Sawn Off: A Tale of a Family Tree. Fenn George Manville
on the edge of the table.
The visitor’s clothes were very good, but they had a slangy cut, and might have been made for some Leviathan of a music-hall, who intended to delineate what he termed “a swell.” For the cuffs of the excessively short coat nearly hid the young fellow’s hands, even as the ends of his trousers almost concealed his feet; his shirt front was ornamented with large crimson zigzag patterns, and his hat was so arranged on the back of his head that it pressed down over his forehead a series of unhappy, greasy-looking little curls, which came down to his eyebrows.
Mrs Shingle nodded, and stabbed a boot-top very viciously as the young man saluted her.
“Old man out?” he said.
“You know he is,” retorted Mrs Shingle, “else you wouldn’t have come.”
“Don’t be hard on a fellow, aunt. You know I can’t help coming. Where’s Jessie?”
“Out,” said Mrs Shingle, sharply.
“She always is out when I come,” drawled the young man, tapping his teeth with his cane. “I believe she is upstairs now.”
“Then you’d better go up and see,” exclaimed Mrs Shingle. “Look here, Fred, I’m sure your father don’t approve of your coming here.”
“I can’t help what the governor likes,” was the reply.
“I’m not going to ask him where I’m to go. Is Jessie out?”
“I told you she was, sir.”
“Don’t be so jolly cross, aunt. It’s all right, you know. The old man will kick a bit, but he’ll soon come round. Don’t you be rusty about it. You ought to be pleased, you know; because she ain’t likely to have a chance to do half so well. I shall go and meet her.”
As he spoke, the young man – to wit, Frederick Fraser, step-son of Maximilian Shingle, Esq, of Oblong Square, Pentonville – slowly descended from the table, glanced at himself in the glass, and made for the door.
“She’s gone down the Goswell Road, I know,” said the young man, turning to show his teeth in a grin.
“No, no,” exclaimed Mrs Shingle hastily.
“Thank ye, I know,” said the young fellow, with a wink, and he passed out.
“Bother the boy!” exclaimed Mrs Shingle petulantly. “Now he’ll meet her, and she’ll be upset, and Dick will be cross, and Tom look hurt. Oh, dear, dear, dear, I wish she’d been as ugly as sin!”
There was an interval of angry stitching, as if the needle was at enmity with the soft leather, and determined to do it to death, and then Mrs Shingle cried, “Here she is!”
“Ah, my precious!” she added, as a trim, neat little figure came hurrying in snatched off her hat and hung it behind the door.
She was only in a dark brown stuff dress, but it was the very pattern of neatness, as it hung in the most graceful of folds; while over all shone as sweet a face as could be seen from east to west, with the bright innocence looking out of dark grey eyes.
“Back again, mother,” accompanied by a hasty kiss, was the reply to Mrs Shingle’s salute.
Then, brushing the crisp fair hair back from her white temples, the girl popped herself into a chair, opened a packet, drew close to the sewing machine, and in response to the pressure of a couple of little feet, that would have made anything but cold crystallised iron thrill, the wheel revolved, and with a clinking rattle the needle darted up and down.
“Have I been long?”
“No, my dear – quick as quick!” said Mrs Shingle, watching her child curiously.
“I wanted to get back and finish this, so as to take it in,” said the girl, making the machine rattle like distant firing.
“Did you meet Mr Fred?”
“Fred? No, mother,” was the reply, as the girl started, coloured, and the consequence was a tangle of the threads and a halt. “Has he been here?” she continued, as with busy fingers she tried to set the work free once more.
“Yes, just now, and set out to meet you. I wonder how you could have missed him.”
There was a busy pause for a few minutes, during which some work was hastily finished; and while Mrs Shingle kept watching her child from time to time uneasily, the latter rose from the machine, and began to double up the jacket upon which she had been at work, and to place it with a couple more lying close by on a black cloth.
“I hope you don’t encourage him, Jessie,” said Mrs Shingle at last.
“Mother!” exclaimed the girl, and her face became like crimson – “how can you?”
“Well, there, there, I’ll say no more,” exclaimed Mrs Shingle – “only it worries me. Now, make haste, there’s a dear, or you’ll be late. Don’t stop about, Jessie; and, whatever you do, don’t come back without the money. Your uncle’d sure to come or send to-day, and it’s so unpleasant not being ready.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can, mother,” said Jessie briskly.
“And you won’t stop, dear?”
“I don’t know what you mean, mother,” said the girl, with a tell-tale blush on her cheek.
“How innocent we are, to be sure!” exclaimed Mrs Shingle, tartly. Then, smiling, she continued, “There, I’m not cross, but I don’t quite like it. Of course, Tom don’t know when you go to the warehouse, and won’t be waiting. There, I suppose young folks will be young folks.”
“I can’t help it, mother, if Mr Fraser meets me by accident,” said Jessie, blushing very rosily, and pouting her lips.
“But he mustn’t meet you by accident; and it oughtn’t to be. Uncle Max would be furious if he knew of it, and those two boys will be playing at Cain and Abel about you, and you mustn’t think anything about either of them.”
“Mother!” exclaimed Jessie.
“I can’t help it, my dear; I must speak, and put a stop to it. Your father would be very angry if he knew.”
“Oh, don’t say so, mother!” pleaded Jessie, with a troubled look.
“But I must say it, my dear, before matters get serious; and I’ve been thinking about it all, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it must all be stopped. There! what impudence, to be sure! I believe that’s him come again.”
“May I come in?” said a voice, after a light tap at the door. And a frank, bearded face appeared in the opening.
“Yes, you can come in,” said Mrs Shingle sharply. But, in spite of her knitted brows, she could not keep back a smile of welcome as the owner of the frank face entered the room, kissed her, and then turned and caught Jessie’s hands in his, with the result that the parcel she was making up slipped off the table to the ground.
“There, how clumsy I am!” he exclaimed, picking up the fallen package, and nearly striking his head against Jessie’s, as, flushed and agitated, she stooped too. “Well, aunt dear, how are you?”
“Oh, I’m well enough,” said Mrs Shingle tartly, as she stretched a piece of silk between her fingers and her teeth, and made it twang like a guitar string. “What do you want here?”
“What do I want, aunt? All right, Jessie – I’ll tie the string. Thought I’d come in and carry Jessie’s parcel.”
“Oh, there!” exclaimed the girl.
“Now, look here, Mr Tom Fraser,” said Mrs Shingle, holding up her needle as if it were a weapon of offence: “you two have been planning this.”
“Mother!” cried Jessie.
“Oh no, we did not, aunt,” cried the young man; “it was all my doing. No, no, Jessie – I’ll carry the parcel.”
“No, no, Tom; indeed you must not.”
“I