THE DRAPER’S NIECE A DICK RYDER TALE By H. B. MARRIOTT-WATSON 1 (Copyright, by Joseph B. Bowles.) , ’Twas late; of night when I reached (Wimbledon Common out of the west iwhere I had been patroling the roads ‘for some two months or more, and with mighty little success, as it (chanced that year. I love the west country, not only because I have, as a 'rule, found there fat pockets jogging home untimely on a nag, or fine noble men in rich chaises, very proud but ■tender to pick, but I have also a senti mental leaning towards that part, and (that's the truth I will not deny. There is some that hanker after the Great (North road, and boast that there is no Ibetter toby-ground than 'twixt Steven iage and Grantham, while I have even (known 'em to set up Finchley Common (or Hounslow for choice. Old Irons, who never had much self-respect, and was not above turning common crib cracker if it so served him, was wont ito go no further than Finchley when he was lacking a goldfinch or two. But the west is after my heart, be ing big and populous and swarming ■with squires and comfortable warm |folk. I know the North road, and was itmce very well known there myself, ‘and celebrated on the Yorkshire ■moors, a confounded cold, uncivil place. Indeed, there are few parts of the kingdom I have not traversed in imy time. Well, I was newly out of the west that May night, but on this occasion in no very good humor, as you may imagine, when I say that I had been forced to leave a belt of guineas behind at Devizes—so close Upon me were the traps. Indeed. I was very nearly taken in the night, all owing to the treachery of an innkeep er, roast him! 'Twas a fine, mild night 'and 1 was for lying in Clerkenwell at ia house I knew, but 1 had reached no (further than Roehampton lane, when 'of a sudden I reined in, for I remem bered an inn there that I had some times used, and, to say the truth, I was thirsty. “Well,” thinks I, “maybe I will lie here and maybe not. I will let fortune decide.” and I was turning the mare linto the lane, when something comes lup quick in the thick of the darkness, and rushes upon Calypso's rump. The mare started and backed into the hedge, and I raised my voice and cur3ed, as you may guess. "Why,” says I, “you tcad, you muck rake, 'you dungfork,” and the Lord knows where I should ha' gotten to if a gleam of white in the blackness had not in that instant disclosed to me the blunderer. ’Twas a woman, or, at least, a slip so young and silly that maybe she should not be so styled; and I had no sooner made that out and ceased in the middle of my objurga tions than I made another discovery. It was her voice that did it for no doubt she was mightily in terror, see ing me so wrathful and the night be ing so black and lonely. “Oh. sir,” she calls in a trembling voice, “I did not see—I—” and here she broke aweeping. Well. Dick Ryder is not the man to stand by while a pretty woman weeps j (for I could have sworn she was pretty enough), and so down I poped off Ca lypso and approached her. “Why," said I, “I love not to see a (miss like you in tears, and as for my (words, pray forget them. I thought jyou was some blundering, hulking I bully that was meant for my bodkin, lor my whip, if no more. But as it is,” ; say. I, “there’s no more ado. So dry i your eyes. my dear, for I am no ogre 'to eat pretty children.” i “Oh,” she says, with a gulp, “I was Inot afraid of you. I only feared I had angered you justly. I am thrown out Into the night, sir! I have nowhere to go!” Now you may imagine how this touched me, and what I felt but she ■was innocent as a lamb and as foolish, as you might detect from her voice, to say nothing of her face, the which I saw later. So I considered a moment. “That’s just jpy.case.” sgid I. “And I was going to wake up some fat vil lain to take me }n and sup me. But,” . says I, “if you will find me1 the partic ular villain, fat or lean, and cock or cockatrice, that has thrown out a ba-lamb like you, miss, well; ’tis he or She I'll have awake and out, and some thing more besides, rip me if I don’t!” I had f)ut her down as a child from her-stature, which was small, and her body, which was slight, but I was to be undeceived in that presently. “’Tis my uncle,” she sobbed. “He This Pretty Lady. i has shut the door on me. He will not let me in. He vows he has done with me.” "Maybe,” said I, “he has.some cause for his anger. But uncles are not hard masters even to