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Cradock Nowell Vol. 3

[219] <h2 class="p4">CHAPTER XIV.</h2> As the brothers confronted one another, the legitimate and the base–born, the man of tact and the man of force, the luxurious and the labourer, strangely unlike in many respects, more strangely alike in others; each felt kindly and tenderly, yet timidly, for the other. The old man thought of the lying wrong inflicted upon the stronger one by their common father; the other felt the worse wrong—if possible—done by himself to his brother. The measure of such things is not for us. God knows, and visits, and forgives them. Even by the failing light—for the sun was westering, and a cloud flowed over him—each could see that the otherʼs face was not as it should be, that the flight of weeks was drawing age on, more than the lapse of years should. “Garnet, you do a great deal too much. I shall recall my urgent request, if you look so[220] harassed and haggard. Take a holiday now for a month, before the midsummer rents fall due. I will try to do without you; though I may want you any day.” “I will do nothing of the sort; work is needful for me—without it I should die. But you also look very unwell. You must not attempt to prescribe for me.” “I have not been happy lately. By–and–by things will be better. What is your impression of Mrs. Nowell Corklemore?” “That she is an arrant hypocrite, unscrupulous, foul, and deadly.” “Well, that is plain speaking; by no means complimentary. Poor Georgie, I hope you misjudge her, as she says bad people do. But for the present she is gone. There has been a great fight, all along, between her and Eoa; they could not bear one another. And now my niece has discovered a thing which brings me to her side in the matter, for she at least is genuine.” “That she is indeed, and genuinely passionate; you may trust her with anything. She has been very rude indeed to me; and yet I like her wonderfully. What has she discovered?” “That Mrs. Corklemore is at the bottom of this horrible application for a warrant against my son.” “I can well believe it. It struck me in a moment; though I cannot see her object. I never understand plotting[221].” “Neither do I, Garnet; I only know she has made me insult the dearest friend I had on earth.” “Yes, Mr. Rosedew; I heard of it, and wondered at your weakness. But it did not become me to interfere.” “Certainly not: most certainly not. You could not expect me to bear it. And the Rosedews never liked you.” “That has nothing to do with it. Very probably they are right; for I do not like myself. And you will not dislike, but hate me, when you know what I have to say.” Bull Garnetʼs mind was now made up. For months he had been thinking, forecasting, doubting, wavering—a condition of mind so strange to him, so adrift from all his landmarks, that this alone, without sense of guilt, must have kept him in wretchedness. Sir Cradock Nowell only said, “Keep it for another time. I cannot bear any more excitement; I have had so much to–day.” Bull Garnet looked at him sorrowfully. He could not bear to see his brother beaten so by trouble, and to feel his own hard hand in it. “Donʼt you know what they say of me? Oh, you know what they say of me; and nothing of the kind in the family!” The old man seemed to prove that there was, by the vague flashing of his eyes: “Garnet, you are my brother; after all, you are my brother. And they say I am going mad;[222] and I know they will try to shut me up, without a horse, or a book, or a boy to brush my trousers. Oh, Garnet, you have been bitterly wronged, shamefully wronged, detestably; but you will not let your own brother—brother, who has no sons now to protect him,—be shut up, and made nothing of? Bull Garnet, promise me this, although we have so wronged you.” Garnet knew not what to do. Even he was taken aback, shocked by this sudden outburst, which partly proved what it denied. And this altogether changed the form of the confession he was come to make—and changed it for the better. “My brother”—it was the first time he had ever so addressed him; not from diffidence, but from pride—”my brother, let us look at things, if possible, as God made them. I have been injured no doubt, and so my mother was; blasted, both of us, for life, according to the little ideas of this creeping world. In many cases, the thief is the rogue; in even more, the robbed one is the only villain. Now can you take the large view of things which is forced upon us outsiders when we dare to think at all?” “I cannot think now of such abstract things. My mind is astray with trouble. Did I ever tell you your motherʼs words, when she came here ten or twelve years ago, and demanded a share of the property? Not for her own sake, but for yours, to get you into some business[223].” “No, I never