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.'
