Cradock Nowell: A Tale of the New Forest. Volume 3 of 3

CHAPTER III

Slowly from that night, but surely, Cradockʼs mind began to return, like a child to its mother, who is stretching forth her arms to it; timid at first and wondering, and apt for a long time to reel and stagger at very slight shocks or vibrations. Then as the water comes over the ice in a gradual gentle thaw, beginning to gleam at the margin first, where the reeds are and the willow–trees, then gliding slowly and brightly on, following every skate–mark or line where a rope or stick has been, till it flows into a limpid sheet; so crystal reason dawned and wavered, felt its way and went on again, tracing many a childish channel, many a dormant memory, across that dull lethargic mind, until the bright surface was restored, and the lead line of judgment could penetrate.

Mr. Rosedew quartered himself and his Amy at the Portland Hotel hard by, and reckless of all expense moved Cradock into Mrs. Ducksacreʼs very best room. He would have done this long ago, only the doctor would not allow it. Then Amy, who did not like London at all, because there were so few trees in it, hired some of the Christmas–grove from the fair greengrocers, and decked out the little sitting–room, so that Cradock had sweet visions of the Queenʼs bower mead. As for herself, she would stay in the shop, perhaps half an hour together, and rejoice in the ways of the children. All her pocket–money went into the till as if you had taken a shovel to it. Barcelonas, Brazils, and cob–nuts she was giving all day to the “warmints;” and golden oranges rolled before her as from Atalantaʼs footstep.

It is a most wonderful fact, and far beyond my philosophy, that instead of losing her roses in London, as a country girl ought to have done, Amy bloomed with more Jacqueminot upon very bright occasions – more Louise Odier constantly, with Goubalt in the dimples, then toning off at any new fright to Malmaison, or Devoniensis – more of these roses now carmined or mantled in the delicate turn of her cheeks than ever had nestled and played there in the free air of the Forest. Good Aunt Doxy was quite amazed on the Saturday afternoon, when meeting her brother and niece at the station – for it made no difference in the outlay, and the drive would do her good – she found, not a pale and withered child, worn out with London racket, and freckled with dust and smokespots, but the loveliest Amy she had ever yet seen – which was something indeed to say, – with a brilliance of bloom which the good aunt at once proceeded to test with her handkerchief.

But before the young lady left town – to wit, on the Friday evening – she had a little talk with Rachel Jupp, or rather with strapping Issachar, which nearly concerns our story.

“Oh, Miss Amy,” said Rachel that morning – ”Miss Amy” sounded more natural somehow than “Miss Rosedew” did – ”so youʼre going away, miss, after all, and never see my Looey; and a pretty child she is, and a good one, and a quiet one, and father never lift hand to her now; and the poor young gentleman saved her life, and he like her so much, and she like him.”

“I will come and see her this evening, as you have so kindly asked me. That is, with my papaʼs leave, and if you donʼt mind coming for me to the inn at six oʼclock. I am afraid of walking by myself after dark in London. My papa has found some books at the bookstalls, and he is so delighted with them he never wants me after dinner.”

“Dear Miss Amy, would you mind, then – would you mind taking a drop of tea with us?”

“To be sure I will. I mean, if it is quite convenient, and if you can be spared here, and if – oh nothing else, Mrs. Jupp, only I shall be most happy.” She was going to say, “and if you wonʼt make any great preparations,” but she knew how sensitive poor people are at restraints upon hospitality.

So grand preparations were made; and grander still they would have been, and more formal and uncomfortable, if Amy had finished her sentence. Rachel at once rushed off to her lord, whose barge–shaped frame was moored alongside of his wharf, dreaming as stolidly as none except a bargee can dream. He immediately shelled out seven and sixpence from the cuddy of his inexpressibles, and left his wife to her own devices, except in the matter of tea itself. The tea he was resolved to fetch from a little shop in the barge–walk, where, as Mother Hamp declared, who kept the tobacco–shop by the gate, they sold tea as strong as brandy.

