<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2 class="p4">CHAPTER XV.</h2>
<p class="p2">That night the man of violence enjoyed the
first sweet dreamless sleep that had spread its
velvet shield between him and his guilt and sorrow.
Pearl, who had sat up late with Bob, comforting
and crying with him, listened at her fatherʼs door,
and heard his quiet breathing. Through many
months of trouble, now, she had watched him
kindly, tenderly, fearing ever some wild outbreak
upon others or himself, hiding in her empty heart
all its desolation.</p>
<p>The very next day, Bull Garnet resolved to
have it out with his son; not to surprise him by
emotion to a hasty issue, but now to learn what
he thought and felt, after taking his time about it.
All this we need not try to tell, only so much as
bears upon the staple of the story.</p>
<p>“Father, I know that you had—you had good
reason for doing it.”</p>
<p>“There could be no good reason. There might<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</SPAN></span>
be, and were, many bad ones. Of this I will not
speak to you. I did it in violence and fury, and
under a false impression. When I saw him, with
his arm cast round my pure and darling Pearl,
Satanʼs rage is but a smile compared to the fury
of my heart. He had his gun, and I had mine;
I had taken it to shoot a squirrel which meddled
with our firework nonsense. I tore her from him
before I could speak, thrust her aside, stepped
back two paces, gave him ‘one, two, three,’ and
fired. He had time to fire in self–defence, and his
muzzle was at my head, and his finger on the
trigger; but there it crooked, and he could not
pull. Want of nerve, I suppose. I saw his finger
shaking, and then I saw him fall. Now, my son,
you know everything.”</p>
<p>“Why, father, after all then, it was nothing
worse than a duel. He had just the same chance
of killing you, and would have done it, only you
were too quick for him.”</p>
<p>“Even to retain your love, I will have no lie in
the matter, Bob, although a duel, in my opinion,
is only murder made game of. But this was no
duel, no manslaughter even, but an act of downright
murder. No English jury could help convicting
me, and I will never plead insanity. It
was the inevitable result of inborn violence and
self–will, growing and growing from year to year,
and strengthened by wrongs of which you know
nothing. God knows that I have fought against
it; but my weapon was pride, not humility. Now<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</SPAN></span>
let this miserable subject never be recurred to by
us, at least in words, till the end comes. As soon
as I hear that poor innocent Cradock is apprehended,
and brought to England, I shall surrender
myself and confess. But for your sake and poor
Pearlyʼs, I should have done so at the very outset.
Now it is very likely that I may not have the
option. Two persons know that I did it, although
they have no evidence, so far as I am aware; a
third person more than suspects it, and is seeking
about for the evidence. Moreover, Sir Cradock
Nowell, to whom, as I told you, I owned my deed,
although he could not then understand me, may
have done so since, or may hereafter do so, at any
lucid interval.”</p>
<p>“Oh, father, father, he never would be so
mean——”</p>
<p>“He is bound by his duty to do it—and for his
living sonʼs sake he must. I only tell you these
things, my son, to spare you a part of the shock.
One month now is all I crave, to do my best for
you two darlings. I will not ruin the chance by
going again to Sir Cradock. God saved me from
my own rash words, doubtless for your pure sake.
Now, knowing all, and reflecting upon it, can you
call me still your father, Bob?”</p>
<p>This was one of the times that tell whether a
father has through life thought more of himself or
of his children. If of himself, they fall away, like
Southern ivies in a storm, parasites which cannot
cling, but glide on the marble surface. But if he<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</SPAN></span>
has made his future of them, closer they cling,
and clasp more firmly, like our British ivy engrailed
into the house wall.</p>
<p>So the Garnet family clung together, although
no longer blossoming, but flagging sorely with
blight and canker, and daily fear of the woodman.
Bob, of course, avoided Eoa, to her great indignation,
though he could not quite make up his mind
to tell her that all was over, without showing
reason for it. In the forcing temperature of
trouble, he was suddenly become a man, growing
daily more like his father, in all except the violence.
He roamed no more through the wilds of
the forest, but let the birds nest comfortably, the
butterflies hover in happiness, and the wireworm
cast his shard unchallenged. He would care for
all those things again, if he ever recovered his
comfort.</p>
<p>Now Eoa, as everybody knew, did not by any
means embody the spirit of toleration. She would
hardly allow any will but her own in anything that
concerned her. In a word, she was a child, a very
warm–hearted and lovely one, but therefore all the
more requiring a strong will founded on common
sense to lead her into the life–brunt. And so,
if she must have Bob some day, she had better
have him consolidated, though reduced to three
per cent.</p>
<p>Not discerning her own interests, she would have
been wild as a hare ought to be at the vernal equinox,
but for one little fact. There was nobody to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</SPAN></span>
be jealous of. Darling Amy, whom she loved as
all young ladies love one another—until they see
cause to the contrary—sweet thing, she was gone
to Oxford with her dear, good father. They had
slipped off without any fuss at all (except from
Biddy OʼGaghan, who came and threw an old shoe
at them), because Mr. Rosedew, in the first place,
felt that he could not bear it, and thought, in the
second place, that it would be an uncourteous act
towards Sir Cradock Nowell to allow any demonstration.
