Rather Unpleasant.“Ah,” said Pratt, after a brisk walk, “it might have been worse; it all comes of getting on knife-boards. I never do go on a ’bus but I’m sure to meet some one I don’t want to see from that elevated position. Let’s see: in somebody’s fables one poor bird got his neck wrung through being in bad company, and getting caught by the fowler.”“And what has that to do with knife-boards?”“Only this,” said Frank, grimly; “I should uncommonly like to see that barouche; and the cocky old gentleman inside will be safe to give us credit for being the ringleaders of those rowdies.”“Well, never mind,” said Trevor; “I wanted to see a steeplechase, though I don’t suppose I shall like it any more than a ball.”No more was said then, for they had reached the ground flagged out for the course—a pleasant tract running round in front of a mound-like hill, affording the spectators from the various stands a capital view of the whole race; save where here and there a tiny copse intervened, so that it must inevitably hide the horses for a few moments.They were in ample time, for twelve, one, and two o’clock upon racing cards are very different hours to those represented upon the time-tables at our various termini; so they had a stroll round, pausing here or there; but, no matter where they strayed, so sure as Frank Pratt turned his head, it was to see the evil-looking countenance of their companion on the omnibus close at hand, though whether Trevor had seen him or not he could not tell.For, probably from a love of the beautiful, the young men’s steps generally led them to where they could stand in pretty close proximity to the barouche—whose occupants seemed to have, for one at least, something of an attraction. And no wonder; for on the front seat were two fresh, bright-eyed English girls, whose eyes sparkled with animation, and in whose cheeks came and went the bright colour that told you of excited interest in the day’s proceedings.“I thought as much,” said Pratt, as they passed once close by the carriage on their way to the stand, and a quick glance showed that they were recognised by the ladies, who coloured slightly, and turned away; whilst the old gentleman’s countenance, as he stood up, gradually assumed the purply-red well known to all who have seen a turkey-cock at such time as he ruffleth his plumes, and scowled fiercely at the friends.“The impudent scoundrels!” he said aloud, as he turned to the elderly lady at his side.“That comes of being in bad company,” said Pratt. “Dick, old fellow, I shall walk back. Here, my friend, I have feeling in my toe.”“Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure,” said a fine, handsome, bluff West-countryman—a regular keeper, in brown velveteens; “I really didn’t see you.” And he passed on towards the barouche, the friends following him with their eyes, to see him touch his hat to first one and then another of the inmates, who smiled, and seemed to talk to him in a very animated way, the old gentleman ending by pointing to the box-seat, a good post for seeing, to which the young man climbed.“Lucky dog!” said Frank Pratt, softly; and they took their places on the stand, from which, close at hand, they could readily command the movements of all in the barouche.But there was the ground mapped out by the little flags; green field, ploughed piece, brook, road, double fence, bullfinch; a cluster of spectators by this dangerous leap; a pollard laden with human fruit there; oak branches bending, groups of mounted men, with here and there the flutter of veil and riding-habit; vehicles in pastures, lanes, and wherever a glimpse could be obtained of the course; and over all the bright unclouded sun looked down, gilding, with its mellow beams, brown stubble and changing leaf; while overhead, little troubled by the buzzing crowds, a lark carolled its sweet song.The friends were in ample time; but at last the excitement here and there announced the coming of the horses, and one by one the sleek, fleet creatures made their appearance to give the customary canter down the field, and then be gathered together for the start.At last a low, dull, murmurous buzz runs through the crowd. They are off—nearly all together. The first hedge—only a preparation for troubles to come—and the horses going easily over a ploughed piece, the young and ardent jockeys pushing to the front, the old stagers waiting their opportunity.Another hedge. A refusal. One—two—four—six—nine over somehow or another, and one down.Then a loud cheer, by no means pleasant for the fallen man; and “for the fun of the thing,” as he said, Trevor began to back the grey mare known as White Lassie.“How can you be so foolish?” said Pratt.“So,” said Trevor, laughing; and he doubled his stakes with another.“I believe we should be better off there on the knoll,” said Pratt, pointing to the spot where the barouche was standing hemmed in by the crowd.And acting upon the suggestion, the two friends quitted the low, temporary stand, and managed to get a pretty good position on the little eminence, where they could see right down the valley with the horses running along its slope.But Pratt saw more than this; he noted that they were within half a dozen yards of the barouche where the ladies were standing on the seats, with eyes sparkling and parted lips, whilst close at hand were Barney, of the omnibus, and a couple of his intimates, demonstrative in their comments upon the race.Of the eleven horses that started, four had, in hunting parlance, come to grief; and now of the others only five seemed to be in the race.“Twenty pounds fooled away, Dick,” said Pratt, in a whisper, as they now made out, the last of the five, the white cap and pale blue shirt of the rider of White Lassie.“Be quiet, raven,” was the calm reply; “the race is not won yet. Look at that.”Thatwas the downfall of the leading horse at the next fence, the poor beast literally turning a somersault, and then getting up to stand shaking itself, as the other competitors got safely over; White Lassie, still last clearing the obstacle with ease.“Now comes the tug of war,” said Trevor; and all eyes were strained in the direction now taken by the horses towards a tolerably wide brook running between stunted pollards; for this once passed, there was only a low fence, and a straight run in to the winning post.The betting on all sides was now fast and furious, Pratt biting his lips with vexation as, in spite of the distance his favourite was behind, Trevor kept making fresh engagements.“He’ll lose as much in ten minutes as would have kept me for a year,” Pratt grumbled to himself; and then he was all eyes for the race, as, on reaching the brook, the leading horse stopped short and shot his rider right into the middle.The next horse leaped short, and came into the brook with his hoofs pawing the crumbling bank, the rider having to crawl over his head, and help him ignominiously from his position. But long ere this, a great bay had cleared the brook easily, closely followed by White Lassie, whose rider now seemed to press her forward till she was not more than a length in the rear, the two horses racing hard for the last leap.At a distance it looked but a low hedge, but there was a deep dyke on the riders’ side which would require no little skill to clear; and now, of course, the slightest slip would be fatal to either.“Don’t look so bad now, does it, Franky?” said Trevor.“No,” said the other between his teeth. “Look, how close they are. I couldn’t have—bravo!”For the mare had run up alongside of her great competitor, and together they literally skimmed over the obstacle in front, and landing on the stretch of smooth green sward, raced for home.“King Dick!”“White Lassie!”“King Dick!”“White Lassie!”“White Lassie!”“White Lassie!” rose in a perfect roar, as first one and then the other head appeared in front, till, within a hundred yards of the stand, the white mare’s head—neck—shoulders—half-length—whole length appeared in front of her competitor, and, amidst the frantic cheers of the crowd, she leaped in, a clear winner.“There,” said Trevor, turning with a smile to Pratt, “what do—”He stopped short, and seemed to have tried to emulate the last hound of the mare; for at that moment, all excitement as she watched the race, Trevor saw one of the occupants of the barouche give a sudden start, and nearly fall over the side.The cause was simple, and was seen by Pratt at the same moment.Barney, of the omnibus, for the delectation of his friends, had, the moment the race was ended, raised his stick, reached over the heads of the crowd, and given the old gentleman a sharp thrust in the ribs.The result was a violent start, and, as we have said, the young girl was nearly precipitated from the seat upon which she stood.A hoarse roar of laughter followed the clown-like feat; and then there was a dead silence, for a fresh character appeared upon the scene, and Barney was stooping down shaking his head to get rid of the dizziness caused by a tremendous blow upon his bull-dog front.The silence lasted but for a few moments, dining which Richard Trevor caught one frightened glance from the lady in the barouche, and then there was an ugly rush, and he and his friend were borne down the slope of the hill.The crowd seemed bubbling and seething with excitement for a few minutes, during which the voices of Barney’s friends could be heard loudly exclaiming amongst them; and the gentleman named, in whose eyes the tears had previously been gathering from the excess of his mirth, was borne along with the others, still shaking his head, and feeling as if the drops that collected had suddenly been turned to molten metal.“Come away, Dick; for goodness’ sake come away.”“My dear Frank, if you fill a vessel quite full, it begins to run over. This ungodly vessel has been filled full of the gall of bitterness to-day, and now it is running over.”“But, consider—what are you going to do?”“I’m going to thrash this fellow within an inch of his life.”“But, Dick—the disgrace—you can’t fight; you’ve punished him enough. Think of what you’re going to do.”“I am thinking,” said Trevor, in a quiet, slow way—“thinking that he’s an ugly customer, and that his head looks precious hard.”“Keep back!”—“Make a ring!”—“Let him have it!”“Now, Barney!” shouted the bystanders.“Here, let me get at him!” shouted Barney.“Call up the police!” said a mounted gentleman. “You can’t fight that fellow, sir.”“I’m going to try,” said Trevor, grimly.There was a buzz of voices, the crowd swayed here and there, and an opening was made—Barney having struggled out of his upper garments, and begun to square—when, to the surprise of all, he was suddenly confronted by the stout-built West-country-man, who had leaped off the box of the barouche, now on the other side of the hill; and before the fellow had recovered from his surprise, he was sent staggering back into the arms of his friends with a sensation as if a hive of bees, suddenly let loose, were buzzing and stinging in his head.That was the end of the engagement, for there was a rush of police through the crowd, people were separated, and by the time Frank Pratt had fought his way out of a state of semi-suffocation, he was standing with his friend fifty yards away, and the constables were hurrying two men off to the station.“Let’s get back,” said Trevor. “I can’t let that fellow bear all the brunt of the affair.”Pratt felt disposed to dissuade, but he gave way, and they got to the outskirts with no little difficulty, just in time to see that the barouche horses had been put to, and that the carriage was being driven off the ground with the West-countryman upon the box.“He’s out of the pickle, then,” said Pratt.“There, come away, man; the police have, for once in a way, caught the right offender; don’t let’s get mixed up with it any more.”“Very well,” said Dick, calmly. “I feel better now; but I should have liked to soundly thrash that scoundrel.”“It’s done for you,” said Pratt. “Now let’s go and get in your bets.”“I’m afraid, Franky,” said Trevor, “that you are not only a mercenary man, but a great—I mean little coward.”“Quite right—you’re quite right,” said Pratt. “I am mercenary because the money’s useful, and enables a man to pay his laundress; and as to being a coward, I am—a dreadful coward. I wouldn’t mind if it were only skin, that will grow again; but fancy being ragged about and muddied in tussle with that fellow! Why, my dear Dick, I should have been six or seven pounds out of pocket in no time.”“I wonder who those girls were in the barouche,” said Trevor, after a pause.“Daresay you do,” was the reply; “so do I. Sweet girls—very; but you may make yourself quite easy; you will never see either of them again.”“Don’t know,” said Trevor, slowly. “This is a very little place, this world, and I have often run against people I knew in the most out-of-the-way places.”“Yes, you may do so abroad,” said Pratt; “but here, in England, you never do anything of the kind, except in novels. I saw a girl once at the chrysanthemum show in the Temple, and hoped I should ran against her again some day, but I never did. She wasn’t so nice, though, as these.”Trevor smiled, and then, encountering one or two gentlemen with whom he had made bets, a little pecuniary business followed, after which the friends strolled along the course.“By the way,” said Trevor, “I was just thinking it rather hard upon our friend of the omnibus; those policemen pounced upon him and walked him off, without much consideration of the case. Well, I don’t want to see the fellow again; he made my blood boil to-day.”“Then you will see him, you may depend upon it,” said Pratt. “That’s just the awkwardness of fate, or whoever the lady is that manages these matters. Owe a man ten pounds, and you will meet him every day like clock-work.”“Why, Franky,” said Trevor, laying his hand upon the other’s arm, and speaking with the old schoolboy familiarity, “I can’t help noticing these money allusions. Have you been very short at times?”There was a pause of a few moments’ duration, and then Pratt said, shortly—“Awfully!”They walked on then in silence, which was broken at last by Pratt, who said in a hurried way—“That accounts for my shabby, screwy ways, Dick, so forgive me for having developed into such a mean little beggar. You see, the governor died and left madam with barely enough to live on, and then she pinched for my education, and she had to fight through it all to get ready for my call to the bar, where, in our innocence—bless us!—we expected that briefs would come showering in, and that, once started in chambers in the Temple, my fortune would be made.”“And the briefs do not shower down yet, Franky?” said Trevor.“Don’t come even in drops. Haven’t had occasion for an umbrella once yet. So I went out to Egypt with Landells, you know, and wrote letters and articles for the Geographical; and, somehow, I got elected to the ‘Wanderers,’ and—here’s the gorgeous Van and little Flick.”“Ah, Trevor, my dear boy!” said the first-named gentleman, sauntering up, “thought we should see you somewhere. Flick, have the goodness to slip that into the case for me.”As he spoke, he handed the race-glass he held in his delicately-gloved hands to the young baronet, who looked annoyed, but closed the glass, and slipped it into the sling-case hanging at his companion’s side.“We should have seen you before, but we came upon a pair of rural houris in a barouche.”“Where?” said Pratt, sharply.“Ah, Pratt—you there? How do?” said the Captain, coolly. “Over the other side of the course, in a lane. I couldn’t get Landells away.”“Oh—come!” drawled the young baronet.“Had his glass turned upon them, and there he was, perfectly transfixed.”“Boot was on the other foot, ’sure you,” said Sir Felix. “It was Van first made the discovery. It was so, indeed.”“What, going?” said Vanleigh, as Trevor moved on.“Yes; we were going to walk all round the course.”“No use to go houri hunting,” said Vanleigh, maliciously. “The barouche has gone.”Trevor coloured slightly, and then more deeply, as he saw a smile on the Captain’s lip.“We shall see you again, I daresay, by the stand,” he said, taking no notice of the allusion; and, laying a hand upon Pratt’s shoulder, he strolled away.“Well,” he said, after a few minutes, “the barouche had not quite disappeared, Franky.”“No,” said the other, shortly. “Better for its occupants if it had. I say, Dick, if I had sisters, it would make me feel mad every time that fellow looked at them.”“What—Landells?”“Oh no, Felix is a good sort of fellow enough; getting spoiled, but I don’t think there’s a great deal of harm in him. I’ve taken a dislike to Van, and I’m afraid I’m rather bitter, and—look, there goes, the barouche! Quick, lend me your glass!”“Thanks, no, Franky,” said Trevor, quietly, raising it to his eyes, and watching the carriage, which was going down a lane to their left, the owner having apparently given orders for the postboy to drive them from place to place, where they could get a view of the races, which had succeeded each other pretty quickly. “Thanks, no, I will keep it; but, for your delectation, I may mention that the ladies look very charming, the old gentleman very important; and—now they are gone.”He replaced the glass in its case, smiled good-humouredly at his companion, and they walked on.“Dick,” said Pratt, after a few moments’ silence, “if I were a good-looking fellow like you, I should get married.”“And how about yourself?” said the other, smiling.“Self? I marry? My dear old fellow, marriage is a luxury for the rich. I should be very sorry to starve a wife, and—I say, though, I’m as hungry as a hunter. Take me back to London, old fellow, and feed me, without you want to stay.”“Stay—not I!” said Trevor; “a very little of this sort of thing goes a long way with me. But about those two fellows?”“Let them try to exist without our company, for once in a way,” said Pratt, looking earnestly at his friend, who was busy once more with the glass; but, catching his companion’s eye, Trevor closed the binocular, and they left the course.
