“There certainly is a great deal of truth in your argument,” said I, laughing at his devotion to his old business.
“Is it not brimful of truth, sir?”
“Of course it is!” I was by this time about half frozen.
“Ah, sir, you’re a gentleman, and know life as well as I do. Depend upon it, sir, coach-travelling is the best after all—no danger of being smashed to pieces or of breaking your limbs. Not the slightest accident ever can happen. Hallo!” said he, stopping the horses short, “what the deuce is the matter with that horse? Look out, Bob!”
“Yes, sir; the old trace is broke again.”
“The deuce it is! Well, we must mend it.”
“You can’t—it’s broke in a fresh place, and we have no rope here.” The coachman getting down, unceremoniously threw the reins to me. “Hold them fast, sir.”
“Well, well, my lad, you must run back and fetch another.” The snow was then falling heavily, and we had not got more than a mile on the road. In about forty minutes the boy returned, perspiring terribly, though covered with snow.
“I’ve not been long, coachman, have I?”
“Not been long, my lad—why, my cargo is nearly frozen to death!”
“You’re right, coachman,” said an old gentleman. “And I promise you I will never travel by your coach again. This is the second time this month.”
“Well, sir, we are not travelling now—we are at a stand-still, and no mistake.”
“You may joke, but I don’t like it.”
“No more do I,” said coachman; “so we are of the same opinion.” At this we all laughed, except the old gentleman.
In a short time all was right again. The coachman had resumed his important position as well as the reins, which I abdicated to my great satisfaction, and we were on the move. “Very slippery, governor; my horses can scarcely keep their feet. Thank God, we are not in a hurry; we can do the journey much more comfortably.”
“Excuse me,” said I, “if I do not hold exactly the same opinion as I did just now about the railway.”
“My dear sir, are you in a hurry?” he asked.
“Yes, I am, and very cold besides.”
“What a pity you did not say so before! I should have made my stud fly, and beat to atoms that fussy stuff they call steam.”
“That’s a good man; show off a bit.”
“Pst! pst! pst! Look out for a full charge, Cossack; fly away, Cannon-ball. Pst! pst! that’s it, lads.” We were now nearly at a gallop.
“Coachman,” said I, “I see that your horses have martial names, if they have not a very martial appearance. Pray, who gave them such warlike titles?”
“The boys in the stable, sir. Everybody dreams of war now, sir; the very air we breathe smells of powder. Don’t you think so, sir?”
“No, I think it smells of cheese.”
“By-the-bye, there’s a basket of cheese for that foreign gentleman who lives at Virginia Water. Jump up, boy, and move that basket of cheese from here.”
We arrived at Wimbledon Common, and stopped to take up parcels and boxes, during which time the coachman pointed out to the old country gentleman with whom he had the argument, the window of the room where Cournet, the French officer of Marines, and the opponent of Barthélemy, who had just been hanged, died after the Windsor duel. He was saying that since Barthélemy had been hanged the house was no longer haunted, and that the pool of blood, which never could be washed out, had suddenly disappeared.
“Marvellous!” exclaimed the old gentleman; “I never heard anything like that in my life.”
“No more did I,” said our witty coachman, winking at me. The boy now called over the various parcels, and Cossack went off as fast as a cannon-ball. We made a few more stoppages at Englefield Green, to deliver several scolding letters and parcels from mistresses to their servants having charge of the summer abodes of wealthy merchants who reside in London during the winter. At one house, during the unloading of two or three boxes and a child’s cradle, a tidy-looking girl, who was waiting till they were taken in, had opened her letter, over which she appeared very sulky. The coachman, perceiving this, said, smiling—“Any answer, Sally?”
“No!” said Sally. “Oh, yes; tell the old lady that I will not live with her any longer;” and the girl cried.
“What’s the matter?” said the coachman.
“She’s an old plague! there’s my Harry of the 46th has not been here these four months, and she writes to say she hears that he comes every day.”
“Of course not—how could he? he’s been gone to the war with his regiment ever since last September.”
Sally, crying still louder, and wiping her eyes with her apron, exclaimed, “Perhaps the poor fellow is killed by this time, and don’t care a fig about me.”
“Well, well, lass, never mind that; soldiers are used to it.”
“Do you think I shall ever see him again, Mr. Coachman?”
“No doubt, my lass, but you must wait a little longer; and when he does come back, if he has distinguished, instead of extinguished, himself, he will have the Crimean medal, and perhaps be made a colonel—captain—general—marshal—or even a corporal; who knows? in these war times, every brave man has a chance.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coachman, you make me very happy—I shan’t cry any more.”
“But, Sally, am I to tell your mistress what you said?”
“Oh, dear, no! because I should lose my place; they are not such bad people after all, and master is so very kind to me.”
“I shall say nothing about it.”
“Pray, say nothing.”
“Pst, pst! now, my true blues, full speed for Virginia Water.” In twenty minutes we were before the very picturesque inn called the “Wheatsheaf;” every living soul came out to welcome us, thinking some accident had happened. There was the landlord, landlady, thin and bulky barmaids, house and kitchen maid, cook, pot and post boy, and a number of customers.
“What has happened that you are so late to-day?” said the landlord to the coachman.
“Nothing particular, governor; only a trace broke, and we had to fetch another: besides, the roads are very slippery.” To the barmaid—“Give us a light, girl, and a go of keep-me-warm.”
“Don’t believe him, sir,” exclaimed an old lady, who, upon the sudden stoppage when the trace broke, had a quarrel with the coachman. In opening the window violently, she broke it in twenty pieces; popping her head, half of which was covered with snow, out of the window—“He is a perfect brute,” said she; “he tried to upset us, and then would not move for above an hour at least—see the state I am in; is it not a great shame, a woman like me?”
“Well, madam,” said the landlord, “why don’t you shut the window?”
“What’s the use of pulling it up?—it’s broken in a thousand pieces, all through that nasty fellow!”
“I can assure you, madam, he bears a very good character with the gentry about here.”
The coachman, lighting his short pipe, and coming near them, said, “Don’t take notice of the old lady, she means no harm.”
“Don’t I, though! I say again, before everybody, you are a brute and a villain!”
“Go