“Here, mum,” he said, earnestly, “drink this; don’t be afeard, it’s port wine. A drop wouldn’t do you no harm neither, Miss,” he added, as he glanced at the pale, thin face and delicate aspect of the girl.
Mrs Lane put the mug to her lips, and then made an effort, and sat up.
“You was hurt, then, mum?” said the cabman, anxiously.
“Only shaken – frightened,” she said, in a feeble voice.
“And my coming brought it all up again, and upset you. It’s jest like me, mum, I’m allus a-doing something; ask my missus if I ain’t.”
“It did startle me,” said Mrs Lane, recovering herself. “But you wished to see me. I am better now, Netta,” she said to the girl, who clung to her. “Place a chair.”
“No, no, arter you, Miss,” said the cabman; “I’m nobody;” and he persisted in standing. “’Scuse me, but I knows a real lady when I sees one; I’ll stand, thanky. You see, it was like this: I saw Tommy Runce on the stand – him, you know, as brought you home from the front of the club there – and I ast him, and he told me where he brought you. And when I was talking to the missus last night, she says, says she, ‘Well, Sam,’ she says, ‘the least you can do is to drive up and see how the poor woman is, even if you lose half a day.’ ‘Well,’ I says, ‘that’s just what I was a thinking,’ I says, ‘only I wanted to hear you say it too.’ So you see, mum, thinking it was only decent like, I made bold to come and tell you how sorry I am, and how it was all Ratty’s fault; for he’s that beast of a horse – begging your pardon, mum, and yours too, Miss – as it’s impossible to drive. He oughter ha’ been called Gunpowder, for you never know when he’s going off.”
“It was very kind and very thoughtful of you, and – and your wife,” said Mrs Lane; “and indeed I thank you; but I was not hurt, only shaken.”
“Then it shook all the colour outer your face, mum, and outer yours too, Miss,” he said, awkwardly. “You’ll excuse me, but you look as if you wanted a ride every day out in the country.”
As he spoke, the girl glanced at a bundle of violets in a broken glass of water in the window; then the tears gathered in her eyes. She seemed to struggle for a moment against her emotion, and then started up and burst into a passion of weeping.
“My darling!” whispered Mrs Lane, catching her in her arms, and trying to soothe her, “pray – pray don’t give way.”
“I’ve done it again,” muttered Jenkles – “I’m allus a-doing it – it is my natur’ to.”
The girl made a brave effort, dashed away the tears, shook back her long dark hair, and tried to smile in the speaker’s face, but so piteous and sad a smile that Jenkles gave a gulp; for he had been glancing round the room, and in that glance had seen a lady and her daughter living in a state of semi-starvation, keeping life together evidently by sewing the hard, toilsome slop-work which he saw scattered upon the table and chairs.
“She has been ill,” said Mrs Lane, apologetically, “and has not quite recovered. We are very much obliged to you for calling.”
“Well, you see, mum,” said Jenkles, “it was to set both of us right, like – you as I didn’t mean to do it, and me and my missus that you warn’t hurt. And now I’m here, mum, if you and the young lady there would like a drive once or twice out into the country, why, mum, you’ve only got to say the word, and – ”
“You’ll excuse me, ma’am,” said the sharp voice of Mrs Sturt, laying great stress on the “ma’am,” “but my ’usban’ is below, and going out on business, and he’d be much obliged if you’d pay us the rent.”
The girl looked in a frightened way at her mother, who rose, and said, quietly —
“Mrs Sturt, you might have spared me this – and before a stranger, too.”
“I don’t know nothing about no strangers, ma’am,” said Mrs Sturt, defiantly. “I only know that my master sent me up for the rent; for he says if people can afford to come home in cabs, and order cabs, and drink port wine, they can afford to pay their rent; so, if you please, ma’am, if you’ll be kind – ”
“Why, them two cabs warn’t nothing to do with the lady at all,” said Jenkles, indignantly; “and as for the wine, why, that was mine – and – and I paid for it.”
“And drunk it too, I dessay,” said Mrs Sturt. “Which it’s four weeks at seven-and-six, if you please, ma’am – thirty shillings, if you please.” The girl stood up, her eyes flashing, and a deep flush in her cheeks; but at a sign from her mother she was silent.
