As soon as she found that Madge was calm and ready to proceed with the
duties of the day, Aunt Hessy bustled out to look after the maidens in
the dairy and the kitchen. The other affairs of the house were attended
to by Madge assisted by Jenny Wodrow, an active girl, who had wisely
given up straw-plaiting at Luton for domestic service at Willowmere.
When clearing the breakfast-table, Madge found Miss Hadleigh’s letter,
which she had forgotten in the new interests and speculations excited
by her aunt’s communication.
Miss Hadleigh was one of those young ladies who fancy that in personal
intercourse with others dignity is best represented by the assumption
of a languid air of indifference to everything, whilst they compensate
themselves for this effort by ‘gushing’ over pages of note-paper. Of
course she began with ‘My dearest Madge:’ everybody was her ‘dearest;’
and how she found a superlative sufficient to mark the degree of her
regard for her betrothed is a problem in the gymnastics of language.
‘You know all about dearest Phil going to leave us in about a fortnight
or three weeks, and goodness only knows when he may come home again.
Well, we are going to have a _little_ dinner-party all to his honour
and glory, as you would see by the card I have addressed to your uncle.
Mind, it is a _little_ and very select party. There will be nobody
present except the most intimate and most esteemed friends of the
Family.’ (Family written with a very large capital F.)
‘Now the party cannot be _complete_ without you and your dear uncle
and aunt; and I write this _special_ supplement to the card to implore
you to keep yourselves free for Tuesday the 28th, and to tell you that
we will take _no_ excuse from any of you. Carrie and Bertha want to
have some friends in after dinner, so that they might get up a dance.
Of course, in my position I do not care for these things now; but to
please the girls, it might be arranged. Would _you_ like it?—because,
if you did, that would settle the matter at once. We have not told
Phil yet, because he always makes fun of _everything_ we do to try
and amuse him. Papa has been consulted, and as usual leaves it _all_
to us.—Please do write soon, darling, and believe me ever yours most
affectionately,
BEATRICE HADLEIGH.’
‘_P.S._—If you don’t mind, dear, I wish you _would_ tell me what colour
you are to wear, so that I might have something to harmonise with it.
We might have a symphony all to ourselves, as the æsthetes call it.’
From this it appeared that Philip’s sisters were not aware of their
father’s desire to keep him at home. There would be no difficulty in
replying to Miss Hadleigh—even to the extent of revealing the colour of
her dress—when Uncle Dick had consented to go.
When the immediate household cares were despatched, Madge sat down at
her desk to write to Mr Hadleigh. She was quite clear about what she
had to say; but she paused, seeking the gentlest way of saying it.
‘DEAR MR HADLEIGH,’ she began at last, ‘Your letter puts a great
temptation in my way; and I should be glad to avoid doing anything to
displease you. But your son has given me a reason for his going, which
leaves him no alternative but to go, and me no alternative but to pray
that he may return safely and well.’
When she had signed and sealed up this brief epistle, a mountain seemed
to roll off her shoulders; her head became clear again: she _knew_ that
what Philip and her mother would have wished had been done. A special
messenger was sent off with it to Ringsford; for although the distance
between the two places was only about three miles, the letter would not
have been delivered until next day, had it gone by the ordinary post.
* * * * *
Mr Hadleigh read these few lines without any sign of disappointment.
He read them more than once, and found in them something so quietly
decisive, that he would have considered it an easier task to conquer
Philip in his most obstinate mood, than to move this girl one
hair’s-breadth from her resolve.
He refolded the paper carefully and placed it in his pocket. Then he
rang the bell.
‘Bid Toomey be ready to drive me over to catch the ten o’clock train,’
he said quietly to the servant who answered his summons.
‘A pity, a pity,’ he repeated to himself. ‘Fools both—they will not
accept happiness when it is offered them. A pity, a pity.... They will
have their way.’
The carriage conveyed him to Dunthorpe Station in good time for the
train; and the train being a ‘fast,’ landed him at Liverpool Street
Station before eleven o’clock.
He walked slowly along Broad Street, a singular contrast to the hurry
and bustle of the other passengers. He was not going in the direction
of his own offices; and he did not look as if he were going on any
particular business anywhere. He had the air of a man who was taking an
enforced constitutional, and who by mistake had wandered into the city
instead of into the park.
