CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VII.Dr. Huttonʼs baby was getting better, and Rosa, who had been, as the nurse said, “losing ground so sadly, poor dear,” was beginning to pick up her crumbs again. Therefore Rufus, who (in common with Rosa and all the rest of the household) regarded that baby as the noblest and grandest sublimation of humanity, if not as the final cause of this little worldʼs existence, was beginning now to make up his mind that he really might go to London that week, without being (as his wife declared he must be, if he even thought about it) cruel, inhuman, unfatherly, utterly void of all sense of duty, not to say common affection. And she knew quite well what he wanted. All he wanted was to go and see Mr. Riversʼs peach–trees in blossom, as if that was such a sight as her baby. Yes,herbaby, maʼs own darling, a dove of a dumpling dillikins; to think that his own pa should prefer nasty little trees without a hair on them,and that didnʼt even know what bo meant, to the most elegant love of a goldylocks that ever was, was, was!Master Goldylocks had received, from another quarter, a less classical, and less pleasing, but perhaps (from an objective point of view) a more truthful and unprismatic description of the hair it pleased God to give him.“Governorʼs carrots, and no mistake,” cried Mrs. OʼGaghan the moment she saw him, which, of course, was upon his first public appearance—catch Biddy out of the way when any baby, of any father or mother she had ever heard of, was submitted even to the most privileged inspection—”knew he must have ‘em, of course. You niver can conquer that, maʼam, if your own hair was like a sloe, and you tuk me black briony arl the time. Hould him dacent, will ye, nurse? Not slot his head down that fashion! He donʼt want more blood in his hair, child. Oh yes, I can see, maʼam! Niver knowed more nor two wi’ that red–hot poker colour, colour of the red snuff they calls ‘Irish blackguard’ in the top of a hot shovel; and one of the two were Mr. Hutton, maʼam, saving your presence to spake of it; and the other were of Tim Brady, as were hung at the crossroads, near Clonmel, for cutting the throat of his grandmother.”“Oh, Mary, take her away. What a horrid woman!”Here Mrs. OʼGaghan was marched away, amiduniversal indignation, which she could not at all understand. But she long had borne against Rufus Hutton the bitterest of all bitter spites (such as only an Irishwoman can bear), for the exposure of her own great mistake, and the miserable result which (as she fully believed) had sprung from all his meddling. And yet she was a “good–hearted” woman. But a good heart is only the wad upon powder, when a violent will is behind it.Not to attach undue importance to Biddyʼs prepossessions, yet to give every facility for a verdict upon the question, I am bound to state what an old–young lady, growing every month more satirical, because nobody would have her, yet quite unconscious that the one drawback was the main cause of the other (for all men hate sarcastic women),—how tersely she expressed herself.“Ridiculous likeness! Was he born with two cheroots in his mouth?”But a lady, who would marry for ever because she was so soft and nice, came to see darling baby again, the moment she was quite assured that he was equal to the interview, having denied herself from day to day, although it had affected her appetite, and was telling upon her spirits. Neither would she come alone—that would be too selfish: she must make a gala day of it, and gratify her relatives. So Mrs. Hutton had the rapture of sitting behind her bedroom curtain, and seeing no less than three carriages draw up in a thundering manner, while Rufus was in the greatest frightthat they would not find room to turn, but must cut up his turf. Luckily the roller was in the way; or else those great coachmen, who felt themselves lowered by coming to a place of that size, would have had their revenge on the sod. The three carriages were, of course, that of Nowelhurst Hall in the van (no pun, if you please), with two noble footmen behind it, and Georgie in state inside. Then the “Kettledrum rattletrap,” as the hypercritical termed it, with Mr. Kettledrum driving, and striking statuesque attitudes for the benefit of the horses, and Mrs. Kettledrum inside, entreating him not to be rash. Last of all the Coo Nest equipage, a very neat affair, with Mr. Corklemore inside, wanting to look at his wife in the distance, and wondering what she was up to.“Oh, such shocking taste, I know,” cried Georgie, directly the lower order were supposed to be out of hearing, “horribly bad taste to come in such force; but what could we do, Dr. Hutton? There was my sister, there was my husband, there was my own silly self, all waiting, as for a bulletin, to know when baby would receive. And so, at the very first moment, by some strange coincidence, here we are all at once. And I do hope darling Rosa will allowsomeof us to come in.”“Jonah,” shouted Rufus Hutton, going away to the door very rudely (according to our ideas, but with Anglo–Indian instincts), “see that all those men have beer.”“Plaise, sir, there bainʼt none left. Brewerhainʼt a been since you drank.” As every one in the house heard this, dear Georgie had some revenge.However, babe Rufus received his ovation; and the whole thing went off well, as most things do in the counties of England, when plenty of good wine produces itself. Lunch was ready in no time; and, as all had long ago assented to Mrs. Corklemoreʼs most unselfish proposition that she, as privileged of pet Rosa, should just steal up–stairs for a minute, and then come down again—after giving notice, of course, that dear baby should have all his lace on—the pleasant overture of the host was accepted with little coyness—“Let us suppose that we have dined: because the roads are so very bad. Let us venture upon a light dessert. I have a few pears, even now in April, which I am not altogether afraid to submit to the exquisite taste of ladies,—‘Madame Milletʼ and ‘Josephine.’ May we think that we have dined?”As the company not only thought, but felt that they had made an uncommonly good dinner, this little proposal did pleasant violence to their sense of time. It would be so charmingly novel to think that they had dined at three oʼclock! Oh, people of brief memory! For Kettledrum Hall and Coo Nest loved nothing better than to dine at two; which, perhaps, is two hours too late, according to natureversusfashion.“For such an occasion as this,” said Rufus, under all the excitement of hospitality multipliedby paternity, “we will have a wine worth talking of. Clicquot, of course, and Paxarette for the ladies, if they prefer it; which perhaps they will do because it is sweeter than port. But I do hope that some will deign to taste my 1820, Presidentʼs unrefreshed.”Georgieʼs pretty lip came out, like the curl of an opening convolvulus; to think of offering her sweet wine, when choice port was forthcoming. There are few better judges of a good glass of port than Mrs. Nowell Corklemore.“Port, sir, for my wife, if you please. She likes a rather dry wine, sir, but with plenty of bouquet. There is no subject, I may say, in which she has—ha, haw—a more profound capacity.”“My dear Nowell, why you are perfectly calumnious. Thank you, no champagne. It spoils the taste of—your beautiful water. How dreadfully we were alarmed in Ringwood. We all but drove over a child. What a providential escape! I have scarcely yet recovered it. It has made me feel so nervous. What, Dr. Hutton, port for a lady, at this time of day, and not ordered medically!”Thereupon, of course Rufus prescribed it, till Georgie, being quite overcome by the colour, as the host himself decanted it, capitulated at last for “strictly half a glass.”After a little, the ladies withdrew, to see double perfections in the baby, and Mrs. Hutton, whoknew quite well what they had been doing, while she was discussing arrowroot, received them at first rather stiffly. But she had no chance with Georgie, who entered beautifully into the interesting room, and exclaimed with great vivacity—“Oh, dear Mrs. Hutton, as the little boys say, ‘here we are again.’ And so glad to get away, because your husband is so hospitable, and we thought of you all the time. I wanted so much to bring you a glass of that very exquisite—let me see, I think it must have been port, though I never know one wine from another—only I feared it might seem rude, if I had ventured to propose it. Of course Dr. Hutton knew best.”“Of course he didnʼt,” said Rosa, pettishly; “he never thought about it. Not that I would have taken it; oh dear no! Ladies cannot have too little wine, I think. It seems to make them so masculine.”“Well, dear, you know best. Very likely you heard us laughing. I assure you we were quite merry. We drank his health ‘three times threeʼ—donʼt they call it about a baby? And I was nearly proposingyours; only a gentleman ought to do that. Oh, it was so interesting, and the wine superb—at least, so said the gentlemen; I do wish they had brought you some, dear.”“I am very glad they did not. It is so very lowering to a fine sense of the ideal. I heard you laughing, or making some noise; only I was so absorbed in these lovely poems. ‘To my Babe’ isso very beautiful, so expressive, so elevating! I feel every single word of it. And this sonnet about the first cropper! And the stanzas to his little red shoes, terminating with ‘pinch his nose!’ You have had so many husbands, dear; you must know all about it.”“My darling child, how I feel for you! But, in all probability, he will come up when both decanters are empty; let him find you in a good temper, dear.”But this (which must have grown into a row, for Georgie had even more spirit than tact, and Rosa was equal to anything), all this evil was averted, and harmony restored by the popping in of nurse, who had not taken her half–crowns yet, but considered them desirable, and saw them now endangered.“Goldylocks, Goldylocks! Oh, bring him here, nurse. Skillikins, dillikins! oh, such a dove! And if nobody else cares for poor mamma, he has got so much better taste, hasnʼt he?”Goldylocks very soon proved that he had; and Georgie, having quite recovered her temper, admired him so ecstatically, that even his mother thought her judgment was really worth something.“Give him to me; I canʼt do without him. O you beautiful cherub! Kicklewick, I am sure you never saw any one like him.”“That indeed I never did, maʼam,” answered nurse Kicklewick, holding her arms out, as if shemust have him back again; “many a fine child I have seen, and done for to my humble ability, maʼam, since the time I were at Lord Eldergunʼs; and her ladyship said to me—ʼKicklewick,’ says she——”“Oh, his love of a nosey–posey! Oh, then his bootiful eyes, dick, dock! And then his golden hair, you know, so lovely, chaste, and rare, you know! Will um have a dancey–prancey?”And Georgie, forgetting all dignity, went through a little Polish dance, with the baby in her arms, to his very grave amazement, and the delight of all beholders.Although of the genuine Hutton strain, he was too young to crow yet, nevertheless he expressed approval in the most emphatic water–colours. Mrs. Huttonʼs heart was won for ever.“Oh, darling, I am so obliged to you. He has positively popped two bubbles. A thing he never did before! How can I ever repay you?”“By letting me come over and dance him twice a week. Oh, that I only had a boy!—because I do love boy–babies so.”“One would think that you must have had fifty, at least, before you were five–and–twenty! How on earth do you understand him so? I only know half what he means, though I try for hours and hours.”“Simply by sympathizing with him. I feel all his ideas come home to me, and I put them into shape.”“You are the loveliest creature I ever saw.” And, indeed, Georgie did look very well, for it was not all mere humbug now, though perhaps it was at first. “Oh, no wonder baby loves you. Kicklewick, isnʼt it wonderful?”“Indeed, then, and it would be, maʼam,” replied Mrs. Kicklewick, rapturously—for now she had four half–crowns in her pocket—“only for it beinʼ nature, maʼam. Nature it is as does it, as must be. Nothing else no good again it. And how I should like to beʼlong of you, maʼam, when your next time come, please God. Would you mind to accept of my card, maʼam, unpretenshome but in good families,—Sarah Kicklewick, late to Lord Eldergun, and have hopes to be again, maʼam, if any confidence in head–footman. ‘Mrs. Kicklewick,’ he says, and me upon the bridge, maʼam, with the wind a blowinʼ——”“To be sure,” said Georgie, “and the water flowing; how clearly you describe it!”But we must cut her short, even as she cut nurse Kicklewick. Enough that she won such influence over the kind but not too clever Rosa, that Rufus Huttonʼs plans and acts, so far as they were known to his wife, were known also to his wifeʼs best friend. But one thing there was which Mrs. Corklemore could not at all understand,—why should he be going to London so, and wanting to go again, in spite of domestic emergencies? She very soon satisfied herself that Rosa was really in the dark upon this point, and very indignant atbeing so. This indignation must be fostered and pointed to a practical end. Mrs. Kettledrum, of course, had been kept in the background all this time, and scarcely allowed to dandle the baby, for fear of impairing her sisterʼs triumph.“How wonderfully kind and thoughtful of you!” said Rosa, as Georgie came in again. “Have you really brought me a glass of wine? And no one else in the house to suppose that I ought to have any nourishment! How can I thank you, Mrs. Corklemore?”“No more ‘Mrs. Corklemore,’ if you please. I have begun to call you ‘Rosaʼ—it is such a pretty name—and you must call me ‘Georgie,’ darling. Every one does who loves me.”“Then I am sure all the world must. Dearest Georgie, how did you get it? I am sure I would not touch it, only for your sake.”“Oh, I did such a shameful thing. Such a liberty I never took before! I actually sent the servant to say, with Mrs. Corklemoreʼs compliments, that she felt the effect of the fright this morning, and would like another glass of port, but would not touch it if any of the gentlemen left the table even for a moment. And they actually sent me a dock–glass, in pleasantry, I suppose: but I am very glad they did.”“I will take some, if you take half, dear.”“Not a drop. My poor weak head is upset in a moment. But you really need it, dear; and I canso thoroughly feel for you, because the poor Count, when my Flore was born, waited on me with such devotion, day and night, hand and foot.”“And I am sure Mr. Corklemore must do the same. No husband could help adoring you.”“Oh, he is very good, ‘according to his lights,’ as they say. But I have known him let me cough three times without getting up for the jujubes. And once—but perhaps I ought not to tell you: it was so very bad.”“Oh, you may safely tell me, dear. I will never repeat it to any one.”“He actually allowed me to sneeze in the carriage without saying that I must have a new fur cloak, or even asking if I had a cold.”“Oh dear, is that all? I may sneeze six times in an hour, and my husband take no notice, but run out and leave the front door open, and prune his horrid little trees. And then he shouts for his patent top–dressing. He thinks far more of dressing them than he does of dressing me.”“And donʼt you know the reason? Donʼt cry, sweet child; donʼt cry. I have had so much experience. I understand men so thoroughly.”“Oh yes, I know the reason. I am cross to him sometimes. And of course I canʼt expect a man with a mind like his——”“You may expect any man to be as wise as Solomon, if you only know how to manage him. It is part of the law of nature.”“Then I am sure I donʼt know what that means: except that people must get married, and ought to love one another.”“The law of nature is this. Between a wife and a husband there never must be a secret, except when the lady keeps one. Now, your husband is, to some extent, a rather superior man——”“Oh yes, to the very greatest extent. No one of any perception can help perceiving that.”“Then he is quite sure to attempt it; to reserve himself, uponsomepoint, in an unsympathetic attitude. This is just what you must not allow. You have no idea how it grows upon them, and how soon it supplants affection, and makes a married man a bachelor.”“Oh, how dreadful! But I really do think, dear, that you must be wrong this once. My husband has never kept anything from me; anything, I mean, which I ought to know.”“Then he told you about that poor wild Polly? How very good and kind of him!”“Polly! What Polly? You donʼt mean to say——”“No, no, dear, nothing of that sort! Only the mare running away with him at night through the thickest part of the forest.”“My Polly that eats from my hand! Run away with Rufus!”“Yes, your Polly. A perfect miracle that both of them were not killed. But, of course, he must have told you.”Then, after sundry ejaculations, Rosa learned all about that matter, and was shocked first, and then thankful, and then hurt.“And now,” said Mrs. Corklemore, when the sense of wrong was paramount, “he has some secret, I am almost sure, about our sad affair at Nowelhurst. And I am sure, even if you were not his wife, dear, he need not conceal any matter of that sort from the daughter of Sir Cradock Nowellʼs old friend, Mr. Ralph Mohorn.”“I will tell you another thing,” answered Rosa, shaking all her pillows with the vehemence of her emotions, “whether he ought or not, he shall not do it, Georgie, darling. As sure as I am his lawful wife I will know every word of it before I sleep one wink. If not, he must take the consequences upon both his wife and child.”“Darling, I think you are quite right. Only donʼt tell me a word of it. It is such a dreadful matter, it would make me so unhappy——”“I will tell you every single word, just to prove to you, Georgie, that I have found the whole of it out.”After this laudable resolution, Rosa may be left to have it out with Rufus. It requires greater skill than ours to interfere between man and wife, even without thetertium quidof an astounding baby.✸✸✸✸✸The ides of March were come and gone, the balance of day and night was struck; and Sleep, the queen of half the world, had wheeled acrossthe equator her poppy–chintzed throne, or had got the stars to do it for her, because she was too lazy. Ha, that sentence is almost worthy of a great stump–orator. All I mean to say is, that All Foolsʼ Day was over. Blessed are the All Fools who begin the summer (which accounts for its being a mull with us); and blessed be the All Saints who begin the winter, and then hand it over to Beelzebub.“In April she tunes her bill.” Several nightingales were at it, for the spring was early, and right early were many nests conned, planned, and contracted for. Blessed birds, that never say, “What are your expectations, sir?” or “How much will you give your daughter?”—but feather their nests without waiting for an appointment in the Treasury. Nest–eggs, too, almost as sweet as those of addled patronage, were beginning to accumulate; and it took up half a birdʼs time to settle seniority and precedence among them, fettle them all with their heads the right way, and throw overboard the cracked ones. Perhaps, in this last particular, they exercised a discretion, not only unknown to, but undreamed of, by any British Government.It was nearly dark by this time, and two nightingales, across the valley, strove in Amoibæan song till the crinkles of the opening leaves fluttered with soft melody.“In poplar shadows Philomel complaineth of her brood,Her callow nestlings plunderʼd from her by the ploughman rude:From lonely branch all night she pours her weeping musicʼs flow,Repeats her tale, and fills the world with melody and woe.”Georg.iv. 511.Mr. Garnet heeded neither crisp young leaf nor bulbul; neither did his horse appear to be a judge of music. Man and horse were drooping, flagging, jaded and bespent; wanting only the two things which, according to some philosophers, are all that men want here below—a little food, and a deal of sleep.Bull Garnet was on his return from Winchester, whither he now went every week, for some reason known only to himself, or at least unknown to his family. It is a long and hilly ride from the west of Ytene to Winton, and to travel that distance twice in a day takes the gaiety out of a horse, and the salience out of a man. No wonder then that Mr. Garnet slouched his heavy shoulders, and let his great head droop; for at five–and–forty a powerful man jades sooner than does a slight one.Presently he began to drowse; for the stout grey gelding knew every step of the road, and would take uncommonly good care to avoid all circumambience: and of late the rider had never slept, only dozed, and dreamed, and started. Then he muttered to himself, as he often did in sleep, but never at home, until he had seen to the fastening of the door.“Tried it again—tried very hard and failed. Thought of Bob, at last moment. Bob to stand, and see me hang—and hate me, and go to the devil. No, I donʼt think he would hate me, though; he would say, ‘Father could not help it.’ And how nice that would be for me, to see Bob take my part. To see him with his turn–down collarsstanding proudly up, and saying, ‘Father was a bad man—according to your ideas—I am not going to dispute them—but for all that I love him, and so my children shall.’ If I could be sure that Bob would only think so, only make his mind up, his mind up, his mind up—for there is nothing like it—whoa, Grayling, what be looking at?—and take poor little Pearl with him, I would go to–morrow morning, and do it over at Lymington.”“Best do it to–night, govʼnor. No time like the praysent, and us knows arl about it.”A tall man had leaped from behind a tree, and seized Bull Garnetʼs bridle. The grey gelding reared and struck him; but he kept his hold, till the muzzle of a large revolver felt cold against his ear. Then Issachar Jupp fell back; he knew the man he had to deal with, how stern in his fury, how reckless, despite the better part of him. And Issachar was not prepared to leave his Loo an orphan.“No man robs me,” cried Mr. Garnet, in his most tremendous voice, “except at the cost of my life, and the risk of his. I have seven and sixpence about me; I will give it up to no man. Neither will I shoot any man, unless he tries to get it.”“Nubbody wants to rob you, govʼnor, only to have a little rattysination with you. Possible you know me now?”Bull Garnet fell back in his saddle. He would rather have met a dozen robbers. By the voice herecognised a man whom he had once well known, and had good cause to know;—through his outrage upon whom, he had left the northern counties; the man whom he had stricken headlong down a coal–shaft, as the leader of rebellion, the night after Pearl was christened, nigh twenty years ago.“Yes, I know you; Jupp your name is. Small credit it is to know you.”“And smarler still to know you, Bull Garnet. Try your pistol thing, if you like. You must have rare stommick, I should think, to be up for another murder.”“Issachar, I am sorry for you. Do you call it a murder to keep such a fellow as you off?”“No, I dunna carl that a murder, because I be arl alive. But I do carl a murder what you did to young Clayton Nowell.”“Fool, what do you know of it? Let go my horse, I say. You know pretty well whatIam.”“I know you haʼnʼt much patience, govʼnor, and be arlways in a hurry.”Jupp hesitated, but would not be beaten, whatever might be the end of it.“I am in no hurry now, Jupp; I will listen to all you have to say. But not with your hand on my bridle.”“There goeth free then. Arl knows you be no liar.”“I am glad you remember that, Issachar. Hold the horse, while I get off. Now throw the bridle over that branch, and I will sit down here. Comehere into the moonlight, man; and look me in the face. Here is the pistol for you, if you bear me any revenge.”Scarcely knowing what he did, because he had no time to think, Jupp obeyed Bull Garnetʼs orders even to the last—for he took the pistol in his hand, and tried to look straight at his adversary; but his eyes would not co–operate. Then he laid the pistol on the bank; but so that he could reach it.“Issachar Jupp,” said Mr. Garnet, looking at him steadily, and speaking very quietly; “have you any children?”“Only one—a leetle gal, but an oncommon good un.”“How old is she?”“Five year old, plase God, come next Valentineʼs Day.”“Now, when she grows up, and is pure and good, would you like to have her heart broken?”“Iʼd break any coveʼs head as doed it.”“But supposing she were betrayed and ruined, made a plaything, and then thrown away—what would you do then?”“God Almighty knows, man. I canʼt abide to think of it.”“And if the—the man who did it, was the grandson of the man who had ruined your own mother, lied before God in the church to her, and then left her to go to the workhouse, with you his outcast bastard—while he rolled in gold, and laughed at her—what would you do then, Jupp?”“By the God that made me, Iʼd have my revenge, if I went to hell for it.”