george as a moneyed man.—sal.—the “white horse.”—the wedding.—the windmiller’s wife forgets, and remembers too late.
excitement, the stifling atmosphere of the public-house, and the spirits he had drunk at his friend’s expense, had somewhat confused the brains of the miller’s man by the time that the cheap jack rose to go. george was, as a rule, sober beyond the wont of the rustics of the district, chiefly from parsimony. when he could drink at another man’s expense, he was not always prudent.
“so you’ve settled to go, my dear?” said the dwarf, as they stood together by the cart. “business being slack, and parties unpleasantly suspicious, eh?”
“never you mind,” said george, who felt very foolish, and hoped himself successful in looking very wise; “i be going to set up for myself; i’m tired of slaving for another man.”
“quite right, too,” said the dwarf; “but all businesses takes money, of which, my dear, i doesn’t doubt you’ve plenty. you always took care of number one, when you did business with cheap john.”
at that moment, george felt himself a sort of embodiment of shrewd wisdom; he had taken another sip from the glass, which was still in his hand, and the only drawback to the sense of magnified cunning by which his ideas seemed to be illumined was a less pleasant feeling that they were perpetually slipping from his grasp. to the familiar idea of outwitting the cheap jack he held fast, however.
“it be nothin’ to thee what a have,” he said slowly; “but a don’t mind ’ee knowin’ so much, jack, because ’ee can’t get at un; haw, haw! not unless ’ee robs the savings-bank.”
the dwarf’s eyes twinkled, and he affected to secure some pictures that hung low, as he said carelessly,—
“savings-banks be good places for a poor man to lay by in. they takes small sums, and a few shillings comes in useful to a honest man, george, my dear, if they doesn’t go far in business.”
“shillings!” cried george, indignantly; “pounds!” and then, doubtful if he had not said too much, he added, “a don’t so much mind ’ee knowing, jack, because ’ee can’t get at ’em!”
“it’s a pity you’re such a poor scholar, george,” said the cheap jack, turning round, and looking full at his friend; “you’re so sharp, but for that, my dear. you don’t think you counts the money over in your head till you makes it out more than it is, now, eh?”
“a can keep things in my yead,” said george, “better than most folks can keep a book; i knows what i has, and what other folks can’t get at. i knows how i put un in. first, the five-pound bill”—
“they must have stared to see you bring five pound in a lump, george, my dear!” said the hunchback. “was it wise, do you think?”
“gearge bean’t such a vool as a looks,” replied the miller’s man. “a took good care to change it first, cheap john, and a put it in by bits.”
“you’re a clever customer, george,” said his friend. “well, my dear? first, the five-pound bill, and then?”
george looked puzzled, and then, suddenly, angry. “what be that to you?” he asked, and forthwith relapsed into a sulky fit, from which the cheap jack found it impossible to rouse him. all attempts to renew the subject, or to induce the miller’s man to talk at all, proved fruitless. the cheap jack insisted, however, on taking a friendly leave.
“good-by, my dear,” said he, “till the mop. you knows my place in the town, and i shall expect you.”
the miller’s man only replied by a defiant nod, which possibly meant that he would come, but had some appearance of expressing only a sarcastic wish that the cheap jack might see him on the occasion alluded to.
in obedience to a yell from its master, the white horse now started forward, and it is not too much to say that the journey to town was not made more pleasant for the poor beast by the fact that the cheap jack had a good deal of long-suppressed fury to vent upon somebody.
it was perhaps well for the bones of the white horse that, just as they entered the town, the cheap jack brushed against a woman on the narrow foot-path, who having turned to remonstrate in no very civil terms, suddenly checked herself, and said in a low voice, “juggling jack!”
the dwarf started, and looked at the woman with a puzzled air.
she was a middle-aged woman, in the earlier half of middle age; she was shabbily dressed, and had a face that would not have been ill-looking, but that the upper lip was long and cleft, and the lower one unusually large. as the cheap jack still stared in silence, she burst into a noisy laugh, saying, “more know jack the fool than jack the fool knows.” but, even as she spoke, a gleam of recognition suddenly spread over the hunchback’s face, and, putting out his hand, he said, “sal! you here, my dear?”
“the air of london don’t agree with me just now,” was the reply; “and how are you, jack?”
