True Tilda Part 34

"Well, you see--Gla.s.son bein' about--"

"After them too, is 'e? Don't mean ter say _they've_ been an' lost their fathers an' mothers? No? Then I don't see."

"Them 'avin' contracted to look after you--"

He paused here, as Tilda, fixing him with a compa.s.sionate stare, began to shake her head slowly.

"You don't deserve it--you reelly don't," she said, more in sorrow than in anger; then with a sharp change of tone, "And you three 'ave been allowin', I s'pose, that our best chance to escape notice is travellin'

around with a fur coat an' a sixty-foot Theayter Royal? . . . W'y, wot was it put Gla.s.son on our tracks? . . . Oh, I'm not blamin' yer!

Some folks--most folks, I'm comin' to think--just can't 'elp theirselves. But it's saddenin'."

"0' course," suggested Sam, "I might take on the job single-'anded.

My orders don't go beyond this place; but the beer'll wait, and 'Ucks per'aps won't mind my takin' a 'oliday--not if I explain."

Tilda regarded him for a while before answering. When at length she spoke, it was with a fine, if weary, patience--"Got pen-an'-ink, any of yer?"

Mrs. Mortimer arose, stepped to a bundle of shawls lying in a Windsor chair, unwrapped a portable writing-case which appeared to be the kernel of the bundle, and laid it on the table--all this with extreme docility.

"I'll trouble you to do the writin'," said Tilda, laying a sheet of paper before Sam after she had chosen a pen and unsnapped the ink-case.

"Why not Mortimer?" he protested feebly.

"I wouldn' make Arguin' a 'abit, if I was you."

Sam collapsed and took the pen from her, after eyeing the palms of his hands as though he had a mind to spit on them.

"Now write," she commanded, and began to dictate slowly.

She had taken command of the room. The Mortimers could only stand by and listen, as helpless as Arthur Miles. She spoke deliberately, patiently, indulging all Sam's slowness of penmanship--

"'DEAR Mr. 'UCKS,--This comes 'opin' to find you well as it leaves us all at present. I promised to write in my own 'and; but time is pressin', as I am goin' to tell you. So you must please put up with Mr.

Bossom, and excuse mistakes. I will sign this to let you know there is no fake. We are at Stratford-on-Avon: w'ich for slow goin' must be a record: but all well and 'earty. Mr. M. 'as 'ad luck with 'is actin'--'

'Ow much?"

"Six-seven-nine," answered Sam as he caught up with her.

"Clear?"

Sam nodded. "Barrin', o' course, the bill for to-night's board an'

lodgin'."

"'--Up to date 'e 'as paid S. Bossom over six pound, and 'as picked up with an engagement 'ere. Dear sir, you will see there's no risk, and S. Bossom will stay 'ere a week an' collect the balance.'"

"The Lord forbid!" Sam protested, laying down his pen.

"I'd like to know oo's writin' this letter--you or me?" She pointed to the paper. "Go on, please. 'Dear sir, a party as we will call W. B.

'as joined the company. W'ich is strange to say--'"

"Who's _he?_"

Sam looked up again, but Tilda's finger still pointed firmly.

"'W'ich 'e too continues 'earty; but You-know-Oo is close after 'im; and so, dear sir, 'avin' 'eard of an Island called 'Olmness, we are off there to-morrow, and will let you know further. W'ich I remain yours respectfully--' Now 'and over the pen an' let me sign."

"'Olmness? Where's 'Olmness?"

She took the pen from him and slowly printed TILDA, in roman capitals; examined the signature, made sure it was satisfactory, and at length answered--

"It's a Island, somewhere in the Bristol Channel, w'ich is in the Free Library. We've just come from there."

"An' you reckon I got nothin' better to do than go gallivantin' with you, lookin' for islands in the Bristol Channel?"

"--W'en I said, on'y a minute back," she answered with composure, "that we were leavin' you in Stratford for a week."

"Ho!" he commented scornfully. "Leavin' me, are you? _You_ leavin'

_me?_ . . . Well, if that ain't good, I declare!"

She looked at him as one disdaining argument.

"I'll tell you all about it termorrow. Let's 'ave in supper now; for we're 'ungry, Arthur Miles an' me, an' the Fat Lady'll be expectin' us.

Between two an' three miles down the river there's a lock, near a place they call Weston--you know it, I reckon? Well, meet us there termorrow--say eight o'clock--an' we'll 'ave a talk."

"The child," said Mr. Mortimer, "has evidently something up her sleeve, and my advice is that we humour her."

Tilda eyed him.

"Yes, that's right," she a.s.sented with unmoved countenance. "'Ave in supper and 'umour me."

The supper consisted of two dishes--the one of tripe-and-onions, the other of fried ham. There were also potatoes and beer, and gin, Mr.

Mortimer being a sufferer from some complaint which made this cordial, as Mrs. Mortimer a.s.sured them, "imperative." But to-night, "to celebrate the reunion," Mr. Mortimer chose to defy the advice of the many doctors--"specialists" Mrs. Mortimer called them--who had successively called his a unique case; and after a tough battle--his wife demurring on hygienic, Sam on financial, grounds--ordered in a bottle of port, at the same time startling the waitress with the demand that it must not be such as that--

"She set before chance-comers, But such whose father-grape grew fat On Lusitanian summers."

That the beverage fulfilled this condition may be doubted. But it was certainly sweet and potent, and for the children at any rate a couple of gla.s.ses of it induced a haze upon the feast--a sort of golden fog through which Mr. Mortimer loomed in a halo of diffusive hospitality.

He used his handkerchief for a table-napkin, and made great play with it as they do in banquets on the stage.

He p.r.o.nounced the tripe-and-onions "fit for Lucullus," whatever that might mean. He commended the flouriness of the potatoes, in the cooking of which he claimed to be something of an amateur--"being Irish, my dear Smiles, on my mother's side." He sipped the port and pa.s.sed it for "sound, sir, a wine of unmistakable body," though for bouquet not comparable with the contents of a famous bin once the pride of his paternal cellars at Scaresby Hall, Northamptonshire. He became reminiscential, and spoke with a break in his voice of a certain--

"Banquet hall deserted, Whose lights were fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he [Mr. Mortimer] departed."

Here he wiped his eyes with the handkerchief that had hitherto done duty for napkin, and pa.s.sed, himself, with equal adaptability to a new _role_. He would give them the toast of "Their Youthful Guests."--

"They are, I understand, about to leave us. It is not ours to gaze too closely into the crystal of fate; nor, as I gather, do they find it convenient to specify the precise conditions of their departure. But of this"--with a fine roll of the voice, and a glance at Mrs. Mortimer--"

of this we may rest a.s.sured: that the qualities which, within the span of our acquaintance, they have developed, will carry them far; yet not so far that they will forget their fellow-travellers whose privilege it was to watch over them while they fledged their wings; and perhaps not so far but they may hear, and rejoice in, some echo of that fame which (if I read the omens aright)"--here again he glanced at his wife-- "the public will be unable much longer to withhold."

Altogether, and in spite of his high-flown language, Mr. Mortimer gave the children an impression that he and his wife were honestly sorry to part with them. And when the supper--protracted by his various arts to the semblance of a banquet of many courses--came at length to an end, Mrs. Mortimer dropped a quite untheatrical tear as she embraced them and bade them good-bye.

Sam Bossom walked with them to the bridge and there took his leave, promising to meet them faithfully on the morrow by Weston Lock.