That night the man of violence enjoyed the first sweet dreamless sleep
that had spread its velvet shield between him and his guilt and sorrow.
Pearl, who had sat up late with Bob, comforting and crying with him,
listened at her fatherʼs door, and heard his quiet breathing. Through
many months of trouble, now, she had watched him kindly, tenderly,
fearing ever some wild outbreak upon others or himself, hiding in her
empty heart all its desolation.
The very next day, Bull Garnet resolved to have it out with his son;
not to surprise him by emotion to a hasty issue, but now to learn what
he thought and felt, after taking his time about it. All this we need
not try to tell, only so much as bears upon the staple of the story.
“Father, I know that you had—you had good reason for doing it.”
“There could be no good reason. There might be, and were, many bad
ones. Of this I will not speak to you. I did it in violence and fury,
and under a false impression. When I saw him, with his arm cast round
my pure and darling Pearl, Satanʼs rage is but a smile compared to
the fury of my heart. He had his gun, and I had mine; I had taken it
to shoot a squirrel which meddled with our firework nonsense. I tore
her from him before I could speak, thrust her aside, stepped back two
paces, gave him ‘one, two, three,’ and fired. He had time to fire in
self–defence, and his muzzle was at my head, and his finger on the
trigger; but there it crooked, and he could not pull. Want of nerve,
I suppose. I saw his finger shaking, and then I saw him fall. Now, my
son, you know everything.”
“Why, father, after all then, it was nothing worse than a duel. He had
just the same chance of killing you, and would have done it, only you
were too quick for him.”
“Even to retain your love, I will have no lie in the matter, Bob,
although a duel, in my opinion, is only murder made game of. But this
was no duel, no manslaughter even, but an act of downright murder. No
English jury could help convicting me, and I will never plead insanity.
It was the inevitable result of inborn violence and self–will, growing
and growing from year to year, and strengthened by wrongs of which
you know nothing. God knows that I have fought against it; but my
weapon was pride, not humility. Now let this miserable subject never
be recurred to by us, at least in words, till the end comes. As soon
as I hear that poor innocent Cradock is apprehended, and brought to
England, I shall surrender myself and confess. But for your sake and
poor Pearlyʼs, I should have done so at the very outset. Now it is
very likely that I may not have the option. Two persons know that I
did it, although they have no evidence, so far as I am aware; a third
person more than suspects it, and is seeking about for the evidence.
Moreover, Sir Cradock Nowell, to whom, as I told you, I owned my deed,
although he could not then understand me, may have done so since, or
may hereafter do so, at any lucid interval.”
“Oh, father, father, he never would be so mean——”
“He is bound by his duty to do it—and for his living sonʼs sake he
must. I only tell you these things, my son, to spare you a part of
the shock. One month now is all I crave, to do my best for you two
darlings. I will not ruin the chance by going again to Sir Cradock. God
saved me from my own rash words, doubtless for your pure sake. Now,
knowing all, and reflecting upon it, can you call me still your father,
Bob?”
This was one of the times that tell whether a father has through life
thought more of himself or of his children. If of himself, they fall
away, like Southern ivies in a storm, parasites which cannot cling,
but glide on the marble surface. But if he has made his future of
them, closer they cling, and clasp more firmly, like our British ivy
engrailed into the house wall.
So the Garnet family clung together, although no longer blossoming, but
flagging sorely with blight and canker, and daily fear of the woodman.
Bob, of course, avoided Eoa, to her great indignation, though he could
not quite make up his mind to tell her that all was over, without
showing reason for it. In the forcing temperature of trouble, he was
suddenly become a man, growing daily more like his father, in all
except the violence. He roamed no more through the wilds of the forest,
but let the birds nest comfortably, the butterflies hover in happiness,
and the wireworm cast his shard unchallenged. He would care for all
those things again, if he ever recovered his comfort.
Now Eoa, as everybody knew, did not by any means embody the spirit of
toleration. She would hardly allow any will but her own in anything
that concerned her. In a word, she was a child, a very warm–hearted and
lovely one, but therefore all the more requiring a strong will founded
on common sense to lead her into the life–brunt. And so, if she must
have Bob some day, she had better have him consolidated, though reduced
to three per cent.
