Dr. Huttonʼs baby was getting better, and Rosa, who had been, as the
nurse said, “losing ground so sadly, poor dear,” was beginning to pick
up her crumbs again. Therefore Rufus, who (in common with Rosa and
all the rest of the household) regarded that baby as the noblest and
grandest sublimation of humanity, if not as the final cause of this
little worldʼs existence, was beginning now to make up his mind that
he really might go to London that week, without being (as his wife
declared he must be, if he even thought about it) cruel, inhuman,
unfatherly, utterly void of all sense of duty, not to say common
affection. And she knew quite well what he wanted. All he wanted was
to go and see Mr. Riversʼs peach–trees in blossom, as if that was such
a sight as her baby. Yes, _her_ baby, maʼs own darling, a dove of a
dumpling dillikins; to think that his own pa should prefer nasty little
trees without a hair on them, and that didnʼt even know what bo meant,
to the most elegant love of a goldylocks that ever was, was, was!
Master Goldylocks had received, from another quarter, a less classical,
and less pleasing, but perhaps (from an objective point of view) a more
truthful and unprismatic description of the hair it pleased God to give
him.
“Governorʼs carrots, and no mistake,” cried Mrs. OʼGaghan the
moment she saw him, which, of course, was upon his first public
appearance—catch Biddy out of the way when any baby, of any father or
mother she had ever heard of, was submitted even to the most privileged
inspection—”knew he must have ‘em, of course. You niver can conquer
that, maʼam, if your own hair was like a sloe, and you tuk me black
briony arl the time. Hould him dacent, will ye, nurse? Not slot his
head down that fashion! He donʼt want more blood in his hair, child. Oh
yes, I can see, maʼam! Niver knowed more nor two wi’ that red–hot poker
colour, colour of the red snuff they calls ‘Irish blackguard’ in the
top of a hot shovel; and one of the two were Mr. Hutton, maʼam, saving
your presence to spake of it; and the other were of Tim Brady, as were
hung at the crossroads, near Clonmel, for cutting the throat of his
grandmother.”
“Oh, Mary, take her away. What a horrid woman!”
Here Mrs. OʼGaghan was marched away, amid universal indignation, which
she could not at all understand. But she long had borne against Rufus
Hutton the bitterest of all bitter spites (such as only an Irishwoman
can bear), for the exposure of her own great mistake, and the miserable
result which (as she fully believed) had sprung from all his meddling.
And yet she was a “good–hearted” woman. But a good heart is only the
wad upon powder, when a violent will is behind it.
Not to attach undue importance to Biddyʼs prepossessions, yet to give
every facility for a verdict upon the question, I am bound to state
what an old–young lady, growing every month more satirical, because
nobody would have her, yet quite unconscious that the one drawback was
the main cause of the other (for all men hate sarcastic women),—how
tersely she expressed herself.
“Ridiculous likeness! Was he born with two cheroots in his mouth?”
But a lady, who would marry for ever because she was so soft and nice,
came to see darling baby again, the moment she was quite assured that
he was equal to the interview, having denied herself from day to
day, although it had affected her appetite, and was telling upon her
spirits. Neither would she come alone—that would be too selfish: she
must make a gala day of it, and gratify her relatives. So Mrs. Hutton
had the rapture of sitting behind her bedroom curtain, and seeing no
less than three carriages draw up in a thundering manner, while Rufus
was in the greatest fright that they would not find room to turn, but
must cut up his turf. Luckily the roller was in the way; or else those
great coachmen, who felt themselves lowered by coming to a place of
that size, would have had their revenge on the sod. The three carriages
were, of course, that of Nowelhurst Hall in the van (no pun, if you
please), with two noble footmen behind it, and Georgie in state inside.
Then the “Kettledrum rattletrap,” as the hypercritical termed it, with
Mr. Kettledrum driving, and striking statuesque attitudes for the
benefit of the horses, and Mrs. Kettledrum inside, entreating him not
to be rash. Last of all the Coo Nest equipage, a very neat affair, with
Mr. Corklemore inside, wanting to look at his wife in the distance, and
wondering what she was up to.