young misses that know not the world nor their own minds/’ “Nay,” she says, "he has a reason for his anger and he will not relent He will not have me back,” she said in a voice of hesitating timidlts; and, seeming of a sudden to have taken in the shame of her situation, she began, to withdraw into the night. "Not; so fast, young madam,” said I, “you have broken my mare’s leg, I believe, and I must have a talk with you. What’s the reason?” says I. She paused, and then in a tremulous quick voice says, “He will not hear that George Riseley shall marry me.” “Oh, ho!” said I, “I begin to smell po„wder. And he has turned you out of doors?” “No,” she faltered. “He would not admit me.” "I begin to see beyond my nose,” I said; "you were walking with this George, and returned late?” She hesi tated. “Why, come,” I said, rallying her, “I'd ha' done the same myself, although you would not credit it of a prim and proper youth like me. You was back late?” "Yes,” says she, in a low voice. “Well,” said I, "old hunks shall take you in, never fear; so come along of me, and show me where Nunky lives and fumes and'fusses.” At that I threw Calypso's bridle over my arm, and began to go along the road, the little miss walking by my side, something reluctant, as I guessed, but cheering as she went. Her uncle, says she, was a draper in the city with a good custom and a deep purse, while this George was but a 'prentice with small prospects. “Well, I have no prospects myself,” said I, “but I warrant I can get what I want in the end. 'Tis the same with George. Let him worry at it as a dog a bone. I'll wager he is a handsome fellow to have taken a pretty girl’s eyes.” “He is very handsome,” says miss, with enthusiasm; “and he is the best judge of calico in the city.” "D- me!” says I, smacking my thigh as we walked on together quite friendly, “d-me! that's the lad for my money, and I don’t wonder at you,” said I. Whereat, poor chit, she brings me forth tales of her blessed George's goodness and estimable virtues, and how his master trusted him, and how his neighbors loved him. flame of the candle wagging before his face, and the grease guttering down the candlestick. “You do not understand, sir," he said in a quieter voice.. “I have to give my niece les sons; I have to teach her by severity; but since it is probable that she has been sufficiently frightened by this night’s adventure, and come to rea son, let her enter.” And so saying, he stepped back and held the door aside. That he was of a savage, uncon trollable temper was evident, but I had not reckoned with the old bear’s cunning, and I vow I was to blame for it. So old a hand as Dick Ryder should not have been caught by so simple a trick. Yet he was miss's uncle, and how was I to suspect him so deeply? At any rate, the facts are that, on seeing him alter so reasona bly, and step back with the invitation on his lips and in his bearing, 1 too stepped back from the doorway to leave way for miss to enter. Then of a sudden bang goes the door to, shak ing the very walls of the house, and a great key is turned in the inside, groaning rustily. I will confess I felt blank, but I re covered in a moment, when out of the window above the old rascal stuck his head. “Let her go back to her lover!” he says with a sneer. “Or maybe you can take her yourself. I want no soiled pieces in a Christian house,” and the head was withdrawn, the win dow shut tight, and the house was plunged in darkness. You may suppose how this usage annoyed me, who am not wont to be treated in so scurvy a fashion, or to come out of the contest so shabbily. I was, on the instant, for flying at the door and employing my barkers and point forthwith, but it is not wise to leap too soon with vour eyes shut, and so I held my temper and my tongue, only showing my teeth in an ugly grin as I turned to Miss Nelly. “Why,” says I, “the old buck has said the truth. And there is some thing in his whimsies after all. It seems that George and I must fight or toss for you, my dear.” You must remember that I had not seen her fa^ce all this time, for all the streaming can dle the old gentleman carried, but I gathered that she was in distress from the note of her voice, which trem bled. “You cannot mean it, sir,” she cried, and shrank away into the darkness, whence I caught the sound of sob bing. “Why, bless you, child,” said I, I was on the point to give him the rough edge of my tongue—for it