On a Saturday afternoon in August, a few weeks after the eventful
ride, Tom returned to the Englebourn Rectory to stay over Sunday,
and attend Betty Winburn's funeral. He was strangely attracted to
Harry by the remembrance of their old boyish rivalry; by the
story which he had heard from his cousin, of the unwavering
perseverance with which the young peasant clung to and pursued
his suit for Simon's daughter; but, more than all, by the feeling
of gratitude with which he remembered the effect his visit to
Betty's sick room had had on him, on the day of his ride from
Barton Manor. On that day he knew that he had ridden into
Englebourn in a miserable mental fog, and had ridden out of it in
sunshine, which had lasted through the intervening weeks. Somehow
or another he had been set straight then and there, turned into
the right road and out of the wrong one, at what he very
naturally believed to be the most critical moment of his life.
Without stopping to weigh accurately the respective merits of the
several persons whom he came in contact with that day, he
credited them all with a large amount of gratitude and good-will,
and Harry with his mother's share as well as his own. So he had
been longing to _do_ something for him ever since. The more he
rejoiced in, and gave himself up to his own new sensations, the
more did his gratitude become as it were a burden to him; and yet
no opportunity offered of letting off some of it in action. The
magistrates, taking into consideration the dangerous state of his
mother, had let Harry off with a reprimand for his assault; so
there was nothing to be done there. He wrote to Katie offering
more money for the Winburns; but she declined--adding, however,
to her note, by way of postscript, that he might give it to her
clothing club or coal club. Then came the news of Betty's death,
and an intimation from Katie that she thought Harry would be much
gratified if he would attend the funeral. He jumped at the
suggestion. All Englebourn, from the Hawk's Lynch to the Rectory,
was hallowed ground to him. The idea of getting back there, so
much nearer to Barton Manor, filled him with joy, which he tried
in vain to repress when he thought of the main object of his
visit on the present occasion.
He arrived in time to go and shake hands with Harry before
dinner; and, though scarcely a word passed between them, he saw
with delight that he had evidently given pleasure to the mourner.
Then he had a charming long evening with Katie, walking in the
garden with her between dinner and tea, and after tea discoursing
in low tones over her work-table, while Mr. Winter benevolently
slept in his arm-chair. Their discourse branched into many paths,
but managed always somehow to end in the sayings, beliefs, and
perfections of the young lady of Barton Manor. Tom wondered how
it had happened so when he got to his own room, as he fancied he
had not betrayed himself in the least. He had determined to keep
resolutely on his guard, and to make a confident of no living
soul till he was twenty-one, and, though sorely tempted to break
his resolution in favor of Katie, had restrained himself. He
might have spared himself all the trouble; but this he did not
know, being unversed in the ways of women, and all unaware of the
subtlety and quickness of their intuitions in all matters
connected with the heart. Poor, dear, stolid, dim-sighted
mankind, how they do see through us and walk round us!
The funeral on the Sunday afternoon between churches had touched
him much, being the first he had ever attended. He walked next
behind the chief mourner--the few friends, amongst whom David was
conspicuous, yielding place to him. He stood beside Harry in
church, and at the open grave, and made the responses as firmly
as he could, and pressed his shoulder against his, when he felt
the strong frame of the son trembling with the weight and burden
of his resolutely suppressed agony. When they parted at the
cottage door, to which Tom accompanied the mourner and his old
and tried friend David, though nothing but a look and a grasp of
the hand passed between them, he felt that they were bound by a
new and invisible bond; and, as he walked back up the village and
passed the churchyard, where the children were playing about on
the graves, stopping every now and then to watch the sexton as he
stamped down and filled in the mould on the last made one beside
which he himself stood as a mourner--and heard the bells
beginning to chime for the afternoon service, he resolved within
himself that he would be a true and helpful friend to the widow's
son. On this subject he could talk freely to Katie; and he did so
that evening, expounding how much one in his position could do
for a young laboring man if he was really bent on it, and
building up grand castles for Harry, the foundations of which
rested on his own determination to benefit and patronize him.
Katie listened half doubtingly at first, but was soon led away by
his confidence, and poured out the tea in the full belief that
with Tom's powerful aid all would go well. After which they took
to reading the "Christian Year" together, and branched into
discussions on profane poetry, which Katie considered scarcely
proper for the evening, but which, nevertheless, being of such
rare occurrence with her, she had not the heart to stop.
The next morning Tom was to return home. After breakfast he began
the subject of his future plans for Harry again, when Katie
produced a small paper packet which she handed to him, saying--
"Here is your money again."
"What money?"
"The money you left with me for Harry Winburn. I thought at the
time that most probably he would not take it."
"But are you sure he doesn't want it? Did you try hard to get him
to take it?" said Tom, holding out his hand reluctantly for the
money.