Not discerning her own interests, she would have been wild as a hare
ought to be at the vernal equinox, but for one little fact. There was
nobody to be jealous of. Darling Amy, whom she loved as all young
ladies love one another—until they see cause to the contrary—sweet
thing, she was gone to Oxford with her dear, good father. They had
slipped off without any fuss at all (except from Biddy OʼGaghan, who
came and threw an old shoe at them), because Mr. Rosedew, in the first
place, felt that he could not bear it, and thought, in the second
place, that it would be an uncourteous act towards Sir Cradock Nowell
to allow any demonstration. And yet it was notorious that even Job
Hogstaff had arranged to totter down on Mark Stoteʼs arm, followed by
a dozen tenants (all of whom had leases), and the rank and file of
Nowelhurst, who had paid their house–rent; and then there would be a
marshalling outside the parsonage–gate; and upon the appearance of the
fly, Job with his crutch would testify, whereupon a shout would arise
pronouncing everlasting divorce between Church and State in Nowelhurst,
undying gratitude to the former, and defiance to the latter power.
Yet all this programme was nullified by the departure of John and his
household gods at five oʼclock one May morning. Already he had received
assurance from some of his ancient co–mates at Oriel (most cohesive
of colleges) that they would gladly welcome him, and find him plenty
of work to do. In less than six weeks’ time, of course, the long
vacation would begin. What of that? Let him come at once, and with his
widespread reputation he must have the pick of all the men who would
stay up to read for honours. For now the fruit of a lifetime lore was
ripening over his honoured head, not (like that of Tantalus) wafted
into the cloud–land, not even waiting to be plucked at, but falling
unawares into his broad and simple bosom, where it might lie uncared
for, except for the sake of Amy. So large a mind had long outlived
the little itch for fame, quite untruly called “the last infirmity
of noble minds.” Their first it is, beyond all doubt; and wisely
nature orders it. Their last is far more apt to be—at least in this
generation—contempt of fame, and man, and God, except for practical
purposes.
Mr. Rosedewʼs careful treatises upon the Sabellian and Sabello–Oscan
elements had stirred up pleasant controversy in the narrow world of
scholars; and now at the trito–megistic blow of the Roseo–rorine
hammer, ringing upon no less a theme than the tables of Iguvium, the
wise men who sit round the board of classical education, even Jupiter
Grabovius (the original of John Bull), had clapped their hands and
cried, “Hear, hear! He knows what he is talking of; and he is one of
us.”
That, after all, is the essence of it—to know what one is talking of.
And the grand advantage of the ancient universities is, not the tone
of manners, not the knowledge of life—rather a hat–box thing with
them—not even the high ideal, the manliness, and the chivalry, which
the better class of men win; but the curt knowledge, whether or not
they are talking of what they know. _Scire quod nescias_ is taught, if
they teach us nothing else. And though we are all still apt to talk,
especially among ladies, of things beyond our acquaintance—else haply
we talk but little—we do so with a qualm, and quasi, and fluttering
sense that effrontery is not—but leads to—”pluck.”
Nevertheless, who am I to talk, proving myself, by every word, false to
Alma Mater, having ventured all along to talk of things beyond me?
As they rose the hill towards Carfax, Amy (tired as she was) trembled
with excitement. Her father had won a cure in St. Oles—derived no
doubt from _oleo_—and all were to lodge in Pembroke Lane, pending
mature arrangements. Though they might have turned off near the jail,
and saved a little cab fare, John would go by the broader way, as his
fashion always was; except in a little posthumous matter, wherein
perhaps we have over–defined with brimstone the direction–posts.
Be that as it may,—not to press the _scire quod nescias_ (potential
in such a case, I hope, rather than conjunctive)—there they must be
left, all three, with Jenny and Jemima outside, and Jem Pottles on the
pavement, amazed at the cheek of everything. Only let one thing be
said. Though prettier girl than Amy Rosedew had never stepped on the
stones of Oxford since the time of Amy Robsart, if even then,—never
once, was she insulted.
Lowest of all low calumnies. There are blackguards among university
men, as everybody knows, and as there must be among all men. But even
those blackguards can see the difference between a lady, or rather
between a pure girl and—another. And even those blackguards have an
intensified reverence for the one;—but let the matter pass; for now we
hide in gold these subjects, and sham not to see their flaunting.
