About five years went by. Henry Tinkle's wife had died, leaving him a
little girl, and he was back with the child at his mother's: but that
has nothing to do with us. A letter came from the travellers now and
then, but not often, during the first three years. Nash wrote to
Caromel's Farm; Charlotte to the parson's wife, Mrs. Holland, with
whom she had been very friendly. But none of the letters gave much
information as to personal matters; they were chiefly filled with
descriptions of the new country, its manners and customs, and especially
its mosquitoes, which at first nearly drove Mrs. Nash Caromel mad. It
was gathered that Nash _did not prosper_. They seemed to move about from
place to place, making New York a sort of standing point to return to
occasionally. For the past two years no letters at all had come, and it
was questioned whether poor Nash and his wife had not dropped out of the
world.
In the midst of this uncertainty, Miles Caromel, who had been seriously
ailing for some months, died. And to Nash, if he were still in
existence, lapsed the Caromel property.
Old Mr. Caromel's will had been a curious one. He bequeathed Caromel
Farm, with all its belongings, the live stock, the standing ricks, the
crops, the furniture, and all else that might be in or upon it, to his
son Miles, and to Miles's eldest son after him. If Miles left no son,
then it was to go to Nash (with all that might then be upon it, just as
before), and so on to Nash's son. But if neither of them had a son,
and Nash died during Miles's lifetime--in short, if there was no male
inheritor living, then Miles could dispose of the property as he
pleased. As could Nash also under similar circumstances.
The result of this odd will was, that Nash, if living, came into the
farm and all that was upon it. If Nash had, or should have, a son,
it must descend to said son; if he had not, the property was his
absolutely. But it was not known whether Nash was living; and, in the
uncertainty, Miles made a will conditionally, bequeathing it to his wife
and daughters. It was said that possessing no son had long been a thorn
in the shoes of Miles Caromel; that he had prayed for one, summer and
winter.
But now, who was to find Nash? How could the executors let him know of
his good luck? The Squire, who was one of them, talked of nothing else.
A letter was despatched to Nash's agents in New York, Abraham B. Whitter
and Co., and no more could be done.
In a shorter time than you would have supposed possible, Nash arrived at
Church Dykely. He chanced to be at these same agents' house in New York,
when the letter got there, and he came off at full speed. So the will
made by Miles went for nothing.
Nash Caromel was a good bit altered--looked thinner and older: but he
was evidently just as easy and persuadable as he used to be: people
often wondered whether Nash had ever said No in his whole life. He did
not tell us much about himself, only that he had roamed over the world,
hither and thither, from country to country, and had been lately for
some time in California. Charlotte was at San Francisco. When Nash took
ship from thence for New York, she was not well enough to undertake the
voyage, and had to stay behind. Mrs. Tinkle, who had had time, and to
spare, to get over her anger, went into a way at this last item of news;
and caught up the notion that Charlotte was dead. For which she had no
grounds whatever.
Charlotte had no children; had not had any; consequently there was every
probability that Caromel's Farm would be Nash's absolutely, to will away
as he should please. He found Mrs. Caromel (his brother's widow) and
her daughters in it; they had not bestirred themselves to look out
for another residence. Being very well off, Mrs. Caromel having had
several substantial windfalls in the shape of legacies from rich
uncles and aunts, they professed to be glad that Nash should have the
property--whatever they might have privately felt. Nash, out of a
good-natured wish not to disturb them too soon, bade them choose their
own time for moving, and took up his abode at Nave, the lawyer's.
There are lawyers and lawyers. I am a great deal older now than I was
when these events were enacted, and have gained my share of worldly
wisdom; and I, Johnny Ludlow, say that there are good and honest lawyers
as well as bad and dishonest. My experience has lain more amidst the
former class than the latter. Though I have, to my cost, been brought
into contact with one or two bad ones in my time; fearful rogues.
