Few indeed are the adventures now to be met with in travelling by a
stage coach, and few also, comparatively speaking, the accidents. But
our travellers were destined to meet both with accident and adventure.
The coach, as our observant readers have noticed, must necessarily have
travelled all night. The nights in December are long and dark; and
not unfrequently, during the long cold silence of a December night,
there gently falls upon the dank surface of the earth a protecting
and embellishing fleece of flaky snow. And the morning snow as yet
untrodden has a brilliant and even cheerful look beneath a blue and
brightly frosty sky; and when a wide expanse of country variegated with
venerably-aged trees, and new enclosures and old open meadow lands, and
adorned with here and there a mansion surrounded with its appurtenances
of larch, pine, and poplar, and divided into unequal but gracefully
undulating sections by means of a quiet stream--when a scene like this
bursts upon the morning eye of a winter traveller, and shows itself
set off and adorned with a mantle of virgin snow, it is indeed a sight
well worth looking at. Mr Primrose had not seen snow for sixteen years,
and the very sight of it warmed his heart; for it was so much like
home. It was one of those natural peculiarities which distinguished
the land of his birth from the land of his exile. He expressed to his
fellow traveller the delight which he felt at the sight. Mr Kipperson
coincided with him that the view was fine, and proposed that, as they
were both well clad, and as the scenery was very magnificent, they
should by way of a little variety seat themselves on the outside of
the coach. The proposal was readily embraced, and they mounted the roof.
The carriage was proceeding at a tolerably rapid pace on high but level
ground; and the travellers enjoyed the brightness of the morning, and
the beauty of the valley which lay on their left hand. Shortly they
arrived at a steep descent which led into the valley beneath, and
there was no slacking of pace or locking of wheels, which had been
customary in going down hill when Mr Primrose was last in England. He
expressed, therefore, his surprise at the boldness or carelessness of
the coachman, and hinted that he was fearful lest some accident might
happen. But Mr Kipperson immediately dissipated his fears, by telling
him that this was the usual practice now, and that the construction of
stage-coaches, and the art of driving, were so much improved, that it
was now considered a far safer and better plan to proceed in the usual
pace down hill as well as upon level ground. Mr Kipperson, in short,
had just proved to a demonstration that it was impossible that any
accident could happen, when down fell one of the horses, and presently
after down fell coach and all its company together.
Happily no lives were lost by the accident. But if Mr Kipperson’s neck
was not broken by the fall, his heart was almost broken by the flat
contradiction which the prostrate carriage gave to his theory, and he
lay as one bereft of life. Equally still and silent lay Mr Primrose;
for he was under the awkward difficulty of either denying his fellow
traveller’s correctness or doubting the testimony of his own senses.
The catastrophe took place near to a turnpike house; so that those of
the passengers, who had experienced any injury from the overturning of
the coach, could be speedily accommodated with all needful assistance.
All the passengers, however, except Mr Primrose, were perfectly able,
when the coach was put to rights again, to resume their journey. Mr
Primrose, as soon as he recovered from the first shock of his fall,
was very glad to take refuge in the turnpike house, and he soon became
sensible that it would not be prudent for him then to pursue his
journey. He had indeed received a severe shock from the accident, and
though he had no bones broken he had suffered a violent concussion
which might be doctored into an illness.
As soon as possible medical assistance was procured. The surgeon
examined and interrogated the overturned gentleman with great diligence
and sagacity. From the examination, it appeared not unlikely that the
patient might promise himself the pleasure of a speedy removal. The
truth of the matter was, that the poor gentleman was more frightened
than hurt. Some cases there are, and this was one of them, in which
no time should be lost in sending for the doctor, seeing that, if
the doctor be not sent for immediately, he may not be wanted at all.
This is one of the reasons why physicians keep carriages, and have
their horses always in readiness; for by using great expedition they
frequently manage to arrive before the patient recovers.
The surgeon who attended Mr Primrose thought proper to take some blood
from his patient, and to supply the place of the same by as many
draughts as could be conveniently taken, or be reasonably given in the
time. It was also recommended that the gentleman should be put to bed.
The dwellings attached to turnpike gates are seldom so roomy and so
abundantly provided with accommodation as to admit of an accidental
visitor: but in the present case it so happened that there was an
apartment unoccupied and not unfurnished. The gatekeeper’s wife, who
was a notable and motherly kind of woman, said, that if the gentleman
could put up with a very small apartment, and a coarse but clean bed,
he might be accommodated, and he need not fear that the bed was damp,
for it had been occupied for the last month, and had only been vacated
the day before. Mr Primrose readily accepted the offer, not being very
particular as to appearance.
