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 it, marm, go it,” said he, getting up. “It’s nothing new to me—my wife tells me that every day, which is partly the cause we have no family.” The favourite horse language of the coachman was again, heard—“Fly away to the assault like a set of Zouaves!” and in a few minutes nothing but a small black spot, resembling a fly crossing a sheet of paper, was seen running up the snow-covered hill which leads to the small village of Virginia Water.
I speedily joined the worthy and well-known landlord of the “Wheatsheaf”—Mr. Jennings, and his cheerful wife and barmaid; all of whom gave me a hearty country welcome, shaking my hands and arms in every direction ad libitum, in anticipation, no doubt, of my remembering them for a few days at all events. At the close of this gymnastic exercise, I requested them to give me some breakfast, in the small pavilion near the garden; also some pens, ink, and paper. My request was at once attended to.
“Do you intend to stay with us a few days, Mr. Soyer?” asked the landlord.
“No; I shall try and get back this evening, if possible—but to-morrow morning, at the latest. I only came to close a few pending accounts of my last summer’s stay at your lovely Virginia Water, and am going to Paris for the Exhibition, having been offered the superintendence of a large establishment.”
“But I hear that the Exhibition is postponed till next year.”
“So it is; but this is to be quite a new building, and erected close to the Exhibition, if we can get permission granted.”
“Good morning, sir; I shall see you before you leave. I am only going to the farm.”
“Yes, you will.”
I was sitting down to my breakfast, when, to my annoyance, as I had much business to transact, some one knocked at the door, and, without waiting for the reply, came in. It was the landlord, with a face full of anxiety and astonishment, his glasses raised to his forehead, a newspaper in his hand, and looking as serious as if he had just been married, or had lost one of his favourite pups. “I say, master,” said he, “do you mean it?”
“Mean