“Mrs Sturt,” she said, “I cannot pay you now; give me till Saturday.”
“That won’t do for my master, ma’am; he won’t be put off.”
“But the work I have in hand, Mrs Sturt, will half pay you – you shall receive that.”
“I’m tired on it,” said Mrs Sturt, turning to the door; “p’r’aps I’d better send him up.”
“Oh, mamma,” said the girl, in a low, frightened voice, and she turned of a waxen pallor, “don’t let him come here.”
And she clung trembling to her arm as the retreating footsteps of Mrs Sturt were heard, and, directly after, her vinegary voice in colloquy with her husband.
“Here, I’ll soon let ’em know,” he was heard to say, roughly.
The trembling girl hid her face on her mother’s shoulder; but only to start up directly, very pale and firm, as Barney’s heavy step was heard.
“Blame me if I can stand this,” muttered Jenkles.
Then without a word he stuck his hat on his head and walked out of the room, in time to meet the master of the house on the stairs.
“Now, then?” said Barney, as Jenkles stopped short.
“Now, then,” said Jenkles, “where are you going?”
“In there,” said Barney, savagely; and he nodded towards the room.
“No, you ain’t,” said Jenkles; “you’re a-going downstairs.”
“Oh, am I? I’ll just show you about that.”
He rushed up two more of the stairs; but Jenkles did not budge an inch – only met the brute with such a firm, unflinching look in his ugly eyes that the bully was cowed, puzzled at the opposition.
“You’re a-going downstairs to send yer missus up; and jest you tell her to go and take a spoonful o’ treacle out o’ the shop afore she does come up, so as she’ll be a little bit sweeter when the ladies pays her.”
Then Jenkles walked back into the room, rammed his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a dirty canvas bag, out of which he fished a piece of rag tied tightly, in one corner of which was a sovereign, which had to be set free with his teeth. From another corner he tried to extricate a half-sovereign, but it would not come, the knot was too tight.
“Here, lends a pair o’ scissors,” he exclaimed, angrily.
“What are you going to do?” said Mrs Lane.
“To cut this here out,” said Jenkles; “there, that’s it. Here’s a sov and a arf, mum, as was saved up for our rent. I never did such a thing afore, but that’s nothing to you. I’ll lend it you, and you’ll pay me again when you can. There’s my name on that dirty envelope, and you’ll send it, I know.”
“No,” exclaimed Mrs Lane, in a choking voice, “I – ”
At this moment Mrs Sturt entered the room, looking very grim; but no sooner did she see the money lying upon the table than she walked up, took it, said “Thanky,” shortly, and jerked a letter upon the table.
Jenkles was following her, when Mrs Lane cried “Stop!” seized the letter, tore it open, and read it.
It was in reply to the second she had written, both of which had reached Captain Vanleigh, though she believed the first had been lost.
Her letter had been brief —
“Help us – we are destitute.
“A.V.”
The reply was —
“Do what I wish, and I will help you.”
No signature.
Mrs Lane clenched her teeth as she crushed the letter in her hand, then raised her eyes to see the cabman at the door, with her daughter kissing his hand.
“Oh, God!” she moaned, “has it come to this!”
The next minute Netta was clinging to her, and they wept in unison as the sound of wheels was heard; and Sam Jenkles apostrophised his ugly steed.
“Ratty,” he said, “I wonder what it feels like to be a fool – whether it’s what I feels just now?”
There was a crack of the whip here, and the hansom trundled along.
“How many half-pints are there in thirty bob, I wonder?” said Sam again.
And then, as he turned into the main road at Upper Holloway, he pulled up short – to the left London, to the right over the hills to the country.
“Not above four or five mile, Ratty, and then there’ll be no missus to meet. Ratty, old man, I think I’d better drive myself to Colney Hatch.”
All among the Ferns
An autumn morning in a lane. A very prosaic beginning. But there are lanes and lanes; so let not the reader imagine a dreary, clayey way between two low-cropped hedges running right across the flat landscape with mathematical severity, and no more exciting object in view than a heap of broken stones ready for repairs. Our lane is a very different affair, for it is a Cornish lane.
