Cradock Nowell: A Tale of the New Forest. Volume 3 of 3. Blackmore Richard Doddridge

to wake and be very glad that it was not, but was Amy.

      CHAPTER III

      Slowly from that night, but surely, Cradockʼs mind began to return, like a child to its mother, who is stretching forth her arms to it; timid at first and wondering, and apt for a long time to reel and stagger at very slight shocks or vibrations. Then as the water comes over the ice in a gradual gentle thaw, beginning to gleam at the margin first, where the reeds are and the willow–trees, then gliding slowly and brightly on, following every skate–mark or line where a rope or stick has been, till it flows into a limpid sheet; so crystal reason dawned and wavered, felt its way and went on again, tracing many a childish channel, many a dormant memory, across that dull lethargic mind, until the bright surface was restored, and the lead line of judgment could penetrate.

      Mr. Rosedew quartered himself and his Amy at the Portland Hotel hard by, and reckless of all expense moved Cradock into Mrs. Ducksacreʼs very best room. He would have done this long ago, only the doctor would not allow it. Then Amy, who did not like London at all, because there were so few trees in it, hired some of the Christmas–grove from the fair greengrocers, and decked out the little sitting–room, so that Cradock had sweet visions of the Queenʼs bower mead. As for herself, she would stay in the shop, perhaps half an hour together, and rejoice in the ways of the children. All her pocket–money went into the till as if you had taken a shovel to it. Barcelonas, Brazils, and cob–nuts she was giving all day to the “warmints;” and golden oranges rolled before her as from Atalantaʼs footstep.

      It is a most wonderful fact, and far beyond my philosophy, that instead of losing her roses in London, as a country girl ought to have done, Amy bloomed with more Jacqueminot upon very bright occasions – more Louise Odier constantly, with Goubalt in the dimples, then toning off at any new fright to Malmaison, or Devoniensis – more of these roses now carmined or mantled in the delicate turn of her cheeks than ever had nestled and played there in the free air of the Forest. Good Aunt Doxy was quite amazed on the Saturday afternoon, when meeting her brother and niece at the station – for it made no difference in the outlay, and the drive would do her good – she found, not a pale and withered child, worn out with London racket, and freckled with dust and smokespots, but the loveliest Amy she had ever yet seen – which was something indeed to say, – with a brilliance of bloom which the good aunt at once proceeded to test with her handkerchief.

      But before the young lady left town – to wit, on the Friday evening – she had a little talk with Rachel Jupp, or rather with strapping Issachar, which nearly concerns our story.

      “Oh, Miss Amy,” said Rachel that morning – ”Miss Amy” sounded more natural somehow than “Miss Rosedew” did – ”so youʼre going away, miss, after all, and never see my Looey; and a pretty child she is, and a good one, and a quiet one, and father never lift hand to her now; and the poor young gentleman saved her life, and he like her so much, and she like him.”

      “I will come and see her this evening, as you have so kindly asked me. That is, with my papaʼs leave, and if you donʼt mind coming for me to the inn at six oʼclock. I am afraid of walking by myself after dark in London. My papa has found some books at the bookstalls, and he is so delighted with them he never wants me after dinner.”

      “Dear Miss Amy, would you mind, then – would you mind taking a drop of tea with us?”

      “To be sure I will. I mean, if it is quite convenient, and if you can be spared here, and if – oh nothing else, Mrs. Jupp, only I shall be most happy.” She was going to say, “and if you wonʼt make any great preparations,” but she knew how sensitive poor people are at restraints upon hospitality.

      So grand preparations were made; and grander still they would have been, and more formal and uncomfortable, if Amy had finished her sentence. Rachel at once rushed off to her lord, whose barge–shaped frame was moored alongside of his wharf, dreaming as stolidly as none except a bargee can dream. He immediately shelled out seven and sixpence from the cuddy of his inexpressibles, and left his wife to her own devices, except in the matter of tea itself. The tea he was resolved to fetch from a little shop in the barge–walk, where, as Mother Hamp declared, who kept the tobacco–shop by the gate, they sold tea as strong as brandy.

