A YORKSHIRE MIXTURE.
'Do you particularly want to walk home, Horatia?' inquired Sarah as they
were leaving Howroyd's Mill.
'No; I particularly don't want, considering that I have been driving
Shank's mare up awful break-neck steps and down precipices,' replied
Horatia, who had climbed up and down funny stairs and ladders in the
mill, which she called precipices.
'You are not going home, anyway, just now, for the mills are just coming
out, and the streets will be crowded, and it's luncheon-time; so you're
going to have a plain lunch with me, if you will honour me so far,' said
Mr Howroyd, and looked for a delighted acceptance from Sarah. But, to his
surprise, Sarah coloured and looked at Horatia doubtfully. 'I think
they'll be expecting us at home,' she said.
'Oh, will they? Can't we send a special messenger? I should so like to
stay, and I am so hungry.--You've no idea how hungry I am,' she said,
turning to Mr Howroyd with a merry laugh. 'Perhaps if you did you
wouldn't ask us to stay.'
Mr Howroyd laughed his cheery laugh. 'It would be the first time there
wasn't enough for any stranger at Howroyd's. That's not a Yorkshire
failing. We've always enough and to spare for any kind visitor, and
they're always sure of a Yorkshire welcome.'
'What's a Yorkshire welcome like? Is it different from any other kind of
welcome?' inquired Horatia slyly.
'Well, we think it's heartier and more sincere. You see, we don't go in
for show so much as they do down south; we say there's real old oak up
here, and French-polished deal down there.'
'Oh, what conceit!' cried Horatia. 'Are you hitting at me?'
'No; at me,' said Sarah a little bitterly.
'I'm hitting at myself; for old oak, you know, gets worm-eaten.--And
you're quite correct, Miss Horatia; that was boasting, and in very bad
taste. Let's hope my cook won't have burnt up the chicken and apple-tart
to punish me for it,' he said as he led the way into the cool, old
parlour of the mill, with its wainscoted walls and old-fashioned
furniture.
Horatia sat down in a rocking-chair, and gave a sigh of satisfaction. 'I
feel I deserve a rest. I've done a good day's work this morning. I'm
afraid I've tired you, Mr Howroyd, and taken up a lot of your time. I'd
no idea it took so long to look over a mill. Why, we must have been
nearly two hours.'
'Nearer two hours and a half. I calculate one and a half for most of my
visitors; but, then, they don't all want to know so much as this young
lady,' he replied, laughing.
'Oh, did I ask a lot of questions?' inquired Horatia.
'You did,' said Sarah.
'Well, I _am_ enjoying myself,' repeated Horatia for the hundredth time,
with always the same emphasis on the 'am.'
Mr Howroyd flashed one of his bright glances at her. 'That's right!' he
said.
'I do like knowing new things and doing new things, and all this is so
new to me. I feel as if I were abroad, out of England somewhere; and
wool-making--I mean making blankets and woollen things--is most
interesting,' said Horatia.
Sarah seemed to be pondering over something. Suddenly she lifted her
head--'What holiday-essay are you going to write this summer?'
Horatia gave a merry laugh. 'Oh, well, it wasn't for that I came to stay
with you, Sarah. You mustn't think that; but, of course, it will be nice
and easy to write one upon wool.'
'Oh, ho! So I have been teaching you your holiday-lesson, have I?' said
Mr Howroyd, as he helped Horatia to apple-tart and handed her the cheese;
for at Howroyd's Mill no maid waited at lunch. William Howroyd said he
had to be careful what he said before a servant, and he could reach all
he wanted himself.
Sarah was just putting out her hand to stop her uncle, but decided not to
interfere with him, for Mr Howroyd never understood a hint, and, with
what his niece considered a lamentable want of tact, would say, 'What are
you driving at, lass?' or 'Speak out, child; I like plain speaking.' So,
much as Sarah would have liked to prevent her uncle from offering 'such
an unfashionable mixture' as apple-tart and cheese, she abstained.
Horatia stared for a moment; then, thinking it was absent-mindedness on
the part of her host, burst into a merry laugh. 'You've only just given
me apple-tart, Mr Howroyd. I haven't come to the cheese course yet.'
