The Wayfarers

"Humph!" says I, "a nice energetic old gentleman to have for a father-in-law, to be sure. And that smooth villain Waring too. Did you not catch his voice also?"

"Yes," says Cynthia, flaming, "the wicked, wretched, contriving villain. What can he hope to get by it all?"

"A wife," says I.

"He's like to go empty-handed there at least," says Cynthia. "What a mercy it was we were married this morning!"

"I doubt whether we were," says I. "I do not know that the ceremony will hold in the sight of the law."

"Then," says Cynthia, "we will be married over again in our real names and with a proper licence at the first church we can."

"Nor will that avail you," says I, "when he hath got me hanged."

Mrs. Cynthia grew thoughtful, but says she after a moment's reflection:

"When he does that I will put an ounce of lead into his heart, then I can be hanged beside you."

At this perforce I had to capitulate before her ingenuity.

We resumed our way somewhat chastened in spirit. We looked keenly ahead of us along the road as we went, for any sign of the vehicle that had lately overtaken us. Any inn or alehouse that happened to lie at the roadside we passed with particular caution, lest our papa and his companion should have broken their journey there. As time went by, and we had begun to forget the excellent repast of boiled mutton and potherbs with which we had been regaled by parson Scriven, we cast our eyes on these wayside places of entertainment with another end in view. We were growing honestly tired and hungry. Coming to one that wore an air of unobtrusive respectability and general cleanliness, we determined to part with half of our fortune in exchange for some bread and cheese and ale.

Having first been at the precaution to convince ourselves that his Grace's curricle lingered nowhere about the house, we went in and called for our modest refreshment. And we were engaged in doing justice to it with a good deal of zest, when to our great fear we heard the sound of wheels on the road, and by the time we could turn round and look out of the inn-window a chaise had come to a stand in front of the door. It needed but a glance to tell us that we might have been spared our alarm, since it was not the one belonging to Mrs. Cynthia's papa. This was a much less imposing carriage, of a prim colour and cast that was designed not to attract any attention. It contained two persons. The first who alighted from it was a middling drab-coated kind of a fellow, smug of countenance, and not to be looked at twice. He was doubtless the unliveried servant of a well-to-do tradesman; an estimate that was borne out by the deferential, not to say obsequious air with which he stood at the side of the vehicle, and assisted the second occupant to get out. This was a vastly more imposing person. He was a great fat, heavy-featured man, with an almost overpowering consequentialness about him. He moved with a slow but dignified strut, spoke in a very loud voice, and yet there was a tone of affable condescension about him too that was very baffling. He might be the mayor or an alderman of some provincial town, some local big-wig, or even a pursy magnate of commerce.

By the time he had moved in his heavy dignity into the room in which Cynthia and I were seated at our bread and cheese, the landlord had taken note of his visitor, and had come forward to greet him with all the respectful familiarity of one who was happy to meet again an old and cherished and highly-valued client.

"No other than Mr. John Jeremy, by all that's wonderful," says the landlord, bowing and smiling. "The Mr. John Jeremy, as I'm a licensed victualler."

No sooner had the landlord uttered the name than I looked hastily at Cynthia, and she looked hastily at me. Where had we heard that name so recently, and in what connexion? Suddenly the same flash of recollection illuminated the minds of us both. It was the name of the celebrated Bow Street runner, as given in the London Gazette. I think we both went hot and then cold. But when the first emotion of surprise was overpast, a dogged resolution succeeded to it and with it a determination to put, if need be, as bold a face upon the matter as we could. After all there was nothing about us by which we could be identified. Appearances were certainly in our favour; and the black eye I had that morning received from the farmer was not the least likely thing of all to stand me in good stead.

"Sit tight," I whispered to her, "and we'll keep asipping out of the same pot as unconcerned as possible."

Mr. Jeremy having seated himself with majestic negligence at a table immediately opposite us, turned to his companion and says:

"Wattle you 'ave, Willum?"

"Make it porter," says Willum, in a voice of extreme melancholy.

"Wattle you 'ave, Mr. Johnson?" says Mr. Jeremy, addressing the host, a reel-faced worthy of simple ways, who seemed pleased with himself and all the world.

