Part 50 (1/2)
”And pray why wouldn't Mr. Harris let it come?”
”You'd better be asking him instead of me. He lives about two miles from here--perhaps a trifle over.”
”Two miles! Then is there nothing here to meet us?”
”There's a cart.”
”A cart!--an open cart!--in this weather! What kind of cart?”
”He was outside the gate when I saw him last, but maybe by now he's grown tired of waiting, and he's gone. If you go outside you'll be able to see for yourself what kind of cart it is better than I can tell you. Any way, you can't stop here; I'm off home. Tickets!--and if you haven't your tickets you'll have to pay your fare--that's all.”
The two pa.s.sengers surrendered their tickets. With such dignity as she could muster the lady strode towards the little wooden gate, Mr. Luker following limply behind. He made no attempt to feign a sense of dignity which he did not possess. To judge from his appearance and his att.i.tude he had not only sunk into the lowest stage of depression, but he was willing that all the world should know it. A very woebegone figure he looked: so tall and so thin, with the p.r.o.nounced stoop; in the old familiar garments which he had worn for so many years in town, a costume which seemed singularly out of place on that spot just then; the frayed, shabby frock-coat, tightly b.u.t.toned up the front, the collar of which he now wore turned up about his chin; the trousers which were at once too baggy and too short; the ancient top-hat, which had seen so many better days.
Outside the gate was what, in the semi-darkness, looked uncommonly like an ordinary farmer's cart, and not too comfortable, or cleanly, an example of its cla.s.s. Mrs. Lamb stared at it in disgust.
”Have you brought that thing for me?”
As regards manners the driver seemed to be a near relation of the railway official's, if anything his were more p.r.o.nounced.
”I don't know who you are. How am I to know?”
”I'm Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame of Pitmuir.”
”Oh; that's what you call yourself--ah!”
”You appear to be an impudent fellow.”
”And you appear to be a free-spoken woman.”
”How dare you talk to me like that? I ask you again, have you brought this thing for me?”
”I've brought this thing, as you call it, which is as decent a cart as ever you saw, and more decent maybe than you deserve to sit in, to carry the person as calls herself Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame to Pitmuir, and I'm beginning to wish I hadn't.”
”Why is there no fly here?”
”Because Sam Harris wouldn't let his come.”
”Why not? I ordered it.”
”You ordered it! Mr. Harris said that he wasn't going to have the likes of you sitting in a fly of his--that's why. So he sent this cart instead. If this cart isn't good enough, I'll take it back at once. I'll take it back anyhow if there's much more talking.”
The lady and her solicitor exchanged glances. While they were apparently seeking for words the driver volunteered another remark, in keeping with those which had gone before.
”There's another thing. I'm to be paid before I started; Mr.
Harris said I was.”
”You'll be paid when you reach Pitmuir.”
”Shall I? Then I'll say good-night.”