Chapter 62
the hostelry—life uncertain—open countenance—the grand point—thank you, master—a hard mother—poor dear!—the odds—the better country—english fashion—landlord-looking person
And in the old city I remained two days, passing my time as I best could—inspecting the curiosities of the place, eating and drinking when I so felt disposed, which I frequently did, the digestive organs having assumed a tone to which for many months they had been strangers—enjoying at night balmy sleep in a large bed in a dusky room, at the end of a corridor, in a certain hostelry in which I had taken up my quarters—receiving from the people of the hostelry such civility and condescension as people who travel on foot with bundle and stick, but who nevertheless are perceived to be not altogether destitute of coin, are in the habit of receiving. On the third day, on a fine sunny afternoon, I departed from the city of the spire.
As I was passing through one of the suburbs, I saw, all on a sudden, a respectable-looking female fall down in a fit; several persons hastened to her assistance. 'She is dead,' said one. 'No, she is not,' said another. 'I am afraid she is,' said the third. 'Life is very uncertain,' said the fourth. 'It is Mrs. ——,' said the fifth; 'let us carry her to her own house.' Not being able to render any assistance, I left the poor female in the hands of her townsfolk, and proceeded on my way. I had chosen a road in the direction of the north-west, it led over downs where corn was growing, but where neither tree nor hedge was to be seen; two or three hours' walking brought me to a beautiful valley, abounding with trees of various kinds, with a delightful village at its farthest extremity; passing through it, I ascended a lofty acclivity, on the top of which I sat down on a bank, and, taking off my hat, permitted a breeze, which swept coolly and refreshingly over the downs, to dry my hair, dripping from the effects of exercise and the heat of the day.
And as I sat there, gazing now at the blue heavens, now at the downs before me, a man came along the road in the direction in which I had hitherto been proceeding: just opposite to me he stopped, and, looking at me, cried,—'Am I right for London, master?'
He was dressed like a sailor, and appeared to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age—he had an open manly countenance, and there was a bold and fearless expression in his eye.
'Yes,' said I, in reply to his question; 'this is one of the ways to London. Do you come from far?'
'From ——,' said the man, naming a well-known seaport.
'Is this the direct road to London from that place?' I demanded.
'No,' said the man; 'but I had to visit two or three other places on certain commissions I was intrusted with; amongst others to ——, where I had to take a small sum of money. I am rather tired, master; and, if you please, I will sit down beside you.'
'You have as much right to sit down here as I have,' said I; 'the road is free for every one; as for sitting down beside me, you have the look of an honest man, and I have no objection to your company.'
'Why, as for being honest, master,' said the man, laughing and sitting down by me, 'I haven't much to say—many is the wild thing I have done when I was younger; however, what is done, is done. To learn, one must live, master; and I have lived long enough to learn the grand point of wisdom.'
'What is that?' said I.
'That honesty is the best policy, master.'
'You appear to be a sailor,' said I, looking at his dress.
'I was not bred a sailor,' said the man, 'though, when my foot is on the salt water, I can play the part—and play it well too. I am now from a long voyage.'
'From America?' said I.
'Farther than that,' said the man.
'Have you any objection to tell me?' said I.
'From New South Wales,' said the man, looking me full in the face.
'Dear me,' said I.
'Why do you say "Dear me"?' said the man.
'It is a very long way off,' said I.
'Was that your reason for saying so?' said the man.
'Not exactly,' said I.
'No,' said the man, with something of a bitter smile; 'it was something else that made you say so; you were thinking of the convicts.'
'Well,' said I, 'what then—you are no convict.'
'How do you know?'
'You do not look like one.'
'Thank you, master,' said the man cheerfully; 'and, to a certain extent, you are right—bygones are bygones—I am no longer what I was, nor ever will be again; the truth, however, is the truth—a convict I have been—a convict at Sydney Cove.'
'And you have served out the period for which you were sentenced, and are now returned?'
