“I tell you what, Harry, there’s madness there—literal madness,” said Charles, grasping his arm as he stopped and turned towards him, so that Harry had to come also to a standstill. “Don’t you know it—as mad as Bedlam? Just think!”
Harry laughed.
“Mad enough, by jingo,” said he.
“But don’t you think so—actually mad?” repeated Charles.
“Well, it is near the word, maybe, but I would not say quite mad—worse than mad, I dare say, by chalks; but I wouldn’t place the old soger there,” said Harry.
“Where?” said Charles.
“I mean exactly among the mad ’uns. No, I wouldn’t say mad, but as vicious—and worse, mayhap.”
“It does not matter much what we think, either of us; but I know what another fellow would have done long ago, but I could not bring myself to do that. I have thought it over often, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t.”
“Well, then, it ain’t no great consequence,” said Harry, and he tightened his saddle-girth a hole or two—“no great consequence; but I couldn’t a’ put a finger to that—mind; for I think the upperworks is as sound as any, only there’s many a devil beside mad ’uns. I give it in to you there.”
“And what do you advise me to do?—this sort of thing is dreadful,” said Charles.
“I was going to say, I think the best thing to be done is just to leave all that business, d’ye mind, to me.”
Harry mounted, and leaning on his knee, he said—
“I think I have a knack, if you leave it to me. Old Pipeclay doesn’t think I have any reason to play false.”
“Rather the contrary,” said Charles, who was attentively listening.
“No interest at all,” pursued Harry, turning his eyes towards the distant knoll of Torston, and going on without minding Charles’ suggestion—
“Look, now, that beast’ll follow my hand as sweet as sugary-candy, when you’d have nothing but bolting and baulking, and rearin’, or worse. There’s plenty o’ them little French towns or German—and don’t you be botherin’ your head about it; only do just as I tell ye, and I’ll take all in hands.”
“You’re an awfully good fellow, Harry; for, upon my soul, I was at my wit’s end almost; having no one to talk to, and not knowing what anyone might be thinking of; and I feel safe in your hands, Harry, for I think you understand that sort of work so much better than I do—you understand people so much better—and I never was good at managing anyone, or anything for that matter; and—and when will business bring you to town again?”
“Three weeks or so, I wouldn’t wonder,” said Harry.
“And I know, Harry, you won’t forget me. I’m afraid to write to you almost; but if you’d think of any place we could meet and have a talk, I’d be ever so glad. You have no idea how fidgety and miserable a fellow grows that doesn’t know what’s going on.”
“Ay, to be sure; well, I’ve no objection. My book’s made for ten days or so—a lot of places to go to—but I’ll be coming round again, and I’ll tip you a stave.”
“That’s a good fellow; I know you won’t forget me,” said Charles, placing his hand on his brother’s arm.
“No—of course. Good night, and take care of yourself, and give my love to Ally.”
“And—and Harry?”
“Well?” answered Harry, backing his restless horse a little bit.
“I believe that’s all.”
“Good night, then.”
“Good night,” echoed Charles.
Harry touched his hat with a smile, and was away the next moment, flying at a ringing trot over the narrow unfenced road that traverses the common, and dwindling in the distant moonlight.
“There he goes—light of heart; nothing to trouble him—life a holiday—the world a toy.”
He walked a little bit slowly in the direction of the disappearing horseman, and paused again, and watched him moodily till he was fairly out of sight.
“I hope he won’t forget; he’s always so busy about those stupid horses—a lot of money he makes, I dare say. I wish I knew something about them. I must beat about for some way of turning a penny. Poor little Alice! I hope I have not made a mull of it! I’ll save every way I can—of course that’s due to her; but when you come to think of it, and go over it all, there’s very little you can give up. You can lay down your horses, if you have them, except one. You must have one in a place like this—you’d run a risk of starving, or never getting your letters, or dying for want of the doctor. And—I won’t drink wine; brandy, or Old Tom does just as well, and I’ll give up smoking totally. A fellow must make sacrifices. I’ll just work through this one box slowly, and order no more: it’s all a habit, and I’ll give it up.”
So he took a cigar from his case and lighted it.
“I’ll not spend another pound on them, and the sooner these are out the better.”
He sauntered slowly away with his hands in his pockets to a little eminence about a hundred yards to the right, and mounted it, and looked all around, smoking. I don’t think he saw much of that extensive view; but you would have fancied him an artist in search of the picturesque.
His head was full of ideas of selling Carwell Grange; but he was not quite sure that he had power, and did not half like asking his attorney, to whom he already owed something. He thought how snug and pleasant they might be comparatively in one of those quaint little toy towns in Germany, where dull human nature bursts its cerements, and floats and flutters away into