One of these was Andrew Nave: who had recently, so to say, come, a
stranger, to settle at Church Dykely. His name might have had a "K"
prefixed, and been all the better for it. Of fair outward show, indeed
rather a good-looking man, he was not fair within. He managed to hold
his own in the parish estimation, as a rule: it was only when some
crafty deed or other struggled to the surface that people would say,
"What a sharper that man is!"
The family lawyer of the Caromels, Crow, of Evesham, chanced to be ill
at this time, and gone away for change of air, and Nave rushed up to
greet Nash on his return, and to offer his services. And the fellow was
so warm and hearty, so fair-speaking, so much the gentleman, that easy
Nash, to whom the man was an entire stranger, and who knew nothing of
him, bad or good, clasped the hand held out to him, and promised Knave
his patronage forthwith. If I've made a mistake in spelling the name,
it can go.
To begin with, Nave took him home. He lived a door or two past
Duffham's: a nice house, well kept up in paint. Some five years before,
the sleepy old lawyer, Wilkinson, died in that house, and Nave came down
from London and took to the concern. Nave thought that he was doing a
first-rate stroke of business now by securing Nash Caromel as an inmate,
the solicitorship to the Caromel property being worth trying for: though
he might not have been so eager to admit Nash had he foreseen all that
was to come of it.
Not caring to trouble Mrs. Caromel with his company, Nash accepted
Nave's hospitality; but, liking to be independent, he insisted upon
paying for it, and mentioned a handsome weekly sum. Nave made a show of
resistance--which was all put on, for he was as fond of shillings as he
was of pounds--and then gave in. So Nash, feeling free, stayed on at his
ease.
When Nave had first come to settle at Church Dykely with his daughter
Charlotte, he was taken for a widower. It turned out, however, that
there was a Mrs. Nave living somewhere with the rest of the children,
she and her husband having agreed to what was called an amicable
separation, for their tempers did not agree. This eldest daughter,
Charlotte, a gay, dashing girl of two-and-twenty then, was the only
creature in the world, it was said, for whom Nave cared.
Mrs. Caromel did not appear readily to find a place to her liking.
People are particular when about to purchase a residence. She made
repeated apologies to Nash for keeping him out of his home, but he
assured her that he was in no hurry to leave his present quarters.
And that was true. For Charlotte Nave was casting her glamour over him.
She liked to cast that over men; and tales had gone about respecting
her. Nothing very tangible: and perhaps they would not have held water.
She was a little, fair, dashing woman, swaying about her flounces as she
walked, with a great heap of beautiful hair, bright as gold. Her blue
eyes had a way of looking into yours rather too freely, and her voice
was soft as a summer wind. A dangerous companion was Miss Nave.
Well, they fell in love with one another, as was said; she and Nash.
Nash forgot his wife, and she her old lovers. Being now on the road to
her twenty-eighth year, she had had her share of them. Once she had been
mysteriously absent from home for two weeks, and Church Dykely somehow
took up the idea that she and one of her lovers (a young gentleman who
was reading law with Nave) were taking a fraternal tour together as far
as London to see the lions. But it turned out to be a mistake, and no
one laughed at the notion more than Charlotte when she returned. She
wished she had been on a tour--and seeing lions, she said, instead of
moping away the whole two weeks at her aunt's, who had a perpetual
asthma, and lived in a damp old house at Chelsea.
But that is of the past, and Nash is back again. The weeks went on.
Autumn weather came in. Mrs. Caromel found a place to suit her at
Kempsey--one of the prettiest of the villages that lie under the wing
of Worcester. She bought it; and removed to it with her private goods
and chattels. Nash, even now, made no haste to quit the lawyer's house
for his own. Some said it was he who could not tear himself away from
Charlotte; others said Miss Charlotte would not let him go; that she
held him fast by a silken cord. Anyhow, they were always together,
out-of-doors and in; she seemed to like to parade their friendship
before the world, as some girls like to lead about a pet monkey.
Perhaps Nash first took to her from her name being the same as his
wife's.
One day in September, Nash walked over to the Manor and had a long talk
in private with the Squire. He wanted to borrow twelve hundred pounds.
