To bar the entail of crime. A bitter and abortive task; at least, in
this vindictive world, where Christians dwell more on Mount Sinai than
on the mount that did not quake and burn with fire.
And yet for this, and little else, still clung to fair fame and life
the man who rather would have lain beneath the quick–lime of Newgate.
It was not for the empty part, the reputation, the position, the
respect of those who prove the etymon of the word by truly looking
backward—not for these alone, nor mainly, did Bull Garnet bear the
anguish now from month to month more bitter, deeper, less concealable.
He strove with himself, and checked himself, and bit his tongue, and
jerked back his heart, and nursed that shattered lie, his life, if so
might be that Pearl and Bob should start anew in another land, with a
fair career before them. Not that he cared, more than he could help,
whether they might be rich or poor; only that he would like them to
have the chance of choosing.
This chance had not been fair for him, forsaken as he was, and outcast;
banned by all the laws of men, because his mother had been trustful,
and his father treacherous. Yet against all chances, he, by his own
rightful power, deeply hating and (which was worse) conscientiously
despising every social prejudice, made his way among smaller men,
taught himself by day and night, formed his own strong character,
with the hatred of tyranny for its base, and tyranny of his own for
its apex; and finally gained success in the world, and large views of
Christianity. And in all of this he was sincere!
It was a vile and bitter wrong to which he owed his birth. Sir Cradock
Nowell, the father of the present baronet, had fallen in love of some
sort with a comely Yorkshire maiden, whose motherʼs farm adjoined the
moors, whereon the shooting quarters were. Then, in that period of mean
license, when fashionable servility was wriggling, like a cellar–slug,
in the slime–track of low princes, Sir Cradock Nowell did what few of
his roystering friends would have thought of—unfashionable Tarquinian,
he committed a quiet bigamy. He had lived apart from Lady Nowell, even
before her second confinement; because he could not get on with her.
So Miss Garnet went with him to the quiet altar of a little Yorkshire
church, and fancied she was Lady Nowell; only that must be a secret,
“because they had not the kingʼs consent, for he was not in a state to
give it.”
When she learned her niddering wrong, and the despite to her unborn
child, she cast her curse upon the race, not with loud rant, but long
scorn, and went from her widowed mother, to a cold and unknown place.
So soon as Bull Garnet was old enough to know right from wrong, and
to see how much more of the latter had fallen to his share, two
courses lay before him. Two, I mean, were possible to a strong and
upright nature; to a false and weak one fifty would have offered, and
a little of each been taken. Conscious as he was of spirit, energy,
and decision, he might apply them all to very ungenial purposes, to
sarcasm, contemptuousness, and general misanthropy. Or else he might
take a larger view, pity the poor old–fashioned prigs who despise a man
for his fatherʼs fault, and generously adapt himself to the broadest
Christianity.
The latter course was the one he chose; in solid earnest, too, because
it suited his nature. And so perhaps we had better say that he chose no
course at all, but had the wiser one forced upon him. Yet the old Adam
of damnable temper too often would rush out of Paradise, and prove in
strong language that he would not be put off together with his works.
Exeter Hall would have owned him, in spite of all his backslidings, as
a very “far–advanced Christian;” because he was so “evangelical.” And
yet he never dealt in cant, nor distributed idyllic tracts, Sabbatarian
pastorals, where godly Thomas meets drunken John, and converts him to
the diluted _vappa_ of an unfermented Sunday.
And now this man, whom all who knew him either loved or hated, felt the
troubles closing around him, and saw that the end was coming. He had
kept his own sense of justice down, while it jerked (like a thistle on
springs) in his heart; he had worn himself out with thinking for ever
what would become of his children, whom he had wronged more heavily
than his own bad father had wronged him—only the difference was that
he loved them; and most of all he had let a poor fellow, whom he liked
and esteemed most truly, bear all the brunt, all the misery, all the
despair of fratricide.
