That evening Dr. Hutton started, on his long swift mare, for the Hall
at Nowelhurst, where he had promised to be. He kissed his Rosa many
times, and begged her pardon half as often, for all the crimes that
day committed. Her brother Ralph, from Fordingbridge, who always slept
there at short notice, because the house was lonely, would be sure
to come (they knew) when the little boy Bob was sent for him. Ralph
Mohorn—poor Rosa rejoiced in her rather uncommon patronymic, though
perhaps it means Cow–horn—Ralph Mohorn was only too glad to come and
sleep at Geopharmacy Lodge. He was a fine, fresh–hearted fellow,
only about nineteen years old; his father held him hard at home, and
of course he launched out all the more abroad. So he kicked up, as
he expressed it, “the devilʼs own dust” when he got to the Lodge,
ordered everything in the house for supper, with a bottle of whisky
afterwards—which he never touched, only he liked the name of the
thing—and then a cardinal, or the biggest meerschaum to be found in
any of the cupboards. His pipe, however, was not, like his grog, a
phantom of the imagination; for he really smoked it, and sat on three
chairs, while he “baited” Rosa, as he called it, with all the bogeys
in Christendom. It was so delicious now to be able to throw her into a
tremble, and turn her cheeks every colour, and then recollect that a
few years since she had smacked his own cheeks _ad libitum_. However,
we have little to do with him, and now he is a jolly farmer.
Rufus Hutton rode through Ringwood over the low bridge where the
rushes rustle everlastingly, and the trout and dace for ever wag their
pellucid tails up stream. How all that water, spreading loosely, wading
over miles of meadows, growing leagues of reed and rush, mistress of
a world in winter, how it all is content to creep through a pair of
little bridges—matter of such mystery, let the Christchurch salmon
solve it. Dr. Hutton went gaily over—at least his mare went gaily—but
he was thinking (beyond his wont) of the business he had in hand. He
admired the pleasant old town as he passed, and the still more pleasant
waters; but his mare, the favourite Polly, went on at her usual swing,
until they came to the long steep hill towards the Picked Post. As
he walked her up the sharp parts of the rise, he began to ponder the
mysterious visit of those convivial strangers. It was very plain that
neither of them knew or cared the turn of a trowel about the frank
art of gardening; that, of course, was only a sham; then what did they
really come for? Rufus, although from childhood upwards he had been
hospitable to his own soul, that is to say, regarded himself with
genial approbation, was not by any means blindly conceited, and could
not suppose that his fame, for anything except gardening, had spread
through the regions round about. So he felt that his visitors had
come, not for his sake, but their own. And it was not long before he
suspected that they wished to obtain through him some insight, perhaps
even some influence, into and in the course of events now toward at
Nowelhurst Hall. They had altogether avoided the subject; which made
him the more suspicious, for at present it was of course the leading
topic of the county.
However, as they were related to the family, while he, Rufus Hutton,
was not, it was not his place to speak of the matter, but to let
his guests do as they liked about it. They had made him promise,
moreover, to dine with the Kettledrums on the very earliest day he
could fix—viz. the following Wednesday—and there he was to meet Mr. and
Mrs. Corklemore. Was it possible that they intended, and perhaps had
been instructed, to subject the guest on that occasion to more skilful
manipulation than that of their rude male fingers?
“Iʼll take Rosa with me”, said Rufus to himself; “a woman sees
a womanʼs game best; though Rosa, thank Heaven, is not very
Machiavellian. How very odd, that neither of those men had the decency
to carry a bit of crape, out of respect for that poor boy; and I,
who am noway connected with him, have been indued by my Roe with a
hat–band”!
Shrewd as our friend Rufus was, he could not be charged with low
cunning, and never guessed that those two men had donned the show of
mourning, and made the most of it round their neighbourhood to impress
people with their kinship to the great Nowells of Nowelhurst, but that
their guardian angels had disarrayed them ere they started, having no
desire to set Rufus thinking about their chance of succession. As the
sharp little doctor began to revolve all he had heard about Corklemore,
his mare came to the Burley–road where they must leave the turnpike.
