"Did you hear what I said, Sam?"
"Yes."
"Then why don't you give it me? Draw that oven back an inch."
"Aint got it--only half a sov," said Sam, leaving the potatoes to burn.
Mrs Jenkles dropped her work upon her lap, and her face grew very red.
"Didn't you say, Sam, that if I'd trust you, you wouldn't do so any
more?"
"Yes."
"And you've broke your word, Sam."
"I aint, 'pon my soul, I aint, Sally," cried Sam, earnestly. "I've had
my pint for dinner, and never touched a drop more till I had my pint at
home."
"Then where's that money?"
"Spent it," said Sam, laconically.
"Yes, at the nasty public-houses, Sam. An' it's too bad, and when I'd
trusted you!"
"Wrong!" said Sam.
"Then where is it?"
"Fooled it away."
"Yes, of course. But I didn't expect it, Sam; I didn't, indeed."
"All your fault," said Sam.
"Yes, for trusting you," said Mrs Jenkles, bitterly. "Nice life we
lead: you with the worst horse and the worst cab on the rank, and me
with the worst husband."
"Is he, Sally?" said Sam, with a twinkle of the eye.
"Yes," said Mrs Jenkles, angrily; "and that makes it all the worse,
when he might be one of the best. Oh, Sam," she said, pitifully, "do I
ever neglect you or your home?"
"Not you," he said, throwing down his pipe, and looking round at the
shining tins, bright fireplace, and general aspect of simple comfort and
cleanliness. "You're the best old wife in the world."
And he got up and stood behind her chair with his arms round her neck.
"Don't touch me, Sam. I'm very, very much hurt."
"Well, it was all your fault, little woman," he said, holding the comely
face, so that his wife could not look round at him.
"And how, pray?" said she.
"Didn't you send me up to see that poor woman as Ratty knocked down?"
"Yes; but did you go?"
"To be sure I did--you told me to go."
"Then why didn't you tell me you had been?"
"Didn't like to," said Sam.
"Such stuff!" cried Mrs Jenkles. "But what's that got to do with it?"
Sam remained silent.
"What's that got to do with it, Sam?"
Silence still.
"Now, Sam, you've got something on your mind, so you'd better tell me.
Have you been drinking?"
"No, I haven't," said Sam, "and I don't mean to again."
"Then I'm very sorry for what I said."
"I know that," said Sam.
"But what does it all mean?"
"Well, you see," said Sam, "I've been a fool."
And after a little more hesitation, he told all about his visit.
Mrs Jenkles sat looking at the fire, rubbing her nose with her thimble,
both she and Sam heedless that the potatoes were burning.
"You've been took in, Sam, I'm afraid," she said at last.
"Think so?" he said.
"Well, I hope not; but you've either been took in, or done a very, very
kind thing."
"Well, we shall see," he said.
"Yes, we shall see."
"You aint huffy with me?"
"I don't know yet," said Mrs Jenkles; "but I shall go up and see them."
"Ah, do," said Sam.
"Yes, I mean to see to the bottom of it," said Mrs Jenkles. "I haven't
patience with such ways."
"They can't help being poor."
"I don't mean them; I mean those people they're with. I couldn't do
it."
"Not you," said Sam. "But I say, don't Mr Lacy go next week?"
"Yes."
"And the rooms will be empty?"
"Yes," said Mrs Jenkles. "I have put the bill up in the window; he
said he didn't mind."
Sam Jenkles went and sat down in his chair with an air of relief and
looked at his wife.
Mrs Jenkles looked at Sam, as if the same idea was in both hearts.
Then she jumped up suddenly.
"Oh, Sam, the potatoes are spoiling!"
They were, but they were not spoilt; and Sam Jenkles made a very hearty
meal, washing it down with the pint of beer which he termed his
allowance.
"Ah!" he said, speaking like a man with a load off his mind, "this
here's a luxury as the swells never gets--a regular good, hot, mealy
tater, fresh from the fire. It's a wonderful arrangement of nature that
about taters."
"Why?" said Mrs Jenkles, as she emptied the brown coat of another
potato on her husband's plate. "What do you mean?"
"Why, the way in which roast potatoes and beer goes together. Six
mouthfuls of tater, and then a drink of beer to get rid of the dryness."
"I wish you wouldn't be so fond of talking about beer, Sam," said Mrs
Jenkles.
