MORAL SUPPORT.
IN spite of all said to the contrary, I believe that young people, upon
the whole, are more apt to ponder than the old folk are. At least, if
to ponder means—as it should—to weigh in the balance of pros and cons
the probable results of their own doings. The old man remembers the
time he has lost, in thinking thoughts that came to naught; and he sees
that if they had come to much, that much would have been very little
now. The young man has plenty of time on his hands, and believes he
is going to do wonders with it, and makes a bright map of his mighty
course in life. And this is the wisest thing that he can do.
But when he falls in love, alas! his ripe wisdom is seldom applied to
himself. Like a roguish grocer, with a magnet in his counter, he brings
the scale down to his own liking; but he differs from him, in that he
cheats himself.
Being very wise in my own eyes, I pondered very carefully my next step;
not with any thought of retiring, but with a firm resolve to advance
in the strongest and most effective manner. My Uncle’s long story,
instead of damping, had added hot fuel to my ardour, and compassion
had lent a deeper tone to passion. Tender pictures arose before me of
my angelic Kitty, starved, and tortured, and snubbed, and trampled,
and (worst of all perhaps to a female body) shabbily, and grotesquely
dressed. Such a woman as my uncle had described was enough to drive the
largest-minded man to fury, and to grind the sweetest of her own sex,
into fragments of misery and despair. The one crumb of comfort I could
pick up, was that such cruelty must make my darling pine all the more
for tender love, and long perpetually for some refuge, however humble
it might be. But the point of all points was—how should I get at her?
All these things were passing through my mind for about the thousandth
time—yet all in vain—as I came back from Chertsey, on old _Spanker’s_
back, a day or two later in that same week. Old _Spanker_ was as good a
horse as ever tasted corn; and when we got together, we always seemed
to fall into very much the same vein of thought. Not that _Spanker_
had any love troubles, but plenty of other cares and considerations,
which brought him into tune with me, as we jogged along. If anything
went amiss on our premises, _Spanker_ seemed to find it out, not one
of us knew how, and to feel a friendly sadness for us, though it never
affected his appetite. So warm was his interest in our affairs, that
whenever he took a load to Covent Garden, the proper thing always
was to let him know how it had been disposed of; and Selsey Bill
declared that he came home with his ears pricked forward, or laid back,
according as the prices had been up or down. But Selsey Bill, with
seventeen hungry children, was himself as sympathetic as almost any
horse.
It was very nigh dark; for the days were drawing in, being nearly
come to the equinox, and the weather breaking up, as we had foreseen.
Indeed but for that, I should not have been here, for my uncle would
never have sent me to Chertsey, if the fruit had been fit to be
gathered to-day. “Never gather any fruit when it is wet, except a
horse-chestnut,” he used to say; “and you may find the flavour of that
improved.” But the rain had not been so very heavy, only just enough to
hang on things and make them sticky; and now there was a strong wind
getting up, which was likely to fetch down a hundred bushels.
The river was no longer in high flood, though still over its banks,
and turbulent; and I had not to ride through great stretches of water,
as our roads require one to do, even if they let him pass at all, when
the Thames comes down at its utmost. When I was a lad in 1852, we could
scarcely go anywhere without swimming. And now, without floods, I very
nearly had to swim; for old _Spanker_ stopped as suddenly as if he had
been shot, in a dark place, where there was a ditch beside the road;
and I, riding carelessly and mooning on my grievances, was as loose on
his back as my hat on my head. I just saved myself from flying over his
ears, and then flourished my whipstock, for I thought it was a footpad.
“Don’t be a fool, Kit. You have done a little too much of that to me
already.”
The voice was well known to me, and the glimmering light showed the
figure of Sam Henderson. He had a contemptuous manner of putting his
heels on the earth, with his toes turned up and out; as if the world
were not worth riding, except with a reckless attitude. But I was vexed
to be pulled up like this, and nearly cast out of the saddle. Therefore
I said something of his own sort.
“Young man, you don’t value my good intentions; and you are not at all
charmed with my new dodge, for fetching a horse up before he can think.
You saw I never touched your bridle. Well, never mind that. I’m not
going to teach you. How are things going on, at your crib, my boy?”
“Famously;” I answered, for it was not likely that I should discourse
of my troubles to him. “Nothing could be better, Mr. Henderson;
and since you have proved your new dodge satisfactory, I will say
‘Good-night,’ and beg you not to do it to me again.”
“What a confounded muff you are!” he continued with his slangy drawl,
which he had picked up perhaps at Tattersall’s; “do you think that I
would have come down this beastly lane, on a dirty night like this,
without I had something important to say? How about your Kitty?”
This was a little too familiar, and put me on my dignity. At the
same time it gave me a thrill of pleasure, as a proof of the public
conclusion upon a point of deep private interest.