Do you know what a Cornish lane is like – a lane in a valley? Perhaps not; so we will describe the winding road, where, basket in hand, Tiny and Fin Rea, walking home, were seeking ferns.
In this land of granite, a clear field is an exception – the great bare bones of earth peer out in all directions; and however severe the taste of the first maker of a beaten track, unless he were ready with engineering tools and blasting appliances, instead of making his way straight forward, he would have to go round and dodge about, to avoid the masses of stone. Hence, then, many of the lanes wind and double between piled-up heaps of granite, through steep gorges, and rise and fall in the most eccentric way; while – Nature having apparently scoured the hill-tops, and swept the fertile soil into the vales along these dell-like lanes – the verdure is thick and dense; trees interlace overhead till you walk in a pale green twilight flecked with golden rays; damp dripping stones are covered with velvet moss; a tiny spring trickles here, and forms crystal pools, mirroring delicate fronds of fern; gnarled oaks twist tortuous trunks in the great banks, and throw distorted arms across the road; half hidden from sight – here five, there fifty feet below the toad– a rapid stream goes musically onward towards the sea, singing silvery songs to the little speckly trout which hide beneath the granite shelves in their crystal homes. Verdure rich and bright on every side, and above all ferns – ferns of the tiniest, and ferns tall and towering, spreading luxuriant fronds, and sending up spikes of flowers, while lesser neighbours form patches of wondrous beauty – tropic palm forests in miniature.
“Now, then, who’s going to take my picture?” cried Fin Rea, plumping herself down on a mossy stone, and snatching off her hat. “Should I do now, Tiny?”
Undoubtedly: for her lithe, slight form, in its grey muslin, stood out from the ashy brown of the oak trunk that formed the background, while a wondrous beauty of light and shade fell through the leafy network above.
“Oh, isn’t it heavenly to be back? I couldn’t live in London. I liked the theatres, and going to the race, and seeing pictures, but I should soon be tired of it all. It makes you so cross. I believe the blacks get into your temper. I say, Tiny, I wonder what Aunt Matty would be like if she lived in London?”
“Don’t make fun of poor Aunt Matty,” said her sister. “She has had a good deal of trouble in her life.”
“And made it,” said Fin, jumping up. “Oh, I say, look down there,” she cried, pointing through the ferns at her feet to a cool, dark pool, twenty feet below; “there’s a place. Oh, Tiny, if I thought I should ever grow into such a screwy, cross old maid as Aunt Matty, I think I should jump down there and let the fishes eat.”
“Fin, that little tongue of yours goes too fast,” said her sister.
“Let it,” was the laconic reply. “Tongues were made to talk with. Let’s go on; I’m tired of digging up ferns. Wasn’t it funny, seeing Humphrey Lloyd at that race? And I wonder who those gentlemen were.”
“Do you mean the people who stared at us so through the race-glass?”
“No, I don’t, Miss Forgetful. I mean the big, dark man, and the funny, little fierce fellow with his hair brushed into points. You don’t remember, I suppose?”
“Oh yes,” said Tiny, quietly. “I remember, for I was very much frightened.”
“Ah, I hope the knight-errant wasn’t hurt; and, oh, do look, Tiny,” Fin cried, putting down her basket. “What’s that growing in that tree?”
As she spoke, she climbed from stone to stone up the steep bank, till she was stopped short by her dress being caught by a bramble.
“Oh, Tiny, come and unloose me, do. I’m caught.”
There was nothing for it but that her sister should clamber up the bank, and unhook the dress, which she did, when Fin gave her a hand, and drew her up to her side.
“What a tomboy you do keep, Fin,” said Tiny, panting; “see how my dress is torn.”
“Never mind, I’ll sew it up for you. What’s the good of living in the country if you can’t be free as the birds? Sweet, sweet, sweet! Oh, you beauty!” she cried, as a goldfinch sounded his merry lay. “Tiny, shouldn’t you like to be a bird?”
“No,” was the quiet reply. “I would rather be what I am.”
