Bred in the Bone by James Payn

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[Illustration]

BRED IN THE BONE; OR, LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON

A Novel.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK," "GWENDOLINE'S HARVEST," "CARLYON'S YEAR," "ONE
OF THE FAMILY," "WON--NOT WOOED," &c.

_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_.

NEW YORK: 1872.

CHAPTER I.

CAREW OF CROMPTON.

Had you lived in Breakneckshire twenty years ago, or even any where in
the Midlands, it would be superfluous to tell you of Carew of Crompton.
Every body thereabout was acquainted with him either personally or by
hearsay. You must almost certainly have known somebody who had had an
adventure with that eccentric personage--one who had been ridden down by
him, for that mighty hunter never turned to the right hand nor to the
left for any man, nor paid attention to any rule of road; or one who,
more fortunate, had been "cleared" by him on his famous black horse
_Trebizond_, an animal only second to his master in the popular esteem.
There are as many highly colored pictures of his performance of this
flying feat in existence as there are of "Dick Turpin clearing the
Turnpikegate." Sometimes it is a small tradesman cowering down in his
cart among the calves, while the gallant Squire hurtles over him with a
"Stoop your head, butcher." Sometimes it is a wagoner, reminding one of
Commodore Trunnion's involuntary deed of "derring-do," who, between two
high banks, perceives with marked astonishment this portent flying over
himself and convoy. But, at all events, the thing was done; perhaps on
more than one occasion, and was allowed on all hands not only as a fact,
but as characteristic of their sporting idol. It was "Carew all over,"
or "Just like Carew."

This phrase was also applied to many other heroic actions. The idea of
"keel-hauling," for instance, adapted from the nautical code, was said
to be practically enforced in the case of duns, attorneys, and other
objectionable persons, in the lake at Crompton; while the administration
of pommelings to poachers and agriculturists generally, by the athletic
Squire, was the theme of every tongue. These punishments, though severe,
were much sought after by a certain class, the same to which the
purchased free and independent voter belongs, for the clenched fist
invariably became an open hand after it had done its work--a golden
ointment, that is, was always applied after these inflictions, such as
healed all wounds.

Carew of Crompton might at one time have been member for the county, if
he had pleased; but he desired no seat except in the saddle, or on the
driving-box. He showed such skill in riding, and with "the ribbons,"
that some persons supposed that his talents must be very considerable in
other matters, and affected to regret their misuse; there were reports
that he knew Latin better than his own chaplain; and was, or had been,
so diligent a student of Holy Writ, that he could give you chapter and
verse for every thing. But it must be allowed that others were not
wanting to whisper that these traits of scholarship were greatly
exaggerated, and that all the wonder lay in the fact that the Squire
knew any thing of such matters at all; nay, a few even ventured to
express their opinion that, but for his recklessness and his money,
there was nothing more remarkable in Carew than in other spendthrifts;
but this idea was never mooted within twenty miles of Crompton. The real
truth is, that the time was unsuitable to the display of the Squire's
particular traits. He would have been an eminent personage had he been a
Norman, and lived in the reign of King John. Even now, if he could have
removed his establishment to Poland, and assumed the character of a
Russian proprietor, he would doubtless have been a great prince. There
was a savage magnificence about him, and also certain degrading traits,
which suggested the Hetman Platoff. Unfortunately, he was a Squire in
the Midlands. The contrast, however, of his splendid vagaries with the
quiet time and industrious locality in which he lived, while it
diminished his influence, did, on the other hand, no doubt enhance his
reputation. He was looked upon (as Waterford and Mytton used to be) as a
_lusus naturae_, an eccentric, an altogether exceptional personage, to
whom license was permitted; and the charitable divided the human race,
for his sake, into Men, Women, and Carew.

