He turned his back upon the evening sunshine, and looked at the white face of Steeve Hargraves, the softy, with every whit as much pleasure as he had felt in looking at Nature in her loveliest aspect.
“A long day,” he said; “an infernally tedious, wearisome day. Thank God, it’s over.”
Strange that, as he uttered this impious thanksgiving, no subtle influence of the future crept through his veins to chill the slackening pulses of his heart, and freeze the idle words upon his lips. If he had known what was so soon to come; if he had known, as he thanked God for the death of one beautiful summer’s day, never to be born again, with its twelve hours of opportunity for good or evil, surely he would have grovelled on the earth, stricken with a sudden terror, and wept aloud for the shameful history of the life which lay behind him.
He had never shed tears but once since his childhood, and then those tears were scalding drops of baffled rage and vengeful fury at the utter defeat of the greatest scheme of his life.
“I shall go into Doncaster to-night, Hargraves,” he said to the softy, who stood deferentially awaiting his master’s pleasure, and watching him, as he had watched him all day, furtively but incessantly; “I shall spend the evening in Doncaster, and — and — see if I can pick up a few wrinkles about the September meeting; not that there’s anything worth entering among this set of screws, Lord knows,” he added, with undisguised contempt for poor John’s beloved stable. “Is there a dog-cart, or a trap of any kind, I can drive over in?” he asked of the softy.
Mr. Hargraves said that there was a Newport Pagnell, which was sacred to Mr. John Mellish, and a gig that was at the disposal of any of the upper servants when they had occasion to go into Doncaster, as well as a covered van, which some of the lads drove into the town every day for the groceries and other matters required at the house.
“Very good,” said Mr. Conyers; “you may run down to the stables, and tell one of the boys to put the fastest pony of the lot into the Newport Pagnell, and to bring it up here, and to look sharp.”
“But nobody but Muster Mellish rides in the Newport Pagnell,” suggested the softy, with an accent of alarm.
“What of that, you cowardly hound?” cried the trainer, contemptuously. “I’m going to drive it to-night, don’t you hear? D — n his Yorkshire insolence! Am I to be put down by him? It’s his handsome wife that he takes such pride in, is it? Lord help him! Whose money bought the dog-cart, I wonder? Aurora Floyd’s, perhaps. And I’m not to ride in it, I suppose, because it’s my lord’s pleasure to drive his black-eyed lady in the sacred vehicle. Look you here, you brainless idiot, and understand me, if you can,” cried Mr. James Conyers, in a sudden rage, which crimsoned his handsome face, and lit up his lazy eyes with a new fire—”look you here, Stephen Hargraves; if it was n’t that I’m tied hand and foot, and have been plotted against and thwarted by a woman’s cunning at every turn, I could smoke my pipe in yonder house, or in a better house this day.”
He pointed with his finger to the pinnacled roof, and the reddened windows glittering in the evening sun, visible far away among the trees.
“Mr. John Mellish!” he said. “If his wife was n’t such a she-devil as to be too many guns for the cleverest man in Christendom, I’d soon make him sing small. Fetch the Newport Pagnell,” he cried, suddenly, with an abrupt change of tone; “fetch it, and be quick. I’m not safe to myself when I talk of this. I’m not safe when I think how near I was to half a million of money,” he muttered under his breath.
He limped out into the open air, fanning himself with the wide brim of his felt hat, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
“Be quick,” he cried, impatiently, to his deliberate attendant, who had listened eagerly to every word of his master’s passionate talk, and who now stood watching him even more intently than before; “be quick, man, can’t you? I don’t pay you five shillings a week to stare at me. Fetch the trap. I’ve worked myself into a fever, and nothing but a rattling drive will set me right again.”
The softy shuffled off as rapidly as it was within the range of his ability to walk. He had never been seen to run in his life, but had a slow, sidelong gait, which had some faint resemblance to that of the lower reptiles, but very little in common with the motions of his fellow-men.
