“Then thatʼs not in this neighbourhood,” replied Bull Garnet, heavily; “He is gone from me, from all of us. And His curse is on my children. Poor innocents, poor helpless lambs! The curse of God is on them.”
He went away to the window; and, through his tears, and among the trees, tried to find his cottage–roof.
Sir Cradock Nowell was lost to thought, and heard nothing of those woeful words, although from the depth of that labouring chest they came like the distant sea–roar.
Bull Garnet returned with his fierce eyes softened to a womanʼs fondness, and saw, with pity as well as joy, that his last words had not been heeded. “Ever hot and ever hasty, until it comes to my own death,” he muttered, still in recklessness; “perhaps then I shall be tardy. For my sonʼs sake, for my Bob and Pearl, I must not make such a child of myself. Nevertheless, I cannot stay here.”
“Garnet,” said Sir Cradock Nowell, slowly recovering from his stupor, a slight cerebral paralysis, “say nothing of what has passed between us—nothing, I entreat you; and not another word to me now. I only understand that you assert emphatically my son Cradockʼs innocence.”
“With every fibre of my heart. With every tissue of my brain.”
“Then I love you very much for it; although you have done it so rudely.”
“Donʼt say that. Never say it again. I canʼt bear it now, Sir Cradock.”
“Very well, then, I wonʼt, Garnet. Though I think you might be proud of my gratitude; for I never bestow it rashly.”
“I am very thankful to you. Gratitude is an admirable and exceedingly scarce thing. I am come to give you notice—as well as to answer your summons—notice of my intention to quit your service shortly.”