I stated all I knew, which, as the reader knows, was not much. Then they left me.
Whether they utilised the telegraph for the arrest of the unhappy fugitive—a forger, as they told me—I never knew.
I examined my takings, and found they amounted to one pound five shillings, making a profit of eight shillings. But it is not the luck of every cabman to have as a fare a runaway forger who will pay so liberally as ten shillings for three miles.
Mr Smith was quite satisfied with the result, and expressed his willingness to lend his horse and cab again on similar terms. But this was my first and last cab-drive. I cannot explain it, but that night was a turning-point in my career. I married soon afterwards; and not even the wife of my bosom is aware that her husband once officiated in the character of a London cab-driver!
COLONEL REDGRAVE’S LEGACY.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER I.
Mr Septimus Redgrave had attained the mature age of fifty without losing either of his pet theories—that this world is anything but a vale of tears, and that the wicked people in it are decidedly in the minority. These comfortable doctrines were no doubt attributable to the fact that Mr Redgrave was in the enjoyment of a small independence, was master of his own time, possessed of good health, and had never ventured on the uncertain voyage of matrimony. He had occupied the same chambers in Bury Street, St James’s, for nearly a quarter of a century, was a member of one of the oldest clubs in Pall Mall, a virtuoso on a small scale, and a regular attendant at the picture-sales at Christie’s. His natty, well-costumed figure was always to the fore on the view-days, elbowing millionaires and picture-dealers in the inspection of works of art, although his modest income precluded him from becoming a purchaser, except in very exceptional cases.
His only near relatives were two maiden sisters, who were several years his senior, and resided at Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight. Their names were Penelope and Lavinia respectively, and they were generous in their advice on all occasions to their brother, whom they could never realise as anything but a child, and consequently requiring guidance and sisterly control. In truth, the intellect of their brother was none of the brightest, of which fact he himself had a dim suspicion; but as a slight compensation in lieu thereof, he availed himself of no small share of a quality which could only be described as cunning, in the ordinary acceptation of the word.
He had resided in Bury Street for some ten years, when his landlady, Mrs Jones, announced that in consequence of her failing strength and increasing years, her daughter Martha was about to resign her position as companion to an old lady at Bristol, and assist in the management of the house in Bury Street. Miss Jones duly arrived, and presented a very agreeable spectacle. A florid-complexioned, black-eyed girl of twenty, very vivacious and energetic, and by no means devoid of education or natural ability. The domestic comforts of Mr Redgrave were materially increased by the advent of Miss Jones, and he showed his gratitude at certain times and seasons in a very marked and material manner. Her birthday was always remembered by the precise bachelor on the first floor; nor were Christmas or the New Year forgotten. It will never be known whether the brain of Mrs Jones had originally conceived the ambitious scheme of a union between the family of Redgrave and that of Jones; but it is certain that as time went on, such a plan was entertained by both mother and daughter. There was but fifteen years’ difference in their ages, and Martha was not only possessed of good looks, but educated and accomplished. But the lynx eyes of the landlady could never detect the smallest peg on which to hang a claim on behalf of the incomparable Martha. Although frank and free in his intercourse with the good-looking Hebe who ministered to his comforts, the actions of Mr Redgrave were always regulated by the rules of the strictest decorum; and if, during his occasional absences from town, the epistles of Martha were couched in a somewhat sentimental tone, they met with no response in the replies of the cautious and simple lodger of Bury Street. Probably neither Mrs Jones nor her daughter had ever heard of the celebrated French proverb, that ‘all comes to him who waits,’ but it is nevertheless certain that they mutually acted on this maxim.
Years rolled on, and no change occurred in the relations existing between lodger and landlady; Mr Redgrave was now fifty, and Miss Jones thirty-five. The roses had long since departed from her cheeks, and the sparkle from her black eyes, but, like Claude Melnotte in the play, she still ‘hoped on.’ She felt that she was practically indispensable to the unsusceptible and phlegmatic bachelor, and trusted that he would eventually realise the fact, and reward his faithful housekeeper by making her his wife.