THE “HAMILTON ARMS”
Like many old country places of the time, Hamilton Hill had a village
belonging to it, which seemed to have nestled itself into the valley
under shelter of the great house, just near enough to reap the benefits
of so august a neighbourhood, but at such a distance as not to infringe
on the sacred precincts of the deer-park, or on the romantic privacy of
the pleasure-grounds.
Where there is a village there will be thirst, and thirst seems to be
an Englishman’s peculiar care and privilege; therefore, instead of
slaking and quenching it at once by the use of water, he cherishes
and keeps it alive, so to speak, with the judicious application of
beer. A public-house is, accordingly, as necessary an adjunct to an
English hamlet as an oven to a cookshop, a copper to a laundry, or a
powder-magazine to a privateer.
The village of Nether-Hamilton possessed, then, one of these
indispensable appendages; but, fortunately for the landlady, its
inhabitants were obliged to ascend a steep hill, for the best part of a
mile, before they could fill their cans with beer;—I say fortunately for
the landlady, because such an exertion entailed an additional draught
of this invigorating beverage to be consumed and paid for on the spot.
The “Hamilton Arms,” for the convenience of posting, stood on the Great
North Road, at least half a league, as the crow flies, from that abrupt
termination of upland, the ridge of which was crowned by the towers and
terraces of Hamilton Hill. Twice a week a heavy lumbering machine, drawn
by six, and in winter, often by eight horses, containing an infinity of
passengers, stopped for a fresh relay at the “Hamilton Arms”; and when
this ponderous vehicle had once been pulled up, it was not to be set
going again without many readjustments, inquiries, oaths, protestations,
and other incentives to delay.
The “Flying-Post Coach,” as it was ambitiously called, did not change
horses in a minute and a half; a bare-armed helper at each animal to pull
the rugs off, almost before the driver had time to exchange glances with
the barmaid, in days of which the speed, esteemed so wondrous then, was
but a snail’s crawl compared with our rate of travelling now. Nothing
of the kind. The “Flying-Post Coach” was reduced to a deliberate walk
long before it came in sight of its haven, where it stopped gradually,
and in a succession of spasmodic jerks, like a musical-box running down.
The coachman descended gravely from his perch, and the passengers,
alighting one and all, roamed about the yard, or hovered round the inn
door, as leisurely as if they had been going to spend the rest of the
afternoon at the “Hamilton Arms,” and scarcely knew how to get rid of
the spare time on their hands. Till numerous questions had been asked
and answered—the weather, the state of the roads, and the last highway
robbery discussed—packets delivered, luggage loaded or taken off, and
refreshments of every kind consumed—there seemed to be no intention of
proceeding with the journey. At length, during a lull in the chatter of
many voices, one lumbering horse after another might be seen wandering
round the gable-end of the building; two or three ostlers, looking and
behaving like savages, fastened the broad buckles and clumsy straps of
harness, in which rope and chain-work did as much duty as leather, and
after another pause of preparation, the passengers were summoned, the
coachman tossed off what he called his “last toothful” of brandy and
ascended solemnly to his place, gathering his reins with extreme caution,
and imparting a scientific flourish to the thong of his heavy whip.
The inexperienced might have now supposed a start would be immediately
effected. Not a bit of it. Out rushed a bare-armed landlady with
streaming cap-ribbons—a rosy chambermaid, all smiles and glances—a
rough-headed potboy, with a dirty apron—half-a-dozen more hangers-on of
both sexes, each carrying something that had been forgotten—more oaths,
more protestations, more discussions, and at least ten more minutes of
the waning day unnecessarily wasted—then the coachman, bending forward,
chirped and shouted—the poor sore-shouldered horses jerked, strained, and
scrambled, plunging one by one at their collars, and leaning in heavily
against the pole—the huge machine creaked, tottered, wavered, and finally
jingled on at a promising pace enough, which, after about twenty yards,
degenerated into the faintest apology for a trot.
But the portly landlady looked after it nevertheless well pleased; for
its freight had carried off a goodly quantity of fermented liquors,
leaving in exchange many welcome pieces of silver and copper to replenish
the insatiable till.