“I have said enough. Do exactly as you please. Me you cannot help or harm. Death is all I long for—only for my children.”Still he looked at Issachar, but now without a thought of him; only as a man looks out upon the sea or sky, expecting no return. And Issachar Jupp, so dense and pig–headed—surly and burly, and weasel–eyed—in a word, retrospectively British—gazing at Bull Garnet then, got some inkling of an anguish such as he who lives to feel—far better were it for that man that he had never been born.CHAPTER VIII.To bar the entail of crime. A bitter and abortive task; at least, in this vindictive world, where Christians dwell more on Mount Sinai than on the mount that did not quake and burn with fire.And yet for this, and little else, still clung to fair fame and life the man who rather would have lain beneath the quick–lime of Newgate. It was not for the empty part, the reputation, the position, the respect of those who prove the etymon of the word by truly looking backward—not for these alone, nor mainly, did Bull Garnet bear the anguish now from month to month more bitter, deeper, less concealable. He strove with himself, and checked himself, and bit his tongue, and jerked back his heart, and nursed that shattered lie, his life, if so might be that Pearl and Bob should start anew in another land, with a fair career before them. Not that he cared, more than he could help, whether they might be rich or poor; only that he would like them to have the chance of choosing.This chance had not been fair for him, forsaken as he was, and outcast; banned by all the laws of men, because his mother had been trustful, and his father treacherous. Yet against all chances, he, by his own rightful power, deeply hating and (which was worse) conscientiously despising every social prejudice, made his way among smaller men, taught himself by day and night, formed his own strong character, with the hatred of tyranny for its base, and tyranny of his own for its apex; and finally gained success in the world, and large views of Christianity. And in all of this he was sincere!It was a vile and bitter wrong to which he owed his birth. Sir Cradock Nowell, the father of the present baronet, had fallen in love of some sort with a comely Yorkshire maiden, whose motherʼs farm adjoined the moors, whereon the shooting quarters were. Then, in that period of mean license, when fashionable servility was wriggling, like a cellar–slug, in the slime–track of low princes, Sir Cradock Nowell did what few of his roystering friends would have thought of—unfashionable Tarquinian, he committed a quiet bigamy. He had lived apart from Lady Nowell, even before her second confinement; because he could not get on with her. So Miss Garnet went with him to the quiet altar of a little Yorkshire church, and fancied she was Lady Nowell; only that must be a secret, “because they had not the kingʼs consent, for he was not in a state to give it.”When she learned her niddering wrong, and thedespite to her unborn child, she cast her curse upon the race, not with loud rant, but long scorn, and went from her widowed mother, to a cold and unknown place.So soon as Bull Garnet was old enough to know right from wrong, and to see how much more of the latter had fallen to his share, two courses lay before him. Two, I mean, were possible to a strong and upright nature; to a false and weak one fifty would have offered, and a little of each been taken. Conscious as he was of spirit, energy, and decision, he might apply them all to very ungenial purposes, to sarcasm, contemptuousness, and general misanthropy. Or else he might take a larger view, pity the poor old–fashioned prigs who despise a man for his fatherʼs fault, and generously adapt himself to the broadest Christianity.The latter course was the one he chose; in solid earnest, too, because it suited his nature. And so perhaps we had better say that he chose no course at all, but had the wiser one forced upon him. Yet the old Adam of damnable temper too often would rush out of Paradise, and prove in strong language that he would not be put off together with his works. Exeter Hall would have owned him, in spite of all his backslidings, as a very “far–advanced Christian;” because he was so “evangelical.” And yet he never dealt in cant, nor distributed idyllic tracts, Sabbatarian pastorals, where godly Thomas meets drunken John, and convertshim to the dilutedvappaof an unfermented Sunday.And now this man, whom all who knew him either loved or hated, felt the troubles closing around him, and saw that the end was coming. He had kept his own sense of justice down, while it jerked (like a thistle on springs) in his heart; he had worn himself out with thinking for ever what would become of his children, whom he had wronged more heavily than his own bad father had wronged him—only the difference was that he loved them; and most of all he had let a poor fellow, whom he liked and esteemed most truly, bear all the brunt, all the misery, all the despair of fratricide.Now all he asked for, all he prayed for—and, indeed, he prayed more than ever now, and with deeper feeling; though many would have feared to do it—now his utmost hope was to win six months of life. In that time all might be arranged for his childrenʼs interest; his purchase of those five hundred acres from the Crown Commissioners—all good land, near the Romsey–road, but too full of juice—would soon be so completed that he could sell again at treble the price he gave, so well had he reclaimed the land, while equitably his; and then Bob should have half, and Pearl take half (because she had been so injured), and, starting with the proceeds of all his earthly substance before it should escheat, be happy in America, and think fondly of dead father.This was all he lived for now. It may seem a wild programme; but, practical as he was in business, and not to be wronged of a halfpenny, Bull Garnet was vague and sentimental when he “took on” about his children. Furious if they were wronged, loving them as the cow did (who, without a horn to her head, pounded dead the leopard), ready to take most liberal views of everything beyond them, yet keeping ever to his eyes that parental lens, whose focus is so very short, and therefore, by the optic laws, its magnifying power and aberration glorious.Now three foes were closing round him; all of whom, by different process, and from different premises, had arrived at the one conclusion. The three were, as he knew too well, Rufus Hutton, Issachar Jupp, and Mr. Chope, of Southampton. Of the first he held undue contempt (not knowing all his evidence); the second he had for the time disarmed, by an appealad hominem; the third was the most to be feared, the most awful, because so crafty, keen, and deep, so utterly impenetrable.Mr. Chope, the partner and “brains” of Cole, the coroner, was absent upon a lawyerʼs holiday at the time of the inquest. When he came home, and heard all about it, and saw the place, and put questions, he scarcely knew what to think. Only upon one point he was certain—the verdict had been wrong. Either Cradock Nowell had shot his brother purposely, or some one else had done so. To Chopeʼs clear intuition, and thoroughknowledge of fire–arms—for his one relaxation was shooting—it was plain as possible that there had been no accident. To the people who told him about the cartridge “balling,” he expressed no opinion; but to himself he said, “Pooh! I have seen Cradock Nowell shoot. He always knew all he was doing. He never would put agreencartridge into his gun for a woodcock. And the others very seldom ball. And even if he had a green cartridge, look at the chances against it. I would lay my life Clayton Nowell was shot on purpose.”Then, of course, Mr. Chope set to, not only with hope of reward, but to gratify his own instinct, at the puzzle and wards of the question. If he had known the neighbourhood well, and all the local politics, he must have arrived at due conclusion long before he did. But a heavy piece of conveyancing came into the office of Cole, Chope, and Co., and, being far more lucrative than amateur speculations, robbed them of their attention. But now that stubborn piece was done with, and Mr. Chope again at leisure to pursue his quest. Twice or thrice every week he was seen, walking in his deliberate way, as if every step were paid for, through the village of Nowelhurst, and among the haunts of the woodcutters. He carried his great head downwards, as a bloodhound on the track does, but raised it, and met with a soft sweet smile all who cared to look at him. In his hand he bore a fishing–rod, and round his hat sometrout–flies; and often he entered the village inn, and had bread and cheese in the taproom, though invited into the parlour. Although his boots were soaked and soiled as if he had been wading, and the landing–net, slung across his back, had evidently been dripping, he opened to none his fishing creel, neither had any trout fried, but spoke in a desponding manner of the shyness of the fish, and the brightness of the water, and vowed every time that his patience was now at last exhausted. As none could fish in that neighbourhood without asking Sir Cradockʼs permission, or trespassing against him, and as the old baronet was most duly tenacious of all his sporting rights, everybody wondered what Mark Stote was about to allow a mere far–comer to carry on so in Nowelhurst water. But Mark Stote knew a great deal better what was up than they did.Four or five times now, Bull Garnet, riding on his rounds of business, had met Simon Chope, and bowed politely to him. On the first occasion, Mr. Chope, knowing very little of Garnet, and failing to comprehend him (as we fail, at first sight, with all antipodes), lost his slow sequacious art, because he over–riddled it. All very cunning men do this; even my Lord Bacon, but never our brother Shakespeare.But Mr. Garnet read him truly, and his purpose also, by the aid of his own consciousness; and a thrill of deep, cold fear went through that hot and stormy heart. Nevertheless, he met the case in hisusual manner, and puzzled Mr. Chope on the third or fourth encounter by inviting him to dinner. The lawyer found some ready plea for declining this invitation; sleuth and cold–blooded as he was, he could not accept hospitality to sift his host for murder. Of course Mr. Garnet had foreseen the refusal of this overture; but it added to his general alarm, even more than it contributed to his momentary relief. Clearly enough he knew, or felt, that now he was running a race against time; and if he could only win that race, and give the prize to his children, how happily would he yield himself to his only comfort—death. With his strong religious views—right or wrong, who shall dare to say? for the matter is not of reason—he doubted Godʼs great mercy to him in another world no more than he doubted his own great love to his own begotten.And sad it was, enough to move the tears of any Stoic, to behold Bull Garnet now sitting with his children. Instead of being shy and distant (as for a while he had been, when the crime was new upon him) he would watch them, word by word, smile by smile, or tear for tear, as if he never could have enough of the little that was left to him. They had begun to talk again carelessly in his presence, as the manner of the young is. Bob had found that the vague, dark cloud, of whose origin he knew nothing, was lifted a little, and lightened; and Pearl, who knew all about it, was trying to slip from beneath its shadow, withthe self–preservation of youth, and into the long–obscured but native sunlight of a daughterʼs love. And all the while their father, the man of force and violence, would look from one to the other of them, perceiving, with a curious smile, little traits of himself; often amused at, and blessing them for, their very sage inexperience; thinking to show how both were wrong, yet longing not to do it. And then he would begin to wonder which of them he loved more deeply. Pearl had gained upon him so, by the patience of her wrong, by coming to the hearth for shelter from the storms of outer love.In all races against time, luck, itself the child of time, is apt to govern the result more than highest skill may. So far, most of the luck had been in Mr. Garnetʼs favour; the approach of unlucky Cradock that day, the distraction of his mind—the hurried and jostled aim which even misled himself; the distance of John Rosedew; the blundering and timid coroner and the soft–hearted jury; even the state of the weather; and since that time the perversion and weakness of the fatherʼs mind: all these had prevented that close inquiry which must have led to either his conviction or confession. For, of course, he would have confessed at once, come what might, if an innocent man had been apprehended for his guilt.Only in one important matter—so far at least as he knew yet, not having heard of Jemʼs discovery, and Mr. Huttonʼs advance upon it—had fortunebeen against him; that one was the crashing of his locked cupboard, and the exposure of the broken gun–case to Rufus Huttonʼs eyes. And now it was an adverse fate which brought Mr. Chope upon the stage, and yet it was a kindly one which kept him apart from Hutton. For Simon Chope and Rufus Hutton disliked one another heartily; as the old repulsion is between cold blood and hot blood.As it happened, Mr. Chope was Mrs. Corklemoreʼs pet lawyer: he had been employed to see that she was defrauded of no adequate rights uxorial upon her second marriage. And uncommonly good care he took to secure the lionʼs share for her. Indeed, had it been possible for him to fall in love at all with anything but money, that foolish lapse would have been his, at the very first sight of Georgie. Sweetly innocent and good, she did so sympathize with “to wit, whereas, and notwithstanding;” she entered with such gush of heart into the bitter necessity of making many folios, and charging for every one of them, which the depravity of human nature has forced on a class whose native bias rather tends to poetry; she felt so acutely (when all was made plain to her, and Mr. Corklemore paid the bill) how very very wrong it was not to have implicit confidence—”in being cheated,” under her breath, and that shaft was Cupidʼs to Mr. Chope—in a word, he was so smitten, that he doubled all his charges, and insertedan especial power of appointment, for (Mr. Corklemore having the gout) he looked on her as his reversion.“Hang it,” he said, for his extreme idea of final punishment was legal; “hang it, if I married that woman, our son would be Lord Chancellor. I never saw such a liar.”Now it was almost certain that, under Sir Cradock Nowellʼs settlement upon marriage, an entail had been created. The lawyers, who do as they like in such matters, and live in a cloud of their own breath, are sure to provide for continuance, and the bills of their grandchildren.“Alas, how sad!” thought Georgie, as she lay back in the Nowelhurst carriage on her way to Cole, Chope, and Co.; “how very sad if it should be so. Then there will be no cure for it, but to get up the evidence, meet the dreadful publicity, and get the poor fellow convicted. And they say he is so good–looking! Perhaps I hate ugly people so much, because I am so pretty. Oh, how I wish Mr. Corklemore walked a little more like a gentleman. But as a sacred duty to my innocent darling, I must leave no stone unturned.”Fully convinced of her pure integrity, Georgie drove up in state and style to the office of Cole, Chope, and Co., somewhere in Southampton. She would make no secret of it, but go in Sir Cradock Nowellʼs carriage, and then evil–minded persons could not misinterpret her. Mr. Chope alone could tell her, as she had said to “Uncle Cradock” (witha faint hope that he might let slip something), what really was the nature and effect of her own marriage–settlement. Things of that sort were so far beyond her, so distasteful to her; sufficient for the day was the evil thereof; she could sympathize with almost any one, but really not with a person who looked forward to any disposal of property, unless it became, for the sake of the little ones, a matter of strict duty; and even then it must cause a heart–pang—oh, such a bitter heart–pang!“Coleʼs brains” was not the man to make himself too common. He always required digging out, like a fossil, from three or four muralsepta. Being disinterred at last from the innermost room, after winks, and nods, and quiet knocks innumerable, he came out with both hands over his eyes, because the light was too much for him, he had been so hard at work.And the first thing he always expressed was surprise, even though he had made the appointment. Mr. Simon Chope, attorney and solicitor, was now about five–and–thirty years old, a square–built man, just growing stout, with an enormous head, and a frizzle of hair which made it look still larger. There was a depth of gravity in his paper–white countenance—slightly marked with small–pox—a power of not laughing, such as we seldom see, except in a man of great humour, who says odd things, but rarely smiles till every one else is laughing. But if Chope were gifted, as he may have been, with a racy vein of comedy, nobody everknew it. He was not accustomed to make a joke gratis, neither to laugh upon similar terms at the jokes of other people. Tremendous gravity, quiet movements, very clear perception, most judicious reticence—these had been his characteristics since he started in life as an office–boy, and these would abide with him until he got everything he wanted; if any man ever does that.With many a bow and smile, expressing surprise, delight, and deference, Mr. Chope conducted to a special room that lady in whom he felt an interest transcending contingent remainder. Mrs. Corklemore swam to her place with that ease of movement which was one of her chief fascinations, and fixed her large grey eyes on the lawyer with the sweetest expression of innocence.“I fear, Mr. Chope—oh, where is my husband? he promised to meet me here—I fear that I must give you, oh, so much trouble again. But you exerted yourself so very kindly on my behalf about eighteen months ago, that I cannot bear to consult any other gentleman, even in the smallest matter.”“My services, such as they are, shall ever be at the entire disposal of Madame la Comtesse.”Mr. Chope would always address her so; “a countess once, a countess for ever,” was his view of the subject. Moreover, it ignored Mr. Corklemore, whom he hated as his supplanter; and, best reason of all, the lady evidently liked it.“You are so very kind, I felt sure that you would say so. But in this case, the business israther Mr. Corklemoreʼs than my own. But he has left it entirely to me, having greater confidence, perhaps, in my apprehension.”She knew, of course, that so to disparage her husband, by implication, was not in the very best taste; but she felt that Mr. Chope would be pleased, as she quite understood his sentiments.“And not without excellent reason,” answered the lawyer, softly; “if any lady would be an ornament to our profession, it is Madame la Comtesse.”“Oh no, Mr. Chope, oh no! I am so very simple. And I never should have the heart to do the things you are compelled to do. But to return: this little matter, in which I hope for your assistance, is a trifling exchange of mixed land with Sir Cradock Nowell.”“Ah, to be sure!” said Chope, feeling slightly disappointed, for he had some idea that the question would be more lucrative; “if you will give me particulars, it shall have our best attention.”“I think I have heard,” said Georgie, knowing thoroughly all about it, “that there is some mode of proceeding, under some Act of Parliament, which lightens, perhaps, to some extent, the legal difficulties—and, oh yes, the expenses.”Mrs. Corklemore knew how Mr. Chope had drawn her a very long bill—upon his imagination.“Oh, of course,” replied Mr. Chope, smitten yet more deeply with the legal knowledge, and full of the future Lord Chancellor; “there is a roughand ready way of dealing with almost anything. What they call a statutory proceeding, shockingly careless and haphazard, and most ungermainely thrust into an Enclosure Act. But we never permit any clients of ours to imperil their interests so, for the sake, perhaps, of half a sovereign. There is such a deal of quackery in all those dabblesome interferences with ancient institutions. For security, for comfort of mind, for scientific investigation, there is nothing like the exhaustive process of a good common law conveyance. Look at a proper abstract of title! A charming thing to contemplate; and still more charming, if possible, the requisitions upon it, when prepared by eminent counsel. But the tendency of the present age is to slur and cut short everything. Melancholy, most melancholy!”“Especially for the legal gentlemen, I suppose, Mr. Chope?”“Yes. It does hurt our feelings so to see all the grand safeguards, invented by men of consummate ability, swept away like old rubbish. I even heard of a case last week, where a piece of land, sold for 900l., actually cost the purchaser only 50l. for conveyance!”“Oh, how disgraceful!” cried Georgie, so nicely, that Chope detected no irony: “and now, I presume, if we proceed in the ordinary way, we must deliver and receive what you call ‘abstracts of title.’”“Quite so, quite so, whichever way you proceed.It is a most indispensable step. It will be my duty and privilege to deduce Mr. Corklemoreʼs title; and Mr. Brockwoodʼs, I presume, to show Sir Cradock Nowellʼs. All may be completed in six months’ time, if both sides act with energy. If you will favour me with the description of parcels, I will write at once to Mr. Brockwood; or, indeed, I shall see him to–night. He will be at the Masonsʼ dinner.”For a moment Mrs. Corklemore was taken quite aback. It is needless to say that no interchange of land had ever been dreamed of, except by herself, as a possible method of learning “how the land lay;” and indeed there was no intermixed land at all, as Mr. Chope strongly suspected. Neither was he, for the matter of that, likely to meet Mr. Brockwood; but when it becomes aprofessionalquestion, a man can mostly out–lie a woman, because he has more experience.“Be guided by me, if you please,” said Georgie, smiling enough to misguide any one; “we must not be premature, lest we seem too anxious about the bargain. And, I am sure, we have done our very best to be perfectly fair with Sir Cradock. Only we trust you, of course, to be sure that he has reposing, composing—oh, how stupid I am! I mean disposing power; that there is no awkward entail.”Here she looked so preternaturally simple, which she would never have done but for her previous flutter, that Simon Chope in a moment knew exactlywhat her game was. Nevertheless, he answered nicely in that tantalizing way which often makes a woman flash forth.“We shall see, no doubt, ere long. Of course Sir Cradock would not propose it, unless he had full power. Is it quite certain that poor Clayton Nowell left no legitimate offspring?”Oh, what a horrible suggestion! Such a thing would quite upset every scheme. Georgie had never thought of it. And yet it might even be so. There was something in the tone of Mr. Chopeʼs whisper, which convinced her that he had heard something.And only think; young men are so little looked after at Oxford, that they can get married very easily, without anything being heard of it. At least, so thought Mrs. Corklemore. And then oh, if poor Clayton had left a child, how his grandfather would idolize him! Sir Cradock would slip from her hands altogether; and scarcely any hope would remain of diverting the succession. Even if the child was a daughter, probably she would inherit, and could not yet have committed felony. Oh, what a fearful blow it would be!All this passed through that rapid mind in about half a second, during which time, however, the thinker could not help looking nonplussed. Mr. Chope of course perceived it, and found himself more and more wide–awake.“Well, what a strange idea!” she exclaimed, with unfeigned surprise. “There has not beenthe slightest suggestion of anything of the kind. And indeed I have lately heard what surprised me very much, that he had formed an—an improper attachment in a quarter very near home.”“Indeed! Do you know to whom?” It was Mr. Chope who was trying now to appear indifferent.“Yes. I was told. But it does not become me to repeat such stories.”“It not only becomes you in this case, but it is your absolute duty, and—and your true interest.”“Why, you quite frighten me, Mr. Chope. Your manner is so strange.”“It would grieve me deeply indeed to alarm Madame la Comtesse,” answered the lawyer, trying in vain to resume his airiness; “but I cannot do justice to any one who does not fully confide in me. In a case like this, especially, such interests are concerned, the title is so—so complicated, that purely as a matter of business we must be advised about everything.”“Well, I see no reason why I should not tell you. It cannot be of any importance. Poor Clayton Nowell had fallen in love with a girl very far beneath him—the daughter, I think she was, of a Mr. Garnet.”“Oh, I think I had heard a report of that sort”—he had never heard, but suspected it—”it can, of course, signify nothing, if the matter went no further; nevertheless, I thank you for your gratifying confidence. I apologize if I alarmedyou; there is nothing alarming at all in it. I was thinking of something very different.” This was utterly false; but it diverted her from the subject.“Oh, yes, I see. Of something, you mean, which might have caused a disagreement between the unfortunate brothers. Now tell me your opinion—in the strictest confidence, of course—as to that awful occurrence. Do you think—oh, I hope not——”“I was far away at the time, and can form no conclusion. But I know that my partner, Mr. Cole, the coroner, was too sadly convinced,—oh, I beg your pardon, I forgot for the moment that Madame la Comtesse——”“Pray forget my relationship, or rather consider it as a reason; oh, I would rather know the sad, sad truth. It is the suspense, oh the cruel suspense. What was Mr. Coleʼs conclusion?”“That if Cradock Nowell were put on his trial, he would not find a jury in England but must convict him.”“Oh, how inexpressibly shocking! Excuse me, may I ask for a glass of water? Oh, thank you, thank you. No wine, if you please. I must hurry away quite rudely. The fresh air will revive me. I cannot conclude my instructions to–day. How could I think of such little matters? Please to do nothing until you hear from me. Yes, I hear the carriage. I told Giles to allow me ten minutes only, unless Mr. Corklemore came. You see how thoroughly well I know the value of your time.We feel it so acutely; but I must not presume; no further, if you please!”Having thus appraised Mr. Chope, and apprised him of his distance, from a social point of view, Georgie gave him a smile which disarmed him, at least for the moment. But he was not the lawyer, or the man, to concede her the last word.“We lawyers never presume, madam, any more than we assume. We must have everything proved.”“Except your particulars of account, which you leave to prove themselves.”“Ha, ha! You are too clever for the whole profession. We can only prove our inferiority.”He stood, with his great bushy head uncovered, looking after the grand apparatus, and three boys sitting behind it; and then he went sadly back, and said, “Our son might have been Lord Chancellor. But I beat her this time in lying.”