'As to serving out my sentence,' replied the man, 'I can't say that I did; I was sentenced for fourteen years, and I was in Sydney Cove little more than half that time. The truth is that I did the Government a service. There was a conspiracy amongst some of the convicts to murder and destroy—I overheard and informed the Government; mind one thing, however, I was not concerned in it; those who got it up were no comrades of mine, but a bloody gang of villains. Well, the Government, in consideration of the service I had done them, remitted the remainder of my sentence; and some kind gentlemen interested themselves about me, gave me good books and good advice, and, being satisfied with my conduct, procured me employ in an exploring expedition, by which I earned money. In fact, the being sent to Sydney was the best thing that ever happened to me in all my life.'
'And you have now returned to your native country. Longing to see home brought you from New South Wales.'
'There you are mistaken,' said the man. 'Wish to see England again would never have brought me so far; for, to tell you the truth, master, England was a hard mother to me, as she has proved to many. No, a wish to see another kind of mother—a poor old woman, whose son I am—has brought me back.'
'You have a mother, then?' said I. 'Does she reside in London?'
'She used to live in London,' said the man; 'but I am afraid she is long since dead.'
'How did she support herself?' said I.
'Support herself! with difficulty enough; she used to keep a small stall on London Bridge, where she sold fruit; I am afraid she is dead, and that she died perhaps in misery. She was a poor sinful creature; but I loved her, and she loved me. I came all the way back merely for the chance of seeing her.'
'Did you ever write to her,' said I, 'or cause others to write to her?'
'I wrote to her myself,' said the man, 'about two years ago; but I never received an answer. I learned to write very tolerably over there, by the assistance of the good people I spoke of. As for reading, I could do that very well before I went—my poor mother taught me to read, out of a book that she was very fond of; a strange book it was, I remember. Poor dear!—what I would give only to know that she is alive.'
'Life is very uncertain,' said I.
'That is true,' said the man, with a sigh.
'We are here one moment, and gone the next,' I continued. 'As I passed through the streets of a neighbouring town, I saw a respectable woman drop down, and people said she was dead. Who knows but that she too had a son coming to see her from a distance, at that very time?'
'Who knows, indeed?' said the man. 'Ah, I am afraid my mother is dead. Well, God's will be done.'
'However,' said I, 'I should not wonder at your finding your mother alive.'
'You wouldn't?' said the man, looking at me wistfully.
'I should not wonder at all,' said I; 'indeed, something within me seems to tell me you will; I should not much mind betting five shillings to fivepence that you will see your mother within a week. Now, friend, five shillings to fivepence—'
'Is very considerable odds,' said the man, rubbing his hands; 'sure you must have good reason to hope, when you are willing to give such odds.'
'After all,' said I, 'it not unfrequently happens that those who lay the long odds lose. Let us hope, however. What do you mean to do in the event of finding your mother alive?'
'I scarcely know,' said the man; 'I have frequently thought that if I found my mother alive I would attempt to persuade her to accompany me to the country which I have left—it is a better country for a man—that is, a free man—to live in than this; however, let me first find my mother—if I could only find my mother—'
'Farewell,' said I, rising. 'Go your way, and God go with you—I will go mine.' 'I have but one thing to ask you,' said the man. 'What is that?' I inquired. 'That you would drink with me before we part—you have done me so much good.' 'How should we drink?' said I; 'we are on the top of a hill where there is nothing to drink.' 'But there is a village below,' said the man; 'do let us drink before we part.' 'I have been through that village already,' said I, 'and I do not like turning back.' 'Ah,' said the man, sorrowfully, 'you will not drink with me because I told you I was—' 'You are quite mistaken,' said I, 'I would as soon drink with a convict as with a judge. I am by no means certain that, under the same circumstances, the judge would be one whit better than the convict. Come along! I will go back to oblige you. I have an odd sixpence in my pocket, which I will change that I may drink with you.' So we went down the hill together to the village through which I had already passed, where, finding a public-house, we drank together in true English fashion, after which we parted, the sailor-looking man going his way and I mine.
Chapter 63
primitive habits—rosy-faced damsel—a pleasant moment—suit of black—the furtive glance—the mighty round—these degenerate times—the newspaper—the evil chance—i must congratulate you
'Young gentleman,' said the huge fat landlord, 'you are come at the right time; dinner will be taken up in a few minutes, and such a dinner,' he continued, rubbing his hands, 'as you will not see every day in these times.'
'I am hot and dusty,' said I, 'and should wish to cool my hands and face.'