"Make it porter, Mr. Jeremy, as you're so haffable," says he; "and what might be your own?"

"If you 'ave any of that there sloe-gin, mine's sloe-gin," says Mr. Jeremy.

These preliminaries being arranged to the satisfaction of all concerned, and the host having retired to fetch the refreshment, Mr. Jeremy remarked to his companion with a wonderful air of reflection: "Honest, unassooming feller."

"Very," says the other, more gloomily than ever.

Mr. Jeremy then observed us for the first time. We returned his gaze with one of the most simple unconcern.

"Nice day," says he.

"Very," says I heartily.

Here the host returned with the refreshment, and having pledged each other, they drank solemnly and copiously.

"Well, Mr. Jeremy," says the host, "what are you after this time? It's a murder, I know, for you to be taking it on. You never do nothing under a murder, you don't, as I've heard you say."

"You don't mean to say as you 'aven't 'eard?" says Mr. Jeremy. "The whole case was printed in this morning's Gazette. It's no small thing, this isn't, I can tell you. The quality's in it, to start with."

"Ha!" says the landlord, with breathless interest. "Is it a hanging matter?"

"Of course," says Mr. Jeremy. "And a hearl, and a thorough bad lot too. A thorough wicked feller with a record as black as your hat. I always say when one of that sort goes wrong he's much worse than ord'nary."

"If it's you that says it, Mr. Jeremy, there can be no manner of doubt about it," says the landlord.

He appeared to hang on every word that the man from Bow Street uttered. That worthy gentleman who was by no means unaware of the impression he created, was at pains in a dozen little ways to heighten it. Now and then he would halt in a mysterious manner, wink and nod, and then continue in a truly oracular way. It was plain that he felt himself to be a man of a great reputation, and it would certainly be no fault of his if he failed to sustain it. Nor was he content to work on the mind of the landlord, but continually looked across at us to see what effect he was having on our susceptibilities. Observing this, I began at once to betray an interest in all he thought fit to say and do; an interest more exaggerated than the landlord's even, and certainly less sincere.

"Are you the great Mr. John Jeremy from Bow Street, sir?" says I at the first opportunity. I asked it in a voice of as much timidity as I could summon, as one astonished at his boldness.

Instead of replying, the gentleman from Bow Street closed his eyes in exquisite self-satisfaction, threw his head back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest.

"How can you ask?" says the landlord, replying for him. "Who else can he be? I should ha' thought your eyes would ha' told you that with one look at him."

"I am very proud to meet you, sir," says I, and added, turning to Cynthia: "Who would have thought it, Betsy, that you and I of all people would ever have met the great Mr. Jeremy from Bow Street in London."

"Don't mention it," says Mr. Jeremy, opening his eyes with vast condescension.

"Oh, Mr. Jeremy," says my little Cynthia, playing up to her part in the comedy with admirable instinct, "would you – could you let me have a peep at the – at the handcuffs?"

Mr. Jeremy needed no second invitation to exhibit the badges of his office. He took them from his pocket and laid them on the table with an air. And nothing would content Cynthia but she must rise from her seat, go over to the gentleman from Bow Street, and have the manacles clapped upon her wrists to see how they felt. Her curiosity was very prettily and justly simulated. It was done to the life, and no one could have been more pleased by it than Mr. Jeremy.

Not content with thrilling Cynthia with the handcuffs, the gentleman from Bow Street was anxious to impress everybody else. He presently produced the warrant for the wicked earl's arrest; also a handbill offering one hundred pounds reward for any information that should lead to the apprehension of the person whose full description was contained therein.

"But that's only a matter of form, you know," says Mr. Jeremy. "I've already got all the information that I want in this 'ere," Mr. Jeremy solemnly tapped his forehead. "It's only a work of time. We knows everything about him: his age, his height, his complexion, his general appearance, how he was drest, and his religious views. All there is to know of him we knows. I wouldn't give a snap of the fingers for that man, no that I wouldn't, not if you paid me to do it."

"Wonderful!" says the landlord, his eyes dilated with admiration. "Wonderful smart! What a mind you must have, sir."

