Читать книгу Broken to Harness - Edmund Yates - Страница 7

"Person, indeed!" said Kate; "person yourself, ma'am! My place isn't by you after that, and now get the duns home the best way you can;" with which she sprang from the low phaeton, struck off across the fields, and left the wretched representative of aristocracy "with a couple of plunging brutes that soon spilt the old woman into the hedge, broke the trap all to pieces, and rushed away home with the splinter-bar at their heels--give you my word!" as Tommy used to narrate it.

Her manner with men was perfectly frank and open, equally devoid of reticence or coquetry. She called them all by their Christian names if they were commoners, by their titles if they were lords. She answered at once when addressed as "Kitty," or "Old Lady," or "Stunner;" by all of which appellations she was known. She would lay her whip lightly across the shoulders of any particular friend as a token of recognition at the meet; would smoke a cigarette on her way home after the kill; and always carried sherry and sandwiches in a silver combination of flask and box. Her grammar was shaky, and her aspirate occasionally misplaced; she never read any thing but Bell's Life and books on farriery, and she laughed a loud, ringing, resonant shout; but her speech was always free from bad words, and no man ever tried a double entendre or a blasphemy twice in her presence. Living the odd strange life she did, defiant of all society's prejudices, it was yet strange that even London slander had left her unassailed. They did say that she was very much taken by Bob Mayo's sabre-scar when he returned from the Crimea, and that Barker, the steeple-chase rider, half gentleman, half jock, was engaged to her; but nothing came of either of these two reports. Early in her London career, very soon after she came to town, and when men were first beginning to inquire who was the dashing horsewoman who rode such splendid cattle with such pluck and skill, De Blague, the Queen's messenger, assumed to know all about her, and at Limmer's, one night, threw out certain hints by no means uncomplimentary to himself, and eked out with many nods and winks; but two days after that, as De Blague, with two other Foreign-Office men, was leaning over the rails in the Row, Miss Mellon rode up, and denouncing him as a "bragging hound," slashed him with her by no means light riding-whip severely over the head and shoulders. After that day no one cared to say much against Kate Mellon.

Who was she, and where did she come from? that no one positively knew. When The Den at Ealing (she so christened it; it was called Myrtle Farm before) was to let, the neighbours thought the landlord would stand out of his rent for many years. The house was a little, long, one-storied building, cut up into small rooms; old, dilapidated, and damp. The stables were rotting with decay; the barns untiled and tumbling down; the twenty or thirty acres of land attached were swampy and unproductive. The place stood untenanted for half a year. Then, one morning, an old gentleman arrived in a four-wheeled cab, went all over the premises, had an interview with the proprietor, announced himself as Mr. Powker, of the firm of Powker and Beak, of Lincoln's Inn, and within a fortnight the lease was assigned to Miss Kate Mellon, spinster. The house was papered and painted, and put in order; the stables were entirely altered and renovated, and fitted with enamel mangers, and tesselated pavements, and bronze devices for holding the pillar-reins, and all the newest equine upholstery; some of the barns were converted into carriage-houses, and one of the largest into a tan-strewn riding-school; the land was thoroughly drained and laid out in paddocks, where there were tan-rides and all kinds of jumps, and an artificial brook, and every thing for a horse's proper tuition. Miss Mellon did not receive visits from the neighbouring gentry, principally lawyers and merchants, who went regularly to business, and always stared hard at her when their wives were not with them; nor did she attend the parish-church; but she gave largely to all the parochial charities, and in the winter had a private soup-kitchen of her own. I believe that occasionally gin was dispensed in small glasses to the soup-recipients; but all was done under the superintendence of Freeman, the staid stud-groom, who had followed her from Yorkshire, where she said "her people" lived. But she never said any thing more about them; and you would as soon have got a comic song out of an oyster as a word from Freeman. And she prospered wonderfully. She had to make large additions to the stables, and to build rooms for an increased force of grooms; and even then there were always half a score of horses waiting on her list for admission, either for training or cure. She made money rapidly, and kept it: no better woman of business ever breathed; in a big ledger she scrawled her own accounts, and, as she boasted, could always tell to a farthing "how she stood." With all this she was generous and hospitable; paid her grooms good wages, and gave frequent dinner-parties to her friends,--dinner-parties which scandalised her solemnly pompous neighbours, who would look aghast at the flashing lamps of the carriages dashing up the little carriage-drive to fetch away the company at the small hours, or would listen from beneath their virtuous bedclothes to the shouts of mirth and snatches of melody which came booming over the hushed fields.

