Don't you make a mistake, now, and think I'm not a working man, because
I am. Don't you run away with the idea that because I go of a morning
and find my horse and cab waiting ready cleaned for me, and I jumps up
and drives off, as I don't work as hard as any mechanic, because I do;
and I used to work harder, for it used to be Sunday and week days, till
the missus and me laid our heads together, and said, if we couldn't live
on six days' work a week at cabbing we'd try something else; so now I am
only a six days' man--Hansom cab, VR, licensed to carry two persons.
None o' your poor, broken-kneed knackers for me. I takes my money in to
the governor regular, and told him flat that if I couldn't have a decent
horse, I wouldn't drive; and I spoke a bit sharp, having worked for him
ten years.
"Take your chice, Steve Wilkins," he says; and I took it, and drove
Kangaroo, the wall-eyed horse with a rat tail.
I had a call one day off the stand by the Foundling, and has to go into
New Ormond Street, close by; and I takes up an old widow lady and her
daughter--as beautiful a girl of seventeen or eighteen as ever I set
eyes on, but so weak that I had to go and help her down to the cab, when
she thanked me so sweetly that I couldn't help looking again and again,
for it was a thing I wasn't used to.
"Drive out towards the country, cabman, the nearest way," says the old
lady; "and when we want to turn back, I'll speak."
"Poor gal!" I says, "she's an invalid. She's just such a one as my Fan
would have been if she'd lived;" and I says this to myself as I gets on
to my box, feeling quite soft; for though I knew my gal wouldn't have
been handsome, what did that matter? I didn't like to lose her.
"Let's see," I says again, "she wants fresh air. We'll go up the hill,
and through Hampstead;" and I touches Kangaroo on the flank, and away we
goes, and I picks out all the nicest bits I could, and when I comes
across a pretty bit of view I pulls up, and pretends as there's a strap
wanted tightening, or a hoof picking, or a fresh knot at the end of the
whip, and so on. Then I goes pretty quickly along the streety bits, and
walks very slowly along the green lanes; and so we goes on for a good
hour, when the old lady pushes the lid open with her parasol, and tells
me to turn back.
"All right, mum," I says; and takes 'em back another way, allers
following the same plan; and at last pulls up at the house where I
supposed they was lodgers, for that's a rare place for lodgings about
there.
I has the young lady leaning on my arm when she gets out, and when she
was at the door she says, "Thank you" again, so sweetly and sadly that
it almost upset me. But the old lady directly after asked me the fare,
and I tells her, and she gives me sixpence too much, and though I wanted
to pocket it, I wouldn't, but hands it back.
"Thank you, cabman," she says; "that's for being so kind and attentive
to my poor child."
"God bless her, mum," I says, "I don't want paying for that."
Then she smiles quite pleasant, and asks me if it would be worth my
while to call again the next afternoon if it was fine, and I says it
would; and next day, just in the same way, I goes right off past
Primrose Hill, and seeing as what they wanted was the fresh air, I makes
the best o' my way right out, and then, when we was amongst the green
trees, Kangaroo and me takes it easy, and just saunters along. Going up
hill I walks by his head, and picks at the hedges, while them two,
seeing as I took no notice of 'em, took no notice o' me. I mean, you
know, treated me as if we was old friends, and asked me questions about
the different places we passed, and so on.
Bimeby I drives 'em back, and the old lady again wanted to give me
something extra for what she called my kind consideration; but "No,
Stevey," I says to myself; "if you can't do a bit o' kindness without
being paid for it, you'd better put up the shutters, and take to some
other trade." So I wouldn't have it, and the old lady thought I was
offended; but I laughed, and told her as the young lady had paid me; and
so she had, with one of her sad smiles, and I said I'd be there again
nex' day if it was fine.
And so I was; and so we went on, day after day, and week after week; and
I could see that, though the sight of the country and the fresh air
brightened the poor girl up a bit, yet he was getting weaker and weaker,
so that, at last, I half carried her to the cab, and back again after
the ride. One day, while I was waiting, the servant tells me that they
wouldn't stay in town, only on account of a great doctor, as they went
to see at first, but who came to them now; and, last of all, when I went
to the house, I used always to be in a fidget for fear the poor gal
should be too ill to come out. But no, month after month she kep' on;
and when I helped her, used to smile so sweetly, and talk so about the
trouble she gave me, that one day, feeling a bit low, I turned quite
silly, and happening to look at her poor mother a-standing there with
the tears in her eyes, I had to hurry her in, trod get up on to my seat
as quick as I could, to keep from breaking down myself.
Poor gal! always so loving and kind to all about her--always thanking
one so sweetly, and looking all the while so much like what one would
think an angel would look--it did seem so pitiful to feel her get
lighter and lighter, week by week--so feeble, that, at last, I used to
go upstairs to fetch her, and always carried her down like a child.