'But we eat them together in Yorkshire. Come, you like new things; just
try cheese and apple-tart; it's a very good mixture, to my mind,' said Mr
Howroyd as he held the plate to Horatia.
'Very well, I will try it; but I don't think it sounds very nice, and if
I don't like it you must give me a lump of sugar; in fact, I think I had
better have one all ready in case it's horrid,' said Horatia, with
pretended resignation.
'I can do better than that,' said Mr Howroyd, as, getting up from the
table, he opened a cupboard and produced a long, flat box wrapped up in
white paper. 'Now, if you don't like our Yorkshire mixture, you shall
have one of these; but if you do like it you shall have the box.'
'Chocolates!' cried Horatia, opening the box. Then she took a spoonful of
apple-tart, put a square piece of cheese in the middle of it, and ate it;
but hastily took a chocolate out of the box, put it in her mouth, and
said, 'Delicious!'
Both Sarah and her uncle laughed at Horatia's way out of the difficulty.
'You didn't like it a bit. I saw by your face, so you don't deserve that
box of chocolates,' said the former.
'Indeed, she does, and she shall have them if she will accept them!'
protested Mr Howroyd.
So Horatia won her chocolates.
Mr Howroyd had telephoned to Balmoral to say that the girls were staying
to lunch, and a message was sent back that the motor would be sent about
an hour and a half after the lunch. So, when they had finished, William
Howroyd led the way into the drawing-room, a big, old-fashioned room,
and, drawing two chairs up to the large window, brought out all sorts of
quaint, old things for Horatia to see.
'Oh dear! I never saw anything like these things before; I can't possibly
put them into my essay, because I can't describe them. It is a pity,
because I really think I should get the prize. I'm sure no one else will
see anything so interesting in her holidays,' cried Horatia, as she
examined Mr Howroyd's family treasures with interest and reverence.
'I'm sure, I can't see what you find so interesting in these old things;
every one has them,' said Sarah half-impatiently.
'Nay, lass, every one has not got a tree made of hair, nor a beautiful
model of their church, a hundred years old, made of cork,' her uncle
corrected her.
'They may not have exactly that; but they have things that belonged to
their grandmothers,' declared Sarah. 'I know you have much grander things
at home, Horatia, though you pretend to admire these so much,' she
protested.
Horatia coloured a little; but it was not easy to offend her, and she
said, with a little laugh, 'I'm not pretending at all; and I only said
what was quite true, that I had never seen such things before.'
'Then you are simply laughing at us. You are only interested because we
are like savages, with their trinkets and beads, which they think fine
jewels,' said Sarah.
This time Horatia was really offended, but she did not say anything; and
Mr Howroyd said quickly, 'I shall begin to think you are ill, Sarah, or
sickening for a fever, and shall telephone to your mother to send for a
doctor, if you talk such nonsense.--Now, Miss Horatia, come and see my
greatest treasure of all; and he took her into an adjoining room, without
asking Sarah to accompany them at all. By the time they had seen his
greatest treasure, which was some wonderful needlework, the motor was
announced, and the two girls got into it.
'Now, I'm just going to time ourselves. We got home in seven minutes last
time; do you think we could do it in five to-day?' inquired Horatia of
Sarah.
'Certainly not. It's four miles from door to door. You'd no business to
do it in seven minutes; and if you incite Tom to do it in five he'll get
locked up, if he lives, and he'll well deserve it,' declared Mr Howroyd.
Tom Fox smiled grimly. He had known Mr Howroyd and Mr Howroyd had known
him since he was a tiny boy, so he answered, 'You'll not live to see me
locked up, Mr Howroyd--not for furious driving in the public road; though
I'll not deny that I did put on speed the day missie speaks of, going
through the park.'
'Oh, well, if you choose to risk your necks in that wretched car, you
must. For my part, there's nothing like a dogcart with a good trotting
horse; that's fast enough for me; but then I'm fifty years behind the
times, I know. Well, off you go. Good-bye; and come and see me again, and
have some more cheese to your tart,' he added, with a laugh and a twinkle
of his eye, as he raised his hat to the two girls.
