BUXTON

I have begun to take the baths. There really is so little to do in this

place that I couldn't help it, and so, while Jone was off tending to

his hot soaks, I thought I might as well try the thing myself. At any

rate it would fill up the time when I was alone. I find I like this

sort of bathing very much, and I wish I had begun it before. It reminds

me of a kind of medicine for colds that you used to make for me, madam,

when I first came to the canal-boat. It had lemons and sugar in it, and

it was so good I remember I used to think that I would like to go into

a lingering consumption, so that I could have it three times a day,

until I finally passed away like a lily on a snowbank.

Jone's been going about a good deal in a bath-chair, and doesn't mind

my walking alongside of him. He says it makes him feel easier in his

mind, on the whole.

Mr. Poplington came two or three days ago, and he is stopping at our

hotel. We three have hired a carriage together two or three times and

have taken drives into, the country. Once we went to an inn, the Cat

and Fiddle, about five miles away, on a high bit of ground called Axe

Edge. It is said to be the highest tavern in England, and it's lucky

that it is, for that's the only recommendation it's got. The sign in

front of the house has on it a cat on its hind-legs playing a fiddle,

with a look on its face as if it was saying, "It's pretty poor, but

it's the best I can do for you."

Inside is another painting of a cat playing a fiddle, and truly that

one might be saying, "Ha! Ha! You thought that that picture on the sign

was the worst picture you ever saw in your life, but now you see how

you are mistaken."

Up on that high place you get the rain fresher than you do in Buxton,

because it hasn't gone so far through the air, and it's mixed with more

chilly winds than anywhere else in England, I should say. But everybody

is bound to go to the Cat and Fiddle at least once, and we are glad we

have been there, and that it is over. I like the places near the town a

great deal better, and some of them are very pretty. One day we two and

Mr. Poplington took a ride on top of a stage to see Haddon Hall and

Chatsworth.

Haddon Hall is to me like a dream of the past come true. Lots of other

old places have seemed like dreams, but this one was right before my

eyes, just as it always was. Of course, you must have read all about

it, madam, and I am not going to tell it over again. But think of it; a

grand old baronial mansion, part of it built as far back as the eleven

hundreds, and yet in good condition and fit to live in. That is what I

thought as I walked through its banqueting hall and courts and noble

chambers. "Why," said I to Jone, "in that kitchen our meals could be

cooked; at that table we could eat them; in these rooms we could sleep;

in these gardens and courts we could roam; we could actually live

here!" We haven't seen any other romance of the past that we could say

that about, and to this minute it puzzles me how any duke in this world

could be content to own a house like this and not live in it. But I

suppose he thinks more of water-pipes and electric lights than he does

of the memories of the past and time-hallowed traditions.

As for me, if I had been Dorothy Vernon, there's no man on earth, not

even Jone, that could make me run away from such a place as Haddon

Hall. They show the stairs down which she tripped with her lover when

they eloped; but if it had been me, it would have been up those stairs

I would have gone. Mr. Poplington didn't agree a bit with me about the

joy of living in this enchanting old house, and neither did Jone, I am

sure, although he didn't say so much. But then, they are both men, and

when it comes to soaring in the regions of romanticism you must not

expect too much of men.

After leaving Haddon Hall, which I did backward, the coach took us to

Chatsworth, which is a different sort of a place altogether. It is a

grand palace, at least it was built for one, but now it is an enormous

show place, bright and clean and sleek, and when we got there we saw

hundreds of visitors waiting to go in. They was taken through in squads

of about fifty, with a man to lead them, which he did very much as if

they was a drove of cattle.

The man who led our squad made us step along lively, and I must say

that never having been in a drove before, Jone and I began to get

restive long before we got through. As for the show, I like the British

Museum a great deal better. There is ever so much more to see there,

and you have time to stop and look at things. At Chatsworth they charge

you more, give you less, and treat you worse. When it came to taking us

through the grounds, Jone and I struck. We left the gang we was with,

and being shown where to find a gate out of the place, we made for that

gate and waited until our coach was ready to take us back to Buxton.