Be it, however, confessed that Amy (whose father soon had rooms in
college, not to live, but to lecture in), being a very shy young
maiden, never could be brought to come and call him to his tea,—oh
no. So many young men in gorgeous trappings, charms, and dangles, and
hooks of gold, and eye–glasses very knowing—not to mention volunteer
stuff, and knickerbockers demonstrant of calf—oddly enough they _would_
happen to feel so interested in the architecture of the porterʼs lodge
whenever Amy came by, never gazing too warmly at her, but contriving
to convey their regret at the suppression of their sentiments, and
their yearning to be the stones she trod on, and their despair at the
possibility of her not caring if they were so—really all this was so
trying, that Amy would never go into college without Aunt Doxy before
her, gazing four–gunned cupolas even at scouts and manciples. And this
was very provoking of her, not only to the hearts that beat under
waistcoats ordered for her sake, but also to the domestic kettle a–boil
in Pembroke Lane. For, over and over again, Uncle John, great as he
was in chronology and every kind of “marmora,” and able to detect a
flaw upon Potamogeitonʼs tombstone, lost all sense of time and place,
_me_ and _te_, and _hocce_ and Doxy, and calmly went home some two
hours late, and complacently received Doxology.
But alas, we must abandon Amy to the insidious designs of Hebdomadal
Board, the velvet approaches of Proctor and Pro, and the brass of the
gentlemen Bedels, while we regard more rugged scenes, from which she
was happily absent.
Rufus Hutton had found the missing link, and at the same time the
strongest staple, of the desired evidence. The battered gun–barrels
had been identified, and even the number deciphered, by the foreman
of Messrs. L—— and Co. And the entry in their books of the sale of
that very gun (number, gauge, and other particulars beyond all doubt
corresponding) was—”to Bull Garnet, &c., Nowelhurst Dell Cottage,” whom
also they could identify from his “strongly–marked physiognomy,” and
his quick, decisive manner. And the cartridge–case, which had lain so
long in Dr. Huttonʼs pocket, of course they could not depose to its
sale, together with the gun; but this they could show, that it fitted
the gauge, was not at all of a common gauge, but two sizes larger—No.
10, in fact—and must have been sold during the month in which they sold
the gun, because it was one of a sample which they had taken upon
approval, and soon discarded for a case of better manufacture.
Then as to motive, Rufus Hutton himself could depose to that, or the
probability of it, from what he had seen, but not understood, at the
fixing of the fireworks; neither had he forgotten the furious mood of
Bull Garnet, both then and in his garden.
While he was doubting how to act—for, clearly as he knew his power to
hang the man who had outraged him, the very fact of his injury made him
loth to use that power; for he was not at all a vindictive man, now
the heat of the thing was past, and he saw that the sudden attack had
been made in self–defence—while he was hesitating between his sense of
duty and pity for Cradock on one hand, and his ideas of magnanimity and
horror of hanging a man on the other, he was thrown, without any choice
or chance, across the track of Simon Chope.
Perhaps there is no more vulgar error, no stronger proof of ignorance
and slavery to catchwords, than to abuse or think ill of any particular
class of men, solely on account of their profession—although,
perhaps, we might justly throw the _onus probandi_ their merit upon
hangmen, body–snatchers, informers, and a few others—yet may I think
(deprecating most humbly the omen of this conjunction) that solicitors,
tailors, and Methodist parsons fight at some disadvantage both in fact
and in fiction? Yet can they hold their own; and sympathy, if owing,
is sure to have to pay them—notwithstanding, goose, and amen.
Away with all feeble flippancy! Heavy tidings came to Nowelhurst Hall,
Dell Cottage, and Geopharmacy Lodge, simultaneously, as might be, on
the 20th of June. The _Taprobane_ had been lost, with every soul on
board; and this is the record of it, enshrined in many journals:—
“By recent advices from Capetown, per the screw–steamer _Sutler_, we
sincerely regret to learn that the magnificent clipper–built ship
_Taprobane_, of 2200 tons (new system), A 1 at Lloydʼs for 15 years,
and bound from the Thames to Colombo, with a cargo valued by competent
judges at 120,000_l._, took the shore in Benguela Bay during a typhoon
of unprecedented destructiveness. It is our melancholy duty to add that
the entirety of the valuable cargo was entirely lost, although very
amply assured in unexceptionable quarters, and that every soul on board
was consigned to a watery grave. A Portuguese gentleman of good family
and large fortune, who happened to be in the neighbourhood, was an
eye–witness to the catastrophe, and made superhuman exertions to rescue
the unfortunate mariners, but, alas! in vain. Senhor José de Calcavello
has arrived at the conclusion that some of her copper may be saved. The
ill–fated bark broke up so rapidly, from the powerful action of the
billows, that her identity could only be established from a portion of
her sternpost, which was discovered half buried in sand three nautical
miles to the southward. We have been informed, upon good authority,
although we are not at liberty to mention our source of information,
that Her Britannic Majestyʼs steamcorvette _Mumbo Jumbo_, pierced for
twenty–eight guns, and carrying two, is under orders to depart, as soon
as ever she can be coaled, for the scene of the recent catastrophe.
