That night there had been great excitement in the village of
Nowelhurst. A rumour had reached it that Cradock Nowell, loved in
every cottage there, partly as their own production, partly as their
future owner, partly for his own sake, and most of all for his
misfortunes, was thrown into prison to stand his trial for the murder
of his brother. Another rumour was that, to prevent any scandal to the
nobility, he had been sent to sea alone in a seventy–four gun ship,
with corks in her bottom tied with wire arranged so as to fly all at
once, same as if it was ginger–beer bottles, on the seventh day, when
the salt–water had turned the wires rusty.
It is hard to say of these two reports which roused the greater
indignation; perhaps on the whole the former did, because the latter
was supposed to be according to institution. Anyhow, all the village
was out in the street that night; and the folding of arms, and the
self–importance, the confidential winks, and the power to say more (but
for hyper–Nestorean prudence) were at their acme in a knot of gaffers
gathered around Rufus Hutton, and affording him good sport.
Nothing now could be done in Nowelhurst without Rufus Hutton. He had
that especial knack (mistaken sometimes in a statesman for really high
qualities) which becomes in a woman true capacity for gossip. By virtue
thereof Rufus Hutton was now prime–minister of Nowelhurst; and Sir
Cradock, the king, being nothing more now than the shadow of a name,
his deputyʼs power was absolute. He knew the history by this time of
every cottage, and pigsty, and tombstone in the churchyard; how much
every man got every week, and how much he gave his wife out of it, what
he had for dinner on Sundays, and how long he made his waistcoat last.
Suddenly the double–barrelled noise which foreruns a horse at full
gallop came from the bridge, and old folk hobbled, and young got ready
to run.
“Hooraw—hooraw!” cried a dozen and a half of boys, “here be Hempror o’
Roosia coming.”
Boys will believe almost anything, when they get excited (having taken
the trick from their fathers), but even the women were disappointed,
when the galloping horse stopped short in the crowd, and from his
withers shot forward, and fell with both hands full of mane, a
personage not more august than the porter at Brockenhurst Station.
“Catch the horse, you fool!” cried Rufus.
“Cuss the horse,” said the porter, trying to draw breath; “better
been under a train I had. Donʼt stand gaping, chawbacons. Is ever a
sawbones, surgeon, doctor, or what the devil you call them in these
outlandish parts, to be got for love or money?”
“I am a sawbones,” said Rufus Hutton, coming forward with his utmost
dignity; “and itʼs a mercy I donʼt saw yours, young man, if thatʼs all
you know of riding.”
The porter touched his hair instead of his hat (which was gone long
ago), while the “chawbacons” rallied, and laughed at him, and one
offered him a “zide–zaddle,” and all the women of the village felt that
Dr. Hutton had quenched the porter, and vindicated Nowelhurst.
“When you have recovered your breath, young man,” continued Rufus,
pushing, as he always did, his advantage; “and thanked God for your
escape from the first horse you ever mounted, perhaps you will tell us
your errand, and we chawbacons will consider it.”
A gruff haw–haw and some treble he–heʼs added to the porterʼs
discomfiture, for he could not come to time yet, being now in the
second tense of exhaustion, which is even worse than the first, being
rather of the heart than lungs.
“Station—Mr. Garnet—dead!” was all the man could utter, and that only
in spasms, and with great chest–heavings.
Rufus Hutton leaped on the horse in a moment, caught up old Channingʼs
stick, and was out of sight in the summer dusk ere any one else in the
crowd had done more than gape, and say, “Oh Lor!” By dint of skill he
sped the old horse nearly as quickly to the station as the fury of Jehu
had brought him thence, and landed him at the door with far less sign
of exhaustion. Then walking into the little room, in the manner of a
man who thoroughly knows his work, he saw a sight which never in this
world will leave him.
Upon a hard sofa, shored up with an ash–log where the mahogany was
sprung, and poked up into a corner as if to get a bearing there, with
blankets piled upon him heavily and tucked round the collar of his
coat, and his great head hanging over the rise where the beading of
the brass ends, lay the ill–fated Bull Garnet,—a man from birth to
death a subject for pity more than terror. Fifty years old—more than
fifty years—and scarce a twelvemonth of happiness since the shakings of
the world began, and childhoodʼs dream was over. Toiling ever for the
future, toiling for his children, ever since he had them, labouring to
make peace with God, if only he might have his own, where passion is
not, but love abides. The room smelled strongly of bad brandy, some of
which was oozing now down his broad square chin, and dripping from the
great blue jaw. Of course he could not swallow it; and now one of the
women (for three had rushed in) was performing that duty for him.