“Oh, such shocking taste, I know,” cried Georgie, directly the lower
order were supposed to be out of hearing, “horribly bad taste to come
in such force; but what could we do, Dr. Hutton? There was my sister,
there was my husband, there was my own silly self, all waiting, as for
a bulletin, to know when baby would receive. And so, at the very first
moment, by some strange coincidence, here we are all at once. And I do
hope darling Rosa will allow _some_ of us to come in.”
“Jonah,” shouted Rufus Hutton, going away to the door very rudely
(according to our ideas, but with Anglo–Indian instincts), “see that
all those men have beer.”
“Plaise, sir, there bainʼt none left. Brewer hainʼt a been since you
drank.” As every one in the house heard this, dear Georgie had some
revenge.
However, babe Rufus received his ovation; and the whole thing went off
well, as most things do in the counties of England, when plenty of good
wine produces itself. Lunch was ready in no time; and, as all had long
ago assented to Mrs. Corklemoreʼs most unselfish proposition that she,
as privileged of pet Rosa, should just steal up–stairs for a minute,
and then come down again—after giving notice, of course, that dear
baby should have all his lace on—the pleasant overture of the host was
accepted with little coyness—
“Let us suppose that we have dined: because the roads are so very bad.
Let us venture upon a light dessert. I have a few pears, even now in
April, which I am not altogether afraid to submit to the exquisite
taste of ladies,—‘Madame Milletʼ and ‘Josephine.’ May we think that we
have dined?”
As the company not only thought, but felt that they had made an
uncommonly good dinner, this little proposal did pleasant violence to
their sense of time. It would be so charmingly novel to think that they
had dined at three oʼclock! Oh, people of brief memory! For Kettledrum
Hall and Coo Nest loved nothing better than to dine at two; which,
perhaps, is two hours too late, according to nature _versus_ fashion.
“For such an occasion as this,” said Rufus, under all the excitement
of hospitality multiplied by paternity, “we will have a wine worth
talking of. Clicquot, of course, and Paxarette for the ladies, if
they prefer it; which perhaps they will do because it is sweeter than
port. But I do hope that some will deign to taste my 1820, Presidentʼs
unrefreshed.”
Georgieʼs pretty lip came out, like the curl of an opening convolvulus;
to think of offering her sweet wine, when choice port was forthcoming.
There are few better judges of a good glass of port than Mrs. Nowell
Corklemore.
“Port, sir, for my wife, if you please. She likes a rather dry wine,
sir, but with plenty of bouquet. There is no subject, I may say, in
which she has—ha, haw—a more profound capacity.”
“My dear Nowell, why you are perfectly calumnious. Thank you, no
champagne. It spoils the taste of—your beautiful water. How dreadfully
we were alarmed in Ringwood. We all but drove over a child. What a
providential escape! I have scarcely yet recovered it. It has made me
feel so nervous. What, Dr. Hutton, port for a lady, at this time of
day, and not ordered medically!”
Thereupon, of course Rufus prescribed it, till Georgie, being quite
overcome by the colour, as the host himself decanted it, capitulated at
last for “strictly half a glass.”
After a little, the ladies withdrew, to see double perfections in the
baby, and Mrs. Hutton, who knew quite well what they had been doing,
while she was discussing arrowroot, received them at first rather
stiffly. But she had no chance with Georgie, who entered beautifully
into the interesting room, and exclaimed with great vivacity—
“Oh, dear Mrs. Hutton, as the little boys say, ‘here we are again.’
And so glad to get away, because your husband is so hospitable, and we
thought of you all the time. I wanted so much to bring you a glass of
that very exquisite—let me see, I think it must have been port, though
I never know one wine from another—only I feared it might seem rude, if
I had ventured to propose it. Of course Dr. Hutton knew best.”
“Of course he didnʼt,” said Rosa, pettishly; “he never thought about
it. Not that I would have taken it; oh dear no! Ladies cannot have too
little wine, I think. It seems to make them so masculine.”
