HOW BENEDICT BECAME A BACHELOR.
Notwithstanding the late hour at which Yorke retired to his sumptuous
couch, he was up the next morning betimes. He was restless, and eager to
explore the splendors of the house, that had been so nearly his
inheritance, for it was not without a stubborn contest that the law had
deprived him of what he still believed to be his rights. Nor had
Crompton, in his eyes (as we have hinted), only the interest of
Might-have-been; it had that of Might-be also. If not absolutely
sanguine, he was certainly far from hopeless of fortune making him that
great amends; at all events, while the opportunity was afforded him,
which he well knew might be lost forever by his own imprudence, or
through the caprice of another, he resolved not to neglect it. It was
broad daylight, yet not a soul was stirring in all the stately place;
nothing but the echo of his own footsteps, as he trod the corridor, and
entered the great Picture-gallery, met his attentive ear. The collection
of old masters at Crompton was varied and valuable; he could have spent
hours among them with infinite pleasure, if the intoxicating thought
that they all might be one day his own had not been present to mar their
charms. He regarded them less as an admiring disciple, or a connoisseur,
than as an appraiser. The homely life-scenes of Jan Stein, the saintly
creations of Paul Veronese, the warmth of Rubens, and the stateliness of
Vandyck, were all measured by one standard--that of price. The contents
of this one room alone, thought he, "represent no moderate fortune."
When his eye strayed to the tall windows, and rested on the wooded acres
which owned in mad Carew a nominal master, the beauty of dale and upland
touched him not at all. "I wonder now," sighed he, "how much of this is
dipped?" It was a good sign, he thought, that in one room he found a
cabinet containing no less than fifty antique cameos; for, if the
pressure of pecuniary difficulty had really begun to be severe, the
Squire would surely have parted with what must have been in his view
useless lumber, and was so easily convertible into cash. The Library
offered a strange spectacle: chairs thrown down, and broken glasses,
bore witness to the wildness of last night's revel; the splendid carpet
was strewn with the ends and ashes of cigars, and with packs of cards;
and on the table, scratched in all directions by the sharp spurs of
fighting-cocks, still lay the dice and caster. The atmosphere was so
heavy with the fumes of wine and smoke that Yorke was glad to escape
from it, through a half-opened window, into the morning air.
How bright and fresh it was! How much there was of bracing enjoyment, of
wholesome gayety, in the mere breath of it; how much of invigorating
delight in the mere sight of the glittering turf, the beaded trees, to
which the hoar-frost had lent its jewels! But such cheap luxuries are
not only unknown to those who are sleeping off their debauch of the past
night during the brightest hours of the day; they are also lost upon
those who rise early in the morning, to follow the strong drink of greed
and envious expectation. Richard Yorke enjoyed them not, save that he
felt his lungs play more freely. A couple of gardeners were at work upon
the lawn, of one of whom he asked the way to the stables, the report of
the completeness and perfection of which had often reached him. The
house and its furniture--nay, the house and its inmates--were of less
consequence in the Squire's eyes than the arrangements of his
loose-boxes. The old dynasty of Houyhnhnms was re-established at
Crompton; the Horse bare sway, or was at least held in higher account
than the Human. The Horse, the Hound, the Pheasant, the Bag-fox, and,
fifthly, Man, were there the gradations of rank; and a compound
being--half man, half brute--was, by a not unparalleled freak of
fortune, the master of all. Carew had never fed his mares with human
flesh, but there was a legend that he had rubbed a friend over with
anise-seed, and offered that dainty morsel to his dogs. The victim was
snatched away again, however, by some officious underling, who justified
his interference upon the ground that the hounds would have been spoiled
by such an indulgence; and the Squire had pardoned him. This was one of
the stories about the Master of Crompton which divided the country into
those who believed it and those who did not; but Walter Grange had told
it to Richard as a characteristic fact.
The stables were indeed a marvel, not only of cleanliness and comfort,
but, if it had been possible by any arts of daintiness to make them
cox-combs, such would Carew's horses have become. They had
looking-glasses in their own glossy coats, and yet it was not well for
one of them to be an especial favorite with its master, for it more than
once happened that he would ride such so often and so long that it fell
under him, killed with kindness, overwhelmed with his oppressive favor.
