MR. SCADGERS PAYS A VISIT.
Those who had been most intimately acquainted with Mr. Scadgers of
Newman Street had never known him under any circumstances devote a
portion of his valuable time to sacrificing to the Graces. He was
popularly supposed to sleep in his clothes; and as those garments were
seldom entirely free from fluff or "flue," there were probably some
grounds for the supposition; but he could not have slept in his big
high-boots, though no one had ever seen him without them, save Jinks.
Jinks had more than once seen his master with slippered feet, and
trembled; for Mr. Scadgers' boots were to him what those other
Ingoldsby-celebrated boots were to the Baron Ralph de Shurland, what
his hair was to Samson, what his high-heels were to Louis Quatorze.
Without his boots, Mr. Scadgers was quite a different man; he talked
of "giving time," of "waiting a day or two," of "holding-off a bit;"
this was in his slippers: but when once his boots were on, in speaking
of the same debtor he told Jinks to "sell him up slick, and clear off
all his sticks." He always seemed to wear the same suit of black, and
all the washing that he was ever known to indulge in was by smearing
himself with the damp corner of a towel, which he kept in the office
between the chemist's bottles, one of which held the water; while
his toilette was completed by running a pocket-comb through his
close-cropped hair, and then smoothing it down with the palms of his
hands, whisking his boots with his red-silk pocket-handkerchief,
and putting sharp spiky points to his nails by the aid of a
vicious-looking buck-handled penknife.
Thoroughly accustomed to his patron's appearance, Jinks was, then,
struck with wonderment on beholding him one morning enter the office
in comparatively gorgeous array. Through the folds of a white
waistcoat there protruded a large shirt-frill, certainly of rather a
yellow hue, and not so neat in the plaits as it ought to have been,
but for all that an undeniable frill, such as adorned the breasts of
the dandies of the last generation; his usual napless greasy hat had
been discarded for a very elegant article in white beaver, which had
apparently been the property of some other gentleman, and acquired
by its present owner in that species of commercial transaction known
as a "swop," as it was much too large for Mr. Scadgers, and
obliterated every sign of his hair, while a corner of the red-silk
pocket-handkerchief fell out gracefully over the back of his head. In
his hand Mr. Scadgers carried one damp black-beaver glove, and a thick
stick like an elongated ruler, with a silver top and a silk tassel.
Mr. Jinks was so overpowered at this apparition that he sat gazing
with open mouth at his master, unable to speak a word; he had one
comfort, however,--Mr. Scadgers had his boots on, so that under all
this frivolity there lurked an intention of stern business.
Mr. Scadgers took no notice of his subordinate's astonishment; but
placing the glove and the stick on his desk, taking off the white hat,
and having a thorough mopping with the red-silk pocket-handkerchief,
looked through his letters, and proceeded to indorse them, for Jinks
to answer, in his usual business way. Some of his correspondence
amused him, for he smiled and shook his head at the letter in a
waggish way, as though the writer were chaffing him; in glancing over
another he would lay his finger alongside his nose and mutter, "No,
no, my boy! not by no means, no how!" while at others his larger eye
would gleam ferociously, the upper corner of his mouth would twist
higher than ever, and he would shake his fist at the paper and utter
words not pleasant to hear. His mental emotions did not, however,
interfere with his business habits: as he finished each letter he
wrote the substance of his reply on the back for Jinks to copy, drew
three or four cheques, which he also handed over to his factotum, and
locked away some flimsy documents which had formed the contents of
certain of the letters, in his cash-box. Some of the letters received
by that morning's post had contained bank-notes, and these Mr.
Scadgers examined most scrupulously before putting them away, holding
them between his eyes and the light to examine the water-mark,
carefully scrutinising the engraving, and finally comparing the
numbers, dates, and ciphers, with the list contained in a printed bill
pasted against the inside of his desk-lid headed "Stolen." Over one of
the notes, after comparing it with this list, Mr. Scadgers chuckled
vastly.
