The Garret and the Garden by Robert Michael Ballantyne (reading cloud ebooks .TXT) 📕

like a pistol-shot was heard as the burglar brought his palm down on his thigh, exclaiming--

"I know'd it! Trumps--or his ghost!"

"'E's too fat for a ghost," remarked a humorous thief.

"No, mate, I _ain't_ Trumps," said the resplendent man, rising before the admiring gaze of the party. "My name is Rodgers, footman to Colonel Brentwood of Weston 'All. I'm a noo man, houtside an' in; an' I've come ere a-purpuse to surprise you, not only wi' the change in my costoom, but wi' the noos that my master's comin' down 'ere to see arter you a bit, an' try if 'e can't 'elp us hout of our difficulties; an' e's agoin' to keep a missionary, hout of 'is own pocket, to wisit in this district an' they're both comin' 'ere this wery night to take tea with us. An' 'e's bringin' a lord with 'im--a live lord--"

"Wot better is a live lord than any other man?" growled a thief with radical proclivities.

"Right you are, Jim Scroodger," said Trumps, turning sharply on the speaker; "a live lord is no better than any other man unless 'e _is_ better! Indeed, considerin' 'is circumstances, 'e's a good deal wuss if 'e's no better; but a live lord is better than a dead thief, w'ich you'll be soon, Jim, if you don't mend yer ways."

"Hear! hear!" and a laugh from the company.

"Moreover," continued Trumps, "the lord that's a-comin' _is_ better than most other men. He's a trump--"

"Not a brother o' yourn--eh?" murmured the burglar. "W'y, Trumps, I thought you was a detective!"

"Not in _plain_ clo'es, surely," remarked the humorous thief.

"'Ave another cup o' tea, man, and shut up," cried Mrs Blathers, growing restive.

"Well, ladies and gen'lemen all," resumed Trumps, with a benignant smile, "_you_ know this lord that's a-comin'. Some o' you made 'im a present of a barrow an' a hass once--"

"_I_ know 'im! Bless 'is 'eart," cried a coster-monger through a mouthful of cake.

At that moment the expected guests arrived.

But reader, we must not dwell upon what followed. There is no need. It is matter of history.

While the inhabitants of the slums were thus enjoying a social evening together, David Laidlaw was busy with one of his numerous epistles to that repository of all confidences--his mother.

"The deed is done, mither," he wrote, "an' the waux doll is mine, for better or waur, till death us do pairt. Of course I dinna mean that we're mairried yet. Na, na! That event must be celebrated on the Braes o' Yarrow, wi' _your_ help an' blessin'. But we're engaged, an' that's happiness enough the now. If I was to describe my state o' mind in ae word, I wud say--thankfu'. But losh, woman, that gies ye but a faint notion o' the whirligigs that hae been gaun on i' my heed an' hairt since I came to Bawbylon. Truly, it's a wonderfu' place--wi' its palaces and dens; its rich an' its puir; its miles upon miles o' hooses an' shops; its thoosands on thoosands o' respectable folk, an' its hundred o' thoosands o' thieves an' pickpockets an' burglars--to say naething o' its prisons an' lawyers an' waux dolls!

"But I'm haverin'. Ye'll be gled t' hear that Colonel Brentwood--him that befreended me--is a' richt. His lawyer turned oot to be a leear an' a swindler. The will that was to turn the Colonel oot o' a' his possessions is a forgery. His bonny bairn Rosa, is, like mysel', gaun' to be mairried; an' as the Colonel has nae mair bairns, he's gaun' to devote himsel'--so his wife says--to `considerin' the poor.' Frae my personal observation o' Lunnon, he'll hae mair than enough to consider, honest man!

"In my last letter I gied ye a full accoont o' the fire, but I didna tell 'e that it was amang the chimley-pots and bleezes that I was moved to what they ca' `pop the question' to my Susy. It was a daft-like thing to do, I confess, especially for a sedate kin' o' man like me; but, woman, a man's no jist himsel' at sik a time! After a', it was a graund climax to my somewhat queer sort o' coortin'. The only thing I'm feart o' in Bawbylon is that the wee crater Tammy Splint should come to ken aboot it, for I wad niver hear the end o't if he did. Ye see, though he was there a' the time, he didna ken what I was about. Speakin' o' that, the bairn has been made a flunkey by the Colonel--a teeger they ca' him. What's mair surprisin' yet is, that he has ta'en the puir thief Trumps--alias Rodgers--into his hoosehold likewise, and made _him_ a flunkey. Mrs Brentwood--Dory, as he ca's her--didna quite like the notion at first; but the Colonel's got a wonderfu' wheedlin' wey wi' him, an' whan he said, `If you an' I have been redeemed an' reinstated, why should not Rodgers?' Dory, like a wise woman, gied in. The argement, ye ken, was unanswerable. Onywie, he's in plush now, an white stockin's.

"An' that minds me that they've putt the wee laddie Splint into blue tights wi' brass buttons. He just looks like an uncanny sort o' speeder! It's a daft-like dress for onything but a puggy, but the bairn's as prood o't as if it was quite reasonable. It maitters little what he putts on, hooiver, for he wad joke an' cut capers, baith pheesical an' intellectual, I verily believe, if he was gaun to be hanged!

