With his arm linked in that of Charles Marston, Mr. Winkworth, such as
I have described him, walked on towards the city; and much did he seem
to marvel at all he saw by the way. It was not, indeed, that he was
unacquainted with London; but cities as well as people change their
dress, only with this difference, that they very often grow smarter as
they grow older. The new garb of his old friend, however, was
apparently not at all to Mr. Winkworth's taste. He commented on all he
saw with splenetic causticity, declaring that the good old brick
houses of Swallow Street, with their plain brown faces, were
infinitely preferable to the lath-and-plaster edifices of Regent
Street and Waterloo Place, which he pronounced an insult to
architecture, and a hodge-podge of every sort of enormity. Then,
again, the macadamised streets excited his indignation: they had not
yet been paved with wood, or heaven knows what he would have said of
them; but as they were, he declared that their sole object must be to
wet the feet and splash the apparel of the lieges of the land.
"My dear sir," he said, "this is true modern reform and improvement.
It is a good specimen of the customs and legislation of the age.
Everything that the wisdom of ten or twelve centuries, and the
experience of whole races of men, have devised and pronounced good, is
swept away, knocked down, chopped up, simply for the sake of change,
and to show that we are wiser than our ancestors. In my young days,
these good streets of London were paved with large, firm, solid lumps
of granite; you could step across from stone to stone quietly, easily,
and drily. They wanted little or no repair, except when some villanous
water company chose to pick up the stones in order either to carry a
pipe to, or cut it off from, some of the adjacent houses."
"If you ever come to drive a cab or a curricle through the streets,
Winkworth," said Charles Marston, "you will find it much more pleasant
to roll over Mr. Macadam than over those same jolting blocks of
granite you talk of."
"Heaven forbid that I ever should commit such a mad action!" replied
the old gentleman, still striding on with his long legs and his
somewhat rounded body and shoulders, not at all unlike a hen-turkey in
the moulting season; "but that which strikes me as the most curious
part of the whole process is, that you people of the present day think
you are advancing all the time, and call your operations progress,
when, in fact, like the crab, you are going backwards. Here you have
very nearly reduced the streets of London to the same state in which
they were left by King Lud, whose name very appropriately rhymes to
mud."
"I suppose all things do go in a circle," answered Charles Marston,
"like that wheel which you see turning round; yet the wheel in turning
round rolls the carriage forward; and so, I suppose, the gyrations of
society help on the great machine."
"As bad an illustration as ever was given!" exclaimed Mr.
Winkworth--"one which would break down at the first turn. Good heaven!
what a quantity of plate-glass!"
"You must admit that that is, at all events, a great improvement,"
rejoined the younger gentleman, "compared with the small dingy panes,
which even I can recollect. You can have nothing to say against the
plate-glass, I think."
"A whole volume!" said Mr. Winkworth. "In the first place, the shops
and houses must be as hot as cucumber-beds. This window lets the whole
sun in."
"You forget you are not in India, in Arabia, or on the shores of the
Red Sea," replied his companion; "but what more?"
"In the next place," continued Mr. Winkworth, "every stone-throwing
urchin, discontented snob, or butcher's boy with a tray on his
shoulder, has two or three hundred pounds at his mercy. A chimney-pot
falling, a flower-pot overturning, or almost any other accident you
please, can pick your pocket of much more than it may be convenient to
lose, in the shape of glass. Then look at that jeweller's shop. Think
what a temptation it must be to a poor rogue to pop his hand through
and seize all those diamonds and pearls. Upon my life! it is worth the
risk of transportation. Then, again, as a matter of calculation, my
dear lad--I don't know what is the price of plate-glass now, but I am
very sure that three or four thousand pounds would not buy the
shop-front of that mercer. Who pays for it, sir?--who pays for it?
Why, you, and I, and everybody who wants a silk handkerchief, a dozen
of gloves, or a pair of silk stockings. Now, what I want is a silk
handkerchief, not plate-glass; and I do not see why I should be
obliged to contribute my quota to enable Harry Thompson, or John
Jenkins, or any one else, to cover his wares with a plate of stuff
only fit for a looking-glass, as dear as gold and as frail as a
dancing girl."
Charles Marston laughed outright. "That last part of your speech, my
dear Winkworth," he said, "is worthy of my uncle Scriven."