Mrs. Dodge had but lately come to reside at the “Hamilton Arms.”
Originally a plump comely lass, only daughter of a drunken old
blacksmith at Nether-Hamilton, and inheriting what was termed in that
frugal locality “a tidy bit of money,” she was sought in marriage by a
south-country pedlar, who visited her native village in the exercise of
his calling, and whose silver tongue persuaded her to leave kith and kin
and country for his sake. After many ups and downs in life, chiefly the
result of her husband’s rascality, she found herself established in a
southern seaport, at a pot-house called the “Fox and Fiddle,” doing, as
she expressed it, “a pretty business enough,” in the way of crimping for
the merchant service; and here, previous to the death of her husband,
known by his familiars as “Butter-faced Bob,” she made the acquaintance
of Sir George Hamilton, then simple captain of ‘The Bashful Maid,’ little
dreaming she would ever become his tenant so near her old home.
Mrs. Dodge made lamentable outcries for her pedlar when she lost him;
but there can be no question she was much better off after his death. He
was dishonest, irritable, self-indulgent, harsh; and she had probably no
better time of it at the “Fox and Fiddle” than is enjoyed by any other
healthy, easy-tempered woman, whose husband cheats a good deal, drinks
not a little, and is generally dissatisfied with his lot. He left her,
however, a good round sum of money, such as placed her completely beyond
fear of want; and after a decent term of mourning had expired, after she
had received the condolences of her neighbours, besides two offers of
marriage from publicans in adjoining streets, she took her niece home to
live with her, sold off the good-will of the “Fox and Fiddle,” wished her
rejected suitors farewell, and sought the hamlet of her childhood, to sit
down for life, as she said, in the bar of the “Hamilton Arms.” “It would
be lonesome, no doubt,” she sometimes observed, “without Alice; and if
ever Alice took and left her, as leave her she might for a home of her
own any day, being a good girl and a comely, why then;” and here Mrs.
Dodge would simper and look conscious, bristling her fat neck till her
little round chin disappeared in its folds, and inferring thereby that,
in the event of such a contingency, she might be induced to make one
of her customers happy, by consenting to embark on another matrimonial
venture before she had done with the institution for good and all. Nor,
though Mrs. Dodge was fifty years of age, and weighed fifteen stone,
would she have experienced any difficulty in finding a second husband,
save, perhaps, the pleasing embarrassment of selection from the multitude
at her command. And if her aunt could thus have “lovyers,” as she said,
“for the looking at ’em,” it may be supposed that pretty Alice found no
lack of admirers in a house-of-call so well frequented as the “Hamilton
Arms.” Pretty Alice, with her pale brow, her hazel eyes, her sweet smile,
and soft gentle manners, that made sad havoc in the hearts of the young
graziers, cattle-dealers, and other travellers that came under their
comforting influence off the wild inhospitable moor. Even Captain Bold,
the red-nosed “blood,” as such persons were then denominated, whose
calling nobody knew or dared ask him, but who was conspicuous for his
flowing wig, laced coat, and wicked bay mare, would swear, with fearfully
ingenious oaths, that Alice was prettier than any lady in St. James’s;
and if she would but say the word, why burn him, blight him, sink him
into the lowest depths of Hamilton Mere, if _he_, John Bold, wouldn’t
consent to throw up his profession, have his comb cut, and subside at
once into a homely, helpless, henpecked, barndoor fowl.
But Alice would not say the word, neither to Captain Bold nor to any
honester man. She had been true to her sailor-love, through a long weary
time of anxiety, and now she had her reward. Slap-Jack was domiciled
within a mile of her, by one of those unforeseen strokes of fortune which
he called a “circumstance,” and Alice thanked heaven on her knees day and
night for the happiness of her lot.