“Well, dear, you know best. Very likely you heard us laughing. I assure
you we were quite merry. We drank his health ‘three times threeʼ—donʼt
they call it about a baby? And I was nearly proposing _yours_; only a
gentleman ought to do that. Oh, it was so interesting, and the wine
superb—at least, so said the gentlemen; I do wish they had brought you
some, dear.”
“I am very glad they did not. It is so very lowering to a fine sense
of the ideal. I heard you laughing, or making some noise; only I was
so absorbed in these lovely poems. ‘To my Babe’ is so very beautiful,
so expressive, so elevating! I feel every single word of it. And
this sonnet about the first cropper! And the stanzas to his little
red shoes, terminating with ‘pinch his nose!’ You have had so many
husbands, dear; you must know all about it.”
“My darling child, how I feel for you! But, in all probability, he
will come up when both decanters are empty; let him find you in a good
temper, dear.”
But this (which must have grown into a row, for Georgie had even more
spirit than tact, and Rosa was equal to anything), all this evil was
averted, and harmony restored by the popping in of nurse, who had not
taken her half–crowns yet, but considered them desirable, and saw them
now endangered.
“Goldylocks, Goldylocks! Oh, bring him here, nurse. Skillikins,
dillikins! oh, such a dove! And if nobody else cares for poor mamma, he
has got so much better taste, hasnʼt he?”
Goldylocks very soon proved that he had; and Georgie, having quite
recovered her temper, admired him so ecstatically, that even his mother
thought her judgment was really worth something.
“Give him to me; I canʼt do without him. O you beautiful cherub!
Kicklewick, I am sure you never saw any one like him.”
“That indeed I never did, maʼam,” answered nurse Kicklewick, holding
her arms out, as if she must have him back again; “many a fine child I
have seen, and done for to my humble ability, maʼam, since the time I
were at Lord Eldergunʼs; and her ladyship said to me—ʼKicklewick,’ says
she——”
“Oh, his love of a nosey–posey! Oh, then his bootiful eyes, dick, dock!
And then his golden hair, you know, so lovely, chaste, and rare, you
know! Will um have a dancey–prancey?”
And Georgie, forgetting all dignity, went through a little Polish
dance, with the baby in her arms, to his very grave amazement, and the
delight of all beholders.
Although of the genuine Hutton strain, he was too young to crow yet,
nevertheless he expressed approval in the most emphatic water–colours.
Mrs. Huttonʼs heart was won for ever.
“Oh, darling, I am so obliged to you. He has positively popped two
bubbles. A thing he never did before! How can I ever repay you?”
“By letting me come over and dance him twice a week. Oh, that I only
had a boy!—because I do love boy–babies so.”
“One would think that you must have had fifty, at least, before you
were five–and–twenty! How on earth do you understand him so? I only
know half what he means, though I try for hours and hours.”
“Simply by sympathizing with him. I feel all his ideas come home to me,
and I put them into shape.”
“You are the loveliest creature I ever saw.” And, indeed, Georgie did
look very well, for it was not all mere humbug now, though perhaps
it was at first. “Oh, no wonder baby loves you. Kicklewick, isnʼt it
wonderful?”
“Indeed, then, and it would be, maʼam,” replied Mrs. Kicklewick,
rapturously—for now she had four half–crowns in her pocket—“only for
it beinʼ nature, maʼam. Nature it is as does it, as must be. Nothing
else no good again it. And how I should like to beʼlong of you, maʼam,
when your next time come, please God. Would you mind to accept of my
card, maʼam, unpretenshome but in good families,—Sarah Kicklewick, late
to Lord Eldergun, and have hopes to be again, maʼam, if any confidence
in head–footman. ‘Mrs. Kicklewick,’ he says, and me upon the bridge,
maʼam, with the wind a blowinʼ——”
“To be sure,” said Georgie, “and the water flowing; how clearly you
describe it!”