"I didn't say so," says Mr. Jeremy, "Though I wouldn't contradict you there. A feller's got to have a mind for our perfession. A numscull can't make head or tail of it, can't a numscull. It's observation that does it, d'ye see? You've got to put two and two together, and to know how many beans make five. Now in the case of this 'ere hearl, I've made such a liberal use o' my faculties that the noose is as good as round his neck. Pore feller, I'm sorry for him."

Mr. Jeremy's sorrow was reproduced in the face of each one of his hearers. In that of his man and the innkeeper it was sincere enough, and at least in mine and Cynthia's it was very well simulated. One and all professed the greatest admiration for the gentleman's genius. To be sure, in what way it had been manifested was not very clear; but as his speech, his behaviour, and the airs he gave himself furnished incontestable proofs of its possession, how could we help doing homage to it? He sat like a potentate, and received the court we paid to him as by no means more than his due. But he was generous as well as great, for having ordered his own glass to be replenished, he asked us all to name our tipple, wherein we had the privilege of drinking his health.

As soon as we felt that we could slip off without attracting any particular attention to our going, we took the road again. Yet in the precautions we were at to get away as little observed as might be, we were more ill-served than by an ostentatious departure. For our one object being to retire quickly and privily, we discovered when we had gone a few yards on the road that we had not paid our reckoning. Thus when the landlord awoke to this fact, we should be much more freely discussed and commented on than by paying our score and effecting our retirement at our leisure. Cynthia, who had a wonderful itch of honesty, was mightily put out, and was all for going back and for requiting the landlord at any cost. But I demurred to this strongly. The sooner we put a few country miles between ourselves and Mr. Jeremy the better, said I. Yet Cynthia argued more subtly, and more justly, as I was fain to allow. Mr. Jeremy and the innkeeper had taken no suspicion of us to the time of our leaving the inn, said she, and if we were at the trouble to go back again, frankly admit our lapse of memory, and even go out of our way to behave honestly, we should be far more likely to continue in their good graces, than if we left them in the lurch as I proposed. In that event we should infallibly get ourselves and our concerns talked about.

Admitting the justness of this reasoning, I consented after a brief argument to our going back. Mrs. Cynthia was pleased indeed, partly because this course was such a tribute to her wisdom, and again because she would not have to carry on her nice conscience an act that fretted it. When we re-entered the inn it seemed that the landlord had already discovered his loss, and was in the very act of calling us harsh names. Indeed he was so occupied with this and was expressing himself so fervently, whilst Mr. Jeremy laughed at him in a humorous key, that he was not conscious of the fact that we stood behind him, until I said:

"I quite agree with you, host, in all you have said, if such was our intention. But as it happens, nothing could be farther from it. The moment we discovered our omission, we returned to rectify it."

The landlord was in a great taking when he heard my voice at his back. Having listened to his apologies that were no less fervent than his previous abuse, and having taken them in very good part, I demanded to know the amount of the score, and smiled at Mr. Jeremy while I did so, in an intimate way, for I judged a display of some little familiarity towards him was the most calculated to propitiate that gentleman.

Eightpence was the score, a sum fortunately well within our truly modest means. But judge of our desperate chagrin an instant later when Cynthia, the custodian of our poor fortune, having felt in all her pockets, declared that the purse which contained it was not to be found. Search as she might, there was never a trace of it. We stared at one another blankly, and then at the landlord, and then at Mr. Jeremy. It was this last good gentleman who saved the situation for us, since he burst out a-laughing. Thereon I broke into a roar; and presently Cynthia, Willum, and the landlord were roaring too. And could anything have been more ludicrous than two persons leaving an inn without paying the reckoning, and wending all the way back again for the purpose of rectifying the error with devil a penny between them with which to do so!

Under cover of the commotion that this discovery provoked, I racked my wits to find an excuse for our behaviour.

"You may laugh, gentlemen," says I, with a sudden gravity, "but it is no laughing matter for us, let me tell you. My wife's pocket hath been picked, and how we are to get back home with not so much as a penny between us, strike me dead if I can say!"