heard of it. How it must have hurt her!” Bull Garnet was astonished; because it had long been understood that his mother should not be spoken of. “And me as well. I gave her a cheque for a liberal sum, as I thought. She tore it, and threw it at me. What more could I do? Did I deserve her curse, Garnet? Is all this trouble come upon me because I did not obey her?” “I believe that you meant to do exactly what was right.” “I hope—I believe, I did. And see how wrong she was in one part of her prediction. She said that I and my father also should be punished through you, through you, her only son. What a mistake that has proved! You, who are my right arm and brain; my only hope and comfort!” The old man came up, and looked with the deepest trust and admiration at his unacknowledged brother. A few months ago, Bull Garnet would have taken such a look as his truest and best revenge for the cruel wrong to his mother. But now he fell away from it, and muttered something, in a manner quite unlike his own. His mind was made up, he was come to tell all; but how could he do it now, and wrench the old manʼs latest hope away? Then suddenly he remembered, or knew from his own feelings, that an old manʼs last hope in earthly matters should rest upon no friend or[224] brother, not even upon a wife, but upon his own begotten, his successors in the world. And what he had to say, while tearing all reliance from himself, would replace it where it should be. Meanwhile Sir Cradock Nowell, thinking that Garnet was too grateful for a few kind words, followed him, and placed his slender tremulous and pure–bred hand in the useful cross–bred palm which had sent Mr. Jupp down the coal–shaft. “Bull, you are my very best friend. After all, we are brothers. Promise to defend me.” But Garnet only withdrew his hand, and sighed, and could not look at him. “Oh, then, even you believe it; I see you do! It must be true. God have mercy upon me!” “Cradock, it is a cursed lie; you must not dwell upon it. Such thoughts are spawn of madness; turn to another subject. Just tell me what is the greatest thing one man can do to another?” “To love him, I suppose, Garnet. But I donʼt care much for that sort of thing, since I lost my children.” “Yes, it is a grand thing to love; but far grander to forgive.” “Is it? I am glad to hear it. I always could forgive.” “Little things, you mean, no doubt. Slights and slurs—and so forth?” “Yes, and great things also. But I am not what I was, Bull. You know what I have been through[225].” “Can you forgive as deep a wrong as one man ever did to another?” “Yes, I dare say. I am sure I donʼt know. What makes you look at me like that?” “Because I shot your son Clayton; and because I did it on purpose.” “Viley! my boy Viley! Oh, I had forgotten. What a stupid thing of me! I thought he was dead somehow. Now, I will open the door for him, because his hands are full. And let him put his game on the table—never mind the papers—he always likes me to see it. Oh, Viley, how long you have been away! What a bag you must have made! Come in, my boy; come in.” Bull Garnetʼs heart cleaved to his side, as the old man opened the door, and looked, with the leaping joy of a fatherʼs love, for his pet, his beloved, his treasured one. But nothing except cold air came in. “The passage is empty. Perhaps he is waiting, because his boots are dirty. Tell him not to think twice about that. I am fidgety sometimes, I know; and I scolded him last Friday. But now he may come anyhow, if he will only come to me. I am so dull without him.” “You will never see him more”—Bull Garnet whispered through a flood of tears, like grass waving out of water—”until it pleases God to take you home, where son and father go alike; sometimes one first, sometimes other, as His holy[226] will is. He came to an unholy end. I tell you again—I shot him.” “Excuse me; I donʼt quite understand. There was a grey hare, with a nick in her ear, who came to the breakfast–room window all through the hard weather last winter, and he promised me not to shoot her; and I am sure that he cannot have done it, because he is so soft–hearted, and that is why I love him so. Talk of Cradock—talk of Cradock! Perhaps he is cleverer than Viley—though I never will believe it—but is he half so soft and sweet? Will the pigeons sit on his shoulder so, and the dogs nuzzle under his coat–lap? Tell me that—tell me that—Bull Garnet.” He leaned on the strong arm of his steward, and looked eagerly for his answer; then trembled with an exceeding great fear, to see that he was weeping. That such a man should weep! But Garnet forced himself to speak. “You cannot listen to me now; I will come again, and talk to you. God knows the agony to me; and worst of all that it is for nothing. Yet all of it not a thousandth part of the anguish I have caused. Perhaps