But we must cut her short, even as she cut nurse Kicklewick. Enough
that she won such influence over the kind but not too clever Rosa,
that Rufus Huttonʼs plans and acts, so far as they were known to his
wife, were known also to his wifeʼs best friend. But one thing there
was which Mrs. Corklemore could not at all understand,—why should he
be going to London so, and wanting to go again, in spite of domestic
emergencies? She very soon satisfied herself that Rosa was really
in the dark upon this point, and very indignant at being so. This
indignation must be fostered and pointed to a practical end. Mrs.
Kettledrum, of course, had been kept in the background all this time,
and scarcely allowed to dandle the baby, for fear of impairing her
sisterʼs triumph.
“How wonderfully kind and thoughtful of you!” said Rosa, as Georgie
came in again. “Have you really brought me a glass of wine? And no one
else in the house to suppose that I ought to have any nourishment! How
can I thank you, Mrs. Corklemore?”
“No more ‘Mrs. Corklemore,’ if you please. I have begun to call you
‘Rosaʼ—it is such a pretty name—and you must call me ‘Georgie,’
darling. Every one does who loves me.”
“Then I am sure all the world must. Dearest Georgie, how did you get
it? I am sure I would not touch it, only for your sake.”
“Oh, I did such a shameful thing. Such a liberty I never took before! I
actually sent the servant to say, with Mrs. Corklemoreʼs compliments,
that she felt the effect of the fright this morning, and would like
another glass of port, but would not touch it if any of the gentlemen
left the table even for a moment. And they actually sent me a
dock–glass, in pleasantry, I suppose: but I am very glad they did.”
“I will take some, if you take half, dear.”
“Not a drop. My poor weak head is upset in a moment. But you really
need it, dear; and I can so thoroughly feel for you, because the poor
Count, when my Flore was born, waited on me with such devotion, day and
night, hand and foot.”
“And I am sure Mr. Corklemore must do the same. No husband could help
adoring you.”
“Oh, he is very good, ‘according to his lights,’ as they say. But I
have known him let me cough three times without getting up for the
jujubes. And once—but perhaps I ought not to tell you: it was so very
bad.”
“Oh, you may safely tell me, dear. I will never repeat it to any one.”
“He actually allowed me to sneeze in the carriage without saying that I
must have a new fur cloak, or even asking if I had a cold.”
“Oh dear, is that all? I may sneeze six times in an hour, and my
husband take no notice, but run out and leave the front door open,
and prune his horrid little trees. And then he shouts for his patent
top–dressing. He thinks far more of dressing them than he does of
dressing me.”
“And donʼt you know the reason? Donʼt cry, sweet child; donʼt cry. I
have had so much experience. I understand men so thoroughly.”
“Oh yes, I know the reason. I am cross to him sometimes. And of course
I canʼt expect a man with a mind like his——”
“You may expect any man to be as wise as Solomon, if you only know how
to manage him. It is part of the law of nature.”
“Then I am sure I donʼt know what that means: except that people must
get married, and ought to love one another.”
“The law of nature is this. Between a wife and a husband there never
must be a secret, except when the lady keeps one. Now, your husband is,
to some extent, a rather superior man——”
“Oh yes, to the very greatest extent. No one of any perception can help
perceiving that.”
“Then he is quite sure to attempt it; to reserve himself, upon _some_
point, in an unsympathetic attitude. This is just what you must not
allow. You have no idea how it grows upon them, and how soon it
supplants affection, and makes a married man a bachelor.”
“Oh, how dreadful! But I really do think, dear, that you must be wrong
this once. My husband has never kept anything from me; anything, I
mean, which I ought to know.”
“Then he told you about that poor wild Polly? How very good and kind of
him!”
“Polly! What Polly? You donʼt mean to say——”
“No, no, dear, nothing of that sort! Only the mare running away with
him at night through the thickest part of the forest.”
“My Polly that eats from my hand! Run away with Rufus!”
“Yes, your Polly. A perfect miracle that both of them were not killed.
But, of course, he must have told you.”
Then, after sundry ejaculations, Rosa learned all about that matter,
and was shocked first, and then thankful, and then hurt.