Now all he asked for, all he prayed for—and, indeed, he prayed more
than ever now, and with deeper feeling; though many would have feared
to do it—now his utmost hope was to win six months of life. In that
time all might be arranged for his childrenʼs interest; his purchase of
those five hundred acres from the Crown Commissioners—all good land,
near the Romsey–road, but too full of juice—would soon be so completed
that he could sell again at treble the price he gave, so well had he
reclaimed the land, while equitably his; and then Bob should have half,
and Pearl take half (because she had been so injured), and, starting
with the proceeds of all his earthly substance before it should
escheat, be happy in America, and think fondly of dead father.
This was all he lived for now. It may seem a wild programme; but,
practical as he was in business, and not to be wronged of a halfpenny,
Bull Garnet was vague and sentimental when he “took on” about his
children. Furious if they were wronged, loving them as the cow did
(who, without a horn to her head, pounded dead the leopard), ready
to take most liberal views of everything beyond them, yet keeping
ever to his eyes that parental lens, whose focus is so very short,
and therefore, by the optic laws, its magnifying power and aberration
glorious.
Now three foes were closing round him; all of whom, by different
process, and from different premises, had arrived at the one
conclusion. The three were, as he knew too well, Rufus Hutton, Issachar
Jupp, and Mr. Chope, of Southampton. Of the first he held undue
contempt (not knowing all his evidence); the second he had for the
time disarmed, by an appeal _ad hominem_; the third was the most to be
feared, the most awful, because so crafty, keen, and deep, so utterly
impenetrable.
Mr. Chope, the partner and “brains” of Cole, the coroner, was absent
upon a lawyerʼs holiday at the time of the inquest. When he came home,
and heard all about it, and saw the place, and put questions, he
scarcely knew what to think. Only upon one point he was certain—the
verdict had been wrong. Either Cradock Nowell had shot his brother
purposely, or some one else had done so. To Chopeʼs clear intuition,
and thorough knowledge of fire–arms—for his one relaxation was
shooting—it was plain as possible that there had been no accident. To
the people who told him about the cartridge “balling,” he expressed
no opinion; but to himself he said, “Pooh! I have seen Cradock Nowell
shoot. He always knew all he was doing. He never would put a _green_
cartridge into his gun for a woodcock. And the others very seldom ball.
And even if he had a green cartridge, look at the chances against it. I
would lay my life Clayton Nowell was shot on purpose.”
Then, of course, Mr. Chope set to, not only with hope of reward, but
to gratify his own instinct, at the puzzle and wards of the question.
If he had known the neighbourhood well, and all the local politics, he
must have arrived at due conclusion long before he did. But a heavy
piece of conveyancing came into the office of Cole, Chope, and Co.,
and, being far more lucrative than amateur speculations, robbed them
of their attention. But now that stubborn piece was done with, and
Mr. Chope again at leisure to pursue his quest. Twice or thrice every
week he was seen, walking in his deliberate way, as if every step were
paid for, through the village of Nowelhurst, and among the haunts of
the woodcutters. He carried his great head downwards, as a bloodhound
on the track does, but raised it, and met with a soft sweet smile all
who cared to look at him. In his hand he bore a fishing–rod, and round
his hat some trout–flies; and often he entered the village inn, and
had bread and cheese in the taproom, though invited into the parlour.
Although his boots were soaked and soiled as if he had been wading, and
the landing–net, slung across his back, had evidently been dripping,
he opened to none his fishing creel, neither had any trout fried,
but spoke in a desponding manner of the shyness of the fish, and the
brightness of the water, and vowed every time that his patience was now
at last exhausted. As none could fish in that neighbourhood without
asking Sir Cradockʼs permission, or trespassing against him, and as
the old baronet was most duly tenacious of all his sporting rights,
everybody wondered what Mark Stote was about to allow a mere far–comer
to carry on so in Nowelhurst water. But Mark Stote knew a great deal
better what was up than they did.
Four or five times now, Bull Garnet, riding on his rounds of business,
had met Simon Chope, and bowed politely to him. On the first occasion,
Mr. Chope, knowing very little of Garnet, and failing to comprehend
him (as we fail, at first sight, with all antipodes), lost his slow
sequacious art, because he over–riddled it. All very cunning men do
this; even my Lord Bacon, but never our brother Shakespeare.