One of these dinner-parties--that to which she had invited Beresford--is just over. The French windows in the long, low dining-room are open; the table is covered with the remains of dessert, and some of the guests have already lighted cigars. Kate Mellon heads her table still; she never leaves the room to the gentlemen,--"It's slow," he says; "women alone fight or bore;" so she remains. You can catch a good glimpse of her now under that shaded swinging moderator-lamp; a little woman, with a closely-knit figure, long violet eyes, and red-gold hair, taken off over her ears, twisted in a thick lump at the back of her head, and secured with a pink coral comb of horse-shoe shape. She is dressed in white spotted muslin, fastened at the throat and waist with coral brooch and clasps. Her nose is a little too thick for beauty; her lips full; her mouth large, with strong white teeth; her hands are white, but large and sinewy; and the tones of her voice are sharp and clear. She is shouting with laughter at a song which a jolly-looking young man, sitting at the little cottage-piano at the end of the room, has just finished; and her laugh makes the old rafters ring again.

"I always yell at that song, Tom," she says. "I haven't heard it since last winter, the day that 'Punch' Croker dined here, and we gave him an olive to taste for the first time."

"He's tremendous fun, is Punch," said the singer. "Why didn't he dine here to-day? Is he out of town?"

"He's got a moor with Penkridge," said Beresford, who was sitting next the hostess. "By Jove, how bored Penkridge will be before he's done with him!"

"Punch has not got much to say for himself," said a tall man, in a dark beard. "I've had him down to dine with me when I've been on guard at the Bank, and, 'pon my soul, he's never said a word the whole night!"

"He was at Baden with us last year," said Beresford; "and when we used to sit and smoke our weeds after dinner in front of the Kursaal, he used to bore us so with staring at us and saying nothing, that we used to pay him to go away. Subscribe five francs, or thalers--according to our means, you know--and send him to play at the tables to get rid of him."

"He's not a bad fellow, though, Punch Croker," said Kate. "And what I like in him is, he never lets out that he don't know every thing!"

"No, that's just it!" said the tall guardsman. "Just after the Derby, I was confoundedly seedy, and my doctor told me I wanted more ozone."

"What's that, Jack?" asked the man at the piano.

"Well, it's some air or stuff that you don't get by sitting up all night, and lying in bed till three. From the doctor's I went to the Rag, and found Meaburn there; and we'd just agreed to dine together, when Punch Croker came in. I told Meaburn to hold on, and we'd get a rise out of Punch. He asked us if we were going to dine, and we said yes, and that he might dine too, if he liked. And I told him I'd got some ozone, and asked him his opinion, as a sort of fellow who knew those things, how it should be cooked. He thought for one moment, and then said, perfectly quietly, 'Well, if you have it before the cheese, it should be broiled.' Never let on that he didn't know what it was; never changed a muscle of his face,--give you my word!"

They all laughed at this, and then the tall guardsman said, "It's a great bore, though, to get a reputation for stupidity. It's as bad as being supposed to be funny. People are always expecting you to say stupid things, and sometimes it's deuced hard to do."

"Poor old Charleville!" said Beresford; "we all sympathise with you, old fellow, though no one can imagine you ever found any difficulty in being stupid. Comes natural, don't it, old boy?"

Captain Charleville didn't seem to relish this remark, and was about to reply angrily, when Tom Burton, the man who had been singing, struck in hastily with, "Well, it's better to be or to seem stupid, than to be stupid and have the credit of being clever. Now there's Northaw, only said one decent thing in his life; and because that has been told about, fellows say that he's a deuced clever fellow, and that there's more in him than you'd think."

"What was the one good thing he did say?" asked Kate.

"Well, it was one day when he was out with the Queen's last season. Stradwicke was there, and Pattan, and Bellairs, and a lot of men; and Northaw was in a horrid bad temper,--had got up too soon, or something, and was as rusty as Old Boots; so while he was fretting and fuming about, and blackguarding the weather, and his stirrup-leathers, and every thing else, Tom Winch rode up to him. You know Tom Winch, son of great contractor, timber-man, builds bridges, and that sort of thing. 'Morning, my lord!' says Tom Winch. 'Morning,' says Northaw, as sulky as a bear. 'What do you think of my new horse, my lord?' says Tom Winch. 'Ugly brute,' says Northaw, looking up; 'ugly, wooden-legged brute; looks as if he'd been made at home."

Burton rose during the laugh that followed his story, and rang the bell. "I must be off," he said; "I've rung to have the phaeton round, Kitty. Charleville, you'll come with me? I can find room for you, Beresford."

"No; thanks," said Beresford; "I rode down. Oh, tell them to bring my horse round too," he added to the servant.

"Wait five minutes, Charley," said Kate Mellon in an undertone; "let us have a quiet talk after they're gone. I've got something to say to you."

"Well, good night, Kate; good night, old lady. If you pick up any thing good in Yorkshire, let's how, there's a Stunner! I've promised to mount my sister next season, and she sha'n't ride any thing you don't warrant. Good night, Beresford; good night, old lady;" and with hearty hand-shakes to Kate, and nods to Beresford, Captain Charleville and Tom Burton took themselves off.

