HARRY ARRIVES.
Six o’clock came, and seven, and not until half-past seven, when they
had nearly given him up, did Henry Fairfield arrive at the Grange.
“How does Madam Fairfield?” bawled Master Harry, as he strode across
the floor, and kissed Alice’s pretty cheek. “Odds bobbins!--as the
man says in the playhouse--I believe I bussed ye, did I? But don’t let
him be angry; I wasn’t thinkin’, Charlie, no more than the fellow that
put farmer Gleeson’s fippun-note in his pocket last Trutbury fair. And
how’s all wi’ ye, Charlie, hey? I’m glad to see the old house is
standing still with a roof on since last gale. And how do ye like it,
Alice? Rayther slow I used to think it; but you two wise heads are so
in love wi’ one another ye’d put up in the pound, or the cow-house, or
the horse-pond, for sake o’ each other’s company. ‘I loved her sweet
company better than meat,’ as the song says; and that reminds me--can
the house afford a hungry man a cut o’ beef or mutton and a mug of
ale? I asked myself to dinner, ye know, and that’s a bargain there’s
two words to, sometimes.”
Master Harry was a wag, after a clumsy rustic fashion--an habitual
jester, and never joked more genially than when he was letting his
companion in for what he called a “soft thing,” in the shape of an
unsound horse or a foolish wager.
His jocularity was supposed to cover a great deal of shrewdness, and
some dangerous qualities also.
While their homely dinner was being got upon the table, honest Harry
quizzed the lord and lady of Carwell Grange in the same vein of
delicate banter, upon all their domestic arrangements, and when he
found that there was but one sitting-room in a condition to receive
them, his merriment knew no bounds.
“Upon my soul, you beat the cobbler in the song that ‘lived in a
stall, that served him for parlour, and kitchen, and hall,’ for
there’s no mention of the cobbler’s wife, and he, being a single man,
you know, you and your lady double the wonder, don’t ye, Alice, two
faces under a hood, and a devilish pinched little hood, too, heh? ha,
ha, ha!”
“When did you get to Wyvern?” asked Charles Fairfield, after a
considerable pause.
“Last night,” answered his brother.
“You saw the old man?”
“Not till morning,” answered Henry, with a waggish leer, and a sly
glance at Alice.
It was lost, however, for the young lady was looking dreamily and
sadly away, thinking, perhaps, of the old Squire, not without
self-upbraidings, and hearing nothing, I am sure, of all they said.
“Did you breakfast with him?”
“By Jove, I did, sir.”
“Well?”
“Well? Nothing particular, only let me see how long his
stick--his--his stick and his arm, together--say five feet six. Well,
I counsel you, brother, not to go within five foot six inches of the
old gentleman till he cools down a bit, anyhow.”
“No, we’ll not try that,” said Charles, “and he may cool down, as you
say, or nurse his wrath, as he pleases, it doesn’t much matter to me;
he _was_ very angry, but sometimes the thunder and flame blow off, you
know, and the storm hurts no one.”
“I hope so,” said Henry, with a sort of laugh. “When I tell you to
keep out of the way, mind, I’m advising you against myself. The more
you and the old boy wool each other, the better for Hal.”
“He can’t unsettle the place, Harry--not that I want to see him--I
never owed him much love, and I think _now_ he’d be glad to see me a
beggar.”
Harry laughed again.
“Did you ever hear of a bear with a sore head?” said Harry. “Well,
that’s him, at present, and I give you fair notice, I think he’ll
leave all he can away from you.”
“So let him; if it’s to you, Harry, I don’t grudge it,” said the elder
son.
“That’s a handsome speech, bless the speaker. Can you give me a glass
of brandy? This claret I never could abide,” said Harry, with another
laugh; “besides it will break you.”
“I’ve but two bottles, and they have been three years here. Yes, you
can have brandy, it’s here.”
“I’ll get it,” said Alice, brightening up in the sense of her
house-keeping importance. “It’s--I _think_ it’s in this, ain’t it?”
she said, opening one of the presses inserted in the wainscot.
“Let me, darling, it’s there, I ought to know, I put it there myself,”
said Charles, getting up, and taking the keys from her and opening
another cupboard.
“I’m so stupid!” said Alice, blushing, as she surrendered them, “and
so useless; but you’re always right, Charlie.”
“He’s a wonderful fellow, ain’t he?” said Harry, winking agreeably at
Charles; “I never knew a bran new husband that wasn’t. Wait a bit and
the gold rubs off the ginger-bread--Didn’t old Dulcibella--how’s
she?--never buy you a ginger-bread husband down at Wyvern Fair? and
they all went, I warrant, the same road; the gilding rubs away, and
then off with his head, and eat him up slops! That’s not bad
cognac--where do you get it?--don’t know, of course; well, it _is_
good.”
“Glad you like it, Harry,” said his brother. “It was very kind of you
coming over here so soon; you must come often--won’t you?”
“Well, you know, I thought I might as well, just to tell you how
things was--but, mind, is any one here?”
He looked over his shoulder to be sure that the old servant was not
near.
“Mind you’re not to tell the folk over at Wyvern that I came here,
because you know it wouldn’t serve me, noways, with the old chap up
there, and there’s no use.”
“You may be very easy about that, Harry. I’m a banished man, you know.
I shall never see the old man’s face again; and rely on it, I sha’n’t
write.”
“I don’t mean him alone,” said Harry, replenishing his glass; “but
don’t tell any of them Wyvern people, nor you, Alice. Mind--I’m going
back to-night, as far as Barnsley, and from there I’ll go to Dawling,
and round, d’ye mind, south, by Leigh Watton, up to Wyvern, and I’ll
tell him a thumpin’ lie if he asks questions.”
“Don’t fear any such thing, Harry,” said Charles.
“Fear! I’m not afeard on him, nor never was.”
“Fancy, then,” said Charles.
“Only,” continued Harry, “I’m not like you--I han’t a house and a bit
o’ land to fall back on; d’ye see? He’d have me on the ropes if I
vexed him. He’d slap Wyvern door in my face, and stop my allowance,
and sell my horses, and leave me to the ’sizes and the lawyers for my
rights; and I couldn’t be comin’ here spongin’ on you, you know.”
“You’d always be welcome, Harry,” said Charles.
“Always,” echoed his wife, in whom every one who belonged to Charlie
had a welcome claim.
But Harry went right on with his speech without diverging to thank
them.
“And you’ll be snug enough here, you see, and I might go whistle, and
dickins a chance I’ll ha’ left but to go list or break horses, or
break stones, by jingo; and I ha’ run risks enough in this thing o’
yours--not but I’m willin’ to run more, if need be; but there’s no
good in getting myself into pound, you know.”
“By me, Harry. You don’t imagine I could be such a fool,” exclaimed
Charles.
“Well, I think ye’ll allow I stood to ye like a brick, and didn’t funk
nothin’ that was needful--and I’d do it over again, I would.”
Charles took one hand of the generous fellow, and Alice took the
other, and the modest benefactor smiled gruffly and flushed a little,
and looked down as they poured forth in concert their acknowledgments.
“Why, see how you two thanks me. I always says to fellows, ‘keep your
thanks to yourselves, and do me a good turn when it lies in your
ways.’ There’s the sort o’ thanks that butters a fellow’s
parsnips--and so--say no more.”