TOM ORANGE.
Little Miss Amy had a slight cold, and the next tea-party was put
off for a day. On the evening following Harry’s visit at Stanlake Farm,
Marjory Trevellian being at that time absent in the village to make
some frugal purchases, who should suddenly appear before the little
boy’s eyes, as he lifted them from his fleet upon the pond, but his
friend, Tom Orange, as usual in high and delightful spirits.
Need I say how welcome Tom was? He asked in a minute or two for
Marjory, and took her temporary absence with great good humour. Tom
affected chilliness, and indeed the evening was a little sharp, and
proposed that they should retire to the cottage, and sit down there.
“How soon do you suppose, youngster, the old hen will come home?”
“Who?”
“Marjory Daw, down the chimney.”
“Oh, Granny?”
This nickname was the only pleasantry of Mr. Orange which did not
quite please the boy.
Tom Orange here interpolated his performance of the jackdaw, with his
eyelids turned inside out and the pupils quivering, which, although it
may possibly have resembled the jackdaw of heraldry, was not an exact
portraiture of the bird familiar to us in natural history; and when
this was over he asked again--“How soon will she be home?”
“She walked down to the town, and I think she can’t be more than about
half-way back again.”
“That’s a mile, and three miles an hour is the best of her paces if
she was runnin’ for a pound o’ sausages and a new cap. Heigh ho! and
alas and alack-a-day. No one at home but the maid, and the maid’s gone
to church! I wrote her a letter the day before yesterday, and I must
read it again before she comes back. Where does she keep her letters?”
“In her work-box on the shelf.”
“This will be it, the wery identical fiddle!” said Tom Orange,
playfully, setting it down upon the little deal table, and, opening
it, he took out the little sheaf of letters from the end, and took
them one by one to the window, where he took the liberty of reading
them.
I think he was disappointed, for he pitched them back again into their
nook in the little trunk-shaped box contemptuously.
The boy regarded Tom Orange as a friend of the family so confidential,
and as a man in all respects so admirable and virtuous, that nothing
appeared more desirable and natural than that excellent person’s
giving his attention to the domestic correspondence.
He popped the box back again in its berth. Then he treated the young
gentleman to Lingo’s song with the rag-tag-merry-derry perrywig and
hat-band, &c., and at the conclusion of the performance admitted that
he was “dry,” and with a pleasant wink, and the tip of his finger
pushing the end of his nose a good deal to the left, he asked him
whether he could tell him where Mrs. Trevellian, who would be deeply
grieved if she thought that Tom was detained for a drink till her
return, kept her liquor.
“Yes, I can show you,” said the boy.
“Wait a minute, my guide, my comforter, and friend,” said Tom Orange;
and he ascertained from the door-stone that no one was inconveniently
near.
The boy was getting a tea-cup off the shelf.
“Never mind sugar, my hero, I’ll sweeten it with a thought of Marjory
Daw.”
The boy explained, and led him into the dark nook by the hall door.
Tom Orange, well pleased, moved almost on tiptoe, and looked curiously
and spoke under his breath, as he groped in this twilight.
“Here it is,” said the boy, frankly.
“Where?”
“Here.”
“This!” said Tom, for his friend had uncovered a crock of water.
Tom Orange glared at him and at the water with grotesque surprise, and
the _bona fides_ of the boy and the simplicity of the situation struck
Tom comically, and, exploding good-humouredly, he sat down in
Marjory’s chair and laughed hilariously.
Having satisfied himself by a confidential dialogue that Marjory Daw
had no private bottle of comfort anywhere, this agreeable fellow so
far forgot his thirst, that he did not mind drawing water from the
crock, and talked on a variety of subjects to the young gentleman. In
the course of this conversation he asked him two topographical
questions. One was--
“Did you ever hear of a place called Carwell Grange?”
And the other resembled it.
“Did you ever hear of a place called Wyvern?”
“No.”
“Think, lad. Did you never hear Mrs. Trevellian speak of Wyvern? Or of
Carwell Grange?”
“No.”
“Because there is the tallest mushroom you ever saw in your life
growing there, and it is grown to that degree that it blocks the door
so that the Squire can’t get into his own house, and the mushroom is
counted one of the wonders of the world upon my little word of honour
as a gentleman! And
‘Since there’s neither drink nor victuals,
Suppose, my lord, we play at skittles?’
And if she’s not back by the end of the game, tell her I had to go on
to the bridge to see lame Bill Withershins, and I’ll be back again
this evening, I think, or in the morning at latest.”
The game was played, but Marjory did not appear, and Tom Orange,
entertaining his young friend with a ludicrous imitation of Bill
Withershins’ knock-knees, took his departure, leaving his delighted
companion in the state which Moore describes as being usual--
“When the lamp that lighted
The traveller at first goes out.”
So, having watched Tom till he was quite out of sight, he returned to
his neglected navy on the pond, and delivered his admirable Crichton’s
message to Marjory Daw on her return.