'Jenny!' said the huge landlord, with the utmost gravity, 'show the gentleman into number seven, that he may wash his hands and face.'
'By no means,' said I, 'I am a person of primitive habits, and there is nothing like the pump in weather like this.'
'Jenny,' said the landlord, with the same gravity as before, 'go with the young gentleman to the pump in the back kitchen, and take a clean towel along with you.'
Thereupon the rosy-faced clean-looking damsel went to a drawer, and producing a large, thick, but snowy white towel, she nodded to me to follow her; whereupon I followed Jenny through a long passage into the back kitchen.
And at the end of the back kitchen there stood a pump; and going to it I placed my hands beneath the spout, and said, 'Pump, Jenny'; and Jenny incontinently, without laying down the towel, pumped with one hand, and I washed and cooled my heated hands.
And, when my hands were washed and cooled, I took off my neckcloth, and, unbuttoning my shirt collar, I placed my head beneath the spout of the pump, and I said unto Jenny, 'Now, Jenny, lay down the towel, and pump for your life.'
Thereupon Jenny, placing the towel on a linen-horse, took the handle of the pump with both hands and pumped over my head as handmaid had never pumped before; so that the water poured in torrents from my head, my face, and my hair down upon the brick floor.
And, after the lapse of somewhat more than a minute, I called out with a half-strangled voice, 'Hold, Jenny!' and Jenny desisted. I stood for a few moments to recover my breath, then taking the towel which Jenny proffered, I dried composedly my hands and head, my face and hair; then, returning the towel to Jenny, I gave a deep sigh and said, 'Surely this is one of the pleasant moments of life.'
Then, having set my dress to rights, and combed my hair with a pocket comb, I followed Jenny, who conducted me back through the long passage, and showed me into a neat sanded parlour on the ground-floor.
I sat down by a window which looked out upon the dusty street; presently in came the handmaid, and commenced laying the table-cloth. 'Shall I spread the table for one, sir,' said she, 'or do you expect anybody to dine with you?'
'I can't say that I expect anybody,' said I, laughing inwardly to myself; 'however, if you please you can lay for two, so that if any acquaintance of mine should chance to step in, he may find a knife and fork ready for him.'
So I sat by the window, sometimes looking out upon the dusty street, and now glancing at certain old-fashioned prints which adorned the wall over against me. I fell into a kind of doze, from which I was almost instantly awakened by the opening of the door. Dinner, thought I; and I sat upright in my chair. No; a man of the middle age, and rather above the middle height, dressed in a plain suit of black, made his appearance, and sat down in a chair at some distance from me, but near to the table, and appeared to be lost in thought.
'The weather is very warm, sir,' said I.
'Very,' said the stranger, laconically, looking at me for the first time.
'Would you like to see the newspaper?' said I, taking up one which lay upon the window seat.
'I never read newspapers,' said the stranger, 'nor, indeed, ——' Whatever it might be that he had intended to say he left unfinished. Suddenly he walked to the mantelpiece at the farther end of the room, before which he placed himself with his back towards me. There he remained motionless for some time; at length, raising his hand, he touched the corner of the mantelpiece with his finger, advanced towards the chair which he had left, and again seated himself.
'Have you come far?' said he, suddenly looking towards me, and speaking in a frank and open manner, which denoted a wish to enter into conversation. 'You do not seem to be of this place.'
'I come from some distance,' said I; 'indeed, I am walking for exercise, which I find as necessary to the mind as the body. I believe that by exercise people would escape much mental misery.'
Scarcely had I uttered these words when the stranger laid his hand, with seeming carelessness, upon the table, near one of the glasses; after a moment or two he touched the glass with his finger as if inadvertently, then, glancing furtively at me, he withdrew his hand and looked towards the window.
'Are you from these parts?' said I at last, with apparent carelessness.
'From this vicinity,' replied the stranger. 'You think, then, that it is as easy to walk off the bad humours of the mind as of the body?'
'I, at least, am walking in that hope,' said I.
'I wish you may be successful,' said the stranger; and here he touched one of the forks which lay on the table near him.