It is a lot of fun going to the theatre here. It doesn't cost much, and

the plays are good and generally funny, and a rheumatic audience is a

very jolly one. The people seemed glad to forget their backs, their

shoulders, and their legs, and they are ready to laugh at things that

are only half comic, and keep up a lively chattering between the acts.

It's fun to see them when the play is over. The bath-chairs that have

come after some of them are brought right into the building, and are

drawn up just like carriages after the theatre. The first time we went I

wanted Jone to stop a while and see if we didn't hear somebody call

out, "Mrs. Barchester's bath-chair stops the way!" but he said I

expected too much, and would not wait.

We sit about so much in the gardens, which are lively when it is clear,

and not bad even in a little drizzle, that we've got to know a good

many of the people; and although Jone's a good deal given to reading, I

like to sit and watch them and see what they are doing.

When we first came here I noticed a good-looking young woman who was

hauled about in a bath-chair, generally with an open book in her lap,

which she never seemed to read much, because she was always gazing

around as if she was looking for something. Before long I found out

what she was looking for, for every day, sooner or later, generally

sooner, there came along a bath-chair with a good-looking young man in

it. He had a book in his lap too, but he was never reading it when I

saw him, because he was looking for the young woman; and as soon as

they saw each other they began to smile, and as they passed they always

said something, but didn't stop. I wondered why they didn't give their

pullers a rest and have a good talk if they knew each other, but before

long I noticed not very far behind the young lady's bath-chair was

always another bath-chair with an old gentleman in it with a

bottle-nose. After a while I found out that this was the young lady's

father, because sometimes he would call to her and have her stop, and

then she generally seemed to get some sort of a scolding.

Of course, when I see anything of this kind going on, I can't help

taking one side or the other, and as you may well believe, madam, I

wouldn't be likely to take that of the old bottle-nosed man's side. I

had not been noticing these people for more than two or three days when

one morning, when Jone and me was sitting under an umbrella, for there

was a little more rain than common, I saw these two young people in

their bath-chairs, coming along side by side, and talking just as hard

as they could. At first I was surprised, but I soon saw how things was:

the old gentleman couldn't come out in the rain. It was plain enough

from the way these two young people looked at each other that they was

in love, and although it most likely hurt them just as much to come out

into the rain as it would the old man, love is all-powerful, even over

rheumatism.

Pretty soon the clouds cleared away without notice, as they do in this

country, and it wasn't long before I saw, away off, the old man's

bath-chair coming along lively. His bottle-nose was sticking up in the

air, and he was looking from one side to the other as hard as he could.

The two lovers had turned off to the right and gone over a little

bridge and I couldn't see them; but by the way that old nose shook as

it got nearer and nearer to me, I saw they had reason to tremble,

though they didn't know it.

When the old father reached the narrow path he did not turn down it,

but kept straight on, and I breathed a sigh of deep relief. But the

next instant I remembered that the broad path turned not far beyond,

and that the little one soon ran into it, and so it could not be long

before the father and the lovers would meet. I like to tell Jone

everything I am going to do, when I am sure that he'll agree with me

that it is right; but this time I could not bother with explanations,

and so I just told him to sit still for a minute, for I wanted to see

something, and I walked after the young couple as fast as I could. When

I got to them, for they hadn't gone very far, I passed the young

woman's bath-chair, and then I looked around and I said to her, "I beg

your pardon, miss, but there is an old gentleman looking for you; but

as I think he is coming round this way, you'll meet him if you keep on

this path." "Oh, my!" said she unintentionally; and then she thanked me

very much, and I went on and turned a corner and went back to Jone, and

pretty soon the young man's bath-chair passed us going toward the

gate, he looking three-quarters happy, and the other quarter

disappointed, as lovers are if they don't get the whole loaf.

From that day until yesterday, which was a full week, I came into the

gardens every morning, sometimes even when Jone didn't want to come,

because I wanted to see as much of this love business as I could. For

my own use in thinking of them I named the young man Pomeroy and the

young woman Angelica, and as for the father, I called him Snortfrizzle,

being the worst name I could think of at the time. But I must wait

until my next letter to tell you the rest of the story of the lovers,

and I am sure you will be as much interested in them as I was.

_Letter Number Nineteen_

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