"Not myself. I couldn't offer him money myself, of course; but I
sent it by David, and begged him to do all he could to persuade
him to take it."
"Well, and why wouldn't he?"
"Oh, he said the club-money which was coming in was more than
enough to pay for the funeral and for himself he didn't want it."
"How provoking! I wonder if old David really did his best to get
him to take it."
"Yes, I am sure he did. But you ought to be very glad to find
some independence in a poor man."
"Bother his independence! I don't like to feel that it costs me
nothing but talk--I want to pay."
"Ah, Tom, if you knew the poor as well as I do, you wouldn't say
so. I am afraid there are not two other men in the parish who
would have refused your money. The fear of undermining their
independence takes away all my pleasure in giving."
"Undermining! Why, Katie, I am sure I have heard you mourn over
their stubbornness and unreasonableness."
"Oh, yes; they are often provokingly stubborn and unreasonable,
and yet not independent about money, or anything they can get out
of you. Besides, I acknowledge that I have become wiser of late;
I used to like to see them dependent and cringing to me, but now
I dread it."
"But you would like David to give in about the singing, wouldn't
you?"
"Yes, if he would give in I should be very proud. I have learnt a
great deal from him; I used positively to dislike him; but, now
that I know him, I think him the best man in the parish. If he
ever does give in--and I think he will--it will be worth
anything, just because he is so independent."
"That's all very well; but what am I to do to show Harry Winburn
that I mean to be his friend, if he won't take money from me?"
"You have come over to his mother's funeral--he will think more
of that than of all the money you could give him; and you can
show sympathy for him in a great many ways."
"Well, I must try. By the way, about his love affair; is the
young lady at home? I have never seen her, you know."
"No she is away with an aunt, looking out for a place. I have
persuaded her to get one, and leave home again for the present.
Her father is quite well now, and she is not wanted."
"Well, it seems I can't do any good with her, then; but could I
not go and talk to her father about Harry? I might help him in
that way."
"You must be very careful; Simon is such an odd-tempered old
man."
"Oh, I'm not afraid; he and I are great chums; and a little soft
soap will go a long way with him. Fancy, if I could get him this
very morning to 'sanction Harry's suit,' as the phrase is, what
should you think of me?"
"I should think very highly of your powers of persuasion."
Not the least daunted by his cousin's misgivings, Tom started in
quest of Simon, and found him at work in front of the greenhouse,
surrounded by many small pots and heaps of finely sifted mould,
and absorbed in his occupation.
Simon was a rough, stolid Berkshire rustic, somewhat of a tyrant
in the bosom of his family, an unmanageable servant, a
cross-grained acquaintance; as a citizen, stiff-necked, and a
grumbler, who thought that nothing ever went right in the parish;
but, withal, a thoroughly honest worker; and, when allowed to go
his own way--and no other way would he go, as his mistress had
long since discovered--there was no man who earned his daily
bread more honestly. He took a pride in his work, and the Rectory
garden was always trim and well kept, and the beds bright with
flowers from early spring till late autumn.
He was absorbed in what he was about, and Tom came up close to
him without attracting the least sign of recognition; so he
stopped, and opened the conversation.
"Good day, Simon; it's a pleasure to see a garden looking so gay
as yours."
Simon looked up from his work, and, when he saw who it was,
touched his battered old hat, and answered,--
"Mornin' sir! Ees, you finds me allus in blume"
"Indeed I do, Simon; but how do you manage it? I should like to
tell my father's gardener."
"'Tis no use to tell un if a haven't found out for hisself. 'Tis
nothing but lookin' a bit forrard and farm-yard stuff as does
it."
"Well, there's plenty of farm-yard stuff at home, and yet,
somehow, we never look half so bright as you do."
"May be as your gardener just takes and hits it auver the top o'
the ground, and lets it lie. That's no kind o' good, that
beant--'tis the roots as wants the stuff; and you med jist as
well take and put a round o' beef agin my back bwone as hit the
stuff auver the ground, and never see as it gets to the roots o'
the plants."
"No, I don't think it can be that," said Tom laughing; "our
gardener seems always to be digging his manure in, but somehow he
can't make it come out in flowers as you do."
"Ther' be mwore waays o' killin' a cat besides choking on un wi'
crame," said Simon, chuckling in his turn.
"That's true Simon," said Tom; "the fact is, a gardener must know
his business as well as you to be always in bloom, eh?"
"That's about it, sir," said Simon, on whom the flattery was
beginning to tell.
Tom saw this, and thought he might now feel his way a little
further with the old man.
"I'm over on a sad errand," he said; "I've been to poor Widow
Winburn's funeral--she was an old friend of yours, I think?"