“If you please to excuse our Zakey, miss, taking no more tea,” said Mrs. Jupp, after Issachar had laboured very hard at it, the host being bound, in his opinion, to feast even as the guest did; “because he belong to the antiteatotallers, as takes nothing no stronger than gin, miss.”

“Darrnʼt take more nor one noggin of tay, miss,” cried Mr. Jupp, touching his short front curl with a hand scrubbed in quick–lime and copperas; “likes it, but it donʼt like me, miss. Makes me feel quite intemperant like, – so narvous, and queer, and staggery. Looey, dear, dadʼs mild mixture, for to speak the young ladyʼs health in. Leastways, by your lave, miss.”

Dadʼs mild mixture soon made its appearance in a battered half–gallon can, and Mr. Jupp was amazed and grieved that none but himself would quaff any. The strongest and headiest stuff it was, which even the publicans of London, alchymists of villainy, can quassify, and cocculise, and nux–vomicise up to proof. Then, the wrath of hunger and thirst being mollified, Issachar begged leave to smoke, if altogether agreeable, and it would all go up the chimney; which, however, it refrained from doing.

Now, while he is smoking, I may admit that the contents of Mr. Juppʼs census–paper (if, indeed, he ever made legal entries, after punching the collectorʼs head) have not been transcribed to the satisfaction of the Registrar–General or Home–Office, or whoever or whatever he or it is, who or which insists upon knowing nine times as much about us as we know about ourselves. Mr. Jupp was a bargee of Catholic views; “it warnʼt no odds to he” whether he worked upon wharf or water, sea or river or canal, at coal, or hay, or lime, breeze, or hop–poles, or anything else. Now and then he went down to Gravesend, or up the river to Kingston or Staines; but his more legitimate area was navigable by three canals, where a chap might find time to eat his dinner, and give his wife and nag theirʼn. Issacharʼs love of nature always culminated at one oʼclock; and then how he loved to halt his team under a row of alders, and see the painted meadows gay, and have grub and pipe accordinʼ. His three canals, affording these choice delights unequally, were the Surrey, the Regentʼs, and the Basingstoke.

That last was, indeed, to his rural mind, the nearest approach to Paradise; but as there is in all things a system of weights and measures, Mr. Jupp got better wages upon the other two, and so could not very often afford to indulge his love of the beautiful. Hence he kept his household gods within reach of the yellow Tibers, and took them only once a year for a treat upon the Anio. Then would Rachel Jupp and Looey spend a summer month afloat, enjoying the rural glimpses and the sliding quietude of inland navigation, and keeping the pot a–boiling in the state–cabin of the Enterprise or the Industrious Maiden.

Now Amy having formed Looʼs acquaintance, and said what was right and pretty in gratitude for their entertainment and faithful kindness to Cradock, was just about to leave them, when Issachar Jupp delivered this speech, very slowly, as a man who has got to the marrow and popeʼs–eye of his pipe: —

“Now ‘scuse me for axing of you, miss, and if any ways wrong in so doing, be onscrupulous for to say so, and no harm done or taken. But I has my raisons for axing, from things as Iʼve a ‘earʼd him say, and oncommon good raisons too. If you please, what be the arkerate name and dwellinʼ–place of the young gent as saved our Loo? Mr. Clinkers couldnʼt find out, miss, though he knowed as it warnʼt ‘Charles Newman.’”

“Donʼt you know his story, then?” asked Amy, in some astonishment. “I thought you knew all about it, and were so kind to him partly through that, though you were kind enough not to talk to me about it.”

“We guesses a piece here and there, miss, since he talk so wild in his illness. And thatʼs what made me be axing of you; for I knowed one name right well as he out with once or twice; not at all a common name nother. But we knows for sartin no more nor this, that he be an onlucky young gent, and the best as ever come into these parts.”