The same philosophic few, however, who denied him talent, averred that
he was half mad; and indeed Fortune had so lavishly showered her favors
on him from his birth, that it might well be that they had turned his
head. His father had died while Carew was but an infant, so that the
surplus income from his vast estates had accumulated to an enormous sum
when he attained his majority. In the mean time, his doting mother had
supplied him with funds out of all proportion to his tender years. At
ten years old, he had a pack of harriers of his own, and hunted the
county regularly twice a week. At the public school, where he was with
difficulty persuaded to remain for a short period, he had an allowance
the amount of which would have sufficed for the needs of a professional
man with a wife and family, and yet it is recorded of him that he had
the audacity--"the boy is father to the man," and it was "so like
Carew," they said--to complain to his guardian, a great lawyer, that his
means were insufficient. He also demanded a lump sum down, on the ground
that (being at the ripe age of fourteen) he contemplated marriage. The
reply of the legal dignitary is preserved, as well as the young
gentleman's application: "If you can't live upon your allowance, you may
starve, Sir; and if you marry, you shall not have your allowance."

You had only--having authority to do so--to advise Carew, and he was
positively certain to go counter to your opinion; and did you attempt to
oppose him in any purpose, you would infallibly insure its
accomplishment. He did not marry at fourteen, indeed, but he did so
clandestinely in less than three years afterward, and had issue; but at
the age of five-and-thirty, when our stage opens, he had neither wife
nor child, but lived as a bachelor at Crompton, which was sometimes
called "the open house," by reason of its profuse hospitalities; and
sometimes "Liberty Hall," on account of its license; otherwise it was
never, called any thing but Crompton; never Crompton Hall, or Crompton
Park--but simply Crompton, just like Stowe or Blenheim. And yet the park
at Crompton was as splendid an appanage of glade and avenue, of copse
and dell, as could be desired. It was all laid out upon a certain
plan--somewhere in the old house was the very parchment on which the
chase was ordered like a garden; a dozen drives here radiated from one
another like the spokes of a wheel, and here four mighty avenues made a
St. Andrew's cross in the very centre--but the area was so immense, and
the stature of the trees so great, that nothing of this formality could
be observed in the park itself. Not only were the oaks and beeches of
large, and often of giant proportions, but the very ferns grew so tall
that whole herds of fallow deer were hidden in it, and could only be
traced by their sounds. There were red deer also, almost as numerous,
with branching antlers, curiously mossed, as though they had acquired
that vegetation by rubbing, as they often did, against the high wooden
pale--itself made picturesque by age--which hedged them in their sylvan
prison for miles. Moreover, there were wild-cattle, as at Chartley
(though not of the same breed), the repute of whose fierceness kept the
few public paths that intersected this wild domain very unfrequented.
These animals, imported half a century ago, were of no use nor of
particular beauty, and would have dwindled away, from the unfitness of
the locality for their support, but that they were recruited
periodically, and at a vast expense. It was enough to cause their
present owner to strain every nerve to retain them, because they were so
universally objected to. They had gored one man to death, and
occasionally maimed others, but, as Carew, to do him justice, was by no
means afraid of them himself, and ran the same risk, and far oftener
than other people, he held he had a right to retain them. Nobody was
obliged to come into his park unless they liked, he said, and if they
did, they must "chance a tossing." The same detractors, whose opinion we
have already quoted, affirmed that the Squire kept these cattle for the
very reason that was urged against their existence; the fear of these
horned police kept the park free from strangers, and thereby saved him
half a dozen keepers.

That his determination in the matter was pig-headed and brutal, there is
no doubt; but the Squire's nature was far from exclusive, and the idea
of saving in any thing, it is certain, never entered into his head. The
time, indeed, was slowly but surely coming when the park should know no
more not only its wild-cattle, but many a rich copse and shadowy glade.
Not a stately oak nor far-spreading beech but was doomed, sooner or
later, to be cut down, to prop for a moment the falling fortunes of
their spendthrift owner; but at the time of which we speak there was no
visible sign of the coming ruin. It is recorded of a brother prodigal,
that after enormous losses and expenses, his steward informed him that
if he would but consent to live upon seven thousand a year for the next
ten years, the estate would recover itself. "Sir," returned he in anger,
"I would rather die than live on seven thousand a year." Our Carew would
have given the same reply had twice that income been suggested to him,
and been applauded for the gallant answer. The hint of any necessity for
curtailment would probably have caused him to double his expenditure
forthwith, though, indeed, that would have been difficult to effect. He
had already two packs of hounds, with which he hunted on alternate days,
and he had even endeavored to do so on the Sunday; but the obsequious
"county" had declined to go with him to that extent, and this anomaly of
the nineteenth century had been compelled to confine himself on the
seventh day to cock-fighting in the library. He kept a bear to bait (as
well as a chaplain to bully), and ferrets ran loose about Crompton as
mice do in other houses. He had a hunter for every week in the year, yet
he often rode his horses to death. He had a stud of racers, and it was
this, or rather his belief in their powers, which eventually drained his
vast resources. Not one of them ever won a great race. This was not
their fault, nor that of their trainer, but his own; he interfered in
their management, and would have things his own way; he would command
every thing, except success, which was beyond his power, and in missing
that he lost all. Otherwise, he was lucky as a mere gambler. His
audacity, and the funds he always had at his disposal, carried him
triumphantly, where many a more prudent but less wealthy player withdrew
from the contest. Games of skill had no attraction for him, but at an
earlier date in his career he had been a terror to the club-keepers in
St. James's, where his luck and obstinacy had broken a dozen banks. It
was said--and very likely with truth--that he had once cut double or
quits for ten thousand pounds.

