Part 29 (2/2)
Many were the ludicrous incidents we encountered on our journey to London. As long as I live, I shall never forget John Paul's alighting upon the bridge of the Sark to rid himself of a mighty farewell address to Scotland he had been composing upon the road. And this he delivered with such appalling voice and gesture as to frighten to a standstill a chaise on the English side of the stream, containing a young gentleman in a scarlet coat and a laced hat, and a young lady who sobbed as we pa.s.sed them. They were, no doubt, running to Gretna Green to be married.
Captain Paul, as I have said, was a man of moods, and strangely affected by ridicule. And this we had in plenty upon the road. Landlords, grooms, and'ostlers, and even our own post-boys, laughed and jested coa.r.s.ely at his sky-blue frock, and their sallies angered him beyond all reason, while they afforded me so great an amus.e.m.e.nt that more than once I was on the edge of a serious falling-out with him as a consequence of my merriment. Usually, when we alighted from our vehicle, the expression of mine host would sour, and his sir would s.h.i.+ft to a master; while his servants would go trooping in again, with many a coa.r.s.e fling that they would get no vails from such as we. And once we were invited into the kitchen. He would be soar for half a day at a spell after a piece of insolence out of the common, and then deliver me a solemn lecture upon the advantages of birth in a manor. Then his natural buoyancy would lift him again, and he would be in childish ecstasies at the prospect of getting to London, and seeing the great world; and I began to think that he secretly cherished the hope of meeting some of its votaries. For I had told him, casually as possible, that I had friends in Arlington Street, where I remembered the Manners were established.
”Arlington Street!” he repeated, rolling the words over his tongue; ”it has a fine sound, laddie, a fine sound. That street must be the very acme of fas.h.i.+on.”
I laughed, and replied that I did not know. And at the ordinary of the next inn we came to, he took occasion to mention to me, in a louder voice than was necessary, that I would do well to call in Arlington Street as we went into town. So far as I could see, the remark did not compel any increase of respect from our fellow-diners.
Upon more than one point I was worried. Often and often I reflected that some hitch might occur to prevent my getting money promptly from Mr.
Dix. Days would perchance elapse before I could find the man in such a great city as London; he might be out of town at this season, Easter being less than a se'nnight away. For I had heard my grandfather say that the elder Mr. Dix had a house in some merchant's suburb, and loved to play at being a squire before he died. Again (my heart stood at the thought), the Manners might be gone back to America. I cursed the stubborn pride which had led the captain to hire a post-chaise, when the wagon had served us so much better, and besides relieved him of the fusillade of ridicule he got travelling as a gentleman. But such reflections always ended in my upbraiding myself for blaming him whose generosity had rescued me from perhaps a life-long misery.
But, on the whole, we rolled southward happily, between high walls and hedges, past trim gardens and fields and meadows, and I marvelled at the regular, park-like look of the country, as though stamped from one design continually recurring, like our b.u.t.ter at Carvel Hall. The roads were sometimes good, and sometimes as execrable as a colonial byway in winter, with mud up to the axles. And yet, my heart went out to this country, the home of my ancestors. Spring was at hand; the ploughboys whistled between the furrows, the larks circled overhead, and the lilacs were cautiously pus.h.i.+ng forth their noses. The air was heavy with the perfume of living things.
The welcome we got at our various stopping-places was often scanty indeed, and more than once we were told to go farther down the street, that the inn was full. And I may as well confess that my mind was troubled about John Paul. Despite all I could say, he would go to the best hotels in the larger towns, declaring that there we should meet the people of fas.h.i.+on. Nor was his eagerness damped when he discovered that such people never came to the ordinary, but were served in their own rooms by their own servants.
”I shall know them yet,” he would vow, as we started off of a morning, after having seen no more of my Lord than his liveries below stairs. ”Am I not a gentleman in all but birth, Richard? And that is a difficulty many before me have overcome. I have the cla.s.sics, and the history, and the poets. And the French language, though I have never made the grand tour. I flatter myself that my tone might be worse. By the help of your friends, I shall have a t.i.tle or two for acquaintances before I leave London; and when my money is gone, there is a s.h.i.+powner I know of who will give me employment, if I have not obtained preferment.”
The desire to meet persons of birth was near to a mania with him. And I had not the courage to dampen his hopes. But, inexperienced as I was, I knew the kind better than he, and understood that it was easier for a camel to enter the eye of a needle, than for John Paul to cross the thresholds of the great houses of London. The way of adventurers is hard, and he could scarce lay claim then to a better name.
”We shall go to Maryland together, Captain Paul,” I said, ”and waste no time upon London save to see Vauxhall, and the opera, and St. James's and the Queen's House and the Tower, and Parliament, and perchance his Majesty himself,” I added, attempting merriment, for the notion of seeing Dolly only to leave her gave me a pang. And the captain knew nothing of Dolly.
”So, Richard, you fear I shall disgrace you,” he said reproachfully.
”Know, sir, that I have pride enough and to spare. That I can make friends without going to Arlington Street.”
I was ready to cry with vexation at this childish speech.
”And a time will come when they shall know me,” he went on. ”If they insult me now they shall pay dearly for it.”
”My dear captain,” I cried; ”n.o.body will insult you, and least of all my friends, the Manners.” I had my misgivings about little Mr. Marmaduke.
”But we are, neither of us, equipped for a London season. I am but an unknown provincial, and you--” I paused for words.
For a sudden realization had come upon me that our positions were now reversed. It seemed strange that I should be interpreting the world to this man of power.
”And I?” he repeated bitterly.
”You have first to become an admiral,” I replied, with inspiration; ”Drake was once a common seaman.”
He did not answer. But that evening as we came into Windsor, I perceived that he had not abandoned his intentions. The long light flashed on the peaceful Thames, and the great, grim castle was gilded all over its western side.
The captain leaned out of the window.
”Postilion,” he called, ”which inn here is most favoured by gentlemen?”
”The Castle,” said the boy, turning in his saddle to grin at me. ”But if I might be so bold as to advise your honour, the 'Swan' is a comfortable house, and well attended.”
”Know your place, sirrah,” shouted the captain, angrily, ”and drive us to the 'Castle.'”
The boy snapped his whip disdainfully, and presently pulled us up at the inn, our chaise covered with the mud of three particular showers we had run through that day. And, as usual, the landlord, thinking he was about to receive quality, came sc.r.a.ping to the chaise door, only to turn with a gesture of disgust when he perceived John Paul's sea-boxes tied on behind, and the costume of that hero, as well as my own.
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