A Whim, and Its Consequences / Collection of British Authors Vol. CXIV

by G. P. R. James

Small progress is made in post-chaises across country at night. On the public high road it may do very well. One may go from London to York as fast as Turpin, even without a railroad; but from county town A to county town B, you had better wait for daylight. So did Chandos Winslow find it; and it was broad day when he reached the fine old town of Salisbury. As he got out of the chaise, he inquired if there were not a coach to the railroad. The answer was, that it had gone by ten minutes. There was another three hours after; but the waiter informed him, that the light coach, the Hero, direct to London, set out for town in an hour, and beat the rail by an hour and a half; (the landlord was a proprietor of the Hero;) and upon this assurance being reiterated from various quarters, Chandos, though not very fond of heros, determined to try this specimen of the class, as he thought it very likely that the promised enterprise would be achieved. His finances, also, were not in a nourishing condition. For the first time in life he was obliged to calculate shillings: the Hero was a far cheaper conveyance than the railroad and coach combined; and after having ordered and obtained some breakfast, he got upon the top of the stage, and was driven away on the road to London.

The number of passengers was very scanty; but some one had monopolized the box; and Chandos was obliged to take up his position on the roof, with a stout countryman on one side, a grazier by trade, who was full of the famous cause which had just come off, as he termed it, at S----. Chandos certainly gave him no encouragement; but when bottles are filled too full they will run over; and his entertainment for the next twenty miles was his own trial for felony. He had the satisfaction, however, of finding a stout partisan in the good grazier, who declared that he had been sure from the first the young gentleman was innocent; for didn't he pay the fine two years before for Matthew Green, the farmer's son, who was brought up for killing some pheasants upon his father's farm? The reasoning did not seem quite conclusive to Chandos, even in his own defence; but he knew that he was not guilty of murder, and was glad to find that a good action could live a day beyond its date.

It was dark when the coach rolled into London, for it was not heroic as to time; and the crowded streets, the blaze of gas-lamps, the illuminated shops with their wide crystal fronts, and the multitudes pouring hither and thither, each busy with his particular selfishness, had a strange effect upon one who, for so many days preceding, had been engrossed with the weighing of his own life and death in the mere chance-balance of a court of justice. If there were any in all the masses of human mites he saw who had ever heard of him, it was but as the prisoner in the felon's dock; and by this time they had forgotten, and thought of him no more.

His own case had, in his eyes, seemed of immense importance not many hours before. It had connected itself, in his imagination, with the general administration of justice: it seemed to affect millions in its chances and results. But now, in the midst of that wide ocean of life, and feelings, and interests, all separate, all alone, yet all connected with each other, it lost its magnitude, and seemed small and insignificant in the diversified infinite around. "Birch, pastry-cook;" "Gobble, mercer;" "Walker, fish-monger;" what was the trial of Chandos Winslow to them? A tart, a yard of silk, a red mullet, was of much more importance to each. And what more did care any of the many who rushed past like ripples on a quick stream? Verily there is truth in the saying, that the greatest solitude is in multitudes; for there each man raises a thorny hedge of selfishness around him, which excludes every other human being except the few for whom he will be pleased to open the wicket.

On arriving at the dull-looking inn where the coach stopped, the young wanderer paid his fare, sought a bed-room, removed the dusty garments in which he had travelled, and set out for the other end of the town. As he passed through some small, quiet squares of smoked brick houses, and escaped from the pressure of the multitude, Chandos, for the first time, began to ask himself, what was the object of his visit, and what the excuse he was to make for so speedy an appearance at General Tracy's house. He went to see Rose Tracy--to hear of her, if not to see her. But what could he say when he did see her? How was he to act towards her?--how towards her uncle and her father? Though Mr. Tracy might be ruined, yet Emily and Rose were the co-heiresses of their uncle, a man of ample fortune; and Chandos could not shut his ears to the question, Was he--just tried for murder, and acquitted on evidence which must soon be proved to have been given in error--he whose pittance, originally so small, had been further diminished by an expensive trial--was he in a position to ask the hand or seek the promise of one of General Tracy's nieces? He found it difficult to answer. Then he inquired what he should assign as his motive for following the family at once to London; and he thought of many things, but at length determined to trust to chance, as, perhaps, was the wisest plan.

Ah! that chapter of accidents, with its manifold pages, how often do its magic spells relieve poor mortals from their greatest difficulties! What wonders has it not done for every man! Which man amongst us, if he were to look back through life with sane and scrutinizing eyes, would not find that far more than one-half of all his successes--far more than one-half of all his reverses--far more than one-half of all that has befallen him in life, is attributable to that broad chapter of accidents, and not to his own efforts, his own errors, or his own fore-thought.

Chandos Winslow walked up Green-street, at length; and then the question became, which is General Tracy's house? He fixed upon one, and rang the right-hand bell. An unknown and powdered servant appeared, and informed him very civilly, (for Chandos Winslow's appearance was not easily to be mistaken for anything but that of a gentleman,) that the house was Lord ----'s; but he added the information that was wanted. General Tracy's abode, he said, was about ten doors further up, nearer to the Park: the gentleman would see a small brass-plate upon the door. Chandos soon found the door and the brass-plate, and as that house still possessed a knocker, he knocked. The door was opened by the General's old servant, who had been with him at Northferry; and the man almost started, certainly gazed with wonder, when he saw the well-known face which presented itself. He was an elderly man, whose wits when they once got into that state which I must call "stirred-up," did not easily settle again; and in his ideas regarding Chandos Winslow, there was some confusion. In his eyes Chandos was, according to the happy figure of a celebrated lady, "three gentlemen in one;" namely, Acton, the gardener, Sir William Winslow's brother, and the prisoner upon trial for the murder of Mr. Roberts; and there was in the man's air and manner a mixture of all the expressions which those three personages were severally calculated to call up--there was familiarity, there was respect, there was consternation.

"Lord, Mr. Acton!" he exclaimed, "is that you? Well, I am very glad to see you, Sir; Lord 'a mercy! only to think!"

"Is General Tracy, at home?" asked Chandos, in a somewhat agitated tone.

"No, Sir," replied the man; "he has gone with Mr. Tracy to a meeting of the lawyers; but the young ladies are upstairs, and I am sure they will be glad to see you."