The New Heir
Things went on smoothly at Folking, or with apparent smoothness, for
three months, during which John Caldigate surprised both his friends and
his enemies by the exemplary manner in which he fulfilled his duties as
a parish squire. He was put on the commission, and was in the way to
become the most active Justice of the Peace in those parts. He made
himself intimate with all the tenants, and was almost worshipped by Mr.
Ralph Holt, his nearest neighbour, to whose judgment he submitted
himself in all agricultural matters. He shot a little, but moderately,
having no inclination to foster what is called a head of game. And he
went to church very regularly, having renewed his intimacy with Mr.
Bromley, the parson, a gentleman who had unfortunately found it
necessary to quarrel with the old squire, because the old squire had
been so manifestly a pagan.
There had been unhappiness in the parish on this head, and, especially,
unhappiness to Mr. Bromley, who was a good man. That Mr. Caldigate
should be what he called a pagan had been represented by Mr. Bromley to
his friends as a great misfortune, and especially a misfortune to the
squire himself. But he would have ignored that in regard to social
life,--so Mr. Bromley said when discussing the matter,--if the pagan
would have desisted from arguing the subject. But when Mr. Caldigate
insisted on the parson owning the unreasonableness of his own belief,
and called upon him to confess himself to be either a fool or a
hypocrite, then the parson found himself constrained to drop all further
intercourse. 'It is the way with all priests,' said the old squire
triumphantly to the first man he could get to hear him. 'The moment you
disagree with them they become your enemies at once, and would
straightway kill you if they had the power.' He probably did not know
how very disagreeable he had made himself to the poor clergyman.
But now matters were on a much better footing, and all the parish
rejoiced. The new squire was seen in his pew every Sunday morning, and
often entertained the parson at the house. The rumour of this change was
indeed so great that more than the truth reached the ears of some of the
Boltons, and advantage was taken of it by those who desired to prove to
Mrs. Bolton that the man was not a goat. What more would she have? He
went regularly to morning and evening service,--here it was that rumour
exaggerated our hero's virtues,--did all his duty as a country
gentleman, and was kind to his wife. The Daniels, who were but lukewarm
people, thought that Mrs. Bolton was bound to give way. Mrs. Robert
declared among her friends that the poor woman was becoming mad from
religion, and the old banker himself was driven very hard for a reply
when Robert asked him whether such a son-in-law as John Caldigate ought
to be kept at arms' length. The old man did in truth hate the name of
John Caldigate, and regretted bitterly the indiscretion of that day when
the spendthrift had been admitted within his gates. Though he had agreed
to the marriage, partly from a sense of duty to his child, partly under
the influences of his son, he had, since that, been subject to his wife
for nine or ten months. She had not been able to prevail against him in
action; but no earthly power could stop her tongue. Now when these new
praises were dinned into his ears, when he did convince himself that, as
far as worldly matters went, his son-in-law was likely to become a
prosperous and respected gentleman, he would fain have let the question
of hostility drop. There need not have been much intercourse between
Puritan Grange and Folking; but then also there need be no quarrel. He
was desirous that Caldigate should be allowed to come to the house, and
that even visits of ceremony should be made to Folking. But Mrs. Bolton
would have nothing to do with such half friendship. In the time that was
coming she must be everything or nothing to her daughter. And she could
not be brought to think that one who had been so manifestly a goat
should cease to be a goat so suddenly. In other words, she could not
soften her heart towards the man who had conquered her. Therefore when
the time came for the baby to be born there had been no reconciliation
between Puritan Grange and Folking.
Mrs. Babington had been somewhat less stern. Immediately on the return
of the married couple to their own home she had still been full of
wrath, and had predicted every kind of evil; but when she heard that all
tongues were saying all good things of this nephew of hers, and when she
was reminded by her husband that blood is thicker than water, and when
she reflected that it is the duty of Christians to forgive injuries, she
wrote to the sinner as follows:--
'BABINGTON HALL, _November_ 187-.
'My DEAR JOHN,--We are all here desirous that bygones should be
bygones, and are willing to forgive,--though we may not perhaps be
able to forget. I am quite of opinion that resentments should not be
lasting, let them have been ever so well justified by circumstances
at first.
'Your uncle bids me say that he hopes you will come over and shoot
the Puddinghall coverts with Humphry and John. They propose Thursday
next but would alter the day if that does not suit.
'We have heard of your wife's condition, of course, and trust that
everything may go well with her. I shall hope to make her
acquaintance some day when she is able to receive visitors.
'I am particularly induced at the present moment to hold out to you
once more the right hand of fellowship and family affection by the
fact that dear Julia is about to settle herself most advantageously
in life. She is engaged to marry the Rev. Augustus Smirkie, the
rector of Plum-cum-Pippins near Woodbridge in this county. We all
like Mr. Smirkie very much indeed, and think _that Julia has been
most fortunate in her choice_.' (These words were underscored doubly
by way of showing how very much superior was Mr. Augustus Smirkie to
Mr. John Caldigate.) 'I may perhaps as well mention, to avoid
anything disagreeable at present, that Julia is at this time staying
with Mr. Smirkie's mother at Ipswich.--Your affectionate aunt,
'MARYANNE BABINGTON.'
