By Birth a Lady. Fenn George Manville
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and though you may never again be thanked by me, you will have the reward of knowing that you have protected a sister in distress.”
She laid a stress upon the word “sister,” as if referring to the young fellow’s manly reply to the dandy. But now “she” – that is to say, the train – had glided up, when, turning smartly —
“See those boxes in, Joe!” exclaimed the station-master; and then catching the traveller’s hand in his, he led her to the guard. “Put this young lady in a compartment where there’s more ladies,” he said. “She’s going to London, and I want you to see that she’s safely off in a cab when she gets there. She’s my sister.”
“All right, Mr Simpkin – all right,” said the guard.
“Good-bye, miss – good-bye!” exclaimed the young man confusedly, shaking her hand. “Business, you know – I must go.”
Just at that moment a thought seemed to have struck the dandy, who made as if to get to where the porter was thrusting the two canvas-covered trunks into the guard’s van; but he was too late.
“Now, then, sir, if you’re going on!” exclaimed the station-master. “Third-class?” he asked by way of a sneer.
“Confound you! I’ll serve you out for this – bai Jove I will!” muttered the over-dressed one, jumping hastily into a first-class coupé, when, looking out, he had the satisfaction of seeing the young station-master spring on to the step of a third-class carriage, and ride far beyond the end of the platform, before he jumped down and waved him a triumphant salute as the train swept by.
The dandy made a point of going up to that carriage at every stopping – station where sufficient time was afforded; but the fair young traveller sat with her face studiously turned towards the opposite window.
“I’ve a good mind to ride third-class for once in a way,” the gentleman muttered, as he passed the carriage during one stoppage.
Just then a child cried out loudly; and a soldier, smoking a dirty black pipe, thrust his head out of the next compartment with a “How are you, matey?”
“Bai Jove, no! Couldn’t do it!” murmured the exquisite, with a shudder; and he returned to his seat, to look angry and scowling for the rest of the journey.
He had made up his mind, though, as to his proceedings when they reached London; but again he was doomed to disappointment; for on his approaching the object of his pursuit in the crowd, he found the stout guard a guard indeed in his care of his charge; when, angrily turning upon his heel, he made his way to the luggage-bar, where, singling out the particular trunks that he had seen at Littleborough, he pressed through the throng, and eagerly read one of the direction-labels.
“Bai Jove!” he exclaimed, with an air of the most utter astonishment overspreading his face; and then again he read the direction, but only again to give utterance to his former ejaculation – “Bai Jove!”
He seemed so utterly taken aback that he did not even turn angrily upon a porter who jostled him, or upon another who with one of the very boxes knocked his hat over his eyes. The cab was laden and driven off before his face so slowly that, once more alone, he could have easily spoken to the veiled occupant. But, no: he was so utterly astounded that when he hailed a hansom, and slowly stepped in, his reply to the driver as he peered down through the little trap was only —
“Bai Jove!”
“Where to, sir?” said the man, astonished in his turn.
“Anywhere, my good fellow.”
“All right, sir.”
“No, no – stop. Drive me to the Wyndgate Club, Saint James’s-square.”
“All right, sir.”
And the cab drove off, with its occupant wondering and startled at the strange fashion in which every-day affairs will sometimes shape themselves, proving again and again how much more wild the truth can be than fiction, and musing upon what kind of an encounter his would be with the fair traveller when next he went home.
There was no record kept of the number of times the over-dressed gentleman gave utterance to that peculiarly-drawling exclamation; but it is certain that he startled his valet by jumping up suddenly at early morn from a dream of his encounter, to cry, as if disturbed by something almost painful:
“Who could have thought it? Bai Jove!”
Volume One – Chapter Three.
Blandfield Court
“Did you ring, sir?” said a footman.
“Yes, Thomas. Go to Mr Charles’s room, and tell him that I should be glad of half an hour’s conversation with him before he goes out, if he can make it convenient.”
The library-door of Blandfield Court closed; and after taking a turn or two up and down the room, Sir Philip Vining – a fine, florid, grey-headed old gentleman – stood for a moment gazing from the window at the sweep of park extending down to a glittering stream, which wound its way amidst glorious glades of beech and chestnut, bright in the virgin green of spring. But anxious of mien, and ill at ease, the old gentleman stepped slowly to the handsome carved-oak chair in which he had been seated, and then, intently watching the door, he leaned back, playing with his double gold eyeglass.
Five minutes passed, and then a step was heard crossing the hall – a step which made Sir Philip’s face lighten up, as, leaning forward, a pleasant smile appeared upon his lip. Then a heavy bold hand was laid upon the handle, and the patient of Dr Tiddson – fair, flushed, and open-countenanced – strode into the room, seeming as if he had brought with him the outer sunshine lingering in his bright brown hair and golden beard. He swung the door to with almost a bang; and then – free of gait, happy, and careless-looking, suffering from no broken rib, fractured clavicle, or concussed brain, as predicted three months before – he strode towards Sir Philip, who rose hurriedly with outstretched hands.
“My dear Charley, how are you this morning? You look flushed. Effects remaining of that unlucky fall, I’m afraid.”
“Fall? Nonsense, dad! Never better in my life,” laughed the young man, taking the outstretched hands and then subsiding into a chair. “Mere trifle, in spite of the doctor’s long phiz.”
“It is going back to old matters, but I’m very glad, my dear boy, that I saw Max Bray, and learned of your condition; and I’ve never said a word before, Charley, but why should you send for him in preference to your father?”
“Pooh! – nonsense, dad! First man I thought of. Did it to save you pain. Ought to have got up, and walked home. But there, let it pass. Mind my cigar?”
“No, no, my dear boy, of course not,” said the old gentleman, coughing slightly. “If it troubles me, I’ll open the window.”
“But really, father,” said the young man, laying his hand tenderly on Sir Philip’s arm, “don’t let me annoy you with my bad habit.”
“My dear boy, I don’t mind. You know we old fogies used to have our bad habits – two bottles of port after dinner, to run down into our legs and make gouty pains, eh, Charley – eh? And look here, my dear boy – look here!”
Charley Vining laughed, and, leaning back in his chair, began to send huge clouds of perfumed smoke from his cabana, as his father drew out a handsome gold-box, and took snuff à la courtier of George the Fourth’s day.
“I don’t like smoking, my boy; but it’s better than our old drinking habits.”
“Hear – hear! Cheers from the opposition!” laughed the son.
“Ah, my dear boy, why don’t you give your mind to that sort of thing? Such a fine opening as there is in the county! Writtlum says they could get you in with a tremendous majority.”
“Parliament, dad? Nonsense! Pretty muff I should be; get up to speak without half-a-dozen words to say.”
“Nonsense, Charley – nonsense! The Vinings never yet disgraced their name.”
“Unworthy