Crying for the Light: or, Fifty Years Ago. Volume 3 of 3. James Ewing Ritchie

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      The crowd naturally sided with the Baronet. He was the great man of the district.

      ‘What business had a wretched woman like that to interfere with him? Just like her imperence!’ said the majority.

      One or two, more curious than the rest, followed the woman, with a view to learn further particulars; but she was, for a wonder, reticent. She was not Sall – but Sall’s friend and ally. Not if wild horses were to drag her in twain would she disclose her secret. It was one between Sir Watkin and herself alone.

      Sir Watkin rejoined his friends, trusting that they had not been eye-witnesses of his adventure.

      Just at that moment he had no wish to have scandal or mystery attaching to his name. Hitherto, his appearance had been quite a success, and the British merchant and his daughter were duly impressed with the respect and attention he had everywhere commanded.

      ‘We’ve missed you much, Sir Watkin,’ said the lady in a tone which flattered his vanity and raised his hopes.

      ‘Yes, the crowd cruelly separated us for a few minutes.’

      ‘A few minutes!’ said the lady; ‘it seemed to me a long time.’

      ‘You make me proud,’ said the Baronet. ‘It is something to be missed by one who has always so many admirers.’

      ‘You flatter me, Sir Watkin. But, seriously, what was all the fuss about?’

      ‘Only a tipsy woman.’

      ‘How shocking! But, good gracious, there she is again.’

      Sir Watkin looked in the direction pointed out, and, sure enough, there was his old enemy. Conducted off the ground by one gate, she had reappeared by another, and was bearing down, amidst the jeers of the oi polloi, straight upon himself.

      ‘Confound her impudence!’ he exclaimed. ‘I wish I had given her in charge.’

      ‘Sir Watkin, I say! Sir Watkin, hear me! I’ve something very particular to say.’

      ‘Yes, but you can’t say it now, my good woman. Don’t you see I am engaged?’

      Again a crowd assembled in full expectation of some fun – an extra entertainment not included in the day’s programme.

      Again, fortunately, the policeman appeared.

      ‘Now, my good woman,’ said he, ‘he hoff. Don’t you see you are creatin’ a disturbance?’

      ‘I am a-doin’ w’at?’ asked the party addressed.

      ‘You are a-creatin’ a disturbance and hinterferin’ with the gentry. It is agen the law. You’d best take yourself off.’

      ‘Oh, I am a-goin’, but I must speak to Sir Watkin first.’

      ‘Call at the Hall, old gal, and leave your card, and then Sir Watkin will be delighted to see you,’ cried one in the crowd. ‘The family dine at seven. Don’t forget the hour.’

      ‘Yes,’ said another, ‘Sir Watkin will be pleased to see such a beauty. He’ll want you to stop with him a month. Sir Watkin knows a pretty gal when he sees one – no one better.’

      But by this time Sir Watkin and his party were off. His groom had come to the rescue and brought up the horses, and they remounted, leaving the tipsy woman to scream after him in vain.

      This time, however, her blood was up, and she refused to be led quietly off. Another constable came to the rescue of his mate, and she was carried off, kicking and struggling all the while. Her cries filled the air and reached the Baronet’s party.

      ‘’Tis very annoying, but one can’t help such things on a public day like this,’ said he in an apologetic tone to the lady. ‘The poor woman must be cracked, I think.

      ‘It makes one ashamed of one’s sex,’ was her reply.

      ‘Such conduct ought not to be allowed. The police aren’t half sharp enough,’ said the British merchant. ‘What do we pay rates and taxes for, I should like to know, but to prevent such disturbances?’

      The British merchant evidently expected the British public to be as subdued and deferential as his clerks in his counting-house, when they appeared in his august and imposing presence, or as his debtors, when bills were overdue.

      The ladies of his party had left the field early – their ears stunned with the noisy scene:

      ‘With the striking of clocks,

      Cackle of hens, crowing of cocks,

      Lowing of cow and bull and ox,

      Bleating of pretty pastoral flocks.’

      Sir Watkin and his friend, the British merchant, had stopped to dine at the grand banquet held on the occasion, in the leading hotel of the town. An Englishman can do nothing without a public dinner. Sir Watkin had to take the chair.

      ‘You will excuse me, won’t you?’ said he to the young lady, as he parted with her.

      ‘Oh, yes!’ said she gaily. ‘I am quite aware property has its duties as well as its rights.’

      ‘Well, I think it is well to be neighbourly when one has the chance. But I give you my word of honour, I would far sooner ride back with you.’

      ‘Well, the best of friends must part,’ said the lady. ‘But you will be home in good time. Au revoir! Pray, take care of papa,’ said the lady, as she returned to the carriage that was to take her and some other ladies to the Hall, under the care of the vicar of the parish.

      Meanwhile, Sir Watkin made his way with his friend to the leading hotel of Sloville, where a heavy dinner of the old-fashioned type – such as was dear to the farmer years ago – was prepared, where the feeding and the drinking were alike trying to the stoutest nerve and the strongest digestion, and where the after-dinner oratory was of a truly bucolic character.

      The farmers were delighted to find their landlord in the chair, and listened to him as if he were an oracle. The dinner was a great success. As chairman, the Baronet had especially distinguished himself.

      There were fireworks in the evening, and a Bacchanalian orgy such as Sloville had rarely beheld. But the Baronet and his friend did not stop for that, but got back to the Hall in time to finish the day with a ball. The old Hall was gayer that night than it had been for a long time. All the old family plate had been brought forth for the occasion, and everywhere was light and music and laughter – and bright the lamps shone on

      ‘Fair women and brave men.’

      The revelry was loud and long, and hours after the ladies had retired the men had remained in the smoking-room to drink soda and brandy, and to talk of hunting exploits, of horses, of women, and of wine.

      The shades of night had passed, and the golden dawn was glittering in the east. The sun was commencing like a giant refreshed to renew his daily course – the simile is old, but it is true, nevertheless. A slight mist – prelude of a hot day – dimmed the valley below the Hall, and marked the line of the little trout stream, where Sir Watkin had loved to fish when a boy. In the grand old trees around, the birds were commencing their morning song of praise, while the heavy rooks were preparing to take their usual flight in search of food. СКАЧАТЬ