KIND ENQUIRIES
That notable year, and signal mark in all the great annals of England,
the year 1805, began with gloom and great depression. Food was scarce,
and so was money; wars, and rumours of worse than war; discontent of men
who owed it to their birth and country to stand fast, and trust in
God, and vigorously defy the devil; sinkings even of strong hearts, and
quailing of spirits that had never quailed before; passionate outcry for
peace without honour, and even without safety; savage murmurings at wise
measures and at the burdens that must be borne--none but those who lived
through all these troubles could count half of them. If such came now,
would the body of the nation strive to stand against them, or fall in
the dust, and be kicked and trampled, sputtering namby-pamby? Britannia
now is always wrong, in the opinion of her wisest sons, if she dares to
defend herself even against weak enemies; what then would her crime
be if she buckled her corselet against the world! To prostitute their
mother is the philanthropy of Communists.
But while the anxious people who had no belief in foreigners were
watching by the dark waves, or at the twilight window trembling (if ever
a shooting-star drew train, like a distant rocket-signal), or in their
sleepy beds scared, and jumping up if a bladder burst upon a jam-pot,
no one attempted to ridicule them, and no public journal pronounced that
the true British flag was the white feather. It has been left for times
when the power of England is tenfold what it was then, and her duties
a hundredfold, to tell us that sooner than use the one for the proper
discharge of the other, we must break it up and let them go to pot upon
it, for fear of hurting somebody that stuck us in the back.
But who of a right mind knows not this, and who with a wrong one
will heed it? The only point is that the commonest truisms come upon
utterance sometimes, and take didactic form too late; even as we shout
to our comrade prone, and beginning to rub his poor nose, “Look out!”
And this is what everybody did with one accord, when he was down upon
his luck--which is far more momentous than his nose to any man--in the
case of Rector Twemlow.
That gentleman now had good reason for being in less than his usual
cheer and comfort. Everything around him was uneasy, and everybody
seemed to look at him, instead of looking up to him, as the manner used
to be. This was enough to make him feel unlike himself; for although he
was resolute in his way, and could manage to have it with most people,
he was not of that iron style which takes the world as wax to write
upon. Mr. Twemlow liked to heave his text at the people of his parish on
Sunday, and to have his joke with them on Monday; as the fire that has
burned a man makes the kettle sing to comfort him. And all who met him
throughout the week were pleased with him doubly, when they remembered
his faithfulness in the pulpit.
But now he did his duty softly, as if some of it had been done to him;
and if anybody thanked him for a fine discourse, he never endeavoured
to let him have it all again. So far was he gone from his natural state
that he would rather hear nothing about himself than be praised enough
to demand reply; and this shows a world-wide depression to have arrived
in the latitude of a British waistcoat. However, he went through his
work, as a Briton always does, until he hangs himself; and he tried
to try some of the higher consolation, which he knew so well how to
administer to others.
Those who do not understand the difference of this might have been
inclined to blame him; but all who have seen a clever dentist with the
toothache are aware that his knowledge adds acuteness to the pain. Mr.
Twemlow had borne great troubles well, and been cheerful even under
long suspense; but now a disappointment close at home, and the grief
of beholding his last hopes fade, were embittered by mystery and dark
suspicions. In despair at last of recovering his son, he had fastened
upon his only daughter the interest of his declining life; and now he
was vexed with misgivings about her, which varied as frequently as she
did. It was very unpleasant to lose the chance of having a grandchild
capable of rocking in a silver cradle; but that was a trifle compared
with the prospect of having no grandchild at all, and perhaps not even
a child to close his eyes. And even his wife, of long habit and fair
harmony, from whom he had never kept any secret--frightful as might be
the cost to his honour--even Mrs. Twemlow shook her head sometimes, when
the arrangement of her hair permitted it, and doubted whether any of the
Carne Castle Carnes would have borne with such indignity.