Caldigate was at first inclined to send, in answer to this letter, a
reply which would not have been agreeable to his aunt, but was talked
into a better state of mind by his wife. 'Telling me that she will
forgive me! The question is whether I will forgive her!' 'Let that be
the question,' said his wife, 'and do forgive her. She wants to come
round, and, of course, she has to make the best of it for herself. Tell
her from me that I shall be delighted to see her whenever she chooses to
come.'
'Poor Julia!' said Caldigate, laughing.
'Of course you think so, John. That's natural enough. Perhaps I think so
too. But what has that to do with it?'
'It's rather unfortunate that I know so much about Mr. Smirkie. He is
fifty years old, and has five children by his former wife.'
'I don't see why he shouldn't be a good husband for all that.'
'And Plum-cum-Pippins is less than _£300_ a-year. Poor dear Julia!'
'I believe you are jealous, John.'
'Well; yes. Look at the way she has underscored it. Of course I'm
jealous.' Nevertheless he wrote a courteous answer promising to go over
and shoot the coverts, and stay for one night.
He did go over and shoot the coverts, and stayed for one night; but the
visit was not very successful. Aunt Polly would talk of the glories of
the Plum-cum-Pippins rectory in a manner which implied that dear Julia's
escape from a fate which once threatened her had been quite
providential. When he alluded,--as he did, but should not have done,--to
the young Smirkies, she spoke with almost ecstatic enthusiasm of the
'dear children,' Caldigate knowing the while that the eldest child must
be at least sixteen. And then, though Aunt Polly was kind to him, she
was kind in an almost insulting manner,--as though he were to be
received for the sake of auld lang syne in spite of the step he had
taken downwards in the world. He did his best to bear all this with no
more than an inward smile, telling himself that it behoved him as a man
to allow her to have her little revenge. But the smile was seen, and the
more that was seen of it, the more often was he reminded that he had
lost that place in the Babington elysium which might have been his, had
he not been too foolish to know what was good for him. And a hint was
given that the Boltons a short time since had not been aristocratic,
whereas it was proved to him from Burke's Landed Gentry that the
Smirkies had been established in Suffolk ever since Cromwell's time. No
doubt their land had gone, but still there had been Smirkies.
'How did you get on with them?' his father asked, as he passed home
through Cambridge.
'Much the same as usual. Of course in such a family a son-in-law elect
is more thought of than a useless married man.'
'They snubbed you.'
'Aunt Polly snubbed me a little, and I don't think I had quite so good a
place for the shooting as in the old days. But all that was to be
expected. I quite agree with Aunt Polly that family quarrels are foolish
things.'
'I am not so sure. Some people doom themselves to an infinity of
annoyance because they won't avoid the society of disagreeable people. I
don't know that I have ever quarrelled with any one. I have never
intended to do so. But when I find that a man or woman is not
sympathetic I think it better to keep out of the way.' That was the
squire's account of himself. Those who knew him in the neighbourhood
were accustomed to say that he had quarrelled with everybody about him.
In December the baby was born, just twelve months after the marriage,
and there was great demonstrations of joy, and ringing of bells in the
parishes of Utterden and Netherden. The baby was a boy, and all was as
it ought to be. John Caldigate himself, when he came to look at his
position and to understand the feeling of those around him, was
astonished to find how strong was the feeling in his own favour, and how
thoroughly the tenants had been outraged by the idea that the property
might be made over to a more distant member of the family. What was it
to them who lived in the house at Folking? Why should they have been
solicitous in the matter? They had their leases, and there was no
adequate reason for supposing that one Caldigate would be more pleasant
in his dealing with them than another. And yet it was evident to him now
that this birth of a real heir at the squire's house, with a fair
prospect that the acres would descend in a right line, was regarded by
them all with almost superstitious satisfaction. The bells were rung as
though the church-towers were going to be pulled down, and there was not
a farmer or a farmer's wife who did not come to the door of Folking to
ask how the young mother and the baby were doing.
'This is as it should be, squoire,' said Ralph Holt, who was going about
in his Sunday clothes, as though it was a day much too sacred for muck
and work. He had caught hold of Caldigate in the stable yard, and was
now walking with him down towards the ferry.
'Yes;--she's doing very well, they tell me,' said the newly-made father.
'In course she'll do well. Why not? A healthy lass like she, if I may
make so free? There ain't nothing like having them strong and young,
with no town-bred airs about 'em. I never doubted as she wouldn't do
well. I can tell from their very walk what sort of mothers they'll be.'
