"HE ONLY SAID, I AM A-WEARY."
Mr. James Conyers found the long summer's days hang rather heavily upon
his hands at Mellish Park, in the society of the rheumatic ex-trainer,
the stable-boys, and Steeve Hargraves the "Softy," and with no literary
resources except the last Saturday's 'Bell's Life,' and sundry flimsy
sheets of shiny, slippery tissue-paper, forwarded him by post from King
Charles's Croft, in the busy town of Leeds.
He might have found plenty of work to do in the stables, perhaps, if
he had had a mind to do it; but after the night of the storm there was
a perceptible change in his manner; and the showy pretence of being
very busy, which he had made on his first arrival at the Park, was now
exchanged for a listless and undisguised dawdling and an unconcerned
indifference, which caused the old trainer to shake his gray head, and
mutter to his hangers-on that the new chap warn't up to mooch, and was
evidently too grand for his business.
Mr. James cared very little for the opinion of these simple
Yorkshiremen; and he yawned in their faces, and stifled them with his
cigar smoke, with a dashing indifference that harmonized well with the
gorgeous tints of his complexion and the lustrous splendour of his
lazy eyes. He had taken the trouble to make himself very agreeable on
the day succeeding his arrival, and had distributed his hearty slaps
on the shoulder and friendly digs in the ribs, right and left, until
he slapped and dug himself into considerable popularity amongst the
friendly rustics, who were ready to be bewitched by his handsome face
and flashy manner. But after his interview with Mrs. Mellish in the
cottage by the north gates, he seemed to abandon all desire to please,
and to grow suddenly restless and discontented: so restless and so
discontented that he felt inclined even to quarrel with the unhappy
"Softy," and led his red-haired retainer a sufficiently uncomfortable
life with his whims and vagaries.
Stephen Hargraves bore this change in his new master's manner with
wonderful patience. Rather too patiently, perhaps; with that slow,
dogged, uncomplaining patience of those who keep something in reserve
as a set-off against present forbearance, and who invite rather than
avoid injury, rejoicing in anything which swells the great account, to
be squared in future storm and fury. The "Softy" was a man who could
hoard his hatred and vengeance, hiding the bad passions away in the
dark corners of his poor shattered mind, and bringing them out in the
dead of the night to "kiss and talk to," as the Moor's wife kissed and
conversed with the strawberry-embroidered cambric. There must surely
have been very little "society" at Cyprus, or Mrs. Othello could
scarcely have been reduced to such insipid company.
However it might be, Steeve bore Mr. Conyers's careless insolence
so very meekly that the trainer laughed at his attendant for a
poor-spirited hound, whom a pair of flashing black eyes and a lady's
toy riding-whip could frighten out of the poor remnant of wit left
in his muddled brain. He said something to this effect when Steeve
displeased him once, in the course of the long, temper-trying summer's
day; and the "Softy" turned away with something very like a chuckle
of savage pleasure in acknowledgment of the compliment. He was more
obsequious than ever after it, and was humbly thankful for the ends of
cigars which the trainer liberally bestowed upon him, and went into
Doncaster for more spirits and more cigars in the course of the day,
and fetched and carried as submissively as that craven-spirited hound
to which his employer had politely compared him.
Mr. Conyers did not even make a pretence of going to look at the horses
on this blazing 5th of July, but lolled on the window-sill, with his
lame leg upon a chair, and his back against the framework of the little
casement, smoking, drinking, and reading his price-lists all through
the sunny day. The cold brandy-and-water which he poured, without half
an hour's intermission, down his handsome throat, seemed to have far
less influence upon him than the same amount of liquid would have had
upon a horse. It would have put the horse out of condition, perhaps;
but it had no effect whatever upon the trainer.
Mrs. Powell, walking for the benefit of her health in the north
shrubberies, and incurring imminent danger of a sun-stroke for the
same praiseworthy reason, contrived to pass the lodge, and to see Mr.