His moral character, as respected the softer sex, was such as you might
expect from these traits. No modest woman had been seen at Crompton for
many a year; although not a few such--if at least good birth and high
position include modesty--had, since his majority, striven to give a
lawful mistress to the place. His eccentricities had not alarmed them,
and his shamelessness had not abashed them. Though his constitution was
said to be breaking up through unparalleled excesses, his heart, it was
currently reported in domestic circles, was sound: and what a noble feat
would it be to reclaim him! It was also reckoned impossible that any
amount of extravagance could have seriously embarrassed such a property
as he had inherited, indeed long since, but of which he had had the sole
control only a few years. At the time of which we speak Carew was but
thirty-five, though he looked much older. His muscles were still firm,
his limbs yet active, and his hand and eye as steady with the gun or
bridle as ever. But his bronzed face showed signs of habitual
intemperance; his head was growing prematurely bald; and once or twice,
though the fact was known to himself only, his iron nerve had of late
failed him. The secret consciousness of this last fact made him more
venturesome and reckless than ever. "Time," he swore, "should never play
_him_ tricks. He was as good a man as ever he was. There was a quarter
of a million, more or less, to be got through yet, and, by Jove, he
would see it out!" Of course he did not swear by Jove; for, as we have
said, he kept a chaplain, and was therefore no heathen.

One of the arguments that the mothers of those young ladies who sought
his hand were wont to make use of, to their great comfort, was that Mr.
Carew was a churchman. There was a private chapel at Crompton, the
existence of which, of course, explained why his presence did not grace
the parish church. Then his genealogy was of the most satisfactory
description. Carews had dwelt at Crompton in direct succession for many
a century. Charles I., it is almost unnecessary to state, had slept
there--that most locomotive of monarchs seems to have honored all old
English mansions with a night's visit--and had hunted in the chase next
morning. Queen Elizabeth had also been most graciously pleased to visit
her subject, John Carew, on which occasion a wooden tower had been
erected for her in the park, from which to see "ten buckes, all having
fayre lawe, pulled down with grey-houndes;" she shot deer, too, with her
own virgin hands, for which purpose "a cross-bowe was delivered to her
by a nymph with a sweet song." These things, however, were in no way
commemorated. Carew was all in all: his devouring egotism swallowed up
historical association. His favorite female bull-dog, with her pups,
slept in the royal martyr's apartment. The places in Crompton Chase held
remarkable were those where its present owner had made an
unprecedentedly long shot, or had beaten off one of the wild cattle
without a weapon, or had run down a stag on foot. There was no relic of
ancient times preserved whatever, except that at midsummer, as in Lyme,
that very curious custom was kept of driving the red deer round the
park, and then swimming them through the lake before the house--a very
difficult feat, by-the-by, to any save those who have been accustomed to
"drive deer." One peculiar virtue of Carew--he was addressed,
by-the-way, by all his inferiors, and some of his equals, as "Squire"
only--was, we had almost forgotten to say, his regard for truth, which
may truly be said to have been "passionate," if we consider the effect
produced in him when he discovered that any one had told him a
falsehood. He would fall upon them tooth and nail, if they were menials;
and if guests, he would forbid them his house. This was surely one
excellent trait. Yet it was maintained by those carpers already alluded
to, that to tell truth was comparatively easy in one who was as careless
of all opinion as he was independent in means; moreover, that a love of
truth is sometimes found to exist in very bad company, as in the case of
the Spartan boy who stole the fox, and if the veracious Squire did not
steal foxes (which he did, by-the-by, indirectly, for a bagged one was
his delight), he was guilty of much worse things. However, this is
certain, that Carew of Crompton never told a lie.