"Then he must be a wiser man than you seem to think him," rejoined Mr.
Winkworth, with a smile.
"I never said he was not wise," replied Charles Marston. "Oh, no! he
is a very wise man in his generation. Neither do I think he would
carry the matter as far as you do, nor object to any one but himself
buying as much plate-glass as he pleases, perfectly certain that if
he, Mr. Scriven, is obliged to pay something additional in his bill on
account of that commodity, he will find means to make the possessor
pay him back with interest, if they have any further dealings
together."
"Loving nephew!" said Mr. Winkworth, drily; "pray, are you as
affectionately fond of all your other relations?"
"Nay, that is hardly fair," replied Charles Marston: "you know quite
well, Winkworth, how dearly I love my good aunt Fleetwood, and my
noble, generous-hearted father. But I will tell you one thing: that it
is the contrast between his conduct, feelings, and thoughts, and those
of my good calculating uncle, which makes the society of the latter so
very unpleasant to me."
"It is all prejudice, I dare say," answered Mr. Winkworth, in a morose
tone. "You love your father, doubtless, because it is customary.
Piety, piety, you know, Marston--it would never do, not to love one's
father; and then you hate your uncle because he has got the whip-hand
of you."
"You are very much mistaken," replied Charles Marston sharply: "my
uncle has not the whip-hand of me in any way. Thanks to my father's
generosity and confidence, I am as independent of him as of that
chimney-sweeper."
"Humph!" said the old man, "but what has your uncle done?"
"Why, nothing, perhaps, that the world would blame," answered Charles,
"but nothing that I ever heard of that any man of heart and mind would
praise. In that very business of the poor Hayleys, which I was telling
you about last night, he persecuted Henry in the most relentless
manner. The bankers who lost the money, and were the real parties
interested, did not show half the eagerness after the poor fellow's
blood."
"That might proceed, in your uncle, from a natural love of justice,"
said Mr. Winkworth.
"Pooh!" exclaimed Charles Marston, with an impatient look.
"Did he pay the bankers the money?" demanded his companion.
"Not one penny," rejoined Charles. "But let us get into some sort of
vehicle, or we shall never arrive at the city;" and calling one of the
street conveyances, they proceeded on their way.
As the reader is already aware, Charles Marston did not find his uncle
at his counting-house; and having nothing further to detain him in a
place which he abhorred, he drove back again at once to his aunt's
house, leaving Mr. Winkworth to finish his business in the great
centre of the world's commerce, and rejoin him as soon as it was
possible.
Charles Marston found Lady Fleetwood's drawing-room already well
tenanted. His cousin Maria had arrived earlier than she had been
expected; not ten minutes after her appearance, Lady Anne Mellent had
presented herself; and she was followed closely by Colonel Middleton.
A crowd of gratulations and welcomes poured warmly upon Charles.
It is at such first meetings after long absence that, to the eyes of
the observant and experienced in human character, the deeply-concealed
feelings of the heart peep out in little traits.
Had the eyes of Lady Fleetwood been of any great use to her, she would
have seen the ruin and destruction of one of her favourite schemes
upon the cheek of Maria Monkton, and in the eyes of Lady Anne Mellent.
The former was nearest to the door by which Charles entered. She
received him with every appearance of affection, returned his embrace
warmly, and expressed, with no lack of tenderness, the pleasure she
felt at seeing him again; but not the slightest change of colour in
the cheek betrayed any deeper emotion: no quivering of the lip, no
trembling of the frame, showed the agitation inseparable from love.
Not so Lady Anne Mellent: she sat still as stone while Charles was
welcomed by his cousin; but a ray of joyful light, bright, and pure,
and radiant, poured forth from her eyes, while her cheek became very
pale, and her lips parted with a sigh that would not be suppressed.
She was evidently a great deal agitated; but, with a degree of command
over herself, which circumstances rendered more habitual with her than
people generally believed, she overcame the emotion in a moment; and
by the time the greeting of Maria was over, she was quite prepared to
resume the gay and sparkling levity with which she often covered
deeper feelings.
"Do not come near me, Charles Marston," she said, as the young
traveller approached; "I am determined not to speak to you. I cast you
off--I abandon you! If I were a rich grandfather, I would cut you off
with a shilling;" but at the same time she held out her hand to him,
and it trembled as he took it. "Did you not promise to write to me
continually," she asked, "and to tell me all your adventures? for I
was quite sure you would get into all sorts of scrapes, and be
delightfully near losing your life a hundred times. And now tell me,
sir, have you written me a single word for six months?"