Meanwhile, the tug _Growler_ has arrived with all the memorials of
the calamity, after affording the rites of sepulture to the poor
shipwrecked mariners cast up by the treacherous billows. The set of the
current being so adverse, we have reason to fear that the rest of the
bodies must have fallen a prey to the monsters of the deep. There are
said to be some hopes of recovering a portion of the specie.”
Mrs. Corklemore happened to be calling at Geopharmacy Lodge, when the
London papers arrived in the early afternoon. Rufus begged pardon, and
broke the cover, to see something in which he was interested. Presently
he cried, “Good God!” and let the paper fall; and, seasoned as he was,
and shallowed by the shifting of his life, it was not in his power to
keep two little tears from twinkling.
“Too late all my work,” he said; “Heaven has settled it without me.”
“How very sad!” cried Mrs. Corklemore, dashing aside an unbidden tear,
when she came to the end of the story; “to think of all those brave
men lost! And perhaps you knew some of them, Dr. Hutton? Oh, I am so
sorry!”
“Why, surely you know that the _Taprobane_ was the ship in which poor
Cradock Nowell sailed, under Mr. Rosedewʼs auspices.”
“Oh, I hope not. Please not to say so. It would be so very horrible!
That he should go without repenting——”
“You must have forgotten, Mrs. Corklemore; for I heard Rosa tell you
the name of the ship, and her destination.”
“Oh, very likely. Ah, now I remember. For the moment it quite escaped
me. How truly, truly grieved—it has quite overcome me. Oh, please not
to notice me—please not. I am so stupidly soft–hearted. Oh—ea, isha,
ea!”
No woman in the world could cry more beautifully than poor Georgie.
And now she cried her very best. It would have gone to the heart of
the driest and bitterest sceptic that ever doubted all men and women
because they would doubt him. But Rufus, whose form of self–assertion
was not universal negation, in what manner then do you suppose
that Rufus Hutton was liquefied? A simple sort of fellow he was
(notwithstanding all his shrewdness), although, or perhaps I should say
because, he thought himself so knowing; and his observation was more
the result of experience than the cause of it. So away he ran to fetch
Rosa, and Rosa wiped dear, sensitive Georgieʼs eyes, and coaxed her
very pleasantly, and admired her more than ever.
Bull Garnet rode home at twelve oʼclock from a long morningʼs work. He
never could eat any breakfast now, and his manner was to leave home
at six (except when he went to Winchester), gallop fiercely from work
to work, or sometimes walk his horse and think, often with glistening
eyes (when any little thing touched him), and return to his cottage and
rest there during the workmenʼs dinner–time. Then he had some sort of a
meal himself, which Pearl began to call “dinner,” and away with a fresh
horse in half an hour, spending his body if only so he might earn rest
of mind. All this was telling upon him fearfully; even his muscular
force was going, and his quickness of eye and hand failing him. He knew
it, and was glad.
Only none should ever say, though every crime was heaped upon him, that
he had neglected his masterʼs interests.
He tore the paper open in his sudden turbulent fashion, as if all paper
was rags, and no more; and with one glance at each column knew all that
was in the ‘tween–ways. Suddenly he came to a place at the corner of a
page which made him cease from eating. He glanced at Pearl, but she was
busy, peeling new potatoes for him. Bob was not come in yet.
“Darling, I must go to London. If possible I shall return to–night, if
I catch the one oʼclock up express.”
Then he opened the window, and ordered a horse, his loud voice ringing
and echoing round every corner of the cottage, and in five minutes he
was off at full gallop, for the express would not stop at Brockenhurst.
At 3.15 he was in London, and at 3.40 in the counting–house of
Messrs. Brown and Smithson, owners, or at any rate charterers, of the
_Taprobane_, Striped–ball Chambers, Fenchurch Street. There he would
learn, if he could, what their private advices were.
The clerks received him very politely, and told him that they had
little doubt of the truth of the evil tidings. Of course the fatality
might have been considerably exaggerated, &c. &c., but as to the loss
of the ship, they had taken measures to replace her. Would he mind
waiting only ten minutes, though they saw that he was in a hurry? The
Cape mail–ship had been telegraphed from Falmouth; they had sent to
the office already, and expected to get the reply within a quarter of
an hour. Every information in their power, &c.—we all know the form,
though we donʼt always get the civility.