“Prosecute him, prosecute him,” this good lady always said. “You ought
to have been a magistrate, Joshua--the first magistrate in the Bible was
that--and then you would have known how to do things. But because you
would have to go to Sir Charles Darling--whose Sir can never put him on
the level of the Carnes--you have some right feeling against taking out
a summons. In that I agree with you; it would be very dreadful here. But
in London he might be punished, I am sure; and I know a great deal
about the law, for I never had any one connected with me who was not
a magistrate; the Lord Mayor has a Court of his own for trying the
corporation under the chair; and if this was put properly before him by
a man like Mr. Furkettle, upon the understanding that he should not be
paid unless he won his case, I am sure the result would be three years'
imprisonment. By that time he would have worn out his coat with jailer's
keys upon it, which first attracted our poor Eliza; or if he was not
allowed to wear it, it would go out of fashion, and be harmless. No one
need know a word about it here, for Captain Stubbard would oblige us
gladly by cutting it out of the London papers. My dear, you have nobody
ill in the parish; I will put up your things, and see you off to-morrow.
We will dine late on Friday, to suit the coach; and you will be quite
fit for Sunday work again, if you keep up your legs on a chair all
Saturday.”
“If ever I saw a straightforward man,” Mr. Twemlow used to answer, “it
was poor Percival Shargeloes. He is gone to a better world, my dear.
And if he continued to be amenable to law, this is not a criminal, but a
civil case.”
“A nice case of civility, Joshua! But you always stand up for your sex.
Does the coach take people to a better world? A stout gentleman, like
him, was seen inside the coach, muffled up in a cravat of three colours,
and eating at frequent intervals.”
“The very thing poor Percival never did. That disposes to my mind of
that foolish story. My dear, when all truth comes to light, you will do
justice to his memory.”
“Yes, I dare say. But I should like to do it now. If you entertain any
dark ideas, it is your duty to investigate them. Also to let me share
them, Joshua, as I have every right to do.”
This was just what the Rector could not do; otherwise he might have been
far more happy. Remembering that last conversation with his prospective
son-in-law, and the poor man's declaration that the suspicious matter at
the castle ought to be thoroughly searched out at once, he nourished a
dark suspicion, which he feared to impart to his better half, the
aunt of the person suspected. But the longer he concealed it, the more
unbearable grew this misery to a candid nature, until he was compelled,
in self-defence, to allow it some sort of outlet. “I will speak to the
fellow myself,” he said, heartily disliking the young man now, “and
judge from his manner what next I ought to do.”
This resolution gave him comfort, much as he hated any interview with
Carne, who treated him generally with cold contempt. And, like most
people who have formed a decision for the easing of the conscience, he
accepted very patiently the obstacles encountered. In the first place,
Carne was away upon business; then he was laid up with a heavy cold;
then he was much too hard at work (after losing so much time) to be able
to visit Springhaven; and to seek him in his ruins was most unsafe, even
if one liked to do it. For now it was said that two gigantic dogs, as
big as a bull and as fierce as a tiger, roved among the ruins all day,
and being always famished, would devour in two minutes any tempting
stranger with a bit of flesh or fat on him. The Rector, patting his
gaiters, felt that instead of a pastor he might become a very sweet
repast to them, and his delicacy was renewed and deepened. He was bound
to wait until his nephew appeared at least inside his parish.
Therefore the time of year was come almost to the middle of February
when Mr. Twemlow at last obtained the chance he required and dreaded. He
heard that his nephew had been seen that day to put up his horse in the
village, and would probably take the homeward road as soon as it grew
too dark to read. So he got through his own work (consisting chiefly of
newspaper, dinner, and a cool clay pipe, to equalise mind with matter),
and having thus escaped the ladies, off he set by the lobby door,
carrying a good thick stick. As the tide would be up, and only deep
sand left for the heavy track of the traveller, he chose the inland way
across the lower part of the Admiral's grounds, leading to the village
by a narrow plank bridge across the little stream among some trees. Here
were banks of earth and thicket, shadowy dells where the primrose grew,
and the cuckoo-pint, and wood-sorrel, and perhaps in summer the glowworm
breathed her mossy gleam under the blackberries.