was like his impudence to try cozening me —when down the stairs into the pas-, sage came a man, walking very stiff-' ly with his head in the air. I stop ped at once, for I knew not who he might be, and down he steps into the light, showing a foppish sort of a face, hair very particularly curly, and a becoming dress. No sooner did I clap eyes on him than I knew what kidney he was, and that he was not w'orth two blinks of ogles, as they say. So I turned my back on him and was beginning on Costley again, when I was surprised by the girl’s voice crying out from the entrance behind me. "What the devil?” says I, flying about, for I thought she was insulted maybe by some of Costley’s fellows, and I ran to the door. But there was she with her arms about the neck of this Jack-a-dandy. “What's this, miss?” said I, begin ning to think there was some truth in old Nunkey’s words after all; and at that she stepped into the inn, in her excitement, and I saw her plain ly for the first time. Lord. Lord! there was nothing in her face that would not have convinced any court at Old Bailey forthright. She was prettily handsome, like a doll that turns eyes up or down and smiles out of pink cheeks, in which* were two dimples mighty enticing. Up she comes in a rush, almost breathless, and breaks out to me: “ 'Tis he, 'tis he, sir!” “Who the devil is he?” said I, sharp ly. “ 'Tis Mr. Riseley,” she says, some what abashed. “He has been sup ping here, and is setting forth for his lodging.” “I commend his discretion,” I said dryly; “an excellent good place for supper, so it is, especially for young bloods like that. Well,” says I, “since you're content, as it seems, I will leave yon and young Cupid and be about my business. At this she looked dumbfounded. “But,” she begins, stammering, and paused. I threw a glance *&t Riseley, who stood by with an air something 'twixt arrogance and uneasiness. I plumbed his depths, for I have come across many such as he in my time — fine feathers enough and nothing behind them. But it was true that the cox comb's appearance did not better her case, beyond that titillation of mu tual affection: so f considered, and the idea I had taken suddenly bloom "STAND, ROGUE, OR I FIRS!" “Well,” I said, “bent let ’em not love Bim too much, or maybe this par agon wall slip you.” And on that she came to a halt, and falling very tremulous again, pointed at a house. -“ ’Tis my uncle’s,” she says, “but there are no lights and he is gone to bed.” "So shall you,” said I, and forthwith went up and banged upon the door. Now I could guess very much of what had happened in that house and how old hunks had taken a fit of choler and choking on it had sent his niece packing for a peccadillo. To be sure she was out over-) ate for virtu ous maids, but what’s a. clock, in the balance with lover's vows? And if any was to blame, ’twas this same George that should have been swinged, not pretty iniss like a dove. The door opens sharply, and there was an old fat fellow with a candle in his hand, glaring at me. “Who are you?” says he, for my ap pearance took him by surprise. “Well,” says I in a friendly way, “I'm not Old Rowley, nor am I the topsman, but something between, and what that is matters nothing. But I found a poor maid astray on the heath, and have taken the liberty to fetch her home safe and secure.” He pushed his head, further out, holding the candle so as to throw the light into the road. “It’s you, Nelly!” said he, sharply. "Have I not said I have done with you? Go to your lov er, you baggage!” and he made a mo tion to pull to the door, but my foot was inside. “Softly," said I, “softly, gaffer. This is your niece, I believe,” nodding over my arm to miss. “Well,” he snarled, “as she is mine and not yours I can do what I like with her.” "Oh! is that how the wind blows?” said I. “Then, sink me! but I shall have to go to school again to learn morals. But there is one thing I have no need to learn again, and that's how to knock sense and discre tion into a thic& head,” said I, mean . ingly, and at tne same time I threw the bridle over Calypso’s ears and stood free before the old villain. He looked at me a moment, the . ' . : n touched at the exhibition of her weak ness and innocence, “such chitterkins as you are not for me, pretty as you may be, I'll swear. No, you’re for George, or I may perish!” “Sir.” says she, staying her tears, and speaking with an air of dignity vastly