When Cradock and Clayton were ten years old, they witnessed a scene
which puzzled them, and dwelt long in their boyish memories. Job
Hogstaff was going to Ringwood, and they followed him down the passage
towards the entrance–hall, emphatically repeating the commissions with
which they had charged him. Old Job loved them as if they were his
grandsons, and would do his utmost to please them, but they could not
trust his memory, or even his capacity.
“Now, Job”, cried little Cradock, pulling at his coat–lappet, “itʼs
no good pretending that you know all, when you wonʼt even stop to
listen. Iʼm sure youʼll go and make some great mistake, as you did last
Tuesday. Mind you tell Mr. Stride itʼs for Master Cradock Nowell, and
they must be sure to give you a good one, or I shall send it back. Now
just tell me what I have told you. I ought to have written it down, but
I wasnʼt sure how to spell ‘groove’”.
“Why, Master Crad, Iʼm to say a long spill, very sharp at the end”.
“Sharp at the _point_, Job, not blunt at the end like a new black–lead
pencil”.
“And whatever you do, Job, donʼt forget the catgut for my cross–bow,
one size larger than last time”.
“Hold your jaw, Viley, till Iʼve quite finished; or heʼll ask for a top
made of catgut”.
Both the boys laughed at this; you could hear them all down the long
passage. Any small folly makes a boy laugh.
“Well, Master Crad, you _must_ think me a ‘muff’, as you call it. And
the groove is to go quite up to the spill; there must be two rings
below the crown of it”.
“Below the crown, indeed! On the fat part, I said three times. Now,
Viley, you know you heard me”.
“Well, well”, cried Job in despair, “two rings on the fat part, and
no knot at all in the wood, and at least six inches round, and, and,
well—I think thatʼs all of it, thank the Lord”.
“All of it, indeed! Well, you _are_ a nice fellow! Didnʼt I tell you
so, Viley? Why, youʼve left out altogether the most important point of
all, Job. The wood must be a clear bright yellow, or else a very rich
gold colour, and Iʼm to pay for it next Tuesday, because I spent my
weekʼs money yesterday, as soon as ever I got it, and—oh, Viley! canʼt
you lend a fellow sixpence”?
“No, not to save my life, sir. Why, Craddy, you know I wouldnʼt let you
go tick if I could”.
The boys rushed at one another, half in fun and half in affection, and,
seizing each other by the belt of the light–plaid tunic, away they went
dancing down the hall, while Hogstaff whistled a polka gently, with his
old eyes glistening after them. A prettier pair, or better matched,
never set young locks afloating. Each put his healthy, clear, bright
face on the shoulder of the other, each flung out his short–socked
legs, and pointed his dainty feet. You could see their shapely calves
jerked up as they went with double action, and the hollow of the back
curved in, as they threw asunder recklessly, then clasped one another
again, and you thought they must both reel over. Sir Cradock Nowell
hated trousers, and would not have their hair cropped, because it was
like their motherʼs; otherwise they would not have looked one quarter
so picturesque.
Before the match was fairly finished—for they were used to this
sort of thing, and the object always was to see which would give in
first—it was cut short most unexpectedly. While they were taking a
sharp pirouette down at the end of the hall—and as they whirled round
I defy their father to have known the one from the other—the door of
the stewardʼs room opened suddenly, and a tall dark woman came out. The
twins in full merriment dashed up against her, and must have fallen
if she had not collared them with strong and bony arms. Like little
gentlemen, as they were, every atom of them, they turned in a moment
to apologise, and their cheeks were burning red. They saw a gaunt old
woman, wide–shouldered, stern, and forcible.
“Oo, ah! a bonnie pair yeʼve gat, as I see in all my life lang. But
yeʼll get no luck o’ them. Takʼ the word o’ threescore year, yeʼll
never get no luck o’ them, you that calls yoursel’ Craydock Nowell”.
She was speaking to Sir Cradock, who had followed her from the
stewardʼs room, and who seemed as much put out as a proud man of
fifty ever cares to show himself. He made no answer, and the two poor
children fell back against a side–bench.
“Iʼll no talk o’ matters noo. Youʼve a giʼen me my refoosal, and I tak’
it once for all. But yeʼll be sorry for the day ye did it, Craydock
Nowell”.
To the great amazement of Hogstaff, who was more taken aback than
any one else, Sir Cradock Nowell, without a word, walked to the wide
front door with ceremony, as if he were leading a peeress out. He did
not offer his arm to the woman, but neither did he shrink from her;
she gathered her dark face up again from its softening glance at the
children, and without another word or look, but sweeping her skirt
around her, away she walked down the broad front road, as stiff and as
stern as the oak–trees.