“Ah,” said Pratt, after a brisk walk, “it might have been worse; it all comes of getting on knife-boards. I never do go on a ’bus but I’m sure to meet some one I don’t want to see from that elevated position. Let’s see: in somebody’s fables one poor bird got his neck wrung through being in bad company, and getting caught by the fowler.”
“And what has that to do with knife-boards?”
“Only this,” said Frank, grimly; “I should uncommonly like to see that barouche; and the cocky old gentleman inside will be safe to give us credit for being the ringleaders of those rowdies.”
“Well, never mind,” said Trevor; “I wanted to see a steeplechase, though I don’t suppose I shall like it any more than a ball.”
No more was said then, for they had reached the ground flagged out for the course—a pleasant tract running round in front of a mound-like hill, affording the spectators from the various stands a capital view of the whole race; save where here and there a tiny copse intervened, so that it must inevitably hide the horses for a few moments.
They were in ample time, for twelve, one, and two o’clock upon racing cards are very different hours to those represented upon the time-tables at our various termini; so they had a stroll round, pausing here or there; but, no matter where they strayed, so sure as Frank Pratt turned his head, it was to see the evil-looking countenance of their companion on the omnibus close at hand, though whether Trevor had seen him or not he could not tell.
For, probably from a love of the beautiful, the young men’s steps generally led them to where they could stand in pretty close proximity to the barouche—whose occupants seemed to have, for one at least, something of an attraction. And no wonder; for on the front seat were two fresh, bright-eyed English girls, whose eyes sparkled with animation, and in whose cheeks came and went the bright colour that told you of excited interest in the day’s proceedings.
“I thought as much,” said Pratt, as they passed once close by the carriage on their way to the stand, and a quick glance showed that they were recognised by the ladies, who coloured slightly, and turned away; whilst the old gentleman’s countenance, as he stood up, gradually assumed the purply-red well known to all who have seen a turkey-cock at such time as he ruffleth his plumes, and scowled fiercely at the friends.
“The impudent scoundrels!” he said aloud, as he turned to the elderly lady at his side.
“That comes of being in bad company,” said Pratt. “Dick, old fellow, I shall walk back. Here, my friend, I have feeling in my toe.”
“Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure,” said a fine, handsome, bluff West-countryman—a regular keeper, in brown velveteens; “I really didn’t see you.” And he passed on towards the barouche, the friends following him with their eyes, to see him touch his hat to first one and then another of the inmates, who smiled, and seemed to talk to him in a very animated way, the old gentleman ending by pointing to the box-seat, a good post for seeing, to which the young man climbed.
“Lucky dog!” said Frank Pratt, softly; and they took their places on the stand, from which, close at hand, they could readily command the movements of all in the barouche.
But there was the ground mapped out by the little flags; green field, ploughed piece, brook, road, double fence, bullfinch; a cluster of spectators by this dangerous leap; a pollard laden with human fruit there; oak branches bending, groups of mounted men, with here and there the flutter of veil and riding-habit; vehicles in pastures, lanes, and wherever a glimpse could be obtained of the course; and over all the bright unclouded sun looked down, gilding, with its mellow beams, brown stubble and changing leaf; while overhead, little troubled by the buzzing crowds, a lark carolled its sweet song.
The friends were in ample time; but at last the excitement here and there announced the coming of the horses, and one by one the sleek, fleet creatures made their appearance to give the customary canter down the field, and then be gathered together for the start.
At last a low, dull, murmurous buzz runs through the crowd. They are off—nearly all together. The first hedge—only a preparation for troubles to come—and the horses going easily over a ploughed piece, the young and ardent jockeys pushing to the front, the old stagers waiting their opportunity.
Another hedge. A refusal. One—two—four—six—nine over somehow or another, and one down.
Then a loud cheer, by no means pleasant for the fallen man; and “for the fun of the thing,” as he said, Trevor began to back the grey mare known as White Lassie.
“How can you be so foolish?” said Pratt.
“So,” said Trevor, laughing; and he doubled his stakes with another.
“I believe we should be better off there on the knoll,” said Pratt, pointing to the spot where the barouche was standing hemmed in by the crowd.
And acting upon the suggestion, the two friends quitted the low, temporary stand, and managed to get a pretty good position on the little eminence, where they could see right down the valley with the horses running along its slope.
But Pratt saw more than this; he noted that they were within half a dozen yards of the barouche where the ladies were standing on the seats, with eyes sparkling and parted lips, whilst close at hand were Barney, of the omnibus, and a couple of his intimates, demonstrative in their comments upon the race.
Of the eleven horses that started, four had, in hunting parlance, come to grief; and now of the others only five seemed to be in the race.
“Twenty pounds fooled away, Dick,” said Pratt, in a whisper, as they now made out, the last of the five, the white cap and pale blue shirt of the rider of White Lassie.
“Be quiet, raven,” was the calm reply; “the race is not won yet. Look at that.”
Thatwas the downfall of the leading horse at the next fence, the poor beast literally turning a somersault, and then getting up to stand shaking itself, as the other competitors got safely over; White Lassie, still last clearing the obstacle with ease.
“Now comes the tug of war,” said Trevor; and all eyes were strained in the direction now taken by the horses towards a tolerably wide brook running between stunted pollards; for this once passed, there was only a low fence, and a straight run in to the winning post.
The betting on all sides was now fast and furious, Pratt biting his lips with vexation as, in spite of the distance his favourite was behind, Trevor kept making fresh engagements.
“He’ll lose as much in ten minutes as would have kept me for a year,” Pratt grumbled to himself; and then he was all eyes for the race, as, on reaching the brook, the leading horse stopped short and shot his rider right into the middle.
The next horse leaped short, and came into the brook with his hoofs pawing the crumbling bank, the rider having to crawl over his head, and help him ignominiously from his position. But long ere this, a great bay had cleared the brook easily, closely followed by White Lassie, whose rider now seemed to press her forward till she was not more than a length in the rear, the two horses racing hard for the last leap.
At a distance it looked but a low hedge, but there was a deep dyke on the riders’ side which would require no little skill to clear; and now, of course, the slightest slip would be fatal to either.
“Don’t look so bad now, does it, Franky?” said Trevor.
“No,” said the other between his teeth. “Look, how close they are. I couldn’t have—bravo!”
For the mare had run up alongside of her great competitor, and together they literally skimmed over the obstacle in front, and landing on the stretch of smooth green sward, raced for home.
“King Dick!”
“White Lassie!”
“King Dick!”
“White Lassie!”
“White Lassie!”
“White Lassie!” rose in a perfect roar, as first one and then the other head appeared in front, till, within a hundred yards of the stand, the white mare’s head—neck—shoulders—half-length—whole length appeared in front of her competitor, and, amidst the frantic cheers of the crowd, she leaped in, a clear winner.
“There,” said Trevor, turning with a smile to Pratt, “what do—”
He stopped short, and seemed to have tried to emulate the last hound of the mare; for at that moment, all excitement as she watched the race, Trevor saw one of the occupants of the barouche give a sudden start, and nearly fall over the side.
The cause was simple, and was seen by Pratt at the same moment.
Barney, of the omnibus, for the delectation of his friends, had, the moment the race was ended, raised his stick, reached over the heads of the crowd, and given the old gentleman a sharp thrust in the ribs.
The result was a violent start, and, as we have said, the young girl was nearly precipitated from the seat upon which she stood.
A hoarse roar of laughter followed the clown-like feat; and then there was a dead silence, for a fresh character appeared upon the scene, and Barney was stooping down shaking his head to get rid of the dizziness caused by a tremendous blow upon his bull-dog front.
The silence lasted but for a few moments, dining which Richard Trevor caught one frightened glance from the lady in the barouche, and then there was an ugly rush, and he and his friend were borne down the slope of the hill.
The crowd seemed bubbling and seething with excitement for a few minutes, during which the voices of Barney’s friends could be heard loudly exclaiming amongst them; and the gentleman named, in whose eyes the tears had previously been gathering from the excess of his mirth, was borne along with the others, still shaking his head, and feeling as if the drops that collected had suddenly been turned to molten metal.
“Come away, Dick; for goodness’ sake come away.”
“My dear Frank, if you fill a vessel quite full, it begins to run over. This ungodly vessel has been filled full of the gall of bitterness to-day, and now it is running over.”
“But, consider—what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to thrash this fellow within an inch of his life.”
“But, Dick—the disgrace—you can’t fight; you’ve punished him enough. Think of what you’re going to do.”
“I am thinking,” said Trevor, in a quiet, slow way—“thinking that he’s an ugly customer, and that his head looks precious hard.”
“Keep back!”—“Make a ring!”—“Let him have it!”
“Now, Barney!” shouted the bystanders.
“Here, let me get at him!” shouted Barney.