"I wrote you two long letters--the last not three months ago," replied
Charles Marston; "and you never condescended to answer either."
"Because I never received them," replied Lady Anne; "but you will lay
it all upon postmasters, of course."
"You shall see the record and the dates in my journal, little
infidel!" said Charles Marston in a low tone, and then added aloud,
"but I did even more than all this. I was impudent enough to write to
your merry old guardian, Sir Thomas Wickham, to ask him for your
address."
"And what did he say? what did he say?" exclaimed Lady Anne, laughing:
"something very funny, I am sure."
"He told me that he was not an astronomer," replied Charles Marston,
"and could not at all calculate the transit of Venus; adding, in less
figurative language, that he could not tell where you might happen to
be, as he had never known for two hours consecutively in his life; but
that, if he might venture a supposition, your ladyship was probably
looking for me somewhere in Palestine or Crim Tartary."
"My ladyship was doing nothing of the kind," answered Lady Anne. "But
there is Colonel Middleton, exceedingly anxious to say civil things to
you, while I should say nothing but what is uncivil--at least, till
you have done penance; so go and speak to him."
The greeting between the two friends was very warm, and while it took
place, Lady Anne's eyes were fixed upon Charles Marston's countenance
with a keen and scrutinizing glance.
As the secrets of all hearts are, of course, in the bosom of him who
writes their history, I may very well aver that Lady Anne was anxious
to discover whether Charles Marston was really as unconscious of the
identity of Colonel Middleton and Henry Hayley as he appeared to be;
but there was nothing in any part of his demeanour which could induce
her to suppose that he entertained even a suspicion of the truth.
"These men are strange beings!" she said to herself as she gazed.
"Here are two girls who discover a fact at once, and an old woman who
becomes very much puzzled, and very doubtful, evidently--for beloved
aunt Fleetwood is clearly on thorns at this very moment with doubt and
curiosity; and yet, quick, too rapid Charles Marston jumps over the
truth, and lights a hundred yards beyond. Upon my life, I think women
are creatures of instinct more than anything else!--although I do not
know that it is a compliment to their understanding to suppose they
share a gift peculiarly characteristic of beasts."
The welcome was succeeded by general conversation; and, general
conversation being the most tedious thing upon the face of the earth
to all but the persons engaged in it, and very often to them likewise,
there can be no necessity for repeating it here.
Though the sweetest tempered woman in the world, Lady Fleetwood was in
a mood for fretting herself; and, to say the truth, circumstances
wonderfully assisted her. In the first place, she was evidently one
too many. The party divided itself, naturally, into a quadrille
without her; but it divided itself not according to her taste.
Had Charles Marston attached himself to the side of his cousin, and
his friend Colonel Middleton devoted all his attention to Lady Anne,
she would have borne the awkward fact of her own superfluity with the
utmost meekness and patience; but, very perversely, they chose to do
quite the reverse of all this. Charles, in the window, carried on with
Lady Anne Mellent what seemed to his good aunt a regular flirtation,
while Maria was left entirely to the attentions of Colonel Middleton.
Still, as the reader may suppose, no four persons could have been more
perfectly contented with their position than these four, could Lady
Fleetwood have been contented to let them alone, and not tried to
arrange matters better; but she first joined in the conversation of
one party, and then interrupted that of another, taking care to choose
the exact moment when something of importance was to be said, or some
word of affection to be spoken, which was most willing to hide itself
from listening ears.
At length, however, Mr. Winkworth was announced, and the arrival of a
stranger put out all the former combinations. Advancing into the room,
with one hand behind his back and his hat in the other, he made a
formal sliding bow all round, till his eye rested upon Charles Marston
at the end of the line, and the latter advanced to introduce him to
the rest.
Though gay, frank, and bluff, as we have seen, where he was intimate,
Mr. Winkworth was clearly very formal and ceremonial amongst
strangers; but yet there was a certain degree of old-fashioned
courteousness in his manner which perfectly suited the notions of Lady
Fleetwood. The very scrape of his left foot upon the carpet, as he
made his exceedingly decided bow, and the little expletives with which
he seasoned his replies, savoured of that dignified stateliness which,
even within her own memory, was the distinctive quality of the old
court.
