miles taller and broader, and it sounded like the mouse attempting to
help the lion.
"Yes, I will go to him," he said slowly. "It is the only plan. And--and
you think there's no fear that Herbert Tanerton will get talking to
others?"
"I'm sure there's none. He is indoors now, dining with us. I am sure you
are quite safe in all respects. The thing is buried in the past, and
even its remembrance will pass away. The old postman, Lee, thinks it was
Cotton; the Squire persuaded him into the belief at the time. Where _is_
Cotton?"
"Where all such rogues deserve to be--transported. But for him and his
friends I should never have done much that's wrong. Thank you for the
encouragement you give me."
He half put out his hand to endorse the thanks, and drew it back again;
but I put mine freely into his. Ben Rymer _was_ Ben Rymer, and no
favourite of mine to boot; but when a man has been down and is trying to
get up again, he deserves respect and sympathy.
"I was about here all last evening, hoping to get sight of you," he
remarked, as he went out at the gate. "I never saw such light nights in
all my life as these few last have been, what with the moon and the
snow. Good-night, Mr. Johnny. By the way, though, where does the curate
live?"
"At Mrs. Boughton's. Nearly the last house, you know, before you come to
the churchyard."
Ben Rymer went striding towards Timberdale, putting his coat-collar well
up, that he might not be recognized when going through the village, and
arrived at the curate's lodgings. Mr. Sale was at home, sitting by the
fire in a brown study, that seemed to have no light at all in it. Ben,
as I knew later, sat down by him, and made a clean breast of everything:
his temptation, his fall, and his later endeavours to do right.
"Please God, I shall get on in the world now," he said; "and I think
make a name in my profession. I don't wish to boast--and time of course
will alone prove it--but I believe I have a special aptitude for
surgery. My mother will be my care now; and Margaret--as you are good
enough to say you still wish for her--shall be your care in future.
There are few girls so deserving as she is."
"I know that," said the curate. And he shook Ben's hand upon it as
heartily as though it had been a duke royal's.
It was close upon ten when Ben left him. Mrs. Rymer about that same time
was making her usual preparations before retiring--namely, putting her
curls in paper by the parlour fire. Margaret sat at the table, reading
the Bible in silence, and so trying to school her aching heart. Her
mother had been cross and trying all the evening: which did not mend the
inward pain.
"What are you crying for?" suddenly demanded Mrs. Rymer, her sharp eyes
seeing a tear fall on the book.
"For nothing," faintly replied Margaret.
"_Nothing!_ Don't tell me. You are frizzling your bones over that
curate, Sale. I'm sure _he_ is a beauty to look at."
Margaret made no rejoinder; and just then the young servant put in her
head.
"Be there anything else wanted, missis?"
"No," snapped Mrs. Rymer. "You can be off to bed."
But, before the girl had shut the parlour-door, a loud ring came to the
outer one. Such late summonses were not unusual; they generally meant a
prescription to be made up. Whilst the girl went to the door, Margaret
closed the Bible, dried her eyes, and rose up to be in readiness.
But instead of a prescription, there entered Mr. Benjamin Rymer. His
mother stood up, staring, her hair a mass of white corkscrews. Ben
clasped Margaret in his arms, and kissed her heartily.
"My goodness _me_!" cried Mrs. Rymer. "Is it you, Ben?"
"Yes, it is, mother," said Ben, turning to her. "Maggie, dear, you look
as though you did not know me."
"Why, what on earth have you come for, in this startling way?" demanded
Mrs. Rymer. "I don't believe your bed's aired."
"I'll sleep between the blankets--the best place to-night. What have I
come for, you ask, mother? I have come home to stay."
Margaret was gazing at him, her mild eyes wide open, a spot of hectic on
each cheek.
"For your sake, Maggie," he whispered, putting his arm round her waist,
and bending his great red head (but not so red as his mother's) down on
her. "I shall not much like to lose you, though, my little sister. The
Bahamas are further off than I could have wished."
And, for answer, poor Margaret, what with one thing and another, sank
quietly down in her chair, and fainted. Ben strode into the shop--as
much at home amongst the bottles as though he had never quitted
them--and came back with some sal volatile.
* * * * *
They were married in less than a month; for Mr. Sale's chaplaincy would
not wait for him. The Rector was ailing as usual, or said he was, and
Charles Ashton came over to perform the ceremony. Margaret was in a
bright dark silk, a light shawl, and a plain bonnet; they were to go
away from the church door, and the boxes were already at the station.
