Crying for the Light: or, Fifty Years Ago. Volume 3 of 3. James Ewing Ritchie
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. The pheasants were feeding in the surrounding park.
Not yet had man gone forth to his daily toil, and there was peaceful slumber in the trim cottage and the snug farmhouse alike. Now and then the shrill cry of the petted peacock awoke the woods, or the clamour of the early cock.
Sir Watkin lingered to enjoy the loveliness of the rural scene and the freshness of the morning air. For awhile something even of sentiment filled his heart. What had he done that all that lovely landscape should he his? How could he have lived as he had in London and Paris, in Vienna or Rome? Was it true that there was a God, as they told him in church, and as he had learned on his mother’s knee – who had given him all these things richly to enjoy, and would demand, sooner or later, an account of his stewardship? Then he looked at the glass, and was shocked as he saw how bloodshot were his eyes, how dark the skin underneath; how clear were the lines marked by dissipation on his cheek and brow.
Well, it was time he settled down. He had not behaved well to his first wife, he admitted, but that was no reason why be should not treat his second wife well. Then he was little better than a lad – now he was a man who had seen something of the world and who knew the value of peace and quietness. And so resolving, he dismissed his man and undressed.
Even then sleep was shy in coming. He had a puzzle to distract him to which he could find no answer. What had that old tipsy female at the cattle-show got to tell him? – what was the secret she pretended to have in her possession? Was the mystery ever to be solved? He had seen in her something to remind him of a girl who had once been in his service, but it could not be her. Surely she had not become what he saw. Sir Watkin forgot that the beauty of a woman, when she takes