No ready money had come to him from his brother, and it was not a
favourable time for selling produce. The Squire cheerfully agreed to
lend it him: there was no risk.
"But I'd counsel you to remember one thing, Nash Caromel--that you have
a wife," said he, as they came out of the room when Nash was going away.
"It's time you left off dallying with that other young woman."
Nash laughed a laugh that had an uneasy sound in it. "It is nothing,
Todhetley."
"Glad to hear you say so," said the pater. "She has the reputation of
being a dangerous flirt. _You_ are not the first man she has entangled,
if all tales be true. Get out of Nave's house and into your own."
"I will," acquiesced Nash.
Perhaps that was easier said than done. It happened that the same
evening I overheard a few words between the lawyer and Nash. They were
not obliged to apply to Miss Nave: but, the chances were that they did.
The Squire sent me to Nave's when dinner was over, to take a note
to Nash. Nave's smart waiting-maid, in a muslin apron and cherry
cap-strings, was standing at the door talking and laughing with some
young man, under cover of the twilight. She was as fond of finery as
her mistress; perhaps as fond of sweethearts.
"Mr. Caromel? Yes, sir, he is at home. Please to walk in."
Showing me to a sitting-room on the left of the passage--the lawyer's
offices were on the right--she shut me in, and went, as I supposed, to
tell Caromel. At the back of this room was the dining-room. I heard the
rattle of glasses on the table through the unlatched folding-doors, and,
next, the buzz of voices. The lawyer and Nash were sitting over their
wine.
"You must marry her," said Nave, concisely.
"I wish I could," returned Nash; and his wavering, irresolute tone was
just a contrast to the other's keen one. "I want to. But how can I? I'm
heartily sorry."
"And as soon as may be. _You must._ Attentions paid to young ladies
cannot be allowed to end in smoke. And you will find her thousand pounds
useful."
"But how _can_ I, I say?" cried Nash ruefully. "You know how
impracticable it is--the impediment that exists."
"Stuff and nonsense, Caromel! Where there's a will there's a way.
Impediments only exist to be got over."
"It would take a cunning man to get over the one that lies between me
and her. I assure you, and you may know I say it in all good faith, that
I should ask nothing better than to be a free man to-morrow--for this
one sole cause."
"Leave things to me. For all you know, you are free now."
The opening of their door by the maid, who had taken her own time to do
it, and the announcement that I waited to see Mr. Caromel, stopped the
rest. Nash came in, and I gave him the note.
"Wants to see me before twelve to-morrow, does he?--something he forgot
to say," cried he, running his eyes over it. "Tell the Squire I will be
there, Johnny."
Caromel was very busy after that, getting into his house--for he took
the Squire's advice, and did not linger much longer at Nave's. And I
think two or three weeks only had passed, after he was in it, when news
reached him of his wife's death.
It came from his agent in New York, Abraham B. Whitter, who had received
the information from San Francisco. Mr. Whitter enclosed the San
Francisco letters. They were written by a Mr. Munn: one letter to
himself, the other (which was not as yet unsealed) to Nash Caromel.
We read them both: Nash brought them to the Squire before sending them
to Mrs. Tinkle--considerate as ever, he would not let her see them until
she had been prepared. The letters did not say much. Mrs. Nash Caromel
had grown weaker and weaker after Nash departed from San Francisco for
New York, and she finally sank under low fever. A diary, which she had
kept the last few weeks of her life, meant only for her husband's own
eye, together with a few letters and sundry other personal trifles,
would be forwarded the first opportunity to Abraham B. Whitter and Co.,
who would hold the box at Mr. Caromel's disposal.
"Who is he, this Francis Munn, who writes to you?" asked the Squire.
"A friend of your wife's?--she appears to have died at his house."
"A true friend of hers and of mine," answered Nash. "It was with Mr. and
Mrs. Munn that I left Charlotte, when I was obliged to go to New York.
She was not well enough to travel with me."