Ben, dressed well, and looking not unlike a gentleman, gave her away;
but there was no wedding-party. Mrs. Rymer stayed at home in a temper,
which I dare say nobody regretted: she considered Margaret ought to have
remained single. And after a day or two spent in the seaport town they
were to sail from, regaling their eyes with the ships crowding the
water, the Reverend Isaac Sale and his wife embarked for their future
home in the Bahama Isles.
XIII.
THE OTHER EARRING.
"And if I could make sure that you two boys would behave yourselves
and give me no trouble, possibly I might take you this year just for a
treat."
"Behave ourselves!" exclaimed Tod, indignantly. "Do you think we are two
children, sir?"
"We would be as good as gold, sir," I added, turning eagerly to the
Squire.
"Well, Johnny, I'm not much afraid but that you would. Perhaps I'll
trust you both, then, Joe."
"Thank you, father."
"I shall see," added the pater, thinking it well to put in a little
qualification. "It's not quite a promise, mind. But it must be two or
three years now, I think, since you went to them."
"It seems like six," said Tod. "I know it's four."
We were talking of Worcester Races. At that period they used to take
place early in August. Dr. Frost had an unpleasant habit of reassembling
his pupils either the race-week or the previous one; and to get over to
the races was almost as difficult for Tod and for me as though they had
been run in California. To hear the pater say he might perhaps take us
this year, just as the Midsummer holidays were drawing to an end, and
say it voluntarily, was as good as it was unexpected. He meant it, too;
in spite of the reservation: and Dr. Frost was warned that he need not
expect us until the race-week was at its close.
The Squire drove into Worcester on the Monday, to be ready for the races
on Tuesday morning, with Tod, myself, and the groom--Giles; and put up,
as usual, at the Star and Garter. Sometimes he only drove in and back on
each of the three race-days; or perhaps on two of them: this he could do
very well from Crabb Cot, but it was a good pull for the horses from
Dyke Manor. This year, to our intense gratification, he meant to stay in
the town.
The Faithful City was already in a bustle. It had put on its best
appearance, and had its windows cleaned; some of the shop-fronts were
being polished off as we drove slowly up the streets. Families were,
like ourselves, coming in: more would come before night. The theatre
was open, and we went to it after dinner; and saw, I remember, "Guy
Mannering" (over which the pater went to sleep), and an after-piece with
a ghost in it.
The next morning I took the nearest way from the hotel to Sansome Walk,
and went up it to call on one of our fellows who lived near the top. His
friends always let him stay at home for the race-week. A maid-servant
came running to answer my knock at the door.
"Is Harry Parker at home?"
"No, sir," answered the girl, who seemed to be cleaning up for the races
on her own account, for her face and arms were all "colly." "Master
Harry have gone down to Pitchcroft, I think."
"I hope he has gone early enough!" said I, feeling disappointed. "Why,
the races won't begin for hours yet."
"Well, sir," she said, "I suppose there's a deal more life to be seen
there than here, though it is early in the day."
That might easily be. For of all solitary places Sansome Walk was, in
those days, the dreariest, especially portions of it. What with the
overhanging horse-chestnut trees, and the high dead wall behind those
on the one hand, and the flat stretch of lonely fields on the other,
Sansome Walk was what Harry Parker used to call a caution. You might
pass through all its long length from end to end and never meet a soul.
Taking that narrow by-path on my way back that leads into the Tything by
St. Oswald's Chapel, and whistling a bar of the sweet song I had heard
at the theatre overnight, "There's nothing half so sweet in life as
love's young dream," some one came swiftly advancing down the same
narrow path, and I prepared to back sideways to give her room to pass--a
young woman, with a large shabby shawl on, and the remains of faded
gentility about her.
It was Lucy Bird! As she drew near, lifting her sad sweet eyes to mine
with a mournful smile, my heart gave a great throb of pity. Faded, worn,
anxious, reduced!--oh, how unlike she was, poor girl, to the once gay
and charming Lucy Ashton!
"Why, Lucy! I did not expect to see you in Worcester! We heard you had
left it months ago."
"Yes, we left last February for London," she answered. "Captain Bird has
only come down for the races."
