Travelling in the old coaching days was not all hardship. It had its
own, its peculiar pleasures. A writer of that time dwells with
eloquence on the rapture with which he viewed a fine sunrise from the
outside of a fast coach on the Great North Road; on the appetite with
which he fell to upon a five o’clock breakfast at Doncaster, on the
delight with which he heard the nightingales sing on a fine night as he
swept through Henley, on the satisfaction of seeing old Shoreditch
Church, which betokened the end of the journey. Men did not then hurry
at headlong speed along iron rails, with their heads buried in a
newspaper or in the latest novel. They learned to know and had time to
view the objects of interest that fringed the highway—to recognize the
farm at which the Great Durham Ox was bred, and the house in which the
equally great Sir Isaac Newton was born. If these things were strange
to the travellers and their appearance promised a good fee, the
coachman condescended from his greatness and affably pointed them out.
But to sit through the long winter night, changing each hour from one
damp and musty post-chaise to another, to stamp and fume and fret while
horses were put to at every stage, to scold an endless succession of
incoming and fee an endless series of out-going postboys, each more
sleepy and sullen than the last—this was another matter. To be delayed
here and checked there and overcharged everywhere, to be fobbed off
with the worst teams—always reserved for night travellers—and to find,
once started on the long fourteen-mile stage, that the off-wheeler was
dead lame, to fall asleep and to be aroused with every hour—these were
the miseries, and costly miseries they were, of old-world journeying.
This was its seamy side. And many a time Clement, stamping his
stone-cold feet in wind-swept inn yards, or ringing ostlers’ bells in
stone-paved passages, repented that he had started, repented that he
had ever undertaken the task.
Why had he, he asked himself more than once that bitter night. What was
Arthur Bourdillon to him that he should spend himself in an effort as
toilsome as it promised to be vain, to hold him back from the
completion of his roguery? Would Arthur ever thank him? Far from it.
And Josina? Josina, brave, loving Josina, who had risen to heights of
which he thrilled to think, she might indeed thank him—and that should
be enough for him. But what could she do to requite him, apart from her
father? And the Squire at Garth had stated his position, nor even if he
relented was he one to pour himself out in gratitude—he who hated the
name of Ovington, and laid all this at their door. It would be much if
he ever noticed him with more than a grunt, or ever gave one thought to
his exertions or their motive.
No, he had let a quixotic, a foolish impulse run away with him! He
should have waited until Arthur had brought down the money, and then he
should have returned it. That had been the simple, the matter-of-fact
course, and all that it had been incumbent on him to do. As it was, for
what was he spending himself and undergoing these hardships? To hasten
the ruin of the bank, to meet failure half-way, to render his father
penniless a few hours earlier, rather than later. To mask a rascality
that need never be disclosed, since no one would hear of it unless the
Squire talked. Yes, he had been a fool to hurl himself thus through the
night, chilled to the bone, with fevered head and ice-cold feet, when
he might have been a hundred times better employed in supporting his
father in his need, in putting a brave front on things, and smiling in
the face of suspicion.
To be sure, it was only as the night advanced, or rather in the small
hours of the morning, when his ardor had died down and Josina’s
pleading face was no longer before him, and the spirit of adventure was
low in him, that he entertained these thoughts. For a time all went
well. He found his relay waiting for him at the Heygate Inn by
Wellington, where the name of the Lion was all-powerful; and after
covering at top speed the short stage that followed, he drove, still
full of warmth and courage, into Wolverhampton at a quarter before
eleven. Over thirty miles in three hours! He met with a little delay
there; the horses had to be fetched from another stable, in another
street. But he got away in the end, and ten minutes later he was
driving over a land most desolate by day, but by night lurid with the
flares of a hundred furnace-fires. He rattled up to the Castle at
Birmingham at half an hour after midnight, found the house still
lighted and lively, and by dint of scolding and bribing was presently
on the road again with a fresh team, and making for Coventry, with
every inclination to think that the difficulties of posting by night
had been much exaggerated.