entertaining, “I am past 18.” “Well.” says I, “if you are so old as that, I would I had a mother like you, granny. But as for old Suet yonder, rip and stab me if I do not pay him back in gold coin before two hours is out! And in the meantime you come along with me, gransam.” . I think she was confused and flut tered to be so addressed, not under standing my sarcasm; but she fol lowed me obediently, not having any ideas of her own, poor soul. I led the way to Roehamton, where I had made up my mind she should lie meanwhile in the care of the wench I knew at the inn. I was fashioning in my mind a plan for the confounding of the old tub-of-lard as I went, for I never lose time, but am speedy at my aim; yet all the same I talked with miss pretty jovial, for she was a shrinking slip of a girl who was be ginning now to get scared, and no wonder. When we were got to the tavern I came into the tap room and called out for Costley, who had the house then, but is since dead of good liquor; and out runs he in his apron, with a lively face, for he was in a merry state enough, the hour being late. “What, Dick Ryder!” says he in sur prise. “Yes, ’tis Dick Ryder!” says I, “and he wants a bed along of Sally for a little madam, and supper for both.” “ ’Tis unexpected orders, captain,” says he. “At least tis put in an amazing odd way. But," he cries out, bursting with his news, “Old Irons is here!” “What! that old cut purse,” said I. annoyed, for I was no friend of Old Irons. • “Yes,” said he, eagerly, “you’ll sup along of him?” ; “D— me, 1 won’t!” said I. “I want no cutpurses in my company.” “Come, Captain,” said he, protesting, for he had a fear of me. and knew of tpy repute of many roads. “Fair play and equality in a trade,” says he. ed forth in my mind. There was Old Irons, and here were we. I could have laughed aloud to think how I was for binding all the threads in one, to say nothing of Nunkey's on the common. So I turned about to Cost ley. “I was wrong,” says I; “I will do Capt. Irons the honor to sup with him, and this young gentleman, I make no doubt, will join me.” “I beg your pardon—I—I have sup ped,” he stammered. “ ’Tis a friend,” I heard her whis per; “if it were not for him I know not what must happen to me.” “Well,” says I, “miss here will sup at any rate,” at which I saw his color move. “I will take the pleasure myself to keep you company, sir,” said he, and forthwith we marched into the room. Here was Old Irons, rude, jovial and blatant as ever, but happily not too far gone as yet. He stared at my guests hard enough, but seemed to be at a loss what to make of them or how to deal by them. So that he was for a time pretty silent, casting glances of perplexity at me and frowning, as if he would invite me to say what I was doing. He was drinking, however, of humpty-dumpty, which soon loosen ed his tongue. “What cock and pullet have you got here, Dick?” says he, In a loud whisper. “Friends of mine,” says I. “Oh!” says he, and stared: then passed off into a chuckle, and with his eyes twinkling on miss; at which my apprentice in the fine clothes, not knowing, poor fool, what sort of a man he had to deal with, fired up and demanded haughtily why he laugh ed at a lady. But Irons only roared the more, paying no more heed to Mm than if he were a babe in arms. “Shut your mouth!” says I to him, seeing the girl’s color fly about. “Why,” says he, on the grin still,! “you’ve turned Anabaptist, Dick! What fad’s this? will say it’s as1 toothsome and sweet mutton as—” “If you close not your cheese - trap,” said I sharply, “I will take leave to do it for you with my pistol butt.”. At that Old Irons stared at me, for he was never very quarrelsome - save in his cups, and he had a re 1 spect for-me. -"Captain,” says be. don’t go for to say you’re going to commit assault on Old Irons, and shut his pretty peepers forever. “I'll war rant this pretty lady would beaffright ed by it, and the gentleman, too, rip me! when they see Old Irons a-lying in his gore—” “Oh,” says I, impatiently, “have done and pull up, for I maybe shall want you afore the day comes." “Now, that’s like Dick Ryder's old self,” says the old fool, and feigned to wipe a tear from his eye and re gain his spirits. He whistles a snatch, and called for more ale and brandy, which was his favorite drink. “Irons,” says I, “a man of heart and tenderness like you "would be all agog to do service to a young lady that was in trouble,” and I winked .at him meaningly across the table. “Service!” says he, starting up. “Why, I’ve just been pining, Dick, all this time for you to come to it. ‘What's Dick got?' says I to myself, and says myself to I: ‘Maybe (and I hope) he will be for letting me strike a blow in behalf of youth and beauty?’ Stab me, Dick! those were my very words to myself.” “Well,” says I, bluntly, “you shall have your wish, old man, and this young gentleman, too, who I see is regularly jumping to join us.” “I—I know not what you mean,” stuttered the peacock. “Having sup ped, and being called on to retire to my lodgings, which is far hence, I will take the opportunity to thank you, sir, for your hospitality, and be gone.” Now at that I only confirmed in the opinion I had formed of him as nothing but a cur of no spirit: for here he was willing—nay, anxious, to fly off and leave his lady in the hands of those he knew not, with never a roof to cover her. He had taken a fear of Irons, maybe, or perhaps his suspicion was due to .my masterful air. But I was not going to let him escape that way, specially as he was a part of the plot I was laying against old Nunkey. So I put my hands on his shoulder. “Sit down,” said I, cheerily. “You must not begone till you have put something inside that brave coat of yours. Moreover,” says I, here is a lady in trouble, and if I read your hon est face aright, you are not the man to leave a poor maid in the lurch, not you.” ‘Rip me, no!—he s a brave young gentleman. I can see it in his cheeks,” chuckled Old Irons. “I—I do not know what can be done," said the other, in confusion. "I am willing to help in any way. But her uncle refuses.” “Well,” said I, looking on him at tentively, “you may be thankful that you have met one who, however infe rior in courage does not need to cry mercy to your wits. For here's my plan plain and pat,” and I gave it them there and then. It had come into my head as I walked along the road with Miss Nelly, but I had the whole form perfect only when I en countered the apprentice and heard Irons was in the tavern. Old Irons and I were to make an entry into the house, and the peacock was to make the rescue, by which means, as you will see, the way would be clear for Nunkey's reconciliation with his niece's choice. But no sooner had I told them than cried the peacock, stammering— “But—but—I could not—'tis not seemly. I will be no party. ’Tis time I was gone home.” “Oh, very Nwell,” says I, “then we will adventure without you, and ’tis I will rescue miss from old Irons.” The girl's eyes lighted up. “You will do it, George?” says she beaming. “I believe it will convince my uncle of all I have said of you.” He hesitated, and being pushed into the corner, knew not what to say. “But,” says he in a troubled voice, and glancing from Old Irons to me, and from me to Old Irons, anxiously, “I do not know who these gentlemen are. I—” “Sink me!” says Old Irons in a coz ening voice, “d'ye think we are really on the toby? Why bless you, young master, we are both noblemen in dis guise, so we are, and would think shame of this job if it was not to make an honest girl come by her own. We’re only a-posing as crib-crackers,” says he. “George!” says the girl, in a voice of soft entreaty that would have per suaded a topsman. “No good will come of it,” said he with an air of protest. “ ’Twill fail,” and ho cast his eyes in despair. - “Agreed like a brave lad!” said I, clapping him on the back; “&nd you shall drink to us and success,” with which I filled him up a pot of humpty dumpty, well laced. He drank and'coughed, but the com pound mounting in his blood, fired him presently, so that he began to talk lightly and proffer advice and boast of what he would do and what part he would take. “Why, yes,” says Old Irons, “a pis tol clapped at the head, and bang goes the priming, out flows the red blood. Sink me! there you are as cold as clay, and with no more life in you than a dead maggot. ’Slife! here’s a jolly boy, Dick, that is handy with his barker, I’ll vow.” But I stopped him ere he went too far, and he and I prepared the ar rangements. We left miss behind in Sally’s charge with strict instructions, and ’twas nigh three before we reach ed the house. There I set the popin jay outside the window to shiver, pot valiant, until so be the time should come, while Irons and I went to the back of the house and made scrutiny of the yard. There was little