“the country air’s just beginning to disagree with me, my dear,” said the hunchback; “but i’m glad to see you, sal. come in here, my dear, and let’s have a talk, and a little refreshment.”
the place of refreshment to which the dwarf alluded was another public-house, the white horse by name. there was no need to bid the cheap jack’s white horse to pause here; he stopped of himself at every public-house; nineteen times out of twenty to the great convenience of his master, for which he got no thanks; the twentieth time the hunchback did not want to stop, and he was lavish of abuse of the beast’s stupidity in coming to a standstill.
the white horse drooped his soft white nose and weary neck for a long, long time under the effigy of his namesake swinging overhead, and when the cheap jack did come out, he seemed so preoccupied that the tired beast got home with fewer blows than usual.
he unloaded his cart mechanically, as if in a dream; but when he touched the pictures, they seemed to awaken a fresh train of thought. he stamped one of his little feet spitefully on the ground, and, with a pretty close imitation of george’s dialect, said bitterly, “gearge bean’t such a vool as a looks!” adding, after a pause, “i’d do a deal to pay him off!”
as he turned into the house, he said thoughtfully, “sal’s precious sharp; she allus was. and a fine woman, too, is sal!”
not long after the incidents just related, it happened that business called mrs. lake to the neighboring town. she seldom went out, but a well-to-do aunt was sick, and wished to see her; and the miller gave his consent to her going.
she met the milk-cart at the corner of the road, and so was driven to the town, and she took jan with her.
he had begged hard to go, and was intensely amused by all he saw. the young lakes were so thoroughly in the habit of taking every thing, whether commonplace or curious, in the same phlegmatic fashion, that jan’s pleasure was a new pleasure to his foster-mother, and they enjoyed themselves greatly.
as they were making their way towards the inn where they were to pick up a neighbor, in whose cart they were to be driven home, their progress was hindered by a crowd, which had collected near one of the churches.
mrs. lake was one of those people who lead colorless lives, and are without mental resources, to whom a calamity is almost delightful, from the stimulus it gives to the imagination, and the relief it affords to the monotony of existence.
“oh, dear! oh, dear!” she cried, peering through the crowd: “i wonder what it is. ’tis likely ’tis a man in a fit now, i shouldn’t wonder, or a cart upset, and every soul killed, as it might be ourselves going home this very evening. dear, dear! ’tis a venturesome thing to leave home, too!”
“’ere they be! ’ere they be!” roared a wave of the crowd, composed of boys, breaking on mrs. lake and jan at this point.
“’tis the body, sure as death!” murmured the windmiller’s wife; but, as she spoke, the street boys set up a lusty cheer, and jan, who had escaped to explore on his own account, came running back, crying,—
“’tis the cheap jack, mammy! and he’s been getting married.”
if any thing could have rivalled the interest of a sudden death for mrs. lake, it must have been such a wedding as this. she hurried to the front, and was just in time to catch sight of the happy couple as they passed down the street, escorted by a crowd of congratulating boys.
if any thing could have rivalled the interest of a sudden death
for mrs. lake, it must have been such a wedding as this
“well done, cheap john!” roared one. “you’ve chose a beauty, you have,” cried another. “she’s ’arf a ’ead taller, anyway,” added a third. “many happy returns of the day, jack!” yelled a fourth.
jan was charmed, and again and again he drew mrs. lake’s attention to the fact that it really was the cheap jack.
but the windmiller’s wife was staring at the bride. not merely because the bride is commonly considered the central figure of a wedding-party, but because her face seemed familiar to mrs. lake, and she could not remember where she had seen her. though she could remember nothing, the association seemed to be one of pain. in vain she beat her brains. memory was an almost uncultivated quality with her, and, like the rest of her intellectual powers, had a nervous, skittish way of deserting her in need, as if from timidity.
mrs. lake could sometimes remember things when she got into bed, but on this occasion her pillow did not assist her; and the windmiller snubbed her for making “such a caddle” about a woman’s face she might have seen anywhere or nowhere, for that matter; so she got no help from him.
and it was not till after the cheap jack and his wife had left the neighborhood, that one night (she was in bed) it suddenly “came to her,” as she said, that the dwarf’s bride was the woman who had brought jan to the mill, on the night of the great storm.
