttered. They put an impassable barrier between him and John Rosedew,
between him and his own conscience, for many a day and night to come.
Have you ever seen a pure good man, a man of large intellect and heart,
a lover of truth and justice more than of himself, confront, without
warning, some black charge, some despicable calumny, in a word (for I
love strong English, and nothing else will tell it), some damned lie?
If not, I hope you never may, for it makes a manʼs heart burn so.
John Rosedew was not of the violent order. Indeed, as his sister
Eudoxia said, and to her own great comfort knew, his cistern of
wrathfulness was so small, and the supply–pipe so unready—as must be
where the lower passions filter through the intellect—that most people
thought it impossible “to put the parson out.” And very few of those
who knew him could have borne to make the trial.
Even now, hurt as he was to the very depth of his heart, he was
indignant more than angry.
“It would have been more manly of you, Sir Cradock Nowell, to have said
this very mean thing yourself, than to have put it into the mouths of
others. I grieve for you, and for myself, that so mean a man was ever
my friend. Perhaps you have still some relics of gentlemanly feeling
which will lead you to perform a hostʼs duty towards his visitor. Have
the kindness to order my horse.”
Then John Rosedew, so punctilious, so polite to the poorest cottager,
turned his broad back upon the baronet, and as he slowly walked to the
door, these words came over his shoulder:—
“To–day you will receive my resignation of your two benefices. If
I live a few years more, I will repay you all they have brought me
above a curateʼs stipend. My daughter is no fortune–hunter. She never
shall see your son again, unless he renounce you and yours for ever,
or you come and implore us humbly as now you have spoken arrogantly,
contemptibly, and meanly.”
Then, fearing lest he had been too grand about a little matter—not his
daughterʼs marriage, but the aspersion upon himself—he closed the door
very carefully, so as not to make any noise, and walked away towards
his home, forgetting Coræbus utterly. And, before his fine solid face
began to recover its healthy and bashful pink, he was visited by sore
misgivings as to his own behaviour; to wit, what claim had any man,
however elate with the pride of right and the scorn of wrong, to talk
about any fellow–man becoming humble to him? Nevertheless, he could not
manage to retract the wrong expression in his letter of resignation;
not from any false pride—oh no!—but for fear of being misunderstood.
But that very night he craved pardon of Him before whom alone we need
humbly bow; who alone can grant us anything.