"What care I about their objecting?" said Caleb, with a sturdiness

which he was apt to show when he had an opinion. "The lad is of age
and must get his bread. He has sense enough and quickness enough;

he likes being on the land, and it's my belief that he could learn
business well if he gave his mind to it."

"But would he? His father and mother wanted him to be a fine
gentleman, and I think he has the same sort of feeling himself.

They all think us beneath them. And if the proposal came from you,
I am sure Mrs. Vincy would say that we wanted Fred for Mary."

"Life is a poor tale, if it is to be settled by nonsense of that sort,"
said Caleb, with disgust.

"Yes, but there is a certain pride which is proper, Caleb."
"I call it improper pride to let fools' notions hinder you from doing

a good action. There's no sort of work," said Caleb, with fervor,
putting out his hand and moving it up and down to mark his emphasis,

"that could ever be done well, if you minded what fools say.
You must have it inside you that your plan is right, and that plan you

must follow."
"I will not oppose any plan you have set your mind on, Caleb,"

said Mrs. Garth, who was a firm woman, but knew that there
were some points on which her mild husband was yet firmer.

"Still, it seems to be fixed that Fred is to go back to college:
will it not be better to wait and see what he will choose to do

after that? It is not easy to keep people against their will.
And you are not yet quite sure enough of your own position,

or what you will want."
"Well, it may be better to wait a bit. But as to my getting

plenty of work for two, I'm pretty sure of that. I've always had
my hands full with scattered things, and there's always something

fresh turning up. Why, only yesterday--bless me, I don't think I
told you!--it was rather odd that two men should have been at me

on different sides to do the same bit of valuing. And who do you
think they were?" said Caleb, taking a pinch of snuff and holding

it up between his fingers, as if it were a part of his exposition.
He was fond of a pinch when it occurred to him, but he usually

forgot that this indulgence was at his command.
His wife held down her knitting and looked attentive.

"Why, that Rigg, or Rigg Featherstone, was one. But Bulstrode
was before him, so I'm going to do it for Bulstrode. Whether it's

mortgage or purchase they're going for, I can't tell yet."
"Can that man be going to sell the land just left him--which he

has taken the name for?" said Mrs. Garth.
"Deuce knows," said Caleb, who never referred the knowledge

of discreditable doings to any higher power than the deuce.
"But Bulstrode has long been wanting to get a handsome bit of land

under his fingers--that I know. And it's a difficult matter to get,
in this part of the country."

Caleb scattered his snuff carefully instead of taking it,
and then added, "The ins and outs of things are curious.

Here is the land they've been all along expecting for Fred,
which it seems the old man never meant to leave him a foot of,

but left it to this side-slip of a son that he kept in the dark,
and thought of his sticking there and vexing everybody as well as he

could have vexed 'em himself if he could have kept alive. I say,
it would be curious if it got into Bulstrode's hands after all.

The old man hated him, and never would bank with him."
"What reason could the miserable creature have for hating a man

whom he had nothing to do with?" said Mrs. Garth.
"Pooh! where's the use of asking for such fellows' reasons? The soul

of man," said Caleb, with the deep tone and grave shake of the head
which always came when he used this phrase--"The soul of man,

when it gets fairly rotten, will bear you all sorts of poisonous
toad-stools, and no eye can see whence came the seed thereof."

It was one of Caleb's quaintnesses, that in his difficulty of finding
speech for his thought, he caught, as it were, snatches of diction

which he associated with various points of view or states of mind;
and whenever he had a feeling of awe, he was haunted by a sense

of Biblical phraseology, though he could hardly have given
a strict quotation.

CHAPTER XLI.
"By swaggering could I never thrive,

For the rain it raineth every day.
--Twelfth Night

The transactions referred to by Caleb Garth as having gone forward
between Mr. Bulstrode and Mr. Joshua Rigg Featherstone concerning

the land attached to Stone Court, had occasioned the interchange
of a letter or two between these personages.

Who shall tell what may be the effect of writing? If it happens
to have been cut in stone, though it lie face down-most for ages

on a forsaken beach, or "rest quietly under the drums and tramplings
of many conquests," it may end by letting us into the secret of

usurpations and other scandals gossiped about long empires ago:--
this world being apparently a huge whispering-gallery. Such conditions

are often minutely represented in our petty lifetimes. As the stone
which has been kicked by generations of clowns may come by curious

little links of effect under the eyes of a scholar, through whose
labors it may at last fix the date of invasions and unlock religions,

so a bit of ink and paper which has long been an innocent wrapping
or stop-gap may at last be laid open under the one pair of eyes which

have knowledge enough to turn it into the opening of a catastrophe.
To Uriel watching the progress of planetary history from the sun,

the one result would be just as much of a coincidence as the other.
Having made this rather lofty comparison I am less uneasy in calling

attention to the existence of low people by whose interference,
however little we may like it, the course of the world is very

much determined. It would be well, certainly, if we could help
to reduce their number, and something might perhaps be done by not

lightly giving occasion to their existence. Socially speaking,
Joshua Rigg would have been generally pronounced a superfluity.

But those who like Peter Featherstone never had a copy of
themselves demanded, are the very last to wait for such a request

either in prose or verse. The copy in this case bore more of
outside resemblance to the mother, in whose sex frog-features,

accompanied with fresh-colored cheeks and a well-rounded figure,
are compatible with much charm for a certain order of admirers.

The result is sometimes a frog-faced male, desirable, surely,
to no order of intelligent beings. Especially when he is suddenly

brought into evidence to frustrate other people's expectations--
the very lowest aspect in which a social superfluity can present himself.

But Mr. Rigg Featherstone's low characteristics were all of the sober,
water-drinking kind. From the earliest to the latest hour of the day

he was always as sleek, neat, and cool as the frog he resembled,
and old Peter had secretly chuckled over an offshoot almost more

calculating, and far more imperturbable, than himself. I will add
that his finger-nails were scrupulously attended to, and that he

meant to marry a well-educated young lady (as yet unspecified)
whose person was good, and whose connections, in a solid middle-class

way, were undeniable. Thus his nails and modesty were comparable
to those of most gentlemen; though his ambition had been educated

only by the opportunities of a clerk and accountant in the smaller
commercial houses of a seaport. He thought the rural Featherstones

very simple absurd people, and they in their turn regarded his
"bringing up" in a seaport town as an exaggeration of the monstrosity

that their brother Peter, and still more Peter's property, should
have had such belongings.