“I should like to be a bird,” said Fin, placing one foot on an excrescence of a stumpy pollard oak, and, making a jump, she caught hold of a low bough.
“But not now,” cried Tiny. “What are you going to do?”
“Going to do?” laughed Fin. “Why, climb this tree;” and she got a step higher.
“Oh, Fin, how foolish! Whatever for? Suppose some one came by?”
“Nobody comes along here at this time of the day, my dear; so here goes, and if I fall pick up my pieces, and carry them safely home to dear Aunt Matty. ‘And the dicky-bird sang in the tree,’” she trilled out, as step by step she drew herself up into the crown of the stumpy, gnarled pollard.
“Oh, Fin!” exclaimed her sister.
“Its all right, Miss Timidity. I’m safe, and I came on purpose,” cried Fin, from up in her perch, her face glowing, and eyes sparkling with merriment.
“But what are you trying to do?”
“To get some of this, sweet innocent. You can’t see, I suppose, what it is?”
“No, indeed, I cannot,” said Tiny – “yes, I can. Why, it’s mistletoe.”
“Mistletoe, is it, Miss? Ahem!” cried Finn, resting one little fist upon her hip, – and stretching out the other – “Tableau – young Druid priestess about to cut the sacred plant with a fern trowel.”
“Fin, dear, do come down. Don’t touch it.”
“Not touch it? But I will. There!” she cried, tearing off a piece of the pretty parasite. “I’ll wear that in my hat all the way home as a challenge to nobody, and on purpose to make Aunt Matty cross. She’ll – ”
“Hist, Fin; oh, be quiet,” whispered Tiny.
“Eh? What’s the matter?” cried Fin, from her perch.
“Oh, pray be quiet; here’s somebody coming.”
“Never mind,” said Fin. “You stand behind the tree – they can’t see us – till I shout ‘Hallo!’”
But Fin kept very quiet, peering down squirrel-wise, as a step was heard coming along the lane, and she caught glimpses through the trees of a man in a rough tweed suit and soft felt hat. The face was that of a keen, earnest man of eight-and-forty, with a full beard, just touched by life’s frost, sharp dark eyes, and altogether a countenance not handsome, but likely to win confidence.
The newcomer was walking with an easy stride, humming scraps of some ditty, and he swung by his side an ordinary tin can, holding about a quart of some steaming compound.
“It’s Saint Timothy,” whispered Fin, from her perch. “Keep close.”
Tiny drew her dress closer together, and pressed to the tree trunk, looking terribly guilty, while her sister went on watching.
The steps came nearer, and the stepper’s eyes were busy with a keen look for everything, as he seemed to feast on the beauties of Nature around him.
“‘I love the merry, merry sunshine,’” he sang, in a bold, bluff voice; “and – Hallo, what the dickens have we here?” he cried, stopping short, and setting two hearts beating quickly. “Lady’s basket and ferns dug up – yes, within the last hour. Why, that must be – Hallo, I spy, hi!”
For as he spoke his eyes had been wandering about, amongst the brakes and bushes, and he had caught sight of a bit of muslin dress peeping out from behind a gnarled oak.
The result of his summons was that the scrap of dress was softly drawn out of sight, and a voice from up in the ties whispered —
“Oh, go down, Tiny, and then he won’t see me.”
“Hallo! whispers in the wind,” cried the newcomer, glancing higher, and seeing a bit of Fin. “Is it a bird? By Jove, I wish I’d a gun. No: poachers – trespassers. Here, you fellows, come out!”
Jenkles’s Confession
Sam Jenkles always boasted that he never kept anything from his wife; but he was silent for two days; and then, after a hard day’s work, he was seated in his snug kitchen, watching the browning of a half-dozen fine potatoes in a Dutch oven before the fire, when Mrs Jenkles, a plump, bustling little woman, who was stitching away at a marvellous rate, her needle clicking at every stroke, suddenly exclaimed —
“Sam, you’d better give me that two pound you’ve got, and I’ll put it with the rest.”
Sam didn’t answer, only tapped his pipe on the hob.
Mrs Jenkles glanced at him, and then said —
“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?”