<h2> <SPAN name="VIII"> </SPAN> CHAPTER VIII. <br/><br/> <span class="small"> BALDERDASH. </span> </h2>
<p>Worth Oglander sat in his old oak chair, weary, and very low of heart,
but not altogether broken down. He had not been in bed since last
Monday night, and had slept, if at all, in the saddle, or on the roof
of the Henley and Maidenhead coach. For miles he had scoured the
country round, until his three horses quite broke down, with the
weather so much against them; and all the bran to be got in the
villages was made away with in mashes. One of these horses "got the
pipes;" and had to be tickled before he could eat.</p>
<p>The Squire cared not a button for this. The most particular of mankind
concerning what is grossly and contemptuously (if not carnivorously)
spoken of as "horseflesh," forgets his tender feelings towards the
noblest of all animals when his own flesh and blood come into
competition with them. But ride, and lash, and spur as he might, the
old Squire made no discovery.</p>
<p>His daughter, his only child, in whom all the rest of his old life
lived and loved, was gone and lost; not even leaving knowledge of
where she lay, or surety of a better meeting. His faith in God was
true and firm; for on the whole he was a pious man, although no great
professor: and if it had pleased the Lord to take his only joy from
his old age, he could have tried to bear it.</p>
<p>But thus to lose her, without good-bye, without even knowing how the
loss befell, and with the deep misery of doubting what she might
herself have done—only a chilly stoic, or a remarkably warm
Christian, could have borne it with resignation. The Squire was
neither of these; but only a simple, kind, and loving-hearted
gentleman; with many faults, and among them, a habit of expecting the
Lord to favour him perpetually. And of this he could not quit himself,
in the deepest tribulation; but still expected all things to be
tempered to his happiness, according to his own ideas of what
happiness should be. The clergyman of the parish, a good and zealous
man, had called upon him, and with many words had proved how thankful
he was bound to be for this kindly-ordered chastisement. The Squire,
however, could not see it. He listened with his old politeness, but a
sad and weary face, and quietly said that the words were good, but he
could not yet enter into them. Hereat the parson withdrew, to wait for
a softer and wiser season.</p>
<p>And now, in the dusk of this cold dark day, Squire Oglander sat gazing
from the window of his dining-room; with his head fallen back, and his
white chin up, and hard-worn hands clasped languidly. His heavy eyes
dwelled on the dreary snow that buried his daughter's handiwork—the
dwarf plants not to be traced, and the tall ones only as soft
hillocks, like the tufts in a great white counterpane. And more and
more, as the twilight deepened, and the curves of white grew dim, he
kept repeating below his voice, "Her winding-sheet, her winding-sheet;
and her pretty eyes wide open perhaps!"</p>
<p>"Now, sir, if you please, you must—you must," cried Mary Hookham, his
best maid, trotting in with her thumbs turned back from a right hot
dish, and her lips up as if she were longing to kiss him, to let out
her feelings. "Here be a duster, by way of a cloth, not to scorch the
table against Miss Grace comes home again. Sir, if you please, you
must ate a bit. Not a bit have you aten sin' Toosday, and it is enough
to kill a carrier's horse. 'Take on,' as my mother have often said;
'take on, as you must, if your heart is right, when the hand of the
Lord is upon you; but never take off with your victuals.' And a hearty
good woman my mother is, and have seen much tribulation. You never
would repent, sir, of hearkening to me, and of trying of her, till
such time as poor Miss Grace comes back. And not a penny would she
charge you."</p>
<p>"Let her come, if she will," he answered, without thinking twice about
it; for he paid no heed to household matters in his present trouble.
"Let her come, if you wish it, Mary. At any rate, she can do no harm."</p>
<p>"She will do a mort of good, sir. But now do try to ate a bit. My
mother will make you, if you have her, sir."</p>
<p>The old man did his best to eat; for he knew that he must keep his
strength up, to abide the end of it. And Mary, without asking leave,
lit four good candles, and drew the curtains, and made the fire
cheerful. "All of us has our troubles," said Mary; "but these here
pickles is wonderful."</p>
<p>"You are a good girl," answered the Squire; "and you deserve a good
husband. Now, if either the man from Oxford or young Mr. Overshute
should come, show them in directly; but I can see no other person. No
more, thank you. Take all away, Mary."</p>
<p>"Oh my! what a precious little bit you've had! But as sure as my name
is Mary Hookham, you shall have three glasses of port, sir. You don't
keep no butler, because you knows better; and no housekeeper, because
you don't know mother. Likewise, Miss Grace is so clever—but there,
now, if she stay long for her honeymoon, a housekeeper you must have,
sir."</p>
<p>The master was tempted to ask what she meant, but he scarcely thought
it worth while, perhaps. By pressure of advice from all the womankind
within his doors (whenever they could get hold of him) he had been
sped on many bootless errands, as was natural. For without any ground,
except that of their hearts, all the gentler bosoms of the place were
filled with large belief that this was only a lovely love affair.</p>
<p>Russel Overshute, the heir of the Overshutes of Shotover, was a young
man who could speak for himself, and did it sometimes too strongly. He
had long been taken prisoner by the sweet spell of Grace Oglander; and
being of a bold and fearless order, he had so avowed himself. But her
father had always been against him; not from personal dislike, but
simply because he could not bear his "wild political sentiments."
Worth Oglander was as staunch an old Tory as ever stood in buckram,
although in social and domestic matters perhaps almost too gentle.