But Mr. Garnet read him truly, and his purpose also, by the aid of
his own consciousness; and a thrill of deep, cold fear went through
that hot and stormy heart. Nevertheless, he met the case in his usual
manner, and puzzled Mr. Chope on the third or fourth encounter by
inviting him to dinner. The lawyer found some ready plea for declining
this invitation; sleuth and cold–blooded as he was, he could not
accept hospitality to sift his host for murder. Of course Mr. Garnet
had foreseen the refusal of this overture; but it added to his general
alarm, even more than it contributed to his momentary relief. Clearly
enough he knew, or felt, that now he was running a race against time;
and if he could only win that race, and give the prize to his children,
how happily would he yield himself to his only comfort—death. With his
strong religious views—right or wrong, who shall dare to say? for the
matter is not of reason—he doubted Godʼs great mercy to him in another
world no more than he doubted his own great love to his own begotten.
And sad it was, enough to move the tears of any Stoic, to behold
Bull Garnet now sitting with his children. Instead of being shy and
distant (as for a while he had been, when the crime was new upon him)
he would watch them, word by word, smile by smile, or tear for tear,
as if he never could have enough of the little that was left to him.
They had begun to talk again carelessly in his presence, as the manner
of the young is. Bob had found that the vague, dark cloud, of whose
origin he knew nothing, was lifted a little, and lightened; and Pearl,
who knew all about it, was trying to slip from beneath its shadow,
with the self–preservation of youth, and into the long–obscured but
native sunlight of a daughterʼs love. And all the while their father,
the man of force and violence, would look from one to the other of
them, perceiving, with a curious smile, little traits of himself;
often amused at, and blessing them for, their very sage inexperience;
thinking to show how both were wrong, yet longing not to do it. And
then he would begin to wonder which of them he loved more deeply. Pearl
had gained upon him so, by the patience of her wrong, by coming to the
hearth for shelter from the storms of outer love.
In all races against time, luck, itself the child of time, is apt to
govern the result more than highest skill may. So far, most of the luck
had been in Mr. Garnetʼs favour; the approach of unlucky Cradock that
day, the distraction of his mind—the hurried and jostled aim which even
misled himself; the distance of John Rosedew; the blundering and timid
coroner and the soft–hearted jury; even the state of the weather; and
since that time the perversion and weakness of the fatherʼs mind: all
these had prevented that close inquiry which must have led to either
his conviction or confession. For, of course, he would have confessed
at once, come what might, if an innocent man had been apprehended for
his guilt.
Only in one important matter—so far at least as he knew yet, not having
heard of Jemʼs discovery, and Mr. Huttonʼs advance upon it—had fortune
been against him; that one was the crashing of his locked cupboard, and
the exposure of the broken gun–case to Rufus Huttonʼs eyes. And now it
was an adverse fate which brought Mr. Chope upon the stage, and yet it
was a kindly one which kept him apart from Hutton. For Simon Chope and
Rufus Hutton disliked one another heartily; as the old repulsion is
between cold blood and hot blood.
As it happened, Mr. Chope was Mrs. Corklemoreʼs pet lawyer: he had
been employed to see that she was defrauded of no adequate rights
uxorial upon her second marriage. And uncommonly good care he took to
secure the lionʼs share for her. Indeed, had it been possible for him
to fall in love at all with anything but money, that foolish lapse
would have been his, at the very first sight of Georgie. Sweetly
innocent and good, she did so sympathize with “to wit, whereas, and
notwithstanding;” she entered with such gush of heart into the bitter
necessity of making many folios, and charging for every one of them,
which the depravity of human nature has forced on a class whose native
bias rather tends to poetry; she felt so acutely (when all was made
plain to her, and Mr. Corklemore paid the bill) how very very wrong
it was not to have implicit confidence—”in being cheated,” under her
breath, and that shaft was Cupidʼs to Mr. Chope—in a word, he was so
smitten, that he doubled all his charges, and inserted an especial
power of appointment, for (Mr. Corklemore having the gout) he looked on
her as his reversion.
