“By your leave, Ma’am,” said Humphrey, putting his hand to his hat, and keeping it there, “Mr. Wade be a very civil-spoken careful whip, and his coach loads very respectable society. There’s Sir Vincent Ball on the box.”
“If Sir Vincent Ball chooses to degrade himself, it is no rule for me,” retorted the lady, without turning her head; when, lo! Sir Vincent appeared himself, and politely endeavoured to persuade her out of her prejudices. It was useless. Miss Norman’s ancestors had one and all expressed a very decided opinion against stage-coaches, by never getting into one; and “she did not feel disposed to disgrace a line longer than common, by riding in any carriage but her own.” Sir Vincent bowed and retreated. So did Jem Wade, without bowing, fervently declaring “he would never do the civil thing to the old female sex again!”
“JACK’S AS GOOD AS HIS MASTER.”
The stage rattled away at an indignant gallop; and we were left once more to our own resources. By way of passing the time, I thrice repeated my offers to the obdurate old maiden, and endured as many rebuffs. I was contemplating a fourth trial, when a signal was made from the carriage window, and Humphrey, hat in hand, opened the door.
“Procure me a post-chaise.”
“A po-shay!” echoed Humphrey, but, like an Irish echo, with some variation from his original—“Lord help ye, Ma’am, there bean’t such a thing to be had ten miles round—no, not for love nor money. Why, bless ye, it be election time, and there bean’t coach, cart, nor dog-barrow, but what be gone to it!”
“No matter,” said the mistress, drawing herself up with an air of lofty resignation. “I revoke my order; for it is far, very far from the kind of riding that I prefer. And Humphrey——”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Another time—”