THE TRAINER'S MESSENGER.
Mr. James Conyers made himself very much at home at Mellish Park. Poor
Langley, the invalid trainer, who was a Yorkshireman, felt himself
almost bewildered by the easy insolence of his town-bred successor.
Mr. Conyers looked so much too handsome and dashing for his office,
that the grooms and stable-boys bowed down to him, and paid court to
him as they had never done to simple Langley, who had been very often
obliged to enforce his commands with a horsewhip or a serviceable
leather strap. James Conyers's handsome face was a capital with which
that gentleman knew very well how to trade, and he took the full amount
of interest that was to be got for it without compunction. I am sorry
to be obliged to confess that this man, who had sat in the artists'
studios and the life academies for Apollo and Antinous, was selfish
to the backbone; and so long as he was well fed and clothed and housed
and provided for, cared very little whence the food and clothing came,
or who kept the house that sheltered him, or filled the purse which he
jingled in his trousers-pocket. Heaven forbid that I should be called
upon for his biography. I only know that he sprang from the mire of
the streets, like some male Aphrodite rising from the mud; that he
was a blackleg in the gutter at four years of age, and a "welsher" in
the matter of marbles and hardbake before his fifth birthday. Even
then he was for ever reaping the advantage of a handsome face; for
tender-hearted matrons, who would have been deaf to the cries of a
snub-nosed urchin, petted and compassionated the pretty boy.
In his earliest childhood he learned therefore to trade upon his
beauty, and to get the most that he could for that merchandise;
and he grew up utterly unprincipled, and carried his handsome face
out into the world to help him on to fortune. He was extravagant,
lazy, luxurious, and selfish; but he had that easy indifferent grace
of manner which passes with shallow observers for good-nature. He
would not have gone three paces out of his way to serve his best
friend; but he smiled and showed his handsome white teeth with equal
liberality to all his acquaintance; and took credit for being a frank,
generous-hearted fellow on the strength of that smile. He was skilled
in the uses of that gilt gingerbread of generosity which so often
passes current for sterling gold. He was dexterous in the handling of
those cogged dice which have all the rattle of the honest ivories. A
slap on the back, a hearty shake of the hand, often went as far from
him as the loan of a sovereign from another man, and Jim Conyers was
firmly believed in by the doubtful gentlemen with whom he associated,
as a good-natured fellow who was nobody's enemy but his own. He had
that superficial Cockney cleverness which is generally called knowledge
of the world; knowledge of the worst side of the world, and utter
ignorance of all that is noble upon earth, it might perhaps be more
justly called. He had matriculated in the streets of London, and
graduated on the race-course; he had never read any higher literature
than the Sunday papers and the 'Racing Calendar,' but he contrived to
make a very little learning go a long way, and was generally spoken
of by his employers as a superior young man, considerably above his
station.
Mr. Conyers expressed himself very well contented with the rustic lodge
which had been chosen for his dwelling-house. He condescendingly looked
on while the stable-lads carried the furniture, selected for him by
the housekeeper from the spare servants' rooms, from the house to the
lodge, and assisted in the arrangement of the tiny rustic chambers,
limping about in his shirt-sleeves, and showing himself wonderfully
handy with a hammer and a pocketful of nails. He sat upon a table and
drank beer with such charming affability, that the stable-lads were as
grateful to him as if he had treated them to that beverage. Indeed,
seeing the frank cordiality with which James Conyers smote the lads
upon the back, and prayed them to be active with the can, it was almost
difficult to remember that he was not the giver of the feast, and that
it was Mr. John Mellish who would have to pay the brewer's bill. What,
amongst all the virtues, which adorn this earth, can be more charming
than the generosity of upper servants? With what hearty hospitality
they pass the bottle! how liberally they throw the seven-shilling
gunpowder into the teapot! how unsparingly they spread the twenty-penny
fresh butter on the toast! and what a glorious welcome they give to
the droppers-in of the servants' hall! It is scarcely wonderful that
the recipients of their bounty forget that it is the master of the
household who will be called upon for the expenses of the banquet, and
who will look ruefully at the total of the quarter's housekeeping.
It was not to be supposed that so dashing a fellow as Mr. James Conyers
could, in the lodging-house-keepers' _patois_, "do for" himself. He
required a humble drudge to black his boots, make his bed, boil his
kettle, cook his dinner, and keep the two little chambers at the lodge
in decent order. Casting about in a reflective mood for a fitting
person for this office, his recreant fancy hit upon Steeve Hargraves
the "Softy." He was sitting upon the sill of an open window in the
little parlour of the lodge, smoking a cigar and drinking out of a can
of beer, when this idea came into his head. He was so tickled by the
notion, that he took his cigar from his mouth in order to laugh at his
ease.
