Chapter Eight.
My Fare.
Don’t you make a mistake, now, and think I’m not a working man, because I am. Don’t you run away with the idea that because I go of a morning and find my horse and cab waiting ready cleaned for me, and I jumps up and drives off, as I don’t work as hard as any mechanic, because I do; and I used to work harder, for it used to be Sunday and week days, till the missus and me laid our heads together, and said, if we couldn’t live on six days’ work a week at cabbing we’d try something else; so now I am only a six days’ man—Hansom cab, VR, licensed to carry two persons.
None o’ your poor, broken-kneed knackers for me. I takes my money in to the governor regular, and told him flat that if I couldn’t have a decent horse, I wouldn’t drive; and I spoke a bit sharp, having worked for him ten years.
“Take your chice, Steve Wilkins,” he says; and I took it, and drove Kangaroo, the wall-eyed horse with a rat tail.
I had a call one day off the stand by the Foundling, and has to go into New Ormond Street, close by; and I takes up an old widow lady and her daughter—as beautiful a girl of seventeen or eighteen as ever I set eyes on, but so weak that I had to go and help her down to the cab, when she thanked me so sweetly that I couldn’t help looking again and again, for it was a thing I wasn’t used to.
“Drive out towards the country, cabman, the nearest way,” says the old lady; “and when we want to turn back, I’ll speak.”
“Poor gal!” I says, “she’s an invalid. She’s just such a one as my Fan would have been if she’d lived;” and I says this to myself as I gets on to my box, feeling quite soft; for though I knew my gal wouldn’t have been handsome, what did that matter? I didn’t like to lose her.
“Let’s see,” I says again, “she wants fresh air. We’ll go up the hill, and through Hampstead;” and I touches Kangaroo on the flank, and away we goes, and I picks out all the nicest bits I could, and when I comes across a pretty bit of view I pulls up, and pretends as there’s a strap wanted tightening, or a hoof picking, or a fresh knot at the end of the whip, and so on. Then I goes pretty quickly along the streety bits, and walks very slowly along the green lanes; and so we goes on for a good hour, when the old lady pushes the lid open with her parasol, and tells me to turn back.
“All right, mum,” I says; and takes ’em back another way, allers following the same plan; and at last pulls up at the house where I supposed they was lodgers, for that’s a rare place for lodgings about there.
I has the young lady leaning on my arm when she gets out, and when she was at the door she says, “Thank you” again, so sweetly and sadly that it almost upset me. But the old lady directly after asked me the fare, and I tells her, and she gives me sixpence too much, and though I wanted to pocket it, I wouldn’t, but hands it back.
“Thank you, cabman,” she says; “that’s for being so kind and attentive to my poor child.”
“God bless her, mum,” I says, “I don’t want paying for that.”
Then she smiles quite pleasant, and asks me if it would be worth my while to call again the next afternoon if it was fine, and I says it would; and next day, just in the same way, I goes right off past Primrose Hill, and seeing as what they wanted was the fresh air, I makes the best o’ my way right out, and then, when we was amongst the green trees, Kangaroo and me takes it easy, and just saunters along. Going up hill I walks by his head, and picks at the hedges, while them two, seeing as I took no notice of ’em, took no notice o’ me. I mean, you know, treated me as if we was old friends, and asked me questions about the different places we passed, and so on.
Bimeby I drives ’em back, and the old lady again wanted to give me something extra for what she called my kind consideration; but “No, Stevey,” I says to myself; “if you can’t do a bit o’ kindness without being paid for it, you’d better put up the shutters, and take to some other trade.” So I wouldn’t have it, and the old lady thought I was offended; but I laughed, and told her as the young lady had paid me; and so she had, with one of her sad smiles, and I said I’d be there again nex’ day if it was fine.
And so I was; and so we went on, day after day, and week after week; and I could see that, though the sight of the country and the fresh air brightened the poor girl up a bit, yet he was getting weaker and weaker, so that, at last, I half carried her to the cab, and back again after the ride. One day, while I was waiting, the servant tells me that they wouldn’t stay in town, only on account of a great doctor, as they went to see at first, but who came to them now; and, last of all, when I went to the house, I used always to be in a fidget for fear the poor gal should be too ill to come out. But no, month after month she kep’ on; and when I helped her, used to smile so sweetly, and talk so about the trouble she gave me, that one day, feeling a bit low, I turned quite silly, and happening to look at her poor mother a-standing there with the tears in her eyes, I had to hurry her in, trod get up on to my seat as quick as I could, to keep from breaking down myself.
Poor gal! always so loving and kind to all about her—always thanking one so sweetly, and looking all the while so much like what one would think an angel would look—it did seem so pitiful to feel her get lighter and lighter, week by week—so feeble, that, at last, I used to go upstairs to fetch her, and always carried her down like a child.