Here the door, which was slightly ajar, was suddenly pushed open with some fracas, and in came the stout landlord, supporting with some difficulty an immense dish, in which was a mighty round mass of smoking meat garnished all round with vegetables; so high was the mass that it probably obstructed his view, for it was not until he had placed it upon the table that he appeared to observe the stranger; he almost started, and quite out of breath exclaimed, 'God bless me, your honour; is your honour the acquaintance that the young gentleman was expecting?'
'Is the young gentleman expecting an acquaintance?' said the stranger.
There is nothing like putting a good face upon these matters, thought I to myself; and, getting up, I bowed to the unknown. 'Sir,' said I, 'when I told Jenny that she might lay the table-cloth for two, so that in the event of any acquaintance dropping in he might find a knife and fork ready for him, I was merely jocular, being an entire stranger in these parts, and expecting no one. Fortune, however, it would seem, has been unexpectedly kind to me; I flatter myself, sir, that since you have been in this room I have had the honour of making your acquaintance; and in the strength of that hope I humbly entreat you to honour me with your company to dinner, provided you have not already dined.'
The stranger laughed outright.
'Sir,' I continued, 'the round of beef is a noble one, and seems exceedingly well boiled, and the landlord was just right when he said I should have such a dinner as is not seen every day. A round of beef, at any rate such a round of beef as this, is seldom seen smoking upon the table in these degenerate times. Allow me, sir,' said I, observing that the stranger was about to speak, 'allow me another remark. I think I saw you just now touch the fork; I venture to hail it as an omen that you will presently seize it, and apply it to its proper purpose, and its companion the knife also.'
The stranger changed colour, and gazed upon me in silence.
'Do, sir,' here put in the landlord; 'do, sir, accept the young gentleman's invitation. Your honour has of late been looking poorly, and the young gentleman is a funny young gentleman, and a clever young gentleman; and I think it will do your honour good to have a dinner's chat with the young gentleman.'
'It is not my dinner hour,' said the stranger; 'I dine considerably later; taking anything now would only discompose me; I shall, however, be most happy to sit down with the young gentleman; reach me that paper, and, when the young gentleman has satisfied his appetite, we may perhaps have a little chat together.'
The landlord handed the stranger the newspaper, and, bowing, retired with his maid Jenny. I helped myself to a portion of the smoking round, and commenced eating with no little appetite. The stranger appeared to be soon engrossed with the newspaper. We continued thus a considerable time—the one reading and the other dining. Chancing suddenly to cast my eyes upon the stranger, I saw his brow contract; he gave a slight stamp with his foot, and flung the newspaper to the ground, then stooping down he picked it up, first moving his forefinger along the floor, seemingly slightly scratching it with his nail.
'Do you hope, sir,' said I, 'by that ceremony with the finger to preserve yourself from the evil chance?'
The stranger started; then, after looking at me for some time in silence, he said, 'Is it possible that you—?'
'Ay, ay,' said I, helping myself to some more of the round; 'I have touched myself in my younger days, both for the evil chance and the good. Can't say, though, that I ever trusted much in the ceremony.'
The stranger made no reply, but appeared to be in deep thought; nothing farther passed between us until I had concluded the dinner, when I said to him, 'I shall now be most happy, sir, to have the pleasure of your conversation over a pint of wine.'
The stranger rose; 'No, my young friend,' said he, smiling, 'that would scarce be fair. It is my turn now—pray do me the favour to go home with me, and accept what hospitality my poor roof can offer; to tell you the truth, I wish to have some particular discourse with you which would hardly be possible in this place. As for wine, I can give you some much better than you can get here: the landlord is an excellent fellow, but he is an innkeeper after all. I am going out for a moment, and will send him in, so that you may settle your account; I trust you will not refuse me, I only live about two miles from here.'
I looked in the face of the stranger—it was a fine intelligent face, with a cast of melancholy in it. 'Sir,' said I, 'I would go with you though you lived four miles instead of two.'
'Who is that gentleman?' said I to the landlord, after I had settled his bill; 'I am going home with him.'
'I wish I were going too,' said the fat landlord, laying his hand upon his stomach. 'Young gentleman, I shall be a loser by his honour's taking you away; but, after all, the truth is the truth—there are few gentlemen in these parts like his honour, either for learning or welcoming his friends. Young gentleman, I congratulate you.'
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