Cradock Nowell: A Tale of the New Forest. Volume 3 of 3. Blackmore Richard Doddridge
of having gotten great money out of Eudoxia – a triumph without historic parallel – inspired him, away with that overdone word! – aerated him with glory. Thirty pounds, and some odd shillings, wholly at John Rosedewʼs mercy (who never gave quarter to money, but hewed it as small as Agag when anybody asked him), – thirty pounds, with no duty upon it, no stamp of responsibility, and a peculiar and peppery piquancy in the spending of every halfpenny, to wonder what sister Doxy would think if she could only know it! He gave careful Amy the note to keep, and 15l. to go inside it, because he had promised to do so, for Doxy knew his nature.
In that noble fly from the “Foresters,” which had only two springs broken, John and his daughter went away to catch the train at Brockenhurst. Out of the windows dangerously they pushed their beautiful heads – the beauty of youth on one side, the beauty of age on the other – although the coachman had specially warned them that neither door would fasten. But what could they do, when Aunt Doxy was there by the great rhododendron, with a kettle–holder over her mouth because it was so cold; fat Jemima too, and Jenny, and Jem Pottles leading Coræbus to shake off his dust at the shay–horse, and learn what he might come to?
Some worthy people had journeyed up from the further end of the village, to bid an eternal farewell to Amy, and to take home the washing. They knew she would never come back again; she would never be let go again; folks in London were so wicked, and parson was so innocent. Evil though the omens were, as timidly blushing she went away, tearfully leaving her fatherʼs hearth, though a daw on the left hand forbade her to go, and a wandering chough was overheard, and a croaking raven whirled away into the wilds of the woodland – for whom shall I fear, I the cannie seer, while Amy smiles dexter out of the cab, and wraps her faith around her?
Make we not half our life here, according as we receive it? Is it not as the rain that falls, softly when softly taken, as of leaves and grass and water; but rattling and flying in mud and foul splashes, when met at wrong angles repulsively?
My little daughter, if you cannot see your way in that simile – a very common–place one, – take a still more timeworn and venerable illustration. Our life is but a thread, my child, at any moment snappable, though never snapped unwisely; and true as it is that we cannot spin and shape it (as does the spider) out of our own emotions, yet we have this gift of God, that we can secrete some gold along it, some diamonds fetching the sunlight. Knowing, then, in whose Hand we are, and feeling how large that Hand is, let us know and feel therewith that He will not crush us; that He loves us to rejoice therein, and tamely to regard Him; with confidence in adoration, a smile in every bow to Him.
CHAPTER II
Polly Ducksacre was sitting in state behind the little counter, and opposite the gas–jet, upon her throne – a bushel basket set upside down on another. It was the evening of Boxing Day, and Polly was arrayed with a splendour that challenged the strictest appraisement; so gorgeous were her gilt earrings, cornelian necklace, sham cameo brooch – Cupid stealing the sword of Mars – and German–silver bracelets. The children who came in for “haʼporths of specked” forgot their errand and hopes of prigging, and, sucking their lips with wild admiration, cried “Lor now! Ainʼt she stunnin?” “Spexs her sweetheart in a coach and four,” exclaimed one little girl of great penetration; “oh give us a ride, miss, when he comes.”
That little girl was right, to a limited extent. Polly did expect her sweetheart; not in a coach and four, however, but in a smallish tax–cart, chestnut–coloured, picked out with white; on the panel whereof was painted, as the Act directs, “Robert Clinkers, Junior, Coal–merchant, Hammersmith.” Mr. Clinkers, whose first visit had been paid simply from pity for Cradock, and to acquit himself of all complicity in Hearty Wibrahamʼs swindle, had called again to make kind inquiries, after finding how ill the poor fellow was, and that his landlady sold coals. Nor was it long before he ventured to propose an arrangement, mutually beneficial, under which the Ducksacre firm should receive their supply from him. Two or three councils were held, but the ladies were obliged to surrender at last, because he was so complimentary, and had such nice white teeth, and spoke in such a feeling manner of his dear departed angel. On the other hand, their old wharfinger would come blustering about his sacks, loud enough to make the potatoes jump, and he kept such impudent men, and bit his nails without any manners, and called them both “Mrs. Acreducks.”
