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Cradock Nowell Vol. 3

[122] <h2 class="p4">CHAPTER VIII.</h2> 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. [123] 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 the[124] despite 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 converts[125] him to the diluted vappa of 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. [126] 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 appeal ad 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 thorough[127] knowledge 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 a green cartridge 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 some[128] trout–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 his[129] usual 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, with[130] the 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 fortune[131] been 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 inserted[132] an 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” (with[133] a 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 mural septa. 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 ever[134] knew 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 is[135] rather 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 rough[136] and 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.[137] 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 a professional question, 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 exactly[138] what 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 been[139] the 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 alarmed[140] you; 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.[141] 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.” <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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