To judge by the regretful excitement in the Midlands, Carew might have
been a good friend to every body. The news was at once telegraphed to
town, and appeared in the evening papers. The public interest in his mad
freaks had of late years grown somewhat faint--his extravagances were,
perforce, on a less splendid scale--but his death revived it. "So that
mad Carew has killed himself, after all," was the observation frequently
overheard that evening, as acquaintance met acquaintance on their
homeward way from business. "Well, he's had his whack of most things,"
was the reply of the philosophers; "He has not left much to tempt his
heirs to be extravagant, I reckon," of the cynics; "He was a deuced good
fellow at bottom, I believe," remarked those who were secretly desirous
of earning the same eulogium for themselves; "He was altogether wrong at
top," answered the charitable.
Solomon Coe came home to his new abode in such a state of elation that
it even made him communicative to his wife. Mrs. Basil happened to be
with her in the drawing-room, but he only acknowledged her presence by a
hasty nod. "Well, what d'ye think, Carew of Crompton, that was your
father's landlord and mine"--Solomon never said "ours" with reference to
property--"has broken his neck at last!"
Of course the very name of Carew was a sore subject between man and
wife, on account of Richard Yorke's connection with him; but it suited
Solomon's purpose on this occasion to ignore that circumstance.
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