Bull Garnet forgot his appointment for eight minutes after eleven;
indeed it was almost twelve oʼclock when he came out of the summerhouse
(made of scarlet–runners) to which he had led Dr. Hutton, when he
saw that his tale was of interest. As he came forth, and the noonday
sun fell upon his features, any one who knew him would have been
surprised at their expression. A well–known artist, employed upon a
fresco in the neighbourhood, had once described Mr. Garnetʼs face in
its ordinary aspect as “violence in repose”. Epigrammatic descriptions
of the infinite human nature are like tweezers to catch a whale with.
The man who unified so rashly all the Garnetian impress, had only met
Mr. Garnet once—had never seen him after dinner, or playing with his
children.
Now Rufus Hutton, however garrulous, was a kind and sensible man, and
loth to make any mischief. He ran after Mr. Garnet, hotly. Bull Garnet
had quite forgotten him, and would take no notice. The doctor made a
short cut through a quarter of Brussels sprouts (which almost knocked
off his wide–awake hat) and stood in the arch of trimmed yew–tree,
opening at the western side upon the forest lane. Here he stretched his
arms to either upright, and mightily barred all exit. He knew that the
other would not go home, because he had told him so.
Presently Bull Garnet strode up: not with his usual swing, however;
not with his wonted self–confidence. He seemed to walk off from a
staggering blow, which had dulled his brain for the moment. He stopped
politely before Mr. Hutton (who expected to be thrust aside), and asked
as if with new interest, and as if he had not heard the tale out—
“Are you quite sure, Dr. Hutton, that you described the dress
correctly”?
“As sure as I am of the pattern of my own unmentionables. Miss Rosedew
wore, as I told you, a lavender serge, looped at the sides with
purple—a pretty dress for Christmas, but it struck me as warm for
Michaelmas. Perhaps it was meant for the Michaelmas daisies; or perhaps
she suffers from rheumatism, or flying pains in the patella”.
“And the cloak and hat, as you described them—are you sure about them”?
“My dear sir, I could swear to them both if I saw them on a scarecrow.
How can I speak of such a thing after that lovely creature? Such an
exquisite fall of the shoulders—good wide shoulders too—and such a
delicious waist! I assure you, my dear sir, I have seen fine women in
India——”
“Dr. Hutton”, said Mr. Garnet, sternly, “let me hear no more of that.
You are a newly–married man, a man of my time of life. I will have no
warm description of—of any young ladies”.
Rufus Hutton was a peppery man, and not very easily cowed.
Nevertheless, his mind was under the pressure of a stronger one. So he
only relieved himself with a little brag.
“Why, Mr. Garnet, you cross–examine me as I did the natives when I
acted as judge in Churramuttee, when the two chuprassies came before
me, and the water–carrier. I tell you, sir, I see more in a glance than
most men do in a long set stare, when they are called in to appraise
a thing. I could tell every plait in your shirt–front, and the stuff
and cut of your coat, before you could say ‘good morning’. It was only
last Thursday that Mrs. Hutton, who is a most remarkable woman, made an
admirable observation about my rapid perception”.
“I have not the smallest doubt of it. And I believe that you fully
deserved it. You will therefore perceive at once that this matter must
go no further. Did you see my—son at the house here”?
“No. Only the maid–servant, who directed me where to find you”.
“Then you did not go in at all, I suppose”?
“No; but I admired greatly your mode of training that beautiful
tropæolum over the porch. I must go and look at it again, with your
kind permission. I never neglect the chance of a wrinkle such as that”.
“Another time, Dr. Hutton, I shall hope to show it to you; though
you must have seen it all at a glance, for it is simpler than my
shirt–fronts. But my business takes me now to the Hall, and I shall be
glad of your company”.
“Hospitable fellow, with a vengeance”! thought little Rufus. “And I
heard he had some wonderful sherry, and itʼs past my time for a snack.
Serves me right for meddling with other peopleʼs business”.
But while he stood hesitating, and casting fond glances towards the
cottage, Mr. Garnet, without any more ado, passed his powerful long arm
through the little wing of Rufus, and hurried him down the dingle.
“Excuse me, sir, but I have never much time to waste. This, as you
know, is a most busy day, and all the preparations are under my sole
charge. I laugh at the fuss, as a matter of course. But that question
is not for me. Cradock Nowell is a noble fellow, and I have the highest
respect for him”.
“Well, I rather prefer young Clayton. Having brought them both into
the world, I ought to understand them. But I hope he wonʼt make a fool
of himself in this matter we have been talking of”.
Mr. Garnet jerked his companionʼs arm, and his face went pale as
Portland stone.
“Make a d—d rogue more likely. And he wonʼt be the first of his family”.
