Daniel Caldigate
That piece of business was done. It was one of the disagreeable things
which he had had to do before he could get away to the gold-diggings,
and it was done. Now he had to say farewell to his father, and that
would be a harder task. As the moment was coming in which he must bid
adieu to his father, perhaps for ever, and bid adieu to the old place
which, though he despised it, he still loved, his heart was heavy within
him. He felt sure that his father had no special regard for him;--in
which he was, of course, altogether wrong, and the old man was equally
wrong in supposing that his son was unnaturally deficient in filial
affection. But they had never known each other, and were so different
that neither had understood the other. The son, however, was ready to
confess to himself that the chief fault had been with himself. It was
natural, he thought, that a father's regard should be deadened by such
conduct as his had been, and natural that an old man should not believe
in the quick repentance and improvement of a young one.
He hired a gig and drove himself over from Cambridge to Folking. As he
got near to the place, and passed along the dikes, and looked to the
right and left down the droves, and trotted at last over the Folking
bridge across the Middle Wash, the country did not seem to him to be so
unattractive as of yore; and when he recognised the faces of the
neighbours, when one of the tenants spoke to him kindly, and the girls
dropped a curtsey as he passed, certain soft regrets began to crop up in
his mind. After all, there is a comfort in the feeling of property--not
simply its money comfort, but in the stability and reputation of a
recognised home. Six months ago there had seemed to him to be something
ridiculous in the idea of a permanent connection between the names of
Caldigate and Folking. It was absurd that, with so wild and beautiful a
world around him, he should be called upon to live in a washy fen
because his father and grandfather had been unfortunate enough to do so.
And then, at that time, all sympathy with bricks and mortar, any
affection for special trees or well-known home-haunts, was absurd in his
eyes. And as his father had been harsh to him, and did not like him,
would it not be better that they should be far apart? It was thus that
he had reasoned. But now all that was changed. An unwonted tenderness
had come upon his spirit. The very sallows by the brook seemed to appeal
to him. As he saw the house chimneys through the trees, he remembered
that they had carried smoke from the hearths of many generations of
Caldigates. He remembered, too, that his father would soon be old, and
would be alone. It seemed to himself that his very mind and spirit were
altered.
But all that was too late. He had agreed to the terms proposed; and even
were he now to repudiate them, what could he do with Davis, and how
could he live for the present? Not for a moment did he entertain such an
idea, but he had lost that alacrity of spirit which had been his when he
first found the way out of his difficulties.
His father did not come forth to meet him. He went in across the hall
and through the library, into a little closet beyond, in which Mr.
Caldigate was wont to sit. 'Well, John,' said the old man, 'how have you
and Mr. Bolton got on together?'
There seemed to be something terribly cold in this. It might be better
that they should part,--better even, though the parting should be for
ever. It might be right;--nay, he knew that it was right that he should
be thrust out of the inheritance. He had spent money that was not his
own, and, of course, he must pay the debt. But that his father should
sit there in his chair on his entrance, not even rising to greet him,
and should refer at once to Mr. Bolton and that business arrangement, as
though that, and that alone, need now be discussed, did seem to him to
be almost cruel. Of all that his father had suffered in constraining
himself to this conduct, he understood nothing. 'Mr. Bolton made himself
very plain, sir.'
'He would be sure to do so. He is a man of business and intelligent. But
as to the terms proposed, were they what you had expected?'
'Quite as good as I had expected.'
'Whether good or bad, of course you will understand that I have had
nothing to do with them. The matter has been referred to two gentlemen
conversant with such subjects; and, after due inquiry, they told Mr.
Bolton what was the money value of your rights. It is a question to be
settled as easily as the price of a ton of coals or a joint of beef. But
you must understand that I have not interfered.'
'I am quite aware of that, sir.'
'As for the money, something over a third of it is in my own hands. I
have not been extravagant myself, and have saved so much. The remainder
will come out of Mr. Bolton's bank, and will be lent on mortgage. I
certainly shall not have cause for extravagance now, living here alone;
and shall endeavour to free the estate from the burden by degrees. When
I die, it will, in accordance with my present purpose, go to your cousin
George.' As this was said, John thought he perceived something like a
quiver in his father's voice, which, up to that point, had been hard,
clear, and unshaken. 'As to that, however, I do not intend to pledge
myself,' he continued. 'The estate will now be my own, subject to the
claim from Messrs. Bolton's bank. I don't know that there is anything
else to be said.'
'Not about business, sir.'
'And it is business, I suppose, that has brought you here,--and to
Cambridge. I do not know what little things you have of your own in the
house.'
