Cradock Nowell: A Tale of the New Forest. Volume 2 of 3

“And pray what gold do I wear? Brother John, you are so personal; you never can let me alone. I do believe you have never forgiven me my poor dear grandmotherʼs ring, and watch, and Aunt Dianaʼs brooch and locket; no, nor even my own dear motherʼs diamond ring with the sapphires round it. And perhaps you donʼt hate even my bracelet, a mere twist of gold with catʼs eyes! Oh, John, John, how can you be my brother, and show such a little mind, John?”

“Whence we may infer,” continued John, quite unruffled; for he knew that it would be worse than useless to assure Miss Doxy that he was not even aware of the existence of the things he was impeached with; “or at least we have some grounds for supposing that the Greeks, a very sensitive and highly perceptive race, did not like to have their hair cut. Compare with this another statement – ”

“No, indeed I wonʼt, John. I should rather hope I would not. You canʼt hold your tongue for a moment, however solemn the occasion is. There, thatʼs the third cut youʼve got, and I wonʼt take another snip at you. But you have quoted less Greek than usual; thatʼs one comfort, at any rate, and I will put you on some gold–beaterʼs skin, for being so very good, John. Only donʼt tell Amy; she does make such a fuss about it. But there, I need not tell you, for you wonʼt know how you got them in half an hourʼs time. Now, donʼt make a fuss, John; one would think you were killed” – poor John had dared to put his hand up – “as if you cared indeed even if you had three great stripes of red all down your collar, or even upon your white neckerchief. You wouldnʼt be at all ashamed of yourself. Have you the face to say that you would, now?”

“Well, dear Doxy, I am not convinced that you are reasonable in expecting me to be ashamed of bleeding when you have been cutting me.”

“Oh, of course not. I never am reasonable, according to your ideas. But one thing you may be convinced of, and that is, that I never will toil and degrade myself by cutting your hair again, John, after this outrageous conduct.”

John had been visited so often with this tremendous menace, that he received it with no satisfaction. Well he knew that on that day four weeks he must don the blue apron again, unless something happened worse even than Aunt Doxyʼs tonsorial flourishes.

“Now, you are not done yet, John. You are in a great hurry, are you not, to get the apron off and scatter the hair all about? Whatʼs the good of my taking the trouble to spread Jemimaʼs shawl down? Can you imagine you are done, when I havenʼt rubbed you up with the rosemary even?”

“ʼCoronari marino rore!’ No wonder good Flaccus puts it after ‘multâ cæde bidentium.’ Oh, Doxy, you are inexorable. O averse Penates! By the way, that stanza is to my mind the most obscure (with one exception) in all the Odes. Either Horace had too much of the ‘lene tormentumʼ applied just then ‘ingenio non sæpe duro,’ or else – ”

“Please, miss” – all the girls called her miss – “Dr. Hutton, miss!”

Bang went Miss Doxy, quicker than thought, left an exclamation, semi–profane, far behind on the light air, slammed the door on the poor girlʼs chilblains, bolted and locked it, and pulled out the key, and put the scutcheon over the keyhole.

“Well, why, διὰ τί; πόθεν; unde terrarum? Women are not allowed to say ‘mehercle,’ neither men ‘mecastor;’ ‘ædepol’ is common to both, but only ‘inscitiâ antiquitatis;’ for the most ancient men abstained from that even, and I dare say were none the worse for it – ”

“I have no patience with you, John,” cried Miss Doxy, snatching up brush, comb, scissors, extract of the sea–dew, the blue apron, Jemimaʼs shawl of grey hair, and we know not how many other things, and huddling all into a cupboard, and longing to lock herself in with them.

“Great truths come out,” answered John, quite placidly, “at periods of mental commotion. But why, oh Doxy, and whence this inopine hurry–scurry? There is no classic expression – except perhaps in Aristophanes – of prosody quick enough; and, doubtless, for very good reason, because the people were too wise to hurry so. ‘Rumpe moras,’ for instance, is rather suggestive of – ”

“Oh, John! oh, John! even at such a moment, John! I believe youʼll die in Latin or Greek – and I donʼt know which Amen is, only I donʼt believe itʼs English – there, I am as bad as you are to discuss such a question now. And I am quite sure Jenny canʼt tell a good story soundly. And he has got such ferret eyes! Thank Heaven, the key was inside, John.”