“Yes, as you say”, replied the doctor to all he could catch of the
muttered words, which flew over the crown of his hat, “beyond all doubt
the first family in this part of the kingdom, and so they must have
their jubilee. But I trust you will use with the utmost caution what
I thought it best to confide to you, under the bond of secrecy. Of
course, I could not think of telling papa, either of lady or gentleman;
and knowing how you stand with the family, you seemed to me the proper
person to meet this little difficulty”.
“Beyond a doubt, I am”.
“Pooh, sir, a boy and a girl. I wonder you think so much about it. Men
never know their own minds in the matter until they arrive at our age.
And as for the chits on the other side—whew, they blow right and left,
as the feathers on their hats do”.
“That is not the case with _my_ family. We make up our minds, and stick
to them”.
“Then your family is the exception, which only proves my rule; and I am
glad that it is not concerned in the present question”.
When they came to that part of the lawn in front of the ancient Hall
where the fireworks’ stage had been reared on a gently–rising mound,
Cradock Nowell met them, with a book in his hand. To–morrow he would be
twenty–one; and a more honest, open–hearted fellow, or a better built
one, never arrived at manʼs estate, whether for wealth or poverty.
He had not begun to think very deeply; indeed, who could expect it,
where trouble had never entered? It is pain that deepens the channel
of thought, and sorrow that sweeps the bar away. Cradock as yet was
nothing more than a clever, fine young man, an elegant and accurate
scholar, following thought more than leading it. Nevertheless, he had
the material of a grand unselfish character—of a nature which, when
perfected, could feel its imperfections. Sorrow and trial were needed
for him; and God knows he soon got enough of them.
He shoved away his Tauchnitz Herodotus in his shooting–coat pocket.
Neither of the men he met was a scholar; neither would feel any
interest in it. Being driven forth by his fatherʼs grumbling at the
little pleasure he showed in the fuss that was making about him, he
had brought his genial, true cosmopolite to show him a thing which his
heart would have loved. Cradock had doubled down the leaf whereon was
described the building of the boat–bridge over the Hellespont. Neither
had he forgotten the interment of the Scythian kings. It was not that
he purposed to instruct the carpenters thence, or to shed any light on
their doings; but that he hoped to learn from them some words to jot
down on the margin. He had discovered already, being helped thereto by
the tongue of Ytene, that hundreds of forcible Saxon words still lurk
in the crafts to which the beaten race betook itself—words which are
wanted sadly, and pieced out very unpleasantly by roundabout foreign
fanglements.
Even the gratitude now due to the good–will of all the neighbourhood,
had failed to reconcile his mind to the turgid part before him. At
Oxford he had been dubbed already “Caradoc the Philosopher”; and the
more he learned, the less he thought of his own importance. He had
never regarded the poor around him as dogs made for him to whistle
to; he even knew that he owed them some duties, and wondered how to
discharge them. Though bred of high Tory lineage, and corded into it
by the twists of habit and education, he never could hang by neck and
gullet; he never could show basement only, as a well–roped onion does.
Encased as he was by strict surroundings, he never could grow quite
straight and even, without a seed inside him, as a prize cucumber does
in the cylinder of an old chimney–glass.
Some of this dereliction sprang, no doubt, from his granulation, and
some from the free trade of his mind with the great heart called “John
Rosedew”.
Now he came up, and smiled, like a boy of fourteen, in Mr. Garnetʼs
face; for he liked Bull Garnetʼs larger qualities, and had no fear of
his smaller ones. Mr. Garnet never liked; he always loved or hated. He
loved Cradock Nowell heartily, and heartily hated Clayton.
“Behind my time, you see, Cradock. I am glad you are doing my duty.—Ha,
there! _I see you, my man_”.
The man was skulking his work, in rigging out with coloured lamps an
old oak fifty yards off. That ancient oak, the pride of the chase, was
to represent, to–morrow night, a rainbow reflecting “Cradock Nowell”.
Young Crad, who regarded it all as ill–taste, if it were not positive
sin, had lifted his voice especially against that oakʼs bedizenment.
“It will laugh at us from every acorn”, he had said to his father.
But Sir Cradock was now a man of sixty; and threescore resents being
budded. The incision results in gum only.
At the sound of that tremendous voice, the man ran recklessly out
on the branch, the creaking of which had alarmed him. Snap went the
branch at a cankered part, and the poor fellow dropped from a height of
nearly forty feet. But the crashing wood caught in the bough beneath,
which was sound and strong, and there hung the man, uninjured as yet,
clinging only by one arm, and struggling to throw his feet up. In a
moment Cradock had seized a ladder, reared, and fixed, and mounted
it, and helped the poor fellow to slide off upon it, and stayed him
there gasping and quivering. Bull Garnet set foot on the lowest rung,
and Rufus Hutton added his weight, which was not very considerable.
A dozen workmen came running up, and the man, whose nerves had quite
failed him, was carefully eased to the ground.
