THE BRECON COACH
THE Green Dragon stood in High Street within sound of the Cathedral
bells, and was the point of migration to the worldly part of the
county, just as the Cathedral was the point of migration to the
spiritual. The Hereford and Brecon coach started from its door, and
one morning, a few days after the ball, a little crowd had collected
as usual to see it off. It was nine o'clock, and the day had not sent
out what little heat it possessed; the ostlers were shivering as they
stood at the horses' heads, and the guard blew on his fingers whenever
he had the courage to take them from his pockets. The coachman, great
man, had not as yet left the landlord's room, in which he was spending
his last minutes before starting, talking to the landlady by the fire,
and occasionally casting an eye through the glass door which opened
upon the main entrance where the passengers were assembling.
"Guard, guard," cried an old lady, standing near a page who led a
Blenheim spaniel, "will you kindly look among the boxes and see
whether a small dog's water-tin is there? It is marked 'Fido,' and has
'Miss Crouch, Belle Vue Villas, Laurel Grove, Gloucester,' printed
upon the bottom."
"It's all right, 'm," replied the guard immovably, "I saw to it
myself." The luggage had been put upon the coach a couple of hours
earlier before the horses were harnessed, and he and the ostlers
exchanged winks.
The page-boy sidled up to his mistress. "I've got it 'ere, mum--under
my arm, mum," he said, holding out the article.
The passengers smiled with meaning, and Isoline Ridgeway, who was
among them, giggled audibly.
"If your memory for the mail-bags is not better than your memory for
the luggage," remarked Fido's owner, "there are many who will have to
wait for their letters, my man."
The passengers smiled again, but this time not at the old lady.
Miss Ridgeway the elder had left the comfort of her snug Georgian
house at this unusually early hour to see her niece off by the Brecon
coach, which was to put her down at the toll-gate lately demolished by
Rebecca, near the foot of Crishowell Lane, at which place her uncle
was to meet her.
Isoline wore a fur-trimmed pelisse, and her head was enveloped in a
thick veil, which her aunt had insisted upon her wearing, both as a
protection against the east wind and any undesirable notice which her
face might attract. The two ladies stood in the shelter of the Green
Dragon doorway while the coachman, who had torn himself from the fire,
was gathering up the reins, and the passengers were taking their
seats. Miss Crouch, with Fido on her lap, was installed inside, and
the guard was holding the steps for Isoline to mount, when Harry
Fenton came rushing up wrapped in a long travelling-coat.
"Just in time!" he called out to the guard; "my luggage is on, I
hope?"
He turned to Isoline's aunt, hat in hand.
"As I am going down to Waterchurch to-day," he said, "I hope you will
allow me to look after Miss Ridgeway's comfort and be of any use I can
to her on the way."
"Thank you, Mr. Fenton," she replied, "I am pleased to think my niece
has the escort of some gentleman whom I know. It will relieve my mind
greatly."
Isoline said nothing, but she smiled brilliantly behind her veil; then
kissing her aunt, she got into her place, followed by Harry; the
coachman raised his chin at the ostlers, who whipped the rugs from the
horses, and they were off.
Is there anything in this steam-driven world, except perhaps trotting
to covert on a fresh February morning, which gives a more expectant
fillip to the spirits and a finer sense of exhilaration than starting
on a journey behind four good horses? The height at which one sits,
the rush of the air on one's face, the ring of the sixteen hoofs in
front, the rocking-horse canter of the off-leader ere he makes up his
lordly mind to put his heart into the job and settle to a steady trot,
the purr of the wheels on the road, the smell of the moist country as
the houses are left behind, and the brisk pace now that the first
half-mile has been done and the team is working well together--surely
the man whose blood does not rise at all these, must have the heart of
a mollusc and the imagination of a barn-door fowl.
Harry had travelled so often behind the blue roan and three bays that
he knew their paces, history, and temper nearly as well as the man who
drove them, and for some time his interest in them was so great as to
make him almost unconscious of Isoline's presence. As they bowled
along she sighed softly, drawing up her rug round her. If it had not
been for the society in which she found herself, she would willingly
have changed places with Miss Crouch inside. The country conveyed
nothing to her eye; it was cold, Harry's want of appreciation was
anything but flattering--and she was accustomed to think a good deal
about what was flattering and what was not; it was rather a favourite
word of hers. She had never looked at the horses, because it had not
occurred to her to do so; in her mind they were merely four animals
whose efforts were necessary to the coach's progress. How could one
wonder at her want of interest in ideas and things of which she had no
knowledge? To her town-bred soul, outdoor life was a dull panorama
seen at intervals through a plate-glass window. Nevertheless, had it
been otherwise, she would not have changed her point of view much,
being one of those women whose spirits rise at no exercise, whose
blood is stirred by no encounter; you might have run the Derby under
her nose without taking her mind from her next neighbour's bonnet.