it is wisest so. Perhaps it is for my childrenʼs sake that I, who have killed your pet child, cannot make you know it. Yet it adds to my despair, that I have killed the father too.” Scarcely knowing voice from silence, dazed himself, and blurred, and giddy—so strong is contagion of the mind—Bull Garnet went to the stables,[227] saddled a horse without calling groom, and rode off at full gallop to Dr. Buller. By the time he got there his business habits and wonted fashion of thought had returned, and he put what he came for in lucid form, tersely, crisply, dryly, as if in the world there were no such thing as ill–regulated emotion—except on the part of other people. “Not a bit of it,” said Dr. Buller; “his mind is as sound as yours or mine, and his constitution excellent. He has been troubled a good deal; but bless me—I know a man who lost his three children in a month, and could scarcely pay for their coffins, sir. And his wife only six weeks afterwards. That is what I call trouble, sir!” Bull Garnet knew, from his glistening eyes, and the quivering of his grey locks, that the man he spoke of was himself. Reassured about Sir Cradock, yet fearing to try him further at present, Mr. Garnet went heavily homewards, after begging Dr. Buller to call, as if by chance, at the Hall, observe, and attend to the master. Heavily and wearily Bull Garnet went to the home which once had been so sweet to him, and was now beloved so painfully. The storms of earth were closing round him, only the stars of heaven were bright. Myriad as the forest leaves, and darkly moving in like manner, fears, and doubts, and miseries sprang and trembled through him. No young maid at his door to meet him lovingly and gaily. None to say, “Oh, darling father, how[228] hungry you must be, dear!” Only Pearl, so wan and cold, and scared of soft affection. And as she timidly approached, then dropped her eyes before his gaze, and took his hat submissively, as if she had no lips to kiss, no hand to lay on his shoulder, he saw with one quick glance that still some new grief had befallen her, that still another trouble was come to make its home with her. “What is it, Pearl?” he asked her, sadly; “come in here and tell me.” He never called her his Pearly now, his little native, or pretty pet, as he used to do in the old days. They had dropped those little endearments. “You will be sorry to hear it—sorry, I mean, that it happened; but I could not have done otherwise.” “I never hear anything, now, Pearl, but what I am sorry to hear. This will make little difference.” “So I suppose,” she answered. “Mr. Pell has been here to–day, and—and—oh, father, you know what.” “Indeed I have not been informed of anything. What do I know of Mr. Pell?” “More than he does of you, sir. He asked me to be his wife.” “He is a good man. But of course you said ‘No.’” “Of course I did. Of course, of course. What else can I ever say[229]?” She leaned her white cheek on the high oak mantel, and a little deep sob came from her heart. “Would you have liked to say ‘Yes,’ Pearl?” her father asked very softly, going to put his arm round her waist, and then afraid to do it. “Oh no! oh no! At least, not yet, though I respect him very highly. But I told him that I never could, and never could tell him the reason. And oh, I was so sorry for him—he looked so hurt and disappointed.” “You shall tell him the reason very soon, or rather the newspapers shall.” “Father, donʼt say that; dear father, you are bound for our sake. I donʼt care for him one atom, father, compared with—compared with you, I mean. Only I thought I must tell you, because—oh, you know what I mean. And even if I did like him, what would it matter about me? Oh, father, I often think that I have been too hard upon you, and all of it through me, and my vile concealment!” “My daughter, I am not worthy of you. Would God that you could forgive me!” “I have done it long ago, father. Do you think a child of yours could help it, after all your sorrow?” “My child, look kindly at me; try to look as if you loved me.” She turned to him with such a look as a man only gets once in his life, and then she fell upon[230] his neck, and forgot the world and all it held, except her own dear father. Wrong he might have done, wrong (no doubt) he had done; but who was she, his little child, to remember it against him? She lay for a moment in his arms, overcome with passion, leaning back, as she had done there, when a weanling infant. For him it was the grandest moment of his passionate life—a fatherʼs powerful love, ennobled by the presence of his God. Such a moment teaches us the grandeur of our race, the traces of a higher world stamped on us indelibly. Then we feel, and try to own, that in spite of satire, cynicism, and the exquisite refinements of the purest selfishness, there