OUT IN THE COLD.
A FEW years ago it would have been almost impossible for modern readers
to imagine what a coach journey used to be in the good old times; but,
thanks to certain gilded youths, more fortunate than persons of a
higher intellectual type who have striven in vain to—
Revive old usages thoroughly worn out,
The souls of them fumed forth, the hearts of them torn out,
it is not now so difficult. Any one who has gone by one of our ‘summer
coaches’ for a short trip out of town can picture the ‘Rockets’ and
‘Highflyers’ in which our ancestors took their journeys at the end
of the last century. Those old mail-coaches were, in fact, their
very counterparts; for the ‘basket’ had already made way for ‘the
hind seat;’ only, instead of our aristocratic driver, there was a
professional ‘whip,’ who in fair weather came out in scarlet like the
guard, though in wet and winter-time he was wrapped in heavy drab, as
though a butterfly should become a grub again. The roads were good, the
milestones in a much better condition than they are at present, and the
inns at which the passengers stopped for refreshments greatly superior
to their successors, or rather to their few ghastly survivors, all room
and no company, which still haunt the roadside. The highwaymen, too,
were still extant, which gave an opportunity to young gentlemen of
spirit to assure young female fellow-passengers of their being under
safe escort, if not of displaying their own courage. Still, after eight
hours in a stage-coach, most ‘insides’ felt that they had had enough of
it, and were glad enough to stretch their legs when the chance offered.
This feeling was experienced by two out of the three passengers in
the London coach ‘Tantivy,’ which on a certain afternoon in May, at
the end of the last century, drew up at the ‘White Hart’ in the town
of Banbury: it was their last ‘stopping stage’ before they arrived at
their destination—Stratford-on-Avon; and they wished (at least two of
them did) that they had reached it already.
Mr. Samuel Erin, the senior and head of the little party, was a man
of about sixty years of age, but looked somewhat older. He still wore
the attire which had been usual in his youth, but was now pronounced
old-fashioned: a powdered wig of moderate dimensions; a plain braided
frock coat, with waistcoat to match, almost as long; a hat turned up
before and behind, and looking like a cross between a cocked hat and
the head-gear of a modern archdeacon; knee-breeches, and buckled shoes.
Upon his forehead—their ordinary resting-place when he was not engaged
in his profession (that of a draughtsman), or poring over some musty
volume—reposed, on a bed of wrinkles, a pair of gold spectacles. His
eyes, which, without being very keen, were intelligent enough, appeared
smaller than they really were, from a habit he had of puckering their
lids, engendered by the more delicate work of his calling, and also by
frequent examination of old MSS. and rare editions, of which he was a
connoisseur.
As he left the coach with slow, inelastic step, he was followed by his
friend Frank Dennis. This gentleman was a much younger man, but he too,
though not so retrograde in attire as his senior, paid little attention
to the prevailing fashion. He wore, indeed, his own hair, but closely
cut; a pepper-and-salt coat and waistcoat, and a neckcloth, that looked
like a towel, tied carelessly under his chin. Though not in his first
youth, he was still a young man, with frank and comely features; but
an expression habitually thoughtful, and a somewhat slow delivery of
what he had to say, made him appear of maturer years than belonged to
him. He was an architect by profession, but had some private means; his
tastes were somewhat similar to those of his friend and neighbour Erin,
and he could better afford to indulge them. His present expedition
was no business of his own, but undertaken, as he professed, that he
might enjoy the other’s society for a week or two in the country. It so
happened, however, that Mr. Erin was bringing his niece, Miss Margaret
Slade, with him; and, to judge by the tenderness of Mr. Dennis’s
glance when it rested on her, it is probable that the prospect of her
companionship had had some attraction for him.
Last of the three, she tripped out of the coach, declining, with a
pretty toss of her head, the assistance the younger man would have
rendered her in alighting. She could trip and toss her head like any
fairy. No tower of hair ‘like a porter’s knot set upon end’ had she;
her dress, though to modern eyes very short-waisted, was not, as an
annalist of her time has described it, ‘drawn exceeding close over
stays drawn still closer;’ her movements were light and free. Her
lustrous brown hair fell in natural waves from under a beaver hat
turned up on the left side, and ornamented with one grey feather. A
grey silk spencer indicated, under pretence of concealing—for it
was summer weather, and she could not have worn it for warmth—the
graces of her form. Her eyes were bright and eager, and her pretty lips
murmured a sigh of relief, as she touched ground, at her release from
durance.
‘How I wish this was Stratford-on-Avon’! cried she naïvely.
‘That would be wishing that Shakespeare had been born at Banbury,’ said
her uncle, in a tone of reproof.
‘Banbury is it?’ she said; ‘then this is where the lady lived who went
about with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, and therefore
had music wherever she goes—I mean went.’
Mr. Dennis smiled, and murmured very slowly that other young ladies
brought music with them without the instruments of which she spoke, or
indeed any instruments; they had only to open their mouths.