Bull Garnet waited heavily with his great back against a stout brass
rail, having declined the chair they offered him; and in less than five
minutes he received authentic detail of everything. He listened to
nothing except one statement, “every soul on board was lost, sir.”
Then he went out, in a lumpish manner, from the noble room, and was
glad to get hold of the iron rail in the bend of the dark stone
staircase.
So now he was a double murderer. Finding it not enough to have killed
one brother in his fury, he had slain the other twin through his
cowardly concealment. Floating about in tropical slime, without a shark
to eat him, leaving behind him the fair repute of a money–grabbing
fratricide. And he, the man who had done it all, who had loved the boy
and ruined him, miserably plotting for his own far inferior children.
No, no! Not that at any rate,—good and noble children: and how they had
borne his villainy! God in mercy only make him, try to make him, over
again, and how different his life would be. All his better part brought
out; all his lower kicked away to the devil, the responsible father of
it. “Good God, how my heart goes! Death is upon me, well I know, but
let me die with my children by—unless I turn hymn–writer——”
Quick as he was in his turns of thought—all of them subjective—he
was scarcely a match for the situation, when Mr. Chope and Bailey
Kettledrum brushed by the sleeves of his light overcoat, and entered
the doors with “push—pull” on them, but, being both of the pushing
order rather than the pulling, employed indiscriminate propulsion,
and were out of sight in a moment. Still, retaining some little of
his circumspective powers, Bull Garnet knew them both from a corner
flash of his sad tear–laden eyes. There was no mistaking that great
legal head, like the breech–end of a cannon. Mr. Kettledrum might have
been overlooked, for little men of a fussy nature are common enough
in London, or for that matter everywhere else. But Garnetʼs attention
being drawn, he knew them both of course, and the errand they were
come upon, and how soon they were likely to return, and what they
would think of his being there, if they should happen to see him.
Nevertheless, he would not budge. Nothing could matter much now. He
must think out his thoughts.
When this puff of air was past which many breathe almost long enough to
learn that it was “life,” some so long as to weary of it, none so long
as to understand all its littleness and greatness—when that should be
gone from him, and absorbed into a boundless region even more unknown,
would not the wrong go with it, if unexpiated here, and abide there
evermore? And not to think of himself alone—what an example now to
leave to his innocent injured children! The fury hidden by treachery,
the cowardice sheathed in penitence! D——n it all, he would have no
more of it. His cursed mind was made up. A man can die in the flesh
but once. His spirit had been dying daily, going to the devil daily,
every day for months; and he found no place for repentance. As for
his children, they must abide it. No man of any mind would blame them
for their fatherʼs crime. If it was more than they could bear, let
them bolt to America. Anywhither, anywhere, so long as they came home
in heaven—if he could only get there—to the father who had injured,
ruined, bullied, cursed, and loved them so.
After burning out this hell of thought in his miserable brain, he
betook himself to natureʼs remedy,—instant, headlong action. He rushed
down the stairs, forgetting all about Chope and Bailey Kettledrum,
shouted to the driver of a hansom cab so that he sawed his horseʼs
mouth raw, leaped in, and gave him half a sovereign through the
pigeon–hole, to get to D——ʼs bank before the closing time. But at
Temple Bar, of course, there was a regular Chubbʼs lock, after a minor
Bramah one at the bottom of Ludgate Hill. Cabby was forced to cut it,
and slash up Chancery Lane, and across by Kingʼs College Hospital,
and back into the Strand by Wych Street. It is easy to imagine Bull
Garnetʼs state of mind; yet the imagination would be that, and nothing
more. He sat quite calmly, without a word, knowing that man and horse
were doing their utmost of skill and speed, and having dealt enough
with both to know that to worry them then is waste.
The Bank had been closed, the day–porter said, as he girded himself for
his walk to Brixton, exactly—let him see—yes, exactly one minute and
thirty–five seconds ago. Most of the gentlemen were still inside, of
course, and if the gentlemanʼs business was of a confidential——Here he
intimated, not by words, that there were considerations——
“Bow Street police–office,” Mr. Garnet cried to the driver, not even
glancing again at the disappointed doorkeeper. In five minutes he was
there. Man and horse seemed strung and nerved with his own excitement.
A stolid policeman stood at the door, as Bull Garnet leaped out
anyhow, with his high colour gone away as in death, and his wiry legs
cramped with vehemence. Then Bobby saw that he had met his master,
the perception being a mental feat far beyond the average leap of
police agility. Accordingly he touched his hat, and crinkled his eyes
in a manner discovered by policemen, in consequence of the suggestion
afforded by the pegging of their hats.
