John Mellish had ordered a carpenter to repair the lodge at the north gate, for the accommodation of James Conyers; and John’s old trainer, Langley, was to receive his colleague and introduce him to the stables.
The new trainer made his appearance at the lodge-gates in the glowing July sunset; he was accompanied by no less a person than Steeve Hargraves the “Softy,” who had been lurking about the station upon the look out for a job, and who had been engaged by Mr. Conyers to carry his portmanteau.
To the surprise of the trainer, Stephen Hargraves set down his burden at the park gates.
“You’ll have to find someone else to carry it th’ rest ’t’ ro—ad,” he said, touching his greasy cap, and extending his broad palm to receive the expected payment.
Mr. James Conyers was rather a dashing fellow, with no small amount of that quality which is generally termed “swagger,” so he turned sharply round upon the “Softy” and asked him what the devil he meant.
“I mean that I mayn’t go inside yon geates,” muttered Stephen Hargraves; “I mean that I’ve been toorned oot of yon pleace that I’ve lived in, man and boy, for forty year—toorned oot like a dog, neck and crop.”
Mr. Conyers threw away the stump of his cigar and stared superciliously at the “Softy.”
“What does the man mean?” he asked of the woman who had opened the gates.
“Why, poor fellow, he’s a bit fond, sir, and him and Mrs. Mellish didn’t get on very well: she has a rare spirit, and I have heard that she horsewhipped him for beating her favourite dog. Any ways, master turned him out of his service.”
“Because my lady had horsewhipped him. Servants’-hall justice all the world over,” said the trainer, laughing, and lighting a second cigar from a metal fusee-box in his waistcoat pocket.
“Yes, that’s joostice, ain’t it?” the “Softy” said eagerly. “You wouldn’t like to be toorned oot of a pleace as you’d lived in forty year, would you? But Mrs. Mellish has a rare spirit, bless her pretty feace!”
The blessing enunciated by Mr. Stephen Hargraves had such a very ominous sound, that the new trainer, who was evidently a shrewd, observant fellow, took his cigar from his mouth on purpose to stare at him. The white face, lighted up by a pair of red eyes with a dim glimmer in them, was by no means the most agreeable of countenances; but Mr. Conyers looked at the man for some moments, holding him by the collar of his coat in order to do so with more deliberation: then pushing the “Softy” away with an affably contemptuous gesture, he said, laughing—
“You’re a character, my friend, it strikes me; and not too safe a character either. I’m dashed if I should like to offend you. There’s a shilling for your trouble, my man,” he added tossing the money into Steeve’s extended palm with careless dexterity.
“I suppose I can leave my portmanteau here till tomorrow, ma’am?” he said, turning to the woman at the lodge. “I’d carry it down to the house myself if I wasn’t lame.”
He was such a handsome fellow, and had such an easy, careless manner, that the simple Yorkshire woman was quite subdued by his fascinations.
“Leave it here, sir, and welcome,” she said, curtsying, “and my master shall take it to the house for you as soon as he comes in. Begging your pardon, sir, but I suppose you’re the new gentleman that’s expected in the stables?”
“Precisely.”
“Then I was to tell you, sir, that they’ve fitted up the north lodge for you: but you was to please go straight to the house, and the housekeeper was to make you comfortable and give you a bed for tonight.”
Mr. Conyers nodded, thanked her, wished her good night, and limped slowly away, through the shadows of the evening, and under the shelter of the overarching trees. He stepped aside from the broad carriage-drive on to the dewy turf that bordered it, choosing the softest, mossiest places with a sybarite’s instinct. Look at him as he takes his slow way under those glorious branches, in the holy stillness of the summer sunset, his face sometimes lighted by the low, lessening rays, sometimes darkened by the shadows of the leaves above his head. He is wonderfully handsome—wonderfully and perfectly handsome—the very perfection of physical beauty; faultless in proportion, as if each line in his face and form had been measured by the sculptor’s rule, and carved by the sculptor’s chisel. He is a man about whose beauty there can be no dispute, whose perfection servant-maids and duchesses must alike confess—albeit they are not bound to admire; yet it is rather a sensual type of beauty, this splendour of form and colour, unallied to any special charm of expression. Look at him now, as he stops to rest, leaning against the trunk of a tree, and smoking his big cigar with easy enjoyment. He is thinking. His dark-blue eyes, deeper in colour by reason of the thick black lashes which fringe them, are half closed, and have a dreamy, semi-sentimental expression, which might lead you to suppose the man was musing upon the beauty of the summer sunset. He is thinking of his losses on the Chester Cup, the wages he is to get from John Mellish, and the perquisites likely to appertain to the situation. You give him credit for thoughts to match with his dark, violet-hued eyes, and the exquisite modelling of his mouth and chin; you give him a mind as aesthetically perfect as his face and figure, and you recoil on discovering what a vulgar, everyday sword may lurk under that beautiful scabbard. Mr. James Conyers is, perhaps, no worse than other men of his
