towards Hyde’s Cross, it may be as well if we throw a light on some of
Parson Brookes’s dark allusions. Time had not smoothed the old man’s
eccentricities, nor modified the antagonism between the Grammar School
boys and the ex-master. They were always at war, and there never was
wanting a _casus belli_. The previous September he had been more than
usually irritated by a lampoon which began—
“O Jotty, you dog
Your house we well know
Is headquarters of prog——”
the purport of which was to fix on him the stigma of inviting a friend
to dine, and regaling him with a black-pudding only.
Lashed to fury, he burst into the Grammar School when the first and
second-form boys were assembled in the afternoon to rehearse the
speeches which, according to custom, they were to deliver in public
at the annual commemoration in October. He braved them in his hottest
style, winding up with, “You are a set of blockheads! I would not come
to hear your speeches if you would pay me for it!”
There was a general cry, “Turn him out! Turn him out!” But Jotty would
not be turned out. He stuck himself in the doorway with his legs
against the door-post, and his back against the door itself, to the
extreme risk of broken limbs, whilst his young and vigorous opponents
brought their strength to bear upon the door to force him out.
With such odds he was sure to be overcome; but, driven into the yard,
he fought with his antagonists like a mastiff at bay, and they, like
the cowards they must have been, to have assailed in a body an old man
(under any provocation), by sheer force of numbers, bore him backwards
to the wall, and, but for the opportune arrival of Dr. Smith, would
have repeated the outrage perpetrated on Jabez Clegg eight years before.
He might well say Dr. Smith had saved his life. Such a fall, whether
in high or low water, to so old a man, would have been certain
destruction. They broke his heart, I think, if they did not break his
limbs, for he never was the same man afterwards. Even old Mrs. Clowes
used to rally him on his frequent “fits of the dumps.”
Whether Jabez and Ben Travis had, or had not, lost sight of the
Parson’s homily, they were linked arm in arm, the rich yeomanry officer
and the unpretending smallware-salesman, just as, nearly nine years
previously, the big, raw-boned youth, with a heart large enough to
match his frame, had linked his arm in that of the poor Blue-coat boy,
as a friend and protector, when as yet his admittance into society was
undreamed of.
Where the four roads met at Hyde’s Cross, a staggering Charlie (as the
watchmen were called, much as, at this day, they are Bobbies) passed
them, with his horn lantern and staff, and his rattle in his belt,
proclaiming—
“Past ten o’clock! (hiccup). And a foin moonleet neet!”
The two stood for a moment; then, animated by a desire to ascertain if
Joshua Brookes had spoken sooth, or, in his spleen exaggerated, they
turned up Shude-hill, all alive with people who were ordinarily at that
hour in bed, and made their way to the market.
Exaggerate! Joshua Brookes had seen but in part, and painted but in
part. Every avenue to the market was a scene of debauchery. Hogarth’s
print of “Gin Lane” was feeble beside it. The distribution of food was
over, but that of drink continued. The oil-lamps of the street, the
dying illumination lamps, and the misty moonlight showed a picture of
unimaginable grossness; whilst their ears were assailed with foulness
which would have shocked a hardened man of the world—how much more
these inexperienced young friends!
Children, men, and women, their clothes torn or disarrayed, lay singly,
or in groups, on the paths, or in the gutters, asleep or awake, drunk,
sick, helpless, exposed; there was fighting and cursing over the ale
yet procurable; there were loaves in the gutters, and meat trampled in
the mire; food which, properly distributed, would have gladdened many a
poor, hard-working family, too self-respecting to join that clamorous
mob.
The two young men turned away sick and disgusted.
“Henry Hunt, in advocating the disuse of excisable liquors,” said
Jabez, thoughtfully, “may only have designed to cripple the Government;
but surely no one could witness scenes like these, whether Whig or
Tory, without feeling that some restriction on drink is absolutely
necessary for the safety of the State and the comfort of the people.”
“You are right, Mr. Clegg,” responded Travis, heartily. “Men of all
politics ought to meet on this ground. I shall see how far my little
influence goes to check intemperance henceforth. Something must be
done, and that promptly.”
“Whatever I can do to second you, you may depend on, though beyond our
own warehouse my opportunities are small,” said Jabez; “still, if I can
influence one within our walls, that one may act on two outside, and so
we may prevail in the end.”
“Yes,” added Travis, “and if this night be not eloquent in its protest
against drink, all humanity must be equally debased and brutalised.”