"You have been a long time in India, I think, Mr. Winkworth," she
said, looking rather too curiously at his sallow complexion.
"Madam, I fear it is written on my countenance," he replied, with
another low bow; "but I have, as you say, been a good deal in India;
and I learn from your nephew that my old friend Marston is your
brother-in-law."
Lady Fleetwood was delighted to hear that Mr. Winkworth was an old
friend of her sister Maria's husband; and she soon engaged her visiter
in giving her a full statement of all he knew concerning Mr. Marston
in India, which was certainly well calculated to be gratifying to her
ears. It proved also a seasonable diversion in favour of the lovers in
the other part of the room; for it occupied all the excellent lady's
attention, and prevented her from attempting to make them comfortable.
The announcement that Charles Marston's carriage was at the door,
about ten minutes after his companion's first appearance, put an end
to the explanations he was giving to Lady Anne; and the two gentlemen
departed upon their charitable expedition, leaving Henry still by
Maria's side.
One gentleman amongst three ladies is but small provision; but Colonel
Middleton seemed in no degree inclined to depart, and for a minute or
two Lady Anne was kind enough to make a diversion in his favour, by
going over and occupying the attention of Lady Fleetwood. How Maria
and he took advantage of this movement, it is not for me to say.
Certain it is they talked in a very low voice for some minutes, till
Lady Anne suddenly rose as if to depart, and then Maria took a liberty
with her aunt's house, which she would have done without the slightest
hesitation where no deep feelings were concerned, but which now, from
some cause or another, called the colour somewhat warmly into her
cheek; saying aloud--
"Will you not dine with us to-day, Colonel Middleton? My aunt, I am
sure, will be very happy to see you."
Before Henry could answer, or the little sort of agitated
consideration of _pros_ and _cons_ which seized upon Lady Fleetwood
could resolve itself into anything like form and shape, Lady Anne held
up her finger, exclaiming--
"Remember, you are engaged to me, sir, for to-night at least.
To-morrow I will give you up to Lady Fleetwood with all my heart."
Maria certainly did think her young friend very strange, and perhaps
felt a little mortified. It was but a transitory emotion, however, but
it was sufficiently strong to cause Henry's answer to escape her; and
the next moment, while he had turned to Lady Fleetwood, to answer with
thanks the invitation, which she cordially seconded the moment it was
declined, Lady Anne, crossing the room, laid her hand upon Maria's
arm, saying in a whisper--
"Trust me, dear girl! trust me! I am neither a flirt nor a coquette,
whatever you may think."
"Indeed, I think you neither, Anne, though perhaps a little strange,"
Maria Monkton replied; and with a gay laugh and a nod of her head Lady
Anne Mellent ran out of the room, leaving Henry with Maria and Lady
Fleetwood.
There we also must leave him, dear reader, for the time, to follow
Charles down to Frimley; and though the journey was not a very long
one and the stages were short and easy, even in those days--merely
from London to Hounslow, from Hounslow to Egham, from Egham to
Bagshot, and from Bagshot to Frimley, passing by the "Golden Farmer"
and stopping at the "White Hart"--I should undoubtedly abridge the way
by stepping over the whole country, after the fashion of the pair of
compasses with which one measures distances on a map, were it not for
one peculiarity which must be pointed out. The old road to Southampton
and a great many other places, for some distance beyond Frimley, runs
only through two counties, and those metropolitan counties, too: first
Middlesex, and then Surrey; and yet, perhaps, were you to look for any
thirty miles throughout all England which comprise more waste land
than any other thirty miles, you would have to pitch upon these in the
immediate vicinity of the capital. Only take the names I have given
above, and add the word heath or common to them, and you have at least
fifteen miles of waste out of the thirty.
Hounslow Heath, Egham Heath, Bagshot Heath, Frimley Common--over all
these they rolled as fast as two good horses and a gay postilion could
manage to make them; and about half-past six o'clock they reached the
spot where they had seen poor Rebecca Hayley two nights before.