Poor Miss Doxy was panting so, that her brother was quite frightened for her; and the more so because he had no idea what there was to be frightened at.

“Why, Doxy,” he said, “my darling, he need never see that you have cut me.”

“As if I cared for that! Oh, John, my dearest brother, heʼll see that Iʼve cut your hair!”

The idea struck John Rosedew as so gloriously novel – that man who knew the world so! – to him it appeared such a mountain of wonder that a sister should want to sink through the floor, for having saved her brother from barberism, that he laughed as hard as any man of real humour ever laughs. Miss Doxy stole on the opportunity, when he sat down to have his laugh out, to dust all the white hair with her handkerchief from his coat–collar.

Suddenly John Rosedew got up, and his laugh went away in gravity. He walked to the door more heavily than was natural to him (lest he should seem to go falsely), unlocked and unbolted it, and in his most stately manner marched into the hall. Jenny was telling a “jolly lie” – jollity down below, I suppose – to Mr. Rufus Hutton; she was doing it very clumsily, not “oculo irretorto.”

“Please, sir, yes, my master is gone round the parish, sir; and the rest, they be at the school, sir. How sorry they will be, to be sure, to hear that you have called, sir, and all of them out of the way so!”

“No, they wonʼt,” said Mr. Rosedew, looking over her head; “the only thing I am sorry for, Jenny, is that you can tell a falsehood so. But the fault is not yours only. I will talk to you by–and–by. Dr. Hutton, come in, if you please. I was having my hair cut by my sister, Miss Rosedew. You have met her before. Eudoxia, Dr. Hutton is kind enough to come and see us. I have told him how good and how sisterly you have been to me, and I am sure that he must wish to have a sister so capable – that is to say if he has not,” added John, who was very particular about his modal and temporal prefix.

Miss Rosedew came forward, with a few white hairs still on her dark “reps” bell–sleeve, and, being put upon her mettle, was worthy of her brother. Oh dear, that such a grand expression should be needful, even over the shell of the roasted egg of snobbery! Rufus Hutton, of course, not being quite a fool, respected, and trusted, and loved them both, more than he would have done after fifty formal dinners. And he knew quite well that there was on his own part something akin to intrusion; for he had called in the forenoon, when visits from none but an intimate friend are expected; and he had pushed his advance rather vigorously, not towards the drawing–room, but to Johnʼs favourite book–room, where the lady Licinus plied her calling. But for this he had good reason, as he wished to see Mr. Rosedew alone, and the cause of his visit was urgent.

It was not long before the lady, feeling rather unhappy because she was not arrayed much better than the lilies of the field are, withdrew in a very noble manner, earning gratitude of Rufus. Then the doctor drew his chair close home to the parsonʼs, looked all round the room, and coughed to try how big the echo was. Finding no response returned by that prolific goddess, who loves not calf or sheep–skin, and seeing that no other lady was dangerously acoustic, Rufus inclined his little red head towards Johnʼs great and black and slightly liparous waistcoat, and spake these winged words:

“Ever see a thing like that, sir?”

“No, I donʼt think I ever did. Dear me, how odd it smells! Why, how grave you are, Dr. Hutton!”

“So will you be, when I have told you what I have to tell. My discovery is for your ears only; I have been to London about it, and there found out its meaning. Now I will act upon your advice. Nothing in all my experience – though I have seen a great deal of the world – nothing has ever surprised me more than what I have told you.”

“But you forget, Dr. Hutton,” cried John, imbibing excitement, “that as yet you have told me nothing at all, only shown me something which I cannot in the least make out. A cylinder, hollow, and blocked at one end; of a substance resembling book–binding, and of a most unsavoury odour!”

“Ha!” replied Rue Hutton, “ha, my dear sir, you little guess the importance of that thing no bigger than a good cigar. Ah, indeed! Ah, yes!”

“Do you mean to tell me, or not, Dr. Hutton? Your behaviour is most unusual. I am greatly surprised by your manner.”