CHAPTER II.

WAITING FOR AN INTRODUCTION.

We have said that Carew was not exclusive; so long as he had his own way
in every thing he was good-tempered, and so very good-natured that he
permitted not only his friends but his dependents to do pretty much as
they would. He was a tyrant only by fits and starts, and in the mean
time there was anarchy at Crompton. Every soul in the place, from the
young lords, its master's guests, down to the earth-stopper's assistant,
who came for his quantum of ale to the back-door, did pretty much as
seemed right in his own eyes. There were times when every thing had to
be done in a moment under the master's eye, no matter at what loss, or
even risk to limb or life; but usually there was no particular time for
any thing--except dinner. The guests arose in the morning, or lay in bed
all day, exactly as they pleased, and had their meals in public or in
their own rooms; but when the great dinner-gong sounded for the second
time it was expected that every man should be ready for the feast, and
wearing (with the single exception of the chaplain) a red coat. The
dinner-parties at Crompton--and there was a party of the most
heterogeneous description daily--were literally, therefore, very gay
affairs; the banquet was sumptuous, and the great cellars were laid
under heavy contribution. Only, if a guest did happen to be unpunctual,
from whatever cause, even if it were illness, the host would send for
his bear, or his half-dozen bull-dogs, and proceed to the sick man's
room, with the avowed intention (and he always kept his word) of
"drawing the badger." In spite of his four-legged auxiliaries, this was
not always an easy task. His recklessness, though not often, did
sometimes meet with its match in that of the badger; and in one chamber
door at Crompton we have ourselves seen a couple of bullet-holes, which
showed that assault on one side had met with battery upon the other.
With such rough manners as Carew had, it may seem strange that he was
never called to account for them at twelve paces; but, in the first
place, it was thoroughly understood that he would have "gone out" (a
fact which has doubtless given pause to many a challenge), and would
have shot as straight as though he were partridge-shooting; and
secondly, as we have said, he had a special license for practical jokes;
the subjects of them, too, were not men of delicate susceptibilities,
for none such, by any accident, could have been his guests. In
consideration of good fare, good wine, a good mount in the
hunting-field, excellent shooting, and of a loan from the host whenever
they were without funds, men even of good position were found to "put
up" very good-naturedly with the eccentricities of the master of
Crompton, and he had his house full half the year. It is not to be
wondered at, therefore, that his servants were found willing to compound
for some occasional ill usage, in return for general laxity of rule, and
many unconsidered trifles in the way of perquisites. His huntsmen and
whips got now and then a severe beating; his grooms found it very
inconvenient when "Squire" took it into his mad head to sally forth on
horseback across country by moonlight; and still worse, when he would
have the whole stud out, and set every servant in his employ, not
excepting his fat French cook, in the saddle, to see how they would
comport themselves under the unaccustomed excitement of a steeple-chase.
But upon the whole, the retainers at Crompton had an easy berth of it,
and seldom voluntarily took their discharge.

Perhaps the best situations, as being less liable to the _per contras_
in the shape of the master's passionate outbursts, were those of the
park-keepers, of whom old Walter Grange was one. He was a bachelor, as
almost all of them were. It was not good for any one with wife or
daughter (if these were young, at least) to take service with Carew at
all; and living in a pleasant cottage, far too large for him, in the
very heart of the chase, Grange thought it no harm to take a lodger. The
same old woman who cooked his victuals and kept his rooms tidy would do
the same office for another who was not very particular in his food, and
could rough it a little in other respects; and such a one had Walter
lately found in the person of a young landscape-painter, Richard Yorke.
This gentleman was a stranger to Crompton and its neighborhood; but
having (as he said) happened to see a certain guarded advertisement in
the _Times_ headed, "To Artists and Others," that lodgings in the midst
of forest scenery could be procured for what seemed next to nothing, he
had come down from London in the autumn on the chance, and found them
suitable.