The carriage was stopped, and out they got, as near the hovel as
possible; and then, wandering down the little path by the side of the
swampy stream smothered with moss, they made their way to the door. It
was closed, but not locked; and Charles Marston, without the ceremony
of knocking, lifted the latch and went in. There was but one tenant in
the place, and that was the boy Jim; but the poor fellow's face and
manner no more displayed that calm, good-humoured, patient, steadfast
opposition to adversity and sorrow which they had so lately shown. He
sat by the fireless hearth and wept.
"Why, what is the matter, my lad?" asked Charles, "and where is your
old friend Bessy?"
"They have taken her away," replied the boy, "and I am left here
alone."
"Taken her away? taken her away?" said Mr. Winkworth, following his
young friend. "Who took her away? If your story, Charles, be quite
correct, I do not see who can have any right to take her away. Who was
it took her away, Jim?"
"Oh! he had right enough, I dare say," answered the boy: "at least, he
seemed to have, for he ordered about him quite free, and the people
did just what he liked; and when I asked him what was to become of me,
he said, 'Whatever might happen. He had nothing to do with that.' He
would have been more civil, I think, if he had had no right."
"I can't tell that," replied Mr. Winkworth, who was occasionally given
to moralise, as the reader may have perceived: "wrong is often a very
uncivil thing; but what was he like? Was he an old man or a young
one?"
"Younger than you are, a good bit," replied the boy; "but older than
he is, a good bit;" and he pointed to Charles Marston.
Further questions elicited that the person who had carried away poor
Miss Hayley was a gentleman between forty and fifty years of age, tall
and thin, with grey hair but no whiskers. He had come down in a
carriage, the boy said, having a servant with him, and together they
had put poor Bessy into the vehicle, whether she would or not.
"She seemed to know him, however," he added, "and called him by his
name, and was very much afraid of him. She cried and sobbed very much,
too."
In answer to another question, the lad stated that he had forgotten
the name which his poor old friend had given to the gentleman.
"The description is uncommonly like my uncle Scriven," said Charles
Marston.
"That's it! that's it!" cried the boy, eagerly. "That is what she
called him--I remember now."
"I'll swear that my dearly-beloved aunt Fleetwood has been at the
bottom of this," said Charles, "with her excellent intentions. I'll
answer for it she has told my uncle all about our having found the
poor old lady here, and tried to persuade him to do something for her.
Thus he has learnt all about it, and for some reason of his own has
come and carried her away. But I will have this affair investigated to
the bottom."
"Quite right, my dear boy--if you do not run your head against sundry
stone walls in so doing," replied Mr. Winkworth; "but you should
always remember, Charles Marston, that you have got brains, and that
stone walls have none, so that it is not a fair fight between you and
them. However, now let us think of the boy."
"Oh, I will take him into my service," replied the younger man, "and
put him under my fellow, to teach him----"
"All manner of wickedness," said Mr. Winkworth, "and therefore you
shall do no such thing. I will take him into mine, where there's no
blackguard with long whiskers to corrupt him. I'll drill him into all
the precise notions of an old bachelor's service, and when he's fit
for that, he's fit for anything. Would you like to come and live with
me, my good boy, and be my servant?" and the old gentleman's yellow
countenance lighted up with a benevolent smile, which made it look
quite handsome.
"I should like it very much," said the boy, eagerly: "and then,
perhaps, I can sometimes see Bessy."
"I dare say you can, though I know not why you call her Bessy,"
answered Mr. Winkworth: "at all events, I will not prevent you. Good
heaven, my dear Charles! how much happier, and brighter, and better a
world it would be, if we all continued to love our Bessies through
life as this poor boy seems to love his! There--do not stare so. I
mean by Bessies, the best friends of our youth--not, perhaps, the
mere corporeal flesh-and-blood friends, but the pure, ingenuous,
open-hearted candour of early years, which would be a better friend to
man, if he did but cling to it with affection through life, than all
the worldly friends we gain in passing through existence--shrewdness,
caution, prudence, selfishness, wit, or even wisdom. But it is no use
in trying to indoctrinate you, I see: you only laugh at all my most
beautiful illustrations, and think me the most foolish old man in the
world."
"Not I, indeed, my dear sir," replied Charles Marston. "I should only
like some day to put your sarcasms when your spleen is moved, and your
fine sentiments when your enthusiasm is excited, side by side, in
double columns as they print books, and see how they would look when
compared."
