“Most people who come here once, come again, miss,” said George, twisting the lash of his whip into a knot. “There’s one gentleman who never misses a season, and I was going to ask you, as a favor, if you’d mind his coming on the box-seat this morning? He ’most always had it last year. I told him I must ask a lady’s consent, so we’re to pick him up outside the Pump-room if you’re quite agreeable.”
“Is he fat?” said the girl dubiously, and feeling that her drive would be quite spoiled.
“He’s as slight as a poplar,” said George, his face lightening up, “and he’s a gentleman, miss, and you can’t say more than that. There’s so few of ’em about nowadays!”
The cargo was now complete. The miscellaneous crowd that daily assembled to witness the departure of the coach fell back, the horses stretched out into a gallop, and skirting the hotel garden, with its lounging seats, and cheerful awnings, rounded the corner with a flourish, emerging on the Stray with a musical horn-blowing that made Ronny, in the distance, hold up his little flushed face to his mother, and wave the bat he was so very seldom allowed to use.
The girl waved and kissed her hand lovingly to the boy, and the nigger appropriating the compliment to himself, and promptly returning the same, while he also tried to combine business and pleasure by hitting a ball, lost his balance, and sat down in a large puddle. Quaint and varied were the aspects of life afforded by the Stray, that curious piece of ground secured to the townspeople forever, that in some parts almost resembles a fair; while in others, ancient trees shut in stately houses that have all the dignity and peace of a cathedral close.
In the open a band was playing, nigger minstrels were performing, children played, old maids cackled, pigeons flocked, fortune-tellers plied their craft, and old couples sat side by side like puffins, warming themselves in the sun. Even in this inevitable groaning Salvation Army lasses and lads were there, combining piety and wealth with that astuteness which is so distinguishing a feature of their peculiar religion.
And the thoroughly English scene, so full of human life, and steeped through and through with such a glory of September air and sunshine as even summer had not dared to promise, or even tried to fulfill, gave extraordinary pleasure to the heart, making one feel, with Lucretius, that “he who has grown weary of remaining at home often goes forth, and suddenly returns, inasmuch as he perceived he is nothing better for being abroad.”
Down the steep incline in George’s smartest style, past the Crown Hotel, that should surely be at the top of the hill, not the bottom, and so to the Pump-room, where with a clash and a clatter he draws up, scanning the crowd of people, who, having drunk their nauseous doses inside, are dawdling and gossiping in true Harrogate fashion before they disperse.
The girl does not take the trouble to look at any of them, not even when George touches his hat, and says, “Here, my lord.” Then there is the sensation as of a person ascending the coach, on her side, she indignantly notes, so that she hastily whispers:
“Couldn’t he go on your other side, George?”