Presently Harry looked round and saw her arranging the rug that had
fallen again.
"I beg your pardon," he cried, "what an oaf you must think me, Miss
Ridgeway! I promised to take care of you, and I don't even see that
you are comfortable."
"It does not matter at all," she said pleasantly, but with a little
shudder in case he should take her words too literally.
"But you are cold, I am sure you are," exclaimed he, beginning to pull
off his heavy coat. "You must have this, it will go right over your
dress--cloak--I don't know what it is called."
"No, no," she protested. "Please, pray, Mr. Fenton, do not be so
absurd. Look, I am all right. The rug only slipped off my knees."
He tucked it elaborately round her and sat down, resolving to devote
himself to her and to nothing else; and, as it was with a view to this
purpose that he had timed his journey home, no doubt he was right.
"Where do you expect to meet Mr. Lewis?" he inquired. "I suppose at
Llangarth?"
"I am to leave the coach at some toll-gate, I do not quite know where,
but the guard understands, I believe, and my uncle will be there. I
think it is only just being put up, for the Rebecca-ites destroyed
it."
"I have some reason to know that place," observed Harry, with a sigh;
"I would give a thousand pounds--if I had it--to catch the man who was
at the bottom of that night's work. I tried hard, but I failed."
"How interesting; do tell me all about it," said she. "You were there
with the military, were you not?"
"The yeomanry, yes. But we did little good."
"Were you in your regimentals? How I should like to have been there to
see the yeomanry!"
"You would not have liked to see poor Vaughan, the toll-man, killed,
though he was a fine sight standing up against the rioters."
"But why did he come out if there were so many against him? Surely he
would not have been killed if he had stayed inside until help came?"
"He was responsible for the gate," said Harry.
"And he would have been blamed, I suppose," said Isoline. "How
unjust!"
"No, he wouldn't have been blamed," said Fenton. He was too young to
reflect that people might belong to the same nation and yet speak
different languages.
"Poor old man, how very sad," said the girl. "Which of those dreadful
rioters killed him?"
"A man called Walters--Rhys Walters--a very large farmer."
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Isoline; "then will he be hanged?"
"He will have to stand his trial for manslaughter--that is, when they
catch him, if they ever do, for he is a wonderful fellow. I thought at
one time I might have taken him myself, but he slipped through my
fingers, I can't imagine how to this day."
"And were you near when he killed the toll-keeper?"
"I was, but I did not actually see it done. One of our men and two
constables swore at the inquest that they saw Walter's arm fly up and
the man go down. It was so dark and everything was so mixed up that
one could hardly tell what was happening, but an inn-keeper named
Evans was close by, and he saw the blow struck. He was one of the men
caught, and he confessed everything."
She was really interested, and was listening with her lips parted.
"When I saw Walters making off I followed hard. I made up my mind I
would get hold of him if I could, but he was on a good mare, and he
took me over the worst places he could find; I very nearly came to
grief among the boulders at a brook, the light was bad and they were
so slippery, but I got through somehow, and I heard him in Crishowell
Lane not far ahead. When he got to the top of it, he made for the
Black Mountain as hard as he could, and I kept within sound of his
hoofs till we were about a quarter of a mile from his own farm; then I
heard him pull up into a walk. When I rode up I saw that the horse was
riderless, so I suppose he must have slipped off somewhere along the
foot of the mountain and left me to follow it. That was the second
time he had made a fool of me."
"Did you know him before?"
"I met him not far from that very place, as I was coming down to
Waterchurch from London the day after Christmas. I rode from Hereford
on, and lost my way in the fog by the mountain. He was groping about
too, and he pretended to go out of his road to show me mine--devil
that he is--but I know why he did it now."
"Why?"
"He rode with me so as to talk about the riot, for every one knew that
there would be one; so he put me on the wrong scent; he seemed to have
some secret information about it, and it tallied with other rumours we
had heard, so the police and the yeomanry were kept night after night
at the gate by the river at Llangarth. If it had not been for a boy
who saw the rioters making for the toll by Crishowell Lane, and who
ran all the way to the town with the information, they would have got
off scot-free. What would I not give to catch that man!"
"I am afraid you are very vindictive, Mr. Fenton."
"They are scouring the country steadily," continued he, unheeding,
"but they can find no trace of him. It is extraordinary."
But Isoline had grown tired of the subject now that the sensational
part of it was over, and she directed her companion's attention to
some passing object.
The sun had come out, and she was beginning to enjoy herself; it was
pleasant to be seen abroad too with such a smart-looking young fellow
in attendance.
They chatted and laughed as the hedges flew by, and when the first
stage was done and they pulled up before the creaking signboard of a
village inn to change horses, both regretted that a part of their
journey was over. Harry was too much engrossed to get down and watch
the new team being put in--a matter which the coachman, who knew him
well, did not fail to notice, and he and the guard exchanged comments.