Some caution had been necessary to cross the Market, so as to avoid
insult, the captain’s bulk and uniform rendering him conspicuous, and
his corps being in anything but good odour. They had kept well within
the shade of the pillared piazza which extended along the side to their
right, and, stunned by the uproar of brawling and fighting crowds,
picked their way between degraded humanity in heaps on the pavement,
crushed hats and bonnets, torn caps and shawls, boots and shoes which
had done duty as drinking vessels, sodden meat and bread, and had much
ado to avoid splashing through puddles of ale and other abominations.
They had emerged into Oak Street, glad to have got tolerably clear of
the clamour and brutality, when a cry from the direction of Tib Street,
“Watch! help! watch!” fell on their ears in tones which had a strangely
familiar ring to Jabez.
Hastening on at a run, they came upon a decently-dressed man struggling
against three or four drunken ruffians with heavy clogs on their feet.
They had got the man down, and were vociferating with oaths not to be
repeated here.
“Gi’e him a lick wi’ thi clog!” “Punce him well!” “Shut up his
tater-trap fur him!” “Purr him i’ th’ bread-basket” “Fettle his mug wi’
thi clog!”
Before Jabez and his companion could prevent it, a heavy thud, followed
by a groan, told of a brutal kick; the two only dashed among them in
time to arrest the other clogs, already on the backward swing for
force; and saved the prostrate man by turning the fury of the savages
on themselves. The cowardly brutes, however, stood little chance
against sobriety and skill, backed by the muscular frame of Jabez
and the herculean one of Travis, even though they carried weapons of
offence on their feet, and plied them vigorously; and before a droning
watchman hove in sight to spring his rattle for assistance, they were
overmastered or put to the rout.
Most thankful was Jabez for the impulse which had directed their steps
that way when, on raising the fallen man, the light of an adjacent
oil-lamp projecting from the wall fell on his blood-stained face, and
revealed Tom Hulme, who had been drawn into that unusually disorderly
neighbourhood by like curiosity with their own, and been set upon
without provocation. He walked with pain, and they supported his steps
to the Infirmary, not finding Mr. Huertley, on whom they called, at
home. But so fertile had that evening been of serious injuries, he was
some time before he could obtain attention. Thirteen far more urgent
cases had preceded his. At length his head and cut lip were plaistered
up, a reviving draught administered, and after some examination of
bruises, and poking and pressing of his body, three of his ribs were
pronounced “broken.” His defenders were disposed to smile at the
surgeon when, besides an embrocation for bruises, he prescribed “a
succession of oatmeal poultices applied internally”—in other words, a
cushion of as much oatmeal porridge as the patient could consume, to
press the crushed ribs gently into position.
It was, however, not much of a laughing matter to Tom Hulme, or to
loving Bess, who looked aghast at this deplorable termination of a
day’s jollity. Nor was there a trace of mirth on the face of Jabez when
at parting with Ben Travis on the Mosley Street door-step, he gripped,
more in pain than pleasure, the big hand extended so cordially.
It was after midnight, but from the open windows of the still-lighted
drawing-room the thin quick ears of Jabez had caught the sound of
Augusta’s melodious voice blending with that of Laurence Aspinall
in a popular duet, although the notes of the latter were neither
so clear nor so steady as they might have been. The pallor on her
foster-son’s face Bess attributed to tender-hearted sympathy for her
injured husband; but Jabez hurried away from her oppressive thanks to
the solitude of his own chamber, where he could bury his face in his
quivering hands, and unseen wrestle with emotions of which she had no
conception.
Never had he known a day so chequered. The same sun which had looked
down at noontide on the triumph of his amateur brush, had beamed on
Augusta Ashton’s conscious cheeks, as she accepted his rival’s familiar
act of gallantry without so much as a frown. The evening had made a man
of him—lifted him into a new sphere—brought him, so to speak, nearer
to his divinity, within the radius of her smiles, the music of her
voice. She had put her small white hand within his, and blessed him
with a word or two of shy recognition; but Laurence Aspinall had again
come like a cloud between him and his sunbeam; her sweetest smiles,
her softest tones, were for the intruder; her arm had rested willingly
on his, her voice had blent with his in sentimental song, and darkness
once more shut out hope from Jabez.