‘I am hungry,’ observed Miss Margaret, without any reference to that
remark about opening her mouth at all—in fact, she studiously ignored
it.
Mr. Dennis sighed.
He was that minority of one who would rather have remained in the
coach—that is, if Miss Margaret had done likewise; he would not in
the least have objected to Mr. Samuel Erin getting out. A circumstance
over which he had no control, the fact of his having been born half
a century too early, prevented his being acquainted with the poem in
which Mr. Thomas Moore describes the pleasure he felt in travelling in
a stage-coach with a fair companion; but he had experienced it all the
same. He was not displeased that there was another stage to come yet.
If he was satisfied, however, with the opportunities that had been
afforded to him of making himself agreeable to Miss Margaret on the
road, he must have been a man thankful for small mercies. She had
given him very little encouragement. His attempts to engage her in
conversation had been anything but successful. When a young lady
wishes to be tender, we know that the mere offer to open or shut a
coach window for her may lead to volumes of small-talk, but nothing
had come of his little politenesses beyond the bare acknowledgment of
them. Even that, however, was something. An ‘I thank you, sir,’ from
the pretty lips of Margaret Slade was to Mr. Frank Dennis more than the
acceptance of plan, elevation, and section of any proposed town-hall
from a municipal council. It is strange how much harder is the heart of
the female than the male under certain circumstances. If a young lady
obviously endeavours to make herself agreeable to a young gentleman,
he never repulses her, or at least I have never known an instance of
it. ‘But suppose,’ I hear some fair one inquire, ‘he should be engaged
to be married to some one else?’ ‘Madam,’ I reply to that imaginary
questioner, ‘it would not make one halfpennyworth of difference. If
the other young woman was not there, you would never guess from his
behaviour that she was in existence.’
It must not, however, be concluded from this observation that Miss
Margaret Slade was in love with anybody else. She was but seventeen
at most; an age at which among well-conducted young persons no such
idea enters the head, nor indeed, in her case, as one would think, had
there been any opportunity for its entrance. She had been brought up in
the country in seclusion, and only a few months ago, upon the death of
Mrs. Erin, had been sent for by her uncle to keep house for him. His
establishment in Norfolk Street, Strand, was a very simple one, and
the company he entertained numbered none of these who, in the language
of the day, were called ‘the votaries of Cupid.’ No young beaux ever
so much as crossed the threshold. Mr. Erin’s visitors were all grave
elderly gentlemen, more interested in a binding than in a petticoat,
and preferring some old-world volume to a maiden in her spring-time.
There was indeed, ‘though,’ as the song says, ‘it is hardly worth while
to put that in,’ a son of Mr. Erin’s, of her own age, who dwelt in
his father’s house. But the young man was out all day engaged in his
professional avocation—that of a conveyancer’s clerk; and even when
he returned at eve, mixed but little with the family. It seemed to
Margaret that his father did not treat him very kindly.
There had been only one mention of him in the long coach journey
from town. Mr. Dennis, addressing himself as usual to Margaret, when
a chance offered of interrupting Mr. Erin’s interminable talk upon
antiquarian subjects, had inquired after her cousin William Henry; and
she had replied, with the least rose tint of a blush, that he had gone,
she believed, on some business of his employer to Bristol. A statement
which her uncle had corroborated, adding drily, ‘The boy has asked to
have his holiday with us now instead of later in the year, so I have
told him to come on to Stratford; he may be useful to me in collecting
information upon Shakespearean matters.’
The remark scarcely breathed the spirit of a doating parent, but then
that was not Mr. Erin’s way.
‘Your son has made a good choice of locality,’ said Mr. Dennis, in
his rather ponderous manner. ‘It is not every young fellow who would
choose Stratford-on-Avon to disport himself in, in preference to
Tunbridge Wells, for instance; his taste for antiquities is certainly
most remarkable. He will prove a chip of the old block, I’ll warrant,’
he added, with a side-long smile at Margaret. Margaret did not return
his smile, though she did not frown as her uncle did. The fact was,
though neither Margaret nor Mr. Dennis had the faintest idea of it, the
latter could hardly have paid the old gentleman a more objectionable
compliment.
‘I do not think,’ he replied coldly, after an unpleasant pause, ‘that
William Henry cares much about Shakespeare; but he has probably asked
for his holiday thus early, in hopes that, by hook or by crook, he may
get another one later on.’