And yet it was notorious that even Job
Hogstaff had arranged to totter down on Mark
Stoteʼs arm, followed by a dozen tenants (all of
whom had leases), and the rank and file of Nowelhurst,
who had paid their house–rent; and then
there would be a marshalling outside the parsonage–gate;
and upon the appearance of the fly, Job
with his crutch would testify, whereupon a shout
would arise pronouncing everlasting divorce between
Church and State in Nowelhurst, undying
gratitude to the former, and defiance to the latter
power.</p>
<p>Yet all this programme was nullified by the departure
of John and his household gods at five
oʼclock one May morning. Already he had received
assurance from some of his ancient co–mates
at Oriel (most cohesive of colleges) that they
would gladly welcome him, and find him plenty
of work to do. In less than six weeks’ time, of
course, the long vacation would begin. What of
that? Let him come at once, and with his widespread<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</SPAN></span>
reputation he must have the pick of all the
men who would stay up to read for honours. For
now the fruit of a lifetime lore was ripening over
his honoured head, not (like that of Tantalus)
wafted into the cloud–land, not even waiting to be
plucked at, but falling unawares into his broad
and simple bosom, where it might lie uncared for,
except for the sake of Amy. So large a mind had
long outlived the little itch for fame, quite untruly
called “the last infirmity of noble minds.” Their
first it is, beyond all doubt; and wisely nature
orders it. Their last is far more apt to be—at
least in this generation—contempt of fame, and
man, and God, except for practical purposes.</p>
<p>Mr. Rosedewʼs careful treatises upon the Sabellian
and Sabello–Oscan elements had stirred up
pleasant controversy in the narrow world of scholars;
and now at the trito–megistic blow of the
Roseo–rorine hammer, ringing upon no less a
theme than the tables of Iguvium, the wise men
who sit round the board of classical education,
even Jupiter Grabovius (the original of John
Bull), had clapped their hands and cried, “Hear,
hear! He knows what he is talking of; and he is
one of us.”</p>
<p>That, after all, is the essence of it—to know
what one is talking of. And the grand advantage
of the ancient universities is, not the tone of manners,
not the knowledge of life—rather a hat–box
thing with them—not even the high ideal, the
manliness, and the chivalry, which the better class<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</SPAN></span>
of men win; but the curt knowledge, whether or
not they are talking of what they know. <i>Scire
quod nescias</i> is taught, if they teach us nothing
else. And though we are all still apt to talk,
especially among ladies, of things beyond our acquaintance—else
haply we talk but little—we do
so with a qualm, and quasi, and fluttering sense
that effrontery is not—but leads to—”pluck.”</p>
<p>Nevertheless, who am I to talk, proving myself,
by every word, false to Alma Mater, having ventured
all along to talk of things beyond me?</p>
<p>As they rose the hill towards Carfax, Amy
(tired as she was) trembled with excitement. Her
father had won a cure in St. Oles—derived no
doubt from <i>oleo</i>—and all were to lodge in Pembroke
Lane, pending mature arrangements. Though
they might have turned off near the jail, and saved
a little cab fare, John would go by the broader way,
as his fashion always was; except in a little posthumous
matter, wherein perhaps we have over–defined
with brimstone the direction–posts.</p>
<p>Be that as it may,—not to press the <i>scire quod
nescias</i> (potential in such a case, I hope, rather
than conjunctive)—there they must be left, all
three, with Jenny and Jemima outside, and Jem
Pottles on the pavement, amazed at the cheek of
everything. Only let one thing be said. Though
prettier girl than Amy Rosedew had never stepped
on the stones of Oxford since the time of Amy
Robsart, if even then,—never once, was she insulted.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Lowest of all low calumnies. There are blackguards
among university men, as everybody knows,
and as there must be among all men. But even
those blackguards can see the difference between a
lady, or rather between a pure girl and—another.