“Turn out that drunken hag!” cried Dr. Hutton, feeling he had no idea
how. “Up with the window. Bring the sofa here; and take all but one of
those blankets off.”
“But, master,” objected another woman, “heʼll take his death of cold.”
“Turn out that woman also!” He was instantly obeyed. “Now roll up one
of those blankets, and put it under his head here—this side, canʼt you
see? Good God, what a set of fellows you are to let a manʼs head hang
down like that! Hot water and a sponge this instant. Nearly boiling,
mind you. Plenty of it, and a foot–tub. Now donʼt stare at me.”
With a quick light hand he released the blue and turgid throat from the
narrow necktie, then laid his forefinger upon the heart and watched the
eyelids intently.
“Appleplexy, no doubt, master,” said the most intelligent of the men;
“I have ‘eared that if you can bleed them——”
“Hold your tongue, or Iʼll phlebotomise you.” That big word inspired
universal confidence, because no one understood it. “Now, support him
in that position, while I pull his boots off. One of you run to the
inn for a bottle of French cognac—not this filthy stuff, mind—and a
corkscrew and a teaspoon. Now the hot water here! In with his feet,
and bathe his legs, while I sponge his face and chest—as hot as you can
bear your hands in it. His heart is all but stopped, and his skin as
cold as ice. Thatʼs it; quicker yet! Donʼt be afraid of scalding him.
There, he begins to feel it.”
The dying manʼs great heavy eyelids slowly and feebly quivered, and
a long deep sigh arose, but there was not strength to fetch it. Dr.
Hutton took advantage of the faint impulse of life to give him a little
brandy, and then a little more again, and by that time he could sigh.
“Bo,” he whispered very softly, and trying to lift his hand for
something, and Rufus Hutton knew somehow (perhaps by means of his own
child) that he was trying to say, “Bob.”
“Bob will be here directly. Cheer up, cheer up, till he comes, my
friend.”
He called him his friend, and the very next day he would have denounced
him as murderer to the magistrates at Lymington. Now his only thought
was of saving the poor manʼs life.
The fatherʼs dull eyes gleamed again when he heard those words, and a
little smile came flickering over the stern lines of his face. They
gave him more brandy on the strength of it, while he kept on looking at
the door.
“Rub, rub, rub, men; very lightly, but very quickly. Keep your thumbs
up, donʼt you see? Mustnʼt get cold again for the world. There now,
heʼll keep his heart up until his dear son arrives. And then his
children shall nurse him, much better than any one else could; and
how glad they will be, John Thomas, to see him looking so well and so
strong again!”
All this time, Rue Hutton himself, with a womanʼs skill and tenderness,
was encouraging, by gentle friction over the stagnant heart, each
feeble impulse yet to live, each little bubble faintly rising from the
well of hope, every clinging of the soul to the things so hard to leave
behind. “While there is life, there is hope.” True and genial saying!
And we hope there is hope beyond it.
Poor Bull Garnet was taken home, even that very night. For Dr. Hutton
saw how much he was longing for his children, who (until he was carried
in) knew nothing of his danger. “Please God,” said Rufus to himself, as
he crouched in the fly by the narrow mattress, even foregoing his loved
cheroot, and keeping his hand on his patientʼs pulse; “please God, the
poor fellow shall breathe his last with a child at either side of him.”
Meanwhile, an urgent message from Sir Cradock Nowell was awaiting the
sick man at his cottage. Eoa herself had brought word to Pearl (of
whom she longed to make a friend) that her uncle was walking about the
house, perpetually walking, calling aloud in every room for Mr. Garnet
and John Rosedew. He had heard of no disaster, any more than she had,
for he seldom read the papers now; but Mr. Brockwood had been with him
a very long time that morning, and Dr. Buller came in accidentally;
and Eoa could almost vow that there was some infamous scheme on foot,
and she knew whose doing it was; and oh that Uncle John would come
back! But now they wanted Mr. Garnet, and he must hurry up to the Hall
the moment he came home.
Mr. Garnet, of course, they could not have: his strength was wrecked,
his heart benumbed, his mind incapable of effort, except to know his
children, if that could ever be one. And in this paralytic state, never
sleeping, never waking, never wholly conscious, he lay for weeks; and
time for him had neither night nor morning.
But Mr. Rosedew could be brought to help his ancient friend, if only it
was in his power to overlook the injury. He did not overlook it. For
that he was too great a man. He utterly forgot it. To his mind it was
thenceforth a thing that had never happened:
“To–morrow either with black cloud
Let the Father fill the heaven,
Or with sun full–blazing:
Yet shall He not erase the past,
Nor beat abroad, and make undone,
What once the fleeting hour hath borne.”