During this Clinkerian diplomacy, Polly showed such shrewdness, and such a nice foot and ancle, and had such a manner of rolling her eyes – blacker and brighter than best Wallsend – that the coals of love were laid, the match struck, the fire kindled, and drawing well up the hearth–place, before Robert Clinkers knew what he was at. And now he came every evening, bringing two sacks of coal with him, and sat on a bag of Barcelonas, and cracked, and gazed at Polly.
“Miss Ducksacre, you should sell lemonade,’” he had said only Saturday last, which was Christmas Eve, “it is such a genteel drink, you know, when a chap is consumed with internal fires, as the great poet says – him as wrote the operas, or the copperas, bless me, I never know which it is; likely you can tell, miss?”
“Lor, Mr. Clinkers, why, the proper name is hopperas; we shows the boards, and we gets a ticket, when nobody else wonʼt go.”
“Oh now! Do you, though? Ah, I was there, afore ever I knew what life was. A tricksome thing is life, Miss Polly, especially for a ‘andsome female, and no young fellow to be trusted with it. Valuable cargo on green wood. Sure to come to shipwreck.”
“Lor, Mr. Clinkers, you donʼt mean me! I am sure I am not at all handsome.”
“Then there isnʼt one in London, miss. Coals is coals, and fire is fire – oh, I should like some lemonade, with a drop of rum in it. Would you join me in it now, if I just pop round the corner? It would make you feel so nice now.”
“Do I ever feel anything else but nice?” Oh, Polly, what a leading question!
“I wishes it was in my province now, with the deepest respect, to try!” Here Polly flashed away, though nobody was pursuing her, got behind some Penzance broccoli, and seized a half–pottle to defend herself. Mr. Clinkers, knowing what he was about, appealed to a bunch of mistletoe, under which, in distracting distraction, the young lady had taken refuge.
“Now nobody else in all this London,” said the coal–merchant to the berries, “in all this mighty Baal, as the poet beautifully expresses it, especially if a young man, not over five–and–thirty, not so very bad–looking but experienced in life, and with great veneration for females, and a business, you may say, of three hundred a year clear of income–tax and increasing yearly, and a contract with the company, without no encumbrances, would ever go to think of letting that beautiful young lady enjoy the sweets of retirement in that most initing position, without plucking some of the pearls off, and no harm done or taken. And nothing at all pervents me, no consideration of the brockolo – could pay for it to–morrow morning – but my deepest respects, not having my best togs on, through a cruel haxident. Please pigs theyʼll come home to–morrow morning, and Iʼll do it on Monday, and lock up yard at four oʼclock, if tailor has made a job of it. Look nice indeed, and feel nice? I should like to know how she could help it!”
This explains why, when the wheels at the door proved to be not of the sprightly tax–cart, but a lumbering cab, Polly was disappointed. Neither was her displeasure removed when she saw a very pretty girl get out, and glide into the shop, with the loveliest damask spreading over the softest and clearest cheeks. Though Polly had made up her mind about Cradock as now a bad speculation, it was not likely that she should love yet any one who meant to have him.
Amy shrunk back as her nice clean skirt swept the grimy threshold. She was not by any means fidgety, but had a nervous dislike of dirt, as most upright natures have. Then she felt ashamed of herself, and coloured yet more deeply to think that a place good enough for Cradock should seem too sordid for her, indeed! And then her tears glanced in the gas–light, that Cradock should ever have come to this, and partly, no doubt, for her sake, though she never could tell how.
The little shop was afforested with Christmas–trees of all sorts and of every pattern, as large as ever could be squeezed, with a knuckle of root to keep them steady, into pots No. 32. The costermongers repudiate larger