One, who seemed to play the host, was a man of respectable appearance, and beyond the middle age. He might be a farmer, a lawyer, a trader—but it was clear he was not, in common parlance, a gentleman. The others were of a caste immeasurably inferior. One was tall, burly, and dark-visaged—the other, short, slightly-framed, and sandy-haired. The countenances of both were particularly repulsive—and a stranger would have found it hard to determine whether they were knaves, or ruffians, or both.
He who appeared “lord of the revel” seemed ill at ease. He rose from his chair—looked for a moment from the window—muttered something about “foul weather out of doors—” returned, sounded a hand-bell which had been placed beside him—ordered supper to be hastened, and brandy and water to be brought in, to fill the tedious interval.
The order was obeyed—“the maid of the inn” departed—the door was closed—and each of the company, by an involuntary impulse, looked over his shoulder to ascertain that no eaves-dropper was near. He who played the host seemed in no mood for revelry, and merely sipped the glass before him—the lesser of the strangers also drank sparingly—but the tall ruffian turned down the tumbler considerably below its centre, pushed its diminished contents further on the board, and then leaning a pair of overgrown hands upon his knees, and bending forward until his head, by slow progression, had made a Turkish obeisance to the superior of the company, in slow and pointed terms he begged respectfully to inquire, “what business had brought himself and—” he merely pointed to his companion—“on such short notice to the country?”
“Business—and that, too, of consequence,” was the brief reply.
“All right,” returned the stouter ruffian. “Business is very well in its way—but I’d like to understand the nature of the job before I undertook it. Light work is well enough, but when it comes, Mr. Thingembob—for I don’t know y’er name—to what we calls heavy, wot means, ye know, hemp or transportation—why then men must look about them, and ax a question or two before they takes on.”
[Original]
To this judicious remark the smaller of the two assented by a gracious inclination of the head—while the question, so homely put, appeared to have disconcerted their respectable patron, for he did not answer for a minute, and then the reply was evasive. After passing a flattering encomium on the character of the late Mr. Sloman—whose irreparable loss was deeply to be regretted—he hinted that, in his line of business, there was now a blank. His unhappy death, and the equally unhappy consequences which followed, had left a dreary void. It was impossible to find a professional gentleman equally talented and trustworthy. Undoubtedly, men of high honour and strong nerve could be found—and therefore, rather than run risks, he, Mr. Jones, as he was pleased to call himself, would prefer doing business with principals, and having no humbug among friends.
What a strange epitome of life the scenes enacted at an inn would furnish! How dissimilar in rank, in object, in vocation, are those whom every apartment of this human halting-place receives in turn! The care-worn and the careless—the miser and the spendthrift. Opulence, with unassuming carriage—penury, vainly attempting to brazen out its wretchedness. A noble, in title old as the conquest, rests in this chamber to-day—to-morrow it will be tenanted by a bagman, who never heard that such a being as his grandfather had existence. This evening a bridal party occupy the inn. They dream of naught but happiness—theirs is a fancy world—their road of life is carpeted with roses—they leave next morning. Who, next in succession, fill the same apartment on the morrow?—a coroner’s inquest, to ascertain what caused the suicide of a village beauty, “who loved not wisely, but too well.”