“Hang it,” he said, for his extreme idea of final punishment was legal;
“hang it, if I married that woman, our son would be Lord Chancellor. I
never saw such a liar.”
Now it was almost certain that, under Sir Cradock Nowellʼs settlement
upon marriage, an entail had been created. The lawyers, who do as they
like in such matters, and live in a cloud of their own breath, are sure
to provide for continuance, and the bills of their grandchildren.
“Alas, how sad!” thought Georgie, as she lay back in the Nowelhurst
carriage on her way to Cole, Chope, and Co.; “how very sad if it should
be so. Then there will be no cure for it, but to get up the evidence,
meet the dreadful publicity, and get the poor fellow convicted. And
they say he is so good–looking! Perhaps I hate ugly people so much,
because I am so pretty. Oh, how I wish Mr. Corklemore walked a little
more like a gentleman. But as a sacred duty to my innocent darling, I
must leave no stone unturned.”
Fully convinced of her pure integrity, Georgie drove up in state and
style to the office of Cole, Chope, and Co., somewhere in Southampton.
She would make no secret of it, but go in Sir Cradock Nowellʼs
carriage, and then evil–minded persons could not misinterpret her. Mr.
Chope alone could tell her, as she had said to “Uncle Cradock” (with
a faint hope that he might let slip something), what really was the
nature and effect of her own marriage–settlement. Things of that sort
were so far beyond her, so distasteful to her; sufficient for the
day was the evil thereof; she could sympathize with almost any one,
but really not with a person who looked forward to any disposal of
property, unless it became, for the sake of the little ones, a matter
of strict duty; and even then it must cause a heart–pang—oh, such a
bitter heart–pang!
“Coleʼs brains” was not the man to make himself too common. He always
required digging out, like a fossil, from three or four mural _septa_.
Being disinterred at last from the innermost room, after winks, and
nods, and quiet knocks innumerable, he came out with both hands over
his eyes, because the light was too much for him, he had been so hard
at work.
And the first thing he always expressed was surprise, even though he
had made the appointment. Mr. Simon Chope, attorney and solicitor, was
now about five–and–thirty years old, a square–built man, just growing
stout, with an enormous head, and a frizzle of hair which made it
look still larger. There was a depth of gravity in his paper–white
countenance—slightly marked with small–pox—a power of not laughing,
such as we seldom see, except in a man of great humour, who says odd
things, but rarely smiles till every one else is laughing. But if
Chope were gifted, as he may have been, with a racy vein of comedy,
nobody ever knew it. He was not accustomed to make a joke gratis,
neither to laugh upon similar terms at the jokes of other people.
Tremendous gravity, quiet movements, very clear perception, most
judicious reticence—these had been his characteristics since he started
in life as an office–boy, and these would abide with him until he got
everything he wanted; if any man ever does that.
With many a bow and smile, expressing surprise, delight, and deference,
Mr. Chope conducted to a special room that lady in whom he felt an
interest transcending contingent remainder. Mrs. Corklemore swam
to her place with that ease of movement which was one of her chief
fascinations, and fixed her large grey eyes on the lawyer with the
sweetest expression of innocence.
“I fear, Mr. Chope—oh, where is my husband? he promised to meet me
here—I fear that I must give you, oh, so much trouble again. But you
exerted yourself so very kindly on my behalf about eighteen months ago,
that I cannot bear to consult any other gentleman, even in the smallest
matter.”
“My services, such as they are, shall ever be at the entire disposal of
Madame la Comtesse.”
Mr. Chope would always address her so; “a countess once, a countess
for ever,” was his view of the subject. Moreover, it ignored Mr.
Corklemore, whom he hated as his supplanter; and, best reason of all,
the lady evidently liked it.
“You are so very kind, I felt sure that you would say so. But in this
case, the business is rather Mr. Corklemoreʼs than my own. But he
has left it entirely to me, having greater confidence, perhaps, in my
apprehension.”