It may be supposed that her sweetheart spent much of his leisure
at the “Hamilton Arms.” Though he got through half the work of Sir
George’s household, for the foretopman never could bear to be idle, his
occupations did not seem so engrossing as to prevent a daily visit to
Alice. It was on one of these occasions that, gossiping with Mrs. Dodge,
as was his wont, he observed a gold cross heaving on her expansive bosom,
and taxed her with a favoured lover and a speedy union forthwith.
“Go along with you,” wheezed the jolly landlady, in no way offended
by the accusation. “It’s our new lodger as gave me this trinket only
yesterday. Lovyers! say you. ‘Marry!’ as my poor Bob used to say, ‘_his_
head is not made of the wood they cut blocks from;’ an’ let me tell you,
Master Slap-Jack, a man’s never so near akin to a fool as when he’s
a-courting. Put that in your pipe, my lad, and smoke it. Why Alice, my
poppet, how you blush! Well, as I was a sayin’, this is a nice civil
gentleman, and a well spoken. Takes his bottle with his dinner, and,
mind ye, he _will_ have it o’ the best. None of your ranting, random,
come-by-chance roysterers, like Captain Bold, who’ll sing as many songs
and tell as many—well, _lies_ I call ’em, honest gentleman—over a rummer
of punch, as would serve most of my customers two gallons of claret and a
stoup of brandy to finish up with.”
“There’s not much pith in that Captain Bold,” interposed Slap-Jack,
contemptuously. “You put a strain on him, and see if he don’t start
somewhere. Captain, indeed! It’s a queer ship’s company where they made
_him_ skipper, askin’ your pardon, Mrs. Dodge.”
Slap-Jack had on one occasion interrupted the captain in a warmer
declaration to his sweetheart than he quite relished, and hated him
honestly enough in consequence.
“Hoity-toity!” laughed the landlady. “The captain’s nothing to me. I
never could abide your black men; and I don’t know that they’re a bit
better set off by wearing a red nose. The captain’s Alice’s admirer, not
mine; and I think Alice likes him a bit too sometimes, I do!”
This was said, as the French express it, “with intention.” It made Alice
toss her head; but Slap-Jack only winked.
“I know better,” said he. “Alice always _was_ heart-of-oak; as true as
the compass; wasn’t you, my lass? See how she hoists her colours if
you do but hail her. No, no, Aunt Dodge—for aunt you’ll be to me afore
another year is out—it’s your broad bows and buxom figure-head as brings
the customers cruising about this here bar, like flies round a honey-pot.
Come, let’s have the rights now of your gold cross. Is it a keepsake, or
a charm, or a love-token, or what?”
“Love-token!” repeated Mrs. Dodge, in high glee. “What do you know of
love-tokens? Got a wisp of that silly girl’s brown hair, may be, and a
broken sixpence done up in a rag of canvas all stained with sea-water!
Why, when my poor Bob was a-courtin’ _me_, the first keepsake as ever he
gave me was eighteen yards of black satin, all off of the same piece,
and two real silver bodkins for my hair, as thick a’most as that kitchen
poker. Ay, lass! it was something like keeping company in my day to have
a pedlar for a bachelor. Well, well; our poor sailor lad maybe as good as
here and there a one after all. Who knows?”
“Good enough for _me_, aunt,” whispered Alice, looking shyly up at her
lover from the dish she was wiping, ere she put it carefully on the shelf.
Mrs. Dodge laughed again. “There’s as good fish in the sea, Alice, as
ever came out of it; and a maid may take her word back again, ay, at the
church door, if she has a mind. The foreign gentleman in the blue room,
him as gave me this little cross, he says to me only yesterday morning,
‘Madame,’ says he, as polite as you please, ‘no man was ever yet deceived
by a woman if he trusted her entirely. I repose entire confidence in
madame,’ that was _me_, Alice; ‘her face denotes good manners, a good
heart, a good life.’ Perhaps he meant good living; but that’s what he
said. ‘I am going to ask madame to charge herself with an important
trust for me, because I rely securely on her integrity.’ Oh! he spoke
beautiful, I can tell you. ‘In case of my absence,’ says he, ‘from your
respectable apartments, I will confide to you a sealed packet, to be
delivered to a young man who will call for it at a certain hour on a
certain day that I shall indicate before I leave. If the young man does
not appear, I can trust madame to commit this packet to the flames.’ He
was fool enough to add,” simpered Mrs. Dodge, looking a little conscious,
“‘that it was rare to see so much discretion joined to so much beauty,’
or some such gammon; but of course I made no account of that.”