He turned into Cornhill, and then into Golden Alley, which must have
obtained its name when gold was only known in quartz; for it was a
dull, gloomy-looking place, with dust-stained windows and metal plates
up the sides of the doorways, so begrimed that it required an effort of
the sight to decipher the names on them. But it was quiet and eminently
respectable. Standing in Golden Alley, one had the sense of being in
the midst of steady-going, long-established firms, who had no need of
outward show to attract customers.
Mr Hadleigh halted for a moment at one of the doors, and looked at
a leaden-like plate, bearing the simple inscription, GRIBBLE & CO.
He ascended one flight of stairs, and entered an office in which two
clerks were busy at their desks, whilst a youth at another desk near
the door was addressing envelopes with the eager rapidity of one who is
paid so much per thousand.
No one paid any attention to the opening of the door.
‘Is Mr Wrentham in?’ inquired Mr Hadleigh.
At the sound of his voice, one of the clerks advanced obsequiously.
‘Yes, sir. He is engaged at present; but I will send in your name.’
He knew who the visitor was; and after rapidly writing the name on a
slip of paper, took it into an inner room. Mr Hadleigh glanced over
some bills which were lying on the counter announcing the dates of
sailing of a number of A1 clippers and first-class screw-steamers to
all parts of the world.
The clerk reappeared, and with a polite, ‘Will you walk in, sir?’ held
the door of the inner room open till Mr Hadleigh passed in, and then
closed it.
Mr Wrentham rose from his table, holding out his hand. ‘Glad to see you
here, Mr Hadleigh—very glad. I hope it is business that brings you?’
‘Yes—important business,’ was the answer.
CURIOUS ANTIPATHIES IN ANIMALS.
I. HORSES.
My late father-in-law, a physician in extensive practice, once
possessed a horse named Jack, which was celebrated for his many
peculiarities and his great sagacity. One of his antipathies was a
decided hatred to one particular melody, the well-known Irish air,
_Drops of Brandy_. If any one began to whistle or hum this air, Jack
would instantly show fight by laying his ears back, grinding his teeth,
biting and kicking, but always recovering his good temper when the
music ceased. No other melody or music of any kind ever affected him;
you might whistle or sing as long as you liked, provided you did not
attempt the objectionable Irish air. One of the doctor’s nephews and
Jack were great friends. The lad could do almost anything with him; but
if he presumed to whistle the objectionable melody of Erin, Jack would
show his displeasure by instantly pulling off the lad’s cap and biting
it savagely, but never attempting the smallest personal injury to the
boy himself, and always exhibiting his love when the sounds ceased;
thus saying, as plainly as a horse could say: ‘We are great friends,
and I love you very much; but pray, don’t make that odious noise, to
which I entertain a very strong objection.’
Jack had another and very peculiar antipathy—he never would permit
anything bulky to be carried by his rider. This came out for the first
time one day when the doctor was going on a visit, and having to sleep
at his friend’s, intended to take a small handbag with him. On the
groom handing this up to the doctor, after he was mounted, Jack—who had
been an attentive observer of the whole proceeding by craning his head
round—at once exhibited his strong displeasure by rearing, kicking,
buck-jumping, and jibing—so utterly unlike his usual steady-going ways,
that the doctor at once divined the cause, and threw the bag down,
when Jack became perfectly quiet and docile; but instantly, however,
re-enacting the same scene, when the groom once more offered the bag
to the doctor. The experiment was repeated several times, and always
with the same singular result; and at length the attempt was given
up, when Jack trotted off on his journey, showing the best of tempers
throughout. Why he should have exhibited this extraordinary dislike to
carrying a small handbag, which was neither large in size nor heavy in
weight, it is impossible even to guess.
On another occasion the groom, wishing to bring home with him a small
sack containing some household requisite, thought to lay it across the
front of his saddle; but Jack was too quick and too sharp for him.
Instantly rearing, and then kicking violently, he threw the groom off
on one side and the objectionable burden on the other. After this, no
further attempts were made to ruffle the customary serenity of Jack’s
rather peculiar temper.