“Call up the police!” said a mounted gentleman. “You can’t fight that fellow, sir.”
“I’m going to try,” said Trevor, grimly.
There was a buzz of voices, the crowd swayed here and there, and an opening was made—Barney having struggled out of his upper garments, and begun to square—when, to the surprise of all, he was suddenly confronted by the stout-built West-country-man, who had leaped off the box of the barouche, now on the other side of the hill; and before the fellow had recovered from his surprise, he was sent staggering back into the arms of his friends with a sensation as if a hive of bees, suddenly let loose, were buzzing and stinging in his head.
That was the end of the engagement, for there was a rush of police through the crowd, people were separated, and by the time Frank Pratt had fought his way out of a state of semi-suffocation, he was standing with his friend fifty yards away, and the constables were hurrying two men off to the station.
“Let’s get back,” said Trevor. “I can’t let that fellow bear all the brunt of the affair.”
Pratt felt disposed to dissuade, but he gave way, and they got to the outskirts with no little difficulty, just in time to see that the barouche horses had been put to, and that the carriage was being driven off the ground with the West-countryman upon the box.
“He’s out of the pickle, then,” said Pratt.
“There, come away, man; the police have, for once in a way, caught the right offender; don’t let’s get mixed up with it any more.”
“Very well,” said Dick, calmly. “I feel better now; but I should have liked to soundly thrash that scoundrel.”
“It’s done for you,” said Pratt. “Now let’s go and get in your bets.”
“I’m afraid, Franky,” said Trevor, “that you are not only a mercenary man, but a great—I mean little coward.”
“Quite right—you’re quite right,” said Pratt. “I am mercenary because the money’s useful, and enables a man to pay his laundress; and as to being a coward, I am—a dreadful coward. I wouldn’t mind if it were only skin, that will grow again; but fancy being ragged about and muddied in tussle with that fellow! Why, my dear Dick, I should have been six or seven pounds out of pocket in no time.”
“I wonder who those girls were in the barouche,” said Trevor, after a pause.
“Daresay you do,” was the reply; “so do I. Sweet girls—very; but you may make yourself quite easy; you will never see either of them again.”
“Don’t know,” said Trevor, slowly. “This is a very little place, this world, and I have often run against people I knew in the most out-of-the-way places.”
“Yes, you may do so abroad,” said Pratt; “but here, in England, you never do anything of the kind, except in novels. I saw a girl once at the chrysanthemum show in the Temple, and hoped I should ran against her again some day, but I never did. She wasn’t so nice, though, as these.”
Trevor smiled, and then, encountering one or two gentlemen with whom he had made bets, a little pecuniary business followed, after which the friends strolled along the course.
“By the way,” said Trevor, “I was just thinking it rather hard upon our friend of the omnibus; those policemen pounced upon him and walked him off, without much consideration of the case. Well, I don’t want to see the fellow again; he made my blood boil to-day.”
“Then you will see him, you may depend upon it,” said Pratt. “That’s just the awkwardness of fate, or whoever the lady is that manages these matters. Owe a man ten pounds, and you will meet him every day like clock-work.”
“Why, Franky,” said Trevor, laying his hand upon the other’s arm, and speaking with the old schoolboy familiarity, “I can’t help noticing these money allusions. Have you been very short at times?”
There was a pause of a few moments’ duration, and then Pratt said, shortly—“Awfully!”
They walked on then in silence, which was broken at last by Pratt, who said in a hurried way—
“That accounts for my shabby, screwy ways, Dick, so forgive me for having developed into such a mean little beggar. You see, the governor died and left madam with barely enough to live on, and then she pinched for my education, and she had to fight through it all to get ready for my call to the bar, where, in our innocence—bless us!—we expected that briefs would come showering in, and that, once started in chambers in the Temple, my fortune would be made.”
“And the briefs do not shower down yet, Franky?” said Trevor.
“Don’t come even in drops. Haven’t had occasion for an umbrella once yet. So I went out to Egypt with Landells, you know, and wrote letters and articles for the Geographical; and, somehow, I got elected to the ‘Wanderers,’ and—here’s the gorgeous Van and little Flick.”
“Ah, Trevor, my dear boy!” said the first-named gentleman, sauntering up, “thought we should see you somewhere. Flick, have the goodness to slip that into the case for me.”
As he spoke, he handed the race-glass he held in his delicately-gloved hands to the young baronet, who looked annoyed, but closed the glass, and slipped it into the sling-case hanging at his companion’s side.
“We should have seen you before, but we came upon a pair of rural houris in a barouche.”
“Where?” said Pratt, sharply.
“Ah, Pratt—you there? How do?” said the Captain, coolly. “Over the other side of the course, in a lane. I couldn’t get Landells away.”
“Oh—come!” drawled the young baronet.
“Had his glass turned upon them, and there he was, perfectly transfixed.”
“Boot was on the other foot, ’sure you,” said Sir Felix. “It was Van first made the discovery. It was so, indeed.”
“What, going?” said Vanleigh, as Trevor moved on.
“Yes; we were going to walk all round the course.”
“No use to go houri hunting,” said Vanleigh, maliciously. “The barouche has gone.”
Trevor coloured slightly, and then more deeply, as he saw a smile on the Captain’s lip.
“We shall see you again, I daresay, by the stand,” he said, taking no notice of the allusion; and, laying a hand upon Pratt’s shoulder, he strolled away.
“Well,” he said, after a few minutes, “the barouche had not quite disappeared, Franky.”
“No,” said the other, shortly. “Better for its occupants if it had. I say, Dick, if I had sisters, it would make me feel mad every time that fellow looked at them.”
“What—Landells?”
“Oh no, Felix is a good sort of fellow enough; getting spoiled, but I don’t think there’s a great deal of harm in him. I’ve taken a dislike to Van, and I’m afraid I’m rather bitter, and—look, there goes, the barouche! Quick, lend me your glass!”
“Thanks, no, Franky,” said Trevor, quietly, raising it to his eyes, and watching the carriage, which was going down a lane to their left, the owner having apparently given orders for the postboy to drive them from place to place, where they could get a view of the races, which had succeeded each other pretty quickly. “Thanks, no, I will keep it; but, for your delectation, I may mention that the ladies look very charming, the old gentleman very important; and—now they are gone.”
He replaced the glass in its case, smiled good-humouredly at his companion, and they walked on.
“Dick,” said Pratt, after a few moments’ silence, “if I were a good-looking fellow like you, I should get married.”
“And how about yourself?” said the other, smiling.
“Self? I marry? My dear old fellow, marriage is a luxury for the rich. I should be very sorry to starve a wife, and—I say, though, I’m as hungry as a hunter. Take me back to London, old fellow, and feed me, without you want to stay.”
“Stay—not I!” said Trevor; “a very little of this sort of thing goes a long way with me. But about those two fellows?”
“Let them try to exist without our company, for once in a way,” said Pratt, looking earnestly at his friend, who was busy once more with the glass; but, catching his companion’s eye, Trevor closed the binocular, and they left the course.
The Writer of the Letter.“Woa! d’ye hear? woa! I’m blest if I ever did see sich a ’oss as you are, Ratty, ’ang me if I did. If a chap could drive you without swearing, he must be a downright artch-angel. Holt still, will yer? Look at that now!”A jig here at the reins, and Ratty went forward; a lash from the whip, and the horse, a wall-eyed, attenuated beast, with a rat-tail, went backwards, ending by backing the hansom cab, in whose shafts he played at clay mill, going round and round in a perfect slough of a new unmade road, cut into ruts by builders’ carts.“Now, look’ee here,” said the driver, our friend of the Pall Mall accident; “on’y one on us can be master, yer know. If you’ll on’y say as yer can drive, and will drive, why, I’ll run in the sharps, and there’s an end on’t. Hold still, will yer? Yer might be decent to-day.”The horse suddenly stood still—bogged, with the slushy mud over his fetlocks, and the cab wheels half-way down to the nave.“Thenky,” said the driver, standing up on his perch; “much obliged. I’m blessed!” he muttered. “Buddy may well say as mine’s allus the dirtiest keb as comes inter the yard, as well as the shabbiest. ’Struth, what a place! Now, then, get on, will yer?”The horse gave his Roman-profiled head a shake, and remained motionless.“Just like yer,” said the cabman. “When I want yer to go, yer stop; and when I don’t want yer to go, off yer do go, all of a shy, and knocks ’alf a dozen people into the mud, and gets yer driver nearly took up for reckless driving, as the bobbies calls it. Come, get on.”Another shake of the head, but the four legs seemed planted as if they were to grow.“Well, there’s one thing, Ratty,” said the driver, “we’re about square, mate; for if ever I’ve give yer too much of the whip, yer’ve had it outer me with obstinacy. Look at this now, just when yer oughter be on yer best manners, seeing as I’ve come about the mischief as yer did; and then, to make it wus, yer takes advantage of yer poor master’s weakness, and goes a-leading of him inter temptation sore as can’t be bore, and pulls up close aside of a public.”For the spot at which the horse had stopped was at the opening of one of those new suburban streets run up by speculative builders—a street of six and seven-roomed houses, with a flaring tavern at the corner; and the houses, starting from the commencement of the street, in every stage from finished and inhabited, through finished and uninhabited, down to unfinished skeletons with the bricks falling out—foundations just above the ground, foundations merely dug, to end only with a few scaffold poles, and a brick-field in frill work.“Stops right in front of a public, yer do,” said the driver; “and me as thirsty as a sack o’ sawdust.”The cabman looked at the public-house, to read golden announcements of “Tipkin’s Entire,” of “The Celebrated Fourpenny Ale,” and the “Brown London Stout, threepence per pot in your own jugs,” and his whip-hand was drawn across his lips. Then the whip-hand was set free, and forced its way into his pockets, where it rattled some halfpence.“Must have ’alf pint now, anyhow,” he muttered, and he made as if to fasten the reins to the roof of the cab, but only to plump himself down into his seat again, jig the reins, and give his whip, a sharp crack.“I’ll tell the missus on you, Hatty, see if I don’t?” he said, “a-trying to get your master back into his old ways. Get on with yer, or yer’ll get it directly.”He gave his whip such a vigorous crack in the air that Ratty consented to go, and dragging the muddy cab partially down the new street, its driver pulled up by where a knot of shoeless boys were ornamenting, and amusing themselves with, the new ill-laid pavement. One was standing like a small Colossus of Rhodes, with his grimy feet at either corner of a loose slab, making the liquid mud beneath squirt out into a puddle, while a companion carefully turned a naked foot into a stamp, dipped it in the mud, and printed a pattern all along the pave, till a third smudged it out, and a fight ensued.“Hallo, yer young dogs,” roared the cabman, and his long whip gave a crack which stopped the fray; “a-fightin’ like that! Where’s Whaley’s Place?”“First turn to the left, and first to the right,” shouted two boys.“And is it all like this here?” said the cabman.“No; you should have gone round Brick Street. I’ll show yer.”“Hook on, then,” said the cabman, turning his horse; and, to the extreme envy of his companions, the little speaker “hooked on” behind, his muddy feet slipping about on the step; but he clung fast, shouting his directions till the driver reached the main road, made a détour, and arrived at last in Whaley’s Place, where the present of a copper sent the boy off in high glee to spend it in some coveted luxury.“Nice sorter cheerful spot this,” said the cabman, taking an observation of the street, which was of a similar class to the new one he had left, only that the houses had fallen into a state of premature decay; quite half, too, had declined from the genteel private and taken to trade, with or without the bow window of shop life. For instance, one displayed a few penny illustrated sheets and an assortment of fly-specked clay pipes, the glass panes bearing the legends, “Tobacco” and “Cigars.” Another house had the door wide open, and sundry squeaks issued therefrom—squeaks of a manufacturing tendency, indicative of grinding, the process being explained by a red and yellow board, having an artistic drawing of the machinery used, and the words, “Mangling Done Here.” Then, after an interval of private houses, there was a fishmonger’s, with a stock-in-trade of four plaice and ten bloaters, opposite to a purveyors, in whose open window—the parlour by rights, with the sashes out—were displayed two very unpleasant-looking decapitations of the gentle sheep, and three trays of pieces, labelled ninepence, sevenpence, and sixpence individually, apparently not from any variation of quality, but the amount of bone.