The Way of All Flesh by Samuel Butler (beautiful books to read .TXT) 📕

observed that no one seemed fonder of them than a great lubberly butcher boy, who leaned up against the railings with a tray of meat upon his shoulder. He was looking at this boy and smiling at the grotesqueness of his admiration, when he became aware that he was being watched intently by a man in coachman’s livery, who had also stopped to admire the lambs, and was leaning against the opposite side of the enclosure. Ernest knew him in a moment as John, his father’s old coachman at Battersby, and went up to him at once.

“Why, Master Ernest,” said he, with his strong northern accent, “I was thinking of you only this very morning,” and the pair shook hands heartily. John was in an excellent place at the West End. He had done very well, he said, ever since he had left Battersby, except for the first year or two, and that, he said, with a screw of the face, had well nigh broke him.

Ernest asked how this was.

“Why, you see,” said John, “I was always main fond of that lass Ellen, whom you remember running after, Master Ernest, and giving your watch to. I expect you haven’t forgotten that day, have you?” And here he laughed. “I don’t know as I be the father of the child she carried away with her from Battersby, but I very easily may have been. Anyhow, after I had left your papa’s place a few days I wrote to Ellen to an address we had agreed upon, and told her I would do what I ought to do, and so I did, for I married her within a month afterwards. Why, Lord love the man, whatever is the matter with him?”⁠—for as he had spoken the last few words of his story Ernest had turned white as a sheet, and was leaning against the railings.

“John,” said my hero, gasping for breath, “are you sure of what you say⁠—are you quite sure you really married her?”

“Of course I am,” said John, “I married her before the registrar at Letchbury on the 15th of August 1851.”

“Give me your arm,” said Ernest, “and take me into Piccadilly, and put me into a cab, and come with me at once, if you can spare time, to Mr. Overton’s at the Temple.”

LXXVII

I do not think Ernest himself was much more pleased at finding that he had never been married than I was. To him, however, the shock of pleasure was positively numbing in its intensity. As he felt his burden removed, he reeled for the unaccustomed lightness of his movements; his position was so shattered that his identity seemed to have been shattered also; he was as one waking up from a horrible nightmare to find himself safe and sound in bed, but who can hardly even yet believe that the room is not full of armed men who are about to spring upon him.

“And it is I,” he said, “who not an hour ago complained that I was without hope. It is I, who for weeks have been railing at fortune, and saying that though she smiled on others she never smiled at me. Why, never was anyone half so fortunate as I am.”

“Yes,” said I, “you have been inoculated for marriage, and have recovered.”

“And yet,” he said, “I was very fond of her till she took to drinking.”

“Perhaps; but is it not Tennyson who has said: ‘ ’Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have lost at all’?”

“You are an inveterate bachelor,” was the rejoinder.

Then we had a long talk with John, to whom I gave a £5 note upon the spot. He said, “Ellen had used to drink at Battersby; the cook had taught her; he had known it, but was so fond of her, that he had chanced it and married her to save her from the streets and in the hope of being able to keep her straight. She had done with him just as she had done with Ernest⁠—made him an excellent wife as long as she kept sober, but a very bad one afterwards.”

“There isn’t,” said John, “a sweeter-tempered, handier, prettier girl than she was in all England, nor one as knows better what a man likes, and how to make him happy, if you can keep her from drink; but you can’t keep her; she’s that artful she’ll get it under your very eyes, without you knowing it. If she can’t get any more of your things to pawn or sell, she’ll steal her neighbours’. That’s how she got into trouble first when I was with her. During the six months she was in prison I should have felt happy if I had not known she would come out again. And then she did come out, and before she had been free a fortnight, she began shoplifting and going on the loose again⁠—and all to get money to drink with. So seeing I could do nothing with her and that she was just a-killing of me, I left her, and came up to London, and went into service again, and I did not know what had become of her till you and Mr. Ernest here told me. I hope you’ll neither of you say you’ve seen me.”

We assured him we would keep his counsel, and then he left us, with many protestations of affection towards Ernest, to whom he had been always much attached.

We talked the situation over, and decided first to get the children away, and then to come to terms with Ellen concerning their future custody; as for herself, I proposed that we should make her an allowance of, say, a pound a week to be paid so long as she gave no trouble. Ernest did not see where the pound a week was to come from, so I eased his mind by saying I would pay it myself. Before the day was two hours older we had got the children,