CHAPTER VII.Dr. Huttonʼs baby was getting better, and Rosa, who had been, as the nurse said, “losing ground so sadly, poor dear,” was beginning to pick up her crumbs again. Therefore Rufus, who (in common with Rosa and all the rest of the household) regarded that baby as the noblest and grandest sublimation of humanity, if not as the final cause of this little worldʼs existence, was beginning now to make up his mind that he really might go to London that week, without being (as his wife declared he must be, if he even thought about it) cruel, inhuman, unfatherly, utterly void of all sense of duty, not to say common affection. And she knew quite well what he wanted. All he wanted was to go and see Mr. Riversʼs peach–trees in blossom, as if that was such a sight as her baby. Yes,herbaby, maʼs own darling, a dove of a dumpling dillikins; to think that his own pa should prefer nasty little trees without a hair on them,and that didnʼt even know what bo meant, to the most elegant love of a goldylocks that ever was, was, was!Master Goldylocks had received, from another quarter, a less classical, and less pleasing, but perhaps (from an objective point of view) a more truthful and unprismatic description of the hair it pleased God to give him.“Governorʼs carrots, and no mistake,” cried Mrs. OʼGaghan the moment she saw him, which, of course, was upon his first public appearance—catch Biddy out of the way when any baby, of any father or mother she had ever heard of, was submitted even to the most privileged inspection—”knew he must have ‘em, of course. You niver can conquer that, maʼam, if your own hair was like a sloe, and you tuk me black briony arl the time. Hould him dacent, will ye, nurse? Not slot his head down that fashion! He donʼt want more blood in his hair, child. Oh yes, I can see, maʼam! Niver knowed more nor two wi’ that red–hot poker colour, colour of the red snuff they calls ‘Irish blackguard’ in the top of a hot shovel; and one of the two were Mr. Hutton, maʼam, saving your presence to spake of it; and the other were of Tim Brady, as were hung at the crossroads, near Clonmel, for cutting the throat of his grandmother.”“Oh, Mary, take her away. What a horrid woman!”Here Mrs. OʼGaghan was marched away, amiduniversal indignation, which she could not at all understand. But she long had borne against Rufus Hutton the bitterest of all bitter spites (such as only an Irishwoman can bear), for the exposure of her own great mistake, and the miserable result which (as she fully believed) had sprung from all his meddling. And yet she was a “good–hearted” woman. But a good heart is only the wad upon powder, when a violent will is behind it.Not to attach undue importance to Biddyʼs prepossessions, yet to give every facility for a verdict upon the question, I am bound to state what an old–young lady, growing every month more satirical, because nobody would have her, yet quite unconscious that the one drawback was the main cause of the other (for all men hate sarcastic women),—how tersely she expressed herself.“Ridiculous likeness! Was he born with two cheroots in his mouth?”But a lady, who would marry for ever because she was so soft and nice, came to see darling baby again, the moment she was quite assured that he was equal to the interview, having denied herself from day to day, although it had affected her appetite, and was telling upon her spirits. Neither would she come alone—that would be too selfish: she must make a gala day of it, and gratify her relatives. So Mrs. Hutton had the rapture of sitting behind her bedroom curtain, and seeing no less than three carriages draw up in a thundering manner, while Rufus was in the greatest frightthat they would not find room to turn, but must cut up his turf. Luckily the roller was in the way; or else those great coachmen, who felt themselves lowered by coming to a place of that size, would have had their revenge on the sod. The three carriages were, of course, that of Nowelhurst Hall in the van (no pun, if you please), with two noble footmen behind it, and Georgie in state inside. Then the “Kettledrum rattletrap,” as the hypercritical termed it, with Mr. Kettledrum driving, and striking statuesque attitudes for the benefit of the horses, and Mrs. Kettledrum inside, entreating him not to be rash. Last of all the Coo Nest equipage, a very neat affair, with Mr. Corklemore inside, wanting to look at his wife in the distance, and wondering what she was up to.“Oh, such shocking taste, I know,” cried Georgie, directly the lower order were supposed to be out of hearing, “horribly bad taste to come in such force; but what could we do, Dr. Hutton? There was my sister, there was my husband, there was my own silly self, all waiting, as for a bulletin, to know when baby would receive. And so, at the very first moment, by some strange coincidence, here we are all at once. And I do hope darling Rosa will allowsomeof us to come in.”“Jonah,” shouted Rufus Hutton, going away to the door very rudely (according to our ideas, but with Anglo–Indian instincts), “see that all those men have beer.”“Plaise, sir, there bainʼt none left. Brewerhainʼt a been since you drank.” As every one in the house heard this, dear Georgie had some revenge.However, babe Rufus received his ovation; and the whole thing went off well, as most things do in the counties of England, when plenty of good wine produces itself. Lunch was ready in no time; and, as all had long ago assented to Mrs. Corklemoreʼs most unselfish proposition that she, as privileged of pet Rosa, should just steal up–stairs for a minute, and then come down again—after giving notice, of course, that dear baby should have all his lace on—the pleasant overture of the host was accepted with little coyness—“Let us suppose that we have dined: because the roads are so very bad. Let us venture upon a light dessert. I have a few pears, even now in April, which I am not altogether afraid to submit to the exquisite taste of ladies,—‘Madame Milletʼ and ‘Josephine.’ May we think that we have dined?”As the company not only thought, but felt that they had made an uncommonly good dinner, this little proposal did pleasant violence to their sense of time. It would be so charmingly novel to think that they had dined at three oʼclock! Oh, people of brief memory! For Kettledrum Hall and Coo Nest loved nothing better than to dine at two; which, perhaps, is two hours too late, according to natureversusfashion.“For such an occasion as this,” said Rufus, under all the excitement of hospitality multipliedby paternity, “we will have a wine worth talking of. Clicquot, of course, and Paxarette for the ladies, if they prefer it; which perhaps they will do because it is sweeter than port. But I do hope that some will deign to taste my 1820, Presidentʼs unrefreshed.”Georgieʼs pretty lip came out, like the curl of an opening convolvulus; to think of offering her sweet wine, when choice port was forthcoming. There are few better judges of a good glass of port than Mrs. Nowell Corklemore.“Port, sir, for my wife, if you please. She likes a rather dry wine, sir, but with plenty of bouquet. There is no subject, I may say, in which she has—ha, haw—a more profound capacity.”“My dear Nowell, why you are perfectly calumnious. Thank you, no champagne. It spoils the taste of—your beautiful water. How dreadfully we were alarmed in Ringwood. We all but drove over a child. What a providential escape! I have scarcely yet recovered it. It has made me feel so nervous. What, Dr. Hutton, port for a lady, at this time of day, and not ordered medically!”Thereupon, of course Rufus prescribed it, till Georgie, being quite overcome by the colour, as the host himself decanted it, capitulated at last for “strictly half a glass.”After a little, the ladies withdrew, to see double perfections in the baby, and Mrs. Hutton, whoknew quite well what they had been doing, while she was discussing arrowroot, received them at first rather stiffly. But she had no chance with Georgie, who entered beautifully into the interesting room, and exclaimed with great vivacity—“Oh, dear Mrs. Hutton, as the little boys say, ‘here we are again.’ And so glad to get away, because your husband is so hospitable, and we thought of you all the time. I wanted so much to bring you a glass of that very exquisite—let me see, I think it must have been port, though I never know one wine from another—only I feared it might seem rude, if I had ventured to propose it. Of course Dr. Hutton knew best.”“Of course he didnʼt,” said Rosa, pettishly; “he never thought about it. Not that I would have taken it; oh dear no! Ladies cannot have too little wine, I think. It seems to make them so masculine.”“Well, dear, you know best. Very likely you heard us laughing. I assure you we were quite merry. We drank his health ‘three times threeʼ—donʼt they call it about a baby? And I was nearly proposingyours; only a gentleman ought to do that. Oh, it was so interesting, and the wine superb—at least, so said the gentlemen; I do wish they had brought you some, dear.”“I am very glad they did not. It is so very lowering to a fine sense of the ideal. I heard you laughing, or making some noise; only I was so absorbed in these lovely poems. ‘To my Babe’ isso very beautiful, so expressive, so elevating! I feel every single word of it. And this sonnet about the first cropper! And the stanzas to his little red shoes, terminating with ‘pinch his nose!’ You have had so many husbands, dear; you must know all about it.”“My darling child, how I feel for you! But, in all probability, he will come up when both decanters are empty; let him find you in a good temper, dear.”But this (which must have grown into a row, for Georgie had even more spirit than tact, and Rosa was equal to anything), all this evil was averted, and harmony restored by the popping in of nurse, who had not taken her half–crowns yet, but considered them desirable, and saw them now endangered.“Goldylocks, Goldylocks! Oh, bring him here, nurse. Skillikins, dillikins! oh, such a dove! And if nobody else cares for poor mamma, he has got so much better taste, hasnʼt he?”Goldylocks very soon proved that he had; and Georgie, having quite recovered her temper, admired him so ecstatically, that even his mother thought her judgment was really worth something.“Give him to me; I canʼt do without him. O you beautiful cherub! Kicklewick, I am sure you never saw any one like him.”“That indeed I never did, maʼam,” answered nurse Kicklewick, holding her arms out, as if shemust have him back again; “many a fine child I have seen, and done for to my humble ability, maʼam, since the time I were at Lord Eldergunʼs; and her ladyship said to me—ʼKicklewick,’ says she——”“Oh, his love of a nosey–posey! Oh, then his bootiful eyes, dick, dock! And then his golden hair, you know, so lovely, chaste, and rare, you know! Will um have a dancey–prancey?”And Georgie, forgetting all dignity, went through a little Polish dance, with the baby in her arms, to his very grave amazement, and the delight of all beholders.Although of the genuine Hutton strain, he was too young to crow yet, nevertheless he expressed approval in the most emphatic water–colours. Mrs. Huttonʼs heart was won for ever.“Oh, darling, I am so obliged to you. He has positively popped two bubbles. A thing he never did before! How can I ever repay you?”“By letting me come over and dance him twice a week. Oh, that I only had a boy!—because I do love boy–babies so.”“One would think that you must have had fifty, at least, before you were five–and–twenty! How on earth do you understand him so? I only know half what he means, though I try for hours and hours.”“Simply by sympathizing with him. I feel all his ideas come home to me, and I put them into shape.”“You are the loveliest creature I ever saw.” And, indeed, Georgie did look very well, for it was not all mere humbug now, though perhaps it was at first. “Oh, no wonder baby loves you. Kicklewick, isnʼt it wonderful?”“Indeed, then, and it would be, maʼam,” replied Mrs. Kicklewick, rapturously—for now she had four half–crowns in her pocket—“only for it beinʼ nature, maʼam. Nature it is as does it, as must be. Nothing else no good again it. And how I should like to beʼlong of you, maʼam, when your next time come, please God. Would you mind to accept of my card, maʼam, unpretenshome but in good families,—Sarah Kicklewick, late to Lord Eldergun, and have hopes to be again, maʼam, if any confidence in head–footman. ‘Mrs. Kicklewick,’ he says, and me upon the bridge, maʼam, with the wind a blowinʼ——”“To be sure,” said Georgie, “and the water flowing; how clearly you describe it!”But we must cut her short, even as she cut nurse Kicklewick. Enough that she won such influence over the kind but not too clever Rosa, that Rufus Huttonʼs plans and acts, so far as they were known to his wife, were known also to his wifeʼs best friend. But one thing there was which Mrs. Corklemore could not at all understand,—why should he be going to London so, and wanting to go again, in spite of domestic emergencies? She very soon satisfied herself that Rosa was really in the dark upon this point, and very indignant atbeing so. This indignation must be fostered and pointed to a practical end. Mrs. Kettledrum, of course, had been kept in the background all this time, and scarcely allowed to dandle the baby, for fear of impairing her sisterʼs triumph.“How wonderfully kind and thoughtful of you!” said Rosa, as Georgie came in again. “Have you really brought me a glass of wine? And no one else in the house to suppose that I ought to have any nourishment! How can I thank you, Mrs. Corklemore?”“No more ‘Mrs. Corklemore,’ if you please. I have begun to call you ‘Rosaʼ—it is such a pretty name—and you must call me ‘Georgie,’ darling. Every one does who loves me.”“Then I am sure all the world must. Dearest Georgie, how did you get it? I am sure I would not touch it, only for your sake.”“Oh, I did such a shameful thing. Such a liberty I never took before! I actually sent the servant to say, with Mrs. Corklemoreʼs compliments, that she felt the effect of the fright this morning, and would like another glass of port, but would not touch it if any of the gentlemen left the table even for a moment. And they actually sent me a dock–glass, in pleasantry, I suppose: but I am very glad they did.”“I will take some, if you take half, dear.”“Not a drop. My poor weak head is upset in a moment. But you really need it, dear; and I canso thoroughly feel for you, because the poor Count, when my Flore was born, waited on me with such devotion, day and night, hand and foot.”“And I am sure Mr. Corklemore must do the same. No husband could help adoring you.”“Oh, he is very good, ‘according to his lights,’ as they say. But I have known him let me cough three times without getting up for the jujubes. And once—but perhaps I ought not to tell you: it was so very bad.”“Oh, you may safely tell me, dear. I will never repeat it to any one.”“He actually allowed me to sneeze in the carriage without saying that I must have a new fur cloak, or even asking if I had a cold.”“Oh dear, is that all? I may sneeze six times in an hour, and my husband take no notice, but run out and leave the front door open, and prune his horrid little trees. And then he shouts for his patent top–dressing. He thinks far more of dressing them than he does of dressing me.”“And donʼt you know the reason? Donʼt cry, sweet child; donʼt cry. I have had so much experience. I understand men so thoroughly.”“Oh yes, I know the reason. I am cross to him sometimes. And of course I canʼt expect a man with a mind like his——”“You may expect any man to be as wise as Solomon, if you only know how to manage him. It is part of the law of nature.”“Then I am sure I donʼt know what that means: except that people must get married, and ought to love one another.”“The law of nature is this. Between a wife and a husband there never must be a secret, except when the lady keeps one. Now, your husband is, to some extent, a rather superior man——”“Oh yes, to the very greatest extent. No one of any perception can help perceiving that.”“Then he is quite sure to attempt it; to reserve himself, uponsomepoint, in an unsympathetic attitude. This is just what you must not allow. You have no idea how it grows upon them, and how soon it supplants affection, and makes a married man a bachelor.”“Oh, how dreadful! But I really do think, dear, that you must be wrong this once. My husband has never kept anything from me; anything, I mean, which I ought to know.”“Then he told you about that poor wild Polly? How very good and kind of him!”“Polly! What Polly? You donʼt mean to say——”“No, no, dear, nothing of that sort! Only the mare running away with him at night through the thickest part of the forest.”“My Polly that eats from my hand! Run away with Rufus!”“Yes, your Polly. A perfect miracle that both of them were not killed. But, of course, he must have told you.”Then, after sundry ejaculations, Rosa learned all about that matter, and was shocked first, and then thankful, and then hurt.“And now,” said Mrs. Corklemore, when the sense of wrong was paramount, “he has some secret, I am almost sure, about our sad affair at Nowelhurst. And I am sure, even if you were not his wife, dear, he need not conceal any matter of that sort from the daughter of Sir Cradock Nowellʼs old friend, Mr. Ralph Mohorn.”“I will tell you another thing,” answered Rosa, shaking all her pillows with the vehemence of her emotions, “whether he ought or not, he shall not do it, Georgie, darling. As sure as I am his lawful wife I will know every word of it before I sleep one wink. If not, he must take the consequences upon both his wife and child.”“Darling, I think you are quite right. Only donʼt tell me a word of it. It is such a dreadful matter, it would make me so unhappy——”“I will tell you every single word, just to prove to you, Georgie, that I have found the whole of it out.”After this laudable resolution, Rosa may be left to have it out with Rufus. It requires greater skill than ours to interfere between man and wife, even without thetertium quidof an astounding baby.✸✸✸✸✸The ides of March were come and gone, the balance of day and night was struck; and Sleep, the queen of half the world, had wheeled acrossthe equator her poppy–chintzed throne, or had got the stars to do it for her, because she was too lazy. Ha, that sentence is almost worthy of a great stump–orator. All I mean to say is, that All Foolsʼ Day was over. Blessed are the All Fools who begin the summer (which accounts for its being a mull with us); and blessed be the All Saints who begin the winter, and then hand it over to Beelzebub.“In April she tunes her bill.” Several nightingales were at it, for the spring was early, and right early were many nests conned, planned, and contracted for. Blessed birds, that never say, “What are your expectations, sir?” or “How much will you give your daughter?”—but feather their nests without waiting for an appointment in the Treasury. Nest–eggs, too, almost as sweet as those of addled patronage, were beginning to accumulate; and it took up half a birdʼs time to settle seniority and precedence among them, fettle them all with their heads the right way, and throw overboard the cracked ones. Perhaps, in this last particular, they exercised a discretion, not only unknown to, but undreamed of, by any British Government.It was nearly dark by this time, and two nightingales, across the valley, strove in Amoibæan song till the crinkles of the opening leaves fluttered with soft melody.“In poplar shadows Philomel complaineth of her brood,Her callow nestlings plunderʼd from her by the ploughman rude:From lonely branch all night she pours her weeping musicʼs flow,Repeats her tale, and fills the world with melody and woe.”Georg.iv. 511.Mr. Garnet heeded neither crisp young leaf nor bulbul; neither did his horse appear to be a judge of music. Man and horse were drooping, flagging, jaded and bespent; wanting only the two things which, according to some philosophers, are all that men want here below—a little food, and a deal of sleep.Bull Garnet was on his return from Winchester, whither he now went every week, for some reason known only to himself, or at least unknown to his family. It is a long and hilly ride from the west of Ytene to Winton, and to travel that distance twice in a day takes the gaiety out of a horse, and the salience out of a man. No wonder then that Mr. Garnet slouched his heavy shoulders, and let his great head droop; for at five–and–forty a powerful man jades sooner than does a slight one.Presently he began to drowse; for the stout grey gelding knew every step of the road, and would take uncommonly good care to avoid all circumambience: and of late the rider had never slept, only dozed, and dreamed, and started. Then he muttered to himself, as he often did in sleep, but never at home, until he had seen to the fastening of the door.“Tried it again—tried very hard and failed. Thought of Bob, at last moment. Bob to stand, and see me hang—and hate me, and go to the devil. No, I donʼt think he would hate me, though; he would say, ‘Father could not help it.’ And how nice that would be for me, to see Bob take my part. To see him with his turn–down collarsstanding proudly up, and saying, ‘Father was a bad man—according to your ideas—I am not going to dispute them—but for all that I love him, and so my children shall.’ If I could be sure that Bob would only think so, only make his mind up, his mind up, his mind up—for there is nothing like it—whoa, Grayling, what be looking at?—and take poor little Pearl with him, I would go to–morrow morning, and do it over at Lymington.”“Best do it to–night, govʼnor. No time like the praysent, and us knows arl about it.”A tall man had leaped from behind a tree, and seized Bull Garnetʼs bridle. The grey gelding reared and struck him; but he kept his hold, till the muzzle of a large revolver felt cold against his ear. Then Issachar Jupp fell back; he knew the man he had to deal with, how stern in his fury, how reckless, despite the better part of him. And Issachar was not prepared to leave his Loo an orphan.“No man robs me,” cried Mr. Garnet, in his most tremendous voice, “except at the cost of my life, and the risk of his. I have seven and sixpence about me; I will give it up to no man. Neither will I shoot any man, unless he tries to get it.”“Nubbody wants to rob you, govʼnor, only to have a little rattysination with you. Possible you know me now?”Bull Garnet fell back in his saddle. He would rather have met a dozen robbers. By the voice herecognised a man whom he had once well known, and had good cause to know;—through his outrage upon whom, he had left the northern counties; the man whom he had stricken headlong down a coal–shaft, as the leader of rebellion, the night after Pearl was christened, nigh twenty years ago.“Yes, I know you; Jupp your name is. Small credit it is to know you.”“And smarler still to know you, Bull Garnet. Try your pistol thing, if you like. You must have rare stommick, I should think, to be up for another murder.”“Issachar, I am sorry for you. Do you call it a murder to keep such a fellow as you off?”“No, I dunna carl that a murder, because I be arl alive. But I do carl a murder what you did to young Clayton Nowell.”“Fool, what do you know of it? Let go my horse, I say. You know pretty well whatIam.”“I know you haʼnʼt much patience, govʼnor, and be arlways in a hurry.”Jupp hesitated, but would not be beaten, whatever might be the end of it.“I am in no hurry now, Jupp; I will listen to all you have to say. But not with your hand on my bridle.”“There goeth free then. Arl knows you be no liar.”“I am glad you remember that, Issachar. Hold the horse, while I get off. Now throw the bridle over that branch, and I will sit down here. Comehere into the moonlight, man; and look me in the face. Here is the pistol for you, if you bear me any revenge.”Scarcely knowing what he did, because he had no time to think, Jupp obeyed Bull Garnetʼs orders even to the last—for he took the pistol in his hand, and tried to look straight at his adversary; but his eyes would not co–operate. Then he laid the pistol on the bank; but so that he could reach it.“Issachar Jupp,” said Mr. Garnet, looking at him steadily, and speaking very quietly; “have you any children?”“Only one—a leetle gal, but an oncommon good un.”“How old is she?”“Five year old, plase God, come next Valentineʼs Day.”“Now, when she grows up, and is pure and good, would you like to have her heart broken?”“Iʼd break any coveʼs head as doed it.”“But supposing she were betrayed and ruined, made a plaything, and then thrown away—what would you do then?”“God Almighty knows, man. I canʼt abide to think of it.”“And if the—the man who did it, was the grandson of the man who had ruined your own mother, lied before God in the church to her, and then left her to go to the workhouse, with you his outcast bastard—while he rolled in gold, and laughed at her—what would you do then, Jupp?”“By the God that made me, Iʼd have my revenge, if I went to hell for it.”“I have said enough. Do exactly as you please. Me you cannot help or harm. Death is all I long for—only for my children.”Still he looked at Issachar, but now without a thought of him; only as a man looks out upon the sea or sky, expecting no return. And Issachar Jupp, so dense and pig–headed—surly and burly, and weasel–eyed—in a word, retrospectively British—gazing at Bull Garnet then, got some inkling of an anguish such as he who lives to feel—far better were it for that man that he had never been born.