trouble in the job, as it chanced, for Irons is skilled in the business, which I should scorn to holding for a scurvy, mean livered craft, unworthy of a gentle man but I was committed to do it for this occasion only, and so was resolved to go through with it Irons fetched out his tools and got to work; ■and in a short time we were through the window of the kitchen, and Irons -with his glim was creeping up the stairs. But he stopped half-way and whispered back to me—as if he had only then recalled something. “What ken’s this?” he asked, using his scant word. „ “Why, an honest merchant’s house,” said I; “and he traffics in calicos.” “Look ye, Dick Ryder,” says he sit ting down on the stairs, “I may he a dullard, but rip me IM know how yotr stand in this!” “Why,” says I, “you need only know where you stand. Irons, and that’s pret ty sure. You know me.” He stared at me a moment, and then said he, “Well, I’ll empty old Nunkey of his spanks, and we’ll settle afterwards,” and he resumed his jour ney. Now, what I had arranged with the apprentice was that I should knock upon the window when the time was come, at which he would spring In with the cries of alarm and fury, fall ing upon the rascals that had dared break into the merchant's house. At which Irons and I were to make off, and the old gentleman, rising in ter ror from his bed, should discover us in flight, and his deliverer, George, full armed, in possession. Yet it did not fall out quite in this way, owing, as I believe, to Old Irons muddled head and his stopping on the stairs. At any rate, we were no sooner I I “What Has Happened?” come to the hall, after Irons had vis ited two rooms, than we were sur prised by the figure of the old gentle man moving down the staircase in his night-dress and a large blunderbuss in his hand. “Stand!” says he, seeing Irons in j the faint light. “Stand, rogue, or I fire!” Old Irons uttered a curse, and, edg- ! ing into the shadows put up an arm j to slip the catches of the window. But his knuckles fell on it with a rap as he drew the catch, and immediate ly after there was a loud, shrill cry, j the window fell open, and there was ■ our peacock in the midst, calling in ; his falsetto: “Surrender, or I will blow a hole in you! Surrender by-1 I could have broken out laughing at the sight, only the situation promised to grow risky. For Old Irons taken aback at this, and never very particu- '• lar when on his lay, jumped up sharp ly and smashed at the t’other with j pistol-butt; while, to make confusion worse, the old man in the nightcap let i off his blunderbuss. Such a screech- | ing arose as w'ould have astonished a churchyard of ghosts, for the truth was, old Nunky hit George somewhere in his hinderparts, and simultaneously down came Irons’ blows on his head. That set his fingers to work on the trigger of the pistol I had given him, and ere I was aware, something had took me in the big toe and set me cursing. “Here!” says I. grabbing Old Irons in the darkness, for he was ready to destroy both in his wildness, “this is no place for a tender-hearted chicken like you or me. We’re no match for savage fire-eaters like these. We’d best go,” and I dragged him through the window and we made off together. When we reached the inn, I called out the girl. "What has happened?” she cried eagerly. “Well,” said I, “I think you had best walk home sharp. I’ll wager Nunkey will be calling for you presently to reward a gallant youth that has risk ed his life for to save him.” Her eyes glistened, and, Lord! I believe the poor fool thought her George had been brave. She clasp ed her hands. “Oh, I must thank you, sir!” she cried. “Nay, never thank me,” said I, “for, if I mistake not. Old Irons has taken thanks for us both, and would have had more if it had not been for young Jack-a-dandy.” “Split him!” cries Old Irons. I would I had hit him harder.” “Hit!” she cries, and clutches at me. “Nay, never fear,” I said. “ ’Twas not Irons, but Nunkey's blunderbuss, j Faith, he took both wounds like a lamb. I would I had his courage, and j was to be comforted like him. But ; he is in no danger.” “Oh, sir!” says she, gratefully, and j if she were fool she was pretty | enough, and her innocence touched i me, for she had scarce understood anything of what we spoke. “But run home,” says I, “and I’ll warrant you’ll find him a-rubbing of his head, and Nunkey a-hugging him for joy and gratitude.” But even ere I ha