Good Polly struck into it, best foot foremost, and, as she never would
bear the curb well, her rider had quite enough to do, in the gathering
darkness, and on that cross–country track, to attend to their common
safety.
She broke from the long stride of her trot into a reaching canter,
as the moon grew bright between the trees, and the lane was barred
with shadow. Pricking nervously her ears at every flaw or rustle,
bending her neck to show her beauty, where the light fell clear on the
moor–top, then with a snort of challenge plunging into the black of the
hollows, yet ready to jump the road and away, if her challenge should
be answered; bounding across the water–gulley and looking askance at
a fern–shadow; then saying to herself, “It is only the moon, child”,
and up the ascent half ashamed of herself; then shaking her bridle with
reassurance to think of that mile of great danger flown by, and the
mash and the warm stable nearer, and the pleasure of telling that great
roan horse how brave she had been in the moonlight——
“Goodness me! Whatʼs that”?
She leaped over road and roadside bank, and into a heavy gorse–bush,
and stood there quivering from muzzle to tail in the intensity of
terror. If Rufus had not just foreseen her alarm, and gripped her with
all his power, he must have lain senseless upon the road, spite of all
his rough–riding in India.
“Who–hoa, who–hoa, then, Polly, you little fool, you are killing me!
Canʼt you see itʼs only a lady”?
Polly still backed into the bush, and her unlucky rider, with every
prickle running into him, could see the whites of her eyes in the
moonshine, as the great orbs stood out with horror. Opposite to them,
and leaning against a stile which led to a footpath, there stood a
maiden dressed in black, with the moonlight sheer upon her face. She
took no notice of anything; she had heard no sort of footfall; she did
not know of Pollyʼs capers, or the danger she was causing. Her face,
with the hunterʼs moon upon it, would have been glorious beauty, but
for the broad rims under the eyes, and the spectral paleness. One
moment longer she stared at the moon, as if questing for some one gone
thither, then turned away with a heavy sigh, and went towards the
Coffin Wood.
All this time Rufus Hutton was utterly blind to romance, being
scarified in the calf and thighs beyond any human endurance. Polly
backed further and further away from the awful vision before her—the
wife of the horse–fiend at least—and every fresh swerve sent a new lot
of furze–pricks into the peppery legs of Rufus.
“Hang it”! he cried, “here goes; no man with a haʼporth of flesh in him
could stand it any longer. Thorn for thorn, Miss Polly”. He dashed his
spurs deep into her flanks, the spurs he had only worn for show, and
never dared to touch her with. For a moment she trembled, and reared
upright in wrath worse than any horror; then away she went like a storm
of wind, headlong through trees and bushes. It was all pure luck or
Providence that Rufus was not killed. He grasped her neck, and lay
flat upon it; he clung with his supple legs around her; he called her
his Polly, his darling Polly, and begged her to consider herself. She
considered neither herself nor him, but dashed through the wild wood,
wilder herself, not knowing light from darkness. Any low beech branch,
any scrag holly, even a trail of loose ivy, and man and horse were
done for. The lights of more than a million stars flashed before Rufus
Hutton, and he made up his mind to die, and wondered how Rosa would
take it. Perhaps she would marry again, and rear up another family who
knew not the name of Hutton; perhaps she would cry her eyes out. Smack,
a young branch took him in the face, though he had one hand before it.
“Go it again”! he cried, with the pluck of a man despairing, and then
he rolled over and over, and dug for himself a rabbit–hole of sand,
and dead leaves, and moss. There he lay on his back, and prayed, and
luckily let go the bridle.