'Not much, sir.'
'If there be anything that you wish to take, take it. But with you now,
I suppose, money is the only possession that has any value.'
'I should like to have the small portrait of you,--the miniature.'
'The miniature of me,' said the father, almost scoffingly, looking up at
his son's face, suspiciously. And yet, though he would not show it, he
was touched. Only if this were a ruse on the part of the young man, a
mock sentiment, a little got-up theatrical pretence,--then,--then how
disgraced he would be in his own estimation at having been moved by such
mockery!
The son stood square before his father, disdaining any attempt to evince
a supplicating tenderness either by his voice or by his features. 'But,
perhaps, you have a special value for it,' he said.
'No, indeed. It is others, not oneself, that ought to have such
trifles,--that is, if they are of value at all.'
'There is none but myself that can care much for it.'
'There is no one to care at all. No one else that is,' he added, wishing
to avoid any further declaration. 'Take that or anything else you want
in the house. There will be things left, I suppose,--clothes and books
and suchlike.'
'Hardly anything, sir. Going so far, I had better give them away. A few
books I shall take.' Then the conversation was over; and in a few
minutes John Caldigate found himself roaming alone about the place.
It was so probable that he might never see it again! Indeed it seemed to
him now that were he to return to England with a fortune made, he would
hardly come to Folking. Years and years must roll by before that could
be done. If he could only come back to Cambridge and fetch that wife
away with him, then he thought it would be better for him to live far
from England, whether he were rich or whether he were poor. It was quite
evident that his father's heart was turned from him altogether. Of
course he had himself to blame,--himself only; but still it was strange
to him that a father should feel no tenderness at parting with an only
son. While he had been in the room he had constrained himself manfully;
not a drop of moisture had glittered in his eye; not a tone of feeling
had thrilled in his voice; his features had never failed him. There had
always been that look of audacity on his brow joined to a certain
manliness of good-humour in his mouth, as though he had been thoroughly
master of himself and the situation. But now, as he pushed his hat from
off his forehead, he rubbed his hand across his eyes to dash away the
tears. He felt almost inclined to rush back to the house and fall on his
knees before his father, and kiss the old man's hands, and beg the old
man's blessing. But though he was potent for much he was not potent for
that. Such expression of tenderness would have been true; but he knew
that he would so break down in the attempt as to make it seem to be
false.
He got out upon Twopenny Drove and passed over the ferry, meaning to
walk across the farm and so out on to the Causeway, and round home by
the bridge. But on the other side of the Wash he encountered Mr. Ralph
Holt, the occupier of Twopenny farm, whose father also and grandfather
had lived upon the same acres. 'And so thou be'est going away from us,
Mr. John,' said the farmer, with real tenderness, almost with solemnity,
in his voice, although there was at the same time something ridiculous
in the far-fetched sadness of his tone and gait.
'Yes, indeed, Holt, I want to travel and see the world at a distance
from here.'
'If it was no more than that, Mr. John, there would be nothing about it.
Zeeing the world! You young collegers allays does that. But be'est thou
to come back and be Squoire o'Folking?'
'I think not, Holt, I think not. My father, I hope, will be Squire for
many a year.'
'Like enough. And we all hope that, for there aren't nowhere a juster
man nor the Squoire, and he's hale and hearty. But in course of things
his time'll run out. And it be so, Mr. John, that thou be'est going for
ever and allays?'
'I rather think I am.'
'It's wrong, Mr. John. Though maybe I'm making over-free to talk of what
don't concern me. Yet I say it's wrong. Sons should come arter fathers,
specially where there's land. We don't none of us like it;--none of us!
It's worse nor going, any one of ourselves. For what's a lease? But when
a man has a freehold he should stick to it for ever and aye. It's just
as though the old place was a-tumbling about all our ears.' Caldigate
was good-natured with the man, trying to make him understand that
everything was being done for the best. And at last he bade him good-bye
affectionately, shaking hands with him, and going into the farmhouse to
perform the same ceremony with his wife and daughters. But to the last
Ralph Holt was uncomfortable and dismal, foretelling miseries. It was
clear that, to his thinking, the stability of this world was undermined
and destroyed by the very contemplation of such a proceeding as this.
Caldigate pursued his walk, and in the course of it bade farewell to
more than one old friend. None of them were so expressive as Holt, but
he could perceive that he was regarded by all of them as a person who,
by his conduct, was bringing misfortune, not only on himself, but on the
whole parishes of Utterden and Netherden.