"Why, 'tis a case for Mr. Jeremy's genius," says Cynthia, smiling at that flattered person in a most bewitching manner. "He must devise us a means out of his infinite wit."

"Peace, woman," says I, angrily. "Is it not enough then that you should lose all our travelling money and bring us into disgrace with our honest host, whom we are unable to requite for his hospitality, but you must lose the control of that unlucky tongue too, and let it grow so familiar with the name and attainments of one of the foremost persons of his age that it brings us into disrepute with him also?"

I spoke with my tongue in my cheek to be sure, and Cynthia more than once had to bite her lips to restrain her merriment. But Mr. Jeremy nodded his head delightedly all the time, and purred with satisfaction.

"No offence, no offence," says that gentleman. "Don't mind me, my pretty one. But since you ask my opinion as to 'ow you shall get back home again, I think after carefully considering all the circumstances, the only means I can discover is 'Shanks's mare.'"

"Ha ha! he he!" we all laughed at this desperate piece of wit.

The upshot was that we were allowed to depart indebted to the innkeeper in the sum of eightpence. The loss of our money was a blow. Why it should have been I cannot tell, for after all it was very little the right side of destitution. Cynthia was quite unable to say in what manner she had lost it, and when I came to put a few shrewd questions to her on the subject, she was so vague in her ideas and so uncertain in her answers, that it became a moot point at last whether her fortune of twelvepence halfpenny had not existed from the first in her imagination only.

CHAPTER X

WE ARE BESET BY A HEAVY MISFORTUNE

It was about sundown now. We had not so much as a penny to purchase a loaf of bread. Night was coming on; there were no friends to whom we might recommend ourselves; and at least two parties of persons were engaged in hunting us down in that vicinity. To set against these inconveniences we had only our liberty and our comradeship; and although our bellies were like to go empty, and our heads unpillowed that night, and for full many a weary one to come, we did not rail against our lot. We were as free as the air and could defy the polite conventions. Lest we should fall in again with Mr. Waring and our papa, or less dangerously with Mr. Jeremy, we decided to forsake the high road and its publicity, and take to the fields. All ways were alike to us; north, south, east, and west, it did not matter.

We had not gone far across the country when the twilight overtook us. We did not view it with the least apprehension, however. The night promised to be so mild, and we were so warmly found against it with our cloaks and thick clothes, that another evening couch in a barn or a cowhouse would not greatly daunt us. Indeed we had already made up our minds to this, unless Providence should throw a more luxurious one in our path. In the event this proved to be the case, for after awhile our wanderings brought us to a kind of common, across which smoke was seen to be rising. It came from a fire of sticks as we presently found, and on coming to it, we discovered ourselves in the midst of a gypsy encampment.

Four or five persons of a dirty, ragged and uncouth sort, were busying themselves about the fire in various ways. One was tending it with fuel, another was adjusting a great cooking-pot that sat in the midst of the embers, a third was cleaning a clasp-knife with a piece of rag and a tuft of grass, a fourth had two parts of a flute in his hand and was striving to fix them together; an old woman sat staring into the blaze with her hands on her knees, smoking a pipe; and a young woman, by no means destitute of a swarthy beauty, sat beside her with a child at her breast.

The reception we met with at the hands of these simple strange people was at first reserved and suspicious to a degree. One of the men addressed us in a barbarous tongue, the like of which I have neither heard before nor since. I could not make a word out of it. Showing plainly that we were at a loss in this language, the man translated it into good if a trifle rustic English:

"What do you want?" says he roughly.

"Leave to sit down by your cheerful fire a little," I replied. They were in no hurry to extend this permission to us, but by the time that Cynthia with excellent tact had greatly admired the babe in its mother's arms, and I, who amongst my accomplishments pride myself as being somewhat of an amateur of the flute, had pieced that instrument together, for its owner did not appear to understand much about it, and had been at pains to make ourselves agreeable to our company in several ways, their gruff reserve grew sensibly less. And shortly, so much did our addresses have their effect, that we found ourselves seated around the fire, with a pleasant odour of cookery tickling our noses. For after all bread and cheese and ale, although excellent in themselves to be sure, do not form a very enduring diet.