“Ah, no doubt; no doubt of that. Very odd if you were not. I also am astonished at your apparent indifference.”

Hereupon Rufus looked so intensely knowing, so loaded with marvel and mystery, too big to be discharged even, that John Rosedew himself, so calm and large, and worthy to be called a philosopher, very nearly grew wroth with longing to know what all the matter was.

Then Dr. Hutton, having bound him by a solemn promise that he would not for the present even hint of that matter to any one, poured out the hissing contents of his mind under the white curls which still overhung the elder manʼs porch of memory. And what he told him was indeed a thing not to be forgotten.

The spectator is said to see more of the game than any of the players see, and the reader of a story knows a great deal more than the actors do, or the writer either, for that matter; marry, therefore, I will not insult any candid intelligence, neither betray Rue Huttonʼs faith, for he is an awkward enemy.

The very next day there came a letter, with coal enough on it to make some gas, and directed in a wandering manner to “Rev. Mr. Rosedew, Nowelhouse, somewhere in England.” Much as we abuse the Post–office people, they generally manage to find us out more cleverly than we do them; and so this letter had not been to more than six wrong places. As our good journalists love to say, “it was couched in the following terms:” —

“Honoured and Reverend Sir, – Takes the liberty of stating price of inland coals, as per margin, delivered free within six miles of Charing–cross. N.B. Weighed as the Act directs, whether required or otherwise, which mostly is not, and the dust come back if required. Excuse me the liberty of adding that a nice young gent and uncommon respectable, only not a good business address – no blame to him, being a Oxford gent – lie here very ill, and not much expect to get over to–morrow night. Our junior, Mr. Clinkers, with full commission to take all orders and sign receipts for the firm, have been up with him all night, and hear him talk quite agreeable about some place or business called Amery, supposed in the hardware line by mistake for emery. This young gent were called Mr. Newman, by the name of Charles Newman, but Mrs. Ducksacre half believe clandastical and temporal only, and no doubt good reason for it, because he always pay his lodging. Rev. sir, found your direction as per endorsement very simple in the inside pocket of the young gentʼs coat, and he only have one to look in. But for fear to be misunderstood this firm think none the less of him by the same reason, having been both of us in trouble when we was married. Also as per left–hand cover a foreign–looking play–book, something queer and then ‘Opera,’ which the undersigned understand at once, having been to that same theayter when our gracious Queen was married, and not yet gone into the coal–trade. Requests to excuse the liberty, but if endorsed correctly and agreeable to see the young gentʼs funeral performed most reasonably, at sole expense of this firm, and no claim made on any survivors because Robert Clinkers like him, must come by express day after to–morrow at latest.

“Signed for the firm of Poker and Clinkers, West London Depôt, Hammersmith. Weighed as the Act directs. Per Robert Clinkers, jun.

“At Mrs. and Miss Ducksacreʼs, greengrocer and general fruiterer, Mortimer–street, Cavendish–square.”

CHAPTER XV

Cradock Nowell had written from London to the Parsonage once, and once only. He told them how he had changed his name, because his father had cast him off; and (as he bitterly added), according to filial promise, he felt himself bound to be Nowell no longer. But he did not say what name he had taken, neither did he give any address; only he would write again when he had found some good situation. Of course he longed to hear from Amy – his own loving Amy, who begged that poor letter and bore it in her own pure bosom long after the Queenʼs head came off – but his young pride still lay hot upon him, and for Amyʼs sake he nursed it.

A young man is never so proud of his honour, so prompt to deny himself anything, so strong in anotherʼs lifehold, and careless about his own living, as when he has won a true loveʼs worth, and sees it abiding for ever. Few are the good who have such luck – for the success is not of merit, any more than it is in other things; more often indeed some fish–tailed coxcomb is a womanʼs Dagon, doubly worshipped for crushing her – but when that luck does fall to the lot of a simple and honest young fellow, he piles his triple mountains up to the everlasting heaven, but makes no Babel of them. A man who chatters about his love soon exhausts himself or his subject.

