AN UPWARD STROKE.
THE character of Captain Fairthorn—better known to the public now as
Sir Humphrey Fairthorn, but he had not as yet conferred dignity upon
Knighthood—will be understood easily by those who have the knowledge
to understand it. But neither Uncle Corny, nor myself—although we were
getting very clever now at Sunbury—could manage at all to make him
out at first, though it must have been a great deal easier then, than
when we came to dwell upon him afterwards. All that he said was so
perfectly simple, and yet he was thinking of something else all the
time; and everything he did was done as if he let someone else do it
for him. I cannot make any one understand him, for the plainest of all
plain reasons—I could never be sure that I myself understood him. And
this was not at all because he meant to be a mystery to any one; for
that was the last thing he would desire, or even believe himself able
to be. The reason that kept him outside of our reason—so far as I can
comprehend it—was that he looked at no one of the many things to be
feared, to be desired, to be praised, or blamed, from the point of view
we were accustomed to.
I had thought that my Uncle Cornelius (though he was sharp enough
always, and sometimes too sharp, upon me and my doings) was upon the
whole the most deliberate and easy-going of mortals; but a mere glance
at Professor Fairthorn showed how vastly the breadth of mankind was
beyond me. To look at his face, without thinking about him, was enough
to compose any ordinary mind, and charm away any trivial worries; but
to listen to his voice, and observe him well, and meet his great eyes
thoughtfully, and to catch the tranquility of his smile, this was
sufficient to make one ashamed of paltry self-seeking and trumpery
cares, and to lead one for the moment into larger ways. And yet he was
not a man of lofty visions, poetic enthusiasm, or ardent faith in the
grandeur of humanity. I never heard him utter one eloquent sentence,
and I never saw him flush with any fervour of high purpose. He simply
seemed to do his work, because it was his nature, and to have no more
perception of his influence over others, than they had of the reason
why he owned it. So far as we could judge, he was never thinking of
himself; and that alone was quite enough to make him an enigma.
Now people may suppose, and very naturally too, that my warm admiration
of the daughter impelled me to take an over-lofty view of the father.
People would be quite wrong, however, for in that view I was not alone;
every one concurred, and even carried it still further; and certainly
there was no personal resemblance to set me on that special track.
Professor—or as I shall call him henceforth, because he preferred it,
Captain Fairthorn—was not of any striking comeliness. His face was very
broad, and his mouth too large, and his nose might be said almost to
want re-blocking, and other faults might have been found by folk who
desire to talk picturesquely. But even the hardest of mankind to please
(in everything but self-examination) would have found no need, and
small opportunity, for improvement in his eyes and forehead. I know my
own stupidity, or at least attempt to do so, when it is not altogether
too big; yet I dare to deny that it had anything to do with the charm I
fell under in this man’s presence. And this is more than proved by the
fact that Uncle Corny—as dry an old Grower as was ever frozen out—could
resist the large quietude of our visitor, even less than I could.
For the Captain had been sent for, sure enough, about a little business
so far below his thoughts. And when he came into our garden, to thank
us for all we had done towards discovery of the thief, and especially
to thank me for my valiant services to his daughter, it is no
exaggeration at all to say that I wished the earth would hide me from
his great grey eyes. Under their kindly and yet distant gaze, I felt
what a wretched little trickster I had been; and if he had looked at me
for another moment, I must have told him everything, for the sake of
his forgiveness. But he, unhappily for himself, if he could be unhappy
about little things, measured his fellow-men by his own nature, and
suspected nothing until it had been proved. And at that very moment, he
caught sight of something, which absorbed him in a scientific zeal we
could not follow.
“A young tree dead!” he exclaimed; “and with all its foliage hanging!
Three other young trees round it injured on the sides towards it. When
did you observe this? Had you that storm on Saturday?”
“Yes, sir, it did rain cats and dogs,” my Uncle answered after
thinking. “We said that it might break the long bad weather; and it
seems to have done it at last, thank the Lord. There was a lot of
lightning, but not so very nigh.”
“Then no trees were struck from above, not even that old oak, which
seems to have been struck some years ago? May I cross the border, and
examine that young tree? Thank you; have you ever known a case like
this before?”
They passed very dangerously near the old oak; and I trembled, as
that villain of a Regulus showed his base want of gratitude by a
long howl; but luckily neither of them heard it. I went to the door,
and threatened him with instant death, and then followed to hear
the discussion about the tree. “You have known it before,” Captain
Fairthorn was saying; “but not for some years, and if you remember
right, not when the storms were particularly near. I have heard of
several similar cases, but never had the fortune to see one till now.
You perceive that the life is entirely gone. The leaves are quite
black, but have a narrow yellow margin. Forgive me for troubling you,
Mr. Orchardson, but when did you notice this condition of the tree?”
“Well, sir, it kept on raining up till dark on Saturday; and I did not
chance to come by here on Sunday. But on Monday morning it was as you
see it now—gone off all of a heap, and no cause for it. As healthy a
young tree as you would wish to look at—a kind of pear we call Beurré
Diel. Dead as a door-nail, you can see. Kit, get a spade, and dig it up
for Professor.”
“Thank you, not yet. I was going home to-night, but this is a matter I
must examine carefully. That is to say, with your kind permission. We
use big words, Mr. Orchardson, that sound very learned; and we write
very positively from other people’s observation. But one case, that
we have seen with our own eyes, and searched into on the spot to the
utmost of our power, is worth fifty we have only read of. You will
think me very troublesome, I greatly fear; and of gardening matters I
know less than nothing. But you will oblige me more than I can say, if
you will let me come again, and try to learn some little. You know what
has killed this tree, I presume.”