Mr. James Conyers limped up and down the little grassy lawn in front of the north lodge. The excitement which had crimsoned his face gradually subsided as he vented his disquietude in occasional impatient exclamations. “Two thousand pound,” he muttered; “a pitiful, paltry two thousand. Not a twelvemonth’s interest on the money I ought to have had — the money I should have had, if—”
He stopped abruptly, and growled something like an oath between his set teeth as he struck his stick with angry violence into the soft grass. It is especially hard when we are reviling our bad fortune, and quarrelling with our fate, to find at last, on wandering backward to the source of our ill luck, that the primary cause of all has been our own evil-doing. It was this that made Mr. Conyers stop abruptly in his reflections upon his misfortunes, and break off with a smothered oath, and listen impatiently for the wheels of the Newport Pagnell.
The softy appeared presently, leading the horse by the bridle. He had not presumed to seat himself in the sacred vehicle, and he stared wonderingly at James Conyers as the trainer tumbled about the chocolate-cloth cushions, arranging them afresh for his own ease and comfort. Neither the bright varnish of the dark brown panels, nor the crimson crest, nor the glittering steel ornaments on the neat harness, nor any of the exquisitely finished appointments of the light vehicle, provoked one word of criticism from Mr. Conyers. He mounted as easily as his lame leg would allow him, and, taking the reins from the softy, lighted his cigar, preparatory to starting.
“You need n’t sit up for me to-night,” he said, as he drove into the dusty high-road; “I shall be late.”
Mr. Hargraves shut the iron gates with a loud clanking noise upon his new master.
“But I shall, though,” he muttered, looking askant through the bars at the fast-disappearing Newport Pagnell, which was now little more than a black spot in a white cloud of dust; “but I shall sit up, though. You’ll come home drunk, I lay.” (Yorkshire is so preeminently a horse-racing and betting county, that even simple country folk who have never wagered a sixpence in the quiet course of their lives say “I lay” where a Londoner would say “I dare say.”) “You’ll come home drunk, I lay; folks generally do from Doncaster; and I shall hear some more of your wild talk. Yes, yes,” he said, in a slow, reflecting tone, “it’s very wild talk, and I can’t make top nor tail of it yet — not yet; but it seems to me somehow as if I knew what it all meant, only I can’t put it together — I can’t put it together. There’s something missin’, and the want of that something hinders me putting it together.”
He rubbed his stubble of coarse red hair with his two strong, awkward hands, as if he would fain have rubbed some wanting intelligence into his head.
“Two thousand pound,” he said, walking slowly back to the cottage—”two thousand pound. It’s a power of money. Why it’s two thousand pound that the winner gets by the great race at Newmarket, and there’s all the gentlefolks ready to give their ears for it. There’s great lords fighting and struggling against each other for it; so it’s no wonder a poor fond chap like me thinks summat about it.”
He sat down upon the step of the lodge-door to smoke the cigar-ends which his benefactor had thrown him in the course of the day; but he still ruminated upon this subject, and he still stopped sometimes, between the extinction of one cheroot stump and the illuminating of another, to mutter, “Two thousand pound. Twenty hundred pound. Forty times fifty pound,” with an unctuous chuckle after the enunciation of each figure, as if it was some privilege even to be able to talk of such vast sums of money. So might some doting lover, in the absence of his idol, murmur the beloved name to the summer breeze.
The last crimson lights upon the patches of blue water died out be
neath the gathering darkness; but the softy sat, still smoking, and still ruminating, till the stars were light in the purple vault above his head. A little after ten o’clock he heard the rattling of wheels and the tramp of horses’ hoofs upon the high-road, and, going to the gate, he looked out through the iron bars. As the vehicle dashed by the north gates, he saw that it was one of the Mellish-Park carriages which had been sent to the station to meet John and his wife.
“A short visit to Loon’on,” he muttered. “I lay she’s been to fetch the brass.”