"All right, my dear," said Sam; and he finished his supper, retook his
place by the fireside, filled his pipe, glanced at the Dutch clock
swinging its pendulum to and fro; and then, as he lit the tobacco--"Ah!
this is cheery. Glad I aint on the night shift."
Mrs Jenkles was very quiet as she bustled about and cleared the table,
before once more taking her place on the other side of the fire.
"Ratty went first-rate to-day," said Sam, after a few puffs.
But Mrs Jenkles did not take any notice; she only made her needle
click, and Sam kept glancing at her as he went on smoking. At last she
spoke.
"I shall go up and see those people, Sam, for I'm afraid you've been
taken in. Was she a married woman."
"Yes," said Sam; "I saw her ring. But I say, you know, 'taint my fault,
Sally," he said, plaintively. "I was born a soft un."
"Then it's time you grew hard, Sam," said Mrs Jenkles, bending over her
work. "Thirty shillings takes a deal of saving with people like us."
"Yes," said Sam, "it do, 'specially when you has so many bad days to
make up."
"You ought not to have to pay more than twelve shillings a day for that
cab, Sam."
"I told the gov'nor so, and he said as it oughter be eighteen, and
plenty would be glad to get it at that."
Mrs Jenkles tightened her mouth, and shook her head.
"Oh! I say, Sally," said Sam, plaintively, "I've been worried about
that money; and now it was off my mind, I did think as it was all right.
You've reglarly put my pipe out."
Mrs Jenkles rose, took a splint from the chimney-piece, lit it, and
handed it to her husband.
"No," he said, rubbing his ear with the stem of his pipe, "it aint that,
my dear; I meant figgeratively, as old Jones says."
Mrs Jenkles threw the match into the fire, and resumed her work for a
few minutes; then glanced at the clock, and put away her work.
"Yes, Sam, I shall go to Upper Holloway to-morrow, and see what I
think."
"Do, my lass, do," said Sam, drearily. Then, in an undertone, as he
tapped his pipe-bowl on the hob, "Well, it's out now, and no mistake.
Shall we go to bed?"
Volume 1, Chapter VIII.
"OUR NEXT MEETING."
Fin Rea stood gazing down for a few moments, and then said--"No, indeed,
I can't, Mr Mervyn. Pray go."
"Oh, Mr Mervyn," said Tiny, softly, "don't tease her any more."
"It is hard to refuse such a request," said the newcomer; "but, as
trespassers, you must leave me to administer punishment. And, besides,
I owe Miss Fin here a grudge. She has been laughing at me, I hear."
"I'll never do so any more, Mr Mervyn--I won't indeed," cried Fin;
"only let me off this time."
"Jump, you little gipsy, jump," cried Mr Mervyn.
"It's too high--I daren't," cried Fin.
"I have seen you leap down from a place twice as high, my little fawn.
Now, then, jump at once."
Fin looked despairingly round for a few moments, then made a piteous
grimace, and lastly sprang boldly down into the strong arms, which held
her as if she had been a child.
"Now," said Mr Mervyn, "about the mistletoe?"
"Mr Mervyn, pray. Oh, it's too bad. I..."
"Don't be frightened, little one," he said, tenderly, as he retained her
with one hand, to smooth her breeze-blown hair with the other. "There,
come along; let me help you down."
But Fin started from him, like the fawn he had called her, and sprang
down the great bank.
"Mind my soup," shouted Mr Mervyn; and only just in time, for it was
nearly overset. Then he helped Tiny down, blushing and vexed; but no
sooner were they in the lane, than Fin clapped her hands together, and
exclaimed--
"Oh, Mr Mervyn, don't go and tell everybody what a rude tomboy of a
sister Tiny is blessed with. I am so ashamed."
"Come along, little ones," he said, laughing, as he stooped to pick up
the tin, and at the same time handed Fin her basket.
"How nice the soup smells," said Fin, mischievously.
"Yes; you promised to come and taste it some day," said Mr Mervyn; "but
you have never been. I'm very proud of my soup, young ladies, and have
many a hard fight with Mrs Dykes about it."
"Do you?" said Tiny, for he looked seriously at her as he spoke.
"What about?" said Fin, coming to her sister's help.
"About the quantity of water," said Mr Mervyn. "You know we've a big
copper for the soup; and Mrs Dykes has an idea in her head that eight
quarts of water go to the gallon, mine being that there are only four."