Then she used to laugh, and say, “Don’t let me fall, Stephen,”—for they got to call me by my name, and to know the missus, by her coming in to help a bit; for the old lady asked me to recommend ’em an honest woman, and I knowed none honester than my wife. And so it was with everybody—it didn’t matter who it was—they all loved the poor gal; and I’ve had the wife come home and sit and talk about her, and about our Fanny as died, till she’s been that upset she’s cried terribly.
Autumn came in werry wet and cold, and there was an end to my jobs there. Winter was werry severe, but I kep’ on hearing from the missus how the poor gal was—sometimes better, sometimes worse; and the missus allus shook her head werry sadly when she talked about her.
Jennywerry and Feberwerry went by terribly cold, and then March came in quite warm and fine, so that things got so forrard, you could buy radishes wonderful cheap in April; and one night the wife comes home and tells me that if it was as fine nex’ day as it had been, I was to call, and take the old lady and her daughter out.
Nex’ day was splendid. It was as fine a spring day as ever I did see, and I sticks a daffy-down-dilly in on each side of Kangaroo’s head, and then spends twopence in a couple o’ bunches o’ wilets, and pins ’em in on the side where the poor gal used to sit, puts clean straw in the boot, and then drives to the place with the top lid open, so as to sweeten the inside, because swells had been smoking there that morning.
“Jest run yer sponge and leather over the apron a bit, Buddy,” I says to our waterman, afore I left the stand.
“Got a wedding on?” he says, seeing how pertickler I was.
“There, look alive!” I says, quite snappish; for I didn’t feel in a humour to joke; and then, when I’d got all as I thought right, I drives up, keeping the lid open, as I said afore.
When I draws up, I puts the nose-bag on the old horse, for him to amuse himself with, and so as I could leave him, for he wouldn’t stir an inch with that bag on, to please all the pleacemen in London. Then I rings, and waits, and at last gets my orders to go and help the young lady down.
I takes off my hat, wipes my shoes well, and goes up; and there she was waiting, and smiled so pleasantly again, and held out her hand to me, as though I’d been a friend, instead of a rough, weather-battered street cabman. And do you know what I did, as I went in there, with my eyes all dim at seeing her so, so changed? Why, I felt as if I ought to do it, and I knelt down and took her beautiful white hand in mine, and kissed it, and left a big tear on it; for something seemed to say so plainly that she’d soon be where I hoped my own poor gal was, whom I always say we lost; but my wife says, “No, not lost, for she is ours still.”
She was so light now, that I carried her down in a minute; and when she was in the cab and saw the wilets, she took ’em down, and held ’em in her hand, and nodded and smiled again at me, as though she thanked me for them.
“Go the same way as you went first time, Stephen,” she says.
And I pushed over all the quieter bits, and took her out beyond Hampstead; and there, in the greenest and prettiest spot I could find, I pulls up, and sits there listening to the soft whispers of her voice, and feeling, somehow, that it was for the last time.
After a bit I goes gently on again, more and more towards the country, where the hedges were turning beautiful and green, and all looked so bright and gay.
Bimeby I stops again, for there was a pretty view, and you could see miles away. Of course, I didn’t look at them if I could help it, for the real secret of people enjoying a ride is being with a driver who seems no more to ’em than the horse—a man, you see, who knows his place. But I couldn’t help just stealing one or two looks at the inside where that poor gal lay back in the corner, looking out at the bright spring-time, and holding them two bunches o’ wilets close to her face. I was walking backwards and forwards then, patting the horse and straightening his harness, when I just catches the old lady’s eye, and saw she looked rather frightened, and she leans over to her daughter and calls her by name quickly; but the poor girl did not move, only stared straight out at the blue sky, and smiled so softly and sweetly.
I didn’t want no telling what to do, for I was in my seat and the old horse flying amost before you could have counted ten; and away we went, full pace, till I come up to a doctor’s, dragged at the bell, and had him up to the cab in no time; and then he rode on the footboard of the cab, in front of the apron, with the shutters let down; and he whispered to me to drive back softly, and I did.
The old lady has lodged with us ever since, for I took a better place on purpose, and my missus always attends on her. She’s werry fond o’ talking with my wife about their two gals who have gone before; but though I often, take her for a drive over the old spots, she never says a word to me about such things; while soon after the funeral she told Sarah to tell me as the wilets were not taken from the poor gal’s hand, same time sending me a fi-pun note to buy a suit o’ mourning.
Of course, I couldn’t wear that every day, but there was a bit o’ rusty crape on my old shiny hat not such a werry long time ago; and I never buy wilets now, for as they lie in the baskets in spring-time, sprinkled with the drops o’ bright water, they seem to me to have tears upon ’em, and make me feel sad and upset, for they start me off thinking about “My Fare.”