“There can be no harm in my telling you, such faithful friends as you are. And the sad tale is known to every one, far and wide, in our part of Hampshire.”

“Hampshire, ah!” said Mr. Jupp, with a very mysterious look; “we knowed Mr. Rosedew come from Hampshire, and that set us the more a–thinkinʼ of it. Loo, child, run for dadʼs bacco–box, as were left to Mother Richardsonʼs, and if it ainʼt there, try at Blinkin’ Davyʼs, and if he ainʼt got it, try Mother Hamp.”

The child, sadly disappointed, for her eyes were large with hopes of a secret about her “dear gentleman,” as she called Cradock, departed upon her long errand. Then Amy told, as briefly as possible, all she knew of the great mishap, and the misery which followed it. From time to time her soft voice shook, and her tears would not be disciplined; while Rachel Juppʼs strayed anyhow. But Issachar listened dryly and sternly, with one great brown hand on his forehead. Not once did he interrupt the young lady, by gesture, look, or question. But when she had finished, he said very quietly,

“One name, miss, as have summat to do with it, Iʼve not ‘earʼd you sinnify; and it were the sound o’ that very name as fust raised my coorosity. ‘Scuse me, miss, but I wouldnʼt ax, only for good raison.”

“I hardly know what right I have to mention any other names,” replied Amy, blushing and hesitating, for she did not wish to speak of Pearl Garnet; “there is only one other name connected at all with the matter, and that one of no importance.”

“Ah,” returned Jupp, with a glance as intense as a catʼs through a dairy keyhole, “maybe the tow–rope ainʼt nothin’ to do with the goin’ of the barge, miss. That name didnʼt happen permiskious now to be the name of Garnet, maʼam?”

“Yes, indeed it did. But how could you know that, Mr. Jupp?”

“Pearl Garnet were the name I ‘earʼd on, and that ainʼt a very common name, leastways to my experience. Now, could it ‘ave ‘appened by a haxident that her good fatherʼs name were Bull Garnet?”

Amy drew back, for Mr. Jupp, in his triumph and excitement, had laid down his pipe, and was stretching out his unpeeled crate of a hand, as if to take her by the shoulder, and shake the whole truth out of her. It was his fashion with Rachel, and he quite forgot the difference. Mrs. Jupp cried, “Zakey, Zakey!” in a tone of strong remonstrance. But he was not abashed very seriously.

“It couldnʼt be now, could it, miss; it wornʼt in any way possible that Pearl Garnetʼs father was ever known by the name of Bull Garnet?”

“But indeed that is his name, Mr. Jupp. Why should you be so incredulous?”

“Oncredulous it be, miss; oncredulous, as I be a sinner. Rachey, whoʼd ha’ thought it? How things does come about, to be sure! Now please to tell me, miss – very careful, and not passinʼ lightly of anything; never you mind how small it seem – every word you knows about Pearl Garnet and that there – job there; and all you knows on her father too.”

“You must prove to me first, Mr. Jupp, that I have any right to do so.”

Issachar now was strongly excited, a condition most unusual with him, except when his wife rebelled, and that she had, years ago, ceased to do. He put his long black face, which was working so that the high cheek–bones almost shut the little eyes, quite close to Amyʼs little white ear, and whispered,

“If ye dunna tell me, yeʼll cry for it arl the life long, yeʼll never right the innocent, and yeʼll let the guilty ride over ye. I canna tell no more just now, but every word is gospel. I be no liar, miss, though I be rough enough, God knows. Supposes He made me so.”