“Common sense might have taught me that my love was folly, presumption,
madness!” he argued with himself; “that the heiress of a wealthy
man would not stoop to her father’s Blue-coat apprentice. But oh!”
he groaned, “I had hoped to raise myself step by step nearer to her
level—to make myself worthy of her as a man, if I had not riches to
lay at her feet. She is young, and what might I not accomplish with
industry ere she came of age? but now——”
He tore his neckcloth off, and cast it from him, stripped off coat and
vest, and flung them aside, as though they held his passionate folly,
and he had done with it, then sank into a chair, the very impersonation
of listless hopelessness. He had gone through all this struggle once
before, and thought he had overcome his weakness; but at the touch
of the enchanter’s wand love had blazed up afresh, and was not to be
smothered.
His reverie was broken into by the tread of many feet on the staircase
below, and the murmur of voices calling one to another; the hall-door
shut with a clang, and then a light foot came tripping up the stair
alone, and from heart and lips dropped unconsciously the soft refrain
of that too well-known duet. She, too, was carrying to her chamber
memories of the night, and bearing the burden blithely.
He listened until a door closed upon step and song. Then as if its
echoes pierced his soul, he set his teeth and clenched his outstretched
hands in mute agony. There was more than hopeless love in this—there
was jealousy also. Then he murmured half audibly, “If he were only
worthy of her I could bear it better; but to see her cast her heart at
the feet of one who will trample on it, is beyond mortal endurance.”
He started to his feet. A bright thought irradiated his face.
“Coward that I am! I am quitting the battle without striking a blow.
I am myself unworthy of Augusta if I surrender her to a heartless
profligate without an effort to save her. ‘Faint heart never won fair
lady.’ Women have stooped lower, and lowly men have looked higher ere
now. I am making way, but I must make money too, if I would look above
me. Father and mother look on me with favour, and why not the daughter?
She may learn the worthlessness of the fine gentleman in time. Courage,
Jabez! Work with a will; do your duty. Miss no opportunity, and the
gold and the goddess may both be yours in the end, and honestly won.”
He sprang into bed fresher and lighter than he had been all day, the
prayer of that other Jabez rising from his heart with the fervour of
old times.
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH.
BIRDS OF A FEATHER.
The Palace Inn on the north side of Market Street Lane was the last
relic of that cramped thoroughfare to disappear at the bidding of
Improvement. Possibly because its many eyes and bald dark-red-brick
face looked out on a space so much beyond the twenty-one yards assigned
by Act of Parliament to the regenerated street that the Improvement
Committee had no powers to meddle with it, for surely its historic
associations were not sufficient to protect it. Prince Charles Edward
had been hospitably lodged and entertained beneath its roof by its
owner, Mr. Dickenson, long ere it became an inn; he had harangued
his devoted followers from the stone plateau of its double flight of
steps, with his hand perchance on its smooth rail of unornamented
iron; but in isolated dignity rather than palatial pretensions lay its
chief safeguard. Be that as it may, fourteen or fifteen years elapsed
between the first act of demolition for widening (at the shop of a Mr.
Maund), and that last feat of narrowing, which blocked up and darkened
history (as represented by the Palace) with common stone warehouses
for every-day merchandise. Alas! Clio and all her sister muses _must_
succumb when Mammon is on the march!
But Mammon had only got his first foot in the street on that Thursday
morning in July, which blushed at the doings of the Coronation night,
and the Palace Inn yet held its head high as beseemed its historic
state. The open space in front was enlivened by the newly-painted
London stage-coach, the Lord Nelson, the fresh scarlet coats of
coachmen and guards, the assembling of passengers and luggage, the
shouting and swearing of half-awake ostlers and porters, the grumbling
of the first-comers (shivering in the raw air) at the unpunctuality of
the stage, the excuses of the booking-clerk, the self-gratulations of
the last arrival that he was “in time,” the dragging of trunks and
portmanteaus on to the top, the thrusting of bags and boxes into the
boot, the harnessing of snorting steeds, the horsing of the vehicle,
the scrambling of the “outsiders” to the top by the ladder and wheel,
the self-satisfied settlement of the “insides” in the places they had
“booked for,” the crushing and thrusting of friends with last messages
and parting words, the crack of the whip, the sound of the bugle, the
prancing of horses, the rattle of wheels, and the dashing off up Market
Street Lane of the gallant four-in-hand, amid the hurrahs of excited
spectators.
Every morning witnessed a somewhat similar scene of bustle and
excitement at five o’clock, when the London coach started, but every
morning did not see Jabez mounted on the box-seat with the coachman.