"The man's a character," he said, still laughing, "and I'll have him
to wait upon me. He's been forbid the place, has he? Turned out neck
and crop because my Lady Highropes horsewhipped him. Never mind that;
_I'll_ give him leave to come back, if it's only for the fun of the
thing."
He limped out upon the high-road half an hour after this, and went into
the village to find Steeve Hargraves. He had little difficulty in doing
this, as everybody knew the "Softy," and a chorus of boys volunteered
to fetch him from the house of the doctor, in whose service he did odd
jobs, and brought him to Mr. Conyers five minutes afterwards, looking
very hot and dirty, but as pale of complexion as usual.
Stephen Hargraves agreed very readily to abandon his present occupation
and to wait upon the trainer, in consideration of five shillings a week
and his board and lodging; but his countenance fell when he discovered
that Mr. Conyers was in the service of John Mellish, and lived on the
outskirts of the park.
"You're afraid of setting foot upon his estate, are you?" said the
trainer, laughing. "Never mind, Steeve, _I_ give you leave to come, and
I should like to see the man or woman in that house who'll interfere
with any whim of mine. _I_ give you leave. You understand."
The "Softy" touched his cap and tried to look as if he understood;
but it was very evident that he did not understand, and it was some
time before Mr. Conyers could persuade him that his life would be safe
within the gates of Mellish Park. But he was ultimately induced to
trust himself at the north lodge, and promised to present himself there
in the course of the evening.
Now Mr. James Conyers had exerted himself as much in order to overcome
the cowardly objections of this rustic clown as he could have done
if Steeve Hargraves had been the most accomplished body servant
in the three Ridings. Perhaps there was some deeper motive than
any regard for the man himself in this special preference for the
"Softy;" some lurking malice, some petty spite, the key to which was
hidden in his own breast. If, while standing smoking in the village
street, _chaffing_ the "Softy" for the edification of the lookers-on,
and taking so much trouble to secure such an ignorant and brutish
esquire,--if one shadow of the future, so very near at hand, could
have fallen across his path, surely he would have instinctively
recoiled from the striking of that ill-omened bargain.
But James Conyers had no superstition; indeed, he was so pleasantly
free from that weakness as to be a disbeliever in all things in heaven
and on earth, except himself and his own merits; so he hired the
"Softy," for the fun of the thing, as he called it, and walked slowly
back to the park gates to watch for the return of Mr. and Mrs. Mellish,
who were expected that afternoon.
The woman at the lodge brought him out a chair, and begged him to rest
himself under the portico. He thanked her with a pleasant smile, and
sitting down amongst the roses and honeysuckles, lighted another cigar.
"You'll find the north lodge dull, I'm thinking, sir," the woman
said, from the open window, where she had reseated herself with her
needlework.
"Well, it isn't very lively, ma'am, certainly," answered Mr. Conyers,
"but it serves my purpose well enough. The place is lonely enough for
a man to be murdered there and nobody be any the wiser; but as I have
nothing to lose, it will answer well enough for me."
He might perhaps have said a good deal more about the place, but at
this moment the sound of wheels upon the high-road announced the return
of the travellers, and two or three minutes afterwards the carriage
dashed through the gate, and past Mr. James Conyers.
Whatever power this man might have over Aurora, whatever knowledge
of a compromising secret he might have obtained and traded upon, the
fearlessness of her nature showed itself now as always, and she never
flinched at the sight of him. If he had placed himself in her way on
purpose to watch the effect of his presence, he must surely have been
disappointed; for except that a cold shadow of disdain passed over
her face as the carriage drove by him, he might have imagined himself
unseen. She looked pale and care-worn, and her eyes seemed to have
grown larger, since her illness; but she held her head as erect as
ever, and had still the air of imperial grandeur which constituted one
of her chief charms.
"So that is Mr. Mellish," said Conyers, as the carriage disappeared.
"He seems very fond of his wife."
"Ay, sure; and he is too. Fond of her! Why, they say there isn't
another such couple in all Yorkshire. And she's fond of him, too, bless
her handsome face! But who wouldn't be fond of Master John?"
Mr. Conyers shrugged his shoulders; these patriarchal habits and
domestic virtues had no particular charm for him.
"She had plenty of money, hadn't she?" he asked, by way of bringing the
conversation into a more rational channel.
"Plenty of money! I should think so. They say her pa gave her fifty
thousand pounds down on her wedding-day; not that our master wants
money; he's got enough and to spare."
