MRS. LAMB RETURNS TO PITMUIR
When Mr. Isaac Luker and his client, Mrs. Gregory Lamb, arrived
at the small roadside station, in the county of Forfar, towards
which they had been journeying throughout the day, they were
neither of them in the best of tempers. It had been a long day's
journey. There had been some misunderstanding about the
connection of the trains at Dundee. They had missed the one by
which they had meant to travel; there had been a dreary wait for
the next. When at last they started on the last stage of their
journey the engine went dawdling along the branch line in a
style which both, in their then frame of mind, found equally
trying. They would hardly, at any time, have been called a
sympathetic couple. Neither, for instance, would have selected
the other as an only companion on a desert island. By the time
the train paused for, so far as they were concerned, its final
stoppage, either would have been almost willing to fly to a
desert island to escape the other's society.
It was between nine and ten at night--a misty night. The damp
seemed to be rising out of the ground, and to be covering the
country with a corpse-like pallor. There was a faint movement in
the air, which it did not need a very imaginative mind to
compare to a whisper of death. They were the only passengers who
alighted at the station, which seemed to consist of but a narrow
strip of bare earth, about the centre of which was constructed
what looked like a ramshackle shed. Illumination was given by
two or three oil lamps, and by a lantern which the only visible
official carried in his hand. To this personage Mrs. Lamb
addressed herself.
"Is any one waiting for me?"
The official proved to be a Scotsman of a peculiarly Scotch
type; his manners and his temper were both his own. No attempt
is made to reproduce the dialect in which he spoke.
"And who might you happen to be?"
"I'm Mrs. Gregory Lamb."
"Never heard the name. Pass out! Tickets!"
Mr. Luker nudged the lady's arm.
"I thought you telegraphed under the name of Mrs. Cuthbert
Grahame?"
She made a somewhat ill-considered attempt to correct the error
she had made.
"I mean that I'm Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame."
"Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame? You said just now that you were Mrs.
Gregory Lamb."
"I spoke without thinking. I telegraphed some instructions to
the station-master in the name of Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame."
"In the name of Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame? A body can't have two
names."
"I ordered a close carriage to meet Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame by the
train before this, then, when I found I'd missed it, I sent a
wire from Dundee to order the carriage to wait for the next."
"There's no carriage within miles."
"No carriage? Then what is there?"
"There's what they call a fly."
"And is the fly here?"
"Sam Harris wouldn't let it come."
"Who's Sam Harris?"
"He's the man that owns it."
"And pray why wouldn't Mr. Harris let it come?"
"You'd better be asking him instead of me. He lives about two
miles from here--perhaps a trifle over."
"Two miles! Then is there nothing here to meet us?"
"There's a cart."
"A cart!--an open cart!--in this weather! What kind of cart?"
"He was outside the gate when I saw him last, but maybe by now
he's grown tired of waiting, and he's gone. If you go outside
you'll be able to see for yourself what kind of cart it is
better than I can tell you. Any way, you can't stop here; I'm
off home. Tickets!--and if you haven't your tickets you'll have
to pay your fare--that's all."
The two passengers surrendered their tickets. With such dignity
as she could muster the lady strode towards the little wooden
gate, Mr. Luker following limply behind. He made no attempt to
feign a sense of dignity which he did not possess. To judge from
his appearance and his attitude he had not only sunk into the
lowest stage of depression, but he was willing that all the
world should know it. A very woebegone figure he looked: so tall
and so thin, with the pronounced stoop; in the old familiar
garments which he had worn for so many years in town, a costume
which seemed singularly out of place on that spot just then; the
frayed, shabby frock-coat, tightly buttoned up the front, the
collar of which he now wore turned up about his chin; the
trousers which were at once too baggy and too short; the ancient
top-hat, which had seen so many better days.
Outside the gate was what, in the semi-darkness, looked
uncommonly like an ordinary farmer's cart, and not too
comfortable, or cleanly, an example of its class. Mrs. Lamb
stared at it in disgust.
"Have you brought that thing for me?"
As regards manners the driver seemed to be a near relation of
the railway official's, if anything his were more pronounced.
"I don't know who you are. How am I to know?"
"I'm Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame of Pitmuir."
"Oh; that's what you call yourself--ah!"
"You appear to be an impudent fellow."
"And you appear to be a free-spoken woman."
"How dare you talk to me like that? I ask you again, have you
brought this thing for me?"
"I've brought this thing, as you call it, which is as decent a
cart as ever you saw, and more decent maybe than you deserve to
sit in, to carry the person as calls herself Mrs. Cuthbert
Grahame to Pitmuir, and I'm beginning to wish I hadn't."
"Why is there no fly here?"
"Because Sam Harris wouldn't let his come."
"Why not? I ordered it."
"You ordered it! Mr. Harris said that he wasn't going to have
the likes of you sitting in a fly of his--that's why. So he sent
this cart instead. If this cart isn't good enough, I'll take it
back at once. I'll take it back anyhow if there's much more
talking."
The lady and her solicitor exchanged glances. While they were
apparently seeking for words the driver volunteered another
remark, in keeping with those which had gone before.
"There's another thing. I'm to be paid before I started; Mr.
Harris said I was."
"You'll be paid when you reach Pitmuir."
"Shall I? Then I'll say good-night."
The man gathered up his reins as if about to depart.