Then Amy, trembling at his words, and thinking that she had hurt his feelings, put her soft little hand, for amends, into Zakeyʼs great black piece of hold, which looked like the bilge of a barge; and he wondered what to do with it, such a sort of chap as he was. He had never heard of kissing a hand, and even if he had it would scarcely be a timely offering, for he was having a chaw to compose himself – yet he knew that he ought not, in good manners, to let go her hand in a hurry; so what did he do but slip off a ring (one of those so–called galvanic rings, in which sailors and bargemen have wonderful faith as an antidote to rheumatics, tick dolorous, and the Caroline Morgan), and this ring he passed down two of her fingers, for all females do love trinkets so. Amy kept it carefully, and will put it on her chatelaine, if ever she institutes one.

Then, being convinced by his words and manner, she told him everything she knew about the Garnet family – their behaviour in and after the great misfortune; the strange seclusion of Pearl, and Mr. Garnetʼs illness. And then she recurred to some vague rumours which had preceded their settlement in the New Forest. To all this Issachar listened, without a word or a nod, but with his narrow forehead radiant with concentration, his lips screwed up in a serrate ring, after the manner of a medlar, and a series of winks so intensely sage that his barge might have turned a corner with a team of eight blind horses, and no nod wanted for one of them.

“Ainʼt there no more nor that, miss?” he asked, with some disappointment, when the little tale was ended; “canʼt you racollack no more?”

“No, indeed I cannot. And if you had not some important object, I should be quite ashamed of telling you so much gossip. If I may ask you a question now, what more did you expect me to tell you?”

“That they had knowʼd, miss, as Bull Garnet were Sir Cradock Nowellʼs brother.”

“Mr. Garnet Sir Cradockʼs brother! You must be mistaken, Mr. Jupp. My father has known Sir Cradock Nowell ever since he was ten years old; and he could not have failed to know it, if it had been so.”

“Most like he do know it, miss. But dunna you tell him now, nor any other charp. It be true as gospel for all that, though.”

“Then Robert and Pearl are Cradockʼs first cousins, and Mr. Garnet is his uncle!”

“Not ezackly as you counts things,” answered the bargeman, looking at the fire; “but in the way as we does.”

Amy felt that she must ask no more, at least upon that subject; and that she was not likely to speak of it even to her father.

“Let him go, miss,” continued Issachar, referring now to Cradock; “let him go for a long sea–vohoyage, same as doctor horders un. He be better out of the way for a spell or two. The Basingstoke ainʼt fur enoo, whur I meant to ‘ave took him. ‘A mun be quite out o’ the kintry till this job be over like. And niver a word as to what I thinks to coom anigh his ear, miss, if so be you vallies his raison.”

“But you forget, Mr. Jupp, that you have not told me, as yet, at all what it is you do think. You said some things which frightened me, and you told me one which astonished me. Beyond that I know nothing.”

“And better so, my dear young leddy, a vast deal better so. Only you have the very best hopes, and keep your spirits roaring. Zakey Jupp never take a thing in hand but what he go well through with it. Ask Rachey about that. Now this were a casooal haxident, mind you, only a casooal haxident – ”

“Of course we all know that, Mr. Jupp. No one would dare to think anything else.”

“Yes, yes; all right, miss. And weʼll find out who did the casooal haxident – thatʼs all, miss, thatʼs all. Only you hold your tongue.”

She was obliged to be content with this, and on the whole it greatly encouraged her. Then she returned to the Portland Hotel under convoy of all the Jupp family, and Issachar got into two or three rows by hustling every one out of her way. Although poor Amy was frightened at this, no doubt it increased her faith in him through some feminine process of dialectics unknown to the author of the Organon.

Though Amy could not bear to keep anything secret from her father, having given her word she of course observed it, and John was greatly surprised at the spirits in which his daughter took leave of Cradock. But there were many points in Amyʼs character, as has been observed before, which her father never understood; and he concluded that this was a specimen of them, and was delighted to see her so cheerful.