And here Parson Twemlow was astonished, though he had promised himself
to be surprised no more, after all he had been through lately. As he
turned a sharp corner by an ivied tree, a breathless young woman ran
into his arms.
“Oh!” cried the Rector, for he was walking briskly, with a
well-nourished part of his system forward--“oh, I hope you have not hurt
yourself. No doubt it was my fault. Why, Dolly! What a hurry you are in!
And all alone--all alone, almost after dark!”
“To be sure; and that makes me in such a hurry;” Miss Dolly was in sad
confusion. “But I suppose I am safe in my father's own grounds.”
“From everybody, except yourself, my dear,” Mr. Twemlow replied,
severely. “Is your father aware, does your sister know, that you are
at this distance from the house after dark, and wholly without a
companion?”
“It is not after dark, Mr. Twemlow; although it is getting darker than
I meant it to be. I beg your pardon for terrifying you. I hope you
will meet with no other perils! Good-night! Or at least I mean,
good-afternoon!”
“The brazen creature!” thought Mr. Twemlow, as the girl without another
word disappeared. “Not even to offer me any excuse! But I suppose she
had no fib handy. She will come to no good, I am very much afraid. Maria
told me that she was getting very wilful; but I had no idea that it was
quite so bad as this. I am sorry for poor Scudamore, who thinks her such
an angel. I wonder if Carne is at the bottom of this? There is nothing
too bad for that dark young man. I shall ascertain at any rate whether
he is in the village. But unless I look sharp I shall be too late to
meet him. Oh, I can't walk so fast as I did ten years ago.”
Impelled by duty to put best leg foremost, and taking a short-cut above
the village, he came out upon the lane leading towards the castle, some
half-mile or so beyond the last house of Springhaven. Here he waited to
recover breath, and prepare for what he meant to say, and he was sorry
to perceive that light would fail him for strict observation of his
nephew's face. But he chose the most open spot he could find, where the
hedges were low, and nothing overhung the road.
Presently he heard the sound of hoofs approaching leisurely up the hill,
and could see from his resting-place that Carne was coming, sitting
loosely and wearily on his high black horse. Then the Rector, to cut
short an unpleasant business, stood boldly forth and hailed him.
“No time for anything now,” shouted Carne; “too late already. Do you
want my money? You are come to the wrong man for that; but the right
one, I can tell you, for a bullet.”
“Caryl, it is I, your uncle Twemlow, or at any rate the husband of your
aunt. Put up your pistol, and speak to me a minute. I have something
important to say to you. And I never can find you at the castle.”
“Then be quick, sir, if you please;” Carne had never condescended to
call this gentleman his uncle. “I have little time to spare. Out with
it.”
“You were riding very slowly for a man in a hurry,” said the Rector,
annoyed at his roughness. “But I will not keep you long, young man. For
some good reasons of your own you have made a point of avoiding us, your
nearest relatives in this country, and to whom you addressed yourself
before you landed in a manner far more becoming. Have I ever pressed my
attentions upon you?”
“No, I confess that you have not done that. You perceived as a gentleman
how little there was in common between the son of a devoted Catholic and
a heretic clergyman.”
“That is one way to put it,” Mr. Twemlow answered, smiling in spite of
his anger at being called a heretic; “but I was not aware that you had
strong religious views. However that may be, we should have many things
in common, as Englishmen, at a time like this. But what I came to speak
of is not that. We can still continue to get on without you, although
we would rather have met with friendly feeling and candour, as becomes
relatives. But little as you know of us, you must be well aware that
your cousin Eliza was engaged to be married to a gentleman from London,
Mr. Percival Shargeloes, and that he--”
“I am sure I wish her all happiness, and congratulate you, my dear sir,
as well as my aunt Maria. I shall call, as soon as possible, to offer
my best wishes. It was very kind of you to tell me. Goodnight, sir,
good-night! There is a shower coming.”