At dinner the Squire conversed upon various subjects if not easily to
himself, at least with affected ease. Had he applied himself to subjects
altogether indifferent,--to the state of politics, or the Game Laws, or
the absurdities of a State Church, the unfitness of such matters for the
occasion would have been too apparent. Both he and his son would have
broken down in the attempt. But he could talk about Babington,--abusing
the old family,--and even about himself, and about New South Wales, and
gold, and the coming voyage, without touching points which had been, and
would be, specially painful. Not a word had ever been spoken between
them as to Davis. There had, of course, been letters, very angry
letters; but the usurer's name had never been mentioned. Nor was there
any need that it should be mentioned now. It was John's affair,--not in
any way his. So he asked and listened to much about Richard Shand, and
the mode of gold-finding practised among the diggings in New South
Wales.
When the old butler had gone he was even more free, speaking of things
that were past, not only without anger, but, as far as possible, without
chagrin,--treating his son as a person altogether free from any control
of his. 'I dare say it is all for the best,' he said.
'It is well at any rate to try to think so, sir,' replied John,
conscience-stricken as to his own faults.
'I doubt whether there would have been anything for you to do here,--or
at least anything that you would have done. You would have had too much
ambition to manage this little estate under me, and not enough of
industry, I fear, to carry you to the front in any of the professions. I
used to think of the bar.'
'And so did I.'
'But when I found that the Babingtons had got hold of you, and that you
liked horses and guns, better than words and arguments----'
'I never did, sir.'
'It seemed so.'
'Of course I have been weak.'
'Do not suppose for a moment that I am finding fault. It would be of no
avail, and I would not thus embitter our last hours together. But when I
saw how your tastes seemed to lead you, I began to fear that there could
be no career for you here. On such a property as Babington an eldest son
may vegetate like his father before him, and may succeed to it in due
time, before he has wasted everything, and may die as he had lived,
useless, but having to the end all the enjoyments of a swine.'
'You are severe upon my cousins, sir.'
'I say what I think. But you would not have done that. And though you
are not industrious, you are far too active and too clever for such a
life. Now you are probably in earnest as to the future.'
'Yes, I am certainly in earnest.'
'And though you are going to risk your capital in a precarious business,
you will only be doing what is done daily by enterprising men. I could
wish that your position were more secure;--but that now cannot be
helped.'
'My bed is as I have made it. I quite understand that, sir.'
'Thinking of all this, I have endeavoured to reconcile myself to your
going.' Then he paused a moment, considering what he should next say.
And his son was silent, knowing that something further was to come. 'Had
you remained in England we could hardly have lived together as father
and son should live. You would have been dependent on me, and would have
rebelled against that submission which a state of dependence demands.
There would have been nothing for you but to have waited,--and almost to
have wished, for my death.'
'No, sir; never; never that.'
'It would have been no more than natural. I shall hear from you
sometimes?'
'Certainly, sir.'
'It will give an interest to my life if you will write occasionally.
Whither do you go to-morrow?'
It had certainly been presumed, though never said, that this last visit
to the old home was to be only for one day. The hired gig had been kept;
and in his letter the son had asked whether he could be taken in for
Thursday night. But now the proposition that he should go so soon seemed
to imply a cold-blooded want of feeling on his part. 'I need not be in
such a hurry, sir,' he said.
'Of course, it shall be as you please, but I do not know that you will
do any good by staying. A last month may be pleasant enough, or even a
last week, but a last day is purgatory. The melancholy of the occasion
cannot be shaken off. It is only the prolonged wail of a last farewell.'
All this was said in the old man's ordinary voice, but it seemed to
betoken if not feeling itself, a recognition of feeling which the son
had not expected.
'It is very sad,' said the son.
'Therefore, why prolong it? Stand not upon the order of your going but
go at once,--seeing that it is necessary that you should go. Will you
take any more wine? No? Then let us go into the other room. As they are
making company of you and have lighted another fire, we will do as they
would have us.' Then for the rest of the evening there was some talk
about books, and the father, who was greatly given to reading, explained
to his son what kind of literature would, as he thought, fit in best
with the life of a gold-digger.
After what had passed, Caldigate, of course, took his departure on the
following morning. Good-bye said the old man, as the son grasped his
hand, 'Good-bye.' He made no overture to come even as far as the hall in
making this his final adieu.
'I trust I may return to see you in health.'
'It may be so. As to that we can say nothing. Good-bye.' Then, when the
son had turned his back, the father recalled him, by a murmur rather
than by a word,--but in that moment he had resolved to give way a little
to the demands of nature. Good-bye my son,' he said, in a low voice,
very solemnly; 'May God bless you and preserve you.' Then he turned back
at once to his own closet.