On such occasions, if the Squire happened to have been as devoted as
usual to his brandy flask, he would shed copious tears, which many
instanced as a proof that he was neither selfish nor cold-hearted.
The kennels were of vast proportions, hedged in by high palisades,
through the interstices of which many a black muzzle now protruded,
sniffing like ill-tempered women, or uttering shrill whines of despair.
As Yorke, with his hands buried in his pockets, for they were cold,
though his head was too well provided with clustering hair to be
conscious of the absence of a hat, was contemplating this spectacle with
cynical amusement, up strode the chaplain, wholesome and ruddy-looking.
"You are up betimes--as Crompton hours go--Mr. Yorke; I hope such good
habits will not be undermined by evil associations. How I envy you your
constitution, to be able to face this November mist with a bare head!"
"Nay, parson," rejoined the young man, "you must have risen early
yourself to know that there _was_ a mist. It's clear enough now all
round. I suppose our impatient friends yonder," pointing to the kennel,
where all the dogs, hearing the chaplain's voice, were now in full
chorus, "will have their will this morning?"
"Yes; it is this pack's turn to hunt."
"I wish, for your sake, Mr. Whymper, that there was only one pack,"
observed Yorke, with good-natured earnestness.
"Ah, you are referring to that foolish talk about the living last night.
Poor Ryll is quite broken-hearted about it this morning; and, in fact,
he did do me an ill turn, though, I am sure, without intending it. It is
the misfortune of a professed wit--and especially of a poor one--that he
can not afford to be silent."
"You take it more good-humoredly than I should," said Yorke. "I should
be inclined to charge something for a joke made at my own expense, where
the loss was so considerable."
"You don't look of a very revengeful disposition, neither," returned the
chaplain, critically.
"I have never experienced the feeling of revenge," answered the young
man, frankly; "but I know what it is to feel wronged, and I think it is
lucky that it is the law, and not an individual, that has done me the
mischief--one can't have a vendetta against the law, you know. But, if
it were a man, ay, though he were my own flesh and blood, he should pay
for it--yes, sevenfold. I would not put up with injustice from any human
being; and where I could, if the law would not help me, I would right
myself with the strong hand."
It was curious to see the effect which this objectless passion wrought
upon the young man's face, and even figure. His lithe limbs seemed to
grow rigid; his right hand was clenched convulsively; his handsome
Spanish countenance was lit up with a sort of dusky glow.
"My dear young friend," said the chaplain, quietly, "my profession,
perhaps, ought to suggest to me some serious arguments against the
disposition which you so unmistakably evince; but I will confine myself
to saying that such a temper as yours is not to be kept for nothing. It
is only men in your father's position who can indulge themselves in such
a luxury, I do assure you. You'll come to grief with it some day."
Yorke laughed, good-humoredly. "What must be, will be. Let us hope there
will be no occasion for the display of my fire-works. I suppose, what
with his two packs of hounds and the rest of it, even my father will be
brought to behave himself demurely, sooner or later."
"I should like to see Carew demure," said the chaplain, smiling;
"although not reduced to that state by the extremities of poverty. Yes,
as you say," he added, in a graver tone, "the pace at which he has been
going these twenty years has begun to tell on his fortune. But it is not
the dogs that will ruin him (as they ruined poor Ryll, with his few
thousands), nor yet his hunters. It is his race-horses on the Downs
yonder that will bring him to his piece of bread."
"I suppose so," said Yorke, sighing, not so much on Carew's account as
on his own; "he backs a horse because it is his own. That is his
confounded egotism."
"Your tie of relationship, Mr. Yorke, does not, I perceive, make you
blind to your father's foibles."
"Why should it?" rejoined the young man, passionately. "Am I to feel
grateful to him for begetting me? What has he done to make me feel that
I owe him aught? Do you suppose I thank him for being admitted here,
unacknowledged, uninvited in my own proper person? For being permitted
to take my fill at the common trough along with his drunken swine?"