The mare had fallen, and grovelled in the rotten ground where the
rabbits lived; then she got up and shook herself, and the stirrups
struck fire beneath her, and she spread out all her legs, and neighed
for some horse to come and help her. She could not go any further;
she had vented her soul, and must come to herself, like a lady after
hysterics. Presently she sniffed round a bit, and the grass smelled
crisp and dewy, and, after the hot corn and musty hay, it was fresher
than ice upon brandy. So she looked through the trees, and saw only
a squirrel, which did not frighten her at all, because she was used
to rats. Then she brought her forelegs well under her stomach, and
stretched her long neck downwards, and skimmed the wet blades with her
upper lip, and found them perfectly wholesome. Every horse knows what
she did then and there, to a great extent, till she had spoiled her
relish for supper.
After that, she felt grateful and good, and it repented her of the
evil, and she whinnied about for the master who had outraged her
feelings so deeply. She found him still insensible, on his back,
beneath a beech–tree, with six or seven rabbits, and even a hare, come
to see what the matter was. Then Polly, who had got the bit out of her
mouth, gave him first a poke with it, and then nuzzled him under the
coat–collar, and blew into his whiskers as she did at the chaff in her
manger. She was beginning to grieve and get very uneasy, taking care
not to step on him, and went round him ever so many times, and whinnied
into his ear, when either that, or the dollop of grass half chewed
which lay on his countenance, revived the great spirit of Rufus Hutton,
and he opened his eyes and looked languidly. He saw two immense black
eyes full upon him, tenderly touched by the moonlight, and he felt a
wet thing like a sponge poking away at his nostrils.
“Polly”, he said, “oh, Polly dear, how could you serve me so? What will
your poor mistress say”?
Polly could neither recriminate nor defend herself; so she only looked
at him beseechingly, and what she meant was, “Oh, do get up”.
So Rufus arose, and dusted himself, and kissed Polly for forgiveness,
and she, if she had only learned how, would have stooped like a camel
before him. He mounted, with two or three groans for his back, and left
the mare to her own devices to find the road again. It was very pretty
to see in the moonlight how carefully she went with him, not even
leaping the small water–courses, but feeling her footing through them.
And so they got into the forest–track, some half mile from where they
had left it; they saw the gleam of Bull Garnetʼs windows, and knew the
straight road to the Hall.
Sir Cradock Nowell did not appear. Of course that was not expected;
but kind John Rosedew came up from the parsonage to keep Rufus Hutton
company. So the two had all the great dinner–table to themselves
entirely; John, as the old friend, sat at the head, and the doctor
sat by his right hand. Although there were few men in the world with
the depth of mind, and variety, the dainty turns of thought, the
lacework infinitely rich of original mind and old reading, which made
John Rosedewʼs company a forest for to wander in and be amazed with
pleasure; Rufus Hutton, sore and stiff, and aching in the back, thought
he had rarely come across so very dry a parson.
John was not inclined to talk: he was thinking of his Cradock, and he
had a care of still sharper tooth—what had happened to his Amy? He
had come up much against his wishes, only as a duty, on that dreary
Saturday night, just that Mr. Hutton, who had been so very kind, might
not think himself neglected. John had dined four hours ago, but that
made no difference to him, for he seldom knew when he _had_ dined, and
when he was expected to do it. Nevertheless he was human, for he loved
his bit of supper.
Mr. Rosedew had laboured hard, but vainly, to persuade Sir Cradock
Nowell to send some or any message to his luckless son. “No”, he
replied, “he did not wish to see him any more, or at any rate not at
present; it would be too painful to him. Of course he was sorry for
him, and only hoped he was half as sorry for himself”. John Rosedew
did not dream as yet of the black idea working even now in the lonely
fatherʼs mind, gaining the more on his better heart because he kept it
secret. The old man was impatient now even of the old friendʼs company;
he wanted to sit alone all day weaving and unravelling some dark skein
of evidence, and as yet he was not so possessed of the devil as to
cease to feel ashamed of him. “Coarse language”! cries some votary
of our self–conscious euphemism. But show me any plainer work of the
father of unbelief than want of faith in our fellow–creatures, when
we have proved and approved them; want of faith in our own flesh and
blood, with no cause for it but the imputed temptation. It shall go
hard with poor old Sir Cradock, and none shall gainsay his right to it.