"90275 LB January 12! there you are correct to a T. I thought they'd
turn up about this time. I say, Jinks, here's one of the notes as was
stolen from Robarts's; you recollect? Come up from Doncaster in
renewal-fee from Honourable Capting Maitland. He took it over the
Leger, no doubt: they always thought at Scotland Yard that that was
the way those notes would get put off; and they was right. Send
this back to the capting, Jinks,--he's gone back to Leeds barracks
now,--and tell him all about it; we can't have that, you know; might
get us into trouble; and if he wants a renewal, he must send another.
He won't know where he got it from, bless you! reg'lar careless cove
as ever was; he ain't due till Friday, and he's sent up to-day in a
reg'lar fright. You must step round to Moss's and tell 'em to proceed
in Hetherington's matter. There's a letter there from Sir Mordaunt,
askin' for more time, and promisin' all sorts of things; but I'm sick
of him and his blather. Tell Moss to put the screw on, and he'll pay
up fast enough. Write a line to young Sewell, and tell him he can have
125_l_., and the rest in madeiry. He's in Scotland; you'll find his
address in the book,--Killy-something; say the wine can be sent to the
Albany; but I won't do it in any other way. Any one been in this
morning?"
"Only Sharp, from Parkinson's," said Mr. Jinks, who was already deep
in letter-writing.
"Well," said his principal, "what did he want?"
"He came to know if you'd be in another two hundred for Mr.
Beresford," replied Jinks, looking up from his work. "He's been hit at
Doncaster, and wants the money most immediate."
"Then he won't get it from me," said Mr. Scadgers; "I won't have no
more of his paper, at no price. He's up to his neck already, is Mr.
Beresford; and that old aunt of his don't mean dying yet, from all I
hear."
"There's the bishop," suggested Jinks.
"Oh, blow the bishop! He might be bled on the square, but he'd turn
precious rusty if he thought it was stiff he was paying for. No, no;
Master Beresford's taking lodgings in Queer Street, I fancy; Parkinson
holds more of his paper than you think of, and if he wants to go
deeper, he must go by himself; I won't be in it."
"All right," said Jinks; "I'll put a cross against his name in the
books. Rittman's boy looked in to see if his father could have two
pounds till Saturday. I told him to call again this afternoon."
"Till Saturday," said Scadgers with a grin. "You never see such a
Saturday as that'll be, Jinks. Poor devil! there's nothing but the
carcass left there; and he's worked well too, and brought us plenty of
custom, though not of the best sort. Let the boy have a sovereign when
he comes, Jinks, and tell him if his father don't pay, I'll put him in
prison; not that he'll mind that one dump. Oh, by the way, give me all
the paper of young Prescott's that you've got by you."
Mr. Jinks opened a large iron safe let into the wall just behind his
stool, and from a drawer therein took out a bundle of tape-tied
papers. From this he selected four, and as he handed them over to his
principal, said, "Here they are; two with Pringle, one with Compton,
and one IOU.,--total, one seventy-five. I was going to ask you what
you intended to do about them. The young feller was here yesterday
wanting to see you, and looking regularly down upon his luck."
"Ah," said Scadgers, "there's something up about them--what, I don't
know; but I'm a-goin' on that business now. I shall be away for an
hour or two, Jinks."
"You ain't a-goin' to get married, are you, Mr. Scadgers?" asked the
little old man with a look of alarm; "it would never do to bring a
female into the concern."
Scadgers laughed outright. "Married! no, you old fool, not I. Can't a
man put on a bit of finery"--here be smoothed the yellow shirt-frill
with his grimy fingers--"without your supposing there's a woman in
the case? However, I'm goin' to call upon a lady, and that's the
truth; but all in a matter of business. Hand over them bills of
Prescott's, and don't expect me till you see me."