“No, sir, I have not got any sense at all about it,” my Uncle answered
stoutly; “’Tis the will of the Lord, when a tree goes off; or if it is
the doing of any chap of mine, he goes off too, and there’s an end of
it. Something amiss with these roots, I take it.”
His boots were tipped with heavy iron, and he was starting for a good
kick at the dead young tree, when I ran between, and said, “Uncle, let
it stay just as it is, for a day or two. It can’t draw anything out of
the ground; and this gentleman would like to examine it, as it is.”
“Young gentleman, that is the very point.” Captain Fairthorn, as he
spoke, looked kindly at me; “if I could be permitted to have my own
way, I would have a little straw shaken round it to-night, as lightly
as may be, without any foot coming nearer than can be helped to it.
That will keep the surface as it is, from heavy rain, or any other
accident. Then if I may be indulged in my crotchets, I would bring my
daughter, who draws correctly, to make a careful sketch and colour
it. And after that is done, and I have used my treble lens at every
point of divergence, I would ask as a very great favour to be allowed
to open the ground myself, and trace the roots from their terminal
fibres upwards. I would not dare to ask all this for my own sake, Mr.
Orchardson; but because we may learn something from it of a thing as
yet little understood—what is called the terrestrial discharge. We get
more and more into big words, you see. You have known trees destroyed
in this way before. It only happens on certain strata.”
“It has happened here, sir, for generations,” said my Uncle, trying
hard to look scientific. “The thunderstorm blight is what we call it.
We call anything a blight, when the meaning is beyond us. Seems as if
some trees was subject to it. I never knew an apple-tree took this way.
But pear-trees have been so, times out of mind, though never none but
the younger ones. A few years agone, I can’t say how many, seventeen
young pear-trees were killed outright, ten in one part of the grounds,
and seven in another, and not a mark to be found on one of them. All as
dead as door-nails when we come to look at them. A blight, or a blast,
that’s what we call it. And there’s nothing to do but to plant another.”
“A truly British view of the question,” Captain Fairthorn answered
with his sweet smile, which threw me into a glow by its likeness to a
smile yet lovelier; “I wish I could tell you how I feel for the English
fruit-grower in his hard struggle with the climate, the dealers, and
the foreign competition. It is a hard fight always, much worse than the
farmers; and a season like this is like knocking a drowning man on the
head. And yet you are so brave that you never complain!”
The truth of these words, and the tone of good will, made a deep
impression upon both of us, especially upon my Uncle, who had to find
the money for everything.
“No, sir, we never complain,” he replied; “we stand up to the seasons
like our own trees, and we keep on hoping for a better time next year.
But there are very few that know our difficulties, and folk that can
scarcely tell a pear from an apple go about the country, spouting and
writing by the yard, concerning of our ignorance. Let them try it,
is all I say, let them try it, if they are fools enough. Why bless
my heart, there’s a fellow preaching now about sorting of apples, as
if we had not done it before he sucked his coral! But I won’t go on
maundering—time will show. Glad to see you, sir, at any time, and if
I should happen to be about the grounds, my nephew Kit will see to
everything you want. What time shall we see you to-morrow, sir?”
We were walking to the gate by this time, and Captain Fairthorn pulled
out his watch. I observed that he had a true sailor’s walk, and a
sailor’s manner of gazing round, and the swing of his arms was nautical.
“What a time I have kept you!” he exclaimed with simple wonder; “and I
have forgotten altogether my proper business. I was to have tried some
special means, for recovering the dog we were speaking of. Unless he
is heard of to-night, I shall have little time to spare to-morrow. I
am bound to do all I can for my good hostess. But to think that a dog,
and a dog of no benevolence—according to my daughter—should stand in
the way of this most interesting matter! However, I will do my best all
the morning, and try to be with you by eleven o’clock. If I cannot come
then, you will know what the cause is. But even for the best of dogs, I
must not drop the subject. Now I thank you most heartily. Good-night!”
“What a wonderful man!” was my Uncle’s reflection; “to know all about
trees, and thunderstorms, and dogs, and Covent Garden! And yet to let a
woman twist him round her thumb, and tread on his child, and turn his
pockets inside out! Come along, Kit, I am pretty nigh starved.”
And this wonderful man added yet another crown to his glory that very
same night, as I heard. For to him, and his wisdom, was set down the
credit of a joyful and extraordinary event.
A young man, slouching with a guilty conscience and a bag on his back,
might have been seen—if his bad luck had prevailed—approaching a fine
old mansion craftily, when the shadows stole over the moon, if there
was one. Then an accurate observer might have noticed a quadruped of
somewhat downcast mien issuing with much hesitation from a sack, and
apparently reluctant to quit his guardian, who had evidently won his
faithful heart. But receiving stern orders to make himself scarce, he
might next be seen gliding to a gloomy door, uplifting wistfully one
ancient paw scraping at the paint where it had been scraped before,
and then throwing his head back, and venting his long-pent emotions
in a howl of inexpressible sadness. The door was opened, the guardian
vanished with suspicious promptitude, lights were seen glancing in a
long range of windows, an outbreak of feminine voices moved the air,
and after a shrill and unnatural laugh, came a sound as of hugging, and
a cry of—“Run, for your life, for his liver, Jane!”