She was not slow, however, to recall herself to his attention. ‘I vow, Mr Marden, my poor beast is going lame.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ His tone was discouraging. Being within ten miles of his golden destination, he was galled by the idea of delay. ‘He looks to me fresh enough yet.’
‘Poor Hector! Poor boy!’ She cooed at her horse, stroking his neck fondly. He had lapsed into a walk. ‘You’re tired, my handsome. You need a rest, don’t you?’ Obedient to her designs, the horse came to a standstill.
‘But this is nonsense,’ exclaimed Marden, incontinently. ‘We must press on, or we shall not reach Upchurch before nightfall. It’s no great distance truly; we have more than half the journey behind us; but the days are short, and the last mile or two is a lonely ride, and in darkness a hazardous one.’
‘Oh,’ she cried, looking suddenly small and helpless and appealing, ‘I beg that you won’t be angry with us, Mr Marden. Poor Hector is so very sorry. Aren’t you, darling?’ She leaned forward in the saddle and peered into the horse’s face. ‘Come, tell Sally. Can you not trot briskly on till nightfall? What, not even to please your Sally! . . . Ah no,’ cried Sally, turning again to her escort, ‘poor Hector is weary and footsore. He says he cannot go further till he is rested, Mr Marden. Please do not be angry with him. That were too sad an ending to your kindness to us. Indeed, sir, your black looks terrify me: I vow they do.’ In witness of her terror she allowed a dazzling smile to play about her pretty features, which smile, however, pretending to find it of no effect, she quickly dismissed, putting in its place a half-rueful half-playful pout. She found a pocket-handkerchief and began dabbing her eyes with it. ‘Of course, if you are resolved to be cruel . . .’ She finished with a shrug of her small pathetic shoulders.
‘Nay,’ said Marden tolerantly, ‘don’t distress yourself, my dear. I am not after all such an ogre.’ He knew her tricks for what they were, and yet he felt some little compunction about overriding them. Tricks, yes: but these tricks were designed for the man’s amusement, no less than for the woman’s; and up to a point he was prepared to help her play her game. To do otherwise had proved him, he thought, a bad sportsman, a prig, a solemn humourless fellow. Moreover the courtesy with which he had already treated her obliged him to persist in courtesy: trash though she was (his thoughts warningly repeated that epithet), he found satisfaction in what he supposed to be her conception of him, and was unwilling to incur dislike when gratitude and admiration, and more besides, could be had for less than the asking. But he could not resist the temptation to banter. ‘Hector has chosen his moment well, for here is an inn, the last we shall see today. Hector’s weariness is timely, madam.’
The landlord came out to welcome them, a short squat barrel of a man, bald, with heavy eyebrows, bearded jowls, and red whiskers gushing fiercely from cavernous nostrils. The horses were stabled, and Marden and his companion sat down and ordered refreshment. Having seen no strange face for many days, the landlord was ready to wax loquacious. He was boisterous, as though his recent isolation had starved him and the sight of company were going to his head like strong wine. When Marden contemptuously called his attention to a bug crawling across the windowsill, he burst into a loud guffaw, as though it had been the best joke in the world and his guest the wittiest of gentlemen. And when he was asked by the lady to provide a dish of tea, he was riotous in his astonishment. ‘Tea, ma’am? Bless my old bones, but I never seen the stuff. We be plain folk hereabouts as eats good bread and drinks good ale and plenty, and knows naught of such fangledangles as tea. Meaning no offence, ladyship, for there’s no doubt tis dainty fine vittles for the gentry. My brother Tom’s wife’s daughter, what she got by her first man, for Tom got caught by a widder woman, and she brung her daughter with her, wedlock or no wedlock, as I always tell ’im, for he’s a man as likes a joke and can take one, is brother Tom. And this daughter, which is to say Tom’s wife’s daughter by her first: this young female, which her name is Nancy Borage, Borage being the name of him that got her, not Tom’s name, no such thing, Tom’s my brother and her stepdad, as the saying is: well this Nancy Borage, she’ve seen this ere tea of yourn, and had it in her two hands, and tasted it, same as it might be a lady. And pretty fair muck, saving your ladyship’s presence, pretty fair muck she christened it, for twas like a handful of birdseed it was, and so she gob it out. But she worn’t a one to give in, nor she shouldn’t be seeing she’s a niece of mine, or would a bin if brother Tom had bin her getter, which he nearly was, for twas touch and goo: she worn’t one to give in, and she knew this ere tea for a dainty eddicated dish. So when they tells her try spreading it on a bit of lardy toast, and there’s nothing to beat a bit of lardy toast of a cold morning cep tis a lump of fat bacon wi’ good rich cracklin, I’m willin, says Nancy Borage, I’m willin, says she. But twornt no manner of good to ’er, like grit it wor, so she gob it out again. And then, if you please, someone says to bile it, so bile it she did, and the dirt that come out of it was a sight as they say to see. Biled it twice she did, to make sarten sure, and then twas none so bad, soft and swelled up, soft like biled cabbage, said Nancy Borage, which she’s a truth speaking slut with all her faults, but no taste to un says she, no taste at all. Now I be a man, ladyship, as likes what you mi’ call taste or contrariwise flaviour to me vittles. If vittles has no taste or flaviour, you can keep ’em, ladyship, for I wunt say thankee for ’em. But when it come to gentry tis another story, and if the likes of me was in the way of sarving the gentry which I mean in a regular way and style of business, which no one would be more pleased than myself, there again as I said to Nancy Borage, straight to her face I said it . . .’
But what he said to Nancy Borage was judged to be of less importance than what Mr Marden had to say to his companion. He interrupted the discourse and dismissed the landlord with a firmness that made his intention unmistakable.
‘Ale I have, sir. Your humble servant, sir. My ’ouse is yours, sir.’ He waddled away, and in a few minutes came back carrying a jug of ale. ‘Which another thing, sir,’ he said, bending confidentially towards Mr Marden, and casting a sly glance at the young woman, ‘which another thing, sir. There is, as the saying goo, beds above, if you and ladyship should be thinking to spend the night under my ’umble roof.’
‘We shall not,’ said Marden curtly. ‘We must press on in a few minutes.’
The young woman intervened. ‘Indeed, sir, but must we?’ She turned charmingly to the landlord. ‘My husband is too proud, landlord, to confess himself wearied by our long day’s journey. Cannot you help me persuade him?’
Marden started; flushed; glared at the landlord. ‘Have the goodness to leave us, fellow. You are too officious.’ The landlord hesitated; Marden rose with a threatening gesture. ‘Here!’ He flung some money on the table. ‘There’s my scot. Now be off with you. And have those horses ready in ten minutes, d’you hear? And let there be no nonsense about it, or I’ll skin the back off you. . . . And now, madam, since when have I been your husband, pray?’