IX

His morning cigar usually led him across the now secluded and private park, and along a narrow wagon-track to the gamekeeper’s. After looking at the puppies or the coops without a word, the Squire would go back into the wagon-track, and post himself against a gate under an oak-tree.

He often had dogs with him; and, as he began his second cigar, he let these dogs hunt as they listed, driving pheasants one way, chicks another, giving tongue at rabbits, “and jest playing old Harry, hang ’em!” said the keeper, with an accent on “ ’em” that made it sound perilously like “him.” Here the Squire enjoyed his cigar in the sunshine, and looked downwards at nothing. He was often here for an hour at a time.

Sometimes the dogs would come back to his feet, fawn on him, and streak his trousers with their sandy paws; finding he took no notice, away they ran again to chivy everything in the hedge.

Occasionally a blue jay crossed over from the firs and screamed to his fellow just as he reached the ash cover. Squirrels darted out into the lane, limping along the ground, and rushed back at the sound of the scampering dogs.

The white clouds drifted over⁠—shadow and sunshine; light airs rustled the oak leaves; sweet summer sounds whispered over grass and spray.

Enclosed within its thick bark the oak was passive to the beauty of the summer hours. As unobservant as the oak, it seemed that the man, enclosed in a thick bark of indifference, was passive as the timber; he neither saw nor heard.

A maxim, well established, is that the man or the woman always come out in their deeds. Whatever they may profess, in time the act betrays them, and upon that outward act and deed the world invariably bases its opinion of their character. Is this just?

Do you always do as you would like to do were it in your power? I find that circumstances force me often to act in a manner quite opposite to what I should prefer; I am of course judged by my acts, but do they really afford a true key to my character? I think not.

What passes in a man’s mind it is not possible to tell, and in despite of Cornleigh’s apparent indifference, it occurs to me to hazard the inquiry whether after all, he did not see the sunshine, the green leaf, the flower-grown grass. Did he in some dim way enter into the frolic joy of his dogs, released from control? Did he enjoy the quiet⁠—the absolute do-nothing of the lane? Did he slumber awake under the rich colour of the sky, seeing it without looking?

There was no Letitia in nature; no one with a loud voice who must be obeyed.

The keeper believed the Squire, when the family were at their house in London, made up pretences to rund own a day or two, just to come and do his cigar in the lane. “He likes to do nothing with nobody to help him,” said the keeper.

There was some resemblance in this to the oak’s passive happiness in self-absorption⁠—receiving the sun’s rays, receiving the air as it blew; silent under the song of birds; doing nothing, saying nothing; simply existing. So it seemed as if Cornleigh simply existed.

Wits in the town asked the question if Cornleigh did or did not know himself to be a fool? Some thought his mind so perfect a blank as to be also oblivious to his own failings. Others thought they detected a painful consciousness of his own defects, and averred that his supineness was only a cloak. The dispute was never settled.

A French saying, I think, points out that everyone has his own way of getting out of the rain. Possibly quiescence⁠—doing as he was bid, without will of his own⁠—was Cornleigh’s method.

But if indeed the man was conscious, or partly conscious of mental deficiency, then a great sadness is wound up with the lot of Cornleigh Cornleigh, master of so many many acres; a mere helpless jelly in the hands of Letitia.

How singularly just and thoughtful the world was in its way! “Just the thing for Cornleigh! Capital thing for Cornleigh! Most energetic woman⁠—just the thing for Cornleigh!”

The oak’s passive existence was perhaps his only refuge. There was, indeed, a whisper that Letitia even could not drive him beyond a certain point; he would have his ease; he would not work and slave in society all the year round; he would smoke his cigar in the lane. Wise in her generation, Letitia soon learned to let him alone in this one particular.

The dogs came back again and fawned upon him⁠—he did not stroke them⁠—they rolled on the grass and left him once more for the hedges. All dogs and animals were very fond of him, though he showed not the slightest interest in them; perhaps they saw some companionship in his helpless state to their own dumb condition.

Yet you must understand that there was no deficiency you could fix on. Cornleigh could write a letter, add up accounts, go through all the routine of life as perfectly as Letitia herself. Those who most bitterly denounced the fool could not mention a single foolish whim, a single foolish word, not so much as a false step of which he had been guilty.

The fool was very self-possessed and reasonable in all his ways and actions.

Cornleigh Cornleigh was taken a wide round of travel by the most energetic woman, but he saw nothing in the countries he was carried through. He was once heard to remark that there were a good many fir-trees in Russia⁠—having ridden in a train for six hundred miles through fir-woods⁠—but that was the only circumstance he had noticed.

His speeches at election-times were written out for him by his solicitor and Letitia; he learned them by heart and jerked them out, bits at a time, interspersed with hums and haws. This had not mattered in the least; the place had been under Robert Godwin’s thumb, and his return had been certain. If the Squire had held up a dog in his arms to bark for him to the crowd, his success would have been equally great. Some awkward changes, however, had of late begun to creep even into Maasbury. He had sat already nearly twenty-five years in Parliament without once opening his lips, but he was punctually there at the divisions, and invariably on the right side.

The question was once propounded⁠—so many questions were propounded about Cornleigh⁠—why on earth such a man as this was chosen by the gentry as the representative of the Borough and Hundreds of Maasbury? Could they not pick a smarter man than this from their ranks?

Analysis was made, and it was found that there were about fourteen other landowners and J. P.’s in that district, each of whom was possessed of sufficient wealth to sit in the House of Commons. Yet these fourteen had selected Cornleigh⁠—for the crowd of voters merely recorded their selection. How could this be.

On examining the characters of each one of these fourteen magnates, however, a remarkable discovery was made. Every one of these possessed qualities of stupidity more marked than Cornleigh’s; little acts, words, ways, could be mentioned by which each had branded himself as a more or less consummate ass.

The reason was now apparent why Cornleigh was chosen; he was the least foolish of the lot.

What the state of their minds must have been, considering that Cornleigh Cornleigh stood out as the most sensible of the number, it is difficult to conjecture. What ever could these other fourteen have been like?

From the date when this discovery was made Cornleigh rose considerably in the estimation of Maasbury; they began to be proud of him, and as someone said, “After all, silence is golden.”

Moreover, the world always appreciates a solid plum, and approves those who get the solid plum. Now it was understood that Cornleigh’s patient voting on the right side in every division for five-and-twenty years had at last aroused his party to the necessity of rewarding such diligence, to encourage the others. A promise of a baronetage had been made, and if only Cornleigh could hold on, and appear in Parliament when next his party obtained the Government, he would be Sir Edward Cornleigh Cornleigh, Bart., to a certainty. My Lady Letitia Cornleigh already claimed all the precedence the title could give her.

A baronetage is a baronetage, or it is not a baronetage. Conferred upon an upstart millionaire it is nothing; conferred upon an ancient county family it indicates very considerable social rank. The antiquity of the house gilds the title. There was no questioning the fact that the House of Cornleigh was one of the most ancient in the county.

When it was known that such a promise had been given in the responsible quarter, a great many wise old fogies, who had never looked upon Cornleigh as very bright, began to change their tone, and “By Jove, you know, there must be something in the fellow after all! But of course it’s all Letitia’s doing. Wonderful woman⁠—most energetic woman⁠—just the woman for Cornleigh!”

Some manoeuvres in connection with the political future rendered Cornleigh’s presence in the county desirable just now. This was why he was at home while Parliament was sitting; he ran up to vote in important divisions, and returned to his cigar in the lane.