“I suppose,” said he, “you keep a spare bed for the accommodation of
those who may be overturned in coming down this hill? Your surgeon, I
find, does not live far off. That is a good contrivance. Pray can you
tell me, within a dozen or two, how many broken bones the stage coach
supplies him with in the course of the year?”
At this speech the good woman laughed, for it was uttered in such a
tone as intimated that the gentleman wished it to be laughed at; and as
he was a respectable looking man, and carried in his aspect a promise
to pay, the worthy wife of the gate-keeper laughed with right good will.
“Oh dear no, sir,” said she, “there is not an accident happens here
hardly ever. The coachman what overturned you this morning, is one
of the most carefullest men in the world, only he had a new horse as
didn’t know the road.”
“A very great comfort is that,” said Mr Primrose, and he smiled, and
the gate-keeper’s wife smiled, and she thought Mr Primrose a very
funny man, that he should be able to joke when under the doctor’s
hands. There are some people who are very facetious when they are sick,
provided the sickness be not very acute; for it looks like heroism to
laugh amidst pain and trouble.
Mr Primrose then proceeded; “So you will assure me that the person who
occupied your spare bed last, was not an overturned coach passenger?”
The poor woman did not smile at this observation, but on the contrary
looked very grave, and her eyes seemed to be filling with tears, when
she compressed her lips and shook her head mournfully. With some
effort, after a momentary silence, she said:
“No, sir, it was not any one that was overturned; but it was a coach
passenger. It was a young lady, poor dear soul! that seemed almost
dying of a broken heart. But had not you better go to bed, sir? The
doctor said you wanted rest.”
Mr Primrose was a nervous man, and tales of sorrow inartificially
told frequently depressed him, and excited his sympathy with greater
force than was consistent with poetical enjoyment. He therefore took
the considerate advice which the good woman gave him, and retired
to rest. To a person of such temperament as Mr Primrose, the very
mention of a young lady almost dying of a broken heart was quite
sufficient to set his imagination most painfully at work. Rapidly did
his thoughts run over the various causes of broken hearts. Very angry
did he become with those hardened ones, by whose follies and vices so
many of the gentler sex suffer the acutest pangs of the spirit. He
thought of his own dear and only child, and he almost wrought himself
up to a fever by the imagination that some villanous coxcomb might
have trifled with her affections, and have left her to the mockery
of the world. He then thought of the mother of his Penelope, and
that she had died of a broken heart, and that his follies had brought
her to an untimely grave. Then came there into his mind thoughts of
retributive justice, and there was an indescribable apprehension in
his soul that the sorrows which he had occasioned to another might
fall also to his own lot. He wondered that there should be in the
world so much cruelty, and such a wanton sporting with each others’
sufferings. The powerful emotions which had been raised in his mind
from the first hour that he embarked for England, were of a nature so
mingled, and in their movements so rapid, that he hardly knew whether
they were pleasurable or painful. There was so much pleasure in the
pain, and so much pain in the pleasure, that his mind was rendered
quite unsteady by a constant whirl and vortex of emotions. He felt a
kind of childish vivacity and womanly sensibility. His tears and his
smiles were equally involuntary; he had no power over them, and he had
scarcely notice of their approach. Something of this was natural to
him; but present circumstances more strongly and powerfully developed
this characteristic. The accident, from which he had received so sudden
a shock, tended still farther to increase the excitability of his mind.
When therefore he retired for the purpose of gaining a little rest,
his solitude opened a wider door to imagination and recollection; and
thereupon a confused multitude of images of the past, and of fancies
for the future, came rushing in upon him, and his mind was like a
feather in a storm.
The surgeon was very attentive to his patient, for he made a second
visit not above four hours after the first. The people at the
turnpike-house told him that the gentleman had, in pursuance of the
advice given him, retired to take a little rest. The medical man
commended that movement; but being desirous to see how his patient
rested, he opened the door of the apartment very gently, and Mr
Primrose, who was wide awake, and happy to see any one to whom he
could talk, called aloud to the surgeon to walk in.