"Why, of course," laughed Fin.
"So," said Mr Mervyn, "she says I have the soup too strong, while I say
she wants to make it too weak."
"And what does old Mrs Trelyan say?"
"Say?" laughed Mr Mervyn. "Oh, the poor old soul lets me take it to
her as a favour, and says she eats it to oblige me."
"It's so funny with the poor people about," said Fin; "they want things,
but they won't take them as if you were being charitable to them; they
all try to make it seem like a favour they are doing you."
"Well, I don't know that I object to that much," said Mr Mervyn.
"They're all pleased enough to see us," continued Fin; "but when Aunt
Matty and papa go they preach at them, and the poor people don't like
it."
"Fin!" said Tiny, in a warning voice.
"I don't care," said Fin; "it's only Mr Mervyn, and we may speak to
him. I say, Mr Mervyn, did you hear about old Mrs Poltrene and Aunt
Matty?"
"Fin!" whispered Tiny, colouring.
"I _will_ tell Mr Mervyn; it isn't any harm," cried downright Fin.
And her sister, seeing that she only made matters worse, remained
silent.
"Mr Mervyn, you know old Mrs Poltrene, of course?"
"Oh yes, the old fisherman's wife down by the cliff."
"Yes; and Aunt Matty went to see her, and talked to her in her way, and
it made the old lady so cross that--that--oh, I mustn't tell you."
"Nonsense, child, go on."
"She--she told Aunt Matty to go along and get married," tittered Fin,
"and she could stay at home and mend her husband's stockings, and leave
people alone; and Aunt Matty thought it so horrible that she came home
and went to bed."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Mr Mervyn. "Mrs Poltrene has a temper; but here
we are--you'll come in?"
Tiny was for drawing back, but her sister prevailed. They had been
walking along the lane, and had now reached a long, low cottage, built
after the fashion of the district, with massive blocks of granite, and
roofed with slabs of the same. There was a strip of garden, though
gardens were almost needless, banked up as the place was on all sides
with the luxuriant wild growth of the valley. On one side, though, of
the doorway was the simple old fuchsia of bygone days, with a stem here
as thick as a man's wrist--a perfect fuchsia tree, in fact; and on the
other side, leafing and flowering right over the roof, a gigantic
hydrangea, the flower we see in eastern England in pots, but here of a
delicious blue.
"Any one at home," said Mr Mervyn, walking straight in. "Here, Mrs
Trelyan, I've brought you two visitors," and a very old, white-haired
woman, who was making a pilchard net, held her hand over her forehead.
"Sit down, girls--sit down," she said, in the melodious sing-song voice
of the Cornish people. "I know them--they come and see me sometimes.
Eh? How am I? But middling--but middling. It's been a bad season for
me. Oh, soup? Ah, you've brought me some more soup; you may empty it
into that basin. I didn't want it; but you may leave it. They've
brought me up some hake and a few herrings, so I could have got on
without. That last soup was too salt, master."
"Was it?" said Mr Mervyn, giving a merry glance at Fin. "Well, never
mind, I'll speak to Mrs Dykes about it."
"Ay, she's an east-country woman. Those folks don't know much about
cooking. Well, young ladies, I hear you have been to London."
"Yes, Mrs Trelyan."
"And you're glad to come back?"
"Yes, that we are," said Fin.
"Ay, I've heard it's a poor, lost sort of place, London," said the old
lady. "I never went, and I never would. My son William wanted to take
me once in his boot; but I wouldn't go. Your father was a wise man to
buy Tolcarne; but it'll never be such a place as Penreife."
"You know young Trevor's coming back?" said Mr Mervyn.
"Ay, I know," said the old lady. "Martha Lloyd came up to tell me, as
proud as a peacock, about her young master, talking about his fine this
and fine that, till she nearly made me sick. I should get rid of her
and her man if I was him."
"What, Lloyd, the butler?" said Mr Mervyn, smiling.
"Yes," said the old lady, grimly, "they're Welsh people; so's that young
farm-bailiff of his."
"You know the whole family?" said Mr Mervyn.