The greedy eyes of the half-witted groom peered through the iron bars at the passing carriage, as if he would have fain looked through its opaque panels in search of that which he had denominated “the brass.” He had a vague idea that two thousand pounds would be a great bulk of money, and that Aurora would carry it in a chest or a bundle that might be perceptible through the carriage-window.
“I’ll lay she’s been to fetch t’ brass,” he repeated, as he crept back to the lodge-door.
He resumed his seat upon the door-step, his cigar-ends, and his reverie, rubbing his head very often, sometimes with one hand, sometimes with both, but always as if he were trying to rub some wanting sense or power of perception into his wretched brains. Sometimes he gave a short restless sigh, as if he had been trying all this time to guess some difficult enigma, and was on the point of giving it up.
It was long after midnight when Mr. James Conyers returned, very much the worse for brandy and water and dust. He tumbled over the softy, still sitting on the step of the open door, and then cursed Mr. Hargraves for being in the way.
“B’t s’nc’y’h’v ch’s ‘n t’ s’t ‘p,” said the trainer, speaking a language entirely composed of consonants, “y’ m’y dr’v’ tr’p b’ck t’ st’bl’s.”
By which rather obscure speech he gave the softy to understand that he was to take the dog-cart back to Mr. Mellish’s stable-yard.
Steeve Hargraves did his drunken master’s bidding, and, leading the horse homeward through the quiet night, found a cross boy with a lantern in his hand waiting at the gate of the stable-yard, and by no means disposed for conversation, except, indeed, to the extent of the one remark that he, the cross boy, hoped the new trainer was n’t going to be up to this game every night, and hoped the mare, which had been bred for a racer, had n’t been ill used.
All John Mellish’s horses seemed to have been bred for racers, and to have dropped gradually from prospective winners of the Derby, Oaks, Chester Cup, Great Ebor, Yorkshire Stakes, Leger, and Doncaster Cup, to say nothing of minor victories in the way of Northumberland Plates, Liverpool Autumn Cups, and Curragh Handicaps, through every variety of failure and defeat, into the everyday ignominy of harness. Even the van which carried groceries was drawn by a slim-legged, narrow-chested, high-shouldered animal, called the “Yorkshire Childers,” and bought, in its sunny colthood, at a great price by poor John.
Mr. Conyers was snoring aloud in his little bedroom when Steeve Hargraves returned to the lodge. The softy stared wonderingly at the handsome face brutalized by drink, and the classical head flung back upon the crumpled pillow in one of those wretched positions which intoxication always chooses for its repose. Steeve Hargraves rubbed his head harder even than before as he looked at the perfect profile, the red, half-parted lips, the dark fringe of lashes on the faintly crimson-tinted cheeks.
“Perhaps I might have been good for summat if I’d been like you,” he said, with a half-savage melancholy. “I should n’t have been ashamed of myself then. I should n’t have crept into dark corners to hide myself, and think why I was n’t like other people, and what a bitter, cruel shame it was that I was n’t like ‘em. You’ve no call to hide yourself from other folks; nobody tells you to get out of the way for an ugly hound, as you told me this morning, hang you. The world’s smooth enough for you.”
So may Caliban have looked at Prospero, with envy and hate in his heart, before going to his obnoxious tasks of dish-washing and trencher-scraping.
He shook his fist at the unconscious sleeper as he finished speaking, and then stooped to pick up the trainer’s dusty clothes, which were scattered upon the floor.
“I suppose I’m to brush these before I go to bed,” he muttered, “that my lord may have ’em ready when he wakes in th’ morning.”
He took the clothes on his arm and the light in his hand, and went down to the lower room, where he found a brush, and set to work sturdily, enveloping himself in a cloud of dust, like some ugly Arabian génie who was going to transform himself into a handsome prince.
He stopped suddenly in his brushing by and by, and crumpled the waistcoat in his hand.
“There’s some paper,” he exclaimed. “A paper sewed up between stuff and linin’.”
