“I know a better man than me,” said he—“when he hits me hard enough; and you ain’t the one I’d choose to slap my face. Hold out your olive-branch.”
The ostler held out a great paw and they shook hands; the ostler’s grip, said the cockney youth, made his teeth ache.
The gardener strolled about and restored the scattered hats.
The ostler stood in the twilight and smiled.
The sulky fellows put aside evil desire and came and gripped the great hand that made their knuckles creak.
Then he sang them old-world Ruddier than the Cherry whilst their women led their cockney loves aside to the dark shadows under the trees and furtively comforted them.
It all struck the small Betty that it was an indecent sight. Yet there was a thrill of contentment in her heart that it should have fallen to the man who could sing Nazareth like a god to do the blood-letting.
On the days when it rained, the little party, Betty and Noll and Netherby, would sit in the small parlour of the inn where Nelson and his Emma had spent those pitiful hours many years ago, the night before the great Admiral posted to the sea-coast to hoist his flag aboard the Victory, being at the beginning of that journey that ended in his splendid death at the triumph of Trafalgar—his frail Emma going from the little room, a broken woman, to Neglect, and Worse....
So the happy days went by, until the hour struck for departure. The good hostess kissed Betty on the doorstep, the dainty little lady being dressed for travel—and had to go indoors for the tears that would run, fleeing from the distress of further good-byes.
The glorious sun found them at last, with their pathetically small packages, at the little railway-station, the prize-fighting ostler carrying Miss Betty’s little bag, and hovering about the party, a drag at the corners of his mouth. He was sadly lacking as to his wonted tuneful gaiety.