"My faither-in-law to be, Sam Blake, says he'll come to Scotland for the wadd'n, but he'll no' stop. He's that fond o' the sea that he canna leave 't. It's my opeenion that he'll no' rest till he gits a pirit's knife in his breed-baskit. Mair's the peety, for he's a fine man. But the best news I've got to tell 'e, mither, is, that Colonel Brentwood an' his wife an' daughter an' her guidman--a sensible sort o' chiel, though he _is_ English--are a' comin' doon to spend the autumn on the Braes o' Yarrow.

"Noo, I'll stop. Susy's waitin' for me, an' sends her love.--Yer affectionate son, DAVID LAIDLAW."

We must take the liberty now, good reader, of directing your attention to another time and place.

And, first, as regards time. One day, three weeks after the events which have just been narrated, Mrs Brentwood took Susan Blake through a stained glass door out upon a leaded roof and bade her look about her. The roof was not high up, however. It only covered the kitchen, which was a projection at the back of the Colonel's mansion.

Susan, somewhat surprised, looked inquiringly in the lady's face.

"A fine view, is it not?" asked Mrs Brentwood.

"Very fine indeed," said Susy, and she was strictly correct, for the back of the house commanded an extensive view of one of the most beautiful parts of Hampstead Heath.

"Does it not remind you, Susan, a little, a very little, of the views from the garret-garden?" asked the lady, with a curious expression in her handsome eyes.

"Well, hardly!" replied Susan, scarce able to repress a smile. "You see, there is no river or shipping, and one misses the chimney-pots!"

"Chimney-pots!" exclaimed Mrs Brentwood, "why, what do you call these?" pointing to a row of one-storey stables not far off, the roofs of which were variously ornamented with red pots and iron zigzag pipes. "As to the river, don't you see the glimmer of that sheet of water through the trees in the distance, a pond or canal it is, I'm not sure which, but I'm quite sure that the flag-staff of our eccentric naval neighbour is sufficiently suggestive of shipping, is it not?"

"Well, madam, if one tries to make believe _very_ much--"

"Ah, Susan, I see you have not a powerful imagination! Perhaps it is as well! Now, I have brought you here to help me with a plot which is to be a great secret. You know it is arranged that dear old nurse is to spend the summer on the Braes of Yarrow with the Laidlaws, and the winter in London with me. So I want you to fit up this roof of the kitchen _exactly_ in the way you arranged the garden on the roof at Cherub Court. I will send a carpenter to measure the place for flower-boxes, and our gardener will furnish you with whatever seeds you may require. Now, remember, _exactly_ the same, even to the rustic chair if you can remember it."

You may be very sure that Susy entered with right goodwill into this little plot. She had been temporarily engaged by Mrs Brentwood as lady's-maid, so that she might have present employment and a home before her marriage, and then travel free of expense with the family to Scotland, where she should be handed over to her rightful owner. The office of lady's-maid was, however, a mere sinecure, so the bride had plenty of time to devote to the garden. Old Liz, meanwhile, was carefully confined to another part of the house so that she might not discover the plot, and the tiger, from whom no secrets could by any possibility be kept, was forbidden to "blab" on pain of instant death and dismissal.

"Now, Da-a-a-vid," remarked that Blue Spider, when he communicated the secret to _him_, "mum's the word. If you mentions it, the kernel's family will bu'st up. I will return to the streets from vich I came. Trumps, _alias_ Rodgers, to the den hout of vich 'e was 'auled. Susan will take the wail and retire to a loonatic asylum, an' Da-a-a-vid Laidlaw will be laid low for the rest of 'is mortial career."

"Ne'er fash yer heed about me, Tammy, my man, I'm as close as an eyster."

We pass now from the far south to the other side of the Borderland.

Great Bawbylon is far behind us. The breezy uplands around tell that we have reached the Braes of Yarrow. A huge travelling carriage is slowly toiling up the side of a hill. Inside are Colonel and Mrs Brentwood, Rosa and chimney-pot Liz. Beside the driver sits Trumps in travelling costume. In the rumble are Susan Blake and Tommy Splint. Rosa's husband and Sam Blake are to follow in a few days.

"Oh, what a lovely scene!" exclaimed Susy, as the carriage gained the summit of an eminence, and pulled up to breathe the horses.

"Yaas. Not so bad--for Scotland," said the tiger languidly.

"And what a pretty cottage!" added Susan, pointing to an eminence just beyond that on which they had halted, where a long low whitewashed dwelling lay bathed in sunshine.

"Yaas. And, I say, Susy, yonder is a native," said Tommy, becoming suddenly animated, "and--well--I do believe, _without_ a kilt! But he's got the reg'lar orthodox shepherd's--whew!"

A prolonged whistle ended the boy's sentence, as he glanced quickly in Susan's face. The flushed cheeks told eloquently that she also had made a discovery; and the rapid strides of the "native" showed that he was likewise affected in a similar way.

The Colonel's head,--thrust out at the carriage window, and exclaiming, "Why, Dora, we've arrived! Here is Mr Laidlaw himself!"--completed, as it were, the _tableau