“If you happen to mean, in your cheeky style, a young lady known as
Miss Fairthorn, and the niece of Miss Coldpepper, of the Hall; I can
only tell you that she is in London, with her father, the celebrated
Captain Fairthorn.”
“A pinch for stale news—as we used to say at school. Perhaps I could
give you a fresher tip, my boy; but I daresay you don’t care to hear
it. Perhaps you have put your money on another filly. So have I; and
this time it is a ripper.”
Little as I liked his low manner of describing things too lofty for his
comprehension, I could not let him depart like this. He lit a cigar
under _Spanker’s_ nose, as if he had been nobody, and whistling to
his bull-terrier Bob, turned away as if everything was settled. But I
called him back sternly, and he said, “Oh well, if you want to hear
more, you must turn into my little den down here.”
I followed him through a white gate which he opened in the high paling
that fenced his paddocks, and presently we came to a long low building,
more like a shed than a dwelling-house, but having a snug room or two
at one end. “This is my doctor’s shop,” he said; “and it serves for a
thousand other uses. No patients at present—will be plenty by-and-by.
Come into my snuggery, and have something hot. I will send a fellow
home with your old screw, and tell the governor not to expect you to
supper. Rump-steak and onions in ten minutes, Tom, and a knife and fork
for this gentleman! Now, Kit, put your trotters on the hob, but have a
pull first at this pewter.”
This was heaping coals of fire on my head, after all that I had done to
him; and I said something clumsy to that effect. He treated it as if it
were hardly worth a word; and much as I love to be forgiven, I like to
have done it to others much better.
“I never think twice of a thing like that,” he replied, without turning
to look at me. “A fellow like you who never sees a bit of life gets
waxy over nothing, and makes a fool of himself. You hit straight, and I
deserved it. I live among horses a deal too much to bear ill-will, as
the humans do. Let us have our corn, my boy; and then I will tell you
what I heard in town to-day, and you can grind it between your wisdom
teeth.”
In spite of all anxiety, I did well with the victuals set before me;
and Sam was right hospitable in every way, and made me laugh freely at
his short crisp stories, with a horse for the hero, and a man for the
rogue, or even a woman in some cases. I endeavoured to match some of
them with tales of our own nags, but those he swept by disdainfully. No
horse was worth talking of below the rank of thoroughbred; as a story
has no interest, until we come to the Earls, and the Dukes, and the
Marquises.
“Now,” said Sam Henderson, when the plates were gone, and glasses
had succeeded them; “Kit Orchardson, you are a very pleasant fellow;
considering how little you know of the world, I never thought there was
so much in you. Why, if you could get over your shyness, Kit, you would
be fit for very good society. But it is a mistake on the right side, my
boy. I would much rather see a young chap like that, than one of your
bumptious clodhoppers. I suppose I am the only man in Sunbury who ever
goes into high society. And I take good care that it never spoils me.
There is not a Lord on the turf that won’t shake hands with me, when he
thinks I can put him up to anything. But you can’t say I am stuck up,
can you now?”
“Certainly not,” I declared with warmth, for his hospitality was
cordial; “you keep to your nature through the whole of it. It would
spoil most of us to have so much to do with noblemen.”
“You and I should see more of one another,” Sam answered, with
gratification beaming in his very keen and lively eyes; “and if ever
you would put a bit of Uncle Corny’s tin upon any tit at long odds,
come to me. The finest tip in England free, gratis, and for nothing.
But I called you in for a different sort of tip. When I was at the
corner this afternoon, who should I see but Sir Cumberleigh Hotchpot?
I dare say you may have heard of him. No? Very well, that proves just
what I was saying. You are as green as a grasshopper looking at a
cuckoo. ‘Pot,’ as we call him—and it fits him well, for his figure
is that, and his habits are black—is one of the best-known men in
London, and one of the worst to have much to do with. ‘Holloa, Sam,’ he
says, ‘glad to see you. What’ll you take for your old _Sinner_ now?’
_Sinner_, you must know, is my old mare _Cinnaminta_, the dam of more
winners than any other mare alive; and the old rogue knows well enough
that I would sooner sell my shadow, even if he had sixpence to put on
it. He gives himself out to be rolling in money, but all he ever rolls
in is the gutter. Well, sir, we got on from one thing to another; and
by-and-by I gave him just a little rub about a hatful of money I had
won of him at Chester, and never seen the colour of. ‘All right,’
he says, ‘down upon the nail next week. Haven’t you heard what’s up
with me?’ So I told him no, and he falls to laughing, enough to shake
the dye out of his grizzly whiskers. ‘Going to buckle to. By Gosh,
I mean it,’ says he; ‘and the sweetest young filly as ever looked
through a riband. Rejoices in the name of Kitty Fairthorn, just the
very name for the winner of the Oaks. Ha, ha, wish me joy, old chap.