So saying, Mr. Scadgers took the bills from Jinks and placed them
in his fat pocketbook, which he buttoned into the breast-pocket
of his frock-coat, gave himself a good mopping with the red-silk
pocket-handkerchief before throwing it into the big white hat, and
placing that elegant article on his head, took up the one damp glove
and the ruler-like stick, and went out.
A consciousness of the shirt-frill, or the hat, or both, pervaded Mr.
Scadgers' mind as he walked through the streets; and gave him an air
very different from that which usually characterised his business
perambulations. He seemed to feel that he was calling upon the
passers-by for observation and notice; and certainly the passers-by
seemed to respond to the appeal. Ribald boys stuck the red-covered
books of domestic household expenditure which they carried into their
breasts, and swaggered by with heads erect; others openly expressed
their opinion that it was "all dicky" with him; while a more impudent
few suggested that he had stolen the "guv'nor's tile," or borrowed his
big brother's hat; nor were the suggestions that he was a barber's
clerk out for a holiday wanting on the youthful populace. In an
ordinary way Mr. Scadgers was thoroughly proof against the most
cutting chaff: the most terrific things had been said about his boots,
and he had remained adamant; drunken men had requested permission to
light their pipes at his nose, and he had never winced; in allusion to
his swivel-eye, boys had asked him to look round the corner and tell
them what o'clock it was, without ruffling his temper in the smallest
degree. But in the present instance he felt in an abnormal state; he
knew that there was ground for the satire which was being poured out
upon him, and he fled into the first omnibus for concealment. He rode
to the utmost limits of the omnibus-journey, and when he alighted he
had still a couple of miles to walk to his destination. He inquired
his way and set out manfully. The weather was magnificent; one of
those early October days when, though the sun's rays are a little
tempered of their burning heat, and the air has a freshness which it
has not known for months, the country yet wears a summer aspect. Mr.
Scadgers' way lay along a high-road, on either side of which were
fields: now huge yellow patches shorn of their produce, and, while
awaiting the ploughshare, looking like the clean-shaved faces of
elderly gentlemen; now broken up into rich loam furrows driven through
by the puffing snorting engine which has supplanted the patient
Dobbin, the handle-holding labourer, and whip-cracking boy of our
childhood, and against which Mr. Tennyson's Northern farmer inveighed
with such bitterness. Far away on the horizon lay a broad wooded belt,
broken in the centre, where two tall trees, twining their topmost
branches together, formed a kind of natural arch, and beyond which one
expected--absurdly enough--to find the sea. The road was quiet enough;
a few carts, laden with farm-produce or manure, crept lazily along it;
now and then a carrier's wagon, drawn by a heavily-trotting horse with
bells on his collar, jolted by, or the trap of a town-traveller
returning from the home-circuit, driven by an ill-dressed hobbledehoy
with the traveller nodding by his side, and the black-leather apron
strapped over the back seat, to make the trap look as much like a
phaeton as possible, rattled townward. But when in obedience to the
directions on a finger-post, Mr. Scadgers turned out of the high-road
up a long winding lane, fringed on either side by high hedges, on
which "Autumn's fiery finger" had been laid only to increase their
beauty a thousand-fold, where not a sound broke the stillness save his
own footfall and the occasional chirping of the birds, he seemed for
the first time to awake to the beauty of the scene. Climbing to the
top bar of a gate in the hedge on the top of a little eminence, he
seated himself, took off the big hat, mopped himself violently with
the red-silk handkerchief, and looked round on the panorama of meadow
and woodland, with tiny silver threads of water here and there
interspersed, until his heart softened and he had occasion to rub the
silver head of the ruler-like stick into his eyes.
"Lor' bless me!" he muttered to himself; "it's like Yorkshire, and yet
prettier than that; softer and quieter like. More than twenty years
since I've seen any thing like this. And poor Ann! Daisy-chains we
used to make in Fairlow's mead, just like that field there, when we
was little children; daisy-chains and buttercups, and--poor Ann! And
to think what I'm now a-goin' to--Lord help us! well, it _is_ a rum
world!" with which sage though incoherent reflections Mr. Scadgers
resumed the big hat, dismounted from the gate, and continued his walk.