“Mr. Bennings gone?” asked Bull Garnet, pushing towards the entrance.
“His wusship is gone arf an hour, sir; or may be at most fifty minutes.
Can we do anything for you, sir? His wusship always go according to the
business as is on.”
“Thank you,” replied Mr. Garnet; “that is quite enough. What time do
they leave at Marlborough Street?”
“According to the business, sir, but gone afore us aʼmost always. We
sits as long as anybody, and gets through twice the business. But any
message you like to leave, or anything to be entered, I can take the
responsibility.”
“No. It does not matter. I will only leave my card. Mr. Bennings knows
me. Be kind enough to give him this, when he comes to–morrow morning.
Perhaps I may call to–morrow. At present I cannot say.”
The policeman lifted his hat again, like a cup taken up from a
saucer, and Bull Garnet sat heavily down in the cab, and banged the
door–shutters before him. “Strand,” he called out to the driver; “D——
and C——ʼs, the watchmakers.” There he bought a beautiful watch and
gold chain for his daughter Pearl, giving a cheque for nearly all
his balance at the bankerʼs. The cheque was so large that in common
prudence the foreman declined to cash it without some confirmation; but
Mr. Garnet gave him a reference, which in ten minutes was established,
and in ten more he was off again with his very handsome trinkets, and a
large sum in bank–notes and gold, the balance of his draft.
“Where now, sir?” shouted the driver, delighted with his fare, and
foreseeing another half–sovereign.
“I will tell you in thirty seconds.”
“Well, if he ainʼt a rum ‘un,” Cabby muttered to himself, while
amid volleys of strong language he kept his horse gyrating, like a
twin–screw ship trying circles; “but rum customers is our windfalls.
Should have thought it a reward case, only for the Bobby. Keep a
look–out, anyhow; unless he orders me back to Bedlam.”
“Not Bedlam. Waterloo Station, main line!” said Bull Garnet, standing
up in front, and looking at him over the roof. “Five minutes is all I
give you, mind.”
“What a blessed fool I am,” said the cabman below his breath, but
lashing his horse explosively—”to throw away half a sovereign sooner
than hold my tongue! He must be the devil himself to have heard me—and
as for eyes—good Lord, I shouldnʼt like to drive him much.”
“You are wrong,” replied Mr. Garnet through the pigeon–hole, handing
him twopence for the tollman; “I am not the devil, sir; as you may some
day know. Have no fear of ever driving me again. You shall have your
half–sovereign when I have got my ticket. Follow me in, and you shall
know for what place I take it.”
The cabman was too dumb–foundered to do anything but resolve that he
would go straight home when he got his money, and tell his old woman
about it. Then he applied himself to the whip in earnest, for he could
not too soon be rid of this job; and so Bull Garnet won his train, and
gave the driver the other half–sovereign, with a peculiar nod, having
noticed that he feared to approach while the ticket was applied for.
Bull Garnet took a second–class ticket. His extravagance towards the
cabman was the last he would ever exhibit. He felt a call upon him now
to save for his family every farthing. All was lost to them but money,
and alas, too much of that. Now if he cut his throat in the train,
could he be attainted of felony? And would God be any the harder on
him? No, he did not think He would. It might be some sort of atonement
even. But then the shock to Pearl and Bob, to see him brought home
with his head hanging back, and hopeless red stitches under it. It
would make the poor girl a maniac, after all the shocks and anguish
he had benumbed her with already. What a fool he had been not to buy
strychnine, prussic acid, or laudanum! And yet—and yet—and yet——He
would like to see them just once more—blessed hearts—once more.
He sat in the last compartment of the last carriage in the train, which
had been added, in a hurry, immediately behind the break van, and the
swinging and the jerking very soon became tremendous. He knew not,
neither cared to know, that Simon Chope and Bailey Kettledrum were in
a first–class carriage near the centre of the train. Presently the
violent motion began to tell upon him, and he felt a heavy dullness
creeping over his excited mind; and all the senses, which had been
during several hours of tension as prompt and acute as ever they were
in his prime of power, began to flag, and daze, and wane, and he fell
into a waking dream, a “second person” of sorrow. But first—whether for
suicide, or for self–defence, he had tried both doors and found them
locked; and he was far too large a man to force his way through the
window.