Conyers lounging, dark and splendid, on the window-sill, exhibiting
a kit-cat of his handsome person framed in the clustering foliage
which hung about the cottage walls. She was rather embarrassed by
the presence of the "Softy," who was sweeping the door-step, and who
gave her a glance of recognition as she passed,--a glance which might
perhaps have said, "We know his secrets, you and I, handsome and
insolent as he is; we know the paltry price at which he can be bought
and sold. But we keep our counsel; we keep our counsel till time ripens
the bitter fruit upon the tree, though our fingers itch to pluck it
while it is still green."
Mrs. Powell stopped to give the trainer good day, expressing as much
surprise at seeing him at the north lodge as if she had been given to
understand that he was travelling in Kamschatka; but Mr. Conyers cut
her civilities short with a yawn, and told her with easy familiarity
that she would be conferring a favour upon him by sending him that
morning's 'Times' as soon as the daily papers arrived at the Park.
The ensign's widow was too much under the influence of the graceful
impertinence of his manner to resist it as she might have done, and
returned to the house, bewildered and wondering, to comply with his
request. So through the oppressive heat of the summer's day the trainer
smoked, drank, and took his ease, while his dependent and follower
watched him with a puzzled face, revolving vaguely and confusedly in
his dull, muddled brain the events of the previous night.
But Mr. James Conyers grew weary at last even of his own ease; and
that inherent restlessness which caused Rasselas to tire of his happy
valley, and sicken for the free breezes on the hill-tops and the
clamour of the distant cities, arose in the bosom of the trainer,
and grew so strong that he began to chafe at the rural quiet of
the north lodge, and to shuffle his poor lame leg wearily from one
position to another in sheer discontent of mind, which, by one of
those many subtle links between spirit and matter that tell us we are
mortal, communicated itself to his body, and gave him that chronic
disorder which is popularly called "the fidgets." An unquiet fever,
generated amidst the fibres of the brain, and finding its way by that
physiological telegraph, the spinal marrow, to the remotest stations on
the human railway.
Mr. James suffered from this common complaint to such a degree, that as
the solemn strokes of the church-clock vibrated in sonorous music above
the tree-tops of Mellish Park in the sunny evening atmosphere, he threw
down his pipe with an impatient shrug of the shoulders, and called to
the "Softy" to bring him his hat and walking-stick.
"Seven o'clock," he muttered, "only seven o'clock. I think there must
have been twenty-four hours in this blessed summer's day."
He stood looking from the little casement-window with a discontented
frown contracting his handsome eyebrows, and a peevish expression
distorting his full, classically-moulded lips, as he said this. He
glanced through the little casement, made smaller by its clustering
frame of roses and clematis, jessamine and myrtle, and looking like
the port-hole of a ship that sailed upon a sea of summer verdure. He
glanced through the circular opening left by that scented framework of
leaves and blossoms, into the long glades, where the low sunlight was
flickering upon waving fringes of fern. He followed with his listless
glance the wandering intricacies of the underwood, until they led his
weary eyes away to distant patches of blue water, slowly changing to
opal and rose-colour in the declining light. He saw all these things
with a lazy apathy, which had no power to recognize their beauty, or to
inspire one latent thrill of gratitude to Him who had made them. He had
better have been blind; surely he had better have been blind.
He turned his back upon the evening sunshine, and looked at the white
face of Steeve Hargraves, the "Softy," with every whit as much pleasure
as he had felt in looking at nature in her loveliest aspect.
"A long day," he said,--"an infernally tedious, wearisome day. Thank
God, it's over."
Strange that, as he uttered this impious thanksgiving, no subtle
influence of the future crept through his veins to chill the slackening
pulses of his heart, and freeze the idle words upon his lips. If he had
known what was so soon to come; if he had known, as he thanked God for
the death of one beautiful summer's day, never to be born again, with
its twelve hours of opportunity for good or evil,--surely he would have
grovelled on the earth, stricken with a sudden terror, and wept aloud
for the shameful history of the life which lay behind him.
He had never shed tears but once since his childhood, and then those
tears were scalding drops of baffled rage and vengeful fury at the
utter defeat of the greatest scheme of his life.