Now, being returned to Nowelhurst, he held counsel with sister Eudoxia, who thoroughly deserved to have a vote after contributing so to the revenue. And the result of their Lateran – for they both were bricks – council was as follows: That John was bound, howsoever much it went against his proud stomach after his previous treatment, to make one last appeal from the father according to the spirit to the father according to the flesh, in favour of the unlucky son who was now condemned to exile, so as at least to send him away in a manner suitable to his birth. That, if this appeal were rejected, and the appellant treated unpleasantly – which was almost sure to follow – he could not, consistently with his honour and his clerical dignity, hold any longer the benefices (paltry as they were), the gifts of a giver now proved unkind. That thereupon Mr. Rosedew should first provide for Cradockʼs voyage so far as his humble means and small influence permitted; and after that should settle at Oxford, where he might get parochial duty, and where his old tutorial fame and repute (now growing European from a life of learning) would earn him plenty of pupils —

“And a professorship at least!” Miss Eudoxia broke in; for, much as she nagged at her brother, she was proud as could be of his knowledge.

“Marry, ay, and a bishopric,” John answered, smiling pleasantly; “you have often menaced me, Doxy dear, with Jemimaʼs apron.”

So, on a bright day in January, John Rosedew said to Jem Pottles, “Saddle me the horse, James.” And they saddled him the “horse” – not so called by his master through any false aggrandisement (such as maketh us talk of “the servants,” when we have only got a maid–of–all–work), but because the parson, in pure faith, regarded him as a horse of full equine stature and super–equine powers.

After tightening up the girths, then – for that noble cob, at the saddling period, blew himself out with a large sense of humour (unappreciated by the biped who bestraddled him unwarily), an abdominal sense of humour which, as one touch of nature makes the whole world kin, induced the pigskin to circulate after the manner of a brass dogʼs collar – tush, I mean a dogʼs brass collar – in order to learn what the joke was down in those festive regions; therefore, having buckled him up six inches, till the witty nag creaked like a tight–laced maid, away rode the parson towards the Hall. Much liefer would he have walked by the well–known and pleasant footpath, but he felt himself bound, as one may say, to go in real style, sir.

The more he reflected upon the nature of his errand, the fainter grew his hopes of success; he even feared that his ancient friendship would not procure him a hearing, so absorbed were all the echoes of memory in the pique of parental jealousy, and the cajoleries of a woman. And the consequences of failure – how bitter they must be to him and his little household! Moreover, he dearly loved his two little quiet parishes; and, though he reaped more tithe from them in kindness than in kind or by commutation, to his contented mind they were far sweeter than the incumbency of Libya–cum–Gades, and both Pœni for his beadles.

He thought of Amy with a bitter pang, and of his sister with heaviness, as he laid his hand – for he never used whip – on the fat flank of the pony to urge him almost to a good round trot, that suspense might sooner be done with. And when the Hall was at last before him, he rode up, not to the little postern hard by the housekeeperʼs snuggery (which had seemed of old to be made for him), but to the grand front entrance, where the orange–trees in tubs were, and the myrtles, and the pilasters.

Most of the trees had been removed, with the aid of little go–carts, before the frosts began; but they impressed John Rosedew none the less, so far as his placid and simple mind was open to small impressions.

Dismounting from Coræbus, whose rusty snaffle and mildewed reins would have been a disgrace to any horse, as Amy said every day, he rang the main entrance bell, and wondered whether they would let him in.

That journey had cost him a very severe battle, to bear himself humbly before the wrong, and to do it in the cause of the injured. In the true and noble sense of pride, there could not be a prouder man than the gentle parson. But he ruled that noble human pride with its grander element, left in it by the Son of God, His incarnationʼs legacy, the pride which never apes, but is itself humility.

At last the door was opened, not by the spruce young footman (who used to look so much at Amy, and speer about as to her expectations, because she was only a parsonʼs daughter), but by that ancient and most respectable Job Hogstaff, patriarch of butlers. Dull and dim as his eyes were growing, Job, who now spent most of his time in looking for those who never came, had made out Mr. Rosedewʼs approach, by virtue of the ponyʼs most unmistakable shamble. Therefore he pulled down his best coat from a jug–crook, twitched his white hair to due stiffness, pushed the ostiary footman back with a scorn which rankled for many a day under a zebra waistcoat, and hobbled off at his utmost pace to admit the visitor now so strange, though once it was strange without him.