And even those blackguards have an intensified
reverence for the one;—but let the matter pass;
for now we hide in gold these subjects, and sham
not to see their flaunting.</p>
<p>Be it, however, confessed that Amy (whose
father soon had rooms in college, not to live, but
to lecture in), being a very shy young maiden,
never could be brought to come and call him to
his tea,—oh no. So many young men in gorgeous
trappings, charms, and dangles, and hooks of gold,
and eye–glasses very knowing—not to mention
volunteer stuff, and knickerbockers demonstrant
of calf—oddly enough they <i>would</i> happen to feel
so interested in the architecture of the porterʼs
lodge whenever Amy came by, never gazing too
warmly at her, but contriving to convey their
regret at the suppression of their sentiments, and
their yearning to be the stones she trod on, and
their despair at the possibility of her not caring if
they were so—really all this was so trying, that
Amy would never go into college without Aunt
Doxy before her, gazing four–gunned cupolas even
at scouts and manciples. And this was very provoking
of her, not only to the hearts that beat
under waistcoats ordered for her sake, but also to
the domestic kettle a–boil in Pembroke Lane.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</SPAN></span>
For, over and over again, Uncle John, great as
he was in chronology and every kind of “marmora,”
and able to detect a flaw upon Potamogeitonʼs
tombstone, lost all sense of time and place,
<i>me</i> and <i>te</i>, and <i>hocce</i> and Doxy, and calmly went
home some two hours late, and complacently received
Doxology.</p>
<p>But alas, we must abandon Amy to the insidious
designs of Hebdomadal Board, the velvet approaches
of Proctor and Pro, and the brass of the
gentlemen Bedels, while we regard more rugged
scenes, from which she was happily absent.</p>
<p>Rufus Hutton had found the missing link, and
at the same time the strongest staple, of the desired
evidence. The battered gun–barrels had
been identified, and even the number deciphered,
by the foreman of Messrs. L—— and Co. And
the entry in their books of the sale of that very
gun (number, gauge, and other particulars beyond
all doubt corresponding) was—”to Bull Garnet,
&c., Nowelhurst Dell Cottage,” whom also they
could identify from his “strongly–marked physiognomy,”
and his quick, decisive manner. And the
cartridge–case, which had lain so long in Dr.
Huttonʼs pocket, of course they could not depose
to its sale, together with the gun; but this they
could show, that it fitted the gauge, was not at all
of a common gauge, but two sizes larger—No. 10,
in fact—and must have been sold during the
month in which they sold the gun, because it was
one of a sample which they had taken upon<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</SPAN></span>
approval, and soon discarded for a case of better
manufacture.</p>
<p>Then as to motive, Rufus Hutton himself could
depose to that, or the probability of it, from what
he had seen, but not understood, at the fixing of
the fireworks; neither had he forgotten the furious
mood of Bull Garnet, both then and in his
garden.</p>
<p>While he was doubting how to act—for, clearly
as he knew his power to hang the man who had
outraged him, the very fact of his injury made
him loth to use that power; for he was not at all
a vindictive man, now the heat of the thing was
past, and he saw that the sudden attack had been
made in self–defence—while he was hesitating
between his sense of duty and pity for Cradock
on one hand, and his ideas of magnanimity and
horror of hanging a man on the other, he was
thrown, without any choice or chance, across the
track of Simon Chope.</p>
<p>Perhaps there is no more vulgar error, no
stronger proof of ignorance and slavery to catchwords,
than to abuse or think ill of any particular
class of men, solely on account of their profession—although,
perhaps, we might justly throw the
<i>onus probandi</i> their merit upon hangmen, body–snatchers,
informers, and a few others—yet may
I think (deprecating most humbly the omen of
this conjunction) that solicitors, tailors, and Methodist
parsons fight at some disadvantage both in
fact and in fiction? Yet can they hold their<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</SPAN></span>
own; and sympathy, if owing, is sure to have to
pay them—notwithstanding, goose, and amen.</p>
<p>Away with all feeble flippancy! Heavy tidings
came to Nowelhurst Hall, Dell Cottage, and
Geopharmacy Lodge, simultaneously, as might
be, on the 20th of June. The <i>Taprobane</i> had
been lost, with every soul on board; and this is
the record of it, enshrined in many journals:—</p>
<p>“By recent advices from Capetown, per the
screw–steamer <i>Sutler</i>, we sincerely regret to learn
that the magnificent clipper–built ship <i>Taprobane</i>,
of 2200 tons (new system), A 1 at Lloydʼs for
15 years, and bound from the Thames to Colombo,
with a cargo valued by competent judges at
120,000<i>l.</i>, took the shore in Benguela Bay during
a typhoon of unprecedented destructiveness. It is
our melancholy duty to add that the entirety of
the valuable cargo was entirely lost, although very
amply assured in unexceptionable quarters, and
that every soul on board was consigned to a watery
grave. A Portuguese gentleman of good family
and large fortune, who happened to be in the
neighbourhood, was an eye–witness to the catastrophe,
and made superhuman exertions to rescue
the unfortunate mariners, but, alas! in vain.
Senhor José de Calcavello has arrived at the
conclusion that some of her copper may be saved.