"Well--look here, Caromel--don't go and marry that other Charlotte,"
advised the Squire. "She is as different from your wife as chalk is from
cheese. Poor thing! it was a hard fate--dying over there away from
everybody!"
But now--would any one believe it?--instead of taking the Squire's
advice and not marrying her at all, instead even of allowing a decent
time to elapse, in less than a week Nash went to church with Charlotte
the Second. Shame, said Parson Holland under his breath; shame, said the
parish aloud; but Nash Caromel heeded them not.
We only knew it on the day before the wedding was to be. On Wednesday
morning, a fine, crisp, October day, a shooting party was to meet at old
Appleton's, who lived over beyond Church Dykely. The Squire and Tod
started for it after an early breakfast, and they let me go part of the
way with them. Just after passing Caromel's Farm, we met Pettipher the
postman.
"Anything for the Manor?" asked the pater.
"Yes, sir," answered the man; and, diving into his bundle, he handed a
letter.
"This is not mine," said the Squire, looking at the address; "this is
for Mr. Caromel."
"Oh! I beg your pardon, sir; I took out the wrong letter. This is
yours."
"What a thin letter!--come from foreign parts," remarked the pater,
reading the address, "Nash Caromel, Esq." "I seem to know the
handwriting: fancy I've seen it before. Here, take it, Pettipher."
In passing the letter to Pettipher, which was a ship's letter, I looked
at the said writing. Very small poor writing indeed, with long angular
tails to the letters up and down, especially the capitals. The Squire
handed me his gun and was turning to walk on, opening his letter as he
did so; when Pettipher spoke and arrested him.
"Have you heard what's coming off yonder, to-morrow, sir?" asked he,
pointing with his thumb to Caromel's Farm.
"Why no," said the Squire, wondering what Pettipher meant to be at.
"What should be coming off!"
"Mr. Caromel's going to bring a wife home. Leastways, going to get
married."
"I don't believe it," burst forth the pater, after staring angrily at
the man. "You'd better take care what you say, Pettipher."
"But it's true, sir," reasoned Pettipher, "though it's not generally
known. My niece is apprentice to Mrs. King the dressmaker, as perhaps
you know, sir, and they are making Miss Nave's wedding-dress and bonnet.
They are to be married quite early, sir, nine o'clock, before folks are
about. Well yes, sir, it is _not_ seemly, seeing he has but now heard of
his wife's death, poor Miss Charlotte Tinkle, that grew up among us--but
you'll find it's true."
Whether the Squire gave more hot words to Nash Caromel, or to Charlotte
the Second, or to Pettipher for telling it, I can't say now. Pettipher
touched his hat, said good-morning, and turned up the avenue to
Caromel's Farm to leave the letter for Nash.
And, married they were on the following morning, amidst a score or two
of spectators. What was agate had slipped out to others as well as
ourselves. Old Clerk Bumford looked more fierce than a raven when he saw
us flocking into the church, after Nash had fee'd him to keep it quiet.
As the clock struck nine, the party came up. The bride and one of her
sisters, both in white silk; Nave and some strange gentleman, who might
be a friend of his; and Caromel, pale as a ghost. Charlotte the Second
was pale too, but uncommonly pretty, her mass of beautiful hair shining
like threads of gold.
The ceremony over, they filed out into the porch; Nash leading his
bride, and Nave bringing up the rear alone; when an anxious-looking
little woman with a chronic redness of face was seen coming across the
churchyard. It was Mrs. Tinkle, wearing the deep mourning she had put on
for Charlotte. Some one had carried her the tidings, and she had come
running forth to see whether they _could_ be true.
And, to watch her, poor thing, with her scared face raised to Nash, and
her poor hands clasped in pain, as he and his bride passed her on the
pathway, was something sad. Nash Caromel's face had grown white again;
but he never looked at her; never turned his eyes, fixed straight out
before him, a hair's point to the right or left.
"May Heaven have mercy upon them--for surely they'll need it!" cried the
poor woman. "No luck can come of such a wedding as this."