By the time the meal was ready the moon had risen. Sitting in the midst of these strange gypsy people, beside a bright fire that threw up its flames to the open fields, and clothed trees and hedges and the sky itself with a vagueness and mystery that we had never noticed in them before, we became possessed with a sense of the weirdness of the shapes about us. They made the folk we had come amongst seem more singular than they might otherwise have appeared. However, the meal we presently partook of in their company did much to alleviate this feeling of strangeness. When the lid was taken off the hissing cauldron, and platters, spoons and knives were produced, the circle about the fire was increased by the arrival of other gypsies of various ages and both sexes.

As their guests, they had the courtesy to serve us first. From the pot was produced a hot and grateful mess, that to persons with appetites sharpened to the degree that ours were, was deliriously palatable. It appeared to consist of fowls, mutton, hares, onions, and potatoes, and probably other meats and vegetables not so easy to detect. We were also given some excellent ale in a great horn tumbler, and a hunch of barley bread apiece. We feasted indeed on the liberal fare, and were fain to pay a second visit to the cauldron.

It was to be remarked that our entertainers were much better disposed toward us after supper than before. Their suspicion and reserve melted more and more, and instead of using the Romany language, ordered their conversation in ours, that we might take some profit of their intercourse. They all showed this amenable disposition with the exception of the old crone, who had supped only on tobacco, preferring her pipe to the lustier fare of the cauldron. She would have none of us. We could clearly see the expression of her lowering, tawny face, since she sat opposite to us, full in the glare of the fire. This indifference to us was more than passive. We discerned with some uneasiness that it amounted to positive dislike. She would stare at us whole minutes together, while a concentrated malignity came into her already sufficiently ugly face. She would then mutter incoherently under her breath. Once she spat venomously into the fire. At last, after staring at us longer and more resentfully than usual, she clutched a fellow who sat beside her fiercely by the arm. She talked to him with great energy, and ended with something that sounded of the nature of an imprecation. As she did so she shook her finger at our faces. Whatever her communication was, the man was much discomposed by it. He nodded, infused a certain malignity too in the look with which he regarded us, and then addressed several of his companions very much in the manner that the old woman had addressed him.

Cynthia, who had observed these signs as keenly as I had, grew alarmed. Nor was this unreasonable in her, for such were the weight of the old crone's objections to us, whatever their nature, that before long they had spread to the whole community. Thus we soon found ourselves in the unpleasant position of being the cynosure of all their eyes, the objects at which their fingers were wagged, and against whom their passionate talk was directed. But we suffered from the additional misfortune of being unable to understand a single word, and were thus quite at a loss to know wherein we had offended. It was the man with the flute who presently enlightened us. Probably his devotion to music, one of the liberal arts, gave him a more humane cast than his brethren. Indeed at this moment he alone seemed friendly towards us.

"Old Goody does not like the set o' ye," says he. "You will bring ill-luck upon us wandering folk, she thinks."

"What does she object to in us?"

"Nay," says he, "that is more than I can say. She is as full of prediction, whimsies, and foreboding as a dog-fox is of cunning. She has lived a long while, d'ye see, and can read the signs. She has forseen many a corpse, by looking at the moon. Many's the man-child she's brought into the world. And only last year when she heard the wind soughing through the branches, she told not only the day but the very hour that Jerry Boswell came to be hanged."

This sinister reference did nothing to ease us. Looking around, the cunning and superstition that was everywhere about us took a direr significance. As their resentment in no wise abated, it struck us that we should do well to resume our way. But the man with the flute assured us that we were under no necessity, for since we had sat at meat with them, the mischief, if any, was already done. He said besides that his people were the civillest in the world, and whatever their fear of us, they would be the last to visit their dislike upon us. As the fire was so bright and genial, and our present position, despite any little inconveniences that might arise therefrom, was so much more to be desired than any other we were likely to lie in that night, we were seduced to remain. It may have been against our better judgment that we took this course, or like the gypsies themselves, we may have had an instinct of something impending, for in the end we were to rue it bitterly.