DOINGS AT AN INN
What every traveller sighs to find, was palatably furnished by the
Green Dragon of Fallowfield—a famous inn, and a constellation for
wandering coachmen. There pleasant smiles seasoned plenty, and the bill
was gilded in a manner unknown to our days. Whoso drank of the ale of
the Green Dragon kept in his memory a place apart for it. The secret,
that to give a warm welcome is the breath of life to an inn, was one
the Green Dragon boasted, even then, not to share with many Red Lions,
or Cocks of the Morning, or Kings’ Heads, or other fabulous monsters;
and as if to show that when you are in the right track you are sure to
be seconded, there was a friend of the Green Dragon, who, on a
particular night of the year, caused its renown to enlarge to the
dimensions of a miracle. But that, for the moment, is my secret.
Evan and Jack were met in the passage by a chambermaid. Before either
of them could speak, she had turned and fled, with the words:
“More coming!” which, with the addition of “My goodness me!” were
echoed by the hostess in her recess. Hurried directions seemed to be
consequent, and then the hostess sallied out, and said, with a curtsey:
“Please to step in, gentlemen. This is the room, tonight.”
Evan lifted his hat; and bowing, requested to know whether they could
have a supper and beds.
“Beds, Sir!” cried the hostess. “What am I to do for beds! Yes, beds
indeed you may have, but bed-rooms—if you ask for them, it really is
more than I can supply you with. I have given up my own. I sleep with
my maid Jane to-night.”
“Anything will do for us, madam,” replied Evan, renewing his foreign
courtesy. “But there is a poor young woman outside.”
“Another!” The hostess instantly smiled down her inhospitable outcry.
“She,” said Evan, “must have a room to herself. She is ill.”
“Must is must, sir,” returned the gracious hostess. “But I really
haven’t the means.”
“You have bed-rooms, madam?”
“Every one of them engaged, sir.”
“By ladies, madam?”
“Lord forbid, Sir!” she exclaimed with the honest energy of a woman who
knew her sex.
Evan bade Jack go and assist the waggoner to bring in the girl. Jack,
who had been all the time pulling at his wristbands, and settling his
coat-collar by the dim reflection of a window of the bar, departed,
after, on his own authority, assuring the hostess that fever was not
the young woman’s malady, as she protested against admitting fever into
her house, seeing that she had to consider her guests.
“We’re open to all the world to-night, except fever,” said the hostess.
“Yes,” she rejoined to Evan’s order that the waggoner and his mate
should be supplied with ale, “they shall have as much as they can
drink,” which is not a speech usual at inns, when one man gives an
order for others, but Evan passed it by, and politely begged to be
shown in to one of the gentlemen who had engaged bedrooms.
“Oh! if you can persuade any of them, sir, I’m sure I’ve nothing to
say,” observed the hostess. “Pray, don’t ask me to stand by and back
it, that’s all.”
Had Evan been familiar with the Green Dragon, he would have noticed
that the landlady, its presiding genius, was stiffer than usual; the
rosy smile was more constrained, as if a great host had to be embraced,
and were trying it to the utmost stretch. There was, however, no
asperity about her, and when she had led him to the door he was to
enter to prefer his suit, and she had asked whether the young woman was
quite common, and he had replied that he had picked her up on the road,
and that she was certainly poor, the hostess said:
“I’m sure you’re a very good gentleman, sir, and if I could spare your
asking at all, I would.”
With that she went back to encounter Mr. Raikes and his charge, and
prime the waggoner and his mate.
A noise of laughter and talk was stilled gradually, as Evan made his
bow into a spacious room, wherein, as the tops of pines are seen
swimming on the morning mist, about a couple of dozen guests of divers
conditions sat partially revealed through wavy clouds of tobacco-smoke.
By their postures, which Evan’s appearance by no means disconcerted,
you read in a glance men who had been at ease for so many hours that
they had no troubles in the world save the two ultimate perplexities of
the British Sybarite, whose bed of roses is harassed by the pair of
problems: first, what to do with his legs; secondly, how to imbibe
liquor with the slightest possible derangement of those members
subordinate to his upper structure. Of old the Sybarite complained. Not
so our self-helpful islanders. Since they could not, now that work was
done and jollity the game, take off their legs, they got away from them
as far as they might, in fashions original or imitative: some by
thrusting them out at full length; some by cramping them under their
chairs: while some, taking refuge in a mental effort, forgot them, a
process to be recommended if it did not involve occasional pangs of
consciousness to the legs of their neighbours. We see in our cousins
West of the great water, who are said to exaggerate our peculiarities,
beings labouring under the same difficulty, and intent on its solution.