"Ees; I minds her long afore she wur married," said Simon,
turning to his pots again.
"She wasn't an old woman, after all," said Tom.
"Sixty-two year old cum Michaelmas," said Simon.
"Well, she ought to have been a strong woman for another ten
years at least; why, you must be older than she by some years,
Simon, and you can do a good day's work yet with any man."
Simon went on with his potting without replying except by a
carefully measured grunt, sufficient to show that he had heard
the remark, and was not much impressed by it.
Tom saw that he must change his attack; so, after watching Simon
for a minute, he began again.
"I wonder why it is that the men of your time of life are so much
stronger than the young ones in constitution. Now, I don't
believe there are three young men in Englebourn who would have
got over that fall you had at Farmer Groves' so quick as you
have; most young men would have been crippled for life by it."
"Zo 'em would, the young wosbirds. I dwont make no account on
'em," said Simon.
"And you don't feel any the worse for it, Simon?"
"Narra mossel," replied Simon; but presently he seemed to
recollect something, and added, "I wun't saay but what I feels it
at times when I've got to stoop about much."
"Ah, I'm sorry to hear that, Simon. Then you oughtn't to have so
much stooping to do; potting, and that sort of thing, is the work
for you, I should think, and just giving an eye to everything
about the place. Anybody could do the digging and setting out
cabbages, and your time is only wasted at it."--Tom had now found
the old man's weak point.
"Ees, sir, and so I tells miss," he said, "but wi' nothin' but a
bit o' glass no bigger'n a cowcumber frame, 'tis all as a man can
do to keep a few plants alive droo' the winter."
"Of course," said Tom, looking round at the very respectable
greenhouse which Simon had contemptuously likened to a
cucumber-frame, "you ought to have at least another house as big
as this for forcing."
"Master ain't pleased, he ain't," said Simon, "if he dwon't get
his things, his spring wegetables, and his strawberries, as early
as though we'd a got forcin' pits and glass like other folk. 'Tis
a year and mwore since he promised as I sh'd hev glass along that
ther' wall, but 'tis no nigher comin' as I can see. I be to spake
to miss about it now, and, when I spakes to her, 'tis, 'oh,
Simon, we must wait till the 'spensary's 'stablished,' or 'oh,
Simon, last winter wur a werry tryin wun, and the sick club's
terrible bad off for funds,'--and so we gwoes on, and med gwo on
for aught as I can see, so long as there's a body sick or bad off
in all the parish. And that'll be all us. For, what wi' wisitin'
on 'em, and sendin' on 'em dinners, and a'al the doctor's stuff
as is served out o' the 'spensary--wy, 'tis enough to keep 'em
bad a'al ther' lives. Ther ain't no credit in gettin' well. Ther'
wur no sich a caddle about sick folk when I wur a bwoy."
Simon had never been known to make such a long speech before, and
Tom argued well for his negotiation.
"Well, Simon," he said, "I've been talking to my cousin, and I
think she will do what you want now. The dispensary is set up,
and the people are very healthy. How much glass should you want,
now, along that wall?"
"A matter o' twenty fit or so," said Simon.
"I think that can be managed," said Tom; "I'll speak to my cousin
about it; and then you would have plenty to do in the houses, and
you'd want a regular man under you."
"Ees; 'twould take two on us reg'lar to kep things as they should
be."
"And you ought to have somebody who knows what he is about. Can
you think of anyone who would do, Simon?"
"Ther's a young chap as works for Squire Wurley. I've heard as he
wants to better hisself."
"But he isn't an Englebourn man. Isn't there anyone in the
parish?"
"Ne'er a one as I knows on."
"What do you think of Harry Winburn--he seems a good hand with
flowers?" The words had scarcely passed his lips when Tom saw
that he had made a mistake. Old Simon retired into himself at
once, and a cunning, distrustful look came over his face. There
was no doing anything with him. Even the new forcing house had
lost its attractions for him, and Tom, after some further
ineffectual attempts to bring him round, returned to the house
somewhat crestfallen.
"Well, how have you succeeded?" said Katie, looking up from her
work, as he came in and sat down near her table. Tom shook his
head.
"I'm afraid I've made a regular hash of it," he said. "I thought
at first I had quite come round the old savage by praising the
garden, and promising that you would let him have a new house."
"You don't mean to say you did that?" said Katie, stopping her
work.
"Indeed, but I did, though. I was drawn on, you know. I saw it
was the right card to play; so I couldn't help it."
"Oh, Tom! how could you do so? We don't want another house the
least in the world; it is only Simon's vanity. He wants to beat
the gardener at the grange at the flower shows. Every penny will
have to come out of what papa allows me for the parish."
