A bit of cold corned beef, some cheese, and a loaf Mildred Tarnley produced, and Harry made a hearty meal in the kitchen, not disturbing that engrossing business by conversation, while old Mildred went to and fro, into the scullery and back again, and busied herself about her saucepans and dishes.
“Now get me a pen and ink and a bit o’ paper. There’s no one in the house will be the worse of a little money, and I’ll write that note.” And so he did, and handed it to Mildred with the air of a prince who was bestowing a gift.
“There! That will make the mare go for a while longer; and, look ye, where’s old Dulcibella Crane? I’d like to shake hands wi’ her before I go.”
“Upstairs, wi’ her mistress.”
“Tell her to come down and see me for a minute; and mind, old Tarnley, ye must write to me often—tomorrow and next day—and—where’s my hat?—on my head, by Jove—and so on; for if anything should happen—if little Alice should founder, you know—there should be someone, when she’s off the hooks, to look after things a bit; and the Governor won’t do nothing—put that out o’ yer head—and ’twill all fall on my shoulders; and send her down to me—old Dulcibella Crane, I mean—for I’m going, and unless I’m wanted I mayn’t see ye here for many a day.”
Thus charged, Mildred Tarnley went away, and in a few minutes old Dulcibella appeared.
From her, after he had examined her as to the state of the lady upstairs, and of her baby, he exacted the same promise as that which Mildred had made him—a promise to write often to Wyvern.
He did not mind making her the same odd confidence which he had made to Mildred. There was no need, he thought, for Dulcibella was softhearted, and somewhat soft-headed, too, and by no means given to suspicion; and as she had not the evil that attends shrewdness, neither had she the reliability, and she was too much given to talking, and his secret would then become more public than he cared to make it.
“And tell the mistress I wish her joy, do you mind, and I’d like to stand godfather to the boy whenever the christenin’ is, and to put me to any work she thinks I’m fit for; and tell her I wrote about a handful o’ rent that’s coming to her; and goodbye, and take care o’ yourself; and who’s nursin’ the baby?”
“We feeds it wi’ goat’s milk and sich like, by direction of the doctor. Wouldn’t ye like to see it?”
“Not this time—I’m off—but—who’s taking charge of him?”
“Among us the poor little darling is, but mostly me.”
“Well, that’s right, and look after it well, and I’ll give ye a bit o’ money—when—when it’s on a little, and don’t forget to write; and ye needn’t say nout to old Mildred, for she’s goin’ to write too, and might take huff if she knew that you was writin’ also, do you see?”
“Yes, Master Harry, surely none shall know, and I’m thinkin’ ye would like to see it, and it won’t be nothin’ the worse, ye’ll find, and it is such a darlin’.”
“And so like its poor papa that’s gone, eh? But I haven’t no time, dear, this bout, and you may give his worship my kind regards, and tell him the more he thrives the better I’m pleased, and old chimnies won’t stand forever, and he won’t be long kept out of his own, and I’ll keep them aloof that would make or meddle or mar, and goodbye, old Dulcie Crane, and mind what I said.”
And clapping her on the shoulder with his strong hand, he smiled after his fashion, and wagged his head and strode into the yard, mounted his horse, and was soon far away on the road from Carwell Grange.
L
Bertha Velderkaust
Harry Fairfield, when, crossing Cressley Common, he reached the road that diverges eastward, took that turn, and rode towards Hatherton.
Surely enough he looked when he slackened his pace to a walk at the foot of the long low hill that interposes between the common and that town.
He had a short pipe in his pocket, with a big bowl, and a metal cover to it, into which he stuffed some pinches of tobacco—a shilling went a good way in that sort of smoking, and Harry was economical—and soon his pipe was in full play.
This narcotic helped his cogitative powers, and he had a good deal to think about. He was going to see his old friend Bertha Velderkaust, in her new situation, and he was considering how best to approach her.
From such ruminations—too vague and irregular to be reduced to logical sequence and arrangement—there arise, nevertheless, conclusions by no means unimportant, and quite distinct enough. By this time he had smoked his pipe out, and looked down from the summit of this rising ground upon the pretty town spreading among the trees, with its old tower and steeple, its courthouse, its parsonage, and that high-walled stronghold on the right, in which the object of his visit was at present secluded.
When, having complied with all formalities, he obtained an entrance, and obtained permission to visit that person, it was her pleasure to keep him waiting for some time for his audience. Harry grew cross and impatient, the more so as he heard that she had a friend with her, drinking tea, and reading the newspaper to her.
As Harry Fairfield was one of those persons who are averse to sacrificing themselves without a good consideration, the reader will conclude that his object was not altogether to serve the “old soldier.” If it had been only that, I think he would
