Gordon Stables

“IT’S ALL UP, MR. RICHARDS, IT’S ALL UP!”

“The busy crew the sails unbending,
The ship in harbour safe arrived;
Jack Oakum, all his perils ending,
Has made the port where Kitty lived.”
Dibdin.

E return now to the day before Sir Digby’s ball.

Richards lived in chambers, and in no great state. He never cared for it. Had you gone straight into his sitting-room from the fresh air, what would have struck you most would have been the smell of strong tobacco smoke; and I believe you would have come to the conclusion that the principal furniture consisted of tobacco-pipes. They were of all sorts and sizes, and hung in rows and racks, and lay on shelves and on the mantlepiece. Well, what did it matter? honest Richards was a bachelor, and not once in a blue moon did a lady look in to see him.

But one afternoon, shortly before Sir Digby’s great ball, a lady did; and that lady was Mary herself.

“Which I’ve been dying to see you, sir,” she began.

“Sit down, my dear, sit down.”

Mary sat down, and proceeded,—

“It’s all up, Mr. Richards, it’s all up!”

The poor girl was crying now bitterly.

“Missus is as good as sold. She’s goin’ to the ball, and Sir Digby’s goin’ to propose. She told me, and Sir Digby kissed me and told me. Oh, oh, what ever shall I do?”

Richards lit a huge pipe, and walked about smoking for fully five minutes. Then he went over and took Mary’s hand, and Mary looked up innocently in his face, and said innocently through her tears,—

“Do you want to kiss me too, sir?”

“Well, I wasn’t thinking about that; but there, Mary, there. Now, I’ll tell you what you’ve got to do; and I do believe it will all come right, even yet.”

So Mary and Richards had a long “confab” together, and she went back home happy and smiling.

After she had gone Richards lit another pipe, threw himself on a rocking-chair, and smoked long and thoughtfully. Then he got up and took a rapid turn or two up and down the floor. Presently he paused, and gazed curiously at himself in a mirror.

“Old Richards,” he said, shaking his fist at his reflection, “I didn’t think it was in you. You’re a designing, unscrupulous old lawyer. Never mind; it’s all for my baby’s sake. I’ll do it. Hang me if I don’t.”

An hour after this, Richards had called a carriage—a luxury he indulged in very seldom indeed. He first visited the lawyer who had transacted the business of the Grantley Hall mortgage for him. With this gentleman he was closeted for some considerable time. Then he drove to a fashionable tailor’s, then to a jeweller’s, and next to a wine-merchant’s, and as all those individuals showed him to his carriage with many gracious smiles and bows, it was evident that his business with them had been of a very agreeable kind indeed—to them. Richards drove to other places which I need not name; and when he got back home at last, he sank into his rocking-chair with a tired but happy sigh, and immediately lit his biggest pipe.

He was smiling to himself. “I’ve done it,” he said half aloud, “and my baby’s safe for a time. But if his rich old brother comes to the rescue, my game is spoiled. Poor Jack! I wonder what he is doing at this moment.”

On the night of the great ball, Sir Digby Auld was very much with Miss Gordon; and everybody said how well matched they were, which certainly was paying no compliment to Sir Digby. He gave her many dances, and he said many soft and pretty things to her, which caused her to bend down her painted face and pretend to blush.

In the course of the evening he forgathered with D’Orsay. D’Orsay lifted his brows and smiled.

“Getting on famously?” he said.

“I’ve been trying; but, D’Orsay, ’pon my life I can’t. And look you here: I may be a fool, I may be mad, but to-morrow forenoon I go to Keane’s and throw myself at Gerty’s feet. There! the die is cast.”

A servant in livery at this moment approached him. “Beg parding, sir. Two gentlemen wants to speak to you a moment in the library.”

Sir Digby turned pale.

“I’d come, sir,” whispered the servant; “there will be a scene else.”

Sir Digby followed him out. “Sorry we are, sir, to disturb yer ’onor; but we has a warrant for your ’rrest, and the carriage is awaitin’ at the door.”

“At whose instance?”

“Richards of the firm of Griffith, Keane, and Co.”

Sir Digby muttered an oath. He staggered and almost fell.

D’Orsay, a quarter of an hour after this, informed the guests that Sir Digby Auld had been taken suddenly ill, but that they were to continue to enjoy themselves all the same.

Meanwhile the prisoner was being rapidly whirled away to the Fleet.