But here his good luck left him. At the half-way stage he met with
disaster. He had passed the up coach half an hour before, and no orders
now anticipated him. When he reached the Stone Bridge there were no
horses; on the contrary, there were three travellers waiting there,
clamorous to get on to Birmingham. Unwarily he jumped out of his
chaise, and “No horses?” he cried. “Impossible! There must be horses!”
But the ostler gave him no more than a stolid stare. “Nary a nag!” he
replied coolly. “Nor like to be, master, wi’ every Quaker in Birmingham
gadding up and down as if his life ’ung on it! Why, if I’ve——”
“Quakers? What the devil do you mean?” Clement cried, thinking that the
man was reflecting on him.
“Well, Quakers or drab-coated gentry like yourself!” the man replied,
unmoved. “And every one wi’ pistols and a money bag! Seems that’s what
they’re looking for—money, so I hear. Such a driving and foraging up
and down the land these days, it’s a wonder the horses’ hoofs bean’t
worn off.”
“Then,” said Clement, turning about, “I’ll take these on to Meriden.”
But the waiting travellers had already climbed into the chaise and were
in possession, and the postboy had turned his horses. And, “No, no,
you’ll not do that,” said the ostler. “Custom of the road, master!
Custom of the road! You must change and wait your turn.”
“But there must be something on,” Clement cried in despair, seeing
himself detained here, perhaps for the whole night.
“Naught! Nary a ’oof in the yard, nor a lad!” the man replied. “You’d
best take a bed.”
“But when will there be horses?”
“Maybe something’ll come in by daylight—like enough.”
“By daylight? Oh, confound you!” cried Clement, enraged. “Then I’ll
walk on to Meriden.”
“Walk? Walk on to——” the ostler couldn’t voice his astonishment.
“Walk?”
“Ay, walk, and be hanged to you!” Clement cried, and without another
word plunged into the darkness of the long, straight road, his bag in
his hand. The road ran plain and wide before him, he couldn’t miss it;
the distance, according to Paterson, which he had in his handbag, was
no more than two miles, and he thought that he could do it in half an
hour.
But, once away, under the trees, under the midnight sky, in the silence
and darkness of the country-side, the fever of his spirits made the
distance seem intolerable. As he tramped along the lonely road,
doubtful of the wisdom of his action, the feeling of strangeness and
homelessness, the sense of the uselessness of what he was doing, grew
upon him. At this rate he might as well walk to London! What if there
were no horses at Meriden? Or if he were stayed farther up the road? He
counted the stages between him and London, and he had time and enough
to despair of reaching it, before he at last, at a good four miles an
hour, strode out of the night into the semicircle of light which fell
upon the road before the Bull’s Head at Meriden. Thank heaven, there
were lights in the house and people awake, and some hope still! And
more than hope, for almost before he had crossed the threshold a sleepy
boots came out of the bar and met him, and “Horses? Which way, sir? Up?
I’ll ring the ostler’s bell, sir!”
Clement could have blessed him. “Double money to Coventry if I leave
the door in ten minutes!” he cried, taking out his watch. And ten
minutes later—or in so little over that time as didn’t count—he was
climbing into a chaise and driving away: so well organized after
all—and all defects granted—was the posting system that at that time
covered England. To be sure, he was on one of the great roads, and the
Bull’s Head at Meriden was a house of fame.
He had availed himself of the interval to swallow a snack and a glass
of brandy and water, and he was the warmer for the exercise and in
better spirits; pluming himself a little, too, on the resolution which
had plucked him from his difficulty at the Stone Bridge. But he had
lost the greater part of an hour, and the clocks at Coventry were close
on three when he rattled through the narrow, twisting streets of that
city. Here, early as was the hour, he caught rumors of the panic, and
hints were dropped by the night-men in the inn yard—in sly reply,
perhaps, to his adjurations to hasten—of desperate men hurrying to and
fro, and buying with gold the speed which meant fortune and life to
them. Something was said of a banker who had shot himself at
Northampton—or was it Nottingham?—of London runners who had passed
through in pursuit of a defaulter; of a bank that had stopped, “up the
road.” “And there’ll be more before all’s over,” said his informant
darkly. “But it’s well to be them while it lasts! They’ve money to
burn, it seems.”