"Nay, my friend," interposed the chaplain, coldly; "the food and wine
are of the best; and we should never scoff at good victual. If you have
so proud a stomach, why are you here? It embarrasses you to answer the
question. Let me, then, shape the reply. 'I have a sense of my own
dignity,' you would say, 'far keener than that of my father's flatterers
and favorites; but, on the other hand, I humiliate myself for a much
greater stake.'"
"_I_ humiliate myself?" reiterated the young man, angrily.
"You take money that is not very gracefully offered for your acceptance,
my young friend," said the chaplain, quietly.
"You saw him, did you?" cried Richard, hoarse with shame and passion.
"No; I did not; but I heard him swearing at you at the hazard-table for
having emptied his pockets; and I am familiar with his mode of bestowing
presents. You must forgive me, Mr. Yorke," added Parson Whymper, dryly;
"but you ought to know that when a man has lost his own self-respect, he
is, naturally averse to the profession of independence in another."
"If you deem yourself a dependent, Mr. Chaplain," replied Yorke,
bitterly, "you still permit yourself some frankness."
"Yes; that is one of the few virtues which are practiced at Crompton.
You will find me speak the truth."
There was irony in Parson Whymper's tone; and yet the young man felt
that he was not the subject of its cynicism. Was it possible that this
hard-drinking, hard-riding, hard-headed divine was scornful of himself,
and of his own degraded position? Yorke did not credit him with any such
fine feeling. He had read of Swift at Temple's, and could understand the
great Dean's bitterness against a shallow master and his insolent
guests, but that a man should become despicable to himself, was
unintelligible to him.
"Of course," continued the chaplain, smiling at his evident
bewilderment, "I could have been as smooth-spoken as you please, my
young friend; but I had estimated your good sense too highly to endeavor
to conciliate you by such vapid arts."
"I thank you," said Yorke, thoughtfully. "I hope you were right there; I
am sure at least that from your mouth I could hear home truths, which
from another's would be very unpalatable. You are good enough to speak
as though you would wish us to be friends. I am going to ask you,
therefore, to do me a favor."
"I will do any thing that lies in my power; but do not, for your own
sake, press me to influence your father----"
"No, no; it is not that," broke in the other, hastily. "It lies with
yourself to grant my request. I wish to hear from you the true story of
Carew's marriage with my mother."
"The _true story_?" echoed Parson Whymper. "Nay; I can not vouch for
being possessed of that. I have only heard it from your grandmother: the
counsel for the prosecution is scarcely a reliable authority for the
facts of a case."
"And I have only heard the defense," said Yorke. "Let me now, for the
first time, know what was urged upon the other side, and so weightily,"
the young man gloomily added, "that it made my mother an outcast, and
myself a disgraced and penniless lad. You see, I know exactly what was
the end of it all, so do not fear to shock me."
"There can be no disgrace where one has not one's self to blame," urged
the chaplain.
"You think so?" broke in the other, bitterly. "What! not when one's
mother is to blame, for instance? Well, please begin."
"I had much rather not," said the chaplain. "It would be much better for
you to get the newspaper report of the case--I can tell you the exact
date--and read both _pro_ and _con_."
"No report was ever published, Mr. Whymper; the case was heard with
closed doors, or suppressed by Carew's influence. So much, perhaps--to
judge by your face--the better for me."
"I think it would be better for you not to hear it, even now, Mr.
Yorke," returned the chaplain, not without a touch of tenderness in his
tone. "But, if you insist upon it, come to my private room, and let us
breakfast together first, then we will have the story over our cigars."
Accordingly, the two repaired to the apartment in question--a very snug
one, on the ground-floor, but so strewn with documents and letters that
it resembled a lawyer's sanctum. The morning meal--which, in the host's
case, consisted of a game-pie and a tankard of strong ale--having been
here dispatched, and their cigars lighted, Parson Whymper began as
follows:
"It must have been in the autumn of 1821 that Carew finally left
school--the public school of Harton. He got into some difficulties with
the authorities--refused, I believe, to apologize for some
misdemeanor--so that he had to be privately withdrawn----"
"I beg your pardon there," remarked Yorke, hastily. "He was expelled, as
I happen to know for certain."