Nor did every morning see the coach an hour behind time, or the
driver’s face quite so red, or the spectators so heavy-eyed, or so
much handing up of horns and glasses to the passengers, to be returned
empty, or leave Mr. Ashton standing there when the Lord Nelson had
bowled away.
That Coronation day had much to answer for.
When Tom Hulme should have risen at four o’clock to return home, his
bruised limbs were so stiff and sore that the soldier, who had borne
the fatigue of many a campaign, who had bivouacked on the battle-field,
after a forced march, and being ready with the sun for the day’s
duties, had to confess himself “fettled” by Lancashire clogs, and
unable to stir. There was no alternative but to acquaint Mr. Ashton.
The mill could not be left without a manager.
After the night’s unwonted dissipation, Mr. Ashton slept heavily, and
was with difficulty aroused. When once he comprehended the state of
affairs, he was on the alert.
“It’s a bad business!” said he to his wife, as he dressed in haste.
“‘There is nothing so bad, but it might be worse,’” was her consolatory
reply. “Never bewail a loss till you have done your best to repair it.
Can you not send Mr. Clegg to Whaley-Bridge for a few days?”
“My dear, your counsel is invaluable, but I fear there is not time to
catch the coach; it is twenty minutes past four now.”
“It is sure to be late this morning, and Jabez will catch it if it is
to be caught,” was her quick rejoinder.
Bess had already awakened Jabez, and he, fully dressed, met Mr. Ashton
at his bedroom door with “Can I be of any service, sir?” A prompt
commentary on Mrs. Ashton’s declaration.
A few necessaries hastily crammed into a carpet bag; a bowl of milk and
a crust of bread as hastily swallowed; and Jabez, accompanied by Mr.
Ashton, was on his way to the Palace coach-office confident they were
in time, not having heard the guard’s bugle, or met the coach. There
was, however, barely time to claim for Mr. Clegg the place already
booked for “Mr. Hulme” (Mrs. Hulme’s seat was forfeited), and for him
to take his seat, before they were off in a canter, and Mr. Ashton’s
business mind was relieved.
As the manufacturer, satisfied that the mill-hands at Whaley-Bridge
would not be left altogether to their own devices, stood within a short
distance of the high steps looking after the vanishing coach, a party
of roisterers came swaggering out of the inn, hallooing with all their
tipsy might. One in advance of the rest, observing an elderly gentleman
below, pointed him out to his companions as fair game, and leaning over
the rail to steady himself, cried out—
“Halloo, old fogey! are you a Tory or a Radical? D—— me, take your hat
off before gentlemen!” and, suiting the action to the word, extended a
riding-whip he carried, and jerked Mr. Ashton’s hat off into the dust;
whereupon his worthy comrades set up a loud guffaw in admiration of the
feat.
Naturally Mr. Ashton, his brief reverie disturbed, stooped to pick up
the fallen beaver, and making due allowance for the unwonted occasion,
turned to remonstrate good-humouredly with an excited stranger who had
evidently drunk the king’s health too frequently.
It was not with more surprise than annoyance that he recognised four of
the hilarious party in the doorway and on the steps of the inn, which
had apparently been open the night through. Not one of the four was in
a condition to recognise him, although two of them, John Walmsley and
Laurence Aspinall, had supped overnight at his own table, although the
third, Kit Townley, had good reason for remembrance, and Ned Barret was
anything but a stranger.
Loud laughter hailed the fall of the hat. A second attempt to “uncover
the obstinate old fogey” was made, but dexterously avoided by Mr.
Ashton in his absolute astonishment stepping backward beyond range.
“Young gentlemen, do you know whom you are insulting?”
There was another laughing chorus. Aspinall almost toppled over the
rail as he leaned forward, impotently striking out with his whip.
“I protest the old rad’s demnibly li-ike the lovely Augusta’s snuffy
old dad,” drawled out he, in a sort of tipsy-wisdom.
“Just so!” appended Walmsley, mimicking the old gentleman’s peculiarity.
Mr. Ashton, though a reasonably temperate man himself, was not
so greatly shocked at these young carousers as we might be. Long
usage blunts sensibilities. It was a glorious distinction to be a
three-bottle man; the inability to drink a solitary bottle of wine at a
sitting was a sort of disqualification for good fellowship; and it was
considered a fine thing for a boy of seven to “toss off a glass like a
man;” so the genial old gentleman was inclined to allow some latitude
for the special occasion. But they had touched him on a tender point.