Truly so our Horace saith. And yet that Father gives, sometimes, to
the noblest of his children, power to revoke the evil, or at least
annul it,—grandeur to undo the wrong done by others to them. Not with
any sense of greatness, neither hope of self–reward, simply from the
loving–kindness of the deep humanity.
In truth it was a noble thing, such as not even the driest man,
sapped and carked with care and evil, worn with undeserved rebuff,
and dwelling ever underground, in the undermining of his faith, could
behold and not be glad with a joy unbidden, could turn away from
without wet eyes, and a glimpse of the God who loves us,—and yet the
simplest, mildest scene that a child could describe to its mother. So
will I tell it, if may be, casting all long words away, leaning on an
old manʼs staff, looking over the stile of the world.
It was the height of the summer–time, and the quiet mood of the setting
sun touched with calm and happy sadness all he was forsaking. Men were
going home from work; wives were looking for them; maidens by the
gate or paling longed for some protection; children must be put to
bed, and what a shame, so early! Puce and purple pillows lay, holding
golden locks of sun, piled and lifted by light breezes, the painted
eider–down of sunset. In the air a feeling was—those who breathe it
cannot tell—only this, that it does them good; God knows how, and why,
and whence—but it makes them love their brethren.
The poor old man, more tried and troubled than a lucky labourer,
wretched in his wealth, worse hampered by his rank and placement, sat
upon a high oak chair—for now he feared to lean his head back—and
prayed for some one to help him. Oh, for any one who loved him; oh,
for any sight of God, whom in his pride he had forgotten! Eoa was a
darling, his only comfort now; but what could such a girl do? Who was
she to meet the world? And the son he had used so shamefully. Good God,
his only son! And now he knew, with some strange knowledge, loose, and
wide, and wandering, that his son was innocent after all, and lost to
him for ever, through his own vile cruelty. And now they meant to prove
him mad—what use to disguise it?—him who once had the clearest head,
chairman of the Quarter Sessions——
Here he broke down, and lay back, with his white hair poured against
the carved black oak of the chair, and his wasted hands flung downward,
only praying God to help him, anyhow to help him.
Then John Rosedew came in softly, half ashamed of himself, half nervous
lest he were presuming, overdrawing the chords of youth, the bond of
the days when they went about with arm round the neck of each other. In
his heart was pity, very deep and holy; and yet, of all that filled his
eyes, the very last to show itself.
Over against the ancient friend, the loved one of his boyhood, he
stopped and sadly gazed a moment, and then drew back with a shock
and sorrow, as of death brought nearer. At the sound, Sir Cradock
Nowell lifted his weary eyes and sighed; and then he looked intently;
and then he knew the honest face, the smile, the gentle forehead.
Quietly he arose, with colour flowing over his pallid cheeks, and in
his eyes strong welcome, and ready with his lips to speak, yet in his
heart unable. Thereupon he held the chair, and bowed with the deepest
reverence, such as king or queen receives not till a life has earned
it. Even the hand which he was raising he let fall again, drawn back by
a bitter memory, and a nervous shame.
But his friend of olden time would not have him so disgraced, wanted
no repentance. With years of kindness in his eyes and the history of
friendship, he came, without a bow, and took the hand that now was shy
of him.
“Cradock, oh, I am so glad.”
“John, thank God for this, John!”
Then they turned to other subjects, with a sort of nervousness—the one
for fear of presuming on pardon, the other for fear of offering it.
Only both knew, once for all, that nothing more could come between them
till the hour of death.
The rector accepted once again his well–beloved home and cares, for the
vacancy had not been filled, only Mr. Pell had lived a short time at
the Rectory. The joy of all the parish equalled, if not transcended,
that of parson and of patron.
And, over and above the ease of conscience, and the sense of comfort,
it was a truly happy thing for poor Sir Cradock Nowell, when the loss
of the _Taprobane_ could no longer be concealed from him, that now he
had the proven friend to fall back upon once more. He had spent whole
days in writing letters—humble, loving, imploring letters to the son
in unknown latitudes—directing them as fancy took him to the Cape, to
Port Natal, Mozambique, or even Bombay (in case of stress of weather),
Point de Galle, Colombo, &c. &c., in all cases to be called for, and
invariably marked “urgent.” Then from this labour of love he awoke to a
vague form of conviction that his letters ought to have been addressed
to the bottom of the sea.