The Garret and the Garden; Or, Low Life High Up, R. M. Ballantyne [romance book recommendations txt] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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“What railway?” asked Laidlaw quickly.
“The Washab and Roria. Somewhere in the United States,” said Liz.
“H’m! I was readin’ the papers yestreen,” said David. “Ye see, I’m fond o’ fishin’ aboot odd corners o’ the papers—the money market, an’ stocks, an’ the like—an’ I noticed that vera railway—owin’ to its daft-like name, nae doot—an’ its deevidends are first-rate. Ye could sell oot enow at a high profit gin ye like.”
“Indeed? You must be mistaken, I think,” replied the old woman, “for I ’ave ’ad almost nothink for a year or two. You see, my landlord, who takes charge of these matters for me—”
“That’s Mr Lockhart the lawyer, ye mean?”
“Yes. He says they’re losing money now, and there was no dividend at all last half-year.”
“H’m! that is strange,” said David, stroking his chin, “uncommon—strange!”
“D’you think Mr Lockhart has made a mistake, Mr Laidlaw?” asked Susan hopefully.
“Ay, I think he hes made a mistake. But ’oo’ll see. An’ noo, to change the subjec’, I’ll tell ’ee aboot some o’ the adventur’s I had last nicht.”
From this point David Laidlaw entertained old Liz and Susy and Tommy Splint, who had by that time joined them, with a graphic account of his adventures in the slums, in the telling of which he kept his audience in fits of laughter, yet spoke at times with such pathos that Susan was almost moved to tears.
“Noo, I must away,” he said at length, rising. “I’ve got partikler business in haund. Come wi’ me, Tammy. I’ll want ’ee, and I’ll come back sune to see ye, auld Liz. Dinna ye tak’ on aboot losin’ yer place, Su—, Miss Blake, lass. Ye’ll git a better place afore lang—tak’ my word for ’t.”
On the way down-stairs Laidlaw and his little companion passed a tall gentleman and two ladies who were ascending. Ere the foot of the stair was reached, loud exclamations of recognition and joy were heard in the regions above.
“I say!” exclaimed Tommy Splint, with wide-open eyes, “ain’t they a-goin’ of it up there? Let’s go back an’ listen.”
“Na, ye wee rascal, we’ll no’ gang back. If ye want to be freen’s wi’ me ye’ll no daur to putt yer lug to keyholes. Come awa’. It’s nae business o’ yours or mine.”
They had not gone far in the direction of Chancery Lane when, to their surprise, they met Sam Blake, who had changed his mind about the visit to Liverpool. David at once seized him by the arm, and made him walk with them, while he explained the circumstances in which his daughter and old Liz had been so suddenly placed.
“Wouldn’t it be better for me,” said Sam, “to steer straight for the garden than to go along with you?”
“Na—ye’ll gang wi’ me. It’s plain that they hae auld freen’s veesitin’ them at the gairden, sae we’d better lat them alane. Besides, I want ye for a wutness; I’m no much o’ a polis man, nevertheless I’m gaun to try my haund at a bit o’ detective business. Just you come wi’ me, and niver say a word till ye’re spoken to.”
“Heave ahead then, skipper; you’re in command,” returned the sailor with a quiet laugh. It was echoed by little Tommy, who was hugely pleased with the semi-mysterious looks and nods of his Scottish friend, and regarded the turn affairs seemed to be taking as infinitely superior to mere ordinary mischief.
Arrived at Chancery Lane, they soon discovered the office of John Lockhart, Esquire, Solicitor. Entering, they found the principal seated at a table covered with papers and legal documents of all kinds. Both the lawyer and the farmer felt, but did not show, some surprise on looking at each other.
The lawyer was first to speak. “It strikes me I have seen you before,” he said, looking at Laidlaw with a sharp steady gaze.
“Ay, sir, an’ I’ve seen you before,” returned the latter with an extremely simple look. “I saw ye whan I was comin’ oot o’ the hoose o’ Mr Speevin, whar I’m lodgin’.”
“Oh, exactly!” returned the lawyer with a bland smile; “pray be seated, gentlemen, and let me know your business.”
They obeyed,—Sam Blake with an expression of stolid stupidity on his countenance, which was powerfully suggestive of a ship’s figurehead—Tommy with an air of meekness that was almost too perfect.
It would be tedious to detail the conversation that ensued. Suffice it to say that David said he was a Scotch farmer on a visit to London; that he possessed a good lot of spare cash, for which, at the time being, he got very small interest; that he did not understand business matters very well, but what he wanted to know was, how he should go about investing funds—in foreign railways, for instance, such as the Washab and Roria line.
At this point he was interrupted by Mr Lockhart who asked what had put that particular railway into his head, and was informed that the newspapers had done so by showing it to be the line whose shares produced very high dividends at that time.
“I’m richt I fancy?” said David.
“Yes, you are right, and I could easily put you in the way of investing in that railway.”
“Have the shares been lang at this high figure?” asked Laidlaw.
“Yes; they have improved steadily for several years back.”
“What say ye to that freend?” demanded David, turning to Sam with a triumphant look.
Sam turned on his friend a look as expressionless as that of a Dutch clock, and said sententiously, “I says, go in an’ win.”
“I says ditto!” thought Tommy Splint, but he meekly and wisely held his tongue.
Meanwhile the lawyer went into another room, from which, returning after a short absence, he produced a bundle of Reports which fully bore out his statement as to the flourishing condition of the Washab and Roria Railway.
“Weel, I’ll see aboot it,” said David, after a few moments’ consideration, with knitted brows. “In the meantime, sir, what have I to pay to you for yer information?”