John Rosedew, after receiving that letter, shut every book on his table, chairs, and desk, and chimney–piece. He must think what to do, and how: and he never could think hard on the flints of daily life, while the green pastures of the dead were tempting his wayward steps away. Of course he would go to London at once, by the very next train; but whether or no should he tell his people the reason of his going? He felt so strongly inclined to tell, even at risk of domestic hysterics and parochial convulsions, that he resolved at last not to tell; for he thought of the great philosopherʼs maxim (not perhaps irrefragable), that when the right hangs dubious, we may safely conclude that it rides in the scale swinging opposite to our own wishes. To most of us (not having a quarter of John Rosedewʼs ability, and therefore likely to be a hundred times less hesitant) it seems that the maxim holds good with ourselves, or any other common mortal, but makes Truth actually cut her own throat when applied to a mind like his – a mind already too timorously and humorously self–conscious.

Let 99,000 angels get on the top of John Rosedewʼs pen – which generally had a great hair in it – and dance a faux pas over that question, if it was laid the wrong way; for we, whose consciences must work in corduroys and highlows, roughly conclude that right and wrong are but as button and button–hole when it comes to a question of hair–splitting. Blest are they whose conscience–edge, like the sword of Thor, can halve every wisp of wool afloat upon the brook of life.

After breakfast John mounted Coræbus, leaving a short farewell, and set off hastily with the old–fashioned valise behind the saddle, wherein he was wont to bear wine and confections upon his parochial tours. The high–mettled steed was again amazed at the pace that could be pumped out of him; neither did he long continue ingloriously mute, but woke the echoes of Ytene with many a noble roar and shriek, so that consternation shook the heart of deer and pig and cow. But the parson did not exult as usual in these proofs of velocity, because his soul within him was sad; nevertheless he preserved cohesion, or at least coincidence, in an admirable manner, with his feet thrust strenuously into the stirrups, his bridle–hand thrown in great emergencies upon the peak of the saddle, and whip–hand reposing on the leathern outwork, which guarded and burnished his rear. Anchored thus by both strong arms – for the sake of his mission and family – he felt capable of jumping a gate, if Coræbus had equal confidence.

That evening he entered the Ducksacre shop, and found no one there but the mistress.

“Pray excuse me, but I have been told, maʼam,” said John Rosedew, lifting his hat – as he always did to a matron – and bowing his silvery head, “that you have a lodger here who is very ill.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Mrs. Ducksacre, fetching her breath very quickly, “and dead, too, for all I know. Oh Lord, I am so put upon!”

The soft–hearted parson was shocked at this apparent apathy; and thought her no true woman. Who is not wrong sometimes? It was a very rare thing for John Rosedew to judge man or woman harshly. But only half an hour ago that poor woman had been up–stairs, neglecting till, present and future, estranging some excellent customers, leaving a wanton shop–boy to play marbles with Spanish chestnuts, while she did her most misguided best to administer to sick Cradock soup wildly beyond her own economy, and furiously beyond his powers of deglutition.

John Rosedew, with his stout legs shaking, and his stockings expressing excitement, went up three pairs (ill–assorted) of stairs into Cradockʼs sick room. Then he started back from the Aristophanic climax – even the rags of Telephus; though after all, Polly Ducksacre had done her best to make the room comely. Why, there were three potato–sacks on the bed, with the names of Fulham growers done in red letters upon them, and giving the room quite a bright appearance, as if newly–marked sheep were in it. Nay, and I could almost swear there were two bast mats from Covent Garden, gloriously fixed as bed curtains, mats from that noble market where a rat prays heaven vainly to grant him the coat of a water–rat.

There, by Cradock Nowellʼs bed, sat the faithful untiring nurse, the woman who had absorbed such a quantity of strap, and had so kindly assimilated it. Meek–spirited Rachel Jupp waited and watched by the bed of him through whom she had been enfranchised. Since Issachar Jupp became a Christian she had not tasted the buckle–end once, and scarcely twice the tongue–end.

She had been employed some years ago as a nurse in the Middlesex Hospital; so she knew her duties thoroughly. But here she had exceeding small chance of practising that knowledge; because scarcely anything which she wanted, and would have rung for, if there had been any bell, was ever to be found in the house. Even hot water, which the doctor had ordered, was cold again ere it came to her, and had taken an hour before it started; for there was no fireplace in the little room, nor even on the floor below it.