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

by G. P. R. James

"I don't see why not," answered his fellow-traveller. "You knew you were innocent, and you proved it to the jury. If it should be unpleasant to anybody, it is to those who accused you, and to the man who committed the murder, and would have let you be hanged for it."

Chandos made no answer, but fell into thought; and full half-an-hour passed without a word being spoken. At length the young gentleman inquired, "Are you of the town of S----?"

"No," answered the other; "I do not live in a town, I live in the country; but I happened to be there that day by accident, and I went into the court to see what was going on. It was wonderful hot; but yet I stayed it out, though I thought I should have been suffocated."

Another long pause succeeded; the man seemed determined to hunt down a subject the most disagreeable for Chandos to pursue; and therefore the young gentleman refrained from all further conversation till the coach stopped to change horses, near a spot where a road branched off towards Winslow Abbey. There Chandos alighted, and ordered his portmanteau to be carried up to a bed-room in the neat little road-side inn. The old lady and the stout, yellow-faced traveller, proceeded on their way together; and Chandos ordered some refreshment, preparatory to a long walk which he contemplated.

While the mutton-chop was in preparation, and he was taking out some necessary articles from his portmanteau, the thick veil of clouds which covered the sky became of a paler grey, and then, towards the westward, where a wide open country extended before the windows of the inn, the edge of the vapour drew up like a curtain, showing the yellow gleam of evening between the woods and hedgerows in the distance. Before the young traveller's light meal was concluded, the rain had ceased entirely, and no trace of clouds remained upon the heaven, except some white feathery streaks of rising vapour, chequering the fresh deep blue.

Telling the people of the inn that he might not return till the following morning, Chandos walked on, taking the narrow lane which led along the side of the hill towards Winslow Abbey, then at the distance of about seven miles. The sun was within half an hour of its setting; but the sweet, long twilight of the late spring evenings was to be depended upon for many minutes after the star of day was down, and Chandos did not wish to reach the cottage of Lockwood before it was dark. He walked therefore calmly and somewhat slowly, now mounting, now descending, amongst the trees and copses of the hill side, as the road pursued its varying course. Sometimes the view was shut out by trees, and nothing was seen but the green branches and the round silvery trunks of the old beeches, with the rays of the setting sun stealing in amongst them, and tipping the moss and underwood with gold; but more frequently he caught sight of the wide extended plains to the west, lying in definite lines of purple and grey, with the varied scenery of the hill-slope forming the foreground, the trees of the old wood tossed here and there amongst the yellow, broken banks, and every now and then part of the outline of a cottage or small country-house contrasting its straight forms with the wavey lines of the landscape, and bringing in images of social life amongst the wildness of uncultivated nature.

The sun was more than half down; but a bright spot of gold upon the edge of the horizon, with one line of dark cloud drawn across it, still poured forth a flood of splendour, when a little turn of the road brought Chandos nearly in front of a human habitation. It was a simple little cottage, of two stories high, with a row of green paling before it, a little garden in front, and two doors, one in the centre, and the other at the side leading probably to the kitchen. It was built upon the extreme verge of the steep bank, so that there seemed no exit behind; and the road spread out wide before, under a cliffy piece of the hill, which seemed to have been scooped out by man's hands, probably for sand or gravel. It was a sequestered little nook; and, in the green evening light, as it streamed through the trees, looked as peaceful an abode as a weary heart could well desire.

The pleasant tranquillity of the scene had apparently attracted another person, besides the inhabitants of the cottage, to make a temporary sojourn there; for, underneath the high bank just opposite, was a stream of silver-gray smoke rising up against the cliff, and curling in amongst the trees which topped it; and below was seen the dilapidated tin-kettle from which it proceeded, with an old man blowing hard into the hole where once a spout had been. A number of pots and pans lay around, and a wallet was cast upon the ground hard by. The old man whistled a wild air in time as he blew, and his face was turned rather towards the house than his work, so that Chandos had a full view of his features. It required not two looks to bring to his recollection the travelling tinker, who had conducted him to the gipsey encampment on his first visit to Northferry.

Walking up to him with a smile, the young gentleman asked if he remembered him; and the old man, laughing, winked his eye, answering, in his peculiar cracked voice, "Aye, do I, master gardener. Do you want food, and drink, and information to-day, as you did the last time we met?"

"Food and drink I can dispense with to-day," replied Chandos; "but a little information would not be amiss. Can you tell me, my good friend, where I can find Sally Stanley."