Mr. Rosedew walked in very slowly and stiffly, then turned aside to a tufted mat, and began to wipe his shoes in the most elaborate manner, though there was not a particle of dirt upon them. Old Jobʼs eyes blinked vaguely at him: he felt there was something wrong in that.

“Donʼt ye do that, sir, now; for Godʼs sake donʼt do that. I canʼt abear it; and thatʼs the truth.”

Full well the old man remembered how different, in the happy days, had been John Rosedewʼs entrance; and now every scrub on the mat was a rub on his shaky hard–worn heart.

Mr. Rosedew looked mildly surprised, for his apprehension (as we know) was swifter on paper than pavement. But he held forth his firm strong hand, and the old man bowed tearfully over it.

“Any news of our boy, sir? Any news of my boy as was?”

“Yes, Job; very bad news. He has been terribly ill in London, and nobody there to care for him.”

“Then Iʼll throw up my situation, sir. Manyʼs the time I have threatened them, but didnʼt like to be too hard like. And pretty goings on thereʼd be, without old Job in the pantry. But I bainʼt bound to stand everything for the saving of them as goes on so. And that Hismallitish woman, as find fault with my buckles, and nice things she herself wear – Iʼd a given notice a week next Monday, but that I likes Miss Oa so, and feel myself bound, as you may say, to see out this Sir Cradock; folk would say I were shabby to leave him now he be gettin’ elderly. Man and boy for sixty year, and began no more than boot–cleaning; man and boy for sixty–three year, come next Lammas–tide. I should like it upon my tombstone, sir, with what God pleases added, if I not make too bold, and you the master of the churchyard, if so be you should live long enough, when my turn come, God willing.”

“It will not be in my power, Job. But if ever it is, you may trust me.”

“And I wants that in I was tellin’ my niece about, ‘Put Thy hand in the hollow of my thigh.’ Holy Bible, you know, sir, and none canʼt object to that.”

“Come, Job, my good friend, you must not talk so sepulchrally. Leave His own good time to God.”

“To be sure, sir; I bainʼt in no hurry yet. Iʼve a sight of things to see to, and my master must go first, he be so very particular. Iʼll live to see the young master yet, as my duty is for to do. He ‘ont carry on with a Hismallitish woman; he ‘ont say, ‘What, Hogstaff, are your wits gone wool–gatherinʼ?’ and his own wits all the time, sir, fleeced, fleeced, fleeced – ”

Here John Rosedew cut short the contrast between the present and the future master (which would soon have assumed a golden tinge as of the Fourth Eclogue), for the parson was too much a gentleman to foster millennial views at the expense of the head of the household.

“Job, take my card to your master; and tell him, with my compliments, that I wish to see him alone, if he will so far oblige me. By–the–by, I ought to have written first, to request an interview; but it never occurred to me.”

He could scarcely help sighing as he thought of formality re–established on the ruins of familiarity.

“Heʼll be in the little coved room, no doubt, long o’ that Hismallitish woman. But step in here a moment, sir.”

Instead of passing the doorway, which the butler had thrown open for him, Mr. Rosedew stood scrupulously on the mat, as if it marked his territory, until the old man came back and showed him into the black oak parlour.