“A werry nice sorter place,” said the cabman, gazing down at the numerous children, and the preternaturally big-headed, tadpoleish babies, whose porters were staring at him. “Said it was a little groshers shop. Ah, here we are.”It was only four doors farther on, and at this establishment there was a shop front, with the name “B. Sturt” on the facia. The stock here did not seem to be extensive, though the place was scrupulously clean. There was a decorative and pictorial aspect about the trade carried on, which was evidently that of a chandler’s shop; for, in attenuated letters over the door, you read that Barnabas Sturt was licenced by the Board of Inland Revenue to deal in tea, coffee, pepper, vinegar, and tobacco. The panes of the windows were gay with show cards, one of which displayed the effects of Tomkins’s Baking Powder, while in another a lady was holding up fine linen got up with Winks’s Prussian Blue, and smiling sweetly at a neighbouring damsel stiff with regal starch. There were pictorial cards, too, telling of the celebrated Unadulterated Mustard, the Ho-fi Tea Company, and Fort’s Popular Coffee.Descending from his perch, the cabman stroked and patted his horse, and then entered the shop, setting a bell jingling, and standing face to face with a counter, a pair of scales, and a box of red herrings.Nobody came, so he tapped the floor with his whip, and a voice growled savagely from beyond a half-glass door which guarded an inner room—Waiting patiently for a few moments, the cabman became aware of the fact that Barnabas Sturt consumed his tobacco as well as dealt in it; and at last, growing impatient, he peered through the window, to perceive that a very thin, sour-looking woman, with high cheek bones, was dipping pieces of rag into a tea-cup of vinegar and water, and applying them to the contused countenance of a bull-headed gentleman, who lay back in a chair smoking, and making the woman wince and sneeze by puffing volumes of the coarse, foul vapour into her face.“Better mind what you are doing!” he growled.“Can’t help it, dear,” said the woman, plaintively, “if you smoke me so. Well, what now?” she said, waspishly, and changing her tone to the metallic aggressive common amongst some women.“Been having a—?” the cabman finished his sentence by grinning, and giving his arms a pugilistic flourish.“What’s that got to do with you?” growled Mr Sturt. “What d’ yer come into people’s places like that for?”“Because people says as they sells the werry best tobacco at threepence a hounce,” said the cabman. “Give’s half-hounce.”“Go an’ weigh it,” said Mr Sturt.The woman dropped the piece of rag she held, and passed shrinkingly into the shop, took the already weighed-out tobacco from a jar, and held out her hand for the money.“Now then,” growled Mr Sturt from the back room, “hand that over here, will yer?”The cabman walked into the room and laid down the money, slowly emptying the paper afterwards into a pouch, which he took from a side pocket.“This here’s twenty-seven, ain’t it?” said the cabman then.“Yes, it is twenty-seven,” cried Mr Sturt—our friend Barney of the steeplechase—and he seemed so much disturbed that he leaped up and backed into a corner of the room. “You ain’t got nothin’ again’ me, come, now.”“No, I ain’t got nothin’ again’ yer,” said the cabman, quietly, but with his eye twinkling. “Did yer think I was—?”He finished his sentence with a wink.“Never you mind what I thought,” said Barney. “What d’ yer want here?”“Only to know if Mrs Lane lives here.”“Yes, she do,” cried the woman, spitefully; “and why couldn’t you ring the side bell, and not come bothering us?”“Because I wanted some tobacco, mum,” said the cabman, quietly.“Oh!” said the woman, in a loud voice; “with their cabs, indeed, a-comin’ every day: there’ll be kerridges next!”“Just you come and go on with your job,” said Barney, with a snarl.“I’m coming!” said the woman, sharply. Then to the cabman—“You can go this way;” and she flung open a side door and called up the stairs—“Here, Mrs Lane, another cab’s come for you. There, I s’pose you can go up,” she added; and then, in a voice loud enough to be heard upstairs, “if people would only pay their way instead of riding in cabs, it would be better for some of us.”A door had been heard to open on the first floor, and then, as the vinegary remark of Mrs Sturt rose, voices were heard whispering. The cabman went straight up the uncarpeted stairs, to pause before the half-open door, as he heard, in a low conversation, the words—“Mamma—dear mamma, pray don’t notice it.”The next moment the door opened fully, and the pale, worn-looking woman of the accident stood before the cabman, who shuffled off his hat, and stood bowing.“Jenkles, mum,” he said—“Samuel Jenkles, nine ’underd seven six, as knocked you down in Pall Mall.”The woman stepped back and laid her hand upon her side, seeming about to fall, when the cabman started forward and caught her, helping her to a chair in the shabbily-furnished room, as the door swung to.“Oh, mamma,” cried a girl of about seventeen, springing forward, the work she had been engaged upon falling on the floor.“It is nothing, my dear,” gasped the other; though her cheek was ashy pale, and the dew gathered on her forehead.“She’s fainting, my dear,” said the cabman. “Got anything in the house?”“Yes, some water,” said the girl, supporting the swooning woman, and fanning her face.“Water!” ejaculated the cabman, in a tone of disgust. “Here, I’ll be back directly.”He caught up a little china mug from a side table, and ran out, nearly upsetting Mrs Sturt on the landing and Barney at the foot of the stairs, to return at the end of a few minutes, and find the passage vacant; so he hastily ran up, to see that Mrs Lane had come to in his absence, though she looked deadly pale.“Here, mum,” he said, earnestly, “drink this; don’t be afeard, it’s port wine. A drop wouldn’t do you no harm neither, Miss,” he added, as he glanced at the pale, thin face and delicate aspect of the girl.Mrs Lane put the mug to her lips, and then made an effort, and sat up.“You was hurt, then, mum?” said the cabman, anxiously.“Only shaken—frightened,” she said, in a feeble voice.“And my coming brought it all up again, and upset you. It’s jest like me, mum, I’m allus a-doing something; ask my missus if I ain’t.”“It did startle me,” said Mrs Lane, recovering herself. “But you wished to see me. I am better now, Netta,” she said to the girl, who clung to her. “Place a chair.”“No, no, arter you, Miss,” said the cabman; “I’m nobody;” and he persisted in standing. “’Scuse me, but I knows a real lady when I sees one; I’ll stand, thanky. You see, it was like this: I saw Tommy Runce on the stand—him, you know, as brought you home from the front of the club there—and I ast him, and he told me where he brought you. And when I was talking to the missus last night, she says, says she, ‘Well, Sam,’ she says, ‘the least you can do is to drive up and see how the poor woman is, even if you lose half a day.’ ‘Well,’ I says, ‘that’s just what I was a thinking,’ I says, ‘only I wanted to hear you say it too.’ So you see, mum, thinking it was only decent like, I made bold to come and tell you how sorry I am, and how it was all Ratty’s fault; for he’s that beast of a horse—begging your pardon, mum, and yours too, Miss—as it’s impossible to drive. He oughter ha’ been called Gunpowder, for you never know when he’s going off.”“It wasverykind and very thoughtful of you, and—and your wife,” said Mrs Lane; “and indeed I thank you; but I was not hurt, only shaken.”“Then it shook all the colour outer your face, mum, and outer yours too, Miss,” he said, awkwardly. “You’ll excuse me, but you look as if you wanted a ride every day out in the country.”As he spoke, the girl glanced at a bundle of violets in a broken glass of water in the window; then the tears gathered in her eyes. She seemed to struggle for a moment against her emotion, and then started up and burst into a passion of weeping.“My darling!” whispered Mrs Lane, catching her in her arms, and trying to soothe her, “pray—pray don’t give way.”“I’ve done it again,” muttered Jenkles—“I’m allus a-doing it—it is my natur’ to.”The girl made a brave effort, dashed away the tears, shook back her long dark hair, and tried to smile in the speaker’s face, but so piteous and sad a smile that Jenkles gave a gulp; for he had been glancing round the room, and in that glance had seen a lady and her daughter living in a state of semi-starvation, keeping life together evidently by sewing the hard, toilsome slop-work which he saw scattered upon the table and chairs.“She has been ill,” said Mrs Lane, apologetically, “and has not quite recovered. We are very much obliged to you for calling.”“Well, you see, mum,” said Jenkles, “it was to set both of us right, like—you as I didn’t mean to do it, and me and my missus that you warn’t hurt. And now I’m here, mum, if you and the young lady there would like a drive once or twice out into the country, why, mum, you’ve only got to say the word, and—”“You’ll excuse me, ma’am,” said the sharp voice of Mrs Sturt, laying great stress on the “ma’am,” “but my ’usban’ is below, and going out on business, and he’d be much obliged if you’d pay us the rent.”The girl looked in a frightened way at her mother, who rose, and said, quietly—“Mrs Sturt, you might have spared me this—and before a stranger, too.”“I don’t know nothing about no strangers, ma’am,” said Mrs Sturt, defiantly. “I only know that my master sent me up for the rent; for he says if people can afford to come home in cabs, and order cabs, and drink port wine, they can afford to pay their rent; so, if you please, ma’am, if you’ll be kind—”“Why, them two cabs warn’t nothing to do with the lady at all,” said Jenkles, indignantly; “and as for the wine, why, that was mine—and—and I paid for it.”“And drunk it too, I dessay,” said Mrs Sturt. “Which it’s four weeks at seven-and-six, if you please, ma’am—thirty shillings, if you please.” The girl stood up, her eyes flashing, and a deep flush in her cheeks; but at a sign from her mother she was silent.“Mrs Sturt,” she said, “I cannot pay you now; give me till Saturday.”“That won’t do for my master, ma’am; he won’t be put off.”“But the work I have in hand, Mrs Sturt, will half pay you—you shall receive that.”“I’m tired on it,” said Mrs Sturt, turning to the door; “p’r’aps I’d better send him up.”“Oh, mamma,” said the girl, in a low, frightened voice, and she turned of a waxen pallor, “don’t let him come here.”And she clung trembling to her arm as the retreating footsteps of Mrs Sturt were heard, and, directly after, her vinegary voice in colloquy with her husband.“Here, I’ll soon let ’em know,” he was heard to say, roughly.The trembling girl hid her face on her mother’s shoulder; but only to start up directly, very pale and firm, as Barney’s heavy step was heard.“Blame me if I can stand this,” muttered Jenkles.Then without a word he stuck his hat on his head and walked out of the room, in time to meet the master of the house on the stairs.“Now, then?” said Barney, as Jenkles stopped short.“Now, then,” said Jenkles, “where are you going?”“In there,” said Barney, savagely; and he nodded towards the room.“No, you ain’t,” said Jenkles; “you’re a-going downstairs.”“Oh, am I? I’ll just show you about that.”He rushed up two more of the stairs; but Jenkles did not budge an inch—only met the brute with such a firm, unflinching look in his ugly eyes that the bully was cowed, puzzled at the opposition.“You’re a-going downstairs to send yer missus up; and jest you tell her to go and take a spoonful o’ treacle out o’ the shop afore she does come up, so as she’ll be a little bit sweeter when the ladies pays her.”Then Jenkles walked back into the room, rammed his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a dirty canvas bag, out of which he fished a piece of rag tied tightly, in one corner of which was a sovereign, which had to be set free with his teeth. From another corner he tried to extricate a half-sovereign, but it would not come, the knot was too tight.“Here, lends a pair o’ scissors,” he exclaimed, angrily.“What are you going to do?” said Mrs Lane.“To cut this here out,” said Jenkles; “there, that’s it. Here’s a sov and a arf, mum, as was saved up for our rent. I never did such a thing afore, but that’s nothing to you. I’ll lend it you, and you’ll pay me again when you can. There’s my name on that dirty envelope, and you’ll send it, I know.”“No,” exclaimed Mrs Lane, in a choking voice, “I—”At this moment Mrs Sturt entered the room, looking very grim; but no sooner did she see the money lying upon the table than she walked up, took it, said “Thanky,” shortly, and jerked a letter upon the table.Jenkles was following her, when Mrs Lane cried “Stop!” seized the letter, tore it open, and read it.It was in reply to the second she had written, both of which had reached Captain Vanleigh, though she believed the first had been lost.Her letter had been brief—“Help us—we are destitute.“A.V.”The reply was—“Do what I wish, and I will help you.”No signature.Mrs Lane clenched her teeth as she crushed the letter in her hand, then raised her eyes to see the cabman at the door, with her daughter kissing his hand.“Oh, God!” she moaned, “has it come to this!”The next minute Netta was clinging to her, and they wept in unison as the sound of wheels was heard; and Sam Jenkles apostrophised his ugly steed.“Ratty,” he said, “I wonder what it feels like to be a fool—whether it’s what I feels just now?”There was a crack of the whip here, and the hansom trundled along.“How many half-pints are there in thirty bob, I wonder?” said Sam again.And then, as he turned into the main road at Upper Holloway, he pulled up short—to the left London, to the right over the hills to the country.“Not above four or five mile, Ratty, and then there’ll be no missus to meet. Ratty, old man, I think I’d better drive myself to Colney Hatch.”