As to the second problem: that of drinking without discomposure to the
subservient limbs: the company present worked out this republican
principle ingeniously, but in a manner beneath the attention of the
Muse. Let Clio record that mugs and glasses, tobacco and pipes, were
strewn upon the table. But if the guests had arrived at that stage when
to reach the arm, or arrange the person, for a sip of good stuff,
causes moral debates, and presents to the mind impediments equal to
what would be raised in active men by the prospect of a great
excursion, it is not to be wondered at that the presence of a stranger
produced no immediate commotion. Two or three heads were half turned;
such as faced him imperceptibly lifted their eyelids.
“Good evening, sir,” said one who sat as chairman, with a decisive nod.
“Good night, ain’t it?” a jolly-looking old fellow queried of the
speaker, in an under-voice.
“’Gad, you don’t expect me to be wishing the gentleman good-bye, do
you?” retorted the former.
“Ha! ha! No, to be sure,” answered the old boy; and the remark was
variously uttered, that “Good night,” by a caprice of our language, did
sound like it.
“Good evening’s ‘How d’ ye do?’—‘How are ye?’ Good night’s ‘Be off, and
be blowed to you,’” observed an interpreter with a positive mind; and
another, whose intelligence was not so clear, but whose perceptions had
seized the point, exclaimed: “I never says it when I hails a chap; but,
dash my buttons, if I mightn’t ’a done, one day or another! Queer!”
The chairman, warmed by his joke, added, with a sharp wink: “Ay; it
would be queer, if you hailed ‘Good night’ in the middle of the day!”
and this among a company soaked in ripe ale, could not fail to run the
electric circle, and persuaded several to change their positions; in
the rumble of which, Evan’s reply, if he had made any, was lost. Few,
however, were there who could think of him, and ponder on that glimpse
of fun, at the same time; and he would have been passed over, had not
the chairman said: “Take a seat, sir; make yourself comfortable.”
“Before I have that pleasure,” replied Evan, “I—”
“I see where ’tis,” burst out the old boy who had previously
superinduced a diversion: “he’s going to ax if he can’t have a bed!”
A roar of laughter, and “Don’t you remember this day last year?”
followed the cunning guess. For awhile explication was impossible; and
Evan coloured, and smiled, and waited for them.
“I was going to ask—”
“Said so!” shouted the old boy, gleefully.
“—one of the gentlemen who has engaged a bed-room to do me the extreme
favour to step aside with me, and allow me a moment’s speech with him.”
Long faces were drawn, and odd stares were directed toward him, in
reply.
“I see where ’tis”; the old boy thumped his knee. “Ain’t it now? Speak
up, sir! There’s a lady in the case?”
“I may tell you thus much,” answered Evan, “that it is an unfortunate
young woman, very ill, who needs rest and quiet.”
“Didn’t I say so?” shouted the old boy.
But this time, though his jolly red jowl turned all round to demand a
confirmation, it was not generally considered that he had divined so
correctly. Between a lady and an unfortunate young woman, there seemed
to be a strong distinction, in the minds of the company.
The chairman was the most affected by the communication. His bushy
eyebrows frowned at Evan, and he began tugging at the brass buttons of
his coat, like one preparing to arm for a conflict.
“Speak out, sir, if you please,” he said. “Above board—no asides—no
taking advantages. You want me to give up my bed-room for the use of
your young woman, sir?”
Evan replied quietly: “She is a stranger to me; and if you could see
her, sir, and know her situation, I think she would move your pity.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir—I don’t doubt it,” returned the chairman. “They
all move our pity. That’s how they get over us. She has diddled you,
and she would diddle me, and diddle us all—diddle the devil, I dare
say, when her time comes. I don’t doubt it, sir.”
To confront a vehement old gentleman, sitting as president in an
assembly of satellites, requires command of countenance, and Evan was
not browbeaten: he held him, and the whole room, from where he stood,
under a serene and serious eye, for his feelings were too deeply
stirred on behalf of the girl to let him think of himself. That
question of hers, “What are you going to do with me?” implying such
helplessness and trust, was still sharp on his nerves.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I humbly beg your pardon for disturbing you as I
do.”
But with a sudden idea that a general address on behalf of a particular
demand must necessarily fail, he let his eyes rest on one there, whose
face was neither stupid nor repellent, and who, though he did not look
up, had an attentive, thoughtful cast about the mouth.
“May I entreat a word apart with you, sir?”
Evan was not mistaken in the index he had perused. The gentleman seemed
to feel that he was selected from the company, and slightly raising his
head, carelessly replied: “My bed is entirely at your disposal,”
resuming his contemplative pose.
On the point of thanking him, Evan advanced a step, when up started the
irascible chairman.