Dr. Huttonʼs baby was getting better, and Rosa, who had been, as the nurse said, “losing ground so sadly, poor dear,” was beginning to pick up her crumbs again. Therefore Rufus, who (in common with Rosa and all the rest of the household) regarded that baby as the noblest and grandest sublimation of humanity, if not as the final cause of this little worldʼs existence, was beginning now to make up his mind that he really might go to London that week, without being (as his wife declared he must be, if he even thought about it) cruel, inhuman, unfatherly, utterly void of all sense of duty, not to say common affection. And she knew quite well what he wanted. All he wanted was to go and see Mr. Riversʼs peach–trees in blossom, as if that was such a sight as her baby. Yes,herbaby, maʼs own darling, a dove of a dumpling dillikins; to think that his own pa should prefer nasty little trees without a hair on them,and that didnʼt even know what bo meant, to the most elegant love of a goldylocks that ever was, was, was!

Master Goldylocks had received, from another quarter, a less classical, and less pleasing, but perhaps (from an objective point of view) a more truthful and unprismatic description of the hair it pleased God to give him.

“Governorʼs carrots, and no mistake,” cried Mrs. OʼGaghan the moment she saw him, which, of course, was upon his first public appearance—catch Biddy out of the way when any baby, of any father or mother she had ever heard of, was submitted even to the most privileged inspection—”knew he must have ‘em, of course. You niver can conquer that, maʼam, if your own hair was like a sloe, and you tuk me black briony arl the time. Hould him dacent, will ye, nurse? Not slot his head down that fashion! He donʼt want more blood in his hair, child. Oh yes, I can see, maʼam! Niver knowed more nor two wi’ that red–hot poker colour, colour of the red snuff they calls ‘Irish blackguard’ in the top of a hot shovel; and one of the two were Mr. Hutton, maʼam, saving your presence to spake of it; and the other were of Tim Brady, as were hung at the crossroads, near Clonmel, for cutting the throat of his grandmother.”

“Oh, Mary, take her away. What a horrid woman!”

Here Mrs. OʼGaghan was marched away, amiduniversal indignation, which she could not at all understand. But she long had borne against Rufus Hutton the bitterest of all bitter spites (such as only an Irishwoman can bear), for the exposure of her own great mistake, and the miserable result which (as she fully believed) had sprung from all his meddling. And yet she was a “good–hearted” woman. But a good heart is only the wad upon powder, when a violent will is behind it.

Not to attach undue importance to Biddyʼs prepossessions, yet to give every facility for a verdict upon the question, I am bound to state what an old–young lady, growing every month more satirical, because nobody would have her, yet quite unconscious that the one drawback was the main cause of the other (for all men hate sarcastic women),—how tersely she expressed herself.

“Ridiculous likeness! Was he born with two cheroots in his mouth?”

But a lady, who would marry for ever because she was so soft and nice, came to see darling baby again, the moment she was quite assured that he was equal to the interview, having denied herself from day to day, although it had affected her appetite, and was telling upon her spirits. Neither would she come alone—that would be too selfish: she must make a gala day of it, and gratify her relatives. So Mrs. Hutton had the rapture of sitting behind her bedroom curtain, and seeing no less than three carriages draw up in a thundering manner, while Rufus was in the greatest frightthat they would not find room to turn, but must cut up his turf. Luckily the roller was in the way; or else those great coachmen, who felt themselves lowered by coming to a place of that size, would have had their revenge on the sod. The three carriages were, of course, that of Nowelhurst Hall in the van (no pun, if you please), with two noble footmen behind it, and Georgie in state inside. Then the “Kettledrum rattletrap,” as the hypercritical termed it, with Mr. Kettledrum driving, and striking statuesque attitudes for the benefit of the horses, and Mrs. Kettledrum inside, entreating him not to be rash. Last of all the Coo Nest equipage, a very neat affair, with Mr. Corklemore inside, wanting to look at his wife in the distance, and wondering what she was up to.

“Oh, such shocking taste, I know,” cried Georgie, directly the lower order were supposed to be out of hearing, “horribly bad taste to come in such force; but what could we do, Dr. Hutton? There was my sister, there was my husband, there was my own silly self, all waiting, as for a bulletin, to know when baby would receive. And so, at the very first moment, by some strange coincidence, here we are all at once. And I do hope darling Rosa will allowsomeof us to come in.”

“Jonah,” shouted Rufus Hutton, going away to the door very rudely (according to our ideas, but with Anglo–Indian instincts), “see that all those men have beer.”

“Plaise, sir, there bainʼt none left. Brewerhainʼt a been since you drank.” As every one in the house heard this, dear Georgie had some revenge.

However, babe Rufus received his ovation; and the whole thing went off well, as most things do in the counties of England, when plenty of good wine produces itself. Lunch was ready in no time; and, as all had long ago assented to Mrs. Corklemoreʼs most unselfish proposition that she, as privileged of pet Rosa, should just steal up–stairs for a minute, and then come down again—after giving notice, of course, that dear baby should have all his lace on—the pleasant overture of the host was accepted with little coyness—

“Let us suppose that we have dined: because the roads are so very bad. Let us venture upon a light dessert. I have a few pears, even now in April, which I am not altogether afraid to submit to the exquisite taste of ladies,—‘Madame Milletʼ and ‘Josephine.’ May we think that we have dined?”

As the company not only thought, but felt that they had made an uncommonly good dinner, this little proposal did pleasant violence to their sense of time. It would be so charmingly novel to think that they had dined at three oʼclock! Oh, people of brief memory! For Kettledrum Hall and Coo Nest loved nothing better than to dine at two; which, perhaps, is two hours too late, according to natureversusfashion.

“For such an occasion as this,” said Rufus, under all the excitement of hospitality multipliedby paternity, “we will have a wine worth talking of. Clicquot, of course, and Paxarette for the ladies, if they prefer it; which perhaps they will do because it is sweeter than port. But I do hope that some will deign to taste my 1820, Presidentʼs unrefreshed.”

Georgieʼs pretty lip came out, like the curl of an opening convolvulus; to think of offering her sweet wine, when choice port was forthcoming. There are few better judges of a good glass of port than Mrs. Nowell Corklemore.

“Port, sir, for my wife, if you please. She likes a rather dry wine, sir, but with plenty of bouquet. There is no subject, I may say, in which she has—ha, haw—a more profound capacity.”

“My dear Nowell, why you are perfectly calumnious. Thank you, no champagne. It spoils the taste of—your beautiful water. How dreadfully we were alarmed in Ringwood. We all but drove over a child. What a providential escape! I have scarcely yet recovered it. It has made me feel so nervous. What, Dr. Hutton, port for a lady, at this time of day, and not ordered medically!”

Thereupon, of course Rufus prescribed it, till Georgie, being quite overcome by the colour, as the host himself decanted it, capitulated at last for “strictly half a glass.”

After a little, the ladies withdrew, to see double perfections in the baby, and Mrs. Hutton, whoknew quite well what they had been doing, while she was discussing arrowroot, received them at first rather stiffly. But she had no chance with Georgie, who entered beautifully into the interesting room, and exclaimed with great vivacity—

“Oh, dear Mrs. Hutton, as the little boys say, ‘here we are again.’ And so glad to get away, because your husband is so hospitable, and we thought of you all the time. I wanted so much to bring you a glass of that very exquisite—let me see, I think it must have been port, though I never know one wine from another—only I feared it might seem rude, if I had ventured to propose it. Of course Dr. Hutton knew best.”

“Of course he didnʼt,” said Rosa, pettishly; “he never thought about it. Not that I would have taken it; oh dear no! Ladies cannot have too little wine, I think. It seems to make them so masculine.”

“Well, dear, you know best. Very likely you heard us laughing. I assure you we were quite merry. We drank his health ‘three times threeʼ—donʼt they call it about a baby? And I was nearly proposingyours; only a gentleman ought to do that. Oh, it was so interesting, and the wine superb—at least, so said the gentlemen; I do wish they had brought you some, dear.”

“I am very glad they did not. It is so very lowering to a fine sense of the ideal. I heard you laughing, or making some noise; only I was so absorbed in these lovely poems. ‘To my Babe’ isso very beautiful, so expressive, so elevating! I feel every single word of it. And this sonnet about the first cropper! And the stanzas to his little red shoes, terminating with ‘pinch his nose!’ You have had so many husbands, dear; you must know all about it.”

“My darling child, how I feel for you! But, in all probability, he will come up when both decanters are empty; let him find you in a good temper, dear.”

But this (which must have grown into a row, for Georgie had even more spirit than tact, and Rosa was equal to anything), all this evil was averted, and harmony restored by the popping in of nurse, who had not taken her half–crowns yet, but considered them desirable, and saw them now endangered.

“Goldylocks, Goldylocks! Oh, bring him here, nurse. Skillikins, dillikins! oh, such a dove! And if nobody else cares for poor mamma, he has got so much better taste, hasnʼt he?”

Goldylocks very soon proved that he had; and Georgie, having quite recovered her temper, admired him so ecstatically, that even his mother thought her judgment was really worth something.

“Give him to me; I canʼt do without him. O you beautiful cherub! Kicklewick, I am sure you never saw any one like him.”

“That indeed I never did, maʼam,” answered nurse Kicklewick, holding her arms out, as if shemust have him back again; “many a fine child I have seen, and done for to my humble ability, maʼam, since the time I were at Lord Eldergunʼs; and her ladyship said to me—ʼKicklewick,’ says she——”

“Oh, his love of a nosey–posey! Oh, then his bootiful eyes, dick, dock! And then his golden hair, you know, so lovely, chaste, and rare, you know! Will um have a dancey–prancey?”

And Georgie, forgetting all dignity, went through a little Polish dance, with the baby in her arms, to his very grave amazement, and the delight of all beholders.

Although of the genuine Hutton strain, he was too young to crow yet, nevertheless he expressed approval in the most emphatic water–colours. Mrs. Huttonʼs heart was won for ever.

“Oh, darling, I am so obliged to you. He has positively popped two bubbles. A thing he never did before! How can I ever repay you?”

“By letting me come over and dance him twice a week. Oh, that I only had a boy!—because I do love boy–babies so.”

“One would think that you must have had fifty, at least, before you were five–and–twenty! How on earth do you understand him so? I only know half what he means, though I try for hours and hours.”

“Simply by sympathizing with him. I feel all his ideas come home to me, and I put them into shape.”

“You are the loveliest creature I ever saw.” And, indeed, Georgie did look very well, for it was not all mere humbug now, though perhaps it was at first. “Oh, no wonder baby loves you. Kicklewick, isnʼt it wonderful?”

“Indeed, then, and it would be, maʼam,” replied Mrs. Kicklewick, rapturously—for now she had four half–crowns in her pocket—“only for it beinʼ nature, maʼam. Nature it is as does it, as must be. Nothing else no good again it. And how I should like to beʼlong of you, maʼam, when your next time come, please God. Would you mind to accept of my card, maʼam, unpretenshome but in good families,—Sarah Kicklewick, late to Lord Eldergun, and have hopes to be again, maʼam, if any confidence in head–footman. ‘Mrs. Kicklewick,’ he says, and me upon the bridge, maʼam, with the wind a blowinʼ——”

“To be sure,” said Georgie, “and the water flowing; how clearly you describe it!”

But we must cut her short, even as she cut nurse Kicklewick. Enough that she won such influence over the kind but not too clever Rosa, that Rufus Huttonʼs plans and acts, so far as they were known to his wife, were known also to his wifeʼs best friend. But one thing there was which Mrs. Corklemore could not at all understand,—why should he be going to London so, and wanting to go again, in spite of domestic emergencies? She very soon satisfied herself that Rosa was really in the dark upon this point, and very indignant atbeing so. This indignation must be fostered and pointed to a practical end. Mrs. Kettledrum, of course, had been kept in the background all this time, and scarcely allowed to dandle the baby, for fear of impairing her sisterʼs triumph.

“How wonderfully kind and thoughtful of you!” said Rosa, as Georgie came in again. “Have you really brought me a glass of wine? And no one else in the house to suppose that I ought to have any nourishment! How can I thank you, Mrs. Corklemore?”

“No more ‘Mrs. Corklemore,’ if you please. I have begun to call you ‘Rosaʼ—it is such a pretty name—and you must call me ‘Georgie,’ darling. Every one does who loves me.”

“Then I am sure all the world must. Dearest Georgie, how did you get it? I am sure I would not touch it, only for your sake.”

“Oh, I did such a shameful thing. Such a liberty I never took before! I actually sent the servant to say, with Mrs. Corklemoreʼs compliments, that she felt the effect of the fright this morning, and would like another glass of port, but would not touch it if any of the gentlemen left the table even for a moment. And they actually sent me a dock–glass, in pleasantry, I suppose: but I am very glad they did.”

“I will take some, if you take half, dear.”

“Not a drop. My poor weak head is upset in a moment. But you really need it, dear; and I canso thoroughly feel for you, because the poor Count, when my Flore was born, waited on me with such devotion, day and night, hand and foot.”

“And I am sure Mr. Corklemore must do the same. No husband could help adoring you.”

“Oh, he is very good, ‘according to his lights,’ as they say. But I have known him let me cough three times without getting up for the jujubes. And once—but perhaps I ought not to tell you: it was so very bad.”

“Oh, you may safely tell me, dear. I will never repeat it to any one.”

“He actually allowed me to sneeze in the carriage without saying that I must have a new fur cloak, or even asking if I had a cold.”

“Oh dear, is that all? I may sneeze six times in an hour, and my husband take no notice, but run out and leave the front door open, and prune his horrid little trees. And then he shouts for his patent top–dressing. He thinks far more of dressing them than he does of dressing me.”

“And donʼt you know the reason? Donʼt cry, sweet child; donʼt cry. I have had so much experience. I understand men so thoroughly.”

“Oh yes, I know the reason. I am cross to him sometimes. And of course I canʼt expect a man with a mind like his——”

“You may expect any man to be as wise as Solomon, if you only know how to manage him. It is part of the law of nature.”

“Then I am sure I donʼt know what that means: except that people must get married, and ought to love one another.”

“The law of nature is this. Between a wife and a husband there never must be a secret, except when the lady keeps one. Now, your husband is, to some extent, a rather superior man——”

“Oh yes, to the very greatest extent. No one of any perception can help perceiving that.”

“Then he is quite sure to attempt it; to reserve himself, uponsomepoint, in an unsympathetic attitude. This is just what you must not allow. You have no idea how it grows upon them, and how soon it supplants affection, and makes a married man a bachelor.”

“Oh, how dreadful! But I really do think, dear, that you must be wrong this once. My husband has never kept anything from me; anything, I mean, which I ought to know.”

“Then he told you about that poor wild Polly? How very good and kind of him!”

“Polly! What Polly? You donʼt mean to say——”

“No, no, dear, nothing of that sort! Only the mare running away with him at night through the thickest part of the forest.”

“My Polly that eats from my hand! Run away with Rufus!”

“Yes, your Polly. A perfect miracle that both of them were not killed. But, of course, he must have told you.”

Then, after sundry ejaculations, Rosa learned all about that matter, and was shocked first, and then thankful, and then hurt.

“And now,” said Mrs. Corklemore, when the sense of wrong was paramount, “he has some secret, I am almost sure, about our sad affair at Nowelhurst. And I am sure, even if you were not his wife, dear, he need not conceal any matter of that sort from the daughter of Sir Cradock Nowellʼs old friend, Mr. Ralph Mohorn.”

“I will tell you another thing,” answered Rosa, shaking all her pillows with the vehemence of her emotions, “whether he ought or not, he shall not do it, Georgie, darling. As sure as I am his lawful wife I will know every word of it before I sleep one wink. If not, he must take the consequences upon both his wife and child.”

“Darling, I think you are quite right. Only donʼt tell me a word of it. It is such a dreadful matter, it would make me so unhappy——”

“I will tell you every single word, just to prove to you, Georgie, that I have found the whole of it out.”

After this laudable resolution, Rosa may be left to have it out with Rufus. It requires greater skill than ours to interfere between man and wife, even without thetertium quidof an astounding baby.

The ides of March were come and gone, the balance of day and night was struck; and Sleep, the queen of half the world, had wheeled acrossthe equator her poppy–chintzed throne, or had got the stars to do it for her, because she was too lazy. Ha, that sentence is almost worthy of a great stump–orator. All I mean to say is, that All Foolsʼ Day was over. Blessed are the All Fools who begin the summer (which accounts for its being a mull with us); and blessed be the All Saints who begin the winter, and then hand it over to Beelzebub.

“In April she tunes her bill.” Several nightingales were at it, for the spring was early, and right early were many nests conned, planned, and contracted for. Blessed birds, that never say, “What are your expectations, sir?” or “How much will you give your daughter?”—but feather their nests without waiting for an appointment in the Treasury. Nest–eggs, too, almost as sweet as those of addled patronage, were beginning to accumulate; and it took up half a birdʼs time to settle seniority and precedence among them, fettle them all with their heads the right way, and throw overboard the cracked ones. Perhaps, in this last particular, they exercised a discretion, not only unknown to, but undreamed of, by any British Government.

