Bladys of the Stewponey by Sabine Baring-Gould (red white royal blue .TXT) 📕

she white as death, impassive, inanimate, some women said indifferent.

Cornelius followed, his bloated face gleaming as a poppy. In his hand was a leather bag.

“By gad, it’s heavy,” said he, “and ought to be. A good take to-day. Help you on with the housekeeping. All to-day’s profits in silver and about fifty in gold in a canvas bag to itself. It shan’t be said my daughter has left the Stewponey like a beggar. But, i’ fecks, I don’t half like your leaving at this time of the evening, and with all this money. The roads are not safe.”

“Safe enough for me,” said Luke.

“There have been highwaymen about. Not afraid?”

“I! I afraid of highwaymen!” scoffed Francis. “I should consider rather that they would fear me.”

“Ah! the law, the law! All well enough in a town, but no protection in the country.”

“I have a pair of loaded pistols in the chaise. If any man come to the window without leave, I shall add a dab of lead to his already stupid brain.”

“You know best. Where is Captain Stracey?”

“Captain George!” shouted those near, but there was no answer.

“Haven’t seen him since we left Stourton,” said the Squire.

“We must start,” said Luke, and the ostler opened the door of the travelling carriage.

“By George,” laughed Rea, and drew himself up, “my daughter’s marriage is like that of a lady—with a carriage and pair, and driving away for a honeymoon.”

“You haven’t put the money bag on the pistols?” asked Francis.

“Not such an ass. The pistols are at top.”

“Jacko! Who has seen, stole my Jacko?” cried the Savoyard, running forward.

“Be hanged with your Jacko; stand back,” said the landlord. “Now then,” to the postboy. “Tom, off!”

The postillion cracked his whip, the horses pranced and dashed ahead.

Then from the spectators rose a cheer. It was repeated, again repeated. The maids looked from the windows and waved kerchiefs and aprons. The vicar, already in the tavern, smoking, stumbled to the door, and waving his three-cornered hat in one hand and his clay pipe in the other, shouted—

“It’s a mad wedding, my masters.”

“It is one of your making,” said the evening lecturer, who was outside.

“Ah! Brother Priest! and a merry one—because mine. If yours, ‘twould have been dull—deadly dull. My masters—it is a mad wedding.”

Chapter 7.

STAND! DELIVER!

The post carriage from the Stewponey was one the like of which is never seen at the present day, although on the Continent, in places, some venerable survivals linger on to excite our astonishment and amusement.

It was a calash constructed to hold two persons only, with a hood something like that of a hansom, and glazed in front. It was perched on enormous wheels behind, those in front being disproportionately small. The body of the vehicle was swung on immense C springs. It was painted the colour of a marigold, the back being black.

This carriage was far from being incommodious. Although there was no third seat within, there was a bracket on which any such article as a reticule could be placed, but only retained if tied there. No box seat for a driver obstructed the view. Those within commanded a prospect of the scenery, interrupted only by the bobbing form of the postboy. The powerful springs and the massive construction of the vehicle were of necessity at a period when the roads were unscientifically made and badly kept up.

Throughout the Middle Ages, and down to the beginning of the present century, stones of all kinds and sizes, picked up anywhere, off the fields, dug out of quarries, gathered from water-courses, were thrown over the highways, and thrust into ruts without an attempt being made to reduce their size. It is now considered a primary law that a roadway should be convex in structure, so that the water falling on it may run off at once and be carried away at the water table. No such law was then known. The traffic of horses in the middle wore away the centre, and the section of the road was concave, so that all the mud and water settled in the middle, and resolved the way into one great slough.

A journey over such roads was almost as bad as one along a torrent-bed. It consisted in an alternation between bouncing over boulders and dragging through mire. Nothing was more usual than the fracture of a spring, or the embedding of the wheels in a profound rut, from which the horses were powerless to lift the carriage.

In the neighbourhood of Kinver, where sandstone prevails, and the only alternative is conglomerate, there is no proper material for “metalling” roads. Nor does the river Stour brawl down from mountains, and roll hard pebbles along its bed.

Consequently, notwithstanding that the roads which met and crossed at the Stewponey were of first importance, one being the great artery of communication with Ireland, yet all were equally bad.

When the ruts in the highway became dangerous, then carriages and coaches were driven on the turf at the side, so long as that held together; but when that had been resolved into a quagmire, then the welted roadway had again to be resorted to as preferable.

On our macadamised and steam-rolled roads we spin along as if on ice. A hundred years ago travelling on the king’s highway was slow, laborious, and painful. A short journey sufficed to resolve the lily-white human body into a purple and yellow mass of bruises.