      “If you please to excuse our Zakey, miss, taking no more tea,” said Mrs. Jupp, after Issachar had laboured very hard at it, the host being bound, in his opinion, to feast even as the guest did; “because he belong to the antiteatotallers, as takes nothing no stronger than gin, miss.”

      “Darrnʼt take more nor one noggin of tay, miss,” cried Mr. Jupp, touching his short front curl with a hand scrubbed in quick–lime and copperas; “likes it, but it donʼt like me, miss. Makes me feel quite intemperant like, – so narvous, and queer, and staggery. Looey, dear, dadʼs mild mixture, for to speak the young ladyʼs health in. Leastways, by your lave, miss.”

      Dadʼs mild mixture soon made its appearance in a battered half–gallon can, and Mr. Jupp was amazed and grieved that none but himself would quaff any. The strongest and headiest stuff it was, which even the publicans of London, alchymists of villainy, can quassify, and cocculise, and nux–vomicise up to proof. Then, the wrath of hunger and thirst being mollified, Issachar begged leave to smoke, if altogether agreeable, and it would all go up the chimney; which, however, it refrained from doing.

      Now, while he is smoking, I may admit that the contents of Mr. Juppʼs census–paper (if, indeed, he ever made legal entries, after punching the collectorʼs head) have not been transcribed to the satisfaction of the Registrar–General or Home–Office, or whoever or whatever he or it is, who or which insists upon knowing nine times as much about us as we know about ourselves. Mr. Jupp was a bargee of Catholic views; “it warnʼt no odds to he” whether he worked upon wharf or water, sea or river or canal, at coal, or hay, or lime, breeze, or hop–poles, or anything else. Now and then he went down to Gravesend, or up the river to Kingston or Staines; but his more legitimate area was navigable by three canals, where a chap might find time to eat his dinner, and give his wife and nag theirʼn. Issacharʼs love of nature always culminated at one oʼclock; and then how he loved to halt his team under a row of alders, and see the painted meadows gay, and have grub and pipe accordinʼ. His three canals, affording these choice delights unequally, were the Surrey, the Regentʼs, and the Basingstoke.

      That last was, indeed, to his rural mind, the nearest approach to Paradise; but as there is in all things a system of weights and measures, Mr. Jupp got better wages upon the other two, and so could not very often afford to indulge his love of the beautiful. Hence he kept his household gods within reach of the yellow Tibers, and took them only once a year for a treat upon the Anio. Then would Rachel Jupp and Looey spend a summer month afloat, enjoying the rural glimpses and the sliding quietude of inland navigation, and keeping the pot a–boiling in the state–cabin of the Enterprise or the Industrious Maiden.

      Now Amy having formed Looʼs acquaintance, and said what was right and pretty in gratitude for their entertainment and faithful kindness to Cradock, was just about to leave them, when Issachar Jupp delivered this speech, very slowly, as a man who has got to the marrow and popeʼs–eye of his pipe: —

      “Now ‘scuse me for axing of you, miss, and if any ways wrong in so doing, be onscrupulous for to say so, and no harm done or taken. But I has my raisons for axing, from things as Iʼve a ‘earʼd him say, and oncommon good raisons too. If you please, what be the arkerate name and dwellinʼ–place of the young gent as saved our Loo? Mr. Clinkers couldnʼt find out, miss, though he knowed as it warnʼt ‘Charles Newman.’”

      “Donʼt you know his story, then?” asked Amy, in some astonishment. “I thought you knew all about it, and were so kind to him partly through that, though you were kind enough not to talk to me about it.”

      “We guesses a piece here and there, miss, since he talk so wild in his illness. And thatʼs what made me be axing of you; for I knowed one name right well as he out with once or twice; not at all a common name nother. But we knows for sartin no more nor this, that he be an onlucky young gent, and the best as ever come into these parts.”

      “There can be no harm in my telling you, such faithful friends as you are. And the sad tale is known to every one, far and wide, in our