"Don't be afraid, Katie; you won't have to spend a penny. Of
course I reserved a condition. The new house was to be put up if
he would take Harry as an under-gardener.
"What did he say to that?"
"Well, he said nothing. I never came across such an old Turk. How
you have spoiled him! If he isn't pleased, he won't take the
trouble to answer you a word. I was very near telling him a piece
of my mind. But he _looked_ all the more. I believe he would
poison Harry if he came here. What can have made him hate him
so?"
"He is jealous of him. Mary and I were so foolish as to praise
poor Betty's flowers before Simon, and he has never forgiven it.
I think, too, that he suspects, somehow, that we talked about
getting Harry here. I ought to have told you, but I quite forgot
it."
"Well, it can't be helped. I don't think I can do any good in
that quarter; so now I shall be off to the Grange to see what I
can do there."
"How do you mean?"
"Why, Harry is afraid of being turned out of his cottage. I saw
how it worried him, thinking about it; so I shall go to the
Grange, and say a good word for him. Wurley can't refuse if I
offer to pay the rent myself--it's only six pounds a year. Of
course, I sha'n't tell Harry; and he will pay it all the same;
but it may make all the difference with Wurley, who is a regular
screw."
"Do you know Mr. Wurley?"
"Yes, just to speak to. He knows all about me, and he will be
very glad to be civil."
"No doubt he will; but I don't like your going to his house. You
don't know what a bad man he is. Nobody but men on the turf, and
that sort of people, go there now; and I believe he thinks of
nothing but gambling and game-preserving."
"Oh, yes; I know all about him. The county people are beginning
to look shy at him; so he'll be all the more likely to do what I
ask him."
"But you won't get intimate with him?"
"You needn't be afraid of that."
"It is a sad house to go to--I hope it won't do you any harm."
"Ah, Katie!" said Tom, with a smile not altogether cheerful, "I
don't think you need be anxious about that. When one has been a
year at Oxford, there isn't much snow left to soil; so now I am
off. I must give myself plenty of time to cook Wurley."
"Well, I suppose I must not hinder you," said Katie. "I do hope
you will succeed in some of your kind plans for Harry."
"I shall do my best; and it is a great thing to have somebody
besides oneself to think about and try to help--some poor
person--don't you think so, even for a man?"
"Of course I do. I am sure you can't be happy without it, any
more than I. We shouldn't be our mother's children if we could
be."
"Well, good-bye, dear; you can't think how I enjoy these glimpses
of you and your work. You must give my love to Uncle Robert."
And so they bade each other adieu, lovingly, after the manner of
cousins, and Tom rode away with a very soft place in his heart
for his cousin Katie. It was not the least the same sort of
passionate feeling of worship with which he regarded Mary. The
two feelings could lie side by side in his heart with plenty of
room to spare. In fact, his heart had been getting so big in the
last few weeks that it seemed capable of taking in the whole of
mankind, not to mention woman, till, on the whole, it may be
safely asserted that, had matters been at all in a more forward
state, and could she have seen exactly what was passing in his
mind, Mary would probably have objected to the kind of affection
which he felt for his cousin at this particular time. The joke
about cousinly love is probably as old, and certainly as true, as
Solomon's proverbs. However, as matters stood, it could be no
concern of Mary's what his feelings were towards Katie, or any
other person.
Tom rode in at the lodge gate of the Grange soon after eleven
o'clock, and walked his horse slowly through the park, admiring
the splendid timber, and thinking how he should break his request
to the owner of the place. But his thoughts were interrupted by
the proceedings of the rabbits, which were out by hundreds all
along the sides of the plantations, and round the great trees. A
few of the nearest just deigned to notice him by scampering to
their holes under the roots of the antlered oaks, into which some
of them popped with a disdainful kick of their hind legs, while
others turned round, sat up, and looked at him. As he neared the
house he passed a keeper's cottage, and was saluted by the
barking of dogs from the neighboring kennel; and the young
pheasants ran about round some twenty hen-coops, which were
arranged along opposite the door where the keeper's children were
playing. The pleasure of watching the beasts and birds kept him
from arranging his thoughts, and he reached the hall door without
having formed the plan of his campaign.
