So clear was I from doubt upon that score, and all my proceedings had been so blameless, ever since that casual "peep through the hedge,"--as Dariel's father called it,--that instead of any squeamishness or self-reproach, I had two points to dwell upon of maltreatment to myself. Why had I been sent to London on a special errand, and then deprived of all chance of completing it? And again, had I been told of that hateful Prince Hafer, and purposely goaded into just wrath against him, simply that I might break forth into rude behaviour, and so be dismissed as a savage, who could not control himself before a lady?
That supposition was too wretched to be borne with, not for the low esteem of me it implied, but rather on account of the paltriness imputed to the highest, and noblest, and loveliest of her sex. Against all that my truer mind revolted, and my own experience did the like. But men have a trick of saying such small things about women (when the feminine back is turned), partly because they think it lofty so to speak, and partly because of the poets and sages who have set them this example, and partly (a very small part, let us hope) in right of their own experience. And these things come into a man's lower mind, when depression sinks it in the mud-deposits of the heart.
"Halloa, George Cranleigh! What a blue study you must be in! Don't I carry a light at my fore-peak? And if you can't see it you might smell it."
It was rather dark as I came near home, after that interview with the police, and the trees at the back of the Hall were thick; but I might have seen Stoneman and his cigar, if I had been at all on the lookout. "Come in," he went on; "I waylaid you because I want a chat with you most uncommonly, and they told me at your den that you were gone this way. Fishing again? No rod this time! But perhaps you leave it at some farmhouse." This man had his little faults; and among them was a trick of suggesting a handy fib, and then smashing it, if adopted; the which is not a friendly trick. "Not been fishing, eh? Something better, I daresay. Well, come in here; I want to show you something good, and the wonderful fellow who does it."
This was as dark as the sky itself to me. But I followed him, for he was a leading man; and in little matters I submit my steps to theirs. Verily, on this occasion I did not walk amiss. For when we were in Jackson Stoneman's little crib, such as any man of nous, with a big roof over his head, is fain to keep for his own better moments, there was something which no magnificence can bring home into the simple human breast. Who is the most delightful writer of our race, since Heaven took Shakespeare away in hot haste, when his hand was too close on the Tree of Life? The answer, although so long in coming, comes louder, as every year adds to the echo--"William Makepeace Thackeray."