The ill–fated bark broke up so rapidly, from the
powerful action of the billows, that her identity
could only be established from a portion of her<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</SPAN></span>
sternpost, which was discovered half buried in
sand three nautical miles to the southward. We
have been informed, upon good authority, although
we are not at liberty to mention our source of
information, that Her Britannic Majestyʼs steamcorvette
<i>Mumbo Jumbo</i>, pierced for twenty–eight
guns, and carrying two, is under orders to depart,
as soon as ever she can be coaled, for the scene
of the recent catastrophe. Meanwhile, the tug
<i>Growler</i> has arrived with all the memorials of
the calamity, after affording the rites of sepulture
to the poor shipwrecked mariners cast up by the
treacherous billows. The set of the current being
so adverse, we have reason to fear that the rest of
the bodies must have fallen a prey to the monsters
of the deep. There are said to be some hopes of
recovering a portion of the specie.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Corklemore happened to be calling at
Geopharmacy Lodge, when the London papers
arrived in the early afternoon. Rufus begged
pardon, and broke the cover, to see something in
which he was interested. Presently he cried,
“Good God!” and let the paper fall; and,
seasoned as he was, and shallowed by the shifting
of his life, it was not in his power to keep two
little tears from twinkling.</p>
<p>“Too late all my work,” he said; “Heaven has
settled it without me.”</p>
<p>“How very sad!” cried Mrs. Corklemore,
dashing aside an unbidden tear, when she came<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</SPAN></span>
to the end of the story; “to think of all those
brave men lost! And perhaps you knew some of
them, Dr. Hutton? Oh, I am so sorry!”</p>
<p>“Why, surely you know that the <i>Taprobane</i> was
the ship in which poor Cradock Nowell sailed,
under Mr. Rosedewʼs auspices.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I hope not. Please not to say so. It
would be so very horrible! That he should go
without repenting——”</p>
<p>“You must have forgotten, Mrs. Corklemore;
for I heard Rosa tell you the name of the ship,
and her destination.”</p>
<p>“Oh, very likely. Ah, now I remember. For
the moment it quite escaped me. How truly,
truly grieved—it has quite overcome me. Oh,
please not to notice me—please not. I am so
stupidly soft–hearted. Oh—ea, isha, ea!”</p>
<p>No woman in the world could cry more beautifully
than poor Georgie. And now she cried her
very best. It would have gone to the heart of the
driest and bitterest sceptic that ever doubted all
men and women because they would doubt him. But
Rufus, whose form of self–assertion was not universal
negation, in what manner then do you suppose
that Rufus Hutton was liquefied? A simple sort
of fellow he was (notwithstanding all his shrewdness),
although, or perhaps I should say because,
he thought himself so knowing; and his observation
was more the result of experience than the
cause of it. So away he ran to fetch Rosa, and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</SPAN></span>
Rosa wiped dear, sensitive Georgieʼs eyes, and
coaxed her very pleasantly, and admired her more
than ever.</p>
<p>Bull Garnet rode home at twelve oʼclock from a
long morningʼs work. He never could eat any
breakfast now, and his manner was to leave home
at six (except when he went to Winchester),
gallop fiercely from work to work, or sometimes
walk his horse and think, often with glistening
eyes (when any little thing touched him), and
return to his cottage and rest there during the
workmenʼs dinner–time. Then he had some sort
of a meal himself, which Pearl began to call
“dinner,” and away with a fresh horse in half an
hour, spending his body if only so he might earn
rest of mind. All this was telling upon him fearfully;
even his muscular force was going, and his
quickness of eye and hand failing him. He knew
it, and was glad.</p>
<p>Only none should ever say, though every crime
was heaped upon him, that he had neglected his
masterʼs interests.</p>
<p>He tore the paper open in his sudden turbulent
fashion, as if all paper was rags, and no more; and
with one glance at each column knew all that was
in the ‘tween–ways. Suddenly he came to a place
at the corner of a page which made him cease from
eating. He glanced at Pearl, but she was busy,
peeling new potatoes for him. Bob was not come
in yet.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“Darling, I must go to London. If possible I
shall return to–night, if I catch the one oʼclock up
express.”</p>
<p>Then he opened the window, and ordered a
horse, his loud voice ringing and echoing round
every corner of the cottage, and in five minutes he
was off at full gallop, for the express would not
stop at Brockenhurst.</p>
<p>At 3.15 he was in London, and at 3.40 in the
counting–house of Messrs. Brown and Smithson,
owners, or at any rate charterers, of the <i>Taprobane</i>,
Striped–ball Chambers, Fenchurch Street. There
he would learn, if he could, what their private
advices were.</p>
<p>The clerks received him very politely, and told
him that they had little doubt of the truth of the
evil tidings. Of course the fatality might have
been considerably exaggerated, &c. &c., but as to
the loss of the ship, they had taken measures to
replace her. Would he mind waiting only ten
minutes, though they saw that he was in a hurry?