She was down your way, I am told, last week. But I had spotted her
before that, Sam.’ I was thrown upon my haunches, as you may fancy,
Kit; but I did not let him see it; though to think of old Crumbly Pot
going in for such a stunner—‘Rhino, no doubt,’ I says; and he says,
‘By the bucketful! Her dad is a buffer who can sit down and coin it
in batteries. And only this kid to put it on; the others belong to
a different stable. Think of coming for the honeymoon, down to your
place. They tell me you keep the big crib empty.’ Well I only shook my
head at that, for the old rogue never pays his rent; and I asked him
when it was to be pulled off. ‘Pretty smart,’ he said; but the day not
named, and he must go first to Lincolnshire, to see about his property
there; which I happen to know is up the spout to its outside value,
though he always talks big on the strength of it. And no doubt he has
got over your grand Professor, with his baronetcy and his flourishing
estates. That’s about the tune of it, you may swear, Kit. Well, how do
you like my yarn, my boy?”
“Sam, it shall never come off;” I cried, with a stamp which made the
glasses jingle, and the stirrup-irons that hung on the wall rattle as
if a mad horse were between them. “I would rather see that innocent
young creature in her coffin than married to such a low brute. Why,
even if she married you, Sam, although it would be a terrible fall, she
would have a man, and an honest one comparatively to deal with. But as
to the Crumbly Pot, as you call him—”
“Well, old fellow, you mean well,” replied Henderson with tranquillity;
“though your compliments are rather left-handed. But you may look upon
me, Kit, as out of the running. I was taken with the girl, I won’t deny
it. But she didn’t take to me, and she took to you. And between you and
me, I am as sure as eggs that she hasn’t got sixpence to bless herself.
That wouldn’t suit my book; and I am no plunger.”
“She wants no sixpence to bless herself. She is blest without a
halfpenny. And a blessing she will be to any man who deserves her,
although there is none on the face of this earth—”
“Very well, very well—stow all that. A woman’s a dark horse, even to
her own trainer. But I’ve met with just as fine a bit of stuff, a
lovely young filly down at Ludred. She’s the only daughter of the old
man there; and if ever I spotted a Derby nag, he has got the next one
in his string this moment. I have not quite made up my mind yet; but
I think I shall go in for her. At any rate I’m off with the Fairthorn
lay. Why, there’s a cuss of a woman to deal with there, who’d frighten
a dromedary into fits, they say. I wonder if old Pot knows about it.
But Pot shan’t have her, if I can help it; and you may trust me for
knowing a thing or two. Come, let’s strike a bargain, Kit, and stick to
it like men. Will you help me with the Ludred job, if I do all I can
for you in the Fairthorn affair? Give me your hand on it, and I am your
man.”
I told him that I did not see at all how I could be of any service to
him, in his scheme on the young lady he was thinking of. But he said
that I could help him as much as I liked; for a relative of mine lived
in that village, an elderly lady, and highly respected, as she occupied
one of the best houses in the place; and more than that, it belonged
to her. It was some years now since I had seen her, but she had been
kind to me when I was at school; and Sam proposed that I should look
her up, and give a bright account of him, and perhaps do more than
that; for the young lady visited at her house, and valued her opinion
highly. I now perceived why Henderson had become so friendly, and was
able to trust him, as he had a good motive. Moreover I had heard of his
“lovely filly,” and even seen her when she was a child; and I knew that
her father (the well-known Mr. Chalker) had made a good fortune in the
racing business, and perhaps would be apt to look down upon Sam, from
the point of higher standing and better breeding. Being interested now
in all true love, I readily promised to do all I could, and then begged
for Sam’s counsel in my own case.
“Take the bull by the horns;” he said with his usual briskness. “Never
beat about the bush; that’s my plan, Kit. Go up, and see the governor,
and say,—‘I love your daughter; I hear she is awfully sat upon at home,
and doesn’t even get her corn regular. She has taken a great liking to
me; I know that. And although I am not a great gun, and am terribly
green, my Uncle Corny is a warm old chap; and I shall have all his land
and money, when he croaks. You see, governor, you might do worse. And
as for old Pot, if you knew the old scamp, you’d sooner kill your girl
than let him have her. Why, he can’t even square his bets; and all his
land in Lincolnshire is collared by the Moseys. Hand her to me, and
I’ll make her a good husband, and you shall come to our place, and live
jolly, when you can’t stand your devil of a wife no longer.’ Kit, I’ll
write it down for you, if you like. You say all that to him, exactly as
I said it; and if you don’t fetch him, turn me out to grass in January.”
I was much amused that Henderson should call me “green,” and yet
be in earnest with such absurdity as this; which I recommended him
(since he had such faith in it) to learn by heart, and then repeat,
with the needful alterations, to the gentleman whose daughter he was
anxious now to win. However, though indignant and frightened sadly
at the news about that vile baronet, I was pleased on the whole with
Sam’s behaviour, though not with his last words; which were these, as
he left me at the top of the village, and he uttered them with much
solemnity—“I say, who stole the dog? Talk of angels, after that!”