Mr Lockhart said he had nothing to pay, and hoped he would have the pleasure of seeing him soon again.
“Noo, isn’t that a blagyird?” demanded Laidlaw, when they were again in the street.
“No doubt he is,” replied Sam; “but how will you manage to haul him up and prove that he has been swindling the old woman?”
“Hoo can I tell? Am I a lawyer? But I’ll fin’ oot somehoo.”
“Well, mate, while you are finding out,” returned the sailor, “I’ll go to Cherub Court. So, Tommy, will you go with Mr Laidlaw or with me?”
The boy looked first at one and then at the other with a curious “how-happy-could-I-be-with-either” expression on his sharp countenance, and then elected to accompany the sailor. On the way he told Sam of the “swell visitors” to the garret, whom Laidlaw had prevented him from going back to see.
“Quite right he was, Tommy, my boy,” said his friend. “It is easy to see that you have not profited as much as you might from the example and teaching of my dear Susy an’ chimney-pot Liz.”
“Chimley-pot,” murmured the boy, correcting him in a low tone. “Vell, you could ’ardly expect,” he added, “that a child of my age should git the profit all at once. I suppose it’s like a bad ease o’ waxination—it ha’n’t took properly yet.”
“Then we must have you re-vaccinated, my boy. But tell me, what were the swells like?”
The description of the swells occupied Tommy all the rest of the walk to Cherub Court, where they found old Liz and Susan in a state of great excitement about the visitors who had just left.
“Why, who d’ye think they was?” exclaimed the old woman, making the fang wobble with a degree of vigour that bid fair to unship it altogether, “it was my dear sweet little boy Jacky—”
“Little boy! Granny!” cried Susan, with a merry laugh.
“Of course, child, I mean what he was and ever will be to me. He’s a tall middle-aged gentleman now, an’ with that nice wife that used to visit us—an’ their sweet daughter—just like what the mother was, exceptin’ those hideous curls tumblin’ about her pretty brow as I detest more than I can tell. An’ she’s goin’ to be married too, young as she is, to a clergyman down in Devonshire, where the family was used to go every summer (alongside o’ their lawyer Mr Lockhart as they was so fond of, though the son as has the business now ain’t like his father); the sweet child—dear, dear, how it do call up old times!”
“And didn’t they,” broke in Tommy, “never say a word about ’elpin’ you, granny, to git hout of your troubles?”
“’Ow could they offer to ’elp me,” returned old Liz sternly, “w’en they knew nothink about my troubles? an’ I’m very glad they didn’t, for it would have spoiled their visit altogether if they’d begun it by offerin’ me assistance. For shame, Tommy. You’re not yet cured o’ greed, my dear.”
“Did I say I was?” replied the urchin, with a hurt look.
Lest the reader should entertain Tommy’s idea, we may here mention that Colonel Brentwood and his wife, knowing old Liz’s character, had purposely refrained from spoiling their first visit by referring to money matters.
After a full and free discussion of the state of affairs—in which, however, no reference was made to the recent visit to the lawyer, or to the suspected foul play of that gentleman—the sailor went off to overhaul Messrs Stickle and Screw in the hope of inducing that firm to retain Susy on its staff. Failing which, he resolved to pay a visit to Samson and Son. As for Tommy, he went off in a free-and-easy sort of way, without any definite designs, in search of adventures.
That evening old Liz filled her teapot, threw her apron over it, and descended to the court to visit Mrs Rampy.
“Well, you are a good creetur,” said that masculine female, looking up as her friend entered. “Come away; sit down; I was wantin’ some one to cheer me up a bit, for I’ve just ’ad a scrimidge with Mrs Blathers, an’ it’s bin ’ard work. But she ’ave comed off second best, I knows.”
As a black eye, dishevelled hair, and a scratched nose constituted Mrs Rampy’s share in the “scrimidge,” Mrs Blathers’s condition could not have been enviable. But it was evident from Mrs Rampy’s tone and manner that a more powerful foe than Mrs Blathers had assaulted her that afternoon.
“Ah, Mrs Rampy,” said her visitor, pouring out a cup of tea with a liberal allowance of sugar, “if you’d only give up that—”
“Now, old Liz,” interrupted her friend impressively, “don’t you go for to preach me a sermon on drink. It’s all very well to preach religion. That’s nat’ral like, an’ don’t much signify. You’re welcome. But, wotiver you do, old Liz, keep off the drink.”
“Well, that’s just what I do,” replied Liz promptly, as she handed her friend a cup of hot tea, “and that’s just what I was goin’ to advise you to do. Keep off the drink.”
Feeling that she had slightly committed herself, Mrs Rampy gave a short laugh and proceeded to drink with much gusto, and with a preliminary “Here’s luck!” from the force of habit.
“But what’s the matter with you to-day, Liz?” she asked, setting her cup down empty and looking, if not asking, for more; “you looks dull.”
“Do I? I shouldn’t ought to, I’m sure, for there’s more blessin’s than sorrows in my cup,” said Liz.
“Just you put another lump o’ sugar in my cup, anyhow,” returned her friend. “I likes it sweet, Liz. Thank ’ee. But what ’as ’appened to you?”
Old Liz explained her circumstances in a pitiful tone, yet without making very much phrase about it, though she could not refrain from expressing wonder that her railway dividends had dwindled down to nothing.
“Now look ’ee here, chimley-pot Liz,” cried Mrs Rampy in a fierce voice, and bringing her clenched fist down on the table with a crash that made the tea-cups dance. “You
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