“And now,” said Mrs. Corklemore, when the sense of wrong was paramount,
“he has some secret, I am almost sure, about our sad affair at
Nowelhurst. And I am sure, even if you were not his wife, dear, he need
not conceal any matter of that sort from the daughter of Sir Cradock
Nowellʼs old friend, Mr. Ralph Mohorn.”
“I will tell you another thing,” answered Rosa, shaking all her pillows
with the vehemence of her emotions, “whether he ought or not, he shall
not do it, Georgie, darling. As sure as I am his lawful wife I will
know every word of it before I sleep one wink. If not, he must take the
consequences upon both his wife and child.”
“Darling, I think you are quite right. Only donʼt tell me a word of it.
It is such a dreadful matter, it would make me so unhappy——”
“I will tell you every single word, just to prove to you, Georgie, that
I have found the whole of it out.”
After this laudable resolution, Rosa may be left to have it out with
Rufus. It requires greater skill than ours to interfere between man and
wife, even without the _tertium quid_ of an astounding baby.
* * * * *
The ides of March were come and gone, the balance of day and night was
struck; and Sleep, the queen of half the world, had wheeled across the
equator her poppy–chintzed throne, or had got the stars to do it for
her, because she was too lazy. Ha, that sentence is almost worthy of a
great stump–orator. All I mean to say is, that All Foolsʼ Day was over.
Blessed are the All Fools who begin the summer (which accounts for its
being a mull with us); and blessed be the All Saints who begin the
winter, and then hand it over to Beelzebub.
“In April she tunes her bill.” Several nightingales were at it, for
the spring was early, and right early were many nests conned, planned,
and contracted for. Blessed birds, that never say, “What are your
expectations, sir?” or “How much will you give your daughter?”—but
feather their nests without waiting for an appointment in the Treasury.
Nest–eggs, too, almost as sweet as those of addled patronage, were
beginning to accumulate; and it took up half a birdʼs time to settle
seniority and precedence among them, fettle them all with their heads
the right way, and throw overboard the cracked ones. Perhaps, in this
last particular, they exercised a discretion, not only unknown to, but
undreamed of, by any British Government.
It was nearly dark by this time, and two nightingales, across the
valley, strove in Amoibæan song till the crinkles of the opening leaves
fluttered with soft melody.
“In poplar shadows Philomel complaineth of her brood,
Her callow nestlings plunderʼd from her by the ploughman rude:
From lonely branch all night she pours her weeping musicʼs flow,
Repeats her tale, and fills the world with melody and woe.”
_Georg._ iv. 511.
Mr. Garnet heeded neither crisp young leaf nor bulbul; neither did
his horse appear to be a judge of music. Man and horse were drooping,
flagging, jaded and bespent; wanting only the two things which,
according to some philosophers, are all that men want here below—a
little food, and a deal of sleep.
Bull Garnet was on his return from Winchester, whither he now went
every week, for some reason known only to himself, or at least unknown
to his family. It is a long and hilly ride from the west of Ytene to
Winton, and to travel that distance twice in a day takes the gaiety
out of a horse, and the salience out of a man. No wonder then that Mr.
Garnet slouched his heavy shoulders, and let his great head droop; for
at five–and–forty a powerful man jades sooner than does a slight one.
Presently he began to drowse; for the stout grey gelding knew every
step of the road, and would take uncommonly good care to avoid all
circumambience: and of late the rider had never slept, only dozed, and
dreamed, and started. Then he muttered to himself, as he often did in
sleep, but never at home, until he had seen to the fastening of the
door.
“Tried it again—tried very hard and failed. Thought of Bob, at last
moment. Bob to stand, and see me hang—and hate me, and go to the devil.
No, I donʼt think he would hate me, though; he would say, ‘Father could
not help it.’ And how nice that would be for me, to see Bob take my
part. To see him with his turn–down collars standing proudly up, and
saying, ‘Father was a bad man—according to your ideas—I am not going to
dispute them—but for all that I love him, and so my children shall.’ If
I could be sure that Bob would only think so, only make his mind up,
his mind up, his mind up—for there is nothing like it—whoa, Grayling,
what be looking at?—and take poor little Pearl with him, I would go
to–morrow morning, and do it over at Lymington.”