"Very likely," said the chaplain, slowly expelling the smoke from his
lips; "indeed, I should say most likely. But remember mine is
professedly an _ex parte_ statement. Mrs. Carew--I mean Mrs. Carew the
elder--is solely responsible for it. Of course, she softened down the
facts against her son, and I have no doubt made compensation for so
doing by highly coloring the offenses of her daughter-in-law. I told
you, you would not like the story. Is it still your wish that I should
proceed with it?"
"Yes, yes," said Yorke; "go on. I was a fool to interrupt you." But the
chaplain noticed that the young man held his open palm before his face,
under pretense of shielding it from the fire, and that his cheeks grew
scarlet as the tale went on, nevertheless.
"Carew was not seventeen then, when he left school for the house of a
gentleman of the name of Hardcastle, in Berkshire, as his private pupil.
It was understood that he was to have his particular care and attention,
but not his exclusive services. There were one or two other
pupils--rather queer ones as it would seem; but Mr. Hardcastle
advertised in the newspapers for lads of position, but neglected
education--young fellows, in short, who had proved unmanageable at
home--and undertook to reform them by his system. It was no wonder,
then, that Carew found some strange companions. The strangest of all,
however, under the circumstances, was surely the tutor's niece, Miss
Hardcastle herself."
"Why strangest?" interrupted Yorke.
"I think Mrs. Carew the elder meant to imply that this young lady, being
possessed of great physical advantages, should have been the last person
selected by Mr. Hardcastle as his housekeeper, and the companion of his
pupils, and the more so since he was well aware, as it afterward turned
out, that she had already succeeded in victimizing (such was Mrs.
Carew's expression) one of these very lads. That was years ago, it is
true; and it might well be imagined that a lady of the mature age of
five-and-thirty might have outlived her charms; but in her particular
case this was not so. Miss Hardcastle, as she was called, was still very
beautiful, high-spirited, and an excellent horsewoman. She was also--if
that had been necessary to obtain her purpose--well-read and
accomplished. Being clever, good-looking, and not easily shocked,
however, she was more than competent to secure the affections of young
Carew. She was, nevertheless, as I have said, literally old enough to be
his mother; and the idea of the affair having been a love-match, in the
usual sense of the expression, was simply preposterous. That Miss
Hardcastle was herself of this opinion seems evident from her having
enjoined secrecy upon her youthful bridegroom. They lived together as
man and wife, under Mr. Hardcastle's roof, for near six months before
their marriage was proclaimed. Then young Mrs. Carew took a bold step:
she persuaded her husband to bring her to his house, under the roof of
which his mother was then residing. But they did not come (as one might
have imagined) in the fashion of two runaway lovers, who seek
forgiveness for their youthful ardor with penitence and submission. The
bridegroom was full of wild mirth at having at last done something
seriously to astonish the world. He was fond of his mother, after his
own fashion; but so far from entreating her forgiveness, he did not even
perceive any particular necessity for conciliation. The bride was full
of triumph; she had not risked much, and she had won a great stake. It
would have been better for her could she have borne her success with
more modesty. Her mother-in-law was transported with rage, which she was
too wise to exhibit. She knew her son far better than his new wife did;
and she felt that opposition was for the present hopeless; but she took
counsel with her son's guardian, and bided her time. It came at last,
though very slowly. Carew was devoted to his spouse for a whole
twelvemonth--a longer time than youth and beauty combined have ever
enthralled him since. Even when her tender tones--for she had the
sweetest voice that ever woman possessed--failed to thrill him, and her
queenly form to charm, he would probably not have consented to take part
against her, but for her own imprudence. She lost her temper with him
upon a matter where it is difficult for the wisest of her sex to keep
it: she grew jealous."
"Without cause?" inquired Yorke, gloomily. His cigar had gone out,
though he still held it between his white lips.
"No; not without cause. That is a point, I fancy, about which my
informant had her reasons for not being explicit."
