Читать книгу Crying for the Light: or, Fifty Years Ago. Volume 1 of 3 - James Ewing Ritchie - Страница 4

In these degenerate days a first-class carriage in an express may be considered as the perfection of travelling, the balloon at present being unmanageable, and the sea as wilful and variable as woman. Time was when we rattled cheerily over the land on the top of a coach-and-four, but that was when men drank brandy-and-water, and wore many-caped coats, and were far more horsey than this smug and mild black-coated generation. Rarely now does the scarlet-clad guard tootle the much-resounding horn as the four corn-fed steeds trot steadily up hill and down, wakening the far-away echoes, while open-mouthed rustics stop and stare, and rosy-cheeked landladies smile wickedly at the jovial outsiders, who, not having the fear of their own lawful-wedded wives before their eyes, seem to regard their day’s journey as a frolic, as, indeed, it was in the good old coaching days, when the driver, an inborn aristocrat, was hail-fellow-well-met with all on his bit of road, and when every passenger had his story to tell or his joke, which, if not brilliant, at any rate helped to pass the time away, and to keep everyone in good humour. What a time that was, for instance, at Barnet, when the town was kept alive night and day, as coach after coach came up at full gallop, changed horses at the Red Lion or the Salisbury Arms in the twinkling of an eye, and then made its way on to the great Metropolis, or away to the big cities of the North, with such telling news as that Queen Caroline was dead, or that the Lords had thrown out Reform! It was merry England then, and no mistake; pure air filled the lungs, and sylvan beauty fed the eye, and the further he travelled the better was the traveller in health and spirits. I am not surprised that Mr. Carnegie, the great American capitalist, in order to give his friends an idea of England, and thoroughly to enjoy himself, packed them all on the top of a four-horse coach, and I can well believe that they saw a loveliness in this old land of ours as they drove past ancient castles and ivy-clad churches, and by the side of well-kept parks, with the mansions of our nobles peeping in and out among the trees, and through smiling villages and busy towns, and across wide commons scented with yellow furze or purple with heather, which they could have acquired in no other way. Boxed up in a railway carriage, the roar of the train deafening your ears, and the smoke and the steam of the engine intercepting the view, what can you do but groan over the memory of departed joys? But I must return to Sloville, which, like every other town of its size, has its railway, with its average number of accidents. In a very few minutes the little country town was left behind, in a very few minutes the actress and the boy began to look at one another, and by the time he had eaten up his sandwiches and biscuits he began to feel quite at home.

‘You are not frightened?’ said the actress.

‘No, not a bit.’

He could not well be, with so fair a face opposite his own. Presently he said:

‘Ain’t this jolly! a deal better than going on the tramp! The old man and mother are allus on the tramp.’

‘Then you have no home.’

‘Home! What do you mean?’

‘Ah, I see you haven’t,’ said the lady, with a sigh, ‘or you would not have asked me that question. Can you read?’

‘No – what’s that? Anything to eat?’

The actress took out a newspaper.

‘There, what does that mean?’ she asked.

‘Blest if I knows.’

‘Ah, I’m afraid you’ve a good deal to learn. What can you do?’

‘Oh, all sorts of things; stand on my head, ’old ’osses, do the Catherine wheel business. Shall I show you?’ said the little fellow, emerging from his wrap, and preparing to display his gymnastic powers. ‘Dash my buttons! the place ain’t big enough,’ said the boy with a disappointed air.

Presently the train came to a halt, and in a minute the boy was under the seat, exclaiming in a fright:

‘Oh, crikey! there’s a peeler.’

‘Well, he won’t hurt you.’

‘Oh, won’t he; I know better than that!’

‘No; you be a good boy, and sit still, and he won’t do you any harm; he is coming to look at the tickets.’

The railway official having departed, the lad began to look out of the window, enjoying the way in which the train rattled along through tunnels and over rivers, through fields and villages and towns.

‘Now tell me,’ said the actress, ‘did you ever hear of God?’

‘No; where did he live?’

‘Nor of Christ?’

‘Oh yes, I’ve often heard mother say “Oh, Christ!” when father came home drunk.’

‘I’m afraid you’re a bit of a heathen.’

‘Oh yes,’ said the boy, with pride; ‘people often call me that.’

After that the conversation dropped; the actress had much else to think of, and the boy fell asleep.

It was late when the train reached London, and the actress and her charge were deposited at the King’s Cross railway-station. The little fellow had slept all the way up, and sorely were his eyes dazzled with the glitter of the gas lamps, and his ears stunned as cab after cab drove away.

Muffling herself as much as possible, and dragging the little fellow after her, the actress rushed along the platform to where a neat brougham was drawn on one side, waiting for its owner.

‘Oh, you’re here, Jarvis, are you?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ was the reply, as the coachman touched his hat. ‘Drive home, ma’am?’ said he interrogatively.

‘Oh no; drive me to Clifford’s Inn. Jump in, my little man,’ she said to the poor boy, and, following herself, the brougham was soon spinning along Gray’s Inn Road.

‘I hope Wentworth will be at home,’ said the lady to herself.

‘I wonder what lark missus is up to,’ thought Jarvis, as the brougham made its way amongst the cabs and omnibuses, chiefly burdened with a pleasure-loving and theatre-going community returning from their night’s amusements.

Jarvis had one special virtue – unbounded confidence in his mistress. He had been a valued coachman in a gentleman’s family, but in an ill hour for himself he had unwittingly got mixed up with bad companions, through meeting them in a public-house; and when they had been detected and tried at the Old Bailey, he was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment as one of the gang, though he had no more to do with their crime than the man in the moon. The policemen, however, had others of the gang who had sworn that he was one of themselves, and he was taken off to Holloway, where, as he asserted his innocence, and refused to be comforted, the chaplain, who wanted him to see that Providence had some good end in view in his unjust incarceration, had come to regard Jarvis as a very wicked fellow indeed. In time, however, he managed to make his innocence clear to the Home Office, having devoted to that purpose all the savings of his life, and he was suffered to go free. As he was leaving, there was a little crowd at the prison gate of pals waiting to welcome the emancipated and to rejoice with those that rejoice, at the nearest public-house. Benevolent people also were there, inviting the released to a little breakfast and a religious service close by.

Jarvis accepted the invitation; but as the address took rather a personal turn and assumed him guilty when not, he walked out of the room in no pleasant state of mind, and in the raw, cold, foggy morning stumbled against one of the men who had borne false witness against him. An altercation ensued, which ended in his knocking down his quondam acquaintance, and in his being collared by the police. For that offence he was straightway taken before the magistrate and let off with a fine, which quite exhausted the little sum given him that morning on leaving gaol. In his desire to earn an honest penny he went to his old master, only to find him dead, and the place shut up. In vain he sought out all whom he knew in the days of his respectability; they received him coldly, were sorry to hear of his misfortunes, and hoped he might meet with some employment, but could do nothing for him themselves.