A footman answered the bell, who doubted whether his master was
down, but thought he would see the gentleman if he would send in
his name. Whereupon Tom handed in his card, and, in a few minutes
a rakish-looking stable boy came round after his horse, and the
butler appeared with his master's compliments, and a request that
he would step into the breakfast-room. Tom followed this portly
personage through the large handsome hall, on the walls of which
hung a buff-coat or two and some old-fashioned arms, and large
paintings of dead game and fruit--through a drawing room, the
furniture of which was all covered up in melancholy cases--into
the breakfast parlor, where the owner of the mansion was seated
at table in a lounging jacket. He was a man of forty or
thereabouts, who would have been handsome, but for the animal
look about his face. His cheeks were beginning to fall into
chaps, his full lips had a liquorish look about them, and bags
were beginning to form under his light blue eyes. His hands were
very white and delicate, and shook a little as he poured out his
tea; and he was full and stout in body, with small shoulders, and
thin arms and legs; in short, the last man whom Tom would have
chosen as bow in a pair oar. The only part of him which showed
strength were his dark whiskers, which were abundant, and
elaborately oiled and curled. The room was light and pleasant,
with two windows looking over the park, and furnished
luxuriously, in the most modern style, with all manner of easy
chairs and sofas. A glazed case or two of well bound books,
showed that some former owner had cared for such things; but the
doors had, probably, never been opened in the present reign. The
master and his usual visitors found sufficient food for the mind
in the _Racing Calendar_, "Boxiana,"
"The Adventures of
Corinthian Tom," and _Bell's Life_, which lay on a side table; or
in the pictures and prints of racers, opera dancers, and
steeple-chases, which hung in profusion on the walls. The
breakfast table was beautifully appointed in the matter of china
and plate; and delicate little rolls, neat pats of butter in ice,
two silver hot dishes containing curry and broiled salmon, and a
plate of fruit, piled in tempting profusion, appealed, apparently
in vain, to the appetite of the lord of the feast.
"Mr. Brown, sir," said the butler, ushering in our hero to his
master's presence.
"Ah, Brown, I'm very glad to see you here," said Mr. Wurley,
standing up and holding out his hand. "Have any breakfast?"
"Thank you, no, I have breakfasted," said Tom, somewhat
astonished at the intimacy of the greeting; but it was his cue to
do the friendly thing,--so he took the proffered hand, which felt
very limp, and sat down by the table, looking pleasant.
"Ridden from home this morning?" said Wurley, picking over
daintily some of the curry to which he had helped himself.
"No, I was at my uncle's, at Englebourn, last night. It is very
little out of the way; so I thought I would just call on my road
home."
"Quite right. I'm very glad you came without ceremony. People
about here are so d-d full of ceremony. It don't suit me, all
that humbug. But I wish you'd just pick a bit."
"Thank you. Then I will eat some fruit," said Tom, helping
himself to some of the freshly picked grapes; "how very fine
these are!"
"Yes, I'm open to back my houses against the field for twenty
miles round. This curry isn't fit for a pig--Take it out, and
tell the cook so." The butler solemnly obeyed, while his master
went on with one of the frequent oaths with which he garnished
his conversation. "You're right, they can't spoil the fruit.
They're a set of skulking devils, are servants. They think of
nothing but stuffing themselves, and how they can cheat you most,
and do the least work." Saying which, he helped himself to some
fruit; and the two ate their grapes for a short time in silence.
But even fruit seemed to pall quickly on him, and he pushed away
his plate. The butler came back with a silver tray, with soda
water, and a small decanter of brandy, and long glasses on it.
"Won't you have something after your ride?" said the host to Tom;
"some soda water with a dash of bingo clears one's head in the
morning."
"No, thank you," said Tom, smiling, "it's bad for training."
"Ah, you Oxford men are all for training," said his host,
drinking greedily of the foaming mixture which the butler handed
to him. "A glass of bitter ale is what you take, eh? I know. Get
some ale for Mr. Brown."
Tom felt that it would be uncivil to refuse this orthodox offer,
and took his beer accordingly, after which his host produced a
box of Hudson's regalias, and proposed to look at the stables. So
they lighted their cigars, and went out. Mr. Wurley had taken of
late to the turf, and they inspected several young horses which
were entered for country stakes. Tom thought them weedy-looking
animals, but patiently listened to their praises and pedigrees,
upon which his host was eloquent enough; and, rubbing up his
latest readings in _Bell's Life_, and the racing talk which he
had been in the habit of hearing in Drysdale's rooms, managed to
hold his own, and asked, with a grave face, about the price of
the Coronation colt for the next Derby, and whether Scott's lot
was not the right thing to stand on for the St. Leger, thereby
raising himself considerably in his host's eyes. There were no
hunters in the stable, at which Tom expressed his surprise. In
reply, Mr. Wurley abused the country, and declared that it was
not worth riding across, the fact being that he had lost his
nerve, and that the reception which he was beginning to meet with
in the field, if he came out by chance, was of the coldest.
From the stables they strolled to the keeper's cottage, where Mr.
Wurley called for some buckwheat and Indian corn, and began
feeding the young pheasants, which were running about, almost
like barn-door fowls, close to them.
"We've had a good season for the young birds," he said; "my
fellow knows that part of his business, d--n him, and don't lose
many. You had better bring your gun over in October; we shall
have a week in the covers early in the month."