He dreamed, with a loose sense of identity, about the innocent
childhood, the boyhoodʼs aspiration, the young manʼs sense of ability
endorsing the right to aspire. Even his bodily power and vigour revived
in the dream before him, and he knitted his muscles, and clenched his
fists, and was ready to fight fools and liars. Who had fought more
hard and hotly against the hard cold ways of the age, the despite done
to the poor and lowly, the sarcasm bred by self–conscious serfdom
in clever men of the world, the preference of gold to love, and of
position to happiness? All the weak gregarious tricks, shifts of coat,
and pupa–ism, whereby we noble Christians reduce our social history
to a passage in entomology, and quench the faith of thinking men in
Him whose name we take in vain—the great Originator—all these feminine
contradictions, and fond things foully invented, fables Atellan (if
they be not actually Fescennine) had roused the combatism of young
Bull, ere he learned his own disgrace.
And when he learned it, such as it was—a proof by its false incidence
how infantile our civilization is—all his motherʼs bitter wrong, her
lifelong sense of shame and crushing (because she had trusted a liar,
and the hollow elder–stick “institution” was held up against her, and
none would take her part without money, even if she had wished it),
then he had chosen his motherʼs course, inheriting her strong nature,
let the shame lie where it fell by right and not by rule, and carried
all his energies into Neo–Christian largeness.
All that time of angry trial now had passed before him, and the five
years of his married life (which had not been very happy, for his wife
never understood him, but met his quick moodiness with soft sulks); and
then in his dream–review he smiled, as his children began to toddle
about, and sit on his knees, and look at him.
Once he awoke, and gazed about him. The train had stopped at
Winchester. He was all alone in the carriage still, and all his cash
was safe. He had stowed it away very carefully in a hidden pocket. To
his languid surprise, he fell back on the seat. How unlike himself,
to be sure; and with so much yet to do! He strove to arise and rouse
himself. He felt for the little flask of wine, which Pearl had thrust
into his pocket, but he could not pull it out and drink; such a languor
lay upon him. He had felt it before, but never before been so overcome
by it. Once or twice, an hour or so before the sun came back again,
this strange cold deadness (like a mammoth nightmare frozen) had lain
on him, in his lonely bed, and then he knew what death was, and only
came back to life again through cold sweat and long fainting.
He had never consulted any doctor about the meaning of this. With
his bold way of thinking, and judging only by his own experience and
feeling, he had long ago decided that all medical men were quacks.
What one disorder could they cure? All they had learned, and that by a
fluke, was a way to anticipate _one_: and even that way seemed worn out
now.
Now he fell away, and feared, and tried to squeeze his breast, and
tried to pray to God; but no words came, nor any thoughts, only sense
of dying, and horror at having prayed for it. A coldness fell upon his
heart, and on his brain an ignorance; he was falling into a great blank
depth, and nothing belonged to him any more—only utter, utter loss, and
not a dream of God.
Happy and religious folk, who have only died in theory, contemplating
distant death, knowing him only as opportune among kinsfolk owning
Consols, these may hope for a Prayer–book end, sacrament administered,
weeping friends, the heavenward soul glad to fly through the golden
door, _animula_, _vagula_, _blandula_, yet assured of its reception
with a heavenly smile of foretaste—this may be; no doubt it may be,
after the life of a Christian Bayard; though it need not always be,
even then. All we who from our age know death, and have taken little
trips into him, through fits, paralysis, or such–like, are quite aware
that he has at first call as much variety as life has. But the death of
the violent man is not likely to be placid, unless it come unawares, or
has been graduated through years of remorse, and weakness, weariness,
and repentance.
Then he tried to rise, and fought once more, with agony inconceivable,
against the heavy yet hollow numbness in the hold of his deep, wide
chest, against the dark, cold stealth of death, and the black, narrow
depth of the grave.
The train ran lightly and merrily into Brockenhurst Station, while the
midsummer twilight floated like universal gossamer. In the yard stood
the Kettledrum “rattletrap,” and the owner was right glad to see it. In
his eyes it was worth a dozen of the lord mayorʼs coach.
“None of the children come, dear?” asked Bailey, having kissed his
wife, as behoves a man from London.
“No, darling, not one. That——” here she used an adjective which sounded
too much like “odious” for me to trust my senses—”Georgie would not
allow them. Now, darling, did you do exactly what I told you?”
“Yes, darling Anna, I did the best I could. I had a basin of
mulligatawny at Waterloo going up, and one of mock–turtle coming back,
and at Basingstoke ham–sandwiches, a glass of cold cognac and water,
and some lemon–chips. Since that, nothing at all, because there has
been no time.”