"Now, Charley," said Kate, leaning forward on the table while Beresford lit a fresh cigar and threw himself back in his chair,--"now, Charley, tell us all about it."

"About what?" asked Beresford, rolling the leaf of his cigar round with his finger. "That is good, by Jove! You say you want to talk to me, and you begin by asking me to tell you all about it!"

"I mean about yourself. You're horribly low, and dull, and slow, and wretched. You've scarcely spoken all the evening, and you ate no dinner, and you drank a great deal of wine."

"You're a pretty hostess, Kitty! You've checked off my dinner like the keeper of a table-d'hôte."

"Well, you know you might drink the cellar dry, if you liked. But you're all out of sorts, Charley; tell me all about it, I say!"

"You certainly are a strange specimen, Stunner," said Beresford, still calmly occupied with his cigar-leaf; "but there's a wonderful deal of good in you, and I don't mind telling you what I wouldn't say to any one else. I'm done up, Kitty; run the wrong side of the post; distanced, old lady. I've been hit frightfully hard all this year; my book for the Leger looks awful; I owe pots of money, and I am very nearly done."

"My poor Charley!" said the girl, bending forward, with deep interest in her face. "That certainly is a blue look-out," she continued,--for however earnest was her purpose, she could not but express herself in her slang metaphor. "Is there nothing to fall back upon?"

"Nothing; no resource, save one--and that I'm going to look after at once--marriage!"

"Marriage!"

"Yes; if I could pick up a woman with money, I'd settle down into a regular quiet humdrum life. I'd cut the turf, and ride a bishop's cob, and give good dinners, and go to church, and be regularly respectable, by Jove! I should make a good husband, too; I think I should; only--the worst of it is, that these women with money, by some dispensation of nature, are generally so frightfully hideous."

"Yes," said the girl, who had pushed her hands through her hair, and then clenched them tightly in front of her, and who was looking at him with staring, earnest eyes. "I can't fancy you married, Charley; that's quite a new view of matters; and, as you say, the rich women are not generally pretty. You can't have every thing, Charley?"

"No," said Beresford, gloomily. "I know that; and it would be deuced hard lines to have to take a Gorgon about with you, and to have to glare at a plain-headed woman sitting opposite you for the rest of your life. But need must--what am I to do?"

"Charley," said the girl, suddenly tilting her chair on to its front legs, and drumming with her right hand upon the table; "look here. You can't have every thing, you know, and it's better to make the running over open ground, no matter how heavy, than to dash at a thick hedge where there may be water and Lord knows what on the other side. Don't hurry it so, Charley; you'll get pounded without knowing it, and then there'll be nothing to pull you through. You can't expect every thing in a wife, you know, Charley. If you got money, you couldn't look for rank, you know, eh?"

"Why, how you do talk about it, old lady!" said Beresford, flicking the ash off his cigar. "No; I'm not exacting. I wouldn't care about her pedigree, so long as she was well weighted."

"That's right; of course not, Charley! I should think you'd find some one, Charley; not grand, you know, but good and honest, and all that. Not very beautiful either, perhaps, but not ugly, you know; and one who'd love you, Charley, and be true to you, and take care of you, and make you a good wife."

"Yes, I know, and all that sort of thing; but where is she to come from?"

"You might find such a one, Charley, where you never looked for it, perhaps; one who could bring you a little fortune, all honest money, and who could tell you of her past life, which you never dreamed of, and need not be ashamed of. There might be such a one, Charley!"

She had slid from her chair to the ground, and knelt, with her hands on his knees, looking eagerly into his face. Her eyes gleamed with excitement she had pushed her hair back from her forehead, and her lips were parted in eager anticipation of his words. They came at length, very slowly. At first he turned pale, and caught his breath for an instant; then gently lifted her hands, and muttered between his teeth, "It's impossible, Kate; it can't be!"

"Impossible!"

"It can't be, I tell you. What would--there, you don't understand these things, and I can't explain. It's impossible! I was a fool to start the subject. Now I must go. Good-by, child; write me a line from Scarborough; they'll forward it from the office. Won't you say good-by?"

He gripped her cold, passive hand, and two minutes afterwards she heard the sound of his departing horse's feet on the carriage-drive.

For a while Kate Mellon stood motionless, then stamped her foot violently, and sank into a chair, covering her face with her hands, through which the tears welled slowly. Rousing herself at length, she hurried to a writing-table, pulled out a gaudily-decorated papier-mâché blotting-book, and commenced scrawling a letter. She wrote hurriedly, passionately, until she had covered the sheet, running her gold pen-holder through the tangled mass of hair at the back of her head, and twisting a stick of sealing-wax with her teeth the while. The letter finished, she skimmed through it hastily, put it in an envelope, and directed it to "F. Churchill, Esq., Statesman Office, E.C."