Clement wondered if this was an allusion to the crown piece that he had
offered. At any rate the ill-omened tale haunted him as he left the
city behind him, and, after passing under the Cross on Knightlow Hill,
and over the Black Heath about Dunsmoor, committed himself to the long,
monotonous stretch of road that, unbroken by any striking features, and
regularly dotted with small towns that hardly rose above villages,
extended dull mile after dull mile to London. The rumble of the chaise
and the exertions he had made began to incline him to sleep, but the
cold bit into his bones, his feet were growing numb, and as often as he
nodded off in his corner he slid down and awoke himself. Sleet, too,
was beginning to fall, and the ill-fitting windows leaked, and it was a
very morose person who turned out in the rain at Dunchurch.
However, luck was with him, and he got on without delay to Daventry,
and had to be roused from sleep when his postboy pulled up before the
famous old Wheat-sheaf that, wakeful and alight, was ready with its
welcome. Here cheerful fires were burning and everything was done for
him. A chaise had just come in from Towcester. The horses’ mouths were
washed out while he swallowed a crust and another glass of brandy and
water, the horses were turned round, and he was away again. He composed
himself, shivering, in the warmer corner, and, thanking his stars that
he had got off, was beginning to nod, when the chaise suddenly tilted
to one side and he slid across the seat. He sat up in alarm and felt
the near wheels clawing at the ditch, and thought that he was over. A
moment of suspense, and through the fog that dimmed the window-panes
flaming lights blazed above him and over him, and the down mails
thundered by, coach behind coach—three coaches, the road quivering
beneath them, the horses cantering, the guards replying with a volley
of abuse to the postboy’s shout of alarm. Huge, lighted monsters, by
night the bullies of the road, they were come and gone in an instant,
leaving him staring with dazzled eyes into the darkness. But the shave
had not bettered his temper. The stage seemed a long one, the horses
slow, and he was fretting and fuming mightily, and by no means as
grateful as he should have been for the luck that had hitherto attended
him, when at last he jogged into Towcester.
Alas, the inn here was awake, indeed, in a somnolent, grumpy, sullen
fashion, but there were no horses. “Not a chance of them,” said the
sleepy boots, nicking a dirty napkin towards the coffee room. “There
are two business gents waiting there to get on—life and death, ’cording
to them. They’re going up same way as you are, and they’ve first call.
And there’s a gentleman and his servant for Birmingham—down, they are,
and been waiting since eleven o’clock and swearing tremendous!”
“Then I’ll take mine on!” Clement said, and whipped out into the night
and ran to his chaise. But he was too late. The gentleman’s servant had
been on the watch, he had made his bargain and stepped in, and his
master was hurrying out to join him. “The devil!” cried Clement, now
wide awake and very angry. “That’s pretty sharp!”
“Yes, sir, sharp’s the word,” said the boots. It was evident that night
work had made him a misanthrope, or something else had soured him.
“They’d be no good for Brickhill anyway. It’s a long stage. You’ll take
a bed?”
“Bed be hanged!” said Clement, wondering what he should do. This seemed
to be a dead stop, and very black he looked. At last, “I’ll go to the
yard,” he said.
“There’s nobody up. You’d best——” and again the boots advised a bed.
“Nobody up? Oh, hang it!” said Clement, and stood and thought, very
much at a standstill. What could he do? There was a clock in the
passage. He looked at it. It was close on six, and he had nearly sixty
miles to travel. Save for the delay at the Stone Bridge, he had done
well. He had kept his postboy up to the mark: he had spared neither
money nor prayers, nor, it must be added, curses. He had done a very
considerable feat, the difficulties of night porting considered. But he
had still fifty-eight miles before him, and if he could not get on now
he had done nothing. He had only wasted his money. “Any up coach due?”