“But,” exclaimed the Rector, nonplussed for the moment by this view
of the subject, yet standing square before the horse, “Shargeloes has
disappeared. What have you done with him?”
Carne looked at his excellent uncle as if he had much doubt about his
sanity. “Try to explain yourself, my dear sir. Try to connect your
ideas,” he said, “and offer me the benefit another time. My horse is
impatient; he may strike you with his foot.”
“If he does, I shall strike him upon the head,” Mr. Twemlow replied,
with his heavy stick ready. “It will be better for you to hear me out.
Otherwise I shall procure a search-warrant, and myself examine your
ruins, of which I know every crick and cranny. And your aunt Maria shall
come with me, who knows every stone even better than you do. That would
be a very different thing from an overhauling by Captain Stubbard. I
think we should find a good many barrels and bales that had paid no
duty.”
“My dear uncle,” cried Carne, with more affection than he ever yet had
shown, “that is no concern of yours; you have no connection with the
Revenue; and I am sure that Aunt Maria would be loth to help in pulling
down the family once more. But do as you please. I am accustomed to
ill fortune. Only I should like to know what this is about poor Cousin
Eliza. If any man has wronged her, leave the case to me. You have no son
now, and the honour of the family shall not suffer in my hands. I will
throw up everything, busy as I am, to make such a rascal bite the dust.
And Eliza so proud, and so upright herself!”
“Caryl,” said his uncle, moved more than he liked to show by this
fine feeling, “you know more, I see, than you liked to show at first,
doubtless through goodwill to us. Your dear aunt wished to keep the
matter quiet, for the sake of poor Eliza, and her future chances. But I
said--No. Let us have it all out. If there is wrong, we have suffered,
not done it. Concealment is odious to every honest mind.”
“Deeply, deeply odious. Upon that point there can be no two
opinions”--he forgets his barrels, thought the Rector--“but surely this
man, whatever his name is--Charleygoes--must have been hiding from you
something in his own history. Probably he had a wife already. City men
often do that when young, and then put their wives somewhere when
they get rich, and pay visits, and even give dinners, as if they were
bachelors to be sought after. Was Charleygoes that sort of a man?”
“His name is 'Shargeloes,' a name well known, as I am assured, in the
highest quarters. And he certainly was not sought after by us, but came
to me with an important question bearing on ichthyology. He may be a
wanderer, as you suggest, and as all the ladies seem to think. But my
firm belief is to the contrary. And my reason for asking you about him
is a very clear one. He had met you twice, and felt interest in you as
a future member of our family. You had never invited him to the castle;
and the last intention he expressed in my hearing was to call upon you
without one. Has he met with an accident in your cellars? Or have your
dogs devoured him? He carried a good deal of flesh, in spite of all he
could do to the contrary; and any man naturally might endeavour to hush
up such an incident. Tell me the truth, Caryl. And we will try to meet
it.”
“My two dogs (who would never eat any one, though they might pull down
a stranger, and perhaps pretend to bite him) arrived here the first week
in January. When did Charleygoes disappear? I am not up in dates, but it
must have been weeks and weeks before that time. And I must have heard
of it, if it had happened. I may give you my honour that Orso and Leo
have not eaten Charleygoes.”
“You speak too lightly of a man in high position, who would have been
Lord Mayor of London, if he had never come to Springhaven. But living
or dead, he shall never be that now. Can you answer me, in the same
straightforward manner, as to an accident in your cellars; which, as a
gentleman upon a private tour, he had clearly no right to intrude upon?”
“I can answer you quite as clearly. Nothing accidental has happened in
my cellars. You may come and see them, if you have any doubt about it.
And you need not apply for a search-warrant.”
“God forbid, my dear fellow,” cried the uncle, “that I should intrude
upon any little matters of delicacy, such as are apt to arise between
artificial laws and gentlemen who happen to live near the sea, and to
have large places that require restoring! I shall go home with a
lighter heart. There is nothing in this world that brings the comfort of
straightforwardness.”