"They would mutually balance each other, and so come to nothing," said
the old gentleman. "But now, my good boy, Jim--what is your name
besides Jim?"
"Brown," replied the boy.
"I thought so," exclaimed Mr. Winkworth; "I could have sworn it! Jim
always precedes Brown, and Brown always follows Jim--it is a natural
collocation. How strange it is, Charles Marston, that particular names
have such strange affinities for each other, so that they appear to
unite by the mere attraction of cohesion! How extraordinary that this
boy's godfathers and godmothers, without any preconcerted
consideration of the subject, were driven by a sort of inevitable
necessity to call him Jim! They had, indeed, but one alternative, and
that was Tom. However, Tom is less dignified, being frequently
attached to cat. And now, Jim Brown, to proceed to business: you shall
either have your choice of getting into the dickey of that carriage,
and coming up with me to town to be fed, lodged, receive twenty pounds
a-year, and wait upon an old gentleman with a yellow face, or you
shall stay here for a day or two longer, to put your little affairs in
order, and follow me up to town for the same purposes."
The boy had listened with profound attention to Mr. Winkworth's
comments on his name, though with a slight expression of wonder on his
face, but not of stupid wonder. To his proposal he gave not less
attention, and then thought for a moment before he answered. Poor boy!
he had been early taught to think; for circumstance is a hard master,
and often teaches severe lessons to youth, only fitted for age.
"I think I would rather stay for a day," he replied at length; "for
there are some things of my poor mother's which I should like to pack
up and not have wasted."
"Well, then, there is a guinea for you to pay your journey up on the
top of the coach," said Mr. Winkworth; "and now, have you got such a
thing as a pen, that I may write down my address in London?"
"Here's poor Bessy's pen," said the boy, "which she used to teach me
to write with."
While with the well-worn stump, a drop of ink in a little phial, and a
scrap of somewhat dirty paper, Mr. Winkworth wrote down his address in
London, Charles Marston gazed out of the cottage-door upon the heath,
over which the purple shades of evening were falling fast.
"Who are all those people passing across the common?" asked Charles
Marston, turning to the boy: "is there any great work going on here?"
"Oh, no, sir," replied Jim: "those are people, I dare say, from the
great meeting to petition for a reform in parliament, which was to be
held farther up on the common to-day. The men were coming down all the
morning, and a bad set they were, too; for they walked straight
through William Small's garden, trampled down all his beds, and
gathered all the flowers. He said they were nothing but a set of
thieves and pickpockets from London, and they have done him damage for
twenty pounds or more."
"Ha! Charles, that's bad," said Mr. Winkworth, rising, and folding up
the paper on which he had written the address: "we had better get away
before the shades of night are upon us. I hope your Whiskerandos has
got the pistols with him."
"I dare say he has," replied Charles Marston; and after a few words
more exchanged with the boy, they left the cottage and got into their
carriage again. Mr. Winkworth, however, seemed to have thought better
of his plan of operations, especially when they got into the midst of
a noisy and somewhat turbulent crowd, one worthy member of which
amused himself by throwing a stone at the head of the servant.
"After all," said the old gentleman, "I think it will be better to
stop and dine, and let these admirable reformers disperse."
Charles Marston was very willing to do anything that he liked; for, to
say the truth, his mind was very busy, and wanted to be busy; and, as
the reader is well aware, when such is the case the spiritual part
cares very little what the corporeal is about, provided there be no
interruption to its own operations. They consequently drove to the inn
where they had already stopped on their way to town, ordered dinner,
and, according to the usual process, waited for it and ate it--not
exactly in silence; for, notwithstanding all that philosophers can
say, either mind or body will often carry on two operations at once,
and Charles talked of indifferent subjects while his mind was occupied
with one particular theme: that is to say, he talked mechanically; for
conversation is much more the effect of mere machinery than we think.
Now, internally he was occupied in considering what could be the
motives of his uncle in the act he had just performed; and he mingled
therewith sundry doubts, hesitations, and inquiries, with which it is
needless to trouble the reader. In a word, Thought, mounted upon
Imagination, went galloping away hither and thither, while the
mechanical part of mind remained at home, taking care of the house.