The little coved room was calmly and sweetly equal to the emergency. The moment Jobʼs heels were out of sight, Mrs. Corklemore, who had been indulging in a nice little chat with Sir Cradock, “when she ought to have been at work all the while, plain–sewing for her little household, for who was to keep the wolf from the door, if she shrank from a womanʼs mission – though irksome to her, she must confess, for it did hurt her poor fingers so” – here she held up a dish–cloth rather rougher than a coal–sack, which she had stolen cleverly from her hostʼs own lower regions, and did not know from a glass–cloth; but it suited her because it was brown, and set off her lily hands so; – ”oh, Uncle Cradock, in all this there is something sweetly sacred, because it speaks of home!” She was darning it all the while with white silk, and took good care to push it away when any servant came in. It had lasted her now for a week, and had earned her a hundred guineas, having made the most profound impression upon its legitimate owner. She would earn another hundred before the week was out by knitting a pair of rough worsted socks for her little Flore, “though it made her heart bleed to think how that poor child hated the feel of them.”

Now she rose in haste from her chair, and pushed the fortunate dish–cloth, with a very expressive air, into her pretty work–basket, and drew the strings loudly over it.

“What are you going for, Georgie? You need not leave the room, I am sure.”

“Yes, uncle dear, I must. You are so clear and so honest, I know; and most likely I take it from you. But I could not have anything to do with any secret dealings, uncle, even though you wished it, which I am sure you never could. I never could keep a secret, uncle, because I am so shallow. Whenever secrecy is requested, I feel as if there was something dishonest, either done or contemplated. Very foolish of me, I know, but my nature is so childishly open. And of course Mr. Rosedew has a perfect right, and is indeed very wise, to conceal his scheme with respect to his daughter.”

“Georgie, stay in this room, if you please; he is not coming here.”

“But that poor simple Amy will, if he has brought her with him. Well, I will stay here and lecture her, uncle, about her behaviour to you.”

After all this the old man set forth, in some little irritation, to receive his once–loved friend. He entered the black oak parlour in a cold and stately manner, and bowed without a word to John, who had crossed the room to meet him. The parson held out his hand, as a lover and preacher of peace should do; but the offer, ay, and the honour too, not being at all appreciated, he withdrew it with a crimson blush all over his bright clear cheeks, as deep as his daughterʼs would have been.

Then Sir Cradock Nowell, trying to seem quite calm and collected, addressed his visitor thus:

“Sir, I am indebted to you for the honour of this visit. I apologize for receiving you in a room without a fire. Pray take a chair. I have no doubt that your intentions are kind towards me.”

“I thank you,” replied the parson, speaking much faster than usual, and with the frill of his shirt–front rising; “I thank you, Sir Cradock Nowell; but I will not sit down in the house of a gentleman who declines to take my hand. I am here much against my own wishes, and only because I supposed that it was my duty to come. I am here on behalf of your son, a noble but most unfortunate youth, and now in great trouble of mind.”

If he had only said “in great bodily danger,” it might have made a difference.

“Your interest in him is very kind; and I trust that he will be grateful, which he never was to me. He has left his home in defiance of me. I can do nothing for him until he comes back, and is penitent. But surely the question concerns me rather than you, Mr. Rosedew.”

“I am sorry to find,” answered John, quite calmly, “that you think me guilty of impertinent meddling. But even that I would bear, as becomes my age and my profession,” – here he gave Sir Cradock a glance, which was thoroughly understood, because they had been at school together, – ”and more than that I would do, Cradock Nowell, for a man I have loved like you, sir.”

That “sir” came out very oddly. John poked it in, as a retractation for having called him “Cradock Nowell,” and as a salve to his own self–respect, lest he should have been too appealing. And to follow up this view of the subject, he made a bow such as no man makes to one from whom he begs anything. But Sir Cradock Nowell lost altogether the excellence of the bow. The parson had put up his knee in a way which took the old man back to Sherborne. His mind was there playing cob–nut as fifty years since, with John Rosedew. Once more he saw the ruddy, and then pugnacious, John bringing his calf up, and priming his knee, for the cob–nut to lie upon it. This he always used to do, and not care a flip for the whack upon it, instead of using his blue cloth cap, as all the rest of the boys did; because his father and mother were poor, and could only afford him one cap in a year.