Part 84 (1/2)
The Archdeacon drew himself up. ”Because a clergyman is well connected--has high official connections indeed----But surely it is better that one man should be put under control, whoever he is, than that the whole Church and nation should be endangered and disgraced.”
”Ah----H'm!----H'm! I think I've heard that sentiment before somewhere, Mr. Archdeacon. But I'll not detain you now. If a warrant is necessary----” and with vague promises and plausible speeches the Minister bowed the deputation out of the room. Then he pisht and pshawed, swung a field gla.s.s across his shoulder, and prepared to leave for the day.
”Confound them! How these Christians love each other! I leave it with you, Drake. When the matter was mentioned at Downing Street the Prime Minister told us to act without regard to his interest in the young priest. If there's likely to be a riot let the Commissioner get his warrant--Heigho! Ten-thirty! I'm off! Good-day!”
Some minutes afterward Drake himself, having written to Scotland Yard, followed his chief down the private staircase to the quadrangle, where Glory and Rosa were waiting in the carriage under the arch.
In honour of the event in which his horse was to play a part, Drake had engaged a coach to take a party of friends to the Downs. They a.s.sembled at a hotel in the Buckingham Palace Road. Lord Robert was there, dressed in the latest fas.h.i.+on, with boots of approved Parisian shape and a necktie of crying colours. Betty Bellman was with him, in a red and white dress and a large red hat. There was a lady in pale green with a light bonnet, another in gray and white, and another in brightest blue.
They were a large, smart, and even gorgeous company, chiefly theatrical.
Before eleven o'clock they were spinning along the Kennington Road on their way to Epsom.
Drake himself drove and Glory occupied the seat of honour by his side.
She was looking brighter now, and was smiling and laughing and making little sallies in response to her companion's talk. He was telling her all about the carnival. The Derby was the greatest race the world over.
It was run for about six thousand sovereigns, but the total turnover of the meeting was probably a million of money. Thus on its business side alone it was a great national enterprise, and the puritans who would abolish it ought to think of that. A race-horse cost about three hundred a year to keep, but of course n.o.body maintained his racing establishment on his winnings. Nearly everybody had to bet, and gambling was not so great an offence as some people supposed. The whole trade of the world was of the nature of a gamble, life itself was a gamble, and the race-course was the only market in the world where no man could afford to go bankrupt, or be a defaulter and refuse to pay.
They were now going by Clapham Common with an unbroken stream of vehicles of every sort--coaches with outriders, landaus, hansom cabs, omnibuses, costers' spring carts and barrows. Every coach carried its horn, and every horn was blown at the approach to every village. The sun was hot, and the roads were rising to the horses' fetlocks in dust.
Drake was pointing out some of their travelling companions. That large coach going by at a furious gallop was the coach of the Army and Navy Club; that barouche with its pair of grays and its postilion belonged to a well-known wine merchant; that carriage with its couple of leaders worth hundreds apiece was the property of a prosperous publican; that was the coach which usually ran between Northumberland Avenue and Virginia Water, and its seats were let out at so much apiece, usually to clerks who practised innocent frauds to escape from the city; those soldiers on the omnibus were from Wellington Barracks on ”Derby leave”; and those jolly tars with their sweethearts, packed like herrings in a car, were the only true sportsmen on the road and probably hadn't the price of a gla.s.s of rum on any race of the day. Going by road to the Derby was almost a thing of the past; smart people didn't often do it, but it was the best fun anyway, and many an old sport tooled his team on the road still.
Glory grew brighter at every mile they covered. Everything pleased or amused or astonished her. With the charm born of a vivid interest in life she radiated happiness over all the company. Some glimpses of the country girl came back, her soul thrilled to the beauty of the world around, and she cried out like a child at sight of the chestnut and red hawthorn, and at the scent of spring with which the air was laden. From time to time she was recognised on the road, people raised their hats to her, and Drake made no disguise of his beaming pride. He leaned back to Rosa, who was sitting on the seat behind, and whispered, ”Like herself to-day, isn't she?”
”Why shouldn't she be? With all the world at her feet and her future on the knees of the G.o.ds!” said Rosa.
But a shade of sadness came over Glory's face, as if the gay world and its amus.e.m.e.nts had not altogether filled a void that was left somewhere in her heart. They were drawing up to water the horses at the old ”c.o.c.k” at Sutton, and a brown-faced woman with big silver earrings and a monster hat and feather came up to the coach to tell the ”quality” their fortunes.
”Oh, let us, Glo,” cried Betty. ”I'd love it of all things, doncher know.”
The gipsy had held out her hand to Glory. ”Let me look at your palm, pretty lady.”
”Am I to cross it with silver first?”
”Thank you kindly! But must I tell you the truth, lady?”
”Why yes, mother. Why not?”
”Then you're going to lose money to-day, lady; but never mind, you shall be fortunate in the end, and the one you love shall be yours.”
”That's all right,” cried the gentlemen in chorus. The ladies t.i.ttered, and Glory turned to Drake and said, ”A pair of gloves against Ellan Vannin.”
”Done,” said Drake, and there was general laughter.
The gipsy still held Glory's hand, and looking up at Drake out of the corner of her eyes, she said: ”I won't tell you what colour he is, pretty lady, but he is young and tall, and, though he is a gorgio, he is the kind a Romany girl would die for. Much trouble you'll have with him, and because of his foolishness and your own unkindness you'll put seven score miles between you. You like to live your life, lady, and as men drown their sorrows in drink, so do you drown yours in pleasure. But it will all come right at last, lady, and those who envy and hate you now will kiss the ground you walk on.”
”Glo,” said Betty, ”I'm surprised at ye, dearest, listenin' to such clipperty clapper.”
Glory did not recover her composure after this incident until they came near the Downs. Meantime the grooms had blown their horns at many villages hidden in the verdure of charming hollows, and the coaches had overtaken the people who had left London earlier in the day to make the journey afoot. Boy tramps, looking tired already--”Wish ye luck, gentlemen”; fat sailors and mutilated colliers playing organs--'Twas in Trafalgar Bay, and Come Whoam to thee Childer and Me; tatterdemalions selling the C'rect Card-”on'y fourpence, and I've slep' out on the Downs last night, s'elp me”--and all the ragged army of the maimed and the miserable who hang on the edge of a carnival.
Among this wreckage, as they skimmed over it on the coach, there was one figure more grotesque than the rest, a Polish Jew in his long kaftan and his worn Sabbath hat, going along alone, triddle-traddle, in his slippers without heels. Lord Robert was at the moment teasing Betty into a pet by christening her ”The Elephant,” in allusion to her stoutness.