is, in even the sharpest and the shallowest of us, something kind and solid, some abiding element of the all–pervading goodness. “Now I will go through with it”—Bull Garnet was recovering—”my own child; go and fetch your brother, if it will not be too much for you. If you think it will, only send him.” “Father, I will fetch him. I may be able to help you both. And now I am so much better.” Presently she returned with Bob, who looked rather plagued and uncomfortable, with a great slice of cork in one hand and a bottle of gum in the other, and a regular housewife of needles in the lappet of his coat. He was going to mount a specimen of a variety of “devilʼs coach–horse,” which he had never seen before, and whose tail was forked like a trident. [231] “Never can let me alone,” said Bob; “just ready to begin I was; and I am sure to spoil his thorax. He is getting stiff every moment.” Bull Garnet looked at him brightly and gladly, even at such a time. Little as he knew or cared about the things that crawl and hop—as he ignorantly put it—skilled no more in natural history than our early painters were, yet from his own strong sense he perceived that his son had a special gift; and a special gift is genius, and may (with good luck) climb eminence. Then he thought of what he had to tell him, and the power of his heart was gone. It was the terror of this moment which had dwelt with him night and day, more than the fear of public shame, of the gallows, or of hell. To be loathed and scorned by his only son! Oh that Pearl had not been so true; oh that Bob suspected something, or had even found it out for himself! Then the father felt that now came part of his expiation. Bob looked at him quite innocently with wonder and some fear. To him “the governor” long had been the strangest of all puzzles, sometimes so soft and loving, sometimes so hard and terrible. Perhaps poor Bob would catch it now for his doings with Eoa. “Sit down there, my son. Not there, but further from me. Donʼt be at all afraid, my boy. I have no fault to find with you. I am far luckier in my son, than you are in your father. You must[232] try to bear terrible news, Bob. Your sister long has borne it.” Pearl, who was ghastly pale and trembling, stole a glance at each of them from the dark end of the room, then came up bravely into the lamplight, took Bobʼs hand and kissed him, and sat close by to comfort him. Bull Garnet sighed from the depths of his heart. His children seemed to be driven from him, and to crouch together in fear of him. “It serves me right. I know that, of course. That only makes it the worse to bear.” “Father, what is it?” cried Bob, leaping up, and dropping his cork–slice and gum–bottle; “whatever the matter is, father, tell me, that I may stand by you.” “You cannot stand by me in this. When you know what it is, you will fly from me.” “Will I, indeed! A likely thing. Oh, father, you think I am such a soft, because I am fond of little things.” “Would you stand by your father, Bob, if you knew that he was a murderer?” “Oh come,” said Bob, “you are drawing it a little too strong, dad. You never could be that, you know.” “I not only can be, but am, my son.” Father and son looked at one another. The governor standing square and broad, with his shoulders thrown well back, and no trace of emotion in form or face, except that his quick wide nostrils quivered, and his lips were white. The[233] stripling gazing up at him, seeking for some sign of jest, seeking for a ray of laughter in his fatherʼs eyes; too young to comprehend the power and fury of large passion. Ere either spoke another word—for the father was hurt at the sonʼs delay, and the son felt all abroad in his head—between them glided Pearl, the daughter, the sister, the gentle woman—the one most wronged of all, and yet the quickest to forgive it. “Darling, he did it for my sake,” she whispered to her brother, though it cut through her heart to say it. “Father, oh father, Bob is so slow; donʼt be angry with him. Come to me a moment, father. Oh, how I love and honour you!” Those last few words to the passionate man were like heaven poured into hell. That a child of his should still honour him! He kissed her with tenfold the love young man has for maiden; then he turned away and wept, as if the earth was water. Very little more was said. Pearl went away to Bob, and whispered how the fatal grief befell; and Bob wept great tears for the sake of all, and most of all for his fatherʼs sake. Then, as the father lay cramped up upon the little sofa, wrestling with the power of life and the promise of death, Bob came up, and kissed him dearly on his rugged forehead. “Is that you, my own dear son? God is far too good to me.” <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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