"Thank you, I shall be very glad," said Tom; "but you don't shoot
these birds?"
"Shoot 'em! what the devil should I do with 'em?"
"Why, they're so tame I thought you just kept them about the
house for breeding. I don't care so much for pheasant shooting; I
like a good walk after a snipe, or creeping along to get a wild
duck much better. There's some sport in it, or even in partridge
shooting with a couple of good dogs, now--"
"You're quite wrong. There's nothing like a good dry ride in a
cover with lots of game, and a fellow behind to load for you."
"Well, I must say, I prefer the open."
"You've no covers over your way, have you?"
"Not many."
"I thought so. You wait till you've had a good day in my covers,
and you won't care for quartering all day over wet turnips.
Besides, this sort of thing pays. They talk about pheasants
costing a guinea a head on one's table. It's all stuff; at any
rate, mine don't cost _me_ much. In fact, I say it pays, and I
can prove it."
"But you feed your pheasants?"
"Yes, just round the house for a few weeks, and I sow a little
buckwheat in the covers. But they have to keep themselves pretty
much, I can tell you."
"Don't the farmers object?"
"Yes, d-n them; they're never satisfied. But they don't grumble
to me; they know better. There are a dozen fellows ready to take
any farm that's given up, and they know it. Just get a beggar to
put a hundred or two into the ground, and he won't quit hold in a
hurry. Will you play a game at billiards?"
The turn which their conversation had taken hitherto had offered
no opening to Tom for introducing the object of his visit, and he
felt less and less inclined to come to the point. He looked his
host over and over again, and the more he looked the less he
fancied asking anything like a favor of him. However, as it had
to be done, he thought he couldn't do better than fall into his
ways for a few hours, and watch for a chance. The man seemed good
natured in his way; and all his belongings--the fine park and
house, and gardens and stables--were not without their effect on
his young guest. It is not given to many men of twice his age to
separate a man from his possessions, and look at him apart from
them. So he yielded easily enough, and they went to billiards in
a fine room opening out of the hall; and Tom, who was very fond
of the game, soon forgot everything in the pleasure of playing on
such a table.
It was not a bad match. Mr. Wurley understood the game far better
than his guest, and could give him advice as to what side to put
on and how to play for cannons. This he did in a patronizing way,
but his hand was unsteady and his nerve bad. Tom's good eye and
steady hand, and the practice he had had at the St. Ambrose
pool-table, gave him considerable advantage in the hazards. And
so they played on, Mr. Wurley condescending to bet only
half-a-crown a game, at first giving ten points, and then five,
at which latter odds Tom managed to be two games ahead when the
butler announced lunch, at two o'clock.
"I think I must order my horse," said Tom, putting on his coat.
"No, curse it, you must give me my revenge. I'm always five
points better after lunch, and after dinner I could give you
fifteen points. Why shouldn't you stop and dine and sleep? I
expect some men to dinner."
"Thank you, I must get home to-day."
"I should like you to taste my mutton; I never kill it five years
old. You don't get that every day."
Tom, however, was proof against the mutton; but consented to stay
till towards the hour when the other guests were expected,
finding that his host had a decided objection to be left alone.
So after lunch, at which Mr. Wurley drank the better part of a
bottle of old sherry to steady his nerves, they returned again to
billiards and Hudson's regalias.
They played on for another hour; and, though Mr. Wurley's hand
was certainly steadier, the luck remained with Tom. He was now
getting rather tired of playing, and wanted to be leaving, and he
began to remember the object of his visit again. But Mr. Wurley
was nettled at being beaten by a boy, as he counted his opponent,
and wouldn't hear of leaving off. So Tom played on carelessly
game after game, and was soon again only two games ahead. Mr.
Wurley's temper was recovering, and Tom protested that he must
go. Just one game more, his host urged, and Tom consented.
Wouldn't he play for a sovereign? No. So they played double or
quits; and after a sharp struggle Mr. Wurley won the game, at
which he was highly elated, and talked again grandly of the odds
he could give after dinner.
Tom felt that it was now or never, and so, as he put on his coat,
he said,--
"Well, I'm much obliged to you for a very pleasant day, Mr.
Wurley."
"I hope you'll come over again, and stay and sleep. I shall
always be glad to see you. It is so cursed hard to keep somebody
always going in the country."
"Thank you; I should like to come again. But now I want to ask a
favor of you before I go."
"Eh, well, what is it?" said Mr. Wurley, whose face and manner
became suddenly anything but encouraging.
"There's that cottage of yours, the one at the corner of
Englebourn copse, next the village."
"The woodman's house, I know," said Mr. Wurley.
"The tenant is dead, and I want you to let it to a friend of
mine; I'll take care the rent is paid."