Mr. Holt had long been known as the most judicious breeder of stock in
that neighbourhood. 'But it ain't only that, squoire.'
'The young'un will do well too, I hope.'
'In course he will. Why not? The foals take after their dams for a time,
pretty much always. But what I mean is;--we be all glad you've come back
from them out-o'-the-way parts.'
'I had to go there, Holt.'
'Well;--we don't know much about that, sir, and I don't mean nothing
about that.'
'To tell the truth, my friend, I should not have done very well here
unless I had been able to top-dress the English acres with a little
Australian gold.'
'Like enough, squoire; like enough. But I wasn't making bold to say
nothing about that. For a young gentleman to go out a while and then to
come back was all very well. Most of 'em does it. But when there was a
talk as you wern't to come back, and that Master George was to take the
place;--why then it did seem as things was very wrong.'
'Master George might have been quite as good as I.'
'It wasn't the proper thing, squoire. It wasn't straight. If you hadn't
never a' been, sir, or if the Lord Almighty had taken you as he did the
others, God bless 'em, nobody wouldn't have had a right to say nothing.
But as you was to the fore it wouldn't have been straight, and no one
wouldn't have thought it straight.' Instigated by this John Caldigate
looked a good deal into the matter that day, and began to feel that,
having been born Squire of Folking, he had, perhaps, no right to deal
with himself otherwise. Then various thoughts passed through his mind as
to other dealings which had taken place. How great had been the chance
against his being Squire of Folking when he started with Dick Shand to
look for Australian gold! And how little had been the chance of his
calling Hester Bolton his wife when he was pledging his word to Mrs.
Smith on board the Goldfinder! But now it had all come round to him just
as he would have had it. There was his wife up-stairs in the big
bed-room with her baby,--the wife as to whom he had made that romantic
resolution when he had hardly spoken to her; and there had been the
bells ringing and the tenants congratulating him, and everything had
been pleasant. His father who had so scorned him,--who in the days of
Davis and Newmarket had been so well justified in scorning him,--was now
his closest friend. Thinking of all this, he told himself that he had
certainly received better things than he had deserved.
A day or two after the birth of the baby Mrs. Robert came out to see the
new prodigy, and on the following day Mrs. Daniel. Mrs. Robert was, of
course, very friendly and disposed to be in all respects a good
sister-in-law. Hester's great grief was in regard to her mother. She was
steadfast enough in her resolution to stand in all respects by her
husband if there must be a separation,--but the idea of the separation
robbed her of much of her happiness. Mrs. Robert was aware that a great
effort was being made with Mrs. Bolton. The young squire's
respectability was so great, and his conduct so good, that not only the
Boltons themselves, but neighbours around who knew aught of the Bolton
affairs, were loud in denouncing the woman for turning up her nose at
such a son-in-law. The great object was to induce her to say that she
would allow Caldigate to enter the house at Chesterton. 'You know I
never see her now,' said Mrs. Robert; 'I'm too much of a sinner to think
of entering the gates.'
'Do not laugh at her, Margaret,' said Hester.
'I do not mean to laugh at her. It is simply the truth. Robert and I
have made up our minds that it is better for us all that I should not
put myself in her way.'
'Think how different it must be for me!'
'Of course it is. It is dreadful to think that she should be
so--prejudiced. But what can I do, dear? If they will go on persevering,
she will, of course, have to give way.' The 'they' spoken of were the
Daniels, and old Mr. Bolton himself, and latterly the Nicholases, all of
whom were of opinion that the separation of the mother from her daughter
was very dreadful, especially when it came to be understood that the
squire of Folking went regularly to his parish church.
On the next day Mrs. Daniel came out; and though she was much less liked
by Hester than her younger sister-in-law, she brought more comfortable
tidings. She had been at the Grange a day or two before, and Mrs. Bolton
had almost consented to say that she would see John Caldigate. 'You
shouldn't be in a hurry, you know, my dear,' said Mrs. Daniel.
'But what has John done that there should be any question about all
this?'
'I suppose he was a little--just a little--what they call fast once.'
'He got into debt when he was a boy,' said the wife, 'and then paid off
everything and a great deal more by his own industry. It seems to me
that everybody ought to be proud of him.'
'I don't think your mother is proud of him, my dear.'
'Poor mamma!'
'I hope he'll go when he's told to do so.'
'John! Of course he'll go if I ask him. There's nothing he wouldn't do
to make me happy. But really when I talk to him about it at all, I am
ashamed of myself. Poor mamma!' The result of this visit was, however,
very comforting. Mrs. Daniel had seen Mrs. Bolton, and had herself been
witness to the fact that Mrs. Bolton had mitigated the sternness of her
denial when asked to receive her son-in-law at Puritan Grange. It was,
said Mrs. Daniel, the settled opinion of the Bolton family that, in the
course of another month or so, the woman would be induced to give way
under the pressure put upon her by the family generally.