The Cape mail–ship had been telegraphed from
Falmouth; they had sent to the office already, and
expected to get the reply within a quarter of an
hour. Every information in their power, &c.—we
all know the form, though we donʼt always get the
civility.</p>
<p>Bull Garnet waited heavily with his great back
against a stout brass rail, having declined the chair
they offered him; and in less than five minutes he
received authentic detail of everything. He listened<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</SPAN></span>
to nothing except one statement, “every soul on
board was lost, sir.”</p>
<p>Then he went out, in a lumpish manner, from
the noble room, and was glad to get hold of the iron
rail in the bend of the dark stone staircase.</p>
<p>So now he was a double murderer. Finding it
not enough to have killed one brother in his fury,
he had slain the other twin through his cowardly
concealment. Floating about in tropical slime,
without a shark to eat him, leaving behind him the
fair repute of a money–grabbing fratricide. And
he, the man who had done it all, who had loved the
boy and ruined him, miserably plotting for his own
far inferior children. No, no! Not that at any
rate,—good and noble children: and how they had
borne his villainy! God in mercy only make him,
try to make him, over again, and how different his
life would be. All his better part brought out; all
his lower kicked away to the devil, the responsible
father of it. “Good God, how my heart goes!
Death is upon me, well I know, but let me die with
my children by—unless I turn hymn–writer——”</p>
<p>Quick as he was in his turns of thought—all of
them subjective—he was scarcely a match for the
situation, when Mr. Chope and Bailey Kettledrum
brushed by the sleeves of his light overcoat, and
entered the doors with “push—pull” on them, but,
being both of the pushing order rather than the
pulling, employed indiscriminate propulsion, and
were out of sight in a moment. Still, retaining
some little of his circumspective powers, Bull Garnet<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</SPAN></span>
knew them both from a corner flash of his sad
tear–laden eyes. There was no mistaking that great
legal head, like the breech–end of a cannon. Mr.
Kettledrum might have been overlooked, for little
men of a fussy nature are common enough in
London, or for that matter everywhere else. But
Garnetʼs attention being drawn, he knew them both
of course, and the errand they were come upon, and
how soon they were likely to return, and what they
would think of his being there, if they should
happen to see him. Nevertheless, he would not
budge. Nothing could matter much now. He
must think out his thoughts.</p>
<p>When this puff of air was past which many
breathe almost long enough to learn that it was
“life,” some so long as to weary of it, none so long
as to understand all its littleness and greatness—when
that should be gone from him, and absorbed
into a boundless region even more unknown, would
not the wrong go with it, if unexpiated here, and
abide there evermore? And not to think of himself
alone—what an example now to leave to his
innocent injured children! The fury hidden by
treachery, the cowardice sheathed in penitence!
D——n it all, he would have no more of it. His
cursed mind was made up. A man can die in the
flesh but once. His spirit had been dying daily,
going to the devil daily, every day for months; and
he found no place for repentance. As for his
children, they must abide it. No man of any
mind would blame them for their fatherʼs crime.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</SPAN></span>
If it was more than they could bear, let them bolt
to America. Anywhither, anywhere, so long as
they came home in heaven—if he could only get
there—to the father who had injured, ruined,
bullied, cursed, and loved them so.</p>
<p>After burning out this hell of thought in his
miserable brain, he betook himself to natureʼs
remedy,—instant, headlong action. He rushed
down the stairs, forgetting all about Chope and
Bailey Kettledrum, shouted to the driver of a
hansom cab so that he sawed his horseʼs mouth
raw, leaped in, and gave him half a sovereign
through the pigeon–hole, to get to D——ʼs bank
before the closing time. But at Temple Bar, of
course, there was a regular Chubbʼs lock, after a
minor Bramah one at the bottom of Ludgate Hill.
Cabby was forced to cut it, and slash up Chancery
Lane, and across by Kingʼs College Hospital, and
back into the Strand by Wych Street. It is easy
to imagine Bull Garnetʼs state of mind; yet the
imagination would be that, and nothing more.
He sat quite calmly, without a word, knowing that
man and horse were doing their utmost of skill and
speed, and having dealt enough with both to know
that to worry them then is waste.</p>
<p>The Bank had been closed, the day–porter said,
as he girded himself for his walk to Brixton,
exactly—let him see—yes, exactly one minute and
thirty–five seconds ago. Most of the gentlemen
were still inside, of course, and if the gentlemanʼs
business was of a confidential——Here he intimated,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</SPAN></span>
not by words, that there were considerations——</p>
<p>“Bow Street police–office,” Mr. Garnet cried to
the driver, not even glancing again at the disappointed
doorkeeper. In five minutes he was
there. Man and horse seemed strung and nerved
with his own excitement.</p>
<p>A stolid policeman stood at the door, as Bull
Garnet leaped out anyhow, with his high colour
gone away as in death, and his wiry legs cramped
with vehemence. Then Bobby saw that he had
met his master, the perception being a mental feat
far beyond the average leap of police agility.