In the mean time there was a good deal of noise and bustle in the inn,
which on their first visit had seemed as quiet a little place as any
at which hungry travellers ever ate new-killed chickens or tough
beefsteaks; and the landlord thought fit to inform his respected
guests, in an apologetic tone, that there were several of the orators
of the great meeting just dispersed--the spirit-shakers of that
day--then dining in the house, and several of their admirers waiting
in the yard to cheer them as they went home. Now, it is very natural
for orators to be noisy--first, because the unruly member is their
spoilt child, and next, because--at least I never yet saw, met with,
or heard of one of them with whom such was not the case--they never
consider any others than themselves.
Mr. Winkworth and Charles Marston, then, were not the least surprised
at the inn being noisy under such circumstances; and the only effect
was, that they hurried their dinner in order to get out of it as soon
as possible. Whenever the meal was concluded, the horses were put to,
the lamps lighted, for it was now quite dark; crack went the whip,
round went the wheels, and off went the carriage. Through the little
town they drove quietly and easily enough, and for some distance
beyond it; but at length awful Bagshot Heath spread around them. True,
it might have been any other place on the earth for aught they knew.
The night was cloudy; the stars were all in bed and fast asleep; the
moon would have nothing to do with Bagshot Heath that night; and
neither Charles nor his companion had the least idea that they were in
the midst of a place notorious for robbery some ten years before, when
a loud voice cried "Stop!" and the carriage was brought to a sudden
halt. It is probable that some of the gentlemen who, anxious for an
extension of the franchise, had attended the meeting in the morning,
seeing a carriage indicative of wealth in the court-yard of the inn,
had thought that they might make their day's expedition serve two
purposes, and tend first to the expansion of their rights and
liberties, and secondly to a more equal distribution of property. At
all events, some persons, animated by the latter object, appealed to
the travellers, pistol in hand, to convey a portion of their
superfluity to their more needy fellow-countrymen. The servant at the
back of the carriage, however, produced a pair of tubes very similar
to those in the hands of the applicants, and without much ceremony
fired.
The shot was instantly returned, but with what effect Charles Marston
did not wait to see; for, seated on the right hand side of the
carriage, which was opposite to that where the attack was made, he put
forth his hand, the window on that side being down, opened the door,
jumped out, and applied a thick stick which he had with him to the
head of a gentleman who was holding the horses.
The head was a hard one, and probably not unaccustomed to such calls
to forbearance; but the blow was sufficiently well directed and
forcibly applied to stretch him for one moment flat upon his back. The
next instant he was upon his feet again; but, not willing to take a
second dose of the same rude medicine, and totally forgetful of his
hat, which, to say truth, was not worthy of great solicitude, he ran
off across the heath as fast as he could go. Now, running is the most
infectious of all diseases; and the two other gentlemen who were with
him were seized almost simultaneously with the same malady.
Charles Marston did not think fit to pursue the fugitives, but merely
inquired of the servant, who had by this time descended from his
leathern box, whether the shot the fellows had fired had hit him.
"No, sir," replied the man, in his peculiar affected tone; "the
gentlemen's line of fire was not well directed. It merely damaged the
crystal of the carriage, I think."
And Charles Marston, calling him a puppy in his own mind, went round
to the other side, got in, and ordered the postboy to drive on.
For a moment or two Mr. Winkworth was completely silent; but at length
he remarked, in a low, quiet tone--
"Well, I do think, Master Charles Marston, that I am a very
unfortunate man, and that my left shoulder is a very unfortunate
shoulder, both being subject to suffer by encounters with highwaymen,
whether Syrian or English, Mahommedan or Christian."
"Why, my dear sir--you don't mean to say you are wounded?" exclaimed
Charles Marston.
"I do indeed," replied Mr. Winkworth, "and within one inch of the spot
where I was wounded before. Luckily, it is lower down, and on the
outside, so it is only in the flesh, I fancy; but I am not obliged to
them, nevertheless. I was just stooping a little, forward to see what
was going on, when the ball came crashing through the glass and into
my shoulder."
Charles Marston was now, as may well be supposed, under a good deal of
anxiety for his friend; but Mr. Winkworth would not consent to stop at
the next inn longer than was necessary to ascertain that the bleeding
was not great. Charles insisted upon putting on another pair of horses
to the carriage to accelerate their progress, and in about two two
hours and a half they reached the door of their hotel. There a surgeon
was immediately sent for; and after what seemed to Charles a very long
delay, the man of healing entered the room.