"Ah, to be sure," answered Mr. Conyers; "that's always the way of it.
The banker gave her fifty thousand, did he? If Miss Floyd had married a
poor devil, now, I don't suppose her father would have given her fifty
sixpences."
"Well, no; if she'd gone against his wishes, I don't suppose he would.
He was here in the spring,--a nice, white-haired old gentleman; but
failing fast."
"Failing fast. And Mrs. Mellish will come into a quarter of a million
at his death, I suppose. Good afternoon, ma'am. It's a queer
world." Mr. Conyers took up his stick, and limped away under the
trees, repeating this ejaculation as he went. It was a habit with
this gentleman to attribute the good fortune of other people to some
eccentricity in the machinery of life, by which he, the only really
deserving person in the world, had been deprived of his natural rights.
He went through the wood into a meadow where some of the horses under
his charge were at grass, and spent upwards of an hour lounging about
the hedgerows, sitting on gates, smoking his pipe, and staring at
the animals, which seemed about the hardest work he had to do in his
capacity of trainer. "It isn't a very hard life, when all's said and
done," he thought, as he looked at a group of mares and foals, who,
in their eccentric diversions, were performing a species of Sir Roger
de Coverley up and down the meadow. "It isn't a very hard life; for
as long as a fellow swears hard and fast at the lads, and gets rid of
plenty of oats, he's right enough. These country gentlemen always judge
a man's merits by the quantity of corn they have to pay for. Feed their
horses as fat as pigs, and never enter 'em except among such a set of
screws as an active pig could beat; and they'll swear by you. They'd
think more of having a horse win the Margate Plate, or the Hampstead
Heath Sweepstakes, than if he ran a good fourth in the Derby. Bless
their innocent hearts! I should think fellows with plenty of money
and no brains must have been invented for the good of fellows with
plenty of brains and no money; and that's how we contrive to keep our
equilibrium in the universal see-saw."
Mr. James Conyers, puffing lazy clouds of transparent blue smoke from
his lips, and pondering thus, looked as sentimental as if he had been
ruminating upon the last three pages of the 'Bride of Abydos,' or the
death of Paul Dombey. He had that romantic style of beauty peculiar
to dark-blue eyes and long black lashes; and he could not wonder what
he should have for dinner without a dreamy pensiveness in the purple
shadows of those deep-blue orbs. He had found the sentimentality of his
beauty almost of greater use to him than the beauty itself. It was this
sentimentality which always put him at an advantage with his employers.
He looked like an exiled prince doing menial service in bitterness of
spirit and a turned-down collar. He looked like Lara returned to his
own domains to train the horses of a usurper. He looked, in short, like
anything but what he was,--a selfish, good-for-nothing, lazy scoundrel,
who was well up in the useful art of doing the minimum of work, and
getting the maximum of wages.
He strolled slowly back to his rustic habitation, where he found the
"Softy" waiting for him; the kettle boiling upon a handful of bright
fire, and some tea-things laid out upon the little round table. Mr.
Conyers looked rather contemptuously at the humble preparations.
"I've mashed the tea for 'ee," said the "Softy;" "I thought you'd like
a coop."
The trainer shrugged his shoulders.
"I can't say I'm particular attached to the cat-lap," he said,
laughing; "I've had rather too much of it when I've been in
training,--half-and-half, warm tea and cold-drawn castor-oil. I'll send
you into Doncaster for some spirits to-morrow, my man: or to-night,
perhaps," he added reflectively, resting his elbow upon the table and
his chin in the hollow of his hand.
He sat for some time in this thoughtful attitude, his retainer
Steeve Hargraves watching him intently all the while, with that
half-wondering, half-admiring stare with which a very ugly creature--a
creature so ugly as to know it is ugly--looks at a very handsome one.
At the close of his reverie, Mr. Conyers took out a clumsy silver
watch, and sat for a few minutes staring vacantly at the dial.
"Close upon six," he muttered at last. "What time do they dine at the
house, Steeve?"
"Seven o'clock," answered the "Softy."
"Seven o'clock. Then you'd have time to run there with a message, or a
letter, and catch 'em just as they're going in to dinner."
The "Softy" stared aghast at his new master.
"A message or a letter," he repeated; "for Mr. Mellish?"
"No; for Mrs. Mellish."
"But I daren't," exclaimed Stephen Hargraves; "I daren't go nigh
the house; least of all to speak to her. I don't forget the day she
horsewhipped me. I've never seen her since, and I don't want to see
her. You think I am a coward, don't 'ee?" he said, stopping suddenly,
and looking at the trainer, whose handsome lips were curved into
a contemptuous smile. "You think I'm a coward, don't 'ee, now?" he
repeated.