Accordingly he touched his hat, and crinkled his
eyes in a manner discovered by policemen, in
consequence of the suggestion afforded by the
pegging of their hats.</p>
<p>“Mr. Bennings gone?” asked Bull Garnet,
pushing towards the entrance.</p>
<p>“His wusship is gone arf an hour, sir; or may
be at most fifty minutes. Can we do anything for
you, sir? His wusship always go according to the
business as is on.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” replied Mr. Garnet; “that is
quite enough. What time do they leave at Marlborough
Street?”</p>
<p>“According to the business, sir, but gone afore
us aʼmost always. We sits as long as anybody, and
gets through twice the business. But any message
you like to leave, or anything to be entered, I can
take the responsibility.”</p>
<p>“No. It does not matter. I will only leave<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</SPAN></span>
my card. Mr. Bennings knows me. Be kind
enough to give him this, when he comes to–morrow
morning. Perhaps I may call to–morrow. At present
I cannot say.”</p>
<p>The policeman lifted his hat again, like a cup
taken up from a saucer, and Bull Garnet sat heavily
down in the cab, and banged the door–shutters
before him. “Strand,” he called out to the driver;
“D—— and C——ʼs, the watchmakers.” There
he bought a beautiful watch and gold chain for
his daughter Pearl, giving a cheque for nearly all
his balance at the bankerʼs. The cheque was so
large that in common prudence the foreman declined
to cash it without some confirmation; but
Mr. Garnet gave him a reference, which in ten
minutes was established, and in ten more he was off
again with his very handsome trinkets, and a large
sum in bank–notes and gold, the balance of his
draft.</p>
<p>“Where now, sir?” shouted the driver, delighted
with his fare, and foreseeing another half–sovereign.</p>
<p>“I will tell you in thirty seconds.”</p>
<p>“Well, if he ainʼt a rum ‘un,” Cabby muttered
to himself, while amid volleys of strong language
he kept his horse gyrating, like a twin–screw ship
trying circles; “but rum customers is our windfalls.
Should have thought it a reward case, only
for the Bobby. Keep a look–out, anyhow; unless
he orders me back to Bedlam.”</p>
<p>“Not Bedlam. Waterloo Station, main line!”
said Bull Garnet, standing up in front, and looking<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</SPAN></span>
at him over the roof. “Five minutes is all I give
you, mind.”</p>
<p>“What a blessed fool I am,” said the cabman
below his breath, but lashing his horse explosively—”to
throw away half a sovereign sooner than
hold my tongue! He must be the devil himself
to have heard me—and as for eyes—good Lord,
I shouldnʼt like to drive him much.”</p>
<p>“You are wrong,” replied Mr. Garnet through
the pigeon–hole, handing him twopence for the
tollman; “I am not the devil, sir; as you may
some day know. Have no fear of ever driving
me again. You shall have your half–sovereign
when I have got my ticket. Follow me in, and
you shall know for what place I take it.”</p>
<p>The cabman was too dumb–foundered to do anything
but resolve that he would go straight home
when he got his money, and tell his old woman
about it. Then he applied himself to the whip in
earnest, for he could not too soon be rid of this
job; and so Bull Garnet won his train, and gave
the driver the other half–sovereign, with a peculiar
nod, having noticed that he feared to approach
while the ticket was applied for.</p>
<p>Bull Garnet took a second–class ticket. His
extravagance towards the cabman was the last he
would ever exhibit. He felt a call upon him now
to save for his family every farthing. All was lost
to them but money, and alas, too much of that.
Now if he cut his throat in the train, could he be
attainted of felony? And would God be any the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</SPAN></span>
harder on him? No, he did not think He would.
It might be some sort of atonement even. But
then the shock to Pearl and Bob, to see him brought
home with his head hanging back, and hopeless
red stitches under it. It would make the poor girl
a maniac, after all the shocks and anguish he had
benumbed her with already. What a fool he had
been not to buy strychnine, prussic acid, or laudanum!
And yet—and yet—and yet——He
would like to see them just once more—blessed
hearts—once more.</p>
<p>He sat in the last compartment of the last carriage
in the train, which had been added, in a hurry,
immediately behind the break van, and the swinging
and the jerking very soon became tremendous.
