Freaks on the Fells | Page 2

long for an undignified roll on
the green fields among primroses, butter-cups, and daisies, Mr
Sudberry sat at his desk reading the advertisements in the Times.
Suddenly he flung the paper away, hit the desk a sounding blow with
his clinched fist, and exclaimed firmly--

"I'll do it!"
Accustomed though he was to nervous shocks, the small clerk leaped
with more than ordinary tremor off his stool on this occasion, picked up
the paper, laid it at his master's elbow, and sat down again, prepared to
look out--nautically speaking--for more squalls.
Mr Sudberry seized a quill, dabbed it into the ink-bottle, and split it.
Seizing another he dabbed again; the quill stood the shock; the small
clerk ventured a sigh of relief and laid aside the inky napkin which he
had pulled out of his desk expecting an upset, and prepared for the
worst. A note was dashed off in two minutes,--signed, sealed,
addressed, in half a minute, and Mr Sudberry leaped off his stool. His
hat was thrown on his head by a species of sleight of hand, and he
appeared in the outer office suddenly, like a stout Jack-in-the-box.
"I'm away, Mr Jones," (to his head clerk), "and won't be back till eleven
to-morrow morning. Have you the letters ready? I am going round by
the post-office, and will take charge of them."
"They are here, sir," said Mr Jones, in a mild voice.
Mr Jones was a meek man, with a red nose and a humble aspect. He
was a confidential clerk, and much respected by the firm of Sudberry
and Company. In fact, it was generally understood that the business
could not get on without him. His caution was a most salutary
counteractive to Mr Sudberry's recklessness. As for "Co," he was a
sleeping partner, and an absolute nonentity.
Mr Sudberry seized the letters and let them fall, picked them up in
haste, thrust them confusedly into his pocket, and rushed from the room,
knocking over the umbrella-stand in his exit. The sensation left in the
office was that of a dead calm after a sharp squall. The small clerk
breathed freely, and felt that his life was safe for that day.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 2.

MR SUDBERRY AT HOME.
"My dear," cried Mr Sudberry to his wife, abruptly entering the parlour
of his villa, near Hampstead Heath, "I have done the deed!"
"Dear John, you are so violent; my nerves--really--what deed?" said
Mrs Sudberry, a weak-eyed, delicate woman, of languid temperament,
and not far short of her husband's age.
"I have written off to secure a residence in the Highlands of Scotland
for our summer quarters this season."
Mrs Sudberry stared in mute surprise. "John! my dear! are you in
earnest? Have you not been precipitate in this matter? You know, love,
that I have always trusted in your prudence to make arrangements for
the spending of our holiday; but really, when I think--"
"Well, my dear, `When you think,'--pray, go on."
"Don't be hasty, dear John; you know I have never objected to any
place you have hitherto fixed on. Herne Bay last year was charming,
and the year before we enjoyed Margate so much. Even Worthing,
though rather too long a journey for a family, was delightful; and, as
the family was smaller then, we got over the journey on the whole
better than could have been expected. But Scotland!--the
Highlands!"--Mr Sudberry's look at this point induced his wife to come
to a full stop. The look was not a stern look,--much less a savage look,
as connubial looks sometimes are. It was an aggrieved look; not that he
was aggrieved at the dubious reception given by his spouse to the
arrangement he had made;--no, the sore point in his mind was that he
himself entertained strong doubts, as to the propriety of what he had
done; and to find these doubts reflected in the mind of his faithful
better half was perplexing.
"Well, Mary," said the worthy merchant, "go on. Do you state the cons,
and I'll enumerate the pros, after which we will close the account, and
see on which side the balance lies."

"You know, dear," said Mrs Sudberry, in a remonstrative tone, "that the
journey is fearfully long. I almost tremble when I think of it. To be sure,
we have the railroad to Edinburgh now; but beyond that we shall have
to travel by stage, I suppose, at least I hope so; but perhaps they have
no stage-coaches in Scotland?"
"Oh, yes, they have a few, I believe," replied the merchant, with a
smile.
"Ah! that is fortunate; for wagons are fearfully trying. No, I really think
that I could not stand a wagon journey after my experience of the picnic
at Worthing some years ago. Think of our large