“B’t s’nc’ y’ h’v’ ch’s’n t’ s’t ’p,” said the trainer, speaking a language entirely composed of consonants, “y’ m’y dr’v’ tr’p b’ck t’ st’bl’s.”
By which rather obscure speech he gave the “Softy” to understand that he was to take the dogcart back to Mr. Mellish’s stable-yard.
Steeve Hargraves did his drunken master’s bidding, and leading the horse homewards through the quiet night, found a cross boy with a lantern in his hand waiting at the gate of the stable-yard, and by no means disposed for conversation, except, indeed, to the extent of the one remark that he, the cross boy, hoped the new trainer wasn’t going to be up to this game every night, and hoped the mare, which had been bred for a racer, hadn’t been ill used.
All John Mellish’s horses seemed to have been bred for racers, and to have dropped gradually from prospective winners of the Derby, Oaks, Chester Cup, Great Ebor, Yorkshire Stakes, Leger, and Doncaster Cup—to say nothing of minor victories in the way of Northumberland Plates, Liverpool Autumn Cups, and Curragh Handicaps, through every variety of failure and defeat—into the everyday ignominy of harness. Even the van which carried groceries was drawn by a slim-legged, narrow-chested, high-shouldered animal called the “Yorkshire Childers,” and bought, in its sunny colt-hood, at a great price by poor John.
Mr. Conyers was snoring aloud in his little bedroom when Steeve Hargraves returned to the lodge. The “Softy” stared wonderingly at the handsome face brutalized by drink, and the classical head flung back upon the crumpled pillow in one of those wretched positions which intoxication always chooses for its repose. Steeve Hargraves rubbed his head harder even than before, as he looked at the perfect profile, the red, half-parted lips, the dark fringe of lashes on the faintly crimson-tinted cheeks.
“Perhaps I might have been good for summat if I had been like you,” he said, with a half-savage melancholy. “I shouldn’t have been ashamed of myself then. I shouldn’t have crept into dark corners to hide myself, and think why I wasn’t like other people, and what a bitter, cruel shame it was that I wasn’t like ’em. You’ve no call to hide yourself from other folks; nobody tells you to get out of the way for an ugly hound, as you told me this morning, hang you! The world’s smooth enough for you.”
So may Caliban have looked at Prospero with envy and hate in his heart before going to his obnoxious tasks of dish-washing and trencher-scraping.
He shook his fist at the unconscious sleeper as he finished speaking, and then stooped to pick up the trainer’s dusty clothes, which were scattered upon the floor.
“I suppose I’m to brush these before I go to bed,” he muttered, “that my lord may have ’em ready when he wakes in th’ morning.”
He took the clothes on his arm and the light in his hand, and went down to the lower room, where he found a brush and set to work sturdily, enveloping himself in a cloud of dust, like some ugly Arabian genii who was going to transform himself into a handsome prince.
He stopped suddenly in his brushing, by-and-by, and crumpled the waistcoat in his hand.
“There’s some paper!” he exclaimed. “A paper sewed up between stuff and linin’.”
He omitted the definite article before each of the substantives, as is a common habit with his countrymen when at all excited.
“A bit o’ paper,” he repeated, “between stuff and linin’! I’ll rip t’ waistcoat open and see what ’tis.”
He took his clasp-knife from his pocket, carefully unripped a part of one of the seams in the waistcoat, and extracted a piece of paper folded double—a decent-sized square of rather thick paper, partly printed, partly written.
He leaned over the light with his elbows on the table and read the contents of this paper, slowly and laboriously, following every word with his thick forefinger, sometimes stopping a long time upon one syllable, sometimes trying back half a line or so, but always plodding patiently with his ugly forefinger.
When he came to the last word, he burst suddenly into a loud chuckle, as if he had just succeeded in guessing that difficult enigma which had puzzled him all the evening.
“I know it all now,” he said. “I can put it all together now. His words; and hers; and the money. I can put it all together, and make out the meaning of it. She’s going to give him the two thousand pound to go away from here and say nothing about this.”
He refolded the paper, replaced it carefully in its hiding-place between the stuff and lining of the waistcoat, then searched in his capacious pocket for a fat leathern book, in which, amongst all sorts of odds and ends, there were some needles and a tangled skein of black thread. Then, stooping over the light, he slowly sewed up the seam which he had ripped open—dexterously and neatly enough, in spite of the clumsiness of his big fingers.
XXII
Still Constant
Mr. James Conyers took his breakfast in his own apartment upon the morning after his visit to Doncaster, and Stephen Hargraves waited upon him; carrying him a basin of muddy coffee, and enduring his ill-humour with the long-suffering which seemed peculiar to this humpbacked, low-voiced stable-helper.
The trainer rejected the coffee, and called for a pipe, and lay smoking half the summer morning, with the scent of the roses and honeysuckle floating into his close chamber, and the July sunshine glorifying the sham roses and blue lilies that twisted themselves in floricultural monstrosity about the cheap paper on the walls.
The “Softy” cleaned his master’s boots, set them in the sunshine to air, washed the breakfast-things, swept the doorstep, and then seated himself upon it to ruminate, with his elbows on his knees and his hands twisted in his coarse red hair. The silence of the summer atmosphere was