“Woa! d’ye hear? woa! I’m blest if I ever did see sich a ’oss as you are, Ratty, ’ang me if I did. If a chap could drive you without swearing, he must be a downright artch-angel. Holt still, will yer? Look at that now!”
A jig here at the reins, and Ratty went forward; a lash from the whip, and the horse, a wall-eyed, attenuated beast, with a rat-tail, went backwards, ending by backing the hansom cab, in whose shafts he played at clay mill, going round and round in a perfect slough of a new unmade road, cut into ruts by builders’ carts.
“Now, look’ee here,” said the driver, our friend of the Pall Mall accident; “on’y one on us can be master, yer know. If you’ll on’y say as yer can drive, and will drive, why, I’ll run in the sharps, and there’s an end on’t. Hold still, will yer? Yer might be decent to-day.”
The horse suddenly stood still—bogged, with the slushy mud over his fetlocks, and the cab wheels half-way down to the nave.
“Thenky,” said the driver, standing up on his perch; “much obliged. I’m blessed!” he muttered. “Buddy may well say as mine’s allus the dirtiest keb as comes inter the yard, as well as the shabbiest. ’Struth, what a place! Now, then, get on, will yer?”
The horse gave his Roman-profiled head a shake, and remained motionless.
“Just like yer,” said the cabman. “When I want yer to go, yer stop; and when I don’t want yer to go, off yer do go, all of a shy, and knocks ’alf a dozen people into the mud, and gets yer driver nearly took up for reckless driving, as the bobbies calls it. Come, get on.”
Another shake of the head, but the four legs seemed planted as if they were to grow.
“Well, there’s one thing, Ratty,” said the driver, “we’re about square, mate; for if ever I’ve give yer too much of the whip, yer’ve had it outer me with obstinacy. Look at this now, just when yer oughter be on yer best manners, seeing as I’ve come about the mischief as yer did; and then, to make it wus, yer takes advantage of yer poor master’s weakness, and goes a-leading of him inter temptation sore as can’t be bore, and pulls up close aside of a public.”
For the spot at which the horse had stopped was at the opening of one of those new suburban streets run up by speculative builders—a street of six and seven-roomed houses, with a flaring tavern at the corner; and the houses, starting from the commencement of the street, in every stage from finished and inhabited, through finished and uninhabited, down to unfinished skeletons with the bricks falling out—foundations just above the ground, foundations merely dug, to end only with a few scaffold poles, and a brick-field in frill work.
“Stops right in front of a public, yer do,” said the driver; “and me as thirsty as a sack o’ sawdust.”
The cabman looked at the public-house, to read golden announcements of “Tipkin’s Entire,” of “The Celebrated Fourpenny Ale,” and the “Brown London Stout, threepence per pot in your own jugs,” and his whip-hand was drawn across his lips. Then the whip-hand was set free, and forced its way into his pockets, where it rattled some halfpence.
“Must have ’alf pint now, anyhow,” he muttered, and he made as if to fasten the reins to the roof of the cab, but only to plump himself down into his seat again, jig the reins, and give his whip, a sharp crack.
“I’ll tell the missus on you, Hatty, see if I don’t?” he said, “a-trying to get your master back into his old ways. Get on with yer, or yer’ll get it directly.”
He gave his whip such a vigorous crack in the air that Ratty consented to go, and dragging the muddy cab partially down the new street, its driver pulled up by where a knot of shoeless boys were ornamenting, and amusing themselves with, the new ill-laid pavement. One was standing like a small Colossus of Rhodes, with his grimy feet at either corner of a loose slab, making the liquid mud beneath squirt out into a puddle, while a companion carefully turned a naked foot into a stamp, dipped it in the mud, and printed a pattern all along the pave, till a third smudged it out, and a fight ensued.
“Hallo, yer young dogs,” roared the cabman, and his long whip gave a crack which stopped the fray; “a-fightin’ like that! Where’s Whaley’s Place?”
“First turn to the left, and first to the right,” shouted two boys.
“And is it all like this here?” said the cabman.
“No; you should have gone round Brick Street. I’ll show yer.”
“Hook on, then,” said the cabman, turning his horse; and, to the extreme envy of his companions, the little speaker “hooked on” behind, his muddy feet slipping about on the step; but he clung fast, shouting his directions till the driver reached the main road, made a détour, and arrived at last in Whaley’s Place, where the present of a copper sent the boy off in high glee to spend it in some coveted luxury.
“Nice sorter cheerful spot this,” said the cabman, taking an observation of the street, which was of a similar class to the new one he had left, only that the houses had fallen into a state of premature decay; quite half, too, had declined from the genteel private and taken to trade, with or without the bow window of shop life. For instance, one displayed a few penny illustrated sheets and an assortment of fly-specked clay pipes, the glass panes bearing the legends, “Tobacco” and “Cigars.” Another house had the door wide open, and sundry squeaks issued therefrom—squeaks of a manufacturing tendency, indicative of grinding, the process being explained by a red and yellow board, having an artistic drawing of the machinery used, and the words, “Mangling Done Here.” Then, after an interval of private houses, there was a fishmonger’s, with a stock-in-trade of four plaice and ten bloaters, opposite to a purveyors, in whose open window—the parlour by rights, with the sashes out—were displayed two very unpleasant-looking decapitations of the gentle sheep, and three trays of pieces, labelled ninepence, sevenpence, and sixpence individually, apparently not from any variation of quality, but the amount of bone.
“A werry nice sorter place,” said the cabman, gazing down at the numerous children, and the preternaturally big-headed, tadpoleish babies, whose porters were staring at him. “Said it was a little groshers shop. Ah, here we are.”
It was only four doors farther on, and at this establishment there was a shop front, with the name “B. Sturt” on the facia. The stock here did not seem to be extensive, though the place was scrupulously clean. There was a decorative and pictorial aspect about the trade carried on, which was evidently that of a chandler’s shop; for, in attenuated letters over the door, you read that Barnabas Sturt was licenced by the Board of Inland Revenue to deal in tea, coffee, pepper, vinegar, and tobacco. The panes of the windows were gay with show cards, one of which displayed the effects of Tomkins’s Baking Powder, while in another a lady was holding up fine linen got up with Winks’s Prussian Blue, and smiling sweetly at a neighbouring damsel stiff with regal starch. There were pictorial cards, too, telling of the celebrated Unadulterated Mustard, the Ho-fi Tea Company, and Fort’s Popular Coffee.
Descending from his perch, the cabman stroked and patted his horse, and then entered the shop, setting a bell jingling, and standing face to face with a counter, a pair of scales, and a box of red herrings.
Nobody came, so he tapped the floor with his whip, and a voice growled savagely from beyond a half-glass door which guarded an inner room—
Waiting patiently for a few moments, the cabman became aware of the fact that Barnabas Sturt consumed his tobacco as well as dealt in it; and at last, growing impatient, he peered through the window, to perceive that a very thin, sour-looking woman, with high cheek bones, was dipping pieces of rag into a tea-cup of vinegar and water, and applying them to the contused countenance of a bull-headed gentleman, who lay back in a chair smoking, and making the woman wince and sneeze by puffing volumes of the coarse, foul vapour into her face.
“Better mind what you are doing!” he growled.
“Can’t help it, dear,” said the woman, plaintively, “if you smoke me so. Well, what now?” she said, waspishly, and changing her tone to the metallic aggressive common amongst some women.
“Been having a—?” the cabman finished his sentence by grinning, and giving his arms a pugilistic flourish.
“What’s that got to do with you?” growled Mr Sturt. “What d’ yer come into people’s places like that for?”
“Because people says as they sells the werry best tobacco at threepence a hounce,” said the cabman. “Give’s half-hounce.”
“Go an’ weigh it,” said Mr Sturt.
The woman dropped the piece of rag she held, and passed shrinkingly into the shop, took the already weighed-out tobacco from a jar, and held out her hand for the money.
“Now then,” growled Mr Sturt from the back room, “hand that over here, will yer?”
The cabman walked into the room and laid down the money, slowly emptying the paper afterwards into a pouch, which he took from a side pocket.
“This here’s twenty-seven, ain’t it?” said the cabman then.
“Yes, it is twenty-seven,” cried Mr Sturt—our friend Barney of the steeplechase—and he seemed so much disturbed that he leaped up and backed into a corner of the room. “You ain’t got nothin’ again’ me, come, now.”
“No, I ain’t got nothin’ again’ yer,” said the cabman, quietly, but with his eye twinkling. “Did yer think I was—?”
He finished his sentence with a wink.
“Never you mind what I thought,” said Barney. “What d’ yer want here?”
“Only to know if Mrs Lane lives here.”
“Yes, she do,” cried the woman, spitefully; “and why couldn’t you ring the side bell, and not come bothering us?”
“Because I wanted some tobacco, mum,” said the cabman, quietly.
“Oh!” said the woman, in a loud voice; “with their cabs, indeed, a-comin’ every day: there’ll be kerridges next!”
“Just you come and go on with your job,” said Barney, with a snarl.
“I’m coming!” said the woman, sharply. Then to the cabman—“You can go this way;” and she flung open a side door and called up the stairs—“Here, Mrs Lane, another cab’s come for you. There, I s’pose you can go up,” she added; and then, in a voice loud enough to be heard upstairs, “if people would only pay their way instead of riding in cabs, it would be better for some of us.”
A door had been heard to open on the first floor, and then, as the vinegary remark of Mrs Sturt rose, voices were heard whispering. The cabman went straight up the uncarpeted stairs, to pause before the half-open door, as he heard, in a low conversation, the words—
“Mamma—dear mamma, pray don’t notice it.”
The next moment the door opened fully, and the pale, worn-looking woman of the accident stood before the cabman, who shuffled off his hat, and stood bowing.
“Jenkles, mum,” he said—“Samuel Jenkles, nine ’underd seven six, as knocked you down in Pall Mall.”
The woman stepped back and laid her hand upon her side, seeming about to fall, when the cabman started forward and caught her, helping her to a chair in the shabbily-furnished room, as the door swung to.
“Oh, mamma,” cried a girl of about seventeen, springing forward, the work she had been engaged upon falling on the floor.
“It is nothing, my dear,” gasped the other; though her cheek was ashy pale, and the dew gathered on her forehead.
“She’s fainting, my dear,” said the cabman. “Got anything in the house?”
“Yes, some water,” said the girl, supporting the swooning woman, and fanning her face.
“Water!” ejaculated the cabman, in a tone of disgust. “Here, I’ll be back directly.”
He caught up a little china mug from a side table, and ran out, nearly upsetting Mrs Sturt on the landing and Barney at the foot of the stairs, to return at the end of a few minutes, and find the passage vacant; so he hastily ran up, to see that Mrs Lane had come to in his absence, though she looked deadly pale.
“Here, mum,” he said, earnestly, “drink this; don’t be afeard, it’s port wine. A drop wouldn’t do you no harm neither, Miss,” he added, as he glanced at the pale, thin face and delicate aspect of the girl.
Mrs Lane put the mug to her lips, and then made an effort, and sat up.
