GLOUCESTER, _June_ 9
The Spread Eagle.
I met him at Wells, and again at Bath. We are always being ridiculous,
and he is always rescuing us. Aunt Celia never really sees him, and thus
never recognizes him when he appears again, always as the flower of
chivalry and guardian of ladies in distress. I will never again travel
abroad without a man, even if I have to hire one from a Feeble-Minded
Asylum. We work like galley slaves, aunt Celia and I, finding out about
trains and things. Neither of us can understand Bradshaw, and I can't
even grapple with the lesser intricacies of the A B C railway guide. The
trains, so far as I can see, always arrive before they go out, and I can
never tell whether to read up the page or down. It is certainly very
queer that the stupidest man that breathes, one that barely escapes
idiocy, can disentangle a railway guide, when the brightest woman fails.
Even the Boots at the inn in Wells took my book, and, rubbing his
frightfully dirty finger down the row of puzzling figures, found the
place in a minute, and said, "There ye are, miss." It is very
humiliating. All the time I have left from the study of routes and
hotels I spend on guide-books. Now I'm sure that if any one of the men I
know were here, he could tell me all that is necessary as we walk along
the streets. I don't say it in a frivolous or sentimental spirit in the
least, but I do affirm that there is hardly any juncture in life where
one isn't better off for having a man about. I should never dare divulge
this to aunt Celia, for she doesn't think men very nice. She excludes
them from conversation as if they were indelicate subjects.
But, to go on, we were standing at the door of Ye Olde Bell and Horns, at
Bath, waiting for the fly which we had ordered to take us to the station,
when who should drive up in a four-wheeler but the flower of chivalry.
Aunt Celia was saying very audibly, "We shall certainly miss the train if
the man doesn't come at once."
"Pray take this fly," said the flower of chivalry. "I am not leaving
till the next train."
Aunt Celia got in without a murmur; I sneaked in after her. I don't
think she looked at him, though she did vouchsafe the remark that he
seemed to be a civil sort of person.
At Bristol, I was walking about by myself, and I espied a sign, "Martha
Huggins, Licensed Victualer." It was a nice, tidy little shop, with a
fire on the hearth and flowers in the window, and, as it was raining
smartly, I thought no one would catch me if I stepped inside to chat with
Martha. I fancied it would be so delightful and Dickensy to talk quietly
with a licensed victualer by the name of Martha Huggins.
Just after I had settled myself, the flower of chivalry came in and
ordered ale. I was disconcerted at being found in a dramshop alone, for
I thought, after the bag episode, he might fancy us a family of
inebriates. But he didn't evince the slightest astonishment; he merely
lifted his hat, and walked out after he had finished his ale. He
certainly has the loveliest manners!
And so it goes on, and we never get any further. I like his politeness
and his evident feeling that I can't be flirted and talked with like a
forward boarding-school miss, but I must say I don't think much of his
ingenuity. Of course one can't have all the virtues, but, if I were he,
I would part with my distinguished air, my charming ease, in fact almost
anything, if I could have in exchange a few grains of common sense, just
enough to guide me in the practical affairs of life.
I wonder what he is? He might be an artist, but he doesn't seem quite
like an artist; or a dilettante, but he doesn't seem in the least like a
dilettante. Or he might be an architect; I think that is the most
probable guess of all. Perhaps he is only "going to be" one of these
things, for he can't be more than twenty-five or twenty-six. Still he
looks as if he were something already; that is, he has a kind of
self-reliance in his mien,--not self-assertion, nor self-esteem, but
belief in self, as if he were able, and knew that he was able, to conquer
circumstances.