Mr. Wurley pricked up his ears at this announcement. He gave a
sharp look at Tom; and then bent over the table, made a stroke,
and said, "Ah, I heard the old woman was dead. Who's your friend,
then?"
"Well, I mean her son," said Tom, somewhat embarrassed; "he's an
active young fellow, and will make a good tenant; I'm sure."
"I daresay," said Mr. Wurley, with a leer; "and I suppose there's
a sister to keep house for him, eh?"
"No, but he wants to get married."
"Wants to get married, eh?" said Mr. Wurley, with another leer
and oath. "You're right; that's a deal safer kind of thing for
you."
"Yes," said Tom, resolutely disregarding the insinuation, which
he could not help feeling was intended; "it will keep him steady,
and if he can get the cottage it might make all the difference.
There wouldn't be much trouble about the marriage then, I dare
say."
"You'll find it a devilish long way. You're quite right, mind
you, not to get them settled close at home; but Englebourn is too
far, I should say."
"What does it matter to me?"
"Oh, you're tired of her! I see. Perhaps it won't be too far,
then."
"Tired of her! who do you mean?"
"Ha, ha!" said Mr. Wurley, looking up from the table over which
he was leaning, for he went on knocking the balls about;
"devilish well acted! But you needn't try to come the old soldier
over me. I'm not quite such a fool as that."
"I don't know what you mean by coming the old soldier. I only
asked you to let the cottage, and I will be responsible for the
rent. I'll pay in advance if you like."
"Yes, you want me to let the cottage for you to put in this
girl?"
"I beg your pardon," said Tom, interrupting him, and scarcely
able to keep his temper; "I told you it was for this young
Winburn."
"Of course you told me so. Ha, ha!"
"And you don't believe me."
"Come, now, all's fair in love and war. But, I tell you, you
needn't be mealy-mouthed with me. You don't mind his living
there; he's away at work all day, eh? and his wife stays at
home."
"Mr. Wurley, I give you my honor I never saw the girl in my life
that I know of, and I don't know that she will marry him."
"What did you talk about your friend for, then?" said Mr. Wurley,
stopping and staring at Tom, curiosity beginning to mingle with
his look of cunning unbelief.
"Because I meant just what I said."
"And the friend, then?"
"I have told you several times that this young Winburn is the
man."
"What, _your friend_?"
"Yes, my friend," said; Tom; and he felt himself getting red at
having to call Harry his friend in such company. Mr. Wurley
looked at him for a few moments, and then took his leg off the
billiard table, and came round to Tom with the sort of
patronizing air with which he had lectured him on billiards.
"I say, Brown, I'll give you a piece of advice," he said. "You're
a young fellow, and haven't seen anything of the world. Oxford's
all very well, but it isn't the world. Now I tell you, a young
fellow can't do himself greater harm than getting into low
company and talking as you have been talking. It might ruin you
in the county. That sort of radical stuff won't do, you know,
calling a farm laborer your friend."
Tom chafed at this advice from a man who, he well knew, was
notoriously in the habit of entertaining at his house, and living
familiarly with, betting men and trainers, and all the riff-raff
of the turf. But he restrained himself by a considerable effort,
and, instead of retorting, as he felt inclined to do, said, with
an attempt to laugh it off, "Thank you, I don't think there's
much fear of me turning radical. But will you let me the
cottage?"
"My agent manages all that. We talked about pulling it down. The
cottage is in my preserves, and I don't mean to have some
poaching fellow there to be sneaking out at night after my
pheasants."
"But his grandfather and great-grandfather lived there."
"I dare say, but it's my cottage."
"But surely that gives him a claim to it."
"D-n it! it's my cottage. You're not going to tell me I mayn't do
what I like with it, I suppose."
"I only said that his family having lived there so long gives him
a claim."
"A claim to what? These are some more of your cursed radical
notions. I think they might teach you something better at
Oxford."
Tom was now perfectly cool, but withal in such a tremendous fury
of excitement that he forgot the interests of his client
altogether.
"I came here, sir," he said, very quietly and slowly, "not to
request your advice on my own account, or your opinion on the
studies of Oxford, valuable as no doubt they are; I came to ask
you to let this cottage to me, and I wish to have your answer."
"I'll be d-d if I do; there's my answer."
"Very well," said Tom; "then I have only to wish you good
morning. I am sorry to have wasted a day in the company of a man
who sets up for a country gentleman with the tongue of a Thames
bargee and the heart of a Jew pawn-broker."
Mr. Wurley rushed to the bell and rang it furiously.
"By --!" he almost screamed, shaking his fist at Tom, "I'll have
you horse-whipped out of my house;" and then poured forth a flood
of uncomplimentary slang, ending in another pull at the bell, and
"By --! I'll have you horse-whipped out of my house."