"I shall go into Doncaster to-night, Steeve," he said to the "Softy,"
who stood deferentially awaiting his master's pleasure, and watching
him, as he had watched him all day, furtively but incessantly; "I
shall spend the evening in Doncaster, and--and--see if I can pick up
a few wrinkles about the September meeting; not that there's anything
worth entering amongst this set of screws, Lord knows," he added,
with undisguised contempt for poor John's beloved stable. "Is there a
dog-cart, or a trap of any kind, I can drive over in?" he asked of the
"Softy."
Mr. Hargraves said that there was a Newport Pagnell, which was sacred
to Mr. John Mellish, and a gig that was at the disposal of any of the
upper servants when they had occasion to go into Doncaster, as well as
a covered van, which some of the lads drove into the town every day for
the groceries and other matters required at the house.
"Very good," said Mr. Conyers; "you may run down to the stables, and
tell one of the boys to put the fastest pony of the lot into the
Newport Pagnell, and to bring it up here, and to look sharp."
"But nobody but Muster Mellish rides in the Newport Pagnell," suggested
the "Softy," with an accent of alarm.
"What of that, you cowardly hound?" cried the trainer contemptuously.
"I'm going to drive it to-night, don't you hear? D--n his Yorkshire
insolence! Am I to be put down by _him?_ It's his handsome wife that
he takes such pride in, is it? Lord help him! Whose money bought the
dog-cart, I wonder? Aurora Floyd's, perhaps. And I'm not to ride in
it, I suppose, because it's my lord's pleasure to drive his black-eyed
lady in the sacred vehicle. Look you here, you brainless idiot, and
understand me, if you can!" cried Mr. James Conyers in a sudden rage,
which crimsoned his handsome face, and lit up his lazy eyes with a new
fire,--"look you here, Stephen Hargraves! if it wasn't that I'm tied
hand and foot, and have been plotted against and thwarted by a woman's
cunning, at every turn, I could smoke my pipe in yonder house, or in a
better house, this day."
He pointed with his finger to the pinnacled roof, and the reddened
windows glittering in the evening sun, visible far away amongst the
trees.
"Mr. John Mellish!" he said. "If his wife wasn't such a she-devil as to
be too many guns for the cleverest man in Christendom, I'd soon make
_him_ sing small. Fetch the Newport Pagnell!" he cried suddenly, with
an abrupt change of tone; "fetch it, and be quick! I'm not safe to
myself when I talk of this. I'm not safe when I think how near I was to
half a million of money," he muttered under his breath.
He limped out into the open air, fanning himself with the wide brim of
his felt hat, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
"Be quick!" he cried impatiently to his deliberate attendant, who had
listened eagerly to every word of his master's passionate talk, and who
now stood watching him even more intently than before, "be quick, man,
can't you? I don't pay you five shillings a week to stare at me. Fetch
the trap! I've worked myself into a fever, and nothing but a rattling
drive will set me right again."
The "Softy" shuffled off as rapidly as it was within the range of his
ability to walk. He had never been seen to run in his life; but had
a slow, side-long gait, which had some faint resemblance to that of
the lower reptiles, but very little in common with the motions of his
fellow-men.
Mr. James Conyers limped up and down the little grassy lawn in front of
the north lodge. The excitement which had crimsoned his face gradually
subsided, as he vented his disquietude in occasional impatient
exclamations. "Two thousand pounds!" he muttered; "a pitiful, paltry
two thousand! Not a twelvemonth's interest on the money I ought to have
had--the money I should have had, if----"
He stopped abruptly, and growled something like an oath between his
set teeth, as he struck his stick with angry violence into the soft
grass. It is especially hard when we are reviling our bad fortune, and
quarrelling with our fate, to find at last, on wandering backwards to
the source of our ill-luck, that the primary cause of all has been our
own evil-doing. It was this that made Mr. Conyers stop abruptly in his
reflections upon his misfortunes, and break off with a smothered oath,
and listen impatiently for the wheels of the Newport Pagnell.
The "Softy" appeared presently, leading the horse by the bridle.
He had not presumed to seat himself in the sacred vehicle, and he
stared wonderingly at James Conyers as the trainer tumbled about the
chocolate-cloth cushions, arranging them afresh for his own ease and
comfort. Neither the bright varnish of the dark-brown panels, nor the
crimson crest, nor the glittering steel ornaments on the neat harness,
nor any of the exquisitely-finished appointments of the light vehicle,
provoked one word of criticism from Mr. Conyers. He mounted as easily
as his lame leg would allow him, and taking the reins from the "Softy,"
lighted his cigar preparatory to starting.