“I don’t permit it! I won’t allow it!” And before Evan could ask his
reasons, he had rung the bell, muttering: “They follow us to our inns,
now, the baggages! They must harry us at our inns! We can’t have peace
and quiet at our inns!—”
In a state of combustion, he cried out to the waiter:
“Here, Mark, this gentleman has brought in a dirty wench: pack her up
to my bed-room, and lock her in lock her in, and bring down the key.”
Agreeably deceived in the old gentleman’s intentions, Evan could not
refrain from joining the murmured hilarity created by the conclusion of
his order. The latter glared at him, and added: “Now, sir, you’ve done
your worst. Sit down, and be merry.”
Replying that he had a friend outside, and would not fail to accept the
invitation, Evan retired. He was met by the hostess with the
reproachful declaration on her lips, that she was a widow woman, wise
in appearances, and that he had brought into her house that night work
she did not expect, or bargain for. Rather (since I must speak truth of
my gentleman) to silence her on the subject, and save his ears, than to
propitiate her favour towards the girl, Evan drew out his
constitutionally lean purse, and dropped it in her hand, praying her to
put every expense incurred to his charge. She exclaimed:
“If Dr. Pillie has his full sleep this night, I shall be astonished”;
and Evan hastily led Jack into the passage to impart to him, that the
extent of his resources was reduced to the smallest of sums in
shillings.
“I can beat my friend at that reckoning,” said Mr. Raikes; and they
entered the room.
Eyes were on him. This had ever the effect of causing him to swell to
monstrous proportions in the histrionic line. Asking the waiter
carelessly for some light supper dish, he suggested the various French,
with “not that?” and the affable naming of another. “Nor that? Dear me,
we shall have to sup on chops, I believe!”
Evan saw the chairman scrutinizing Raikes, much as he himself might
have done, and he said: “Bread and cheese for me.”
Raikes exclaimed: “Really? Well, my lord, you lead, and your taste is
mine!”
A second waiter scudded past, and stopped before the chairman to say:
“If you please, sir, the gentlemen upstairs send their compliments, and
will be happy to accept.”
“Ha!” was the answer. “Thought better of it, have they! Lay for three
more, then. Five more, I guess.” He glanced at the pair of intruders.
Among a portion of the guests there had been a return to common talk,
and one had observed that he could not get that “Good Evening,” and
“Good Night,” out of his head which had caused a friend to explain the
meaning of these terms of salutation to him: while another, of a
philosophic turn, pursued the theme: “You see, when we meets, we makes
a night of it. So, when we parts, it’s Good Night—natural! ain’t it?” A
proposition assented to, and considerably dilated on; but whether he
was laughing at that, or what had aroused the fit, the chairman did not
say.
Gentle chuckles had succeeded his laughter by the time the bread and
cheese appeared.
In the rear of the provision came three young gentlemen, of whom the
foremost lumped in, singing to one behind him, “And you shall have
little Rosey!”
They were clad in cricketing costume, and exhibited the health and
manners of youthful Englishmen of station. Frolicsome young bulls
bursting on an assemblage of sheep, they might be compared to. The
chairman welcomed them a trifle snubbingly. The colour mounted to the
cheeks of Mr. Raikes as he made incision in the cheese, under their
eyes, knitting his brows fearfully, as if at hard work.
The chairman entreated Evan to desist from the cheese; and, pulling out
his watch, thundered: “Time!”
The company generally jumped on their legs; and, in the midst of a hum
of talk and laughter, he informed Evan and Jack, that he invited them
cordially to a supper up-stairs, and would be pleased if they would
partake of it, and in a great rage if they would not.
Raikes was for condescending to accept.
Evan sprang up and cried: “Gladly, sir,” and gladly would he have cast
his cockney schoolmate to the winds, in the presence of these young
cricketers; for he had a prognostication.
The door was open, and the company of jolly yeomen, tradesmen, farmers,
and the like, had become intent on observing all the ceremonies of
precedence: not one would broaden his back on the other; and there was
bowing, and scraping, and grimacing, till Farmer Broadmead was hailed
aloud, and the old boy stepped forth, and was summarily pushed through:
the chairman calling from the rear, “Hulloa! no names to-night!” to
which was answered lustily: “All right, Mr. Tom!” and the speaker was
reproved with, “There you go! at it again!” and out and up they
hustled.
The chairman said quietly to Evan, as they were ascending the stairs:
“We don’t have names to-night; may as well drop titles.” Which
presented no peculiar meaning to Evan’s mind, and he smiled the usual
smile.
To Raikes, at the door of the supper-room, the chairman repeated the
same; and with extreme affability and alacrity of abnegation, the other
rejoined, “Oh, certainly!”
No wonder that he rubbed his hands with more delight than aristocrats
and people with gentlemanly connections are in the habit of betraying
at the prospect of refection, for the release from bread and cheese was
rendered overpoweringly glorious, in his eyes, by the bountiful
contrast exhibited on the board before him.