As she took her hand from under her shawl to respond to mine, I saw
that she was carrying some cheese and a paper of cold cooked meat. She
must have been buying the meat at the cook's shop, as the Worcester
people called it, which was in the middle of High Street. Oh! what a
change--what a change for the delicately-bred Lucy Ashton! Better that
her Master of Ravenswood had buried his horse and himself in the flooded
land, as the other one did, than have brought her to this.
"Where are you going to, down this dismal place, Lucy?"
"Home," she answered. "We have taken lodgings at the top of Sansome
Walk."
"At one of the cottages a little beyond it?"
"Yes, at one of those. How are you all, Johnny? How is Mrs. Todhetley?"
"Oh, she's first-rate. Got no neuralgia just now."
"Is she at Worcester?"
"No; at Dyke Manor. She would not come. The Squire drove us in
yesterday. We are at the Star."
"Ah! yes," she said, her eyes taking a dreamy, far-off look. "I remember
staying at the Star myself one race-week. Papa brought me. It was the
year I left school. Have you heard or seen anything of my brothers
lately, Johnny Ludlow?"
"Not since we were last staying at Crabb Cot. We went to Timberdale
Church one day and heard your brother Charles preach; and we dined once
with Robert at the Court, and he and his wife came once to dine with us.
But--have you not seen your brother James here?"
"No--and I would rather not see him. He would be sure to ask me painful
questions."
"But he is always about the streets here, seeing after his patients,
Lucy. I wonder you have not met him."
"We only came down last Saturday: and I go out as little as I can," she
said; a hesitation in her tone and manner that struck me. "I did think I
saw James's carriage before me just now as I came up the Tything. It
turned into Britannia Square."
"I dare say. We met it yesterday in Sidbury as we drove in."
"His practice grows large, I suppose. You say Charles was preaching at
Timberdale?" she added: "was Herbert Tanerton ill?"
"Yes. Ailing, that is. Your brother came over to take the duty for the
day. Will you call at the Star to see the Squire, Lucy? You know how
pleased he would be."
"N--o," she answered, her manner still more hesitating; and she seemed
to be debating some matter mentally. "I--I would have come after dark,
had Mrs. Todhetley been there. At least I think I would--I don't know."
"You can come all the same, Lucy."
"But no--that would not have done," she went on to herself, in a
half-whisper. "I might have been seen. It would never have done to risk
it. The truth is, Johnny, I ought to see Mrs. Todhetley on a matter of
business. Though even if she were here, I do not know that I might dare
to see her. It is--not exactly my own business--and--and mischief might
come of it."
"Is it anything I can say to her for you?"
"I--think--you might," she returned slowly, pausing, as before, between
her words. "I know you are to be trusted, Johnny."
"That I am. I wouldn't forget a single item of the message."
"I did not mean in that way. I shall have to entrust to you a private
matter--a disagreeable secret. It is a long time that I have wanted
to tell some of you; ever since last winter: and yet, now that the
opportunity has come that I may do it, I scarcely dare. The Squire is
hasty and impulsive, his son is proud; but I think I may confide in you,
Johnny."
"Only try me, Lucy."
"Well, I will. _I will._ I know you are true as steel. Not this morning,
for I cannot stop--and I am not prepared. Let me see: where shall we
meet again? No, no, Johnny, I cannot venture to the hotel: it is of no
use to suggest that."
"Shall I come to your lodgings?"
She just shook her head by way of dissent, and remained in silent
thought. I could not imagine what it was she had to tell me that
required all this preparation; but it came into my mind to be glad that
I had chanced to go that morning to Harry Parker's.
"Suppose you meet me in Sansome Walk this afternoon, Johnny Ludlow? Say
at"--considering--"yes, at four o'clock. That will be a safe hour, for
they will be on the racecourse and out of the way. People will, I mean,"
she added hastily: but somehow I did not think she had meant people.
"Can you come?"
"I will manage it."
"And, if you don't meet me at that time--it is just possible that I may
be prevented coming out--I will be there at eight o'clock this evening
instead," she continued. "That I know I can do."
"Very well. I'll be sure to be there."
Hardly waiting another minute to say good-morning, she went swiftly on.
I began wondering what excuse I could make for leaving the Squire's
carriage in the midst of the sport, and whether he would let me leave
it.
But the way for that was paved without any effort of mine. At the early
lunch, the Squire, in the openness of his heart, offered a seat in the
phaeton to some old acquaintance from Martley. Which of course would
involve Tod's sitting behind with me, and Giles's being left out
altogether.