"Stop! What are you doing? You appear to be a pleasant
character."
"From all accounts, ma'am, that's more than can be said of you."
Under other circumstances the fellow might perhaps have
regretted his temerity. Mrs. Lamb was not a lady to quietly
endure impertinence from any one. As matters stood she was at
his mercy, a fact of which he was evidently aware. She had to
choke back her resentment as best she could.
"How much do you mean to charge?"
"There's twelve shillings for driving you; there's three for
waiting; there's five for myself--that's a sovereign."
"A sovereign!--monstrous!"
"Very well; there's no call for you to pay it. I tell you again,
I'll say good-night."
Mr. Luker interposed.
"How far is it?"
"Better than five miles."
"And how long will it take, in this delectable vehicle of yours,
to get us there?"
"An hour or thereabouts. The road's none so good, and it's not
easy going on a night like this. It's thicker over yonder."
"And for an hour, or thereabouts, I'm to be jolted, over a bad
road, through this death-like mist. Thank you; the prospect is
not inviting. I think we had better go over in the morning.
Where, in the neighbourhood, can we get a night's lodging?"
"Nowhere."
"Nowhere? Are you sure?"
"If you think you know better than me you'd better go and look
for yourself. I tell you there's not a house round here where
they'd have you under the roof--nor her either. I wouldn't, nor
yet Mr. Harris, nor any one else."
"This is delightful--thoroughly delightful."
Anything less suggestive of delight than his tone could hardly
be imagined. The lady spoke.
"I telegraphed to an old servant of mine, Martha Blair, to go up
to the house and to take some one with her, or if she couldn't
go herself then to get two other girls to go, to light fires and
to make things ready for my coming. Do you know who has gone?"
"No one's gone; I do know that. You'd get no woman from round
here to go up to Pitmuir at night, especially if it was known
that you were coming."
"Prospects grow more and more delightful."
This was a groan from Mr. Luker. The lady, taking him by the
coat sleeve, began to talk to him in an undertone. The driver
promptly interrupted.
"If you two are going to talk things over between yourselves you
can do it after I'm gone. I'm off; I've had enough of waiting,
so I'll wish you both good-night."
The lady stopped him; she drew out her purse.
"Here's a sovereign. Now drive us to Pitmuir, and be as quick as
you can."
The man examined the coin as well as he could in such a light;
he even tested its quality with his teeth. Drawing a bag from
some mysterious receptacle inside his waistcoat, he untied a
piece of cord which tied it round the neck, placed the coin
carefully within, feeling it to make sure that it was, retied
the bag, and returned it to its place. These operations took
some time; before they were concluded his two passengers were
more tired of waiting than he was. Mrs. Lamb mounted to the seat
beside the driver. Mr. Luker scrambled into the vehicle itself.
There was nothing for him to do but to squat upon the floor,
making himself as comfortable as he could by leaning his back
against the side. Then the cart started.
The driver had been perfectly correct in stating that it was not
a very good road. So far as could be judged in the mist and the
darkness, when one had to rely entirely on the sense of feeling,
it consisted for the most part of ruts and ditches. The springs
upon which the body of the cart was hung were not very
resilient, indeed they were rudimentary. Mrs. Lamb had all she
could do to keep on the seat; the gentleman behind was shaken in
such a style that he had traversed the whole interior of the
vehicle before he had gone two miles. Considering all things, it
was perhaps as well that the rate of progress was not more
rapid, though the driver had a somewhat disconcerting knack when
the road was excruciatingly bad of seeming to move faster than
was absolutely necessary, and when it was comparatively smooth
of going slower than he need. More than once Mrs. Lamb tried to
engage him in conversation, putting questions to him on subjects
on which she was particularly anxious to obtain information. She
desired to know if Nannie Foreshaw was still in the flesh; how
Dr. Twelves was getting on; if he yet practised, and so on. But
the man either paid no heed at all, or, if he replied, his
answers were of such an unsatisfactory nature, conveying such
extremely unflattering allusions, that the lady was finally
convinced that she had better remain, however unwillingly, in
ignorance than attempt to obtain enlightenment from such an
impossible quarter. She would have liked to have taken the
fellow suddenly by the shoulders and flung him out of the cart.
He would possibly have found her capable of doing it. More than
once she was on the point of making the effort, only an
overwhelming consciousness of the greatness of the issue which
was at stake restrained her.
At last, after what seemed very much more than an hour's drive,
he brought the vehicle to a sudden stop.
"You'll get out here," he intimated to them curtly.
"Get out?" The lady peered about her through the mist and
darkness. "This is not the house."
"Yon's Pitmuir."
"Pitmuir? But I paid you to drive us to the house; I can see no
signs of it."
"You did not. I'd not drive you to the house for a pocketful of
money."
"What fresh trick are you going to try on now? And what
tomfoolery are you talking?"
"It's tomfoolery maybe, and maybe it isn't. You said, carry you
to Pitmuir, and I've carried you. Do you know they say that
Cuthbert Grahame's walking about among the trees, waiting in the
avenue, looking for the woman who called herself his wife. Do
you think I'll take you to meet him? Not while I've my senses.
If you are set on meeting him, you'll not meet him in my
company--that's my last word. Yon's Pitmuir. That's the gate in
front, not a dozen yards from where we are--that's nearer than I
care for. You'll just both of you get out."