"What!" cried the young man, indignantly. "She threw some one in her
son's way, to divert his attention from his lawful wife?"
"Perhaps; I can't say for certain. I am not defending her, Mr. Yorke;
but remember, she loved her son. She beheld him a victim to an artful
woman. He was not in her eyes as he is in mine, and perhaps in yours. He
had, she argued, capabilities of good, an affectionate and trustful
nature; he was the best _parti_ in the county, and had chosen his
tutor's niece--a woman old enough to have borne him. Besides, she was
_not_ his lawful wife. The dowager had secretly taken legal opinion upon
that matter, and was only waiting for an opportunity to test it. It was
essential for this that her son should desire his own freedom; and at
last he did so. I have told you the occasion. In the whirlwind of her
wrath, your mother told Carew some home truths; above all, let him know
she despised him, and had inveigled him into marriage. He had no other
name for her, henceforth, but Serpent."
"I know," said Yorke. "Go on."
"It was within two months of your birth that this quarrel took place.
Had you been born, and especially here at Crompton, I think the rupture
would never have happened. Your grandmother felt that too, and did her
utmost to precipitate matters, and, as you know, she was successful. Her
daughter-in-law was compelled to leave the house, and an action was
commenced in an ecclesiastical court. The validity of the marriage was
contested on the ground of undue publication of the bans, both parties
having a knowledge of the fact. I am a parson, you know, and this bit of
law lies in my way. The bride appeared in the register as spinster,
whereas she was the widow of an old pupil of her uncle's, whose surname
you bear. It was not an easy victory by any means. The judge of the
Consistory Court held that the inaccuracy in question was insufficient
to invalidate the ceremony; but Carew, or rather your grandmother,
appealed to the Court of Arches, and got the decision reversed. The
marriage was therefore declared null and void. Very hard lines it was
for you, Mr. Yorke; and--and that's the whole story."
"I thank you," said the young man, gravely. "I can easily imagine that
it might have been told by other lips in harsher terms."
They were silent for full a minute, Yorke busying himself with the
titles of the documents upon the table, written out in the chaplain's
sprawling hand.
"Your mother must be a most remarkable woman," observed the latter,
thoughtfully. "Is she still young-looking for her age?"
"Yes; very. What a queer docket is here! '_Tin Mine. Refused_:' What does
that mean?"
"It is an application from one Trevethick, an inn-keeper, to purchase a
disused mine at Gethin, on the west coast of Cornwall, which Carew has
declined. Two thousand pounds was offered on the nail, a sum far beyond
its value; but it is one of his crazes that his property there is very
valuable, and it's evident that this Trevethick thinks so too--whereas
it is only picturesque. For grandeur of position, Gethin Castle, or
rather what is left of it, for it is a ruin, is indeed unequaled! You
should take your sketch-book down there, some day. May I ask, by-the-by,
are you only an amateur in that way, or a professional?"
"I am an artist by profession. I live by my pencil, save for what my
mother allows me out of Carew's pittance. That is small enough, you
know. Hollo! there are the hounds coming round to the front! I suppose
Carew and the rest of them will soon be in the saddle?"
"And you have never made money by any other means?" pursued the
chaplain, thoughtfully.
"Never. Why do you ask?"
"Well, it seemed so strange that a lad like you should find purchasers
for his works," returned the chaplain, carelessly. "The Picture-gallery
here will be of service to you, no doubt."
"Yes. I shall get my education at Crompton, if I get nothing else," said
Yorke; "and indeed, as I have no desire to peril my neck out hunting, I
shall set to work at once. Good-morning, Mr. Chaplain, and many thanks."
And with a nod and a smile, the young man left the room.
Parson Whymper looked after him with a grave face. "I wonder whether
Fane was right," he muttered. "He seemed quite positive; though, 'tis
true, he owed him a grudge for potting him at pool. There was something
wrong in that young fellow's face as he said 'Never,' when I asked him
that question as to whether he gained money by other means. If he lied,
the lying must have come from the mother's side. That woman must be a
marvel. Well, I'm sorry, for I should have liked Richard Yorke to have
had his chance here."