Then she used to laugh, and say, "Don't let me fall, Stephen,"--for they
got to call me by my name, and to know the missus, by her coming in to
help a bit; for the old lady asked me to recommend 'em an honest woman,
and I knowed none honester than my wife. And so it was with everybody--
it didn't matter who it was--they all loved the poor gal; and I've had
the wife come home and sit and talk about her, and about our Fanny as
died, till she's been that upset she's cried terribly.
Autumn came in werry wet and cold, and there was an end to my jobs
there. Winter was werry severe, but I kep' on hearing from the missus
how the poor gal was--sometimes better, sometimes worse; and the missus
allus shook her head werry sadly when she talked about her.
Jennywerry and Feberwerry went by terribly cold, and then March came in
quite warm and fine, so that things got so forrard, you could buy
radishes wonderful cheap in April; and one night the wife comes home and
tells me that if it was as fine nex' day as it had been, I was to call,
and take the old lady and her daughter out.
Nex' day was splendid. It was as fine a spring day as ever I did see,
and I sticks a daffy-down-dilly in on each side of Kangaroo's head, and
then spends twopence in a couple o' bunches o' wilets, and pins 'em in
on the side where the poor gal used to sit, puts clean straw in the
boot, and then drives to the place with the top lid open, so as to
sweeten the inside, because swells had been smoking there that morning.
"Jest run yer sponge and leather over the apron a bit, Buddy," I says to
our waterman, afore I left the stand.
"Got a wedding on?" he says, seeing how pertickler I was.
"There, look alive!" I says, quite snappish; for I didn't feel in a
humour to joke; and then, when I'd got all as I thought right, I drives
up, keeping the lid open, as I said afore.
When I draws up, I puts the nose-bag on the old horse, for him to amuse
himself with, and so as I could leave him, for he wouldn't stir an inch
with that bag on, to please all the pleacemen in London. Then I rings,
and waits, and at last gets my orders to go and help the young lady
down.
I takes off my hat, wipes my shoes well, and goes up; and there she was
waiting, and smiled so pleasantly again, and held out her hand to me, as
though I'd been a friend, instead of a rough, weather-battered street
cabman. And do you know what I did, as I went in there, with my eyes
all dim at seeing her so, so changed? Why, I felt as if I ought to do
it, and I knelt down and took her beautiful white hand in mine, and
kissed it, and left a big tear on it; for something seemed to say so
plainly that she'd soon be where I hoped my own poor gal was, whom I
always say we lost; but my wife says, "No, not lost, for she is ours
still."
She was so light now, that I carried her down in a minute; and when she
was in the cab and saw the wilets, she took 'em down, and held 'em in
her hand, and nodded and smiled again at me, as though she thanked me
for them.
"Go the same way as you went first time, Stephen," she says.
And I pushed over all the quieter bits, and took her out beyond
Hampstead; and there, in the greenest and prettiest spot I could find, I
pulls up, and sits there listening to the soft whispers of her voice,
and feeling, somehow, that it was for the last time.
After a bit I goes gently on again, more and more towards the country,
where the hedges were turning beautiful and green, and all looked so
bright and gay.
Bimeby I stops again, for there was a pretty view, and you could see
miles away. Of course, I didn't look at them if I could help it, for
the real secret of people enjoying a ride is being with a driver who
seems no more to 'em than the horse--a man, you see, who knows his
place. But I couldn't help just stealing one or two looks at the inside
where that poor gal lay back in the corner, looking out at the bright
spring-time, and holding them two bunches o' wilets close to her face.
I was walking backwards and forwards then, patting the horse and
straightening his harness, when I just catches the old lady's eye, and
saw she looked rather frightened, and she leans over to her daughter and
calls her by name quickly; but the poor girl did not move, only stared
straight out at the blue sky, and smiled so softly and sweetly.
I didn't want no telling what to do, for I was in my seat and the old
horse flying amost before you could have counted ten; and away we went,
full pace, till I come up to a doctor's, dragged at the bell, and had
him up to the cab in no time; and then he rode on the footboard of the
cab, in front of the apron, with the shutters let down; and he whispered
to me to drive back softly, and I did.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The old lady has lodged with us ever since, for I took a better place on
purpose, and my missus always attends on her. She's werry fond o'
talking with my wife about their two gals who have gone before; but
though I often, take her for a drive over the old spots, she never says
a word to me about such things; while soon after the funeral she told
Sarah to tell me as the wilets were not taken from the poor gal's hand,
same time sending me a fi-pun note to buy a suit o' mourning.
Of course, I couldn't wear that every day, but there was a bit o' rusty
crape on my old shiny hat not such a werry long time ago; and I never
buy wilets now, for as they lie in the baskets in spring-time, sprinkled
with the drops o' bright water, they seem to me to have tears upon 'em,
and make me feel sad and upset, for they start me off thinking about "My
Fare."