“I am not asleep, sir; you may come in; I am very glad to see you; I
have felt very much relieved by the bleeding. I think I shall be quite
well enough to proceed to-morrow. Pray, sir, can you inform me how far
it is to Smatterton from this place?”
“About sixty miles,” replied the surgeon.
“Sixty miles!” echoed Mr Primrose; “at what a prodigious rate then we
must have travelled.” Thereupon the patient raised himself up in the
bed, and began, or attempted to begin, a long conversation with his
doctor. “Why, sir, when I was in England last, the coach used to be
nearly twice as long on the road. Is this the usual rate of travelling?”
The medical man smiled, and said, “The coach by which you travelled, is
by no means a quick one, some coaches on this road travel much faster.”
“And pray, sir, do these coaches ever arrive safely at their journey’s
end?”
The surgeon smiled again and said, “Oh yes, sir, accidents are very
rare.”
“Then I wish,” replied Mr Primrose; “that they had not indulged me with
so great a rarity just on my arrival in England. I have been in the
East Indies for the last sixteen or seventeen years, and during that
time--”
Few medical men whose business is worth following, have time to listen
to the history of a man’s life and adventures for sixteen or seventeen
years. Hindoostan is certainly a very interesting country, but there
is no country on the face of the earth so interesting as a man’s own
cupboard. The doctor therefore cut off his patient’s speech, not in the
midst, but at the very beginning; saying unto him, with a smile, for
there is much meaning in a smile; “Yes sir, certainly sir, there is no
doubt of it--very true; but, sir, I think it will be better for you at
present to be kept quiet; and if you can get a little sleep it will
be better for you. I think, sir, to-morrow, or the next day, you may
venture to proceed on your journey. I will send you a composing draught
as soon as I return home, and will see you again to-morrow, early in
the morning. But I would not recommend you to travel by the stage
coach.”
“Ay, ay, thank you for that recommendation, and you may take my word I
will follow it.”
The doctor very quickly took his leave, and Mr Primrose thought him a
very unmannerly cub, because he would not stop to talk. “A composing
draught!” thus soliloquized the patient; “a composing draught! a
composing fiddlestick! What does the fellow mean by keeping me thus in
bed and sending me in his villanous compounds. Why, I think I am almost
able to walk to Smatterton. I won’t take his composing draught; I’ll
leave it here for the next coach passenger that may be overturned at
the foot of this hill. I dare to say it will not spoil with keeping.”
The word “coach-passenger” brought to Mr Primrose’s recollection the
melancholy look and sorrowful tone of the poor woman who mentioned the
young lady who seemed almost dying of a broken heart. His curiosity
was roused, his nerves were agitated. He kept thinking of his poor
Penelope. He recollected with an almost painful vividness the features
and voice of the pretty little innocent he had left behind him when
he quitted England. He recollected and painted with imagination’s
strongest lines and most glowing colours that distracting and
heart-rending scene, when after listening with tearful silence to the
kind admonitions of his brother-in-law, he snatched up in his arms his
dear little laughing Penelope, and he saw again as pungently as in
reality, the little arms that clasped him with an eagerness of joy,
and he recollected how his poor dear child in the simplicity of her
heart mistook the agitations and tremblings of grief for the frolicsome
wantonness of joy, and he saw again that indescribably exquisite
expression with which she first caught sight of his tears; and then
there came over his mind the impression produced by the artless manner
in which the poor thing said, “Good night, papa, perhaps you won’t cry
to-morrow.”
Now he thought of that Penelope as grown up to woman’s estate, and he
felt that he should be proud of his daughter: but oh what fears and
misgivings came upon him, and he kept muttering to himself the words
of the woman who had talked of the young lady almost dying of a broken
heart. It was well for the patient that the doctor soon fulfilled
his word and sent a composing draught. But the very moment that his
attentive nurse gently tapped at the door of his room, he called out:
“Come in, come in, I am not asleep. Oh, what you have brought me
a composing draught! Nonsense, nonsense, keep it for the next
coach-passenger that is overturned, and give it to him with my
compliments. Well, but I say, good woman, you were telling me something
about a poor young lady who was almost dying with a broken heart. Who
is she? Where is she? What is her name? Where is she gone to? Where did
she come from? Who broke her heart? Was she married, or was she single?
Now tell me all about her.”
“Oh dear, sir, I am sure you had better take this physic what the
doctor has sent you, that will do you more good than a mallancolly
story. Indeed you’d better, sir; shall I pour it out into a cup?”