And the letter that Keane had received that night was to the effect that the man who proposed marrying his daughter was a bankrupt and a beggar, and would that evening be arrested in his own house and among his guests.

Having effectually disposed of Sir Digby for a time, Richards could afford to quietly await the turn of events. His practice had been sharp, but it was certainly justifiable. He had often hinted to his partner Keane, nay, even told him plainly, that the baronet was but a man of straw.

“Owes a few thousands perhaps,” Keane had replied, with an ill-concealed sneer. “They all do it. A post-obit would clear that up. His brother can’t live for ever. Sir Digby will be a lord, you know, on his brother’s death.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Richards had gone so far as to exclaim one day: “if I were you I’d pay Digby’s debts for him. Ten thou., I reckon, would do it. But I shouldn’t marry my only daughter to a beggar!”

Keane turned on him sharply.

“Richards,” he said, as calmly as he could, “I knew a gentleman once who made an immense fortune by a very simple process.”

“Indeed; how?”

“By minding his own business.” Then Keane cackled over his ledger. Richards said no more. But the idea of Keane, of all men, paying off a future son-in-law’s debts was too absurd.

When Richards went to Keane’s house a few days after Digby’s incarceration, he found his partner in the throes of packing. He was going to Italy for a time with Gerty, and of course Mary would accompany her.

Months went by, and many a long delightful letter did Richards receive from Gerty, and from Mary too, the latter always ending with “luv and sweet kisses.” Then came a final letter. They were coming home. Alas! the ship never reached England. She was captured by a Don, and all were made prisoners. Keane could have bought his liberty if he had cared to. He preferred to wait, and waiting—died.

A few weeks afterwards poor lonely Gerty returned, and Mary. Richards constituted himself Miss Keane’s guardian. Indeed it had been Keane’s last wishes that he should do so. And, strange to say, the ruling passion had manifested itself strongly in death; for by the help of a priest he had written a letter to Richards, praying him, for the sake of their long acquaintanceship and friendship, to see that Gerty married Sir Digby. He died, he said, peacefully, knowing she would yet be Lady Auld.

“A dying man’s last request,” said Richards to himself, “ought to be attended to; but—”

Then he solemnly placed the letter in the fire, and it was cremated.

Sir Digby made himself as comfortable as possible in the Fleet. Richards did not think it safe he should come out. Gerty was a strange girl. Her heart bled for the poor man, as she called him. For sake of her father’s memory, there was no denying that she might even yet sacrifice herself. D’Orsay paid many visits to Sir Digby in prison. He really acted like a true friend, and did all he could for him. He had even gone to see his old brother, and come back, figuratively speaking, with a finger in his mouth.

“No good in that quarter,” he told Sir Digby bluntly. “Says you’re a spendthrift and a ne’er-do-weel, and that he means to live for twenty years yet; and ’pon honour, Digby, he looks as if he could. I did hear too that he was looking out for a wife.”

“I shall go and see my hero in his dark dungeon, in his prison cell, in his chains and misery.”

These are words spoken by Miss Gordon heroically to herself in the mirror one morning. She had strange ideas of the Fleet.

She was astonished to find her hero in a flowered dressing-gown, smoking a Havana, which he threw into the fire when he saw her, and living in a handsomely-furnished room.

She went again and again. I do not know how she managed it, but I do know that in a month’s time Sir Digby was a free man, and married to Miss Gordon.

This event took place just two days before Jack’s ship staggered wearily into Plymouth Sound. While he still sat by his open port, gazing sadly landward, Tom Fairlie came in with a rush and a run. He too had a copy of the Times.

“Listen, Jack,” he cried, “and I’ll read something that will astonish you.”

“Don’t, Tom, don’t. I have already seen the awful announcement. I am a broken and crushed man!”

“Broken and crushed fiddlestick!” said Tom. “Listen, listen: ‘At St. Nicholas’ Church, on the 5th inst., by the Rev. Charles Viewfield, Sir Digby Auld to Miss Gertrude Gordon, daughter of—’”

“Hurrah!” cried Jack, springing from his seat and overturning the chair. “Hurrah for the Rev. Charlie! Tom, shake hands, my dearest and best of friends. You’ve made me the happiest man in the British Islands. Hurrah!”

In a week’s time the Tonneraire was paid off and safe in dock, and a carriage with postillions might have been seen tearing along the road that leads from Plymouth to Tor Bay.

The carriage contained Jack Mackenzie and his friend Tom Fairlie.