It was nearly dark by this time, and two nightingales, across the valley, strove in Amoibæan song till the crinkles of the opening leaves fluttered with soft melody.

“In poplar shadows Philomel complaineth of her brood,Her callow nestlings plunderʼd from her by the ploughman rude:From lonely branch all night she pours her weeping musicʼs flow,Repeats her tale, and fills the world with melody and woe.”

Georg.iv. 511.

Mr. Garnet heeded neither crisp young leaf nor bulbul; neither did his horse appear to be a judge of music. Man and horse were drooping, flagging, jaded and bespent; wanting only the two things which, according to some philosophers, are all that men want here below—a little food, and a deal of sleep.

Bull Garnet was on his return from Winchester, whither he now went every week, for some reason known only to himself, or at least unknown to his family. It is a long and hilly ride from the west of Ytene to Winton, and to travel that distance twice in a day takes the gaiety out of a horse, and the salience out of a man. No wonder then that Mr. Garnet slouched his heavy shoulders, and let his great head droop; for at five–and–forty a powerful man jades sooner than does a slight one.

Presently he began to drowse; for the stout grey gelding knew every step of the road, and would take uncommonly good care to avoid all circumambience: and of late the rider had never slept, only dozed, and dreamed, and started. Then he muttered to himself, as he often did in sleep, but never at home, until he had seen to the fastening of the door.

“Tried it again—tried very hard and failed. Thought of Bob, at last moment. Bob to stand, and see me hang—and hate me, and go to the devil. No, I donʼt think he would hate me, though; he would say, ‘Father could not help it.’ And how nice that would be for me, to see Bob take my part. To see him with his turn–down collarsstanding proudly up, and saying, ‘Father was a bad man—according to your ideas—I am not going to dispute them—but for all that I love him, and so my children shall.’ If I could be sure that Bob would only think so, only make his mind up, his mind up, his mind up—for there is nothing like it—whoa, Grayling, what be looking at?—and take poor little Pearl with him, I would go to–morrow morning, and do it over at Lymington.”

“Best do it to–night, govʼnor. No time like the praysent, and us knows arl about it.”

A tall man had leaped from behind a tree, and seized Bull Garnetʼs bridle. The grey gelding reared and struck him; but he kept his hold, till the muzzle of a large revolver felt cold against his ear. Then Issachar Jupp fell back; he knew the man he had to deal with, how stern in his fury, how reckless, despite the better part of him. And Issachar was not prepared to leave his Loo an orphan.

“No man robs me,” cried Mr. Garnet, in his most tremendous voice, “except at the cost of my life, and the risk of his. I have seven and sixpence about me; I will give it up to no man. Neither will I shoot any man, unless he tries to get it.”

“Nubbody wants to rob you, govʼnor, only to have a little rattysination with you. Possible you know me now?”

Bull Garnet fell back in his saddle. He would rather have met a dozen robbers. By the voice herecognised a man whom he had once well known, and had good cause to know;—through his outrage upon whom, he had left the northern counties; the man whom he had stricken headlong down a coal–shaft, as the leader of rebellion, the night after Pearl was christened, nigh twenty years ago.

“Yes, I know you; Jupp your name is. Small credit it is to know you.”

“And smarler still to know you, Bull Garnet. Try your pistol thing, if you like. You must have rare stommick, I should think, to be up for another murder.”

“Issachar, I am sorry for you. Do you call it a murder to keep such a fellow as you off?”

“No, I dunna carl that a murder, because I be arl alive. But I do carl a murder what you did to young Clayton Nowell.”

“Fool, what do you know of it? Let go my horse, I say. You know pretty well whatIam.”

“I know you haʼnʼt much patience, govʼnor, and be arlways in a hurry.”

Jupp hesitated, but would not be beaten, whatever might be the end of it.

“I am in no hurry now, Jupp; I will listen to all you have to say. But not with your hand on my bridle.”

“There goeth free then. Arl knows you be no liar.”

“I am glad you remember that, Issachar. Hold the horse, while I get off. Now throw the bridle over that branch, and I will sit down here. Comehere into the moonlight, man; and look me in the face. Here is the pistol for you, if you bear me any revenge.”

Scarcely knowing what he did, because he had no time to think, Jupp obeyed Bull Garnetʼs orders even to the last—for he took the pistol in his hand, and tried to look straight at his adversary; but his eyes would not co–operate. Then he laid the pistol on the bank; but so that he could reach it.

“Issachar Jupp,” said Mr. Garnet, looking at him steadily, and speaking very quietly; “have you any children?”

“Only one—a leetle gal, but an oncommon good un.”

“How old is she?”

“Five year old, plase God, come next Valentineʼs Day.”

“Now, when she grows up, and is pure and good, would you like to have her heart broken?”

“Iʼd break any coveʼs head as doed it.”

“But supposing she were betrayed and ruined, made a plaything, and then thrown away—what would you do then?”

“God Almighty knows, man. I canʼt abide to think of it.”

“And if the—the man who did it, was the grandson of the man who had ruined your own mother, lied before God in the church to her, and then left her to go to the workhouse, with you his outcast bastard—while he rolled in gold, and laughed at her—what would you do then, Jupp?”

“By the God that made me, Iʼd have my revenge, if I went to hell for it.”

“I have said enough. Do exactly as you please. Me you cannot help or harm. Death is all I long for—only for my children.”

Still he looked at Issachar, but now without a thought of him; only as a man looks out upon the sea or sky, expecting no return. And Issachar Jupp, so dense and pig–headed—surly and burly, and weasel–eyed—in a word, retrospectively British—gazing at Bull Garnet then, got some inkling of an anguish such as he who lives to feel—far better were it for that man that he had never been born.

CHAPTER VIII.To bar the entail of crime. A bitter and abortive task; at least, in this vindictive world, where Christians dwell more on Mount Sinai than on the mount that did not quake and burn with fire.And yet for this, and little else, still clung to fair fame and life the man who rather would have lain beneath the quick–lime of Newgate. It was not for the empty part, the reputation, the position, the respect of those who prove the etymon of the word by truly looking backward—not for these alone, nor mainly, did Bull Garnet bear the anguish now from month to month more bitter, deeper, less concealable. He strove with himself, and checked himself, and bit his tongue, and jerked back his heart, and nursed that shattered lie, his life, if so might be that Pearl and Bob should start anew in another land, with a fair career before them. Not that he cared, more than he could help, whether they might be rich or poor; only that he would like them to have the chance of choosing.This chance had not been fair for him, forsaken as he was, and outcast; banned by all the laws of men, because his mother had been trustful, and his father treacherous. Yet against all chances, he, by his own rightful power, deeply hating and (which was worse) conscientiously despising every social prejudice, made his way among smaller men, taught himself by day and night, formed his own strong character, with the hatred of tyranny for its base, and tyranny of his own for its apex; and finally gained success in the world, and large views of Christianity. And in all of this he was sincere!It was a vile and bitter wrong to which he owed his birth. Sir Cradock Nowell, the father of the present baronet, had fallen in love of some sort with a comely Yorkshire maiden, whose motherʼs farm adjoined the moors, whereon the shooting quarters were. Then, in that period of mean license, when fashionable servility was wriggling, like a cellar–slug, in the slime–track of low princes, Sir Cradock Nowell did what few of his roystering friends would have thought of—unfashionable Tarquinian, he committed a quiet bigamy. He had lived apart from Lady Nowell, even before her second confinement; because he could not get on with her. So Miss Garnet went with him to the quiet altar of a little Yorkshire church, and fancied she was Lady Nowell; only that must be a secret, “because they had not the kingʼs consent, for he was not in a state to give it.”When she learned her niddering wrong, and thedespite to her unborn child, she cast her curse upon the race, not with loud rant, but long scorn, and went from her widowed mother, to a cold and unknown place.So soon as Bull Garnet was old enough to know right from wrong, and to see how much more of the latter had fallen to his share, two courses lay before him. Two, I mean, were possible to a strong and upright nature; to a false and weak one fifty would have offered, and a little of each been taken. Conscious as he was of spirit, energy, and decision, he might apply them all to very ungenial purposes, to sarcasm, contemptuousness, and general misanthropy. Or else he might take a larger view, pity the poor old–fashioned prigs who despise a man for his fatherʼs fault, and generously adapt himself to the broadest Christianity.The latter course was the one he chose; in solid earnest, too, because it suited his nature. And so perhaps we had better say that he chose no course at all, but had the wiser one forced upon him. Yet the old Adam of damnable temper too often would rush out of Paradise, and prove in strong language that he would not be put off together with his works. Exeter Hall would have owned him, in spite of all his backslidings, as a very “far–advanced Christian;” because he was so “evangelical.” And yet he never dealt in cant, nor distributed idyllic tracts, Sabbatarian pastorals, where godly Thomas meets drunken John, and convertshim to the dilutedvappaof an unfermented Sunday.And now this man, whom all who knew him either loved or hated, felt the troubles closing around him, and saw that the end was coming. He had kept his own sense of justice down, while it jerked (like a thistle on springs) in his heart; he had worn himself out with thinking for ever what would become of his children, whom he had wronged more heavily than his own bad father had wronged him—only the difference was that he loved them; and most of all he had let a poor fellow, whom he liked and esteemed most truly, bear all the brunt, all the misery, all the despair of fratricide.Now all he asked for, all he prayed for—and, indeed, he prayed more than ever now, and with deeper feeling; though many would have feared to do it—now his utmost hope was to win six months of life. In that time all might be arranged for his childrenʼs interest; his purchase of those five hundred acres from the Crown Commissioners—all good land, near the Romsey–road, but too full of juice—would soon be so completed that he could sell again at treble the price he gave, so well had he reclaimed the land, while equitably his; and then Bob should have half, and Pearl take half (because she had been so injured), and, starting with the proceeds of all his earthly substance before it should escheat, be happy in America, and think fondly of dead father.This was all he lived for now. It may seem a wild programme; but, practical as he was in business, and not to be wronged of a halfpenny, Bull Garnet was vague and sentimental when he “took on” about his children. Furious if they were wronged, loving them as the cow did (who, without a horn to her head, pounded dead the leopard), ready to take most liberal views of everything beyond them, yet keeping ever to his eyes that parental lens, whose focus is so very short, and therefore, by the optic laws, its magnifying power and aberration glorious.Now three foes were closing round him; all of whom, by different process, and from different premises, had arrived at the one conclusion. The three were, as he knew too well, Rufus Hutton, Issachar Jupp, and Mr. Chope, of Southampton. Of the first he held undue contempt (not knowing all his evidence); the second he had for the time disarmed, by an appealad hominem; the third was the most to be feared, the most awful, because so crafty, keen, and deep, so utterly impenetrable.Mr. Chope, the partner and “brains” of Cole, the coroner, was absent upon a lawyerʼs holiday at the time of the inquest. When he came home, and heard all about it, and saw the place, and put questions, he scarcely knew what to think. Only upon one point he was certain—the verdict had been wrong. Either Cradock Nowell had shot his brother purposely, or some one else had done so. To Chopeʼs clear intuition, and thoroughknowledge of fire–arms—for his one relaxation was shooting—it was plain as possible that there had been no accident. To the people who told him about the cartridge “balling,” he expressed no opinion; but to himself he said, “Pooh! I have seen Cradock Nowell shoot. He always knew all he was doing. He never would put agreencartridge into his gun for a woodcock. And the others very seldom ball. And even if he had a green cartridge, look at the chances against it. I would lay my life Clayton Nowell was shot on purpose.”Then, of course, Mr. Chope set to, not only with hope of reward, but to gratify his own instinct, at the puzzle and wards of the question. If he had known the neighbourhood well, and all the local politics, he must have arrived at due conclusion long before he did. But a heavy piece of conveyancing came into the office of Cole, Chope, and Co., and, being far more lucrative than amateur speculations, robbed them of their attention. But now that stubborn piece was done with, and Mr. Chope again at leisure to pursue his quest. Twice or thrice every week he was seen, walking in his deliberate way, as if every step were paid for, through the village of Nowelhurst, and among the haunts of the woodcutters. He carried his great head downwards, as a bloodhound on the track does, but raised it, and met with a soft sweet smile all who cared to look at him. In his hand he bore a fishing–rod, and round his hat sometrout–flies; and often he entered the village inn, and had bread and cheese in the taproom, though invited into the parlour. Although his boots were soaked and soiled as if he had been wading, and the landing–net, slung across his back, had evidently been dripping, he opened to none his fishing creel, neither had any trout fried, but spoke in a desponding manner of the shyness of the fish, and the brightness of the water, and vowed every time that his patience was now at last exhausted. As none could fish in that neighbourhood without asking Sir Cradockʼs permission, or trespassing against him, and as the old baronet was most duly tenacious of all his sporting rights, everybody wondered what Mark Stote was about to allow a mere far–comer to carry on so in Nowelhurst water. But Mark Stote knew a great deal better what was up than they did.Four or five times now, Bull Garnet, riding on his rounds of business, had met Simon Chope, and bowed politely to him. On the first occasion, Mr. Chope, knowing very little of Garnet, and failing to comprehend him (as we fail, at first sight, with all antipodes), lost his slow sequacious art, because he over–riddled it. All very cunning men do this; even my Lord Bacon, but never our brother Shakespeare.But Mr. Garnet read him truly, and his purpose also, by the aid of his own consciousness; and a thrill of deep, cold fear went through that hot and stormy heart. Nevertheless, he met the case in hisusual manner, and puzzled Mr. Chope on the third or fourth encounter by inviting him to dinner. The lawyer found some ready plea for declining this invitation; sleuth and cold–blooded as he was, he could not accept hospitality to sift his host for murder. Of course Mr. Garnet had foreseen the refusal of this overture; but it added to his general alarm, even more than it contributed to his momentary relief. Clearly enough he knew, or felt, that now he was running a race against time; and if he could only win that race, and give the prize to his children, how happily would he yield himself to his only comfort—death. With his strong religious views—right or wrong, who shall dare to say? for the matter is not of reason—he doubted Godʼs great mercy to him in another world no more than he doubted his own great love