"You needn't sit up for me to-night," he said, as he drove into the
dusty high road: "I shall be late."
Mr. Hargraves shut the iron gates with a loud clanking noise upon his
new master.
"But I shall, though," he muttered, looking askant through the bars at
the fast disappearing Newport Pagnell, which was now little more than
a black spot in a white cloud of dust; "but I shall sit up, though.
You'll come home drunk, I lay." (Yorkshire is so pre-eminently a
horse-racing and betting county, that even simple country folk who
have never wagered a sixpence in the quiet course of their lives say "I
lay" where a Londoner would say "I dare say.") "You'll come home drunk,
I lay; folks generally do from Doncaster; and I shall hear some more of
your wild talk. Yes, yes," he said in a slow, reflective tone; "it's
very wild talk, and I can't make top nor tail of it yet--not yet; but
it seems to me somehow as if I knew what it all meant, only I can't put
it together--I can't put it together. There's something missin', and
the want of that something hinders me putting it together."
He rubbed his stubble of coarse red hair with his two strong, awkward
hands, as if he would fain have rubbed some wanting intelligence into
his head.
"Two thousand pound!" he said, walking slowly back to the cottage. "Two
thousand pound! It's a power of money! Why it's two thousand pound
that the winner gets by the great race at Newmarket, and there's all
the gentlefolks ready to give their ears for it. There's great lords
fighting and struggling against each other for it; so it's no wonder a
poor fond chap like me thinks summat about it."
He sat down upon the step of the lodge-door to smoke the cigar-ends
which his benefactor had thrown him in the course of the day; but he
still ruminated upon this subject, and he still stopped sometimes,
between the extinction of one cheroot-stump and the illuminating of
another, to mutter, "Two thousand pound! Twenty hundred pound! Forty
times fifty pound!" with an unctuous chuckle after the enunciation of
each figure, as if it was some privilege even to be able to talk of
such vast sums of money. So might some doating lover, in the absence of
his idol, murmur the beloved name to the summer breeze.
The last crimson lights upon the patches of blue water died out beneath
the gathering darkness; but the "Softy" sat, still smoking, and still
ruminating, till the stars were high in the purple vault above his
head. A little after ten o'clock he heard the rattling of wheels and
the tramp of horses' hoofs upon the high road, and going to the gate he
looked out through the iron bars. As the vehicle dashed by the north
gates he saw that it was one of the Mellish-Park carriages which had
been sent to the station to meet John and his wife.
"A short visit to Loon'on," he muttered. "I lay she's been to fetch t'
brass."
The greedy eyes of the half-witted groom peered through the iron bars
at the passing carriage, as if he would have fain looked through its
opaque panels in search of that which he had denominated "the brass."
He had a vague idea that two thousand pounds would be a great bulk of
money, and that Aurora would carry it in a chest or a bundle that might
be perceptible through the carriage-window.
"I'll lay she's been to fetch t' brass," he repeated, as he crept back
to the lodge-door.
He resumed his seat upon the door-step, his cigar-ends, and his
reverie, rubbing his head very often, sometimes with one hand,
sometimes with both, but always as if he were trying to rub some
wanting sense or power of perception into his wretched brains.
Sometimes he gave a short restless sigh, as if he had been trying all
this time to guess some difficult enigma, and was on the point of
giving it up.
It was long after midnight when Mr. James Conyers returned, very much
the worse for brandy-and-water and dust. He tumbled over the "Softy,"
still sitting on the step of the open door, and then cursed Mr.
Hargraves for being in the way.
"B't s'nc' y' h'v' ch's'n t' s't 'p," said the trainer, speaking a
language entirely composed of consonants, "y' m'y dr'v' tr'p b'ck t'
st'bl's."
By which rather obscure speech he gave the "Softy" to understand that
he was to take the dog-cart back to Mr. Mellish's stable-yard.
