Tales of the Old London Slum – Complete Series. Morrison Arthur

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СКАЧАТЬ on the gratitude she owed her grandfather, calling her a cripple very often in course of his argument, and sometimes a burden. She knew that she was a cripple and a burden, but to be held tightly by the arm and told so, by a gentleman with such a loud voice and such large eyes as Uncle Isaac, somehow inclined her to cry. So now, as soon as might be, she joined her brother, and the two retreated into the shadowy corner between the stairfoot and the backhouse door.

      The old butterfly-hunter, too, was shy in his more elderly way. Beyond his widowed daughter-in-law and her two children he had scarce an acquaintance, or at least none more familiar than the naturalists in London to whom he sold his specimens. So that now, in presence of this very genteel Mr. Butson, who, he feared, was already disgusted at the humble character of the establishment, he made but a hollow meal. A half-forgotten notion afflicted him, that it was proper to drink tea in only one of two possible ways; but whether from the cup or from the saucer he could not resolve himself. Mr. Butson had finished his tea, so that his example was lacking: though indeed the lees in his saucer seemed to offer a hint—a hint soon triumphantly confirmed by Uncle Isaac, who was nothing averse from a supplementary cup, and who emptied it straightway into his saucer and gulped ardently, glaring fearfully over the edge. Whereat his host drank from the saucer also, and took heed to remember for the future. Still he was uncomfortable, and a little later he almost blushed at detecting himself inhospitably grateful for signs that Mr. Butson began to tire of the visit. Meanwhile he modestly contributed little to the conversation.

      “No,” said Mr. Butson gloomily after a long pause, and in reply to nothing in particular, “I ain’t a man of property. I wish I was. If people got what they was brought up to—but there!” He stuck his hands lower in his pockets and savagely regarded vacancy.

      “Mr. Butson’s uncle,” said Uncle Isaac, “is a mayor. A mayor. An’ ‘is other relations is of almost equal aristocracy. But ‘e won’t ‘ave nothin’ to say to ‘em, not a word. It’s jist blood—pride o’ breedin’. But what I say is, it may be proper self-respeck, but it ain’t proper self-justice. It ain’t self-justice, in my way o’ puttin’ it. Why ‘e won’t even name ‘em! Won’t name ‘em, Mr. May!”

      “Won’t he?” the old man answered, rather tamely, “dear, dear!” Mr. Butson laid his head back, jerked his chin, and snorted scorn at the ceiling.

      “No—won’t as much as name ‘em, such is ‘is lawfty contemp’. Otherwise, what ‘ud be my path of dooty? My path of dooty on behalf of self-justice to Mr. Butson would be to see ‘em an’ put a pint o’ argument. ‘Ere, I puts it, is ‘im, an’ ‘ere is me. ‘Ere is Mr. ‘Enery Butson, your very dootiful relation of fash’nable instinks, an’ a engineer than which none better though much above it, an’ unsuitably enchained by worldly circumstances in the engine-room of a penny steamer.” (Here Mr. Butson snorted again.) “Likewise ‘ere is me, a elderly man of some small property, an’ a shipwright of practical experience. Them circumstances bein’ the case, cons’kently, what more nachral an’ proper than a partnership—with capital. That’s ‘ow I’d put the pint; a partnership with capital.”

      “Jus’ so,” said old May. And seeing that the other still paused, he added “Of course.”

      “But ‘e’s proud—proud!” said Uncle Isaac, shaking his head plaintively.

      “P’raps I am proud,” Mr. Butson admitted candidly, “I s’pose I got my faults. But I wouldn’t take a penny from ‘em—not if they was to beg me on their knees. Why I’d sooner be be’olding to strangers!”

      “Ah, that ‘e would,” sighed Uncle Isaac. “But it ain’t self-justice. No, it ain’t self-justice!”

      “It’s self-respect, any’ow,” said Mr. Butson sullenly. “If they like to treat me unnatural, let ‘em.”

      “Ah,” observed Uncle Isaac, “some fam’lies is unnachral an’ some is nachral, an’ there’s a deal o’ difference between ‘em. Look at Mr. May now. ‘E ain’t altogether in my family, though my niece’s father-in-law by marriage. But what nachralness! His son was a engineer in yer own trade, Mr. Butson,—fitter at Maidment’s. ‘E left my niece a widder, cons’kence of a coat-tail in a cog wheel. What does Mr. May do? Why ‘e shows ‘is nachralness. ‘E brings ‘er an’ ‘er children down ‘ere on ‘is own free’old residence, an’ cons’kently—‘ere they are. Look at that!”

      It was a principle with Uncle Isaac to neglect no opportunity of reciting at large the excellences of any person of the smallest importance with whom he might be acquainted; or the excellences which that person might be supposed to desire credit for: if in his actual presence, so much the better. Nothing could be cheaper, and on the whole it paid very well. At worst, it advertised an amiable character; and there remained off-chances of personal benefit. Moreover the practice solidified Uncle Isaac’s reputation among his acquaintances. For here, quoth each in his turn, was plainly a man of sagacious discernment. The old postman, however, was merely uneasy. To his mind it was nothing but a matter of course that when his son died, the widow and children should come under his own roof, and it was as a matter of course that he had brought them there. But Bessy’s mother said simply:—“Yes, gran’dad’s been a good one to us, always.” She, as well as the children, called him “gran’dad.”

      “Yes,” proceeded Uncle Isaac, “an’ ‘im with as much to think about as a man of edication too—wonderful. Why there’s nothink as ‘e don’t know in astronomy an’—an’—an’ insectonomy. Nothink!”

      “No, not astronomy,” interjected old May, a little startled by both counts of the imputation. “Not astronomy, Mr. Mundy.”

      “I say yes,” answered Uncle Isaac, with an emphatic slap on the knee. “Modesty under a bushel’s all very well, Mr. May, all very well, but I know—I know! Astronomy, an’ medicamedica an’ all the other classics. I know! Ah, I’d give best part o’ my small property, sich as it is, for ‘alf your edication, Mr. May!”

      It was generally agreed in the family that Uncle Isaac was very “close” as to this small property of his. Nothing could induce him to speak of it with any particularity of detail, and opinions varied as to its character. Still, whatever it was, it sufficed to gain Uncle Isaac much deference and consideration—the more, probably, because of its mysterious character; a deference and a consideration which Uncle Isaac could stimulate from time to time by cloudy allusions to altering his will.

      “Well,” observed Mr. Butson rising from his chair, “education never done me much good.”

      “No, unforchnately!” commented Uncle Isaac.

      “An’ I’d prefer property meself.” Mr. Butson made toward the door, and Uncle Isaac prepared to follow.

      At this moment a harsh female voice suddenly screamed from the darkness without. “Lor’! I almost fell over a blessed ‘ousel,” it said, and there was a shrill laugh. “We’ll ask ‘em the way back.”

      Old May stepped over the threshold at the sound; but the magnificence was stricken from the face of Mr. Batson. His cheeks paled, his mouth and eyes opened together, and he shrank back, even toward the stairfoot. Nobody marked him, however, but the children, for attention was directed without.

      “Djear! which way to the Dun Cow?”

      “See the lane?” answered the old postman. “Follow that to the right an’ you’ll come to it. It’s a bit farther than through the wood, but ye can’t go wrong.”

      “Right!” There were СКАЧАТЬ