to his own begotten.And sad it was, enough to move the tears of any Stoic, to behold Bull Garnet now sitting with his children. Instead of being shy and distant (as for a while he had been, when the crime was new upon him) he would watch them, word by word, smile by smile, or tear for tear, as if he never could have enough of the little that was left to him. They had begun to talk again carelessly in his presence, as the manner of the young is. Bob had found that the vague, dark cloud, of whose origin he knew nothing, was lifted a little, and lightened; and Pearl, who knew all about it, was trying to slip from beneath its shadow, withthe self–preservation of youth, and into the long–obscured but native sunlight of a daughterʼs love. And all the while their father, the man of force and violence, would look from one to the other of them, perceiving, with a curious smile, little traits of himself; often amused at, and blessing them for, their very sage inexperience; thinking to show how both were wrong, yet longing not to do it. And then he would begin to wonder which of them he loved more deeply. Pearl had gained upon him so, by the patience of her wrong, by coming to the hearth for shelter from the storms of outer love.In all races against time, luck, itself the child of time, is apt to govern the result more than highest skill may. So far, most of the luck had been in Mr. Garnetʼs favour; the approach of unlucky Cradock that day, the distraction of his mind—the hurried and jostled aim which even misled himself; the distance of John Rosedew; the blundering and timid coroner and the soft–hearted jury; even the state of the weather; and since that time the perversion and weakness of the fatherʼs mind: all these had prevented that close inquiry which must have led to either his conviction or confession. For, of course, he would have confessed at once, come what might, if an innocent man had been apprehended for his guilt.Only in one important matter—so far at least as he knew yet, not having heard of Jemʼs discovery, and Mr. Huttonʼs advance upon it—had fortunebeen against him; that one was the crashing of his locked cupboard, and the exposure of the broken gun–case to Rufus Huttonʼs eyes. And now it was an adverse fate which brought Mr. Chope upon the stage, and yet it was a kindly one which kept him apart from Hutton. For Simon Chope and Rufus Hutton disliked one another heartily; as the old repulsion is between cold blood and hot blood.As it happened, Mr. Chope was Mrs. Corklemoreʼs pet lawyer: he had been employed to see that she was defrauded of no adequate rights uxorial upon her second marriage. And uncommonly good care he took to secure the lionʼs share for her. Indeed, had it been possible for him to fall in love at all with anything but money, that foolish lapse would have been his, at the very first sight of Georgie. Sweetly innocent and good, she did so sympathize with “to wit, whereas, and notwithstanding;” she entered with such gush of heart into the bitter necessity of making many folios, and charging for every one of them, which the depravity of human nature has forced on a class whose native bias rather tends to poetry; she felt so acutely (when all was made plain to her, and Mr. Corklemore paid the bill) how very very wrong it was not to have implicit confidence—”in being cheated,” under her breath, and that shaft was Cupidʼs to Mr. Chope—in a word, he was so smitten, that he doubled all his charges, and insertedan especial power of appointment, for (Mr. Corklemore having the gout) he looked on her as his reversion.“Hang it,” he said, for his extreme idea of final punishment was legal; “hang it, if I married that woman, our son would be Lord Chancellor. I never saw such a liar.”Now it was almost certain that, under Sir Cradock Nowellʼs settlement upon marriage, an entail had been created. The lawyers, who do as they like in such matters, and live in a cloud of their own breath, are sure to provide for continuance, and the bills of their grandchildren.“Alas, how sad!” thought Georgie, as she lay back in the Nowelhurst carriage on her way to Cole, Chope, and Co.; “how very sad if it should be so. Then there will be no cure for it, but to get up the evidence, meet the dreadful publicity, and get the poor fellow convicted. And they say he is so good–looking! Perhaps I hate ugly people so much, because I am so pretty. Oh, how I wish Mr. Corklemore walked a little more like a gentleman. But as a sacred duty to my innocent darling, I must leave no stone unturned.”Fully convinced of her pure integrity, Georgie drove up in state and style to the office of Cole, Chope, and Co., somewhere in Southampton. She would make no secret of it, but go in Sir Cradock Nowellʼs carriage, and then evil–minded persons could not misinterpret her. Mr. Chope alone could tell her, as she had said to “Uncle Cradock” (witha faint hope that he might let slip something), what really was the nature and effect of her own marriage–settlement. Things of that sort were so far beyond her, so distasteful to her; sufficient for the day was the evil thereof; she could sympathize with almost any one, but really not with a person who looked forward to any disposal of property, unless it became, for the sake of the little ones, a matter of strict duty; and even then it must cause a heart–pang—oh, such a bitter heart–pang!“Coleʼs brains” was not the man to make himself too common. He always required digging out, like a fossil, from three or four muralsepta. Being disinterred at last from the innermost room, after winks, and nods, and quiet knocks innumerable, he came out with both hands over his eyes, because the light was too much for him, he had been so hard at work.And the first thing he always expressed was surprise, even though he had made the appointment. Mr. Simon Chope, attorney and solicitor, was now about five–and–thirty years old, a square–built man, just growing stout, with an enormous head, and a frizzle of hair which made it look still larger. There was a depth of gravity in his paper–white countenance—slightly marked with small–pox—a power of not laughing, such as we seldom see, except in a man of great humour, who says odd things, but rarely smiles till every one else is laughing. But if Chope were gifted, as he may have been, with a racy vein of comedy, nobody everknew it. He was not accustomed to make a joke gratis, neither to laugh upon similar terms at the jokes of other people. Tremendous gravity, quiet movements, very clear perception, most judicious reticence—these had been his characteristics since he started in life as an office–boy, and these would abide with him until he got everything he wanted; if any man ever does that.With many a bow and smile, expressing surprise, delight, and deference, Mr. Chope conducted to a special room that lady in whom he felt an interest transcending contingent remainder. Mrs. Corklemore swam to her place with that ease of movement which was one of her chief fascinations, and fixed her large grey eyes on the lawyer with the sweetest expression of innocence.“I fear, Mr. Chope—oh, where is my husband? he promised to meet me here—I fear that I must give you, oh, so much trouble again. But you exerted yourself so very kindly on my behalf about eighteen months ago, that I cannot bear to consult any other gentleman, even in the smallest matter.”“My services, such as they are, shall ever be at the entire disposal of Madame la Comtesse.”Mr. Chope would always address her so; “a countess once, a countess for ever,” was his view of the subject. Moreover, it ignored Mr. Corklemore, whom he hated as his supplanter; and, best reason of all, the lady evidently liked it.“You are so very kind, I felt sure that you would say so. But in this case, the business israther Mr. Corklemoreʼs than my own. But he has left it entirely to me, having greater confidence, perhaps, in my apprehension.”She knew, of course, that so to disparage her husband, by implication, was not in the very best taste; but she felt that Mr. Chope would be pleased, as she quite understood his sentiments.“And not without excellent reason,” answered the lawyer, softly; “if any lady would be an ornament to our profession, it is Madame la Comtesse.”“Oh no, Mr. Chope, oh no! I am so very simple. And I never should have the heart to do the things you are compelled to do. But to return: this little matter, in which I hope for your assistance, is a trifling exchange of mixed land with Sir Cradock Nowell.”“Ah, to be sure!” said Chope, feeling slightly disappointed, for he had some idea that the question would be more lucrative; “if you will give me particulars, it shall have our best attention.”“I think I have heard,” said Georgie, knowing thoroughly all about it, “that there is some mode of proceeding, under some Act of Parliament, which lightens, perhaps, to some extent, the legal difficulties—and, oh yes, the expenses.”Mrs. Corklemore knew how Mr. Chope had drawn her a very long bill—upon his imagination.“Oh, of course,” replied Mr. Chope, smitten yet more deeply with the legal knowledge, and full of the future Lord Chancellor; “there is a roughand ready way of dealing with almost anything. What they call a statutory proceeding, shockingly careless and haphazard, and most ungermainely thrust into an Enclosure Act. But we never permit any clients of ours to imperil their interests so, for the sake, perhaps, of half a sovereign. There is such a deal of quackery in all those dabblesome interferences with ancient institutions. For security, for comfort of mind, for scientific investigation, there is nothing like the exhaustive process of a good common law conveyance. Look at a proper abstract of title! A charming thing to contemplate; and still more charming, if possible, the requisitions upon it, when prepared by eminent counsel. But the tendency of the present age is to slur and cut short everything. Melancholy, most melancholy!”“Especially for the legal gentlemen, I suppose, Mr. Chope?”“Yes. It does hurt our feelings so to see all the grand safeguards, invented by men of consummate ability, swept away like old rubbish. I even heard of a case last week, where a piece of land, sold for 900l., actually cost the purchaser only 50l. for conveyance!”“Oh, how disgraceful!” cried Georgie, so nicely, that Chope detected no irony: “and now, I presume, if we proceed in the ordinary way, we must deliver and receive what you call ‘abstracts of title.’”“Quite so, quite so, whichever way you proceed.It is a most indispensable step. It will be my duty and privilege to deduce Mr. Corklemoreʼs title; and Mr. Brockwoodʼs, I presume, to show Sir Cradock Nowellʼs. All may be completed in six months’ time, if both sides act with energy. If you will favour me with the description of parcels, I will write at once to Mr. Brockwood; or, indeed, I shall see him to–night. He will be at the Masonsʼ dinner.”For a moment Mrs. Corklemore was taken quite aback. It is needless to say that no interchange of land had ever been dreamed of, except by herself, as a possible method of learning “how the land lay;” and indeed there was no intermixed land at all, as Mr. Chope strongly suspected. Neither was he, for the matter of that, likely to meet Mr. Brockwood; but when it becomes aprofessionalquestion, a man can mostly out–lie a woman, because he has more experience.“Be guided by me, if you please,” said Georgie, smiling enough to misguide any one; “we must not be premature, lest we seem too anxious about the bargain. And, I am sure, we have done our very best to be perfectly fair with Sir Cradock. Only we trust you, of course, to be sure that he has reposing, composing—oh, how stupid I am! I mean disposing power; that there is no awkward entail.”Here she looked so preternaturally simple, which she would never have done but for her previous flutter, that Simon Chope in a moment knew exactlywhat her game was. Nevertheless, he answered nicely in that tantalizing way which often makes a woman flash forth.“We shall see, no doubt, ere long. Of course Sir Cradock would not propose it, unless he had full power. Is it quite certain that poor Clayton Nowell left no legitimate offspring?”Oh, what a horrible suggestion! Such a thing would quite upset every scheme. Georgie had never thought of it. And yet it might even be so. There was something in the tone of Mr. Chopeʼs whisper, which convinced her that he had heard something.And only think; young men are so little looked after at Oxford, that they can get married very easily, without anything being heard of it. At least, so thought Mrs. Corklemore. And then oh, if poor Clayton had left a child, how his grandfather would idolize him! Sir Cradock would slip from her hands altogether; and scarcely any hope would remain of diverting the succession. Even if the child was a daughter, probably she would inherit, and could not yet have committed felony. Oh, what a fearful blow it would be!All this passed through that rapid mind in about half a second, during which time, however, the thinker could not help looking nonplussed. Mr. Chope of course perceived it, and found himself more and more wide–awake.“Well, what a strange idea!” she exclaimed, with unfeigned surprise. “There has not beenthe slightest suggestion of anything of the kind. And indeed I have lately heard what surprised me very much, that he had formed an—an improper attachment in a quarter very near home.”“Indeed! Do you know to whom?” It was Mr. Chope who was trying now to appear indifferent.“Yes. I was told. But it does not become me to repeat such stories.”“It not only becomes you in this case, but it is your absolute duty, and—and your true interest.”“Why, you quite frighten me, Mr. Chope. Your manner is so strange.”“It would grieve me deeply indeed to alarm Madame la Comtesse,” answered the lawyer, trying in vain to resume his airiness; “but I cannot do justice to any one who does not fully confide in me. In a case like this, especially, such interests are concerned, the title is so—so complicated, that purely as a matter of business we must be advised about everything.”“Well, I see no reason why I should not tell you. It cannot be of any importance. Poor Clayton Nowell had fallen in love with a girl very far beneath him—the daughter, I think she was, of a Mr. Garnet.”“Oh, I think I had heard a report of that sort”—he had never heard, but suspected it—”it can, of course, signify nothing, if the matter went no further; nevertheless, I thank you for your gratifying confidence. I apologize if I alarmedyou; there is nothing alarming at all in it. I was thinking of something very different.” This was utterly false; but it diverted her from the subject.“Oh, yes, I see. Of something, you mean, which might have caused a disagreement between the unfortunate brothers. Now tell me your opinion—in the strictest confidence, of course—as to that awful occurrence. Do you think—oh, I hope not——”“I was far away at the time, and can form no conclusion. But I know that my partner, Mr. Cole, the coroner, was too sadly convinced,—oh, I beg your pardon, I forgot for the moment that Madame la Comtesse——”“Pray forget my relationship, or rather consider it as a reason; oh, I would rather know the sad, sad truth. It is the suspense, oh the cruel suspense. What was Mr. Coleʼs conclusion?”“That if Cradock Nowell were put on his trial, he would not find a jury in England but must convict him.”“Oh, how inexpressibly shocking! Excuse me, may I ask for a glass of water? Oh, thank you, thank you. No wine, if you please. I must hurry away quite rudely. The fresh air will revive me. I cannot conclude my instructions to–day. How could I think of such little matters? Please to do nothing until you hear from me. Yes, I hear the carriage. I told Giles to allow me ten minutes only, unless Mr. Corklemore came. You see how thoroughly well I know the value of your time.We feel it so acutely; but I must not presume; no further, if you please!”Having thus appraised Mr. Chope, and apprised him of his distance, from a social point of view, Georgie gave him a smile which disarmed him, at least for the moment. But he was not the lawyer, or the man, to concede her the last word.“We lawyers never presume, madam, any more than we assume. We must have everything proved.”“Except your particulars of account, which you leave to prove themselves.”“Ha, ha! You are too clever for the whole profession. We can only prove our inferiority.”He stood, with his great bushy head uncovered, looking after the grand apparatus, and three boys sitting behind it; and then he went sadly back, and said, “Our son might have been Lord Chancellor. But I beat her this time in lying.”