“Mr. Garnet”, said Cradock, with flashing eyes, “would you have walked
on that branch yourself”?
“To be sure I would, after I had looked at it”.
“But you gave this poor man no time to look. Is it brave to make
another do what you yourself would fear”?
“Give me your hand, my boy. I was wrong, and you are right. I wish
every man to hear me. Jem, come to my house this evening. You owe your
life to Mr. Cradock”.
Nature itself is better than the knowledge of human nature. Mr. Garnet,
by generosity quicker than quickest perception, had turned to his
credit an incident which would have disgraced a tyrant. A powerful
manʼs confession of wrong always increases his power. While the men
were falling to work again, every one under the stewardʼs eyes, Sir
Cradock Nowell and Clayton his son came cantering up from the stables.
The dry leaves crackled or skirred away crisply from their horsesʼ
feet, for the day was fine and breezy; the nags were arching their
necks and pricking their ears with enjoyment; but neither of the riders
seemed to be in high spirits. The workmen touched their hats to them in
a manner very different from that with which they received Mr. Garnet
or Cradock Nowell. There was more of distant respect in it, and less of
real interest.
Sir Cradock now was a perfect specimen of the well–bred Englishman at
threescore years of age. Part of his life had been touched by sorrow,
but in the main he had prospered. A man of ability and high culture,
who has not suffered deeply, is apt, after passing middle age, to
substitute tact for feeling, and common sense for sympathy. Mellow and
blest is the age of the man who soberly can do otherwise.
Sir Cradock Nowell knew his age, and dressed himself accordingly.
Neither stiffness nor laxity, neither sporting air nor austerity,
could be perceived in his garb or manner. He respected himself and
all whom he met, until he had cause to the contrary. But his heart,
instead of expanding, had narrowed in the loneliness of his life; and
he really loved only one in the world—the son who rode beside him. He
had loved John Rosedew well and truly for many an honest year; of late,
admiration was uppermost, and love grown a thing to be thought about.
The cause of the change was his own behaviour, and Johnʼs thorough hate
of injustice. That old friend of the family could not keep silence
always at the preference of Clayton, and the disparagement of Cradock.
The father himself could not have told whence arose this preference.
Year by year it had been growing, for a long time unsuspected;
suspected then and fought with, then smothered at once and justified;
allowed at last to spread and thrive on the right of its own existence.
And yet any one, to look at Sir Cradock, would have thought him justice
personified. And so he was, as Chairman of the Quarter Sessions. Clear
intelligence, quick analysis, keen perception of motive in others,
combined with power to dispense (when nature so does) with reason, and
used with high sense of honour—all these things made him an oracle
to every one but himself. Although he had never been in the army, he
looked like a veteran soldier; and his seat on horseback was stiff
and firm, rather than easy and graceful. Tall, spare figure, and grey
moustache, Roman nose, and clear, bright eyes, thin lips, and broad
white forehead—the expression of the whole bespoke an active, resolute,
upright man, not easily pleased or displeased.
As every one was to keep holiday, the farmers had challenged the
Ringwood club to play them a game of cricket, and few having seen a
bat till now, some practice seemed indispensable. Accordingly, while
Bull Garnet was busy among the working men, the farmers, being up for
play, were at it in hard earnest, labouring with much applause and
merriment, threshing or churning, mowing or ploughing, and some making
kicks at the ball. Rufus Hutton looked on in a spirited manner, and
Cradock was bowling with all his might at the legs of a petty tyrant,
when his father and brother rode up between the marquees and awnings.
The tyrannical farmer received a smart crack on the shin, and thought
(though he feared to say) “d—n”.
“Hurrah, Crad! more jerk to your elbow”! cried Clayton, who also
disliked the man; “Blackers, you mustnʼt break the ball, itʼs against
the laws of cricket”.
Grinning sympathy and bad wit deepened the bruise of the tibia, till
Farmer Blackers forgot all prudence in the deep jar of the marrow.
“Boul awai, meester, and be honged to you. I carries one again _you_,
mind”.
To the great surprise of all present there, Sir Cradock did not look at
the speaker, but turned on his son with anger.
“Sir, you ought to know better. Your sense of justice will lead you, I
hope, to apologise to that man”.
He did not wait to see the effect of this public reproof, which was
heard by a hundred people, but struck his mare hastily on the shoulder,
called Clayton, and rode away. Cradock, who now had the ball in his
hands, threw it a hundred feet high.
“Catch it who will”, he said; “I shall bowl no more to–day. Farmer
Blackers, I apologise to you; I did not know you were so tender”.
Feeling far more tender himself (for all that was the youthʼs bravado),
he went away, doubting right and wrong, to his own little room on the
ground floor. There he would smoke his pipe, and meditate, and condemn
himself, if the verdict were true. That young fellowʼs sense of justice
was larger, softer, more deeply fibred, than any Sir Cradock Nowellʼs.