Silence was a state of the air at once uncongenial to Dr. Huttonʼs
system and repugnant to all his finest theories of digestion. For lo,
how all nature around us protests against the Trappists, and the order
of St. Benedict! See how the cattle get together when they have dined
in the afternoon, and had their drink out of the river. Donʼt they
flip their tails, and snuffle, and grunt at their own fine sentiments,
and all the while they are chewing the cud take stock of one another?
Donʼt they discuss the asilus and œstrum, the last news of the
rinderpest, and the fly called by some the cow–dab, and donʼt they
abuse the festuca tribe, and the dyspepsia of the sorrel? Is the thrush
mute when he has bolted his worm, or the robin over his spiderʼs eggs?
So Rufus looked through his glass of port, which he took merely as a
corrective to the sherry of the morning, cocked one eye first, and then
the other, and loosed the golden bands of speech.
“Uncommonly pretty girls, Mr. Rosedew, all about this neighbourhood”.
“Very likely, Dr. Hutton; I see many pleasant faces; but I am no judge
of beauty”. He leaned back with an absent air, just as if he knew
nothing about it. And all the while he was saying to himself, “Pretty
girls indeed! Is there one of them like my Amy”?
“A beautiful girl I saw to–night. But I donʼt wish to see much more
beauty in that way. Nearly cost me my life, I know. You are up in the
classics so: what is it we used to read at school?—Helene, Helenaus,
Helip—something—teterrima belli causa fuit. Upon my word, I havenʼt
talked so much Latin and Greek—have another glass of port, just for
company; the dry vintage of ’34 canʼt hurt anybody”. John Rosedew took
another glass, for his spirits were low, and the wine was good, and the
parson felt then that he ought to have more confidence in God. Then he
brought his mind to bear on the matter, and listened very attentively
while the doctor described, with a rush of warm language and plenteous
exaggeration, the fright of his mare at that mournful vision, the
vision itself, and the consequences.
“Sir, you must have ridden like a Centaur, or like Alexander. What will
Mrs. Hutton say? But are you sure that she leaped an oak–tree”?
“Perfectly certain”, said Rufus, gravely, “clean through the fork of
the branches, and the acorns rattled upon my hat, like the hail of the
Himalaya”.
“Remarkable! Most remarkable”!
“But you have not told me yet”, continued Dr. Hutton, “although I am
sure that you know, who the beautiful young lady is”.
“From your description, and the place, though I have not heard that
they are in mourning, I think it must have been Miss Garnet”.
“Miss Garnet! What Miss Garnet? Not Bull Garnetʼs daughter? I never
heard that he had one”.
“Yes, he has, and a very nice girl. My Amy knows a little of her. But
he does not allow her to visit much, and is most repressive to her.
Unwise, in my opinion; not the way to treat a daughter; one should have
confidence in her, as I have in my dear child”.
“Oh, you have confidence in Miss Rosedew; and she goes out whenever she
likes, I suppose”?
“Of course she does”, said the simple John, wondering at the question;
“that is, of course, whenever it is right for her”.
“Of which, I suppose, she herself is the judge”.
“Why, no, not altogether. Her aunt has a voice in the matter always,
and a very potent one”.
“And, of course, Miss Rosedew, managed upon such enlightened
principles, never attempts to deceive you”?
“Amy! my Amy deceive me”! The rector turned pale at the very idea. “But
these questions are surely unusual from a gentleman whom I have known
for so very short a time. I am entitled, in turn, to ask your reason
for putting them”. Mr. Rosedew, never suspecting indignities, could
look very dignified.
“Iʼm in for it now”, thought Rufus Hutton; “what a fool I am! I fancied
the old fellow had no _nous_, except for Latin and Greek”.
Strange to say, the old fellow had _nous_ enough to notice his
hesitation. John Rosedew got up from his chair, and stood looking at
Rufus Hutton.
“Sir, I will thank you to tell me exactly what you mean about my
daughter”.
“Nothing at all, Mr. Rosedew. What do you suppose I _should_ mean”?