“You are a dear,” said Mrs. Kettledrum, “to do exactly as I told you.
Now come round the corner a moment, and take two glasses of sherry; I
can see quite well to pour it out. I am so glad of her new crinoline.
She wonʼt get out. Donʼt be afraid, dear.”
Oh, Georgie, Georgie! To think that her own sister should be so low, so
unfeeling, and treacherous! Mr. Kettledrum smacked his lips, for the
sake of euphony, after the second glass of sherry; but his wife would
not give him any more, for fear of spoiling his supper. Then they came
back, and both got in, and squeezed themselves up together in the front
seat of the old carriage, for Mrs. Corklemore occupied the whole of the
seat of honour.
“You are very polite, to keep me so long. Innocent turtles; sweet
childish anxiety! The last survivor of a wrecked train! So you took
advantage, Anna dear, of my not being dressed quite so vulgarly as you
are, to discuss this little matter with him, keeping me in ignorance.”
The carriage was off by this time, and open as it was, they had no fear
of old coachey hearing, for it took a loud hail to reach him.
“Take the honour of a Kettledrum,” cried Bailey, smiting his bosom,
“that the subject has not even been broached between my wiser part
and myself. Ladies, in this pure aerial—no, I mean ethereal—air, with
the shades of night around us, and the breezes wafting, would an
exceedingly choice and delicately aromatic cigar——”
“Oh, I should so like it, Bailey; and perhaps we shall have the
nightingales.”
“I fear we must not think of it,” interposed Mrs. Corklemore, gently;
“my dress is of a fabric quite newly introduced, very beautiful, but
(like myself) too retentive of impressions. If Mr. Kettledrum smokes, I
shall have to throw it away.”
“There goes the cigar instead,” cried Bailey; “the paramount rights
of ladies ever have been, and ever shall be, sacred with Bailey
Kettledrum.”
But Mrs. Kettledrum was so vexed that she jumped up, as if to watch the
cigar spinning into the darkness, and contrived with sisterly accuracy
to throw all her weight upon a certain portion of a certain lovely
foot, whereupon there ensued the neatest little passes, into which we
need not enter. Enough that Mrs. Corklemore, having higher intellectual
gifts, “won,” in the language of the ring, “both events”—first tear,
and first hysterical symptom.
“Come,” cried Mr. Kettledrum, at the very first opportunity, to wit,
when both were crying; “we all know what sisters are: how they mingle
the—the sweetness of their affection with a certain—ah, yes—a piquancy
of expression, most pleasant, most improving, because so highly
conducive to self–examination!” Here he stood up, having made a hit,
worthy of the House of Commons. “All these little breezes, ladies, may
be called the trade–winds of affection. They blow from pole to pole.”
“The trade–winds never do that,” said Georgie.
“They pass us by as the idle wind, when the clouds are like a whale,
ladies, having overcome us for a moment, like a summer dream. Hark to
that thrush, sitting perhaps on his eggs”—”Oh, Oh!” from the gallery of
nature—”can there be, I pause for a reply, anything but harmony, where
the voices of the night pervade, and the music of the spheres?”
“You—you do speak so splendidly, dear,” sobbed Mrs. Kettledrum from the
corner; “but it is a nasty, wicked, cruel story, about dear papa saying
that of me, and he in his grave, poor dear, quite unable to vindicate
himself. I have always thought it so unchristian to malign the dead!”
“Whatʼs that?” cried Georgie, starting up, in fear and hot earnest;
“you are chattering so, you hear nothing.”
A horse dashed by them at full gallop, with his rider on his neck,
shouting and yelling, and clinging and lashing.
“Missed the wheel by an inch,” cried Kettledrum, drawing his head in
faster than he had thrust it out; “a fire, man, or a French invasion?”
But the man was out of hearing, while the Kettledrum horses, scared,
and jumping as from an equine thunderbolt, tried the strength of
leather and the courage of ladies.
Meanwhile at the station behind them there was a sad ado. A man was
lifted out of the train, being found in the last compartment by the
guard who knew his destination—a big man, and a heavy one; and they
bore him to the wretched shed which served there as a waiting–room.
“Dead, I believe,” said the guard, having sent a boy for brandy, “dead
as a door–nail, whoever he be.”
“Not thee knaw who _he_ be?” cried a forester, coming in. “Whoy, marn,
there be no mistaking _he_. He be our Muster Garnet.”
“Whew!” And the train whistled on, as it must do, whether we live or
die, or when Cyclops has made mince of us.