"Well, I don't think you are over-valiant," answered Mr. Conyers, "to
be afraid of a woman, though she was the veriest devil that ever played
fast and loose with a man."
"Shall I tell you what it is I am afraid of?" said Steeve Hargraves,
hissing the words through his closed teeth in that unpleasant
whisper peculiar to him. "It isn't Mrs. Mellish. It's myself. It's
_this_"--he grasped something in the loose pocket of his trousers as he
spoke,--"it's _this_. I'm afraid to trust myself a-nigh her, for fear I
should spring upon her, and cut her thro-at from ear to ear. I've seen
her in my dreams sometimes, with her beautiful white thro-at laid open,
and streaming oceans of blood; but, for all that, she's always had the
broken whip in her hand, and she's always laughed at me. I've had many
a dream about her; but I've never seen her dead or quiet; and I've
never seen her without the whip."
The contemptuous smile died away from the trainer's lips as Steeve
Hargraves made this revelation of his sentiments, and gave place to a
darkly thoughtful expression, which overshadowed the whole of his face.
"I've no such wonderful love for Mrs. Mellish myself," he said; "but
she might live to be as old as Methuselah, for aught I care, if
she'd----" He muttered something between his teeth, and walked up the
little staircase to his bedroom, whistling a popular tune as he went.
He came down again with a dirty-looking leather desk in his hand; which
he flung carelessly on to the table. It was stuffed with crumpled
untidy-looking letters and papers, from among which he had considerable
difficulty in selecting a tolerably clean sheet of note-paper.
"You'll take a letter to Mrs. Mellish, my friend," he said to Stephen,
stooping over the table and writing as he spoke; "and you'll please to
deliver it safe into her own hands. The windows will all be open this
sultry weather, and you can watch till you see her in the drawing-room;
and when you do, contrive to beckon her out, and give her this."
He had folded the sheet of paper by this time, and had sealed it
carefully in an adhesive envelope.
"There's no need of any address," he said, as he handed the letter to
Steeve Hargraves; "you know who it's for, and you won't give it to
anybody else. There, get along with you. She'll say nothing to _you_,
man, when she sees who the letter comes from."
The "Softy" looked darkly at his new employer; but Mr. James Conyers
rather piqued himself upon a quality which he called determination, but
which his traducers designated obstinacy, and he made up his mind that
no one but Steeve Hargraves should carry the letter.
"Come," he said, "no nonsense, Mr. Stephen! Remember this: if I choose
to employ you, and if I choose to send you on any errand whatsoever,
there's no one in that house will dare to question my right to do it.
Get along with you!"
He pointed, as he spoke, with the stem of his pipe, to the Gothic
roof and ivied chimneys of the old house gleaming amongst a mass of
foliage. "Get along with you, Mr. Stephen, and bring me an answer to
that letter," he added, lighting his pipe and seating himself in his
favourite attitude upon the window-sill,--an attitude which, like
everything about him, was a half-careless, half-defiant protest of his
superiority to his position. "You needn't wait for a written answer.
Yes or No will be quite enough, you may tell Mrs. Mellish."
The "Softy" whispered something, half inaudible, between his teeth;
but he took the letter, and pulling his shabby rabbit-skin cap over
his eyes, walked slowly off in the direction to which Mr. Conyers had
pointed, with a half-contemptuous action, a few moments before.
"A queer fish," muttered the trainer, lazily watching the awkward
figure of his attendant; "a queer fish; but it's rather hard if I can't
manage _him_. I've twisted his betters round my little finger before
to-day."
Mr. Conyers forgot that there are some natures which, although inferior
in everything else, are strong by reason of their stubbornness, and
not to be twisted out of their natural crookedness by any trick of
management or skilfulness of handling.
The evening was sunless but sultry; there was a lowering darkness in
the leaden sky, and an unnatural stillness in the atmosphere that
prophesied the coming of a storm. The elements were taking breath for
the struggle, and lying silently in wait against the breaking of
their fury. It would come by-and-by, the signal for the outburst, in a
long, crackling peal of thunder that would shake the distant hills and
flutter every leaf in the wood.
The trainer looked with an indifferent eye at the ominous aspect of
the heavens. "I must go down to the stables, and send some of the boys
to get the horses under cover," he said; "there'll be a storm before
long." He took his stick and limped out of the cottage, still smoking;
indeed, there were very few hours in the day, and not many during the
night, in which Mr. Conyers was unprovided with his pipe or cigar.