'I will if you'll give me chocolates to help it down,' said Horatia; and
the car, with a hoot, sped away.
'And we have done it in five minutes,' cried Horatia as they drew up at
the front-door.
Mrs Clay met them in the hall, breathless. 'Mercy on us, Sarah, w'atever
'appened to the car or Tom? I'm sure my 'eart was in my mouth w'en I saw
you comin' along the park. I ran all the way down the stairs, thinkin' I
should never see you alive w'en I got to the bottom,' cried the poor
woman.
'It's all my fault. I'm so sorry, Mrs Clay! I begged Fox to get home in
five minutes, and I made the car go when we got to the park-gates,' said
Horatia penitently, as she linked her arm coaxingly in little Mrs Clay's.
'My dear, don't you go for to do such a thing again,' said Mrs Clay,
smiling with indulgence at the girl; 'but it's not you I'm blamin', but
Tom Fox, who ought to know better than endanger two lives, let alone
takin' notice o' a child like you, if you'll excuse my speakin' so
freely.'
'You are very good not to scold me; but I do so enjoy going at a
tremendous speed, and the motor does run so smoothly, much better than
ours, and mother is too nervous to go fast,' explained Horatia.
'I should think not, an' I don't blame 'er. For my part, I 'old on every
time I go in it if my 'usband isn't lookin', an' I'd rather by 'alf walk
or take the pony-chaise than go in it; but I'll stop Fox playin' such
tricks. W'atever would your ma 'ave said if she'd seen you, I can't
think.'
They had gone upstairs by this time, and were walking along the corridor
at the back of the house, which looked out on the back-yard, which was
coach-yard and garage, and Mrs Clay had scarcely finished the above
speech when they heard the angry voice of Mr Mark Clay in the yard below.
'How dare you drive my car at that speed, with my daughter and the Duke
of Arnedale's granddaughter in the car? Don't excuse yourself, but take
yourself off this moment, and never show your face in Ousebank again, or
I'll have you locked up, do you hear?' stormed Mr Clay at the chauffeur.
But his speech was interspersed with stronger language than that.
Horatia dropped Mrs Clay's arm, and ran a little in front of her and
Sarah, and both of them thought she was running to take refuge in her
room from language to which she was not accustomed; but, on the contrary,
she ran to the open window, and, leaning out of it, cried, 'Mr Clay,
stop, please, and listen to me a moment.--Don't go, Tom Fox.'
At sight of Horatia, Mr Clay's face changed a little, and perhaps he felt
a little shame at the language he knew she must have heard; but he was
too angry to heed her. 'Excuse me, but this is my business, and my orders
must be obeyed.--Get out of this, do you hear, Tom Fox?'
The man, white as a sheet, touched his hat, with a faint smile, to
Horatia, and walked off.
'Tom Fox, stop!' said Horatia. 'Wait one moment. If you are really going
I will go too, and you can come to the station with me.'
'Horatia!' cried Sarah; and, 'My dear!' echoed Mrs Clay.
Mr Clay looked up at the flushed, determined little face at the window.
He was a dogged, self-willed man, and gave way to no one; but he knew
when he had met his match. 'What does this mean, Miss Cunningham?' he
asked grimly, while Tom Fox stood hesitating in the doorway, and the
other servants stood in the background, wondering what would be the end
of the scene.
'It means that _I_ drove the car at that break-neck speed, because I
turned the high-speed gear, and Tom could not help himself, and he was
too much of a man to tell tales of me.'
'You can stop, Tom.--As for you, my lass'--the millionaire
paused--'you're a plucky un, you are! You ought to have Yorkshire blood
in you, if you haven't,' he concluded, and walked into the house without
another word.
'Thank you, miss,' said the chauffeur, as he took off his hat and stood
bareheaded, looking up at Horatia.
'I'm sorry I got you into a row, Tom Fox,' she said, 'and I promise you I
won't interfere with the motor any more without leave.' Then she withdrew
her head.
'Oh, my dear, I don't believe you'd be afraid of anything,' said Mrs
Clay, looking at her with admiration.
Horatia only laughed, and Sarah said nothing either.