"Catch me at it," cried Tod. "You can do as you please, Johnny: I shall
go to the course on foot."
"I will also," I said--though you, naturally, understand that I had
never expected to sit elsewhere than behind. And I knew it would be
easier for me to lose Tod in the crowd, and so get away to keep the
appointment, than it would have been to elude the Squire's questioning
as to why I could want to leave the carriage.
Lunch over, Tod said he would go to the Bell, to see whether the
Letstoms had come in; and we started off. No; the waiter had seen
nothing of them. Onwards, down Broad Street we went, took the Quay,
and so got on that way to Pitchcroft--as the racecourse is called. The
booths and shows were at this end, and the chief part of the crowd.
Before us lay stretched the long expanse of the course, green and level
as a bowling-green. The grand-stand (comparatively speaking a new
erection there) lay on the left, higher up, the winning-chair and
distance-post facing it. Behind the stand, flanking all that side of
Pitchcroft, the beautiful river Severn flowed along between its green
banks, the houses of Henwick, opposite, looking down upon it from their
great height, over their sloping gardens. It was a hot day, the blue sky
dark and cloudless.
"True and correct card of all the running horses, gentlemen: the names,
weights, and colours o' the riders!" The words, echoing on all sides
from the men who held these cards for sale, are repeated in my brain
now; as are other sounds and sights. I was somewhat older then than I
had been; but it was not very long since those shows, ranged round there
side by side, a long line of them, held the greatest attraction for me
in life. "Guy Mannering," the past night, had been very nice to see,
very enjoyable; but it possessed not the nameless charm of that first
"play" I went to in Scowton's Show on the racecourse. _That_ charm could
never come again. And I was but a lad yet.
The lightning with which the play opened had been real lightning to me;
the thunder, real thunder. The gentleman who stood, when the curtain
rose, gorgeously attired in a scarlet doublet slashed with gold
(something between a king and a bandit), with uplifted face of terror
and drawn sword, calling the war of the elements "tremendious," was to
me a greater potentate than the world could almost contain! The young
lady, his daughter, in ringlets and spangles, who came flying on in the
midst of the storm, and fell at his feet, with upraised arms and a
piteous appeal, "Alas! my father, and will you not consent to my
marriage with Alphonso?" seemed more lovely to me than the Sultanas
in the "Arabian Nights," or the Princesses in Fairyland. I sat there
entranced and speechless. A new world had opened to me--a world of
delight. For weeks and weeks afterwards, that play, with its wondrous
beauties, its shifting scenes, was present to me sleeping and waking.
The ladies in spangles, the gentlemen in slashed doublets, were on the
platforms of their respective shows to-day, dancing for the benefit of
Pitchcroft. Now and again a set would leave off, the music ceasing also,
to announce that the performance was about to commence. I am not sure
but I should have gone up to see one, but for the presence of Tod and
Harry Parker--whom we had met on the course. There were learned pigs,
and spotted calves, and striped zebras; and gingerbread and cake stalls;
and boat-swings and merry-go-rounds--which had made me frightfully sick
once when Hannah let me go in one. And there was the ever-increasing
throng, augmenting incessantly; carriages, horsemen, shoals of
foot-passengers; conjurers and fortune-tellers; small tables for the
game of "thimble-rig," their owners looking out very sharply for the
constables who might chance to be looking for _them_; and the movable
exhibitions of dancing dolls and Punch and Judy. Ay, the sounds and the
sights are in my brain now. The bands of the different shows, mostly
attired in scarlet and gold, all blowing and drumming as hard as they
could blow and drum; the shouted invitations to the admiring spectators,
"Walk up, ladies and gentlemen, the performance is just a-going to
begin;" the scraping of the blind fiddlers; the screeching of the
ballad-singers; the sudden uproar as a stray dog, attempting to cross
the course, is hunted off it; the incessant jabber and the Babel of
tongues; and the soft roll of wheels on the turf.
Hark! The bell rings for the clearing of the course. People know what it
means, and those who are cautious hasten at once to escape under the
cords on either side. The gallop of a horse is heard, its rider, in
his red coat and white smalls, loudly smacking his whip to effect the
clearance. The first race is about to begin. All the world presses
towards the environs of the grand-stand to get a sight of the
several horses entered for it. Here they come; the jockeys in their
distinguishing colours, trying their horses in a brisk canter, after
having been weighed in the paddock. A few minutes, and the start is
effected; they are off!