To bar the entail of crime. A bitter and abortive task; at least, in this vindictive world, where Christians dwell more on Mount Sinai than on the mount that did not quake and burn with fire.

And yet for this, and little else, still clung to fair fame and life the man who rather would have lain beneath the quick–lime of Newgate. It was not for the empty part, the reputation, the position, the respect of those who prove the etymon of the word by truly looking backward—not for these alone, nor mainly, did Bull Garnet bear the anguish now from month to month more bitter, deeper, less concealable. He strove with himself, and checked himself, and bit his tongue, and jerked back his heart, and nursed that shattered lie, his life, if so might be that Pearl and Bob should start anew in another land, with a fair career before them. Not that he cared, more than he could help, whether they might be rich or poor; only that he would like them to have the chance of choosing.

This chance had not been fair for him, forsaken as he was, and outcast; banned by all the laws of men, because his mother had been trustful, and his father treacherous. Yet against all chances, he, by his own rightful power, deeply hating and (which was worse) conscientiously despising every social prejudice, made his way among smaller men, taught himself by day and night, formed his own strong character, with the hatred of tyranny for its base, and tyranny of his own for its apex; and finally gained success in the world, and large views of Christianity. And in all of this he was sincere!

It was a vile and bitter wrong to which he owed his birth. Sir Cradock Nowell, the father of the present baronet, had fallen in love of some sort with a comely Yorkshire maiden, whose motherʼs farm adjoined the moors, whereon the shooting quarters were. Then, in that period of mean license, when fashionable servility was wriggling, like a cellar–slug, in the slime–track of low princes, Sir Cradock Nowell did what few of his roystering friends would have thought of—unfashionable Tarquinian, he committed a quiet bigamy. He had lived apart from Lady Nowell, even before her second confinement; because he could not get on with her. So Miss Garnet went with him to the quiet altar of a little Yorkshire church, and fancied she was Lady Nowell; only that must be a secret, “because they had not the kingʼs consent, for he was not in a state to give it.”

When she learned her niddering wrong, and thedespite to her unborn child, she cast her curse upon the race, not with loud rant, but long scorn, and went from her widowed mother, to a cold and unknown place.

So soon as Bull Garnet was old enough to know right from wrong, and to see how much more of the latter had fallen to his share, two courses lay before him. Two, I mean, were possible to a strong and upright nature; to a false and weak one fifty would have offered, and a little of each been taken. Conscious as he was of spirit, energy, and decision, he might apply them all to very ungenial purposes, to sarcasm, contemptuousness, and general misanthropy. Or else he might take a larger view, pity the poor old–fashioned prigs who despise a man for his fatherʼs fault, and generously adapt himself to the broadest Christianity.

The latter course was the one he chose; in solid earnest, too, because it suited his nature. And so perhaps we had better say that he chose no course at all, but had the wiser one forced upon him. Yet the old Adam of damnable temper too often would rush out of Paradise, and prove in strong language that he would not be put off together with his works. Exeter Hall would have owned him, in spite of all his backslidings, as a very “far–advanced Christian;” because he was so “evangelical.” And yet he never dealt in cant, nor distributed idyllic tracts, Sabbatarian pastorals, where godly Thomas meets drunken John, and convertshim to the dilutedvappaof an unfermented Sunday.

And now this man, whom all who knew him either loved or hated, felt the troubles closing around him, and saw that the end was coming. He had kept his own sense of justice down, while it jerked (like a thistle on springs) in his heart; he had worn himself out with thinking for ever what would become of his children, whom he had wronged more heavily than his own bad father had wronged him—only the difference was that he loved them; and most of all he had let a poor fellow, whom he liked and esteemed most truly, bear all the brunt, all the misery, all the despair of fratricide.

Now all he asked for, all he prayed for—and, indeed, he prayed more than ever now, and with deeper feeling; though many would have feared to do it—now his utmost hope was to win six months of life. In that time all might be arranged for his childrenʼs interest; his purchase of those five hundred acres from the Crown Commissioners—all good land, near the Romsey–road, but too full of juice—would soon be so completed that he could sell again at treble the price he gave, so well had he reclaimed the land, while equitably his; and then Bob should have half, and Pearl take half (because she had been so injured), and, starting with the proceeds of all his earthly substance before it should escheat, be happy in America, and think fondly of dead father.

This was all he lived for now. It may seem a wild programme; but, practical as he was in business, and not to be wronged of a halfpenny, Bull Garnet was vague and sentimental when he “took on” about his children. Furious if they were wronged, loving them as the cow did (who, without a horn to her head, pounded dead the leopard), ready to take most liberal views of everything beyond them, yet keeping ever to his eyes that parental lens, whose focus is so very short, and therefore, by the optic laws, its magnifying power and aberration glorious.

Now three foes were closing round him; all of whom, by different process, and from different premises, had arrived at the one conclusion. The three were, as he knew too well, Rufus Hutton, Issachar Jupp, and Mr. Chope, of Southampton. Of the first he held undue contempt (not knowing all his evidence); the second he had for the time disarmed, by an appealad hominem; the third was the most to be feared, the most awful, because so crafty, keen, and deep, so utterly impenetrable.

Mr. Chope, the partner and “brains” of Cole, the coroner, was absent upon a lawyerʼs holiday at the time of the inquest. When he came home, and heard all about it, and saw the place, and put questions, he scarcely knew what to think. Only upon one point he was certain—the verdict had been wrong. Either Cradock Nowell had shot his brother purposely, or some one else had done so. To Chopeʼs clear intuition, and thoroughknowledge of fire–arms—for his one relaxation was shooting—it was plain as possible that there had been no accident. To the people who told him about the cartridge “balling,” he expressed no opinion; but to himself he said, “Pooh! I have seen Cradock Nowell shoot. He always knew all he was doing. He never would put agreencartridge into his gun for a woodcock. And the others very seldom ball. And even if he had a green cartridge, look at the chances against it. I would lay my life Clayton Nowell was shot on purpose.”