Radical and rascal were upon his tongue the self-same word; and he
passed the salt with the back of his hand to even a mild Reformer.</p>
<p>And now, as he drank his glass of port, by dint of Mary's management,
and did his best to think about it, as he always used to do, the door
of the room was thrown open strongly, and in strode Russel Overshute.</p>
<p>"Will you kindly leave the room," he said to the sedulous Mary. "I
wish to say a few words to the Squire of a private nature."</p>
<p>This young gentleman was a favourite with maid-servants everywhere,
because he always spoke to them "just the same as if they was ladies."
Every housemaid now demands this, in our advanced intelligence; and
doubtless she is right; but forty years ago it was otherwise, and
"Polly, my dear," and a chuck of the chin, were not as yet vile
antiquity. Mary made a bob of the order still taught at the
village-school, and set a glass for the gentleman, and simpered, and
departed.</p>
<p>"Shake hands with me, Squire," said Overshute, as Mr. Oglander arose,
with cold dignity, and bowed to him. "You have sent for me; I rode
over at once, the moment that I heard of it. I returned from London
this afternoon, having been there for a fortnight. When I heard the
news, I was thunderstruck. What can I do to help you?"</p>
<p>"I will not shake hands with you," answered the Squire, "until you
have solemnly pledged your honour, that you know nothing of this—of
this—there, I have no word for it!" Mr. Oglander trembled, though his
eyes were stern. His last hope of his daughter's life lay in the young
man before him; and bitterly as he would have felt the treachery of
his only child, and deeply as he despised himself for harbouring such
a suspicion—yet even that disgrace and blow would be better than the
alternative, the only alternative—her death.</p>
<p>"I should have thought it quite needless," young Overshute answered,
with some disdain, until he observed the father's face, so broken down
with misery; "from any one but you, sir, it would have been an insult.
If you do not know the Overshutes, you ought to know your own
daughter."</p>
<p>"But against her will—against her will. Say that you took her against
her will. You have been from home. For what else was it? Tell me the
truth, Russel Overshute—only the truth, and I will forgive you."</p>
<p>"You have nothing to forgive, sir. Upon the word of an Englishman, I
hadn't even heard of it."</p>
<p>The old man watched his clear keen eyes, with deep tears gathering in
his own. Then Russel took his hand, and led him tenderly to his hard
oak chair.</p>
<p>For a minute or two not a word was said: the young man doubting what
to say, and the old one really not caring whether he ever spoke again.
At last he looked up and spread both hands, as if he groped forth from
a heavy dream; and the rheumatism from so much night-work caught him
in both shoulder-blades.</p>
<p>"What is it?—what is it?" he cried. "I have lived a long time in this
wicked world, and I have not found it painful."</p>
<p>"My dear sir," his visitor answered, pitying him sincerely, and hiding
(like a man) his own deep heart-burn of anxiety, "may I say, without
your being in the least degree offended, what I fancy—or at least, I
mean a thing that has occurred to me? You will take it for its worth.
Most likely you will laugh at it; but taking my chance of that, may I
say it? Will you promise not to be angry?"</p>
<p>"I wish I could be angry, Russel. What have I to be angry for?"</p>
<p>"A terrible wrong, if I am right, but not a purely hopeless one. I
have not had time to think it out, because I have been hurried so.
But, right or wrong, what I think is this—the whole is a foul scheme
of Luke Sharp's."</p>
<p>"Luke Sharp! My own solicitor! The most respectable man in Oxford!
Overshute, you have made me hope, and then you dash me with
balderdash!"</p>
<p>"Well, sir, I have no evidence at all; but I go by something I heard
in London, which supplies the strongest motive; and I know, from my
own family affairs, what Luke Sharp will do when he has strong motive.
I beg you to keep my guess quite secret. Not that I fear a score of
such fellows, but that he would be ten times craftier if he thought we
suspected him; and he is crafty enough without that, as his principal
client, the Devil, knows!"</p>
<p>"I will not speak of it," the Squire answered; "such a crotchet is not
worth speaking of, and it might get you into great trouble. With one
thing and another now, I am so knocked about, that I cannot put two
and two together. But one thing really comforts me."</p>
<p>"My dear sir, I am so glad! What is it?"</p>
<p>"That a man of your old family, Russel, and at the same time of such
new ways, is still enabled by the grace of God to retain his faith in
the Devil."</p>
<p>"While Luke Sharp lives I cannot lose it," he answered, with a bitter
smile. "That man is too deep and consummate a villain to be
uninspired. But now, sir, we have no time to lose. You tell me what
you have done, and then I will tell you what I have been thinking of,
unless you are too exhausted."</p>
<p>For the old man, in spite of fierce anxiety, long suspense, and keen
excitement, began to be so overpowered with downright bodily weariness
that now he could scarcely keep his head from nodding, and his eyes
from closing. The hope which had roused him, when Overshute entered,
was gone, and despair took the place of it; tired body and sad mind
had but a very low heart to work them. Russel, with a strong man's
pity, and the love which must arise between one man and another
whenever small vanity vanishes, watched the creeping shades of slumber
soften the lines of the harrowed face. As evening steals along a
hill-side where the sun has tyrannised, and spreads the withering and
the wearying of the day with gentleness, and brings relief to rugged
points, and breadth of calm to everything; so the Squire's fine old
face relaxed in slumber's halo, and tranquil ease began to settle on
each yielding lineament; when open flew the door of the room, and
Mary, at the top of her voice, exclaimed—</p>
<p>"Plaize, sir, Maister Cripps be here."</p>
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