The same gentleman also possessed a beautiful bay mare called Jenny,
remarkable for her sweet temper and pretty loving ways. She was a
great favourite with the doctor’s daughters, and would ‘shake hands’
when asked, and kiss them in the most engaging manner, with a sort
of nibbling motion of her black lips up and down the face. She would
follow any one she liked about the fields, answer to her name like a
dog, and would always salute any of her favourites on seeing them with
that pretty low ‘hummering’ sound so common with pet horses, but never
heard from those subject to ill-treatment. But, with all these graces,
the pretty and interesting Jenny had several peculiar antipathies, in
one of which she too somewhat resembled a dog Wag (to be noticed in a
future article), and that was a marked dislike to the singing voice of
one particular person, a lady, a relative of the doctor’s. This lady
often went to the stable to feed Jenny with lettuces or apples, and
they were always the best of friends; but so sure as she began to sing
anything, Jenny instantly forgot her good manners, lost all propriety,
and exhibited the usual signs of strong equine displeasure, although
she never took the smallest notice of the singing or whistling of any
other person, treating it apparently with indifference. One day, as the
doctor was driving this lady out, he suggested, by way of experiment,
that she should begin to sing. In a moment, Jenny’s ears were down
flat, and a great kick was delivered with hearty goodwill on to the
front of the carriage; and more would doubtless have followed, had not
the lady prudently stopped short in her vocal efforts; when Jenny was
herself again, and resumed her usual good behaviour.
Another and very remarkable peculiarity of Jenny’s was her
unaccountable antipathy to the doctor’s wife. If that lady approached
her, she would grind her teeth savagely, and try to bite her in the
most spiteful manner. What is perhaps even more singular, she would
never, if possible, let the lady get into the carriage, if she knew
it. Jenny would turn her head, and keep a lookout behind her, in the
drollest manner possible; and the moment she caught sight of the lady
approaching the carriage for the purpose of getting in, Jenny would
immediately commence her troublesome tantrums of biting and kicking. So
strongly did she object to drawing her mistress, that more than once
she damaged the carriage with her powerful heels, so that the doctor
was obliged to request his wife to approach the carriage from behind,
whilst a groom held Jenny’s head, to prevent her looking round. Even
this was not always sufficient; for if the lady talked or laughed,
Jenny would actually recognise her voice, and the usual ‘scene’ would
be forthwith enacted. Now, the most singular part of this story is,
that this lady was, like all her family, a genuine lover of all
animals, especially horses. She was very fond of Jenny, and had tried
in every way to make friends with her, and therefore her dislike to
her mistress was all the more unaccountable, as there was not a shadow
of cause for it. We can all understand dislike on the part of any
animal where there has been any sort of ill-usage; but it is wholly
inexplicable when nothing but love and kindness has been invariably
practised towards that animal.
Jenny I am afraid was a great pet, and like all pets, was full of
fads and fancies. One of these was certainly peculiar. Not far from
the doctor’s residence there was a particular gate opening into a
field. As soon as Jenny came near this gate, she would commence
her tantrums, rearing, kicking, plunging, jibing, and altogether
declining to pass it; and it was not until after the exercise of a
great amount of patience and perseverance, by repeatedly leading
her—after much opposition—up to the gate and making her see it and
smell it—thereby proving to her that it would do her no harm—that at
length she was brought to pass it quietly and without notice. What
could have occasioned this strange antipathy to one particular gate,
it is impossible to guess, for, until she came into the doctor’s
possession, she had never been in that part of the county, and
therefore could have had no unpleasant recollections of this gate in
any way. It is, however, possible that the gate in question might
have strongly resembled some other gate elsewhere with which were
associated disagreeable memories; for I well remember that, some years
ago, I often rode a fine young mare which had only recently come from
Newmarket, where she had been trained. At first, she could never be
induced to go down Rotten Row without a great deal of shying, jibing,
and rearing, and other signs of resistance and displeasure. And this
was subsequently explained by the fact, that the place where she was
trained and exercised at Newmarket was a long road with a range of
posts and rails, closely resembling Rotten Row; and doubtless the mare
was under the impression that this was either the same place, or that
she was about to be subjected to the same severe training which she had
undergone at Newmarket; hence her determined opposition.
One more trait of Jenny’s odd antipathies must be mentioned before
I conclude, and that was her fixed aversion to men of the working
peasant class. She would never let such a man hold her by the bridle,
or even approach her, without trying to bite him, and jerking her head
away with every sign of anger and aversion whilst he stood near. But
she never exhibited any feelings of dislike to well-dressed, clean,
comfortable-looking persons, who might have done almost anything with
her, and with whom she would ‘shake hands,’ or kiss in the gentlest
possible manner. Of a truth, Jenny was certainly unique in her odd
fancies and peculiar behaviour in every way; a singular mixture of good
and evil—a spiteful, vindictive temper on the one hand, combined with
the utmost affection and docility on the other.
TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.
A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.