He knew not, neither cared to know, that Simon
Chope and Bailey Kettledrum were in a first–class
carriage near the centre of the train. Presently
the violent motion began to tell upon him, and he
felt a heavy dullness creeping over his excited mind;
and all the senses, which had been during several
hours of tension as prompt and acute as ever they
were in his prime of power, began to flag, and
daze, and wane, and he fell into a waking dream,
a “second person” of sorrow. But first—whether
for suicide, or for self–defence, he had tried both
doors and found them locked; and he was far
too large a man to force his way through the
window.</p>
<p>He dreamed, with a loose sense of identity,
about the innocent childhood, the boyhoodʼs aspiration,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</SPAN></span>
the young manʼs sense of ability endorsing
the right to aspire. Even his bodily power and
vigour revived in the dream before him, and he
knitted his muscles, and clenched his fists, and was
ready to fight fools and liars. Who had fought
more hard and hotly against the hard cold ways of
the age, the despite done to the poor and lowly, the
sarcasm bred by self–conscious serfdom in clever
men of the world, the preference of gold to love,
and of position to happiness? All the weak gregarious
tricks, shifts of coat, and pupa–ism, whereby
we noble Christians reduce our social history to
a passage in entomology, and quench the faith of
thinking men in Him whose name we take in vain—the
great Originator—all these feminine contradictions,
and fond things foully invented, fables
Atellan (if they be not actually Fescennine) had
roused the combatism of young Bull, ere he learned
his own disgrace.</p>
<p>And when he learned it, such as it was—a proof
by its false incidence how infantile our civilization
is—all his motherʼs bitter wrong, her lifelong sense
of shame and crushing (because she had trusted a
liar, and the hollow elder–stick “institution” was
held up against her, and none would take her part
without money, even if she had wished it), then he
had chosen his motherʼs course, inheriting her strong
nature, let the shame lie where it fell by right and
not by rule, and carried all his energies into Neo–Christian
largeness.</p>
<p>All that time of angry trial now had passed<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</SPAN></span>
before him, and the five years of his married life
(which had not been very happy, for his wife never
understood him, but met his quick moodiness with
soft sulks); and then in his dream–review he smiled,
as his children began to toddle about, and sit on
his knees, and look at him.</p>
<p>Once he awoke, and gazed about him. The
train had stopped at Winchester. He was all
alone in the carriage still, and all his cash was
safe. He had stowed it away very carefully in a
hidden pocket. To his languid surprise, he fell
back on the seat. How unlike himself, to be sure;
and with so much yet to do! He strove to arise
and rouse himself. He felt for the little flask of
wine, which Pearl had thrust into his pocket, but
he could not pull it out and drink; such a languor
lay upon him. He had felt it before, but never
before been so overcome by it. Once or twice, an
hour or so before the sun came back again, this
strange cold deadness (like a mammoth nightmare
frozen) had lain on him, in his lonely bed, and
then he knew what death was, and only came back
to life again through cold sweat and long fainting.</p>
<p>He had never consulted any doctor about the
meaning of this. With his bold way of thinking,
and judging only by his own experience and feeling,
he had long ago decided that all medical men
were quacks. What one disorder could they cure?
All they had learned, and that by a fluke, was a
way to anticipate <i>one</i>: and even that way seemed
worn out now.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Now he fell away, and feared, and tried to
squeeze his breast, and tried to pray to God; but
no words came, nor any thoughts, only sense of
dying, and horror at having prayed for it. A coldness
fell upon his heart, and on his brain an ignorance;
he was falling into a great blank depth,
and nothing belonged to him any more—only utter,
utter loss, and not a dream of God.</p>
<p>Happy and religious folk, who have only died
in theory, contemplating distant death, knowing
him only as opportune among kinsfolk owning
Consols, these may hope for a Prayer–book end,
sacrament administered, weeping friends, the heavenward
soul glad to fly through the golden door,
<i>animula</i>, <i>vagula</i>, <i>blandula</i>, yet assured of its reception
with a heavenly smile of foretaste—this may
be; no doubt it may be, after the life of a Christian
Bayard; though it need not always be, even
then. All we who from our age know death, and
have taken little trips into him, through fits, paralysis,
or such–like, are quite aware that he has
at first call as much variety as life has. But
the death of the violent man is not likely to be
placid, unless it come unawares, or has been
graduated through years of remorse, and weakness,
weariness, and repentance.</p>
<p>Then he tried to rise, and fought once more,
with agony inconceivable, against the heavy yet
hollow numbness in the hold of his deep, wide
chest, against the dark, cold stealth of death, and
the black, narrow depth of the grave.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>The train ran lightly and merrily into Brockenhurst
Station, while the midsummer twilight floated
like universal gossamer. In the yard stood the
Kettledrum “rattletrap,” and the owner was right
glad to see it. In his eyes it was worth a dozen
of the lord mayorʼs coach.</p>
<p>“None of the children come, dear?” asked
