Volume I Part 11 (1/2)
”It 's not the worse for that!” said Tom, whose pluck was by this time considerably a.s.sisted by the claret.
”Well, it's an unfair way, at all events, and destroys real sport”
”Real sport is filling your basket.”
”No, no; there's no real sport in doing anything that's unfair,--anything that's un----” He stopped short, and swallowed off a gla.s.s of wine to cover his confusion.
”That's all mighty fine for you, who can not only pay for a license, but you 're just as sure to be invited here, there, and everywhere there's game to be killed. But think of me, that never snaps a cap, never throws a line, but he knows it's worse than robbing a hen-roost, and often, maybe, just as fond of it as yourself!”
Whether it was that, coming after Darby's mawkish and servile agreement with everything, this rugged nature seemed more palatable, I cannot say; but so it was, Con-yers felt pleasure in talking to this rough unpolished creature, and hearing his opinions in turn. Had there been in Tom Dill's manner the slightest shade of any pretence, was there any element of that which, for want of a better word, we call ”sn.o.bbery,”
Conyers would not have endured him for a moment, but Tom was perfectly devoid of this vulgarity. He was often coa.r.s.e in his remarks, his expressions were rarely measured by any rule of good manners; but it was easy to see that he never intended offence, nor did he so much as suspect that he could give that weight to any opinion which he uttered to make it of moment.
Besides these points in Tom's favor, there was another, which also led Conyers to converse with him. There is some very subtle self-flattery in the condescension of one well to do in all the gifts of fortune a.s.sociating, in an a.s.sumed equality, with some poor fellow to whom fate has a.s.signed the shady side of the highway. Scarcely a subject can be touched without suggesting something for self-gratulation; every comparison, every contrast is in his favor, and Conyers, without being more of a puppy than the majority of his order, constantly felt how immeasurably above all his guest's views of his life and the world were his own,--not alone that he was more moderate in language and less p.r.o.ne to attribute evil, but with a finer sense of honor and a wider feeling of liberality.
When Tom at last, with some shame, remembered that he had forgotten all about the real object of his mission, and had never so much as alluded to the leeches, Conyers only laughed and said, ”Never mind them to-night. Come back to-morrow and put them on; and mind,--come to breakfast at ten or eleven o'clock.”
”What am I to say to my father?”
”Say it was a whim of mine, which it is. You are quite ready to do this matter now. I see it; but I say no. Is n't that enough?”
”I suppose so!” muttered Tom, with a sort of dogged misgiving.
”It strikes me that you have a very respectable fear of your governor.
Am I right?”
”Ain't you afraid of yours?” bluntly asked the other.
”Afraid of mine!” cried Conyers, with a loud laugh; ”I should think not.
Why, my father and myself are as thick as two thieves. I never was in a sc.r.a.pe that I did n't tell him. I 'd sit down this minute and write to him just as I would to any fellow in the regiment.”
”Well, there 's only one in all the world I 'd tell a secret to, and it is n't My father!”
”Who is it, then?”
”My sister Polly!” It was impossible to have uttered these words with a stronger sense of pride. He dwelt slowly upon each of them, and, when he had finished, looked as though he had said something utterly undeniable.
”Here's her health,--in a b.u.mper too!” cried Conyers.
”Hurray, hurray!” shouted out Tom, as he tossed off his full gla.s.s, and set it on the table with a bang that smashed it. ”Oh, I beg pardon! I didn't mean to break the tumbler.”
”Never mind it, Dill; it's a trifle. I half hoped you had done it on purpose, so that the gla.s.s should never be drained to a less honored toast. Is she like _you?_”
”Like me,--like me?” asked he, coloring deeply. ”Polly like me?”
”I mean is there a family resemblance? Could you be easily known as brother and sister?”
”Not a bit of it. Polly is the prettiest girl in this county, and she 's better than she 's handsome. There's nothing she can't do. I taught her to tie flies, and she can put wings on a green-drake now that would take in any salmon that ever swam. Martin Keene sent her a pound-note for a book of 'brown hackles,' and, by the way, she gave it to _me_. And if you saw her on the back of a horse!--Ambrose Bushe's gray mare, the wickedest devil that ever was bridled, one buck jump after another the length of a field, and the mare trying to get her head between her fore-legs, and Polly handling her so quiet, never out of temper, never hot, but always saying, 'Ain't you ashamed of yourself, Dido? Don't you see them all laughing at us?'”
”I am quite curious to see her. Will you present me one of these days?”
Tom mumbled out something perfectly unintelligible.