To this there was no reply from either quarter. Mr. Dennis, though a
good-natured fellow enough, did not feel called upon to defend William
Henry’s want of Shakespearean feeling against his parent, while Miss
Margaret not only closed her mouth, but shut her eyes. If she slept,
to judge by the expression of her face she had pleasant dreams; but
it is possible she was only pretending to sleep, in order to chew the
cud of some sweet thought at greater leisure. She disagreed with her
uncle about the motive that was bringing William Henry to Stratford,
but was quite content to accept the fact—of which she had previously
been ignorant—without debate. She herself did not, I fear, care so
much about Shakespeare as it behoved Mr. Samuel Erin’s niece to do;
but from henceforth she looked forward with greater pleasure than she
had done to this visit to his birthplace. Hungry as she had professed
herself to be, she would no doubt have done justice to the ample, if
somewhat solid, viands that were set before the coach passengers, and
on which her uncle exercised his knife and fork like a man who knows
he will be charged the same whether he eats much or little, but for an
unlooked-for circumstance.
Hardly had the meal commenced when the cheerful note of the horn
announced the approach of a coach from some other quarter, the tenants
of which presently crowded into the common dining-room. Among them was
a young gentleman who, without a glance at beef or pasty, at once made
up to our party of three.
His first salutation, contrary to the laws of etiquette, was made to
Mr. Erin.
‘Hollo!’ said that gentleman, unwillingly relinquishing his knife and
holding out two fingers to the new-comer, ‘what brings _you_ here, sir?’
‘The Banbury coach, sir. I came across country from Bristol in the
hopes of catching you at this stage, which I have fortunately succeeded
in doing.’
‘Humph! it seems to me you must have come miles out of the way;
however, since you _are_ here, you had better set-to on the victuals
and save your supper at Stratford.’
Mr. Dennis shook hands with the young man cordially enough, and
recommended the meat pie.
Miss Margaret just lifted her eyes from her plate and gave him a smile
of welcome, but at the same time she moved a little towards the top of
the table, so as to leave a space for him on the other side of her, an
invitation which he lost no time in accepting.
A scornful poet, whose appetite was considerably jaded, has expressed
his disgust at seeing women eat; but women, I have noticed, take great
pleasure in seeing men, for whom they have any regard, relish a hearty
meal. The new-comer ate as only a young gentleman who has travelled for
hours on a coach-top can eat, and Margaret so enjoyed the spectacle
that she neglected her own opportunities in that way, to watch him.
‘The ardour with which you attack that veal, Willie,’ she whispered
slily, ‘reminds me of the Prodigal Son after his diet of husks.’
‘Did you think the manner in which my arrival was welcomed in other
respects, Maggie,’ he inquired bitterly, ‘carried out the parable?’
‘Never mind; you are out for your holiday, remember, and must only
think of enjoying yourself.’
‘Well, I hope _you_ are glad to see me, at all events.’
‘Well, of course I am; it’s a very unexpected pleasure.’
‘Is it? I should have thought you might have guessed that I should have
managed to join you somehow.’
‘I have not your genius for plots and strategies, Willie; it is so
great that it sometimes a little alarms me,’ she answered gravely.
‘The weak must take up such weapons as lay to their hand,’ he replied
drily.
This conversation, carried on as it was in a low tone, was drowned by
the clatter of knives and forks; before the latter had ceased the notes
of the horn were once more heard, the signal for the resumption of
their journey.
The party rose at once, Mr. Erin leading the way. He took no notice of
his son as he pushed by him, but the neglect was more than compensated
for by the attention of the female members of the company.
William Henry was a very comely young fellow; his complexion dark, but
not swarthy; his eyes keen and bright; a profusion of black curling
hair was tied by a ribbon under his hat, which gave him a somewhat
feminine appearance, though it was not unusual so to wear it; his
attire, though neat, was far from foppish—a dark blue coat with a
short light waistcoat; a neckcloth by no means so large as was worn by
many young persons in his station of life; and nankeen breeches.
If it is difficult for us to suppose such a costume becoming, it was
easy for those who were accustomed to it to think so. His figure,
it was observed, as he walked rapidly to overtake his father, was
especially good.
‘I have made inquiries, Mr. Erin,’ he said respectfully, as the old man
placed his foot on the step, ‘and find there is plenty of room in the
coach.’
‘You mean _on_ the coach,’ was the dry reply; ‘surely a young man like
you—leaving out of question the ridiculous extravagance of such a
proceeding—would never wish to be an inside passenger on an afternoon
like this.’ And with a puff, half of displeasure, half of exhaustion,
caused by the effort of the ascent, the antiquary sank into his seat.
‘Do you not ride with us?’ inquired Mr. Dennis good-naturedly, as he
came up to the door with Margaret upon his arm.
The young man’s cheeks flushed with anger.
‘You do not know William Henry,’ said the girl, interposing with a
smile; ‘he does not care for the nest when he can sit upon the bough.’
‘It is pleasanter outside—for some things—no doubt,’ assented Mr.
Dennis as he assisted her into the coach. She cast a sympathising
glance over her shoulder at William Henry, as he swung himself up to
the hind seat, and he returned it with a grateful look. She had saved
him from a humiliation.
It was a warm evening, as his father had observed, but in one sense he
had been turned out into the cold, and he felt it bitterly.