Bailey, having kissed his wife, as behoves a man
from London.</p>
<p>“No, darling, not one. That——” here she
used an adjective which sounded too much like
“odious” for me to trust my senses—”Georgie
would not allow them. Now, darling, did you do
exactly what I told you?”</p>
<p>“Yes, darling Anna, I did the best I could. I
had a basin of mulligatawny at Waterloo going
up, and one of mock–turtle coming back, and at
Basingstoke ham–sandwiches, a glass of cold cognac
and water, and some lemon–chips. Since that, nothing
at all, because there has been no time.”</p>
<p>“You are a dear,” said Mrs. Kettledrum, “to
do exactly as I told you. Now come round the
corner a moment, and take two glasses of sherry;
I can see quite well to pour it out. I am so glad
of her new crinoline. She wonʼt get out. Donʼt
be afraid, dear.”</p>
<p>Oh, Georgie, Georgie! To think that her
own sister should be so low, so unfeeling, and
treacherous! Mr. Kettledrum smacked his lips,
for the sake of euphony, after the second glass of
sherry; but his wife would not give him any more,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</SPAN></span>
for fear of spoiling his supper. Then they came
back, and both got in, and squeezed themselves up
together in the front seat of the old carriage, for
Mrs. Corklemore occupied the whole of the seat of
honour.</p>
<p>“You are very polite, to keep me so long. Innocent
turtles; sweet childish anxiety! The last
survivor of a wrecked train! So you took advantage,
Anna dear, of my not being dressed quite
so vulgarly as you are, to discuss this little matter
with him, keeping me in ignorance.”</p>
<p>The carriage was off by this time, and open as
it was, they had no fear of old coachey hearing,
for it took a loud hail to reach him.</p>
<p>“Take the honour of a Kettledrum,” cried
Bailey, smiting his bosom, “that the subject has
not even been broached between my wiser part
and myself. Ladies, in this pure aerial—no, I
mean ethereal—air, with the shades of night
around us, and the breezes wafting, would an exceedingly
choice and delicately aromatic cigar——”</p>
<p>“Oh, I should so like it, Bailey; and perhaps
we shall have the nightingales.”</p>
<p>“I fear we must not think of it,” interposed
Mrs. Corklemore, gently; “my dress is of a fabric
quite newly introduced, very beautiful, but (like
myself) too retentive of impressions. If Mr.
Kettledrum smokes, I shall have to throw it
away.”</p>
<p>“There goes the cigar instead,” cried Bailey;<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</SPAN></span>
“the paramount rights of ladies ever have been,
and ever shall be, sacred with Bailey Kettledrum.”</p>
<p>But Mrs. Kettledrum was so vexed that she
jumped up, as if to watch the cigar spinning into
the darkness, and contrived with sisterly accuracy
to throw all her weight upon a certain portion of
a certain lovely foot, whereupon there ensued the
neatest little passes, into which we need not enter.
Enough that Mrs. Corklemore, having higher intellectual
gifts, “won,” in the language of the
ring, “both events”—first tear, and first hysterical
symptom.</p>
<p>“Come,” cried Mr. Kettledrum, at the very
first opportunity, to wit, when both were crying;
“we all know what sisters are: how they mingle
the—the sweetness of their affection with a certain—ah,
yes—a piquancy of expression, most
pleasant, most improving, because so highly conducive
to self–examination!” Here he stood up,
having made a hit, worthy of the House of Commons.
“All these little breezes, ladies, may be
called the trade–winds of affection. They blow
from pole to pole.”</p>
<p>“The trade–winds never do that,” said Georgie.</p>
<p>“They pass us by as the idle wind, when the
clouds are like a whale, ladies, having overcome
us for a moment, like a summer dream. Hark to
that thrush, sitting perhaps on his eggs”—”Oh,
Oh!” from the gallery of nature—”can there be,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</SPAN></span>
I pause for a reply, anything but harmony, where
the voices of the night pervade, and the music of
the spheres?”</p>
<p>“You—you do speak so splendidly, dear,”
sobbed Mrs. Kettledrum from the corner; “but
it is a nasty, wicked, cruel story, about dear papa
saying that of me, and he in his grave, poor dear,
quite unable to vindicate himself. I have always
thought it so unchristian to malign the dead!”</p>
<p>“Whatʼs that?” cried Georgie, starting up, in
fear and hot earnest; “you are chattering so, you
hear nothing.”</p>
<p>A horse dashed by them at full gallop, with his
rider on his neck, shouting and yelling, and clinging
and lashing.</p>
<p>“Missed the wheel by an inch,” cried Kettledrum,
drawing his head in faster than he had
thrust it out; “a fire, man, or a French invasion?”
But the man was out of hearing, while the Kettledrum
horses, scared, and jumping as from an equine
thunderbolt, tried the strength of leather and the
courage of ladies.</p>
<p>Meanwhile at the station behind them there was
a sad ado. A man was lifted out of the train,
being found in the last compartment by the guard
who knew his destination—a big man, and a heavy
one; and they bore him to the wretched shed which
served there as a waiting–room.</p>
<p>“Dead, I believe,” said the guard, having sent
a boy for brandy, “dead as a door–nail, whoever
he be<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</SPAN></span>.”</p>
<p>“Not thee knaw who <i>he</i> be?” cried a forester,
coming in. “Whoy, marn, there be no mistaking
<i>he</i>. He be our Muster Garnet.”</p>
<p>“Whew!” And the train whistled on, as it
must do, whether we live or die, or when Cyclops
has made mince of us.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
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