As he proceeded up the lane, he began to take particular notice of the
objects by which he was more immediately surrounded; and on hearing
the tramp of hoofs he peered through the hedge, and saw strings of
horses, each mounted by its groom, at exercise. At these animals Mr.
Scadgers looked with a by no means uncritical eye, and seemed
satisfied, for he muttered, "Good cattle and plenty of 'em too; looks
like business that. Wise head she has; I knew it _would_ turn out all
right." When he arrived at the lodge, he stopped in front of the gates
and looked scrutinisingly about him, then rang the bell, and stared
hard but pleasantly at the buxom woman who stood curtseying with the
gate in her hand. Inside, Mr. Scadgers noticed that every thing looked
neat and prosperous; he did not content himself with going straight up
the carriage-drive, but diverged across the lodge-keeper's garden, and
peered into the little farmyard, where the mastiff came out of his
kennel to scan the stranger, and where two or three helpers, lounging
on the straw-ride, or polishing bits as they leant against the
stable-doors, mechanically knuckled their foreheads as he passed by.
Arriving at the house, Mr. Scadgers found the front-door open; but a
pull at the bell brought a staid, middle-aged woman (Kate Mellon, for
it was The Den which Mr. Scadgers was visiting, never could stand what
she called "flaunting hussies," as servants), by whom he was ushered
into the pretty little hall, hung with its antlers, its foxes'
brushes, and its sporting picture, and into the dining-room. There he
was left by himself to await the coming of the owner of the house.
Now Mr. Scadgers, though by no means a nervous or impressible man,
seemed on this occasion to have lost his ordinary calm, and to be in a
very excitable state. He laid the big hat carefully on the table,
refreshed himself with a thorough mop with the red-silk handkerchief,
and rubbed his hands through his stubbly black hair; then he walked
up and down the room, alternately sucking the silver head of the
ruler-like stick, and muttering incoherencies to himself, and ever and
anon he would stop short in his perambulations and glance at the door
with an air almost of fright. The door at length was opened with a
bang, and Kate Mellon entered the room. The skirt of her dress was
looped up, and showed a pair of red-striped stockings and large,
though well-shaped, thick Balmoral boots; she had a driving-whip in
one hand and on the other a strong dogskin gauntlet, stretched and
stained. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, and the end of her
hair was just escaping from the light knot into which it had been
bound. With a short nod to her visitor, at whose personal appearance
she gave a glance of astonishment, she began the conversation by
asking what his pleasure was.
If Mr. Scadgers' behaviour had been somewhat peculiar before her
entrance, it was now ten times more remarkable. At first he stood
stock-still with his mouth open, gazing at her with distended eyes;
then he fell to nodding his head violently and rubbing his hands as if
thoroughly delighted, and then looked her up and down as though he
were mentally appraising each article of dress.
"What's the man up to?" said Kate, after undergoing a minute of this
inspection; "come, none of this tomfoolery here. What do you want?"
Recalled to himself by the sharp tone in which these words were
uttered, Mr. Scadgers fell into his usual state, bowed, and said he
had called by appointment.
"By appointment?" said. Kate; "oh, ah, I recollect now. You
overcharged me for two horses and a dog in the list for last year. I
filled up your form-thing fairly enough; why didn't you go by that?"
"Two horses and a dog!" repeated Mr. Scadgers. "There's some mistake,
miss; my name's Scadgers."
"Lord, that is a good 'un!" said Kate, dropping the whip and clapping
her hands in an ecstasy of laughter. "I thought you were the man about
the taxes that I've sent for to come to me, too. So your name's
Scadgers, is it? I've heard of you, sir; you get your living in a
queer way."
"Pretty much the same as you and the rest of the world, I believe,"
said Scadgers, pleasantly;--"by the weakness of human natur'!"