He omitted the definite article before each of the substantives, as is a common habit with his countrymen when at all excited.
“A bit o’ paper,” he repeated, “between stuff and linin’. I’ll rip t’ waistcoat open and see what ‘t is.”
He took his clasp-knife from his pocket, carefully unripped a part of one of the seams in the waistcoat, and extracted a piece of paper folded double — a decent-sized square of rather thick paper, partly printed, partly written.
He leaned over the light with his elbows on the table, and read the contents of this paper, slowly and laboriously, following every word with his thick forefinger, sometimes stopping a long time upon one syllable, sometimes trying back half a line or so, but always plodding patiently with his ugly forefinger.
When he came to the last word, he burst suddenly into a loud chuckle, as if he had just succeeded in guessing that difficult enigma which had puzzled him all the evening.
“I know it all now,” he said. “I can put it all together now, his words, and hers, and the money. I can put it all together, and make out the meaning of it. She’s going to give him the two thousand pound to go away from here and say nothing about this.”
He refolded the paper, replaced it carefully in its hiding-place between the stuff and lining of the waistcoat, then searched in his capacious pocket for a fat leathern book, in which, among all sorts of odds and ends, there were some needles and a tangled skein of black thread. Then, stooping over the light, he slowly sewed up the seam which he had ripped open, dexterously and neatly enough, in spite of the clumsiness of his big fingers.
CHAPTER 22
Still Constant.
Mr. James Conyers took his breakfast in his own apartment upon the morning of his visit to Doncaster, and Stephen Hargraves waited upon him, carrying him a basin of muddy coffee, and enduring his ill humor with the long-suffering which seemed peculiar to this hump-backed, low-voiced stable-helper.
The trainer rejected the coffee, and called for a pipe, and lay smoking half the summer morning, with the scent of the roses and honeysuckle floating into his close chamber, and the July sunshine glorifying the sham roses and blue lilies that twisted themselves in floricultural monstrosity about the cheap paper on the walls.
The softy cleaned his master’s boots, set them in the sunshine to air, washed the breakfast things, swept the door-step, and then seated himself upon it to ruminate, with his elbows on his keens and his hands twisted in his coarse red hair. The silence of the summer atmosphere was only broken by the drowsy hum of the insects in the wood, and the occasional dropping of some early-blighted leaf.
Mr. Conyers’ temper had been in no manner improved by his night’s dissipation in the town of Doncaster. Heaven knows what entertainment he had found in those lonely streets, the grass-grown market-place and tenantless stalls, or that dreary and hermetically-sealed building, which looks like a prison on three sides and a chapel on the fourth, and which, during the September meeting, bursts suddenly into life and light with huge posters flaring against its gaunt walls, and a bright blue-ink announcement of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Mathews, or Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean, for five nights only. Normal amusement in the town of Doncaster between those two oases in the
year’s dreary circle, the spring and autumn meetings, there is none; but of abnormal and special entertainment there may be much, only known to such men as Mr. James Conyers, to whom the most sinuous alley is a pleasant road, so long as it leads, directly or indirectly, to the betting-man’s god — Money.
However this might be, Mr. Conyers bore upon him all the symptoms of having, as the popular phrase has it, made a night of it. His eyes were dim and glassy; his tongue hot and furred, and uncomfortably large for his parched mouth; his hand so shaky that the operation which he performed with a razor before his looking-glass was a toss-up between suicide and shaving. His heavy head seemed to have been transformed into a leaden box full of buzzing noises; and after getting half through his toilet, he gave it up for a bad job, and threw himself upon the bed he had just left, a victim to that biliary derangement which inevitably follows an injudicious admixture of alcoholic and malt liquors.
“A tumbler of Hockheimer,” he muttered, “or even the third-rate Chablis they give one at a table d’hôte, would freshen me up a little; but there’s nothing to be had in this abominable place except brandy and water.”
He called to the softy, and ordered him mix a tumbler of the last-named beverage, cold and weak.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 145