She knew, of course, that so to disparage her husband, by implication,
was not in the very best taste; but she felt that Mr. Chope would be
pleased, as she quite understood his sentiments.
“And not without excellent reason,” answered the lawyer, softly; “if
any lady would be an ornament to our profession, it is Madame la
Comtesse.”
“Oh no, Mr. Chope, oh no! I am so very simple. And I never should have
the heart to do the things you are compelled to do. But to return:
this little matter, in which I hope for your assistance, is a trifling
exchange of mixed land with Sir Cradock Nowell.”
“Ah, to be sure!” said Chope, feeling slightly disappointed, for he had
some idea that the question would be more lucrative; “if you will give
me particulars, it shall have our best attention.”
“I think I have heard,” said Georgie, knowing thoroughly all about it,
“that there is some mode of proceeding, under some Act of Parliament,
which lightens, perhaps, to some extent, the legal difficulties—and, oh
yes, the expenses.”
Mrs. Corklemore knew how Mr. Chope had drawn her a very long bill—upon
his imagination.
“Oh, of course,” replied Mr. Chope, smitten yet more deeply with the
legal knowledge, and full of the future Lord Chancellor; “there is a
rough and ready way of dealing with almost anything. What they call
a statutory proceeding, shockingly careless and haphazard, and most
ungermainely thrust into an Enclosure Act. But we never permit any
clients of ours to imperil their interests so, for the sake, perhaps,
of half a sovereign. There is such a deal of quackery in all those
dabblesome interferences with ancient institutions. For security, for
comfort of mind, for scientific investigation, there is nothing like
the exhaustive process of a good common law conveyance. Look at a
proper abstract of title! A charming thing to contemplate; and still
more charming, if possible, the requisitions upon it, when prepared by
eminent counsel. But the tendency of the present age is to slur and cut
short everything. Melancholy, most melancholy!”
“Especially for the legal gentlemen, I suppose, Mr. Chope?”
“Yes. It does hurt our feelings so to see all the grand safeguards,
invented by men of consummate ability, swept away like old rubbish.
I even heard of a case last week, where a piece of land, sold for
900_l_., actually cost the purchaser only 50_l_. for conveyance!”
“Oh, how disgraceful!” cried Georgie, so nicely, that Chope detected no
irony: “and now, I presume, if we proceed in the ordinary way, we must
deliver and receive what you call ‘abstracts of title.’”
“Quite so, quite so, whichever way you proceed. It is a most
indispensable step. It will be my duty and privilege to deduce Mr.
Corklemoreʼs title; and Mr. Brockwoodʼs, I presume, to show Sir Cradock
Nowellʼs. All may be completed in six months’ time, if both sides act
with energy. If you will favour me with the description of parcels,
I will write at once to Mr. Brockwood; or, indeed, I shall see him
to–night. He will be at the Masonsʼ dinner.”
For a moment Mrs. Corklemore was taken quite aback. It is needless
to say that no interchange of land had ever been dreamed of, except
by herself, as a possible method of learning “how the land lay;” and
indeed there was no intermixed land at all, as Mr. Chope strongly
suspected. Neither was he, for the matter of that, likely to meet Mr.
Brockwood; but when it becomes a _professional_ question, a man can
mostly out–lie a woman, because he has more experience.
“Be guided by me, if you please,” said Georgie, smiling enough to
misguide any one; “we must not be premature, lest we seem too anxious
about the bargain. And, I am sure, we have done our very best to be
perfectly fair with Sir Cradock. Only we trust you, of course, to
be sure that he has reposing, composing—oh, how stupid I am! I mean
disposing power; that there is no awkward entail.”
Here she looked so preternaturally simple, which she would never have
done but for her previous flutter, that Simon Chope in a moment knew
exactly what her game was. Nevertheless, he answered nicely in that
tantalizing way which often makes a woman flash forth.
“We shall see, no doubt, ere long. Of course Sir Cradock would not
propose it, unless he had full power. Is it quite certain that poor
Clayton Nowell left no legitimate offspring?”