"Hi, there!" cried a voice from the road, "have you got a place left
for one?" A sturdy young man in leather leggings was coming round a
corner, waving his stick.
Harry started up.
"Gad, Llewellyn, is that you?" he cried, looking down on the crown of
his brother's head.
"It is," replied Llewellyn, putting his foot on the axle and swinging
himself up. "Is there a vacant place anywhere, Harry?"
"Yes, a man has just left the one behind me. Miss Ridgeway, this is my
brother, Mr. Llewellyn Fenton. Miss Ridgeway is travelling to
Crishowell, and I am--I mean, I have--I was asked by her aunt to look
after her."
"Mornin', sir," said the guard, coming out of the inn and touching his
hat. "Any luggage? Two vacant places, sir."
"No, nothing; only myself."
"I didn't expect to see you, Loo. What have you been doing here?"
asked Harry.
"Looking after pigs," said Llewellyn, as he sat down.
Isoline opened her eyes; she thought that only people who wheeled
barrows with pitchforks stuck in them did that.
"He is my father's agent," explained Harry.
Llewellyn was rather amused. Harry had not told him that he was going
down to Waterchurch that day, so the meeting of the brothers was
purely accidental. It did not escape him that two was company and
three was none, for he marked Isoline's little air of complacency at
her entire absorption of her cavalier, and his having broken in upon
her raised a faint but pleasant malice in him. It could not exactly be
said that he disliked her, for he did not know her in the least,
though he had observed her a good deal at the ball, and, considering
that he had seen very little of the world, he was a youth wonderfully
free from prejudice. But, had he put his feelings into thoughts, he
would have known that he was irritated. Isoline glanced at him once or
twice, and made up her mind that she hated him.
"Were you buying pigs then?" asked Harry, as they were trotting along
the high-road again.
"Father wants a few young Berkshires, and I came to see some belonging
to a man out here. It sounds low, does it not, Miss Ridgeway?" said
his brother, looking at Isoline, and knowing by instinct that the
subject was uncongenial.
"Oh, no, not at all, I assure you," replied she, quite uncertain how
she ought to take his remark. That pigs were vulgar was well known,
nevertheless she could not help a vague suspicion that she was being
laughed at. But Llewellyn's face was inscrutable, and she could only
move uneasily on her seat and wish him miles away.
For the rest of the journey the two young men looked after her
carefully, Llewellyn vying with his brother in his attention to her
every wish; but a snake had entered into her Eden, a snake who was so
simple that she could not understand him, but who was apparently not
simple enough to misunderstand her.
Sometime later they clattered through Llangarth, stopping at the Bull
Inn, where Harry had been kept for so many hours on the night of the
riot, and went along the Brecon road parallel with the river. The
toll-gate by Crishowell had not yet been re-erected, and the bare
posts stuck dismally up at the wayside by the little slate-roofed
house. As it came in sight they observed a vehicle drawn up beside the
hedge, and evidently awaiting the advent of the coach.
"That must be my uncle's carriage," said Isoline, beginning to collect
her wraps.
They stopped at the toll, and the guard prepared to disentangle Miss
Ridgeway's possessions from the other luggage. Harry and Llewellyn
jumped down, and the former went towards the strange-looking
conveyance which was moored up under the lee of the hedge. He peered
into the weather-beaten hood which crowned it, expecting to find the
Vicar of Crishowell inside, but its only occupant was a huddled-up
figure fast asleep. He shook it smartly.
Howlie Seaborne opened his eyes without changing his position.
"Wake up, boy!" cried Fenton, leaning over the wheel and plastering
himself with a layer of mud by the act; "do you belong to Mr. Lewis?"
"Naw," said Howlie.
"Then has no one come to meet Miss Ridgeway?"
"Here oi be, but oi belong to moiself an' to no one else. Be her
come?"
"Your uncle is not here, but he has sent for you," said Harry, going
up to the coach from which Llewellyn was helping Isoline to descend.
Howlie gave the old white mare in front of him a slap with the whip,
and arrived in the middle of the road with a great creaking and
swaying.
"Oi can't take them boxes along," he remarked, pointing to Miss
Ridgeway's luggage which stood in the road.
"Never mind, you can send for them after," said Harry. "Guard, put
them in the toll-house if any one is there."
While this was being done, Isoline climbed up beside Howlie, and the
young men wished her good-bye.
"You will ask your uncle?" said Harry, looking earnestly into the
hood.
"Yes, yes," she said, waving her hand. "Good-bye, good-bye, Mr.
Fenton, and thank you for taking such care of me!"
Then the vehicle lumbered into Crishowell Lane with one wheel almost
up on the bank.
"Can you drive, boy?" she asked nervously.
"Yaas," replied Howlie; "can you?"