“Best do it to–night, govʼnor. No time like the praysent, and us knows
arl about it.”
A tall man had leaped from behind a tree, and seized Bull Garnetʼs
bridle. The grey gelding reared and struck him; but he kept his hold,
till the muzzle of a large revolver felt cold against his ear. Then
Issachar Jupp fell back; he knew the man he had to deal with, how stern
in his fury, how reckless, despite the better part of him. And Issachar
was not prepared to leave his Loo an orphan.
“No man robs me,” cried Mr. Garnet, in his most tremendous voice,
“except at the cost of my life, and the risk of his. I have seven and
sixpence about me; I will give it up to no man. Neither will I shoot
any man, unless he tries to get it.”
“Nubbody wants to rob you, govʼnor, only to have a little rattysination
with you. Possible you know me now?”
Bull Garnet fell back in his saddle. He would rather have met a dozen
robbers. By the voice he recognised a man whom he had once well known,
and had good cause to know;—through his outrage upon whom, he had left
the northern counties; the man whom he had stricken headlong down a
coal–shaft, as the leader of rebellion, the night after Pearl was
christened, nigh twenty years ago.
“Yes, I know you; Jupp your name is. Small credit it is to know you.”
“And smarler still to know you, Bull Garnet. Try your pistol thing, if
you like. You must have rare stommick, I should think, to be up for
another murder.”
“Issachar, I am sorry for you. Do you call it a murder to keep such a
fellow as you off?”
“No, I dunna carl that a murder, because I be arl alive. But I do carl
a murder what you did to young Clayton Nowell.”
“Fool, what do you know of it? Let go my horse, I say. You know pretty
well what _I_ am.”
“I know you haʼnʼt much patience, govʼnor, and be arlways in a hurry.”
Jupp hesitated, but would not be beaten, whatever might be the end of
it.
“I am in no hurry now, Jupp; I will listen to all you have to say. But
not with your hand on my bridle.”
“There goeth free then. Arl knows you be no liar.”
“I am glad you remember that, Issachar. Hold the horse, while I get
off. Now throw the bridle over that branch, and I will sit down here.
Come here into the moonlight, man; and look me in the face. Here is
the pistol for you, if you bear me any revenge.”
Scarcely knowing what he did, because he had no time to think, Jupp
obeyed Bull Garnetʼs orders even to the last—for he took the pistol in
his hand, and tried to look straight at his adversary; but his eyes
would not co–operate. Then he laid the pistol on the bank; but so that
he could reach it.
“Issachar Jupp,” said Mr. Garnet, looking at him steadily, and speaking
very quietly; “have you any children?”
“Only one—a leetle gal, but an oncommon good un.”
“How old is she?”
“Five year old, plase God, come next Valentineʼs Day.”
“Now, when she grows up, and is pure and good, would you like to have
her heart broken?”
“Iʼd break any coveʼs head as doed it.”
“But supposing she were betrayed and ruined, made a plaything, and then
thrown away—what would you do then?”
“God Almighty knows, man. I canʼt abide to think of it.”
“And if the—the man who did it, was the grandson of the man who had
ruined your own mother, lied before God in the church to her, and then
left her to go to the workhouse, with you his outcast bastard—while he
rolled in gold, and laughed at her—what would you do then, Jupp?”
“By the God that made me, Iʼd have my revenge, if I went to hell for
it.”
“I have said enough. Do exactly as you please. Me you cannot help or
harm. Death is all I long for—only for my children.”
Still he looked at Issachar, but now without a thought of him; only as
a man looks out upon the sea or sky, expecting no return. And Issachar
Jupp, so dense and pig–headed—surly and burly, and weasel–eyed—in a
word, retrospectively British—gazing at Bull Garnet then, got some
inkling of an anguish such as he who lives to feel—far better were it
for that man that he had never been born.