“You was hurt, then, mum?” said the cabman, anxiously.
“Only shaken—frightened,” she said, in a feeble voice.
“And my coming brought it all up again, and upset you. It’s jest like me, mum, I’m allus a-doing something; ask my missus if I ain’t.”
“It did startle me,” said Mrs Lane, recovering herself. “But you wished to see me. I am better now, Netta,” she said to the girl, who clung to her. “Place a chair.”
“No, no, arter you, Miss,” said the cabman; “I’m nobody;” and he persisted in standing. “’Scuse me, but I knows a real lady when I sees one; I’ll stand, thanky. You see, it was like this: I saw Tommy Runce on the stand—him, you know, as brought you home from the front of the club there—and I ast him, and he told me where he brought you. And when I was talking to the missus last night, she says, says she, ‘Well, Sam,’ she says, ‘the least you can do is to drive up and see how the poor woman is, even if you lose half a day.’ ‘Well,’ I says, ‘that’s just what I was a thinking,’ I says, ‘only I wanted to hear you say it too.’ So you see, mum, thinking it was only decent like, I made bold to come and tell you how sorry I am, and how it was all Ratty’s fault; for he’s that beast of a horse—begging your pardon, mum, and yours too, Miss—as it’s impossible to drive. He oughter ha’ been called Gunpowder, for you never know when he’s going off.”
“It wasverykind and very thoughtful of you, and—and your wife,” said Mrs Lane; “and indeed I thank you; but I was not hurt, only shaken.”
“Then it shook all the colour outer your face, mum, and outer yours too, Miss,” he said, awkwardly. “You’ll excuse me, but you look as if you wanted a ride every day out in the country.”
As he spoke, the girl glanced at a bundle of violets in a broken glass of water in the window; then the tears gathered in her eyes. She seemed to struggle for a moment against her emotion, and then started up and burst into a passion of weeping.
“My darling!” whispered Mrs Lane, catching her in her arms, and trying to soothe her, “pray—pray don’t give way.”
“I’ve done it again,” muttered Jenkles—“I’m allus a-doing it—it is my natur’ to.”
The girl made a brave effort, dashed away the tears, shook back her long dark hair, and tried to smile in the speaker’s face, but so piteous and sad a smile that Jenkles gave a gulp; for he had been glancing round the room, and in that glance had seen a lady and her daughter living in a state of semi-starvation, keeping life together evidently by sewing the hard, toilsome slop-work which he saw scattered upon the table and chairs.
“She has been ill,” said Mrs Lane, apologetically, “and has not quite recovered. We are very much obliged to you for calling.”
“Well, you see, mum,” said Jenkles, “it was to set both of us right, like—you as I didn’t mean to do it, and me and my missus that you warn’t hurt. And now I’m here, mum, if you and the young lady there would like a drive once or twice out into the country, why, mum, you’ve only got to say the word, and—”
“You’ll excuse me, ma’am,” said the sharp voice of Mrs Sturt, laying great stress on the “ma’am,” “but my ’usban’ is below, and going out on business, and he’d be much obliged if you’d pay us the rent.”
The girl looked in a frightened way at her mother, who rose, and said, quietly—
“Mrs Sturt, you might have spared me this—and before a stranger, too.”
“I don’t know nothing about no strangers, ma’am,” said Mrs Sturt, defiantly. “I only know that my master sent me up for the rent; for he says if people can afford to come home in cabs, and order cabs, and drink port wine, they can afford to pay their rent; so, if you please, ma’am, if you’ll be kind—”
“Why, them two cabs warn’t nothing to do with the lady at all,” said Jenkles, indignantly; “and as for the wine, why, that was mine—and—and I paid for it.”
“And drunk it too, I dessay,” said Mrs Sturt. “Which it’s four weeks at seven-and-six, if you please, ma’am—thirty shillings, if you please.” The girl stood up, her eyes flashing, and a deep flush in her cheeks; but at a sign from her mother she was silent.
“Mrs Sturt,” she said, “I cannot pay you now; give me till Saturday.”
“That won’t do for my master, ma’am; he won’t be put off.”
“But the work I have in hand, Mrs Sturt, will half pay you—you shall receive that.”
“I’m tired on it,” said Mrs Sturt, turning to the door; “p’r’aps I’d better send him up.”
“Oh, mamma,” said the girl, in a low, frightened voice, and she turned of a waxen pallor, “don’t let him come here.”
And she clung trembling to her arm as the retreating footsteps of Mrs Sturt were heard, and, directly after, her vinegary voice in colloquy with her husband.
“Here, I’ll soon let ’em know,” he was heard to say, roughly.
The trembling girl hid her face on her mother’s shoulder; but only to start up directly, very pale and firm, as Barney’s heavy step was heard.
“Blame me if I can stand this,” muttered Jenkles.
Then without a word he stuck his hat on his head and walked out of the room, in time to meet the master of the house on the stairs.
“Now, then?” said Barney, as Jenkles stopped short.
“Now, then,” said Jenkles, “where are you going?”
“In there,” said Barney, savagely; and he nodded towards the room.
“No, you ain’t,” said Jenkles; “you’re a-going downstairs.”
“Oh, am I? I’ll just show you about that.”
He rushed up two more of the stairs; but Jenkles did not budge an inch—only met the brute with such a firm, unflinching look in his ugly eyes that the bully was cowed, puzzled at the opposition.
“You’re a-going downstairs to send yer missus up; and jest you tell her to go and take a spoonful o’ treacle out o’ the shop afore she does come up, so as she’ll be a little bit sweeter when the ladies pays her.”
Then Jenkles walked back into the room, rammed his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a dirty canvas bag, out of which he fished a piece of rag tied tightly, in one corner of which was a sovereign, which had to be set free with his teeth. From another corner he tried to extricate a half-sovereign, but it would not come, the knot was too tight.
“Here, lends a pair o’ scissors,” he exclaimed, angrily.
“What are you going to do?” said Mrs Lane.
“To cut this here out,” said Jenkles; “there, that’s it. Here’s a sov and a arf, mum, as was saved up for our rent. I never did such a thing afore, but that’s nothing to you. I’ll lend it you, and you’ll pay me again when you can. There’s my name on that dirty envelope, and you’ll send it, I know.”
“No,” exclaimed Mrs Lane, in a choking voice, “I—”
At this moment Mrs Sturt entered the room, looking very grim; but no sooner did she see the money lying upon the table than she walked up, took it, said “Thanky,” shortly, and jerked a letter upon the table.
Jenkles was following her, when Mrs Lane cried “Stop!” seized the letter, tore it open, and read it.
It was in reply to the second she had written, both of which had reached Captain Vanleigh, though she believed the first had been lost.
Her letter had been brief—
“Help us—we are destitute.“A.V.”
“Help us—we are destitute.
“A.V.”
The reply was—
“Do what I wish, and I will help you.”
“Do what I wish, and I will help you.”
No signature.
Mrs Lane clenched her teeth as she crushed the letter in her hand, then raised her eyes to see the cabman at the door, with her daughter kissing his hand.
“Oh, God!” she moaned, “has it come to this!”
The next minute Netta was clinging to her, and they wept in unison as the sound of wheels was heard; and Sam Jenkles apostrophised his ugly steed.
“Ratty,” he said, “I wonder what it feels like to be a fool—whether it’s what I feels just now?”
There was a crack of the whip here, and the hansom trundled along.
“How many half-pints are there in thirty bob, I wonder?” said Sam again.
And then, as he turned into the main road at Upper Holloway, he pulled up short—to the left London, to the right over the hills to the country.
“Not above four or five mile, Ratty, and then there’ll be no missus to meet. Ratty, old man, I think I’d better drive myself to Colney Hatch.”
All among the Ferns.An autumn morning in a lane. A very prosaic beginning. But there are lanes and lanes; so let not the reader imagine a dreary, clayey way between two low-cropped hedges running right across the flat landscape with mathematical severity, and no more exciting object in view than a heap of broken stones ready for repairs. Our lane is a very different affair, for it is a Cornish lane.Do you know what a Cornish lane is like—a lane in a valley? Perhaps not; so we will describe the winding road, where, basket in hand, Tiny and Fin Rea, walking home, were seeking ferns.In this land of granite, a clear field is an exception—the great bare bones of earth peer out in all directions; and however severe the taste of the first maker of a beaten track, unless he were ready with engineering tools and blasting appliances, instead of making his way straight forward, he would have to go round and dodge about, to avoid the masses of stone. Hence, then, many of the lanes wind and double between piled-up heaps of granite, through steep gorges, and rise and fall in the most eccentric way; while—Nature having apparently scoured the hill-tops, and swept the fertile soil into the vales along these dell-like lanes—the verdure is thick and dense; trees interlace overhead till you walk in a pale green twilight flecked with golden rays; damp dripping stones are covered with velvet moss; a tiny spring trickles here, and forms crystal pools, mirroring delicate fronds of fern; gnarled oaks twist tortuous trunks in the great banks, and throw distorted arms across the road; half hidden from sight—here five, there fifty feet below thetoad—a rapid stream goes musically onward towards the sea, singing silvery songs to the little speckly trout which hide beneath the granite shelves in their crystal homes. Verdure rich and bright on every side, and above all ferns—ferns of the tiniest, and ferns tall and towering, spreading luxuriant fronds, and sending up spikes of flowers, while lesser neighbours form patches of wondrous beauty—tropic palm forests in miniature.“Now, then, who’s going to take my picture?” cried Fin Rea, plumping herself down on a mossy stone, and snatching off her hat. “Should I do now, Tiny?”Undoubtedly: for her lithe, slight form, in its grey muslin, stood out from the ashy brown of the oak trunk that formed the background, while a wondrous beauty of light and shade fell through the leafy network above.“Oh, isn’t it heavenly to be back? I couldn’t live in London. I liked the theatres, and going to the race, and seeing pictures, but I should soon be tired of it all. It makes you so cross. I believe the blacks get into your temper. I say, Tiny, I wonder what Aunt Matty would be like if she lived in London?”“Don’t make fun of poor Aunt Matty,” said her sister. “She has had a good deal of trouble in her life.”“And made it,” said Fin, jumping up. “Oh, I say, look down there,” she cried, pointing through the ferns at her feet to a cool, dark pool, twenty feet below; “there’s a place. Oh, Tiny, if I thought I should ever grow into such a screwy, cross old maid as Aunt Matty, I think I should jump down there and let the fishes eat.”“Fin, that little tongue of yours goes too fast,” said her sister.“Let it,” was the laconic reply. “Tongues were made to talk with. Let’s go on; I’m tired of digging up ferns. Wasn’t it funny, seeing Humphrey Lloyd at that race? And I wonder who those gentlemen were.”“Do you mean the people who stared at us so through the race-glass?”“No, I don’t, Miss Forgetful. I mean the big, dark man, and the funny, little fierce fellow with his hair brushed into points. You don’t remember, I suppose?”“Oh yes,” said Tiny, quietly. “I remember, for I was very much frightened.”“Ah, I hope the knight-errant wasn’t hurt; and, oh, do look, Tiny,” Fin cried, putting down her basket. “What’s that growing in that tree?”As she spoke, she climbed from stone to stone up the steep bank, till she was stopped short by her dress being caught by a bramble.“Oh, Tiny, come and unloose me, do. I’m caught.”There was nothing for it but that her sister should clamber up the bank, and unhook the dress, which she did, when Fin gave her a hand, and drew her up to her side.“What a tomboy you do keep, Fin,” said Tiny, panting; “see how my dress is torn.”“Never mind, I’ll sew it up for you. What’s the good of living in the country if you can’t be free as the birds? Sweet, sweet, sweet! Oh, you beauty!” she cried, as a goldfinch sounded his merry lay. “Tiny, shouldn’t you like to be a bird?”“No,” was the quiet reply. “I would rather be what I am.”“I should like to be a bird,” said Fin, placing one foot on an excrescence of a stumpy pollard oak, and, making a jump, she caught hold of a low bough.“But not now,” cried Tiny. “What are you going to do?”“Going to do?” laughed Fin. “Why, climb this tree;” and she got a step higher.“Oh, Fin, how foolish! Whatever for? Suppose some one came by?”“Nobody comes along here at this time of the day, my dear; so here goes, and if I fall pick up my pieces, and carry them safely home to dear Aunt Matty. ‘And the dicky-bird sang in the tree,’” she trilled out, as step by step she drew herself up into the crown of the stumpy, gnarled pollard.“Oh, Fin!” exclaimed her sister.“Its all right, Miss Timidity. I’m safe, and I came on purpose,” cried Fin, from up in her perch, her face glowing, and eyes sparkling with merriment.“But what are you trying to do?”“To get some of this, sweet innocent. You can’t see, I suppose, what it is?”“No, indeed, I cannot,” said Tiny—“yes, I can. Why, it’s mistletoe.”“Mistletoe, is it, Miss? Ahem!” cried Finn, resting one little fist upon her hip,—and stretching out the other—“Tableau—young Druid priestess about to cut the sacred plant with a fern trowel.”“Fin, dear, do come down. Don’t touch it.”“Not touch it? But I will. There!” she cried, tearing off a piece of the pretty parasite. “I’ll wear that in my hat all the way home as a challenge to nobody, and on purpose to make Aunt Matty cross. She’ll—”“Hist, Fin; oh, be quiet,” whispered Tiny.“Eh? What’s the matter?” cried Fin, from her perch.“Oh, pray be quiet; here’s somebody coming.”“Never mind,” said Fin. “You stand behind the tree—they can’t see us—till I shout ‘Hallo!’”But Fin kept very quiet, peering down squirrel-wise, as a step was heard coming along the lane, and she caught glimpses through the trees of a man in a rough tweed suit and soft felt hat. The face was that of a keen, earnest man of eight-and-forty, with a full beard, just touched by life’s frost, sharp dark eyes, and altogether a countenance not handsome, but likely to win confidence.The newcomer was walking with an easy stride, humming scraps of some ditty, and he swung by his side an ordinary tin can, holding about a quart of some steaming compound.“It’s Saint Timothy,” whispered Fin, from her perch. “Keep close.”Tiny drew her dress closer together, and pressed to the tree trunk, looking terribly guilty, while her sister went on watching.The steps came nearer, and the stepper’s eyes were busy with a keen look for everything, as he seemed to feast on the beauties of Nature around him.“‘I love the merry, merry sunshine,’” he sang, in a bold, bluff voice; “and—Hallo, what the dickens have we here?” he cried, stopping short, and setting two hearts beating quickly. “Lady’s basket and ferns dug up—yes, within the last hour. Why, that must be—Hallo, I spy, hi!”For as he spoke his eyes had been wandering about, amongst the brakes and bushes, and he had caught sight of a bit of muslin dress peeping out from behind a gnarled oak.The result of his summons was that the scrap of dress was softly drawn out of sight, and a voice from up in the ties whispered—“Oh, go down, Tiny, and then he won’t see me.”“Hallo! whispers in the wind,” cried the newcomer, glancing higher, and seeing a bit of Fin. “Is it a bird? By Jove, I wish I’d a gun. No: poachers—trespassers. Here, you fellows, come out!”