"You had better try it on--you and your flunkeys together," said
Tom, taking a cigar case out of his pocket and lighting up, the
most defiant and exasperating action he could think of on the
spur of the moment. "Here's one of them; so I'll leave you to
give him his orders, and wait five minutes in the hall, where
there's more room." And so, leaving the footman gaping at his
lord, he turned on his heel, with the air of Bernardo del Carpio
after he had bearded King Alphonso, and walked into the hall.
He heard men running to and fro, and doors banging, as he stood
there looking at the old buff-coats, and rather thirsting for a
fight. Presently a door opened, and the portly butler shuffled
in, looking considerably embarrassed, and said,--
"Please, sir, to go out quiet, else he'll be having one of his
fits."
"Your master, you mean."
"Yes, sir," said the butler, nodding, "D. T., sir. After one of
his rages the black dog comes, and it's hawful work, so I hope
you'll go, sir."
"Very well, of course I'll go. I don't want to give him fit."
Saying which, Tom walked out of the hall-door, and leisurely
round to the stables, where he found already signs of commotion.
Without regarding them, he got his horse saddled and bridled,
and, after looking him over carefully, and patting him, and
feeling his girths in the yard, in the presence of a cluster of
retainers of one sort or another, who were gathered from the
house and offices, and looking sorely puzzled whether to commence
hostilities or not, mounted and walked quietly out.
After his anger had been a little cooled by the fresh air of the
wild country at the back of Hawk's Lynch, which he struck into on
his way home soon after leaving the park, it suddenly occurred to
him that, however satisfactory to himself the results of his
encounter with this unjust landlord might seem, they would
probably prove anything but agreeable to the would-be tenant,
Harry Winburn. In fact, as he meditated on the matter, it became
clear to him that in the course of one morning he had probably
exasperated old Simon against his aspirant son-in-law, and put a
serious spoke in Harry's love-wheel, on the one hand, while on
the other, he had ensured his speedy expulsion from his cottage,
if not the demolition of that building. Whereupon he became
somewhat low under the conviction that his friendship, which was
to work such wonders for the said Harry, and deliver him out of
all his troubles, had as yet only made his whole look-out in the
world very much darker and more dusty. In short, as yet he had
managed to do considerably less than nothing for his friend, and
he felt very small before he got home that evening. He was far,
however, from being prepared for the serious way in which his
father looked upon his day's proceedings. Mr. Brown was sitting
by himself after dinner when his son turned up, and had to drink
several extra glasses of port to keep himself decently composed,
while Tom narrated the events of the day in the intervals of his
attacks on the dinner, which was brought back for him. When the
servant had cleared away, Mr. Brown proceeded to comment on the
history in a most decided manner.
Tom was wrong to go to the Grange in the first instance; and this
part of the homily was amplified by a discourse on the corruption
of the turf in general, and the special curse of small country
races in particular, which such men as Wurley supported, and
which, but for them, would cease. Racing, which used to be the
pastime of great people, who could well afford to spend a few
thousands a year on their pleasure, had now mostly fallen into
the hands of the very worst and lowest men of all classes, most
of whom would not scruple--as Mr. Brown strongly put it--to steal
a copper out of a blind beggar's hat. If he must go, at any rate
he might have done his errand and come away, instead of staying
there all day accepting the man's hospitality. Mr. Brown himself
really should be much embarrassed to know what to do if the man
should happen to attend the next sessions or assizes.
But, above all, having accepted his hospitality, to turn round at
the end and insult the man in his own house? This seemed to
Brown, J. P., a monstrous and astounding performance.
This new way of putting matters took Tom entirely by surprise. He
attempted a defense, but in vain. His father admitted that it
would be a hard case if Harry were turned out of his cottage, but
wholly refused to listen to Tom's endeavors to prove that a
tenant in such a case had any claim or right as against his
landlord. A weekly tenant was a weekly tenant, and no succession
of weeks' holding could make him anything more. Tom found himself
rushing into a line of argument which astonished himself and
sounded wild, but in which he felt sure there was some truth, and
which, therefore, he would not abandon, though his father was
evidently annoyed, and called it mere mischievous sentiment. Each
was more moved than he would have liked to own; each in his own
heart felt aggrieved and blamed the other for not understanding
him. But, though obstinate on the general question, upon the
point of his leaving the Grange, Tom was fairly brought to shame,
and gave in at last, and expressed his sorrow, though he could
not help maintaining that, if his father could have heard what
took place and seen the man's manner, he would scarcely blame him
for what he had said and done. Having owned himself in the wrong,
however, there was nothing for it but to write an apology, the
composition of which was as disagreeable a task as had ever
fallen to his lot.