With Marlborough to Malplaquet | Page 2

little group of loafers who had come to
see the sight and to pick up any stray penny that might be available. A
minute later George Fairburn was rapidly thawing before the rousing
fire in the inn's best parlour, and was gulping down the cup of hot
mulled ale the good-natured landlady had put into his trembling hands.
"I'm all right, ma'am, now, and I'll go. Thank you and good night,
ma'am."
"Go, Fairburn?" cried another boy of about his own age, who sat
comfortably in the arm-chair by the cosy chimney corner. "Surely you
are not going to turn out again this bitter night?"
"Indeed I am," was the somewhat ungracious reply; "my father is not a
rich man, and I'm not going to put him to needless expense."
The other boy blushed, but the next moment his face resumed its usual
pallor. He was tall for his fourteen years, but evidently not particularly
strong. He had, in truth, somewhat of a bookish look, and his rounded
shoulders already told of much poring over a student's tasks. Fairburn,
on the other hand, though less tall, carried in his face and form all the
evidence of robust good health.
"I've relatives somewhere in Darlington, Blackett," George explained,
in a rather pleasanter tone, as if ashamed of his former surly speech,
"and I'm going to hunt them up."
"Look here, Fairburn," said the other, springing from his seat and
placing a patronizing hand on his companion's shoulder, "just make
yourself comfortable here with me for the night, and I'll settle the bill
for both of us in the morning." He spoke rather grandly, jingling the
coins in his pocket the while.
"I can settle my own bills, thank you," answered Fairburn, a proud hot
flush overspreading his face. And, seizing his little bag, the lad strode

from the room and out of the inn, shivering as the chill northeasterly
breeze caught him in the now dark and almost deserted street.
"Confound the fellow with his purse-proud patronage!" he muttered as
he hurried along.
"Bless me, why is he so touchy?" Blackett was asking himself at the
same moment. "We seem fated to quarrel, Fairburn's family and ours.
Whose is the pride now, I wonder! Fairburn thinks a deal of his
independence, as he calls it; I should call it simply pride, myself. But I
might have known that he wouldn't accept my offer after his refusal of
an inside place with me this morning, and after riding all those miles
from York to-day in the bitter cold. Heigh-ho, the quarrel won't be of
my seeking anyhow."
These two lads were both sons of colliery owners, and both pupils of
the ancient school of St. Peter of York, the most notable foundation
north of the Humber. But there the likeness ended. Matthew Blackett's
father was a rich man and descended from generations of rich men. He
owned a large colliery and employed many men and not a few ships.
He was, moreover, a county magnate, and held his head high on
Tyneside. In politics he was a strong supporter of the Tory party, and
had never been easy under the rule of Dutch William. He was proud
and somewhat arrogant, yet not wanting his good points. George
Fairburn, on the other hand, was the son of a much smaller man, of one,
in truth, who had by his energy and thrift become the proprietor of a
small pit, of which he himself acted as manager. The elder Fairburn
was of a sturdy independent character, his independence, however,
sometimes asserting itself at the expense of his manners; that at least
was the way Mr. Blackett put it. Fairburn had been thrown much in his
boyhood among the Quakers, of which new sect there were several
little groups in the northern counties. He was a firm Whig, and as firm
a hater of the exiled James II. He had made some sacrifice to send his
boy to a good school, being a great believer in education, at a time
when men of his class were little disposed to set much store by book
learning.
After breakfast by candlelight next morning the passengers for the

coach assembled at the door of the inn. Blackett was already
comfortably seated among his many and ample rugs and wraps when
George Fairburn appeared, accompanied by a woman who made an odd
figure in an ancient cloak many sizes too big for her, covering her from
head to foot. It had, in fact, originally been a soldier's cloak, and had
seen much hard service in the continental campaigns under William III.
The good dame was very demonstrative in her affection, and kissed
George again and again on both cheeks, with good sounding smacks,
ere she would let him mount to the