"Which you take a pretty considerable advantage of, eh?"
"Well, I don't know: a gent wants money and he hears I've got it, and
he comes to me for it. I don't seek him,--he seeks me; I tell him what
he'll have to pay for it, and he agrees. He has the money, and he
don't return it; and when he goes through the Court and it all comes
out, people cry, 'Oh, Scadgers again! oh, the bloodsucker! here's
iniquity!' and all the rest of the gammon. If people wants luxuries,
miss, they must pay for 'em, as you know well enough."
This was not said in the least offensively, but in a quiet earnest
manner, as though the man had real belief in what he stated, and saw
no harm in the calling he was defending. Kate, who had a pretty shrewd
knowledge of character, saw this at once, and felt more kindly
disposed to her new acquaintance than she had at first.
"Well," she said, "what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,
they say; and it's not my business to preach to you, and you wouldn't
heed it it I did. I got you to come here on business. You hold some
acceptances of Mr. James Prescott's?"
"That's true, miss; I've got 'em here in my pocketbook."
"What's the amount?"
"The total, one seventy-five; cab-hire and loss of time, say one
seventy-five ten six."
"Hand them over, and I'll write you a cheque."
"Well," said Mr. Scadgers, slowly, "we don't generally take cheques
in these matters,--it ain't business; they mightn't be paid, you
know,--but I don't mind doing it for you."
Something in the tone of this last sentence which struck oddly on Kate
Mellon's ear,--a soft tender tone of almost parental affection; a tone
which seemed to bring back memory of past days. She looked up
hurriedly, but Mr. Scadgers' swivel-eye was fixed on the wall above
her head; and in the rest of his countenance there was no more emotion
visible than on the face of a Dutch clock. Kate Mellon took out her
desk and wrote the cheque.
"There!" she said, handing it to him,--"there's your money; hand
over the bills. All right! Now, two things more. One, you'll swear
never to let Mr. Prescott know who paid this money. Good! The other,
if ever he comes to you for help again--I don't think he will, mind;
but if he does--you'll refuse him, and let me know."
"That's what they all say," said Mr. Scadgers, "if they come again,
refuse 'em;' and they do come again, and I don't refuse 'em,--that is
if I think they're good for the money,--but I'll swear I'll do it for
you."
"I believe you," said Kate, simply. "Now, have some lunch before you
go."
"No, thank you," said Scadgers, "no lunch; but I should like a glass
of wine to drink your health in."
"You shall have it, and welcome," said she, ringing the bell; "and
I'll have one with you, for I was at the dumb-jockey business when you
came in, and it rather takes it out of one."
When the wine was brought, Kate filled two glasses, and, taking up
one, nodded to Mr. Scadgers. "Here's luck," said she, shortly. Mr.
Scadgers took his glass, and said; "The best of luck to you in every
thing, and God bless you, my--miss, I mean! And now, I've heard a lot
about your stable and place--would you mind my going round them,
before I go?"
"Mind!" said Kate; "I'll take you myself." And they walked into the
farm together.
"It was as much as I could do," said Mr. Scadgers to himself, as, half
an hour afterwards, he walked down the lane on his way back to
town--"it was as much as I could do to prevent throwing my arms round
her neck and telling her all about it. What a pretty creetur' it is;
and what spirit! I suppose she's nuts on young Prescott, and they'll
be gettin' married. Lord! that would be a rum start if he ever
knew--but he won't know, nor any of 'em; we shall never let on. Woman
of business too; keeps accounts I noticed, when she opened her desk;
and all the place in such order; kept as neat as a drawing-room those
stables. Well, that's one thing you did right, John Scadgers, and one
you won't be sorry for some day."