The light mention of his darling daughter’s name roused his blood.
“John Walmsley,” he cried angrily, looking up, “what brings you, a
married man, with these young rakes at this hour of the morning?”
“Pray wha-at brought y-you here, old fogey?” hiccoughed Aspinall,
answering for the other.
One of the ostlers—Bob, the ex-groom—squeezed between the rollicking
fellows to whisper in the ear of Laurence. He was impatiently thrust
back with an elbow.
“Tchut! don’t believe it. Old snuff-an’-tuppeny’s fast ’shleep in bed
shure sh a gun. I know b-better. I say, you——”
But “old snuff-an’-tuppeny” had turned on his heel, too wise to enter
into contention with a set of inebriated boobies, though not proof
against the disrespectful epithets of Laurence, or the derisive
laughter of his boon companions. His irritation half emptied his
snuff-box before he got home, so often he tapped smartly on its golden
lid, and so often his finger and thumb travelled between it and his
nose with a touch of ruminant displeasure.
Neither he nor Mrs. Ashton was disposed to overlook the fact that Kit
Townley and Ned Barret—scapegraces by repute—were of the party, nor
that Augusta’s name had been familiarly used in their midst.
“‘Birds of a feather flock together,’” said the lady; “and if Mr.
Aspinall’s son associates with that reckless and dishonest Kit
Townley, he is a very unfit friend for John Walmsley, and still worse
for our dear Augusta.”
“Just so; for a dashing blade with a handsome face, who sports a
uniform, talks poetry, and sings sentimental songs, is just the fellow
to take a silly girl’s fancy, before she is old enough to think. I know
I regret I ever brought him _here_,” said Mr. Ashton seriously, as
Augusta came in the room to breakfast, entering at the door behind her
mother’s back.
“Well, William,” observed Mrs. Ashton loftily, her hand on the china
coffee-pot, “you can imagine _my_ annoyance when John and Mr. Laurence
walked in arm-in-arm last night, after the liberty he had taken in the
morning—kissing his hand to our daughter from the public procession
in the face of all our friends, as if Augusta had been a flaunting
barmaid. I was most indignant!”
Augusta said “Good morning,” and took her seat with a heightened
colour. Such a construction of the gallant officer’s salute had not
occurred to her, and native delicacy took alarm.
Mrs. Ashton continued to pour out her thoughts along with the coffee.
It was fit Augusta should know her sentiments on this head.
“It would have been a breach of hospitality to resent it before our
friends, and not good policy either. But I shall put a stop to his
visits henceforth.”
“Oh! mamma,” exclaimed Augusta, dropping her hands at this climax, “you
cannot mean that!”
“Yes, my dear, I do. If Mr. Aspinall has depraved associates, he must
be depraved himself; and I am sure my daughter”—she drew herself
up proudly—“would not choose her friends from those of Christopher
Townley.”
Augusta’s colour suffered no decrease. She paused as she was taking her
dry toast from the silver rack, and half-hesitatingly remonstrated.
“Of course I should not wish to associate with Mr. Townley’s friends.
But papa may be mistaken. I do not think Mr. Aspinall would mix with
them. People meet and mingle at coach-offices who are strangers.”
“Just so, my dear; but——” interposed her father.
“Why, mamma,” the persistent young lady went on, “no more perfect
gentleman enters our doors than Mr. Laurence Aspinall. His manners are
most refined. Then he talks enchantingly, and sings divinely. And”—this
she thought conclusive—“is he not intimate with Charlotte and John?”
“Just so,” quickly answered Mr. Ashton, glancing across the table at
his attentive wife, “and all the worse for Charlotte and John. I shall
have a word with them on the subject. I called in Marsden Square on my
way home, and found Charlotte with red eyes. John had not been home all
night.” And Mr. Ashton battered the top of an egg whilst delivering
what he regarded as a crushing argument.
Breakfast and the discussion were unusually prolonged, the only
impression left on the young lady’s romantic, impressible, and
inexperienced mind being that her parents were unaccountably harsh to
her, and unjust to Mr. Laurence, in her eyes the beau-ideal of a man.
Such a figure and such a face could only enshrine divinity. And if he
was a little wild, so were all heroes at his age.
Let not the inexperienced young girl be over-much condemned for this.
The opinion generally prevailed in her day; she had heard the sentiment
expressed in farces on the stage, in society at home and elsewhere;
even her own father’s hospitality trended in the same direction.