“You _should_ mean nothing at all, sir. But I believe that you _do_
mean something. And, please God, I will have it out of you”. Rufus
Hutton said afterwards that he had two great frights that evening, and
he believed the last was the worst. The parson never dreamed that any
man could be afraid of him, except it were a liar, and he looked upon
Rufus contemptuously. The man of the world was nothing before the man
of truth.
“Mr. Rosedew”, said Rufus, recovering himself, “your conduct is very
extraordinary; and (you will excuse my saying it) more violent than
becomes a man of your position and character”.
“No violence becomes any man, whatever his position. I am sorry if I
have been violent”.
“You have indeed”, said Rufus, pushing his advantage: a generous man
would have said, “No, you havenʼt”, at seeing the parsonʼs distress,
and so would Rufus have said, if he had happened to be in the right;
“so violent, Mr. Rosedew, that I believe you almost frightened me”.
“Dear me”! said John, reflecting, “and he has just leaped an oak–tree!
I must have been very bad”.
“Donʼt mention it, my dear sir, I entreat you say no more about it.
We all know what a father is”. And Rufus Hutton, who did not yet,
but expected to know in some three months, grew very large, and felt
himself able to patronise the rector. “Mr. Rosedew, I as well am to
blame. I am thoughtless, sir, very thoughtless, or rather I should say
too thoughtful; I am too fond of seeing round a corner, which I have
always been famous for. Sir, a man who possesses this power, this gift,
this—I donʼt know the word for it, but I have no doubt you do—that man
is apt to—I mean to——”
“Knock his head against a wall”? suggested the parson, in all good
faith.
“No, you mistake me; I donʼt mean that at all; I mean that a man with
this extraordinary foresight, which none can understand except those
who are gifted with it, is liable sometimes, is amenable—I mean to—to——”
“See double. Ah, yes, I can quite understand it”. John Rosedew shut
his eyes, and felt up for a disquisition, yet wanted to hear of his
daughter.
“No, my dear sir, no. It is something very far from anything so
commonplace as that. What I mean is—only I cannot express it, because
you interrupt me so—that a man may have this faculty, this insight,
this perception, which saves him from taking offence where none
whatever is meant, and yet, as it were by some obliquity of the vision,
may seem, in some measure, to see the wrong individual”. Here Rufus
felt like the dwarf Alypius, when he had stodged Iamblichus.
“That is an interesting question, and reminds me of the state of
_ἀῤῥεψία_ as described in the life of Pyrrho by Diogenes Laertius;
whose errors, if I may venture to say it, have been made too much of
by the great Isaac Casaubon, then scarcely mature of judgment. It will
give me the greatest pleasure to go into that question with you. But
not just now. I am thrown out so sadly, and my memory fails me”—John
Rosedew had fancied this, by–the–by, ever since he was thirty years
old—“only tell me one thing, Dr. Hutton, and I am very sorry for my
violence; you meant no harm about my daughter”? Here the grey–haired
man, with the mighty forehead, opened his clear blue eyes, and looked
down upon Rufus beseechingly.
“Upon my honour as a gentleman, I mean no harm whatever. I made the
greatest mistake, and I see the mistake I made”.
“Will you tell me, sir, what it was? Just to ease my mind. I am sure
that you will”.
“No, I must not tell you now, until I have worked the matter out. You
will thank me for not doing so. But I apologise most heartily. I feel
extremely uncomfortable. No claret, sir, but the port, if you please. I
was famous, in India, for my nerve; but now it seems to be failing me”.
Rufus, as we now perceive, had fully discovered his mistake, and was
trying to trace the consequences. The beautiful girl whom he saw in the
wood, that evening, with Clayton Nowell, was not our Amy at all, but
Mr. Garnetʼs daughter. He knew the face, though changed and white, when
it frightened his mare in the moonlight; and, little time as he had to
think, it struck him then as very strange that Miss Rosedew should be
there. Bull Garnetʼs cottage, on the other hand, was quite handy in the
hollow.