“Not before eight o’clock,” said the boots cynically. “Beaches the
Saracen’s Head, Snowhill, at three-thirty. You are one of these moneyed
gents, I suppose? Things is queer in town, I hear—crashes and what not,
something terrible, I am told. Blue ruin and worse. The master
here”—becoming suddenly confidential—“he’s in it. It’s U-p with him!
They seized his horses yesterday. That’s why—” he winked mysteriously
towards the silent stables. “Wouldn’t trust him, and couldn’t send a
bailiff with every team. That’s why!”
“Who seized them?” Clement asked listlessly. But he awoke a second
later to the meaning of his words.
“Hollins, Church Farm yonder. Bill for hay and straw. D’you know him?”
“No, but—here! D’you see this?” Clement plucked out a crown piece, his
eyes alight. “Is there a postboy here? That’s the point! Asleep or
awake! Quick, man!”
“A postboy? Well, there’s old Sam—he can ride. But what’s the use of a
postboy when there’s no horses?”
“Wake him! Bring him here!” Clement retorted, on fire with an idea, and
waving the crown piece. “D’you hear? Bring him here and this is yours.
But sharp’s the word. Go, go and get him, man, it will be worth his
while. Haul him out! Tell him he must come! It’s money, tell him!”
The boots caught the infection and went, and for three or four minutes
Clement stamped up and down in a fever of anxiety. By and by the
postboy came, half dressed, sulky, and rubbing his eyes. Clement seized
him by the shoulders, shook him, pounded him, pounded his idea into
him, bribed him. Five minutes later they were hurrying towards the
church, passing here and there a yawning laborer plodding through the
darkness to his work. The farmer at Hollins’s was dressing, and opened
his window to swear at them and at the noise the dogs were making. But,
“Three pounds! Three pounds for horses to Brickhill!” Clement cried.
The proper charge was twenty-six shillings at the eighteen-penny night
scale, and the man listened. “You can come with me and keep
possession!” Clement urged, seeing that he hesitated. “You run no risk!
I’ll be answerable.”
Three pounds was money, much money in those days. It was good interest
on his unpaid bill, and Mr. Hollins gave way. He flung down the key of
the stables, and hurrying down after it, helped to harness the horses
by the light of a lanthorn. That done, however, the good man took
fright at the novelty, almost the impudence of the thing, and demanded
his money. “Half now, and half at Brickhill,” Clement replied, and the
sight of the cash settled the matter. Mr. Hollins opened the yard gate,
and two minutes later they were off, the farmer’s wife staring after
them from the doorway and, with a leaning to the safe side, shrilly
stating her opinion that her husband was a fool and would lose his
nags.
“Never fear,” Clement said to the man. “Only don’t spare them! Time is
money to me this morning!”
Fortunately, the horses had done no work the previous day and had been
well fed. They were fresh, and the old postboy, feeling himself in
luck, and exhilarated by what he called “as queer a start as ever was,”
was determined to merit the largest fee. The farmer, as they whirled
down Windmill Hill at a pace that carried them over the ascent and past
Plum Park, fidgeted uneasily in his seat, fearing broken knees and what
not. But seeing then that the postboy steadied his pair and knew his
business, he let it pass. As far as Stony Stratford the road was with
them, and thence to Fenny Stratford they pushed on at a good pace.
It was broad daylight by now, the road was full of life and movement,
they met and passed other travellers, other chaises, one or two of the
early morning coaches. Men, topping and tailing turnips, stood and
watched them from the fields, a gleam of December sunrise warmed the
landscape. To the tedious nightmare of the long, dark hours, with their
endless stages and sleepy turn-outs and shadowy postillions, their
yawning inns and midnight meals, had succeeded sober daylight, plodding
realities, waking life; and Clement should have owned the relief. But
he did not, for a simple reason. During the night the end had been far
off and uncertain, a thing not yet to be dwelt upon or considered. Now
the end was within sight, a few hours must determine it one way or the
other, and his anxiety as the time passed, and now the horses slackened
their pace to climb a rise, now were detained by a flock of sheep,
centred itself upon it. He had endured so much that he might intercept
Arthur before the deed was done and the false transfer used, that to
fail Josina now, to be too late now, was a thing not to be considered.