Steeve Hargraves did his drunken master's bidding, and leading the
horse homewards through the quiet night, found a cross boy with a
lantern in his hand waiting at the gate of the stable-yard, and by no
means disposed for conversation, except, indeed, to the extent of the
one remark that he, the cross boy, hoped the new trainer wasn't going
to be up to this game every night, and hoped the mare, which had been
bred for a racer, hadn't been ill used.
All John Mellish's horses seemed to have been bred for racers, and
to have dropped gradually from prospective winners of the Derby,
Oaks, Chester Cup, Great Ebor, Yorkshire Stakes, Leger, and Doncaster
Cup,--to say nothing of minor victories in the way of Northumberland
Plates, Liverpool Autumn Cups, and Curragh Handicaps, through every
variety of failure and defeat,--into the every-day ignominy of harness.
Even the van which carried groceries was drawn by a slim-legged,
narrow-chested, high-shouldered animal called the "Yorkshire Childers,"
and bought, in its sunny colt-hood, at a great price by poor John.
Mr. Conyers was snoring aloud in his little bedroom when Steeve
Hargraves returned to the lodge. The "Softy" stared wonderingly at
the handsome face brutalized by drink, and the classical head flung
back upon the crumpled pillow in one of those wretched positions which
intoxication always chooses for its repose. Steeve Hargraves rubbed
his head harder even than before, as he looked at the perfect profile,
the red, half-parted lips, the dark fringe of lashes on the faintly
crimson-tinted cheeks.
"Perhaps I might have been good for summat if I had been like _you_,"
he said, with a half-savage melancholy. "I shouldn't have been ashamed
of myself then. I shouldn't have crept into dark corners to hide
myself, and think why I wasn't like other people, and what a bitter,
cruel shame it was that I wasn't like 'em. _You've_ no call to hide
yourself from other folks; nobody tells you to get out of the way for
an ugly hound, as you told me this morning, hang you! The world's
smooth enough for you."
So may Caliban have looked at Prospero with envy and hate in his
heart before going to his obnoxious tasks of dish-washing and
trencher-scraping.
He shook his fist at the unconscious sleeper as he finished speaking,
and then stooped to pick up the trainer's dusty clothes, which were
scattered upon the floor.
"I suppose I'm to brush these before I go to bed," he muttered, "that
my lord may have 'em ready when he wakes in th' morning."
He took the clothes on his arm and the light in his hand, and went down
to the lower room, where he found a brush and set to work sturdily,
enveloping himself in a cloud of dust, like some ugly Arabian genii who
was going to transform himself into a handsome prince.
He stopped suddenly in his brushing, by-and-by, and crumpled the
waistcoat in his hand.
"There's some paper!" he exclaimed. "A paper sewed up between stuff and
linin'."
He omitted the definite article before each of the substantives, as is
a common habit with his countrymen when at all excited.
"A bit o' paper," he repeated, "between stuff and linin'! I'll rip t'
waistcoat open and see what 'tis."
He took his clasp-knife from his pocket, carefully unripped a part
of one of the seams in the waistcoat, and extracted a piece of paper
folded double,--a decent-sized square of rather thick paper, partly
printed, partly written.
He leaned over the light with his elbows on the table and read the
contents of this paper, slowly and laboriously, following every word
with his thick forefinger, sometimes stopping a long time upon one
syllable, sometimes trying back half a line or so, but always plodding
patiently with his ugly forefinger.
When he came to the last word, he burst suddenly into a loud chuckle,
as if he had just succeeded in guessing that difficult enigma which had
puzzled him all the evening.
"I know it all now," he said. "I can put it all together now. His
words; and hers; and the money. I can put it all together, and make
out the meaning of it. She's going to give him the two thousand pound
to go away from here and say nothing about this."
He refolded the paper, replaced it carefully in its hiding-place
between the stuff and lining of the waistcoat, then searched in his
capacious pocket for a fat leathern book, in which, amongst all sorts
of odds and ends, there were some needles and a tangled skein of black
thread. Then, stooping over the light, he slowly sewed up the seam
which he had ripped open,--dexterously and neatly enough, in spite of
the clumsiness of his big fingers.