An autumn morning in a lane. A very prosaic beginning. But there are lanes and lanes; so let not the reader imagine a dreary, clayey way between two low-cropped hedges running right across the flat landscape with mathematical severity, and no more exciting object in view than a heap of broken stones ready for repairs. Our lane is a very different affair, for it is a Cornish lane.
Do you know what a Cornish lane is like—a lane in a valley? Perhaps not; so we will describe the winding road, where, basket in hand, Tiny and Fin Rea, walking home, were seeking ferns.
In this land of granite, a clear field is an exception—the great bare bones of earth peer out in all directions; and however severe the taste of the first maker of a beaten track, unless he were ready with engineering tools and blasting appliances, instead of making his way straight forward, he would have to go round and dodge about, to avoid the masses of stone. Hence, then, many of the lanes wind and double between piled-up heaps of granite, through steep gorges, and rise and fall in the most eccentric way; while—Nature having apparently scoured the hill-tops, and swept the fertile soil into the vales along these dell-like lanes—the verdure is thick and dense; trees interlace overhead till you walk in a pale green twilight flecked with golden rays; damp dripping stones are covered with velvet moss; a tiny spring trickles here, and forms crystal pools, mirroring delicate fronds of fern; gnarled oaks twist tortuous trunks in the great banks, and throw distorted arms across the road; half hidden from sight—here five, there fifty feet below thetoad—a rapid stream goes musically onward towards the sea, singing silvery songs to the little speckly trout which hide beneath the granite shelves in their crystal homes. Verdure rich and bright on every side, and above all ferns—ferns of the tiniest, and ferns tall and towering, spreading luxuriant fronds, and sending up spikes of flowers, while lesser neighbours form patches of wondrous beauty—tropic palm forests in miniature.
“Now, then, who’s going to take my picture?” cried Fin Rea, plumping herself down on a mossy stone, and snatching off her hat. “Should I do now, Tiny?”
Undoubtedly: for her lithe, slight form, in its grey muslin, stood out from the ashy brown of the oak trunk that formed the background, while a wondrous beauty of light and shade fell through the leafy network above.
“Oh, isn’t it heavenly to be back? I couldn’t live in London. I liked the theatres, and going to the race, and seeing pictures, but I should soon be tired of it all. It makes you so cross. I believe the blacks get into your temper. I say, Tiny, I wonder what Aunt Matty would be like if she lived in London?”
“Don’t make fun of poor Aunt Matty,” said her sister. “She has had a good deal of trouble in her life.”
“And made it,” said Fin, jumping up. “Oh, I say, look down there,” she cried, pointing through the ferns at her feet to a cool, dark pool, twenty feet below; “there’s a place. Oh, Tiny, if I thought I should ever grow into such a screwy, cross old maid as Aunt Matty, I think I should jump down there and let the fishes eat.”
“Fin, that little tongue of yours goes too fast,” said her sister.
“Let it,” was the laconic reply. “Tongues were made to talk with. Let’s go on; I’m tired of digging up ferns. Wasn’t it funny, seeing Humphrey Lloyd at that race? And I wonder who those gentlemen were.”
“Do you mean the people who stared at us so through the race-glass?”
“No, I don’t, Miss Forgetful. I mean the big, dark man, and the funny, little fierce fellow with his hair brushed into points. You don’t remember, I suppose?”
“Oh yes,” said Tiny, quietly. “I remember, for I was very much frightened.”
“Ah, I hope the knight-errant wasn’t hurt; and, oh, do look, Tiny,” Fin cried, putting down her basket. “What’s that growing in that tree?”
As she spoke, she climbed from stone to stone up the steep bank, till she was stopped short by her dress being caught by a bramble.
“Oh, Tiny, come and unloose me, do. I’m caught.”
There was nothing for it but that her sister should clamber up the bank, and unhook the dress, which she did, when Fin gave her a hand, and drew her up to her side.
“What a tomboy you do keep, Fin,” said Tiny, panting; “see how my dress is torn.”
“Never mind, I’ll sew it up for you. What’s the good of living in the country if you can’t be free as the birds? Sweet, sweet, sweet! Oh, you beauty!” she cried, as a goldfinch sounded his merry lay. “Tiny, shouldn’t you like to be a bird?”
“No,” was the quiet reply. “I would rather be what I am.”
“I should like to be a bird,” said Fin, placing one foot on an excrescence of a stumpy pollard oak, and, making a jump, she caught hold of a low bough.
“But not now,” cried Tiny. “What are you going to do?”
“Going to do?” laughed Fin. “Why, climb this tree;” and she got a step higher.
“Oh, Fin, how foolish! Whatever for? Suppose some one came by?”
“Nobody comes along here at this time of the day, my dear; so here goes, and if I fall pick up my pieces, and carry them safely home to dear Aunt Matty. ‘And the dicky-bird sang in the tree,’” she trilled out, as step by step she drew herself up into the crown of the stumpy, gnarled pollard.
“Oh, Fin!” exclaimed her sister.
“Its all right, Miss Timidity. I’m safe, and I came on purpose,” cried Fin, from up in her perch, her face glowing, and eyes sparkling with merriment.
“But what are you trying to do?”
“To get some of this, sweet innocent. You can’t see, I suppose, what it is?”
“No, indeed, I cannot,” said Tiny—“yes, I can. Why, it’s mistletoe.”
“Mistletoe, is it, Miss? Ahem!” cried Finn, resting one little fist upon her hip,—and stretching out the other—“Tableau—young Druid priestess about to cut the sacred plant with a fern trowel.”
“Fin, dear, do come down. Don’t touch it.”
“Not touch it? But I will. There!” she cried, tearing off a piece of the pretty parasite. “I’ll wear that in my hat all the way home as a challenge to nobody, and on purpose to make Aunt Matty cross. She’ll—”
“Hist, Fin; oh, be quiet,” whispered Tiny.
“Eh? What’s the matter?” cried Fin, from her perch.
“Oh, pray be quiet; here’s somebody coming.”
“Never mind,” said Fin. “You stand behind the tree—they can’t see us—till I shout ‘Hallo!’”
But Fin kept very quiet, peering down squirrel-wise, as a step was heard coming along the lane, and she caught glimpses through the trees of a man in a rough tweed suit and soft felt hat. The face was that of a keen, earnest man of eight-and-forty, with a full beard, just touched by life’s frost, sharp dark eyes, and altogether a countenance not handsome, but likely to win confidence.
The newcomer was walking with an easy stride, humming scraps of some ditty, and he swung by his side an ordinary tin can, holding about a quart of some steaming compound.
“It’s Saint Timothy,” whispered Fin, from her perch. “Keep close.”
Tiny drew her dress closer together, and pressed to the tree trunk, looking terribly guilty, while her sister went on watching.
The steps came nearer, and the stepper’s eyes were busy with a keen look for everything, as he seemed to feast on the beauties of Nature around him.
“‘I love the merry, merry sunshine,’” he sang, in a bold, bluff voice; “and—Hallo, what the dickens have we here?” he cried, stopping short, and setting two hearts beating quickly. “Lady’s basket and ferns dug up—yes, within the last hour. Why, that must be—Hallo, I spy, hi!”
For as he spoke his eyes had been wandering about, amongst the brakes and bushes, and he had caught sight of a bit of muslin dress peeping out from behind a gnarled oak.
The result of his summons was that the scrap of dress was softly drawn out of sight, and a voice from up in the ties whispered—
“Oh, go down, Tiny, and then he won’t see me.”
“Hallo! whispers in the wind,” cried the newcomer, glancing higher, and seeing a bit of Fin. “Is it a bird? By Jove, I wish I’d a gun. No: poachers—trespassers. Here, you fellows, come out!”