Steeve Hargraves walked very slowly along the narrow pathway which led
across the park to the flower-garden and lawn before the house. This
north side of the park was wilder and less well kept than the rest;
but the thick undergrowth swarmed with game, and the young hares flew
backwards and forwards across the pathway, startled by the "Softy's"
shambling tread, while every now and then the partridges rose in pairs
from the tangled grass, and skimmed away under the low roof of foliage.
"If I was to meet Mr. Mellish's keeper here, he'd look at me black
enough, I dare say," muttered the "Softy," "though I aint after the
game. Lookin' at a pheasant's high treason in his mind, curse him!"
He put his hands low down in his pockets, as if scarcely able to resist
the temptation to wring the neck of a splendid cock-pheasant that was
strutting through the high grass, with a proud serenity of manner that
implied a knowledge of the game-laws. The trees on the north side of
the Park formed a species of leafy wall which screened the lawn, so
that, coming from this northern side, the "Softy" emerged at once
from the shelter into the smooth grass bordering this lawn, which was
separated from the Park by an invisible fence.
As Steeve Hargraves, still sheltered from observation by the trees,
approached the place, he saw that his errand was shortened, for Mrs.
Mellish was leaning upon a low iron gate, with the dog Bow-wow, the dog
that he had beaten, at her side.
He had left the narrow pathway and struck in amongst the undergrowth,
in order to make a shorter cut to the flower-garden, and as he came
from under the shelter of the low branches which made a leafy cave
about him, he left a long track of parted grass behind him, like the
track of the footstep of a tiger, or the trail of a slow, ponderous
serpent creeping towards its prey.
Aurora looked up at the sound of the shambling footstep, and, for the
second time since she had beaten him, she encountered the gaze of the
"Softy." She was very pale, almost as pale as her white dress, which
was unenlivened by any scrap of colour, and which hung about her in
loose folds that gave a statuesque grace to her figure. She was dressed
with such evident carelessness that every fold of muslin seemed to tell
how far away her thoughts had been when that hasty toilette was made.
Her black brows contracted as she looked at the "Softy."
"I thought Mr. Mellish had dismissed you," she said, "and that you had
been forbidden to come here?"
"Yes, ma'am, Muster Mellish did turn me out of the house I'd lived in,
man and boy, nigh upon forty year; but I've got a new pleace now, and
my new master sent me to you with a letter."
Watching the effect of his words, the "Softy" saw a leaden change come
over the pale face of his listener.
"What new master?" she asked.
Steeve Hargraves lifted his hand and pointed across his shoulder. She
watched the slow motion of that clumsy hand, and her eyes seemed to
grow larger as she saw the direction to which it pointed.
"Your new master is the trainer, James Conyers,--the man who lives at
the north lodge?" she said.
"Yes, ma'am."
"What does he want with you?" she asked.
"I keep his place in order for him, ma'am, and run errands for him; and
I've brought a letter."
"A letter? Ah, yes, give it me."
The "Softy" handed her the envelope. She took it slowly, without
removing her eyes from his face, but watching him with a fixed and
earnest look that seemed as if it would have fathomed something beneath
the dull red eyes which met hers. A look that betrayed some doubtful
terror hidden in her own breast, and a vague desire to penetrate the
secrets of his.
She did not look at the letter, but held it half crushed in the hand
hanging by her side.
"You can go," she said.
"I was to wait for an answer."
The black brows contracted again, and this time a bright gleam of fury
kindled in the great black eyes.
"There is no answer," she said, thrusting the letter into the bosom
of her dress, and turning to leave the gate; "there is no answer, and
there shall be none till I choose. Tell your master that."
"It wasn't to be a written answer," persisted the "Softy;" "it was to
be Yes or No, that's all; but I was to be sure and wait for it."
The half-witted creature saw some feeling of hate and fury in her face
beyond her contemptuous hatred of himself, and took a savage pleasure
in tormenting her. She struck her foot impatiently upon the grass, and
plucking the letter from her breast, tore open the envelope, and read
the few lines it contained. Few as they were, she stood for nearly five
minutes with the open letter in her hand, separated from the "Softy" by
the iron fence, and lost in thought. The silence was only broken during
this pause by an occasional growl from the mastiff, who lifted his
heavy lip, and showed his feeble teeth for the edification of his old
enemy.
She tore the letter into a hundred morsels, and flung it from her
before she spoke. "Yes," she said at last; "tell your master that."
Steeve Hargraves touched his cap and went back through the grassy trail
he had left, to carry this message to the trainer.
"She hates me bad enough," he muttered, as he stopped once to look back
at the quiet white figure on the lawn, "but she hates t'oother chap
worse."