“Ay, ay, pour it out. But I say, good woman, tell me where did this
poor young lady come from?”
“Lord, sir, I never saw such a curious gentleman in my life. Why, then
if you must know, she came from a long way off, from a village of the
name of Smatterton, a little village where my Lord Smatterton has a
fine castle.”
While the good woman was speaking she kept her eyes fixed upon the cup
into which she was slowly pouring the medicine, and therefore she did
not perceive the effect produced upon the patient by the mention of
Smatterton; for, as soon as he heard the name he started, turned pale,
and was breathless and speechless for a moment; and then recovering the
use of his speech, he exclaimed, “Smatterton! Smatterton! Good woman,
are you in your senses? What do you mean?”
Now it was very well for Mr Primrose and his composing draught that
the wife of the gate-keeper was not nervous; for had she been nervous,
that sudden and almost ridiculous exclamation, uttered as it was, in a
very high key, and with a very loud voice, would certainly have upset
the cup together with its contents. If ever a composing draught was
necessary, it clearly was so on this occasion. The good woman however
did not let the cup fall, but with the utmost composure looked at the
patient and said:
“Lawk-a-mercy, sir, don’t be in such a taking. I durst to say the poor
cretter wasn’t nobody as you know. She was a kind of a poor young lady
like. There now, sir, pray do take your physic, ’cause you’ll never get
well if you don’t.”
Mr Primrose was still in great agitation, and that more from
imagination than apprehension. His nervous sensibility had been
excited, and everything that at all touched his feelings did most
deeply move him. He therefore answered the poor woman in a hurried
manner:
“Come, come, good woman, I will swallow the medicine, if you will have
the goodness to tell me all you know about this poor young lady.”
Now, as it was very little that the good woman did know, she thought
it might be for the patient’s advantage if he would take the medicine
even upon those terms. For she had so much respect for the skill of
the doctor, that it was her firm opinion that the draught would have
more power in composing, than her slender narrative in disturbing, the
gentleman’s mind. She very calmly then handed the cup and said: “Well,
sir, then if you will but take the physic, I will tell you all I know
about the matter.”
Mr Primrose complied with the condition, and took the medicine with so
much eagerness, that he seemed as if he were about to swallow cup and
all.
“There, sir,” said the good woman, mightily pleased at her own
management; “now I hope you will soon get better.”
“Well, now I have taken my medicine; so tell me all you know about this
young lady.”
“Why, sir, ’tisn’t much as I know: only, about two months ago, that
coach what you came by was going up to town, and it stopped, as it
always does, at our gate, and the coachman says to my husband, says he,
‘Here’s a poor young lady in the coach so ill that she cannot travel
any farther; can you take her in for a day or two?’ And so I went and
handed the poor thing out of the coach, and I put her to bed; and
sure enough, poor thing, she was very ill. Then, sir, I sent for the
doctor; but, dear me, he could do her no good: and so then I used to go
and talk to the poor cretter, and all she would say to me was, ‘Pray,
let me die.’ But in a few days she grew a little better, and began to
talk about continuing her journey, and I found out, sir, that the poor
dear lady was broken-hearted.”
Here the narrator paused. But hitherto no definite information had been
conveyed to Mr Primrose, and he almost repented that he had taken the
trouble to swallow the medicine for such a meagre narrative.
“And is that all you know, good woman? Did not you learn her name?”
“Yes,” replied the informant: “her name was Fitzpatrick: and after she
was gone, I asked the coachman who brought her, and he told me that
that wicked young nobleman, Lord Spoonbill, had taken the poor thing
away from her friends, and had promised to make a fine lady of her,
but afterwards deserted her and sent her about her business. And all
because my lord was mighty sweet upon another young lady what lives at
Smatterton.”
Now came the truth into Mr Primrose’s mind, and he readily knew that
this other young lady was his Penelope. This corroborated the letter
which Mr Darnley had written to him on the decease of Dr Greendale.
Happy was it for the father of Penelope that he had no suspicion of
unworthy intentions towards his daughter on the part of Lord Spoonbill;
and well was it for the traveller that he had swallowed the composing
draught. He received the information with tolerable calmness, and
thanking the poor woman for indulging his curiosity, he very quietly
dismissed her. And as soon as she was gone he muttered to himself:
“My child shall never marry a villain, though he may be a nobleman.”