Jenkles’s Confession.Sam Jenkles always boasted that he never kept anything from his wife; but he was silent for two days; and then, after a hard day’s work, he was seated in his snug kitchen, watching the browning of a half-dozen fine potatoes in a Dutch oven before the fire, when Mrs Jenkles, a plump, bustling little woman, who was stitching away at a marvellous rate, her needle clicking at every stroke, suddenly exclaimed—“Sam, you’d better give me that two pound you’ve got, and I’ll put it with the rest.”Sam didn’t answer, only tapped his pipe on the hob.Mrs Jenkles glanced at him, and then said—“Did you hear what I said, Sam?”“Yes.”“Then why don’t you give it me? Draw that oven back an inch.”“Aint got it—only half a sov,” said Sam, leaving the potatoes to burn.Mrs Jenkles dropped her work upon her lap, and her face grew very red.“Didn’t you say, Sam, that if I’d trust you, you wouldn’t do so any more?”“Yes.”“And you’ve broke your word, Sam.”“I aint, ’pon my soul, I aint, Sally,” cried Sam, earnestly. “I’ve had my pint for dinner, and never touched a drop more till I had my pint at home.”“Then where’s that money?”“Spent it,” said Sam, laconically.“Yes, at the nasty public-houses, Sam. An’ it’s too bad, and when I’d trusted you!”“Wrong!” said Sam.“Then where is it?”“Fooled it away.”“Yes, of course. But I didn’t expect it, Sam; I didn’t, indeed.”“All your fault,” said Sam.“Yes, for trusting you,” said Mrs Jenkles, bitterly. “Nice life we lead: you with the worst horse and the worst cab on the rank, and me with the worst husband.”“Is he, Sally?” said Sam, with a twinkle of the eye.“Yes,” said Mrs Jenkles, angrily; “and that makes it all the worse, when he might be one of the best. Oh, Sam,” she said, pitifully, “do I ever neglect you or your home?”“Not you,” he said, throwing down his pipe, and looking round at the shining tins, bright fireplace, and general aspect of simple comfort and cleanliness. “You’re the best old wife in the world.”And he got up and stood behind her chair with his arms round her neck.“Don’t touch me, Sam. I’m very, very much hurt.”“Well, it was all your fault, little woman,” he said, holding the comely face, so that his wife could not look round at him.“And how, pray?” said she.“Didn’t you send me up to see that poor woman as Ratty knocked down?”“Yes; but did you go?”“To be sure I did—you told me to go.”“Then why didn’t you tell me you had been?”“Didn’t like to,” said Sam.“Such stuff!” cried Mrs Jenkles. “But what’s that got to do with it?”Sam remained silent.“What’s that got to do with it, Sam?”Silence still.“Now, Sam, you’ve got something on your mind, so you’d better tell me. Have you been drinking?”“No, I haven’t,” said Sam, “and I don’t mean to again.”“Then I’m very sorry for what I said.”“I know that,” said Sam.“But what does it all mean?”“Well, you see,” said Sam, “I’ve been a fool.”And after a little more hesitation, he told all about his visit.Mrs Jenkles sat looking at the fire, rubbing her nose with her thimble, both she and Sam heedless that the potatoes were burning.“You’ve been took in, Sam, I’m afraid,” she said at last.“Think so?” he said.“Well, I hope not; but you’ve either been took in, or done a very, very kind thing.”“Well, we shall see,” he said.“Yes, we shall see.”“You aint huffy with me?”“I don’t know yet,” said Mrs Jenkles; “but I shall go up and see them.”“Ah, do,” said Sam.“Yes, I mean to see to the bottom of it,” said Mrs Jenkles. “I haven’t patience with such ways.”“They can’t help being poor.”“I don’t mean them; I mean those people they’re with. I couldn’t do it.”“Not you,” said Sam. “But I say, don’t Mr Lacy go next week?”“Yes.”“And the rooms will be empty?”“Yes,” said Mrs Jenkles. “I have put the bill up in the window; he said he didn’t mind.”Sam Jenkles went and sat down in his chair with an air of relief and looked at his wife.Mrs Jenkles looked at Sam, as if the same idea was in both hearts. Then she jumped up suddenly.“Oh, Sam, the potatoes are spoiling!”They were, but they were not spoilt; and Sam Jenkles made a very hearty meal, washing it down with the pint of beer which he termed his allowance.“Ah!” he said, speaking like a man with a load off his mind, “this here’s a luxury as the swells never gets—a regular good, hot, mealy tater, fresh from the fire. It’s a wonderful arrangement of nature that about taters.”“Why?” said Mrs Jenkles, as she emptied the brown coat of another potato on her husband’s plate. “What do you mean?”“Why, the way in which roast potatoes and beer goes together. Six mouthfuls of tater, and then a drink of beer to get rid of the dryness.”“I wish you wouldn’t be so fond of talking about beer, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles.“All right, my dear,” said Sam; and he finished his supper, retook his place by the fireside, filled his pipe, glanced at the Dutch clock swinging its pendulum to and fro; and then, as he lit the tobacco—“Ah! this is cheery. Glad I aint on the night shift.”Mrs Jenkles was very quiet as she bustled about and cleared the table, before once more taking her place on the other side of the fire.“Ratty went first-rate to-day,” said Sam, after a few puffs.But Mrs Jenkles did not take any notice; she only made her needle click, and Sam kept glancing at her as he went on smoking. At last she spoke.“I shall go up and see those people, Sam, for I’m afraid you’ve been taken in. Was she a married woman.”“Yes,” said Sam; “I saw her ring. But I say, you know, ’taint my fault, Sally,” he said, plaintively. “I was born a soft un.”“Then it’s time you grew hard, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles, bending over her work. “Thirty shillings takes a deal of saving with people like us.”“Yes,” said Sam, “it do, ’specially when you has so many bad days to make up.”“You ought not to have to pay more than twelve shillings a day for that cab, Sam.”“I told the gov’nor so, and he said as it oughter be eighteen, and plenty would be glad to get it at that.”Mrs Jenkles tightened her mouth, and shook her head.“Oh! I say, Sally,” said Sam, plaintively, “I’ve been worried about that money; and now it was off my mind, I did think as it was all right. You’ve reglarly put my pipe out.”Mrs Jenkles rose, took a splint from the chimney-piece, lit it, and handed it to her husband.“No,” he said, rubbing his ear with the stem of his pipe, “it aint that, my dear; I meant figgeratively, as old Jones says.”Mrs Jenkles threw the match into the fire, and resumed her work for a few minutes; then glanced at the clock, and put away her work.“Yes, Sam, I shall go to Upper Holloway to-morrow, and see what I think.”“Do, my lass, do,” said Sam, drearily. Then, in an undertone, as he tapped his pipe-bowl on the hob, “Well, it’s out now, and no mistake. Shall we go to bed?”
Sam Jenkles always boasted that he never kept anything from his wife; but he was silent for two days; and then, after a hard day’s work, he was seated in his snug kitchen, watching the browning of a half-dozen fine potatoes in a Dutch oven before the fire, when Mrs Jenkles, a plump, bustling little woman, who was stitching away at a marvellous rate, her needle clicking at every stroke, suddenly exclaimed—
“Sam, you’d better give me that two pound you’ve got, and I’ll put it with the rest.”
Sam didn’t answer, only tapped his pipe on the hob.
Mrs Jenkles glanced at him, and then said—
“Did you hear what I said, Sam?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you give it me? Draw that oven back an inch.”
“Aint got it—only half a sov,” said Sam, leaving the potatoes to burn.
Mrs Jenkles dropped her work upon her lap, and her face grew very red.
“Didn’t you say, Sam, that if I’d trust you, you wouldn’t do so any more?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve broke your word, Sam.”
“I aint, ’pon my soul, I aint, Sally,” cried Sam, earnestly. “I’ve had my pint for dinner, and never touched a drop more till I had my pint at home.”
“Then where’s that money?”
“Spent it,” said Sam, laconically.
“Yes, at the nasty public-houses, Sam. An’ it’s too bad, and when I’d trusted you!”
“Wrong!” said Sam.
“Then where is it?”
“Fooled it away.”
“Yes, of course. But I didn’t expect it, Sam; I didn’t, indeed.”
“All your fault,” said Sam.
“Yes, for trusting you,” said Mrs Jenkles, bitterly. “Nice life we lead: you with the worst horse and the worst cab on the rank, and me with the worst husband.”
“Is he, Sally?” said Sam, with a twinkle of the eye.
“Yes,” said Mrs Jenkles, angrily; “and that makes it all the worse, when he might be one of the best. Oh, Sam,” she said, pitifully, “do I ever neglect you or your home?”
“Not you,” he said, throwing down his pipe, and looking round at the shining tins, bright fireplace, and general aspect of simple comfort and cleanliness. “You’re the best old wife in the world.”
And he got up and stood behind her chair with his arms round her neck.
“Don’t touch me, Sam. I’m very, very much hurt.”
“Well, it was all your fault, little woman,” he said, holding the comely face, so that his wife could not look round at him.
“And how, pray?” said she.
“Didn’t you send me up to see that poor woman as Ratty knocked down?”
“Yes; but did you go?”
“To be sure I did—you told me to go.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me you had been?”
“Didn’t like to,” said Sam.
“Such stuff!” cried Mrs Jenkles. “But what’s that got to do with it?”
Sam remained silent.
“What’s that got to do with it, Sam?”
Silence still.
“Now, Sam, you’ve got something on your mind, so you’d better tell me. Have you been drinking?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Sam, “and I don’t mean to again.”
“Then I’m very sorry for what I said.”
“I know that,” said Sam.
“But what does it all mean?”
“Well, you see,” said Sam, “I’ve been a fool.”
And after a little more hesitation, he told all about his visit.
Mrs Jenkles sat looking at the fire, rubbing her nose with her thimble, both she and Sam heedless that the potatoes were burning.
“You’ve been took in, Sam, I’m afraid,” she said at last.
“Think so?” he said.
“Well, I hope not; but you’ve either been took in, or done a very, very kind thing.”
“Well, we shall see,” he said.
“Yes, we shall see.”
“You aint huffy with me?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Mrs Jenkles; “but I shall go up and see them.”
“Ah, do,” said Sam.
“Yes, I mean to see to the bottom of it,” said Mrs Jenkles. “I haven’t patience with such ways.”
“They can’t help being poor.”
“I don’t mean them; I mean those people they’re with. I couldn’t do it.”
“Not you,” said Sam. “But I say, don’t Mr Lacy go next week?”
“Yes.”
“And the rooms will be empty?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Jenkles. “I have put the bill up in the window; he said he didn’t mind.”
Sam Jenkles went and sat down in his chair with an air of relief and looked at his wife.
Mrs Jenkles looked at Sam, as if the same idea was in both hearts. Then she jumped up suddenly.
“Oh, Sam, the potatoes are spoiling!”
They were, but they were not spoilt; and Sam Jenkles made a very hearty meal, washing it down with the pint of beer which he termed his allowance.
“Ah!” he said, speaking like a man with a load off his mind, “this here’s a luxury as the swells never gets—a regular good, hot, mealy tater, fresh from the fire. It’s a wonderful arrangement of nature that about taters.”
“Why?” said Mrs Jenkles, as she emptied the brown coat of another potato on her husband’s plate. “What do you mean?”
“Why, the way in which roast potatoes and beer goes together. Six mouthfuls of tater, and then a drink of beer to get rid of the dryness.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so fond of talking about beer, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles.
“All right, my dear,” said Sam; and he finished his supper, retook his place by the fireside, filled his pipe, glanced at the Dutch clock swinging its pendulum to and fro; and then, as he lit the tobacco—“Ah! this is cheery. Glad I aint on the night shift.”
Mrs Jenkles was very quiet as she bustled about and cleared the table, before once more taking her place on the other side of the fire.
“Ratty went first-rate to-day,” said Sam, after a few puffs.
But Mrs Jenkles did not take any notice; she only made her needle click, and Sam kept glancing at her as he went on smoking. At last she spoke.
“I shall go up and see those people, Sam, for I’m afraid you’ve been taken in. Was she a married woman.”
“Yes,” said Sam; “I saw her ring. But I say, you know, ’taint my fault, Sally,” he said, plaintively. “I was born a soft un.”
“Then it’s time you grew hard, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles, bending over her work. “Thirty shillings takes a deal of saving with people like us.”
“Yes,” said Sam, “it do, ’specially when you has so many bad days to make up.”
“You ought not to have to pay more than twelve shillings a day for that cab, Sam.”
“I told the gov’nor so, and he said as it oughter be eighteen, and plenty would be glad to get it at that.”
Mrs Jenkles tightened her mouth, and shook her head.
“Oh! I say, Sally,” said Sam, plaintively, “I’ve been worried about that money; and now it was off my mind, I did think as it was all right. You’ve reglarly put my pipe out.”
Mrs Jenkles rose, took a splint from the chimney-piece, lit it, and handed it to her husband.
“No,” he said, rubbing his ear with the stem of his pipe, “it aint that, my dear; I meant figgeratively, as old Jones says.”
Mrs Jenkles threw the match into the fire, and resumed her work for a few minutes; then glanced at the clock, and put away her work.
“Yes, Sam, I shall go to Upper Holloway to-morrow, and see what I think.”
“Do, my lass, do,” said Sam, drearily. Then, in an undertone, as he tapped his pipe-bowl on the hob, “Well, it’s out now, and no mistake. Shall we go to bed?”