Oh, what a horrible suggestion! Such a thing would quite upset every
scheme. Georgie had never thought of it. And yet it might even be so.
There was something in the tone of Mr. Chopeʼs whisper, which convinced
her that he had heard something.
And only think; young men are so little looked after at Oxford, that
they can get married very easily, without anything being heard of it.
At least, so thought Mrs. Corklemore. And then oh, if poor Clayton had
left a child, how his grandfather would idolize him! Sir Cradock would
slip from her hands altogether; and scarcely any hope would remain of
diverting the succession. Even if the child was a daughter, probably
she would inherit, and could not yet have committed felony. Oh, what a
fearful blow it would be!
All this passed through that rapid mind in about half a second, during
which time, however, the thinker could not help looking nonplussed.
Mr. Chope of course perceived it, and found himself more and more
wide–awake.
“Well, what a strange idea!” she exclaimed, with unfeigned surprise.
“There has not been the slightest suggestion of anything of the kind.
And indeed I have lately heard what surprised me very much, that he had
formed an—an improper attachment in a quarter very near home.”
“Indeed! Do you know to whom?” It was Mr. Chope who was trying now to
appear indifferent.
“Yes. I was told. But it does not become me to repeat such stories.”
“It not only becomes you in this case, but it is your absolute duty,
and—and your true interest.”
“Why, you quite frighten me, Mr. Chope. Your manner is so strange.”
“It would grieve me deeply indeed to alarm Madame la Comtesse,”
answered the lawyer, trying in vain to resume his airiness; “but I
cannot do justice to any one who does not fully confide in me. In a
case like this, especially, such interests are concerned, the title
is so—so complicated, that purely as a matter of business we must be
advised about everything.”
“Well, I see no reason why I should not tell you. It cannot be of any
importance. Poor Clayton Nowell had fallen in love with a girl very far
beneath him—the daughter, I think she was, of a Mr. Garnet.”
“Oh, I think I had heard a report of that sort”—he had never heard, but
suspected it—”it can, of course, signify nothing, if the matter went no
further; nevertheless, I thank you for your gratifying confidence. I
apologize if I alarmed you; there is nothing alarming at all in it. I
was thinking of something very different.” This was utterly false; but
it diverted her from the subject.
“Oh, yes, I see. Of something, you mean, which might have caused
a disagreement between the unfortunate brothers. Now tell me your
opinion—in the strictest confidence, of course—as to that awful
occurrence. Do you think—oh, I hope not——”
“I was far away at the time, and can form no conclusion. But I know
that my partner, Mr. Cole, the coroner, was too sadly convinced,—oh, I
beg your pardon, I forgot for the moment that Madame la Comtesse——”
“Pray forget my relationship, or rather consider it as a reason; oh, I
would rather know the sad, sad truth. It is the suspense, oh the cruel
suspense. What was Mr. Coleʼs conclusion?”
“That if Cradock Nowell were put on his trial, he would not find a jury
in England but must convict him.”
“Oh, how inexpressibly shocking! Excuse me, may I ask for a glass of
water? Oh, thank you, thank you. No wine, if you please. I must hurry
away quite rudely. The fresh air will revive me. I cannot conclude my
instructions to–day. How could I think of such little matters? Please
to do nothing until you hear from me. Yes, I hear the carriage. I told
Giles to allow me ten minutes only, unless Mr. Corklemore came. You
see how thoroughly well I know the value of your time. We feel it so
acutely; but I must not presume; no further, if you please!”
Having thus appraised Mr. Chope, and apprised him of his distance, from
a social point of view, Georgie gave him a smile which disarmed him, at
least for the moment. But he was not the lawyer, or the man, to concede
her the last word.
“We lawyers never presume, madam, any more than we assume. We must have
everything proved.”
“Except your particulars of account, which you leave to prove
themselves.”
“Ha, ha! You are too clever for the whole profession. We can only prove
our inferiority.”
He stood, with his great bushy head uncovered, looking after the grand
apparatus, and three boys sitting behind it; and then he went sadly
back, and said, “Our son might have been Lord Chancellor. But I beat
her this time in lying.”