“If he paid out his palaver so handsome,” observed Slap-Jack, “take my
word for it the chap’s a papist.”
But Mrs. Dodge would not hear of such a construction being put on her
lodger’s gallantry.
“Papist!” she repeated angrily; “no more a papist than you are! Why,
I sent him up a slice o’ powdered beef was last Friday, with a bit of
garnishing, parsnips and what not, and he eats it up every scrap, and
asks for another plateful. Papist! says you! and what if he were? I
tell you if he was the Pope o’ Rome, come to live respectable on my
first floor, he’s a sight more to my mind for a lodger than his friend
the captain! Papists, indeed! If I wanted to lay my hand on a papist,
I needn’t to travel far for to seek one. Though, I will say, my lady’s
liker a hangel nor a Frenchwoman, and if all the papists was made up to
her pattern, why for my part, I’d up and cry ‘Bless the Pope!’ with the
rankest on ’em all!”
It was obvious that this northern district took no especial credit to
itself for the bigotry of its Protestantism, and Mrs. Dodge, though a
staunch member enough of the reformed religion, allowed no scruples of
conscience to interfere with the gains of her hostelry, nor perhaps
entertained any less kindly sentiments towards the persecuted members of
the Church of Rome, that they formed some of her best customers, paying
handsomely for the privacy of their apartments, while they ate and drank
of the choicest during their seclusion.
But this unacknowledged partiality was a bone of contention between his
sweetheart’s aunt and Slap-Jack. The latter prided himself especially on
being what he termed True-Blue, holding in great abhorrence everything
connected with Rome, St. Germains, and the Jacobite party. He allowed of
no saints in the calendar except Lady Hamilton, whom he excepted from his
denunciations by some reasoning process of his own which it is needless
to follow out. Nevertheless Alice knew right well that such an argument
as now seemed imminent was the sure forerunner of a storm. “Aunt,” said
she softly, “I’ve looked out all the table linen, and done my washing-up
till supper-time. If you want nothing particular, I’ll run out and get a
breath of fresh air off the moor before it gets dark.”
“And it’s time for me to be off, Aunt Dodge!” exclaimed Slap-Jack, as
Alice knew full well he would. “Bless ye, we shall beat to quarters at
the Hill, now in less than half an hour, and being a warrant-officer, as
you may say, o’ course it’s for me to set a good example to the ship’s
company. Fare ye well, Mrs. Dodge, and give the priest a wide berth, if
he comes alongside, though I’ll never believe as you’ve turned papist,
until I see you barefoot at the church door, in a white sheet with a
candle in your hand!”
With this parting shot, Slap-Jack seized his hat and ran out, leaving
Mrs. Dodge to smile blandly over the fire, fingering her gold cross,
and thinking drowsily, now of her clean sanded floor, now of her bright
dishes and gaudy array of crockery, now of her own comely person and the
agreeable manners of her lodger overhead.
Meanwhile it is scarcely necessary to say, that although Slap-Jack had
expressed such haste to depart, he lingered in the cold wind off the moor
not far from the house door, till he saw Alice emerge for the mouthful
of fresh air that was so indispensable, but against which she fortified
herself with a checked woollen shawl, which she muffled in a manner he
thought very becoming, round her pretty head.
Neither need I describe the start of astonishment with which she
acknowledged the presence of her lover, as if he was the very last
person she expected to meet; nor the assumed reluctance of her consent
to accompany him a short distance on his homeward way; nor even the
astonishment she expressed at his presumption in adjusting her muffler
more comfortably, and exacting for his assistance the payment that is
often so willingly granted while it is so vehemently refused. These
little manœuvres had been rehearsed very often of late, but had not yet
begun to pall in the slightest degree. The lovers had long ago arrived at
that agreeable phase of courtship, when the reserve of an agitating and
uncertain preference has given way to the confidence of avowed affection.