To poet or painter's eye, indeed, the lodge was charming; it was small,
of course, but very picturesquely built, and afforded the new tenant a
bow-windowed sitting-room, with an outlook such as few dwellings in
England, and probably none elsewhere, could offer. In the fore-ground
was an open lawn, on which scores of fine-plumaged pheasants strutted
briskly, and myriads of rabbits came forth at eve to play and
nibble--bordered by crops of fern, above which moved statelily the
antlered deer. A sentry oak or two of mighty girth guarded this open
space; but on both sides vast glades shut in the prospect with a wall of
checkered light and shadow that deepened into sylvan gloom. But right in
front the expanding view seemed without limit, and exhibited all
varieties of forest scenery; coppices with "Autumn's fiery finger" on
their tender leaves; still, shining pools, where water-fowl bred and
dwelt; broad pathways, across which the fallow deer could bound at
leisure; or one would leap in haste, and half a hundred follow in
groundless panic. The wealth of animal life in that green solitude,
where the voice of man was hardly ever heard, was prodigious; the rarest
birds were common there; even those who had their habitations by the sea
were sometimes lured to this as silent spot, and skimmed above its
undulating dells as o'er the billow. The eagle and the osprey had been
caught there; and, indeed, a specimen of each was caged in a sort of
aviary, which Grange had had constructed at the back of the lodge; while
Yorke's sitting-room was literally stuffed full of these strange
feathered visitants, which had fallen victims to the keeper's gun. The
horse-hair sofa had a noble cover of deer-skin; the foot-stool and the
fire-rug were made of furs, or skins that would have fetched their price
elsewhere, and been held rare, although once worn by British beast or
"varmint." The walls were stuck with antlers, and the very handle of the
bell-rope was the fore-foot of a stag. Each of these had its story; and
nothing pleased the old man better than to have a listener to his
long-winded tales of how and where and when the thing was slain. All
persons whose lives are passed in the open air, and in comparative
solitude, seem in this respect to be descendants of Dame Quickly; their
wearisome digressions and unnecessary preciseness as to date and place
try the patience of all other kinds of men, and this was the chief cross
which Grange's lodger had to bear as an offset to the excellence of his
quarters. It must be confessed that he did not bear it meekly. To stop
old Walter in mid-talk--without an open quarrel--was an absolute
impossibility; but his young companion would turn the stream of his
discourse, without much ceremony, from the records of slaughter into
another channel (almost as natural to it)--the characteristics and
peculiarities of his master Carew. Of this subject, notwithstanding that
that other made him fret and fume so, Yorke never seemed to tire.

"I should like to know your master," he had said, half musingly, after
listening to one of these strange recitals, soon after his arrival; to
which Grange had answered, laughing: "Well, Squire's a very easy one to
know. He picks up friends by every road-side, without much troubling
himself as to who they are, I promise you."

The young man's face grew dark with anger; but the idea of self-respect,
far less of pride, was necessarily strange to a servant of Carew's. So
Grange went on, unconscious of offense: "Now, if you were a young
woman," he chuckled, "and as good-looking as you are as a lad, there
would be none more welcome than yourself up at the big house. Pretty
gals, bless ye, need no introduction yonder; and yet one would have
thought that Squire would know better than to meddle with the
mischievous hussies--he took his lesson early enough, at all events.
Why, he married before he was your age, and not half so much of a man to
look at, neither. You have heard talk of that, I dare say, however, in
London?"

Richard Yorke, as the keeper had hinted, was a very handsome
lad--brown-cheeked, blue eyed, and with rich clustering hair as black as
a sloe; but at this moment he did not look prepossessing. He frowned and
flashed a furious glance upon the speaker; but old Grange, who had an
eye like a hawk, for the objects that a hawk desires, was as blind as a
mole to any evidence of human emotion short of a punch on the head, and
went on unheeding:

"Well, I thought you must ha' heard o' that too. We folk down here heard
o' nothing else for all that year. She got hold o' Squire, this ere
woman did, though he was but a school-boy, and she old enough to be his
mother, bless ye, and was married to him. And they kep' it secret for
six months; and that's what bangs me most about it all. For Carew, he
can keep nothing secret--nothing: he blurts all out; and that's why he
seems so much worse than he is to some people. Oh, she must have been a
deep one, she must!"

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