Then, of course, Mr. Chope set to, not only with hope of reward, but to gratify his own instinct, at the puzzle and wards of the question. If he had known the neighbourhood well, and all the local politics, he must have arrived at due conclusion long before he did. But a heavy piece of conveyancing came into the office of Cole, Chope, and Co., and, being far more lucrative than amateur speculations, robbed them of their attention. But now that stubborn piece was done with, and Mr. Chope again at leisure to pursue his quest. Twice or thrice every week he was seen, walking in his deliberate way, as if every step were paid for, through the village of Nowelhurst, and among the haunts of the woodcutters. He carried his great head downwards, as a bloodhound on the track does, but raised it, and met with a soft sweet smile all who cared to look at him. In his hand he bore a fishing–rod, and round his hat sometrout–flies; and often he entered the village inn, and had bread and cheese in the taproom, though invited into the parlour. Although his boots were soaked and soiled as if he had been wading, and the landing–net, slung across his back, had evidently been dripping, he opened to none his fishing creel, neither had any trout fried, but spoke in a desponding manner of the shyness of the fish, and the brightness of the water, and vowed every time that his patience was now at last exhausted. As none could fish in that neighbourhood without asking Sir Cradockʼs permission, or trespassing against him, and as the old baronet was most duly tenacious of all his sporting rights, everybody wondered what Mark Stote was about to allow a mere far–comer to carry on so in Nowelhurst water. But Mark Stote knew a great deal better what was up than they did.

Four or five times now, Bull Garnet, riding on his rounds of business, had met Simon Chope, and bowed politely to him. On the first occasion, Mr. Chope, knowing very little of Garnet, and failing to comprehend him (as we fail, at first sight, with all antipodes), lost his slow sequacious art, because he over–riddled it. All very cunning men do this; even my Lord Bacon, but never our brother Shakespeare.

But Mr. Garnet read him truly, and his purpose also, by the aid of his own consciousness; and a thrill of deep, cold fear went through that hot and stormy heart. Nevertheless, he met the case in hisusual manner, and puzzled Mr. Chope on the third or fourth encounter by inviting him to dinner. The lawyer found some ready plea for declining this invitation; sleuth and cold–blooded as he was, he could not accept hospitality to sift his host for murder. Of course Mr. Garnet had foreseen the refusal of this overture; but it added to his general alarm, even more than it contributed to his momentary relief. Clearly enough he knew, or felt, that now he was running a race against time; and if he could only win that race, and give the prize to his children, how happily would he yield himself to his only comfort—death. With his strong religious views—right or wrong, who shall dare to say? for the matter is not of reason—he doubted Godʼs great mercy to him in another world no more than he doubted his own great love to his own begotten.

And sad it was, enough to move the tears of any Stoic, to behold Bull Garnet now sitting with his children. Instead of being shy and distant (as for a while he had been, when the crime was new upon him) he would watch them, word by word, smile by smile, or tear for tear, as if he never could have enough of the little that was left to him. They had begun to talk again carelessly in his presence, as the manner of the young is. Bob had found that the vague, dark cloud, of whose origin he knew nothing, was lifted a little, and lightened; and Pearl, who knew all about it, was trying to slip from beneath its shadow, withthe self–preservation of youth, and into the long–obscured but native sunlight of a daughterʼs love. And all the while their father, the man of force and violence, would look from one to the other of them, perceiving, with a curious smile, little traits of himself; often amused at, and blessing them for, their very sage inexperience; thinking to show how both were wrong, yet longing not to do it. And then he would begin to wonder which of them he loved more deeply. Pearl had gained upon him so, by the patience of her wrong, by coming to the hearth for shelter from the storms of outer love.

In all races against time, luck, itself the child of time, is apt to govern the result more than highest skill may. So far, most of the luck had been in Mr. Garnetʼs favour; the approach of unlucky Cradock that day, the distraction of his mind—the hurried and jostled aim which even misled himself; the distance of John Rosedew; the blundering and timid coroner and the soft–hearted jury; even the state of the weather; and since that time the perversion and weakness of the fatherʼs mind: all these had prevented that close inquiry which must have led to either his conviction or confession. For, of course, he would have confessed at once, come what might, if an innocent man had been apprehended for his guilt.

Only in one important matter—so far at least as he knew yet, not having heard of Jemʼs discovery, and Mr. Huttonʼs advance upon it—had fortunebeen against him; that one was the crashing of his locked cupboard, and the exposure of the broken gun–case to Rufus Huttonʼs eyes. And now it was an adverse fate which brought Mr. Chope upon the stage, and yet it was a kindly one which kept him apart from Hutton. For Simon Chope and Rufus Hutton disliked one another heartily; as the old repulsion is between cold blood and hot blood.

As it happened, Mr. Chope was Mrs. Corklemoreʼs pet lawyer: he had been employed to see that she was defrauded of no adequate rights uxorial upon her second marriage. And uncommonly good care he took to secure the lionʼs share for her. Indeed, had it been possible for him to fall in love at all with anything but money, that foolish lapse would have been his, at the very first sight of Georgie. Sweetly innocent and good, she did so sympathize with “to wit, whereas, and notwithstanding;” she entered with such gush of heart into the bitter necessity of making many folios, and charging for every one of them, which the depravity of human nature has forced on a class whose native bias rather tends to poetry; she felt so acutely (when all was made plain to her, and Mr. Corklemore paid the bill) how very very wrong it was not to have implicit confidence—”in being cheated,” under her breath, and that shaft was Cupidʼs to Mr. Chope—in a word, he was so smitten, that he doubled all his charges, and insertedan especial power of appointment, for (Mr. Corklemore having the gout) he looked on her as his reversion.

“Hang it,” he said, for his extreme idea of final punishment was legal; “hang it, if I married that woman, our son would be Lord Chancellor. I never saw such a liar.”

Now it was almost certain that, under Sir Cradock Nowellʼs settlement upon marriage, an entail had been created. The lawyers, who do as they like in such matters, and live in a cloud of their own breath, are sure to provide for continuance, and the bills of their grandchildren.

“Alas, how sad!” thought Georgie, as she lay back in the Nowelhurst carriage on her way to Cole, Chope, and Co.; “how very sad if it should be so. Then there will be no cure for it, but to get up the evidence, meet the dreadful publicity, and get the poor fellow convicted. And they say he is so good–looking! Perhaps I hate ugly people so much, because I am so pretty. Oh, how I wish Mr. Corklemore walked a little more like a gentleman. But as a sacred duty to my innocent darling, I must leave no stone unturned.”

Fully convinced of her pure integrity, Georgie drove up in state and style to the office of Cole, Chope, and Co., somewhere in Southampton. She would make no secret of it, but go in Sir Cradock Nowellʼs carriage, and then evil–minded persons could not misinterpret her. Mr. Chope alone could tell her, as she had said to “Uncle Cradock” (witha faint hope that he might let slip something), what really was the nature and effect of her own marriage–settlement. Things of that sort were so far beyond her, so distasteful to her; sufficient for the day was the evil thereof; she could sympathize with almost any one, but really not with a person who looked forward to any disposal of property, unless it became, for the sake of the little ones, a matter of strict duty; and even then it must cause a heart–pang—oh, such a bitter heart–pang!

“Coleʼs brains” was not the man to make himself too common. He always required digging out, like a fossil, from three or four muralsepta. Being disinterred at last from the innermost room, after winks, and nods, and quiet knocks innumerable, he came out with both hands over his eyes, because the light was too much for him, he had been so hard at work.

And the first thing he always expressed was surprise, even though he had made the appointment. Mr. Simon Chope, attorney and solicitor, was now about five–and–thirty years old, a square–built man, just growing stout, with an enormous head, and a frizzle of hair which made it look still larger. There was a depth of gravity in his paper–white countenance—slightly marked with small–pox—a power of not laughing, such as we seldom see, except in a man of great humour, who says odd things, but rarely smiles till every one else is laughing. But if Chope were gifted, as he may have been, with a racy vein of comedy, nobody everknew it. He was not accustomed to make a joke gratis, neither to laugh upon similar terms at the jokes of other people. Tremendous gravity, quiet movements, very clear perception, most judicious reticence—these had been his characteristics since he started in life as an office–boy, and these would abide with him until he got everything he wanted; if any man ever does that.

With many a bow and smile, expressing surprise, delight, and deference, Mr. Chope conducted to a special room that lady in whom he felt an interest transcending contingent remainder. Mrs. Corklemore swam to her place with that ease of movement which was one of her chief fascinations, and fixed her large grey eyes on the lawyer with the sweetest expression of innocence.

“I fear, Mr. Chope—oh, where is my husband? he promised to meet me here—I fear that I must give you, oh, so much trouble again. But you exerted yourself so very kindly on my behalf about eighteen months ago, that I cannot bear to consult any other gentleman, even in the smallest matter.”

“My services, such as they are, shall ever be at the entire disposal of Madame la Comtesse.”

Mr. Chope would always address her so; “a countess once, a countess for ever,” was his view of the subject. Moreover, it ignored Mr. Corklemore, whom he hated as his supplanter; and, best reason of all, the lady evidently liked it.

“You are so very kind, I felt sure that you would say so. But in this case, the business israther Mr. Corklemoreʼs than my own. But he has left it entirely to me, having greater confidence, perhaps, in my apprehension.”

She knew, of course, that so to disparage her husband, by implication, was not in the very best taste; but she felt that Mr. Chope would be pleased, as she quite understood his sentiments.

“And not without excellent reason,” answered the lawyer, softly; “if any lady would be an ornament to our profession, it is Madame la Comtesse.”

“Oh no, Mr. Chope, oh no! I am so very simple. And I never should have the heart to do the things you are compelled to do. But to return: this little matter, in which I hope for your assistance, is a trifling exchange of mixed land with Sir Cradock Nowell.”

“Ah, to be sure!” said Chope, feeling slightly disappointed, for he had some idea that the question would be more lucrative; “if you will give me particulars, it shall have our best attention.”

“I think I have heard,” said Georgie, knowing thoroughly all about it, “that there is some mode of proceeding, under some Act of Parliament, which lightens, perhaps, to some extent, the legal difficulties—and, oh yes, the expenses.”

Mrs. Corklemore knew how Mr. Chope had drawn her a very long bill—upon his imagination.

“Oh, of course,” replied Mr. Chope, smitten yet more deeply with the legal knowledge, and full of the future Lord Chancellor; “there is a roughand ready way of dealing with almost anything. What they call a statutory proceeding, shockingly careless and haphazard, and most ungermainely thrust into an Enclosure Act. But we never permit any clients of ours to imperil their interests so, for the sake, perhaps, of half a sovereign. There is such a deal of quackery in all those dabblesome interferences with ancient institutions. For security, for comfort of mind, for scientific investigation, there is nothing like the exhaustive process of a good common law conveyance. Look at a proper abstract of title! A charming thing to contemplate; and still more charming, if possible, the requisitions upon it, when prepared by eminent counsel. But the tendency of the present age is to slur and cut short everything. Melancholy, most melancholy!”

“Especially for the legal gentlemen, I suppose, Mr. Chope?”

“Yes. It does hurt our feelings so to see all the grand safeguards, invented by men of consummate ability, swept away like old rubbish. I even heard of a case last week, where a piece of land, sold for 900l., actually cost the purchaser only 50l. for conveyance!”

“Oh, how disgraceful!” cried Georgie, so nicely, that Chope detected no irony: “and now, I presume, if we proceed in the ordinary way, we must deliver and receive what you call ‘abstracts of title.’”

“Quite so, quite so, whichever way you proceed.It is a most indispensable step. It will be my duty and privilege to deduce Mr. Corklemoreʼs title; and Mr. Brockwoodʼs, I presume, to show Sir Cradock Nowellʼs. All may be completed in six months’ time, if both sides act with energy. If you will favour me with the description of parcels, I will write at once to Mr. Brockwood; or, indeed, I shall see him to–night. He will be at the Masonsʼ dinner.”

For a moment Mrs. Corklemore was taken quite aback. It is needless to say that no interchange of land had ever been dreamed of, except by herself, as a possible method of learning “how the land lay;” and indeed there was no intermixed land at all, as Mr. Chope strongly suspected. Neither was he, for the matter of that, likely to meet Mr. Brockwood; but when it becomes aprofessionalquestion, a man can mostly out–lie a woman, because he has more experience.

“Be guided by me, if you please,” said Georgie, smiling enough to misguide any one; “we must not be premature, lest we seem too anxious about the bargain. And, I am sure, we have done our very best to be perfectly fair with Sir Cradock. Only we trust you, of course, to be sure that he has reposing, composing—oh, how stupid I am! I mean disposing power; that there is no awkward entail.”

Here she looked so preternaturally simple, which she would never have done but for her previous flutter, that Simon Chope in a moment knew exactlywhat her game was. Nevertheless, he answered nicely in that tantalizing way which often makes a woman flash forth.

“We shall see, no doubt, ere long. Of course Sir Cradock would not propose it, unless he had full power. Is it quite certain that poor Clayton Nowell left no legitimate offspring?”

Oh, what a horrible suggestion! Such a thing would quite upset every scheme. Georgie had never thought of it. And yet it might even be so. There was something in the tone of Mr. Chopeʼs whisper, which convinced her that he had heard something.

And only think; young men are so little looked after at Oxford, that they can get married very easily, without anything being heard of it. At least, so thought Mrs. Corklemore. And then oh, if poor Clayton had left a child, how his grandfather would idolize him! Sir Cradock would slip from her hands altogether; and scarcely any hope would remain of diverting the succession. Even if the child was a daughter, probably she would inherit, and could not yet have committed felony. Oh, what a fearful blow it would be!

All this passed through that rapid mind in about half a second, during which time, however, the thinker could not help looking nonplussed. Mr. Chope of course perceived it, and found himself more and more wide–awake.

“Well, what a strange idea!” she exclaimed, with unfeigned surprise. “There has not beenthe slightest suggestion of anything of the kind. And indeed I have lately heard what surprised me very much, that he had formed an—an improper attachment in a quarter very near home.”

“Indeed! Do you know to whom?” It was Mr. Chope who was trying now to appear indifferent.

“Yes. I was told. But it does not become me to repeat such stories.”

“It not only becomes you in this case, but it is your absolute duty, and—and your true interest.”

“Why, you quite frighten me, Mr. Chope. Your manner is so strange.”

“It would grieve me deeply indeed to alarm Madame la Comtesse,” answered the lawyer, trying in vain to resume his airiness; “but I cannot do justice to any one who does not fully confide in me. In a case like this, especially, such interests are concerned, the title is so—so complicated, that purely as a matter of business we must be advised about everything.”

“Well, I see no reason why I should not tell you. It cannot be of any importance. Poor Clayton Nowell had fallen in love with a girl very far beneath him—the daughter, I think she was, of a Mr. Garnet.”

“Oh, I think I had heard a report of that sort”—he had never heard, but suspected it—”it can, of course, signify nothing, if the matter went no further; nevertheless, I thank you for your gratifying confidence. I apologize if I alarmedyou; there is nothing alarming at all in it. I was thinking of something very different.” This was utterly false; but it diverted her from the subject.

“Oh, yes, I see. Of something, you mean, which might have caused a disagreement between the unfortunate brothers. Now tell me your opinion—in the strictest confidence, of course—as to that awful occurrence. Do you think—oh, I hope not——”

“I was far away at the time, and can form no conclusion. But I know that my partner, Mr. Cole, the coroner, was too sadly convinced,—oh, I beg your pardon, I forgot for the moment that Madame la Comtesse——”

“Pray forget my relationship, or rather consider it as a reason; oh, I would rather know the sad, sad truth. It is the suspense, oh the cruel suspense. What was Mr. Coleʼs conclusion?”

“That if Cradock Nowell were put on his trial, he would not find a jury in England but must convict him.”

“Oh, how inexpressibly shocking! Excuse me, may I ask for a glass of water? Oh, thank you, thank you. No wine, if you please. I must hurry away quite rudely. The fresh air will revive me. I cannot conclude my instructions to–day. How could I think of such little matters? Please to do nothing until you hear from me. Yes, I hear the carriage. I told Giles to allow me ten minutes only, unless Mr. Corklemore came. You see how thoroughly well I know the value of your time.We feel it so acutely; but I must not presume; no further, if you please!”

Having thus appraised Mr. Chope, and apprised him of his distance, from a social point of view, Georgie gave him a smile which disarmed him, at least for the moment. But he was not the lawyer, or the man, to concede her the last word.

“We lawyers never presume, madam, any more than we assume. We must have everything proved.”

“Except your particulars of account, which you leave to prove themselves.”

“Ha, ha! You are too clever for the whole profession. We can only prove our inferiority.”

He stood, with his great bushy head uncovered, looking after the grand apparatus, and three boys sitting behind it; and then he went sadly back, and said, “Our son might have been Lord Chancellor. But I beat her this time in lying.”

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