They had a thousand things to talk about, and they talked about them very
close together, perhaps because the wind swept bleak and chill over the
moor in the gathering twilight. It was warmer no doubt, and certainly
pleasanter, thus to carry two faces under one hood.
It is impossible to overhear the conversation of people in such close
juxtaposition, nor is it usually, we believe, worth much trouble on the
part of an eavesdropper. I imagine it consists chiefly of simple, not
to say idiotic remarks, couched in corresponding language, little more
intelligible to rational persons than that with which a nurse endeavours
to amuse a baby, whose demeanour, by the way, generally seems to express
a dignified contempt for the efforts of its attendant. When we consider
the extravagances of speech by which we convey our strongest sentiments,
we need not be surprised at the follies of which we are guilty in their
indulgence. When we recall the absurdities with which an infant’s
earliest ideas of conversation must be connected, can we wonder what
fools people grow up in after life?
It was nearly dark when they parted, and a clear streak of light still
lingered over the edge of the moor. Alice indeed would have gone further,
but Slap-Jack had his own ideas as to his pretty sweetheart being abroad
so late, and the chance of an escort home, from Captain Bold returning
not quite sober on the wicked bay mare; so he clasped her tenderly in
his arms, receiving at the same time a hearty kiss given ungrudgingly
and with good-will, ere she fleeted away like a phantom, while he stood
watching till the last flutter of her dress disappeared through the
gloom. Then he, too, turned unwillingly homeward, with a prayer for the
woman he loved on his lips.
If Alice looked round, it was under the corner of her muffler, and she
sped back to her gleaming saucepans, her white dishes, and the warm glow
of her aunt’s kitchen, with a step as light as her happy maiden heart.
But there were only two ways of re-entering the “Hamilton Arms”—up a
gravel-walk that led straight to the front door across a washing green,
separated from the high road by a thick close-cut hedge, or through the
stable-yard and back entrance into the scullery. This last ingress was
effectually closed for the present by the arrival of Captain Bold, rather
more drunk than common, swearing strings of new and fashionable oaths,
while he consigned his wicked bay mare to the charge of the admiring
ostler. Alice heard his reckless treble screaming above the hoarse notes
of the stableman before she turned the corner of the house, and shrank
back to enter at the other door. But here, also, much to her dismay, she
found her retreat cut off. Two gentlemen were pacing up and down the
gravel path in earnest conversation. One of them, even in the dusk, she
recognised as the inmate of their blue room, who had given her aunt the
gold cross. The other was a younger, taller, and slimmer man than his
companion. Both were dressed in dark plain garments, gesticulating much
while they spoke, and seemed deeply engrossed with the subject under
discussion. Foolish Alice might well have run past unnoticed, and taken
shelter at once in the house, but the girl had some shy feeling as to her
late tryst with her sweetheart, and shrank perhaps from the good-humoured
banter of the elder man, whose quiet sarcastic smile she had already
learned to dread. So she stopped short, and cowered down with a beating
heart under shelter of the hedge, thinking to elude them as they turned
in their walk, and glide by unobserved into the porch.
They talked with such vehemence, that had they been Englishmen she would
have thought they were quarrelling. Their arms waved, their hands worked,
their voices rose and fell. The elder man was the principal speaker, and
seemed to be urging something with considerable vehemence to which the
other was disinclined; but none of his arguments, pointedly as they were
put, arrested Alice’s attention so much as two proper names muttered in
a tone of deprecation by his companion. These were “Lady Hamilton” and
“Slap-Jack.” Of the first she was almost sure, in the latter she could
not be mistaken.
Her experience on a southern seaboard, to which many smugglers from
the opposite coast resorted, had taught Alice to understand the French
language far better than she could speak it. With her ears sharpened and
her faculties roused, by the mention of her lover’s name, she cowered
down in her hiding-place, and listened, rapt, fearful, attentive, like a
hare with the beagles on its track.