It is only a two-mile heat. The carriages are all drawn up against the
cords; the foot-passengers press it; horsemen get where they can. And
now the excitement is at its height; the rush of the racers coming in
to the winning-post breaks on the ear. They fly like the wind.
At that moment I caught sight of the sharply eager face of a
good-looking, dashing man, got up to perfection--you might have taken
him for a lord at least. Arm-in-arm with him stood another, well-got-up
also, as a sporting country gentleman; he wore a green cut-away coat,
top-boots, and a broad-brimmed hat which shaded his face. If I say
"got-up," it is because I knew the one, and I fancied I knew the other.
But the latter's face was partly turned from me, and hidden, as I have
said, by the hat. Both watched the swiftly-coming racehorses with
ill-concealed anxiety: and both, as well-got-up gentlemen at ease,
strove to appear indifferent.
"Tod, there's Captain Bird."
"Captain Bird! Where? You are always fancying things, Johnny."
"A few yards lower down. Close to the cords."
"Oh, be shot to the scoundrel, and so it is! What a swell! Don't bother.
Here they come."
"Blue cap wins!" "No! red sleeves gains on him!" "Yellow stripes is
first!" "Pink jacket has it!" "By Jove! the bay colt is distanced!"
"Purple wins by a neck!"
With a hubbub of these different versions from the bystanders echoing on
our ears, the horses flew past in a rush and a whirl. Black cap and
white jacket was the winner.
Amidst the crowding and the pushing and the excitement that ensued, I
tried to get nearer to Captain Bird. Not to see _him_: it was impossible
to look at him with any patience and contrast his dashing appearance
with that of poor, faded Lucy's: but to see the other man. For he put me
in mind of the gentleman-detective Eccles, who had loomed upon us at
Crabb Cot that Sunday afternoon in the past winter, polished off the
sirloin of beef, crammed the Squire with anecdotes of his college life,
and finally made off with the other earring.
You can turn back to the paper called "Mrs. Todhetley's Earrings," and
recall the circumstances. How she lost an earring out of her ear: a pink
topaz encircled with diamonds. It was supposed a tramp had picked it
up; and the Squire went about it to the police at Worcester. On the
following Sunday a gentleman called introducing himself as Mr. Eccles, a
private detective, and asking to look at the other earring. The Squire
was marvellously taken with him, ordered in the beef, not long gone out
from the dinner, and was as eager to entrust the earring to him as he
was to take it. That Eccles had been a gentleman once--at least, that he
had mixed with gentlemen, was easy to be seen: and perhaps had also been
an Oxford man, as he asserted; but he was certainly a swindler now. He
carried off the earring; and we had never seen him, or it, from that day
to this. But I did think I saw him now on the racecourse. In the side
face, and the tall, well-shaped figure of the top-booted country
gentleman, with the heavy bunch of seals hanging from his watch-chain,
who leaned on that man Captain Bird's arm, there was a great resemblance
to him. The other earring, lost first, was found in the garden under a
small fir-tree when the snow melted away, where it must have dropped
unseen from Mrs. Todhetley's ear, as she stopped in the path to shake
the snow from the tree.
But the rush of people sweeping by was too great. Captain Bird and he
were nowhere to be seen. In the confusion also I lost Tod and Harry
Parker. The country gentleman I meant to find if I could, and went
looking about for him.
The carriages were coming away from their standing-places near the ropes
to drive about the course, as was the custom in those days. Such a thing
as taking the horses out of a carriage and letting it stay where it was
until the end of the day was not known on Worcester racecourse. You
might count the carriages-and-four there then, their inmates exchanging
greetings with each other in passing, as they drove to and fro. It was a
sight to see the noblemen's turn-outs; the glittering harness, the array
of servants in their sumptuous liveries; for they came in style to the
races. The meeting on the course was the chief local event of the year,
when all the county assembled to see each other and look their best.
"Will you get up now, Johnny?"
The soft bowling of the Squire's carriage-wheels arrested itself, as he
drew up to speak to me. The Martley old gentleman sat with him, and
there was a vacant place by Giles behind.
"No, thank you, sir. I would rather be on foot."
"As you will, lad. Is your watch safe?"
"Oh yes."
"Where's Joe?"
"Somewhere about. He is with Harry Parker. I have only just missed
them."
"Missed them! Oh, and I suppose you are looking for them. A capital
race, that last."
"Yes, sir."