"Why, I was born here!" said the old lady, "and I ought to. We've been
here for generations. Ah! and so the young squire's coming back. Time
he did; going gadding off into foreign countries all this time. Why,
he's six or seven and twenty now. Ay, how time goes," continued the old
lady, who was off now on her hobby. "Why, it was like yesterday that
the Lloyds got Mrs Trevor to send for their sister from some place with
a dreadful name; and she did, and I believe it was her death, when she
might have had a good Cornish nurse; and the next thing we heard was
that there was a son, and the very next week there was a grand funeral,
and the poor squire was never the same man again. Ah! it was an artful
trick that--sending for the nurse because Mrs Lloyd wanted her too; and
young Humphrey Lloyd was born the same week. Ay, they were strange
times. It seemed directly after that we had the news about the squire,
who got reckless-like, always out in his yacht, a poor matchwood sort of
a thing, not like our boots, and it was blown on the Longships one
night, and there wasn't even a body came ashore."
"Rather a sad family history," said Mr Mervyn.
"Ay, sad enough," said the woman; "and now the young squire's coming
home at last from sea, but he'll never be such a man as his father."
"Think not?" said Mr Mervyn, musing.
"Sure not," said the old woman. "Why, he was petted and spoiled by
those Lloyds while he was a boy, and a pretty limb he was. Him and that
young Lloyd was always in some mischief. Pretty pranks they played me.
I've been out with the stick to 'em scores of times; but he was
generous--I will say that--and many's the conger and bass he's brought
me here, proud of 'em as could be, because he caught them himself."
"Well, Mrs Trelyan, we must say good morning," said Tiny, rising and
taking the old lady's hand. "Is there anything you would like--anything
we can bring you?"
"No, child, no," said the old lady; "I don't want anything. If you'd
any good tea, I'd use a pinch; but I'm not asking for it, mind that."
"Where's your snuff-box, granny?" said Mr Mervyn, bringing out a small
canister from his pocket.
"Oh, it's here," said the old lady, fishing out and opening her box to
show it was quite empty. "I don't know that I want any, though."
"Try that," said Mr Mervyn, filling it full; and the old lady took a
pinch. "That's not bad, is it?"
"N-n-no, it's not bad," said the old lady, "but I've had better."
"No doubt," said Mr Mervyn, smiling.
"By the way, Mrs Trelyan, how old are you?"
"Ninety next month," said the old lady; "and--dear, dear, what a bother
visitors are. Here's somebody else coming."
For at that moment there was a firm step heard without, and some one
stooped and entered the doorway, hardly seeing the group on his left in
the gloomy room.
"Is Mrs Trelyan at home?" he said; and Tiny Rea laid her hand upon her
sisters arm.
"Yes, young man," said the old lady, shading her eyes, and gazing at the
strongly-built figure before her. "I'm Mrs Trelyan, and what may you
want?"
"To see how you are, granny. I'm Richard Trevor."
"And--and--" cried the old woman, letting fall her net as she rose
slowly and laid her hand upon his arm; "and only a minute ago I was
talking about you, and declaring you'd never be such a man as your
father. My dear boy, how you have grown."
"One does grow in twelve years, granny," said the young man. "Well, I'm
glad to see you alive and hearty."
"Thank you, my boy," said the old lady; and then turning and pointing to
the wall, "Look!" she said, "that's the very stick that I took away from
you one day for teasing my hens. You were a bad boy. You know you
were."
"I suppose I was," said the young man, smiling. "But I beg pardon; you
have company, granny."
"Oh, that's only Mr Mervyn, my dear, and he's going; and those are only
the two girls from Tolcarne. I let them come and see me sometimes, but
they're going now."
"Mr Mervyn," said the young man, holding out his hand, which was taken
in a strong grip, "I am glad to meet so near a neighbour; perhaps you
will introduce me to the ladies?"
"That I will," said Mr Mervyn, heartily. "Mr Trevor!"
"It's Squire Trevor now, Mr Mervyn," said the old lady, with some show
of impatience.
"I beg pardon," said Mr Mervyn, smiling. "Squire Trevor, your very
near neighbours, Miss Rea, Miss Finetta Rea, of Tolcarne."
"Ladies whom I have had the pleasure of meeting before," said Trevor,
with a smile.
And then, in a confusion of bows, the two girls made their retreat,
followed by Mr Mervyn.
"Oh, Fin, how strange!" exclaimed Tiny; "it's the gentleman who struck
that man at the race."
"Yes," exclaimed Fin; "and that horrid little creature's sure to be
close behind."
Volume 1, Chapter IX.