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CHAPTER IX
WE GO UPON OUR WEDDING TOUR

I am sure it is expected of me to improve this occasion with a few sage remarks, for could anything have been more ominous to the prosperity of our married life? But I hope I have too much chivalry in me to say to what extent this evil presage has been borne out since, and I dare Mrs. Cynthia to do so. Revenons à nos moutons, a phrase I think that always looks better in French. We got through all these important matters at last, even to the forging of the honoured names of Jane Jones and John Smith, or Jane Smith and John Jones, I forget precisely which, in the parish register. Then having vailed the clerk with the parson's two-shilling-bit, and having thanked and bid farewell to our kind benefactors, we moved out of the church amid the acclamation of the whole female and juvenile population of the village, and got us with some speed upon our wedding-tour.

Now we had made about half-a-mile along the highway at a round pace, when Cynthia to her great concern discovered that she had carried away upon her finger the ring that Mrs. Blodgett had borrowed from a neighbour.

"Oh, this will never do," says she. "We can never rob such kind honest people."

"I suppose we cannot," says I, "but the value of that ring will come in wonderfully apt this evening when we desire a lodging for our weariness."

"Oh, Jack, how can you!" says she. "We must take it back at once."

And willy-nilly with never another word my pretty one, with a fine indignant colour in her face, turned about and set her nose straight back to the parson's door. And taking a material view of the matter, honesty was just as good a policy in this case as any other, for when we had come to the parson and Cynthia had got her mission off her lips and the ring off her finger, all in due time, the kind man was so pleased by our worthy behaviour, that says he to Mrs. Blodgett: "There, there, what did I say? I knew you judged them too harshly," and straightway invited us to an excellent repast of potherbs and boiled mutton, that even then was smoking on the table.

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon when we set out again on our travels. We took the highway, and followed it mile upon mile, through pretty hamlets, past inviting inns, lush green meadows, and here and there a shady little copse. Up hill and down dale we went, and always in something of a joyful spirit, for no two people could be more happy in their freedom, or more careless of what might befall. The moment was enough for us. We were sound in limb and spirit, stout of heart, too, I ween, and my little wife had the sum of twelvepence half penny in her pocket. An avenging law was doubtless pursuing me, and a stern parent was most probably pursuing her, but we were so taken up with one another that we could think only of our present happiness. Avaunt dull care, it was our wedding journey.

Who could help being happy in the soft airs of the spring afternoon? They were so generous, and the sun was so mild and pleasant, that we discarded our cloaks, and I bore them both over my arm. But we were not allowed to remain in this paradise very long without being rudely reminded of its insecurity. After awhile, growing hot with our exertions and a little weary also, we began to desire a cool shady place in which to rest. A hill more than usually steep lay before us, and having toiled to the top, at considerably less of a pace than the one at which we had started, found there the spot we were in need of. Seating ourselves under a tree covered with snowy blossom we proceeded to take our earned repose. And we had been in this occupation perhaps five minutes or so, when our attention was directed to the sound of wheels at the foot of the hill we had just overcome. A pair-horse chaise was coming up at a round pace. It was occupied by two persons, and was so striking in colour and design that it was in the distance likely to be recognized sooner than the people in it. This proved to be the case. No sooner had it come into view than Cynthia clutched at my arm in a quick, frightened manner.

"Look, look!" says she. "Oh, what shall we do? 'Tis papa's curricle coming up the hill, and on my life, it is papa within it."

I needed no second exhortation. There was an instant of time in which we both looked wildly about us, backwards and forwards, only to discover that it was impossible to get away from our present place without being caught in the act of doing so. A hedge was at our back, another was on the opposite side of the way, and in front stretched the long level surface of the road. Yet there was just one chance of our passing unnoticed, though heaven knows a precarious and remote one! There was a slight declivity running under the hedge at our backs. It was a kind of dry ditch, but the bed of it was so shallow that it could hardly be dignified by the name of ditch at all. I commanded Cynthia to lie perfectly flat in this, face downwards, and to squeeze herself as far into the earth as she could get, whilst I did the same, though in regard to the last particular I fear my precept was higher than my resolution. Meantime the chaise came grinding and grunting up the hill, at the same smart pace, while we lay in our ridiculously inadequate hiding-place, perfectly convinced in our own minds that we must be discovered. What an agony of suspense we lay in, stretched full length, Cynthia's head pressed firmly against my heel, and our noses nestling in the dry earth! We durst hardly breathe as the carriage came nearer and nearer.

How it was its occupants failed to see us I cannot understand, for we could have been scarcely shielded at all from their observation. But sure enough the curricle went past us, and as it did so we could even detect the familiar voices issuing out of it, above the noise of the horses and the vehicle. One belonged to my lord the Duke, Mrs. Cynthia's papa, a terribly irascible loud-toned voice to be sure; whilst the other, smooth, polished and elegant, was that of Mr. Humphrey Waring.

When at last they had fairly passed us by at a deuce of a rattle, we were able to sit up from our tight positions and show our noses again. We gazed at one another solemnly, and then broke into a peal of laughter apiece.

"Phew!" says I, "it was as bad a two minutes as ever I've had. I thought papa sounded very angry too."

"Poor papa!" says Cynthia, with a very odd mingling of sorrow and mirth in her face. "I wouldn't have given much for you, sir, had he spied us; and for that matter I would have given even less for myself."

"I suppose he is in full pursuit of us?" says I.

"There cannot be a doubt of it," says his daughter. "And if I know anything of his Grace, he'll hardly sleep in his bed again until he hath tracked us down. He's a terrible implacable man when he's aroused. He'll be hunting us night and day, and he'll spend his last penny sooner than he'll be baulked by us, now that he hath seen fit to start on this business."

"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.