"That's a queer customer," said Kate to herself, as she stood in the
lane by the lodge-gate, looking after his receding figure. "A very
queer customer. What a grip he gave my hand when he said good-by! My
fingers ache with it still. And there was no nonsense about him; I
could see that in a minute. Where have I seen him before? I've some
sort of recollection of him; but I can't fit it to any thing
particular--he's not in the horse-line, and he's not a swell; so I
don't see where I can have come across him. Glad he looked in this
morning, for I was precious dull: I can't make out what this weight is
that's hanging over me for the last few days, just as though something
was going to happen. I think another glass of Madeira would do me
good; but I promised Simnel I'd knock that off. I wonder what's come
of Simnel for the last few days. That old Scadgers seemed to know
something about this place, noticed the alterations in the five-acre
meadow; and when I asked him, said he remembered the place when it was
Myrtle Farm. I must ask Simnel about him, he--Lord, how depressed and
stupid I feel again!" She turned back and fastened the gate after her.
One of the gatekeeper's chubby children came running out to meet her,
and she caught the little thing up in her arms, and carried it into
the lodge. As she was putting it down she heard the tramp of horses'
feet, and raising her head, looked through the window. The next
instant her cheeks flushed scarlet; she dropped the child into a
chair, and rushing to the gate, threw it open, and stood gazing down
the road.
Yes, it was he! no mistaking his figure, even if she had, not
recognised the horse. It was he riding so close to the lady by his
side, bending over her and looking down, into her upturned face. So
preoccupied that he never even bestowed a glance upon the place so
well known to him, so frequently visited in bygone days. And she, who
was she? Kate could see that she was slim, could see her fair hair
gathered in a knot beneath hat,--it must be the woman of whom Simnel
had spoken. And Kate Mellon gave a loud groan, and clenched her nails
into the palms of her hands, and stood looking after them with
quivering lips and a face as pale as death.
Just at that moment two grooms came riding round the corner, side by
side. The sound of their horses' feet recalled Kate to herself. She
looked up, and in one of them recognised Beresford's man. She
collected herself by a great effort, and beckoned to him. The man saw
her, touched his hat, and rode up at once, leaving his companion to
proceed by himself.
"William," said Kate, "who's that lady riding with your master?"
"Mrs. Schröder, miss; Saxe-Coburg Square. Mr. Schröder drives pair of
chestnuts, miss, in mail-pheayton, plain black harness. May have
noticed 'em; often in the Park, miss."
"Ah! No; I think not. Schröder,--Saxe-Coburg Square, you said?"
"Yes, miss. Beg pardon, miss," added the man, who had himself been
formerly in Kate's service, and by whom, as by all of his fraternity,
she was adored,--"beg pardon, miss; but nothing wrong, is there? You're
looking uncommon ill, miss."
"No," said Kate, with a ghastly smile. "I'm all right, thank you,
William. Good-day: ride on!" and William, touching his hat, clapped
spurs to his horse, and rode off.
That night the mail-cart was waiting outside the little village
post-office and the old woman was just huddling the letters into the
bag, when a groom came up at a hand-gallop, and dismounting, gave in a
letter, saying,
"Just in time, Mrs. Mallins, I think!"
The old woman peered at him over her spectacles.
"Oh, it's you, Thomas, is it? Well, I'll take a letter from your
mistress, though I'm not bound to do it by the reg'lations. You're
after time, Thomas."
"I know, Mrs. Mallins; but Miss Kate said 'twere most particular. And
I were to tell you so, and--"
"Air you comin' with that bag?" growled the mail-cart driver, putting
his head into the shop.
"All right, my man! all right!" said the old lady, handing him the
bag. "There it is. Thomas, you can tell your lady she was in time."
Half an hour afterwards Kate Mellon's servant looked into the
dining-room. There was no light, and she was about to withdraw, when
she heard her mistress's voice say, "What is it?"
"Oh, nothing, ma'am; only Thomas says the letter was in time."
"Very well," said Kate. Then, when the door was shut again, she
muttered between her clenched teeth: "It's done now, and can't be
undone! Now, Master Charley, look out for yourself!"