For the first half-mile, to keep up appearances, the postboy maintained a rapid pace by constant application of the whip, and by much objurgation; but as soon as the Stewponey and Stourton Castle were out of sight, he relaxed his energies, and the horses perfectly understood that no more violent exercise was required of them. Their master’s carriage, its springs, its wheels, its axle were to be considered, and they subsided into their normal pace, one which a lusty man might have surpassed, by exerting himself, in walking.

“The moon is rising,” said Luke Francis. “See, our honeymoon!”

If so—it presaged a cold and cheerless state.

Through the trees glimmered a sallow light. The sun was setting, and setting in torn and tattered cloud, but it diffused light sufficient to render the lesser orb wan and ghost-like. She appeared as lifeless as the bride.

Opposite to the rising moon was the sinking sun, like Hercules in his riven robe of Nessus, all shreds of blood and fire. His face was like that of the bridegroom, flushed with triumph and passion.

“I have been for five years seeking about to find a wife, and unable to get one,” said he. “Dost know the reason?”

She evinced no interest in the matter. She neither spoke nor looked towards him.

“You will discover in good time. When we come to Shrewsbury, you will come to know my mother. She has a will. Have you one? I doubt it—so much the better. Your submission will cost no clash, give no pain. Come, wench, your hand—ay, and I will have more—a kiss.”

Bladys recoiled from him, withdrew her hand as he extended his, and thrust hers behind her.

“Shy, are you?” he laughed. “Bah! we must have none such whimsy-whamsies now. I should have supposed that in a tavern every trace of shamefacedness had been laughed out of you. But women are made up of pretences. You are affecting that which by the nature of things you cannot have.”

She offered no remark.

“Come, now, Bla, by heaven, I will have the hand that is mine.”

He made an effort to secure it.

“Let go,” said she hoarsely. It was the first word she had spoken.

He tried to kiss her.

The carriage lurched, and he was flung back.

“Do not touch me,” she said, in the same unnatural voice.

“Ho, ho! Giving yourself high airs! That will never answer with me. I shall have a kiss.”

He laid hold of her shoulders to twist her about.

“I will take them,” said he. “One—two—twenty—a hundred. The more I shall take if you resist.”

“God help me!” through her teeth.

“You fool!” mocked he. “Do you know with whom you try your petty opposition? No; but you shall learn that soon. Mark you, wench, it is best that you submit at once. Call not on God.”

“Heaven has not helped me—I call on Hell.” Then it was that a strange thing took place; something that made Luke Francis quail.

This was none other than the sudden apparition of a small, black, half-human figure, that emerged from the boot, as if in answer to the invocation of Bladys. It mounted the little shelf opposite, facing the travellers, blinked, drew up its gums, displaying white fangs, then uttered a low strange guttural growl. It looked at Bladys, and put forth a long arm, and spread forth a black hand.

Neither Francis nor Bladys had seen or heard anything of the Savoyard and his monkey. The sudden vision in the carriage before them turned their hearts to stone. They conceived that an evil spirit was before them.

Instantly recovering himself somewhat, Luke threw open the window on his side, and yelled to the postboy, “For God’s sake, stop! Stop!”

This was just after the carriage had reached a smooth piece of road, and the man had urged the horses to a fast trot. He now reined them in; but without waiting for the carriage to be brought to a standstill, Francis had flung himself out, and holding the open door, ran alongside, crying.

“Stop, boy! What is it? In the name of everything that is holy, what can it be?”

The postillion succeeded in arresting the horses. He descended from the saddle, and came round to where Luke stood.

Within, cowering in the extreme corner, was Bladys, her white face faintly discernible, like the moon, and her hands uplifted to shut out from her the sight of the imp that she had conjured up.

That imp was mouthing and jabbering. It stood up, reseated itself, drew up a chain, shook it, and dropped it tinkling again.

“It is a devil,” said Francis.

“It is the monkey,” laughed the postboy. “Whoever would have supposed it had concealed itself here?”

“A monkey!”

“The Italian’s Jacko, about which he raised such an outcry.”

“A monkey! Is that all? Then I’ll drive out the pestilent beast forthwith.”

At once Luke put his hands to the creature, but the ape flew at him, bit, clawed, screamed, and Francis found some difficulty in disengaging himself. He cursed, and shook his hand, that bled—he had been bitten in the thumb, and the lappet of his holiday coat was torn.

“Deliver!”

A deep voice in his ear.

Francis started back as one electrified.

He saw surrounding him five men, masked, with swords at their sides and pistols in their hands. At once, aware that he had to do with highwaymen, he made a dash to enter the carriage and get possession of his firearms. But the man who had spoken thrust himself in the way, intercepting him.

“No,” said he. “You have saved us trouble by leaving the coach without obliging us to stop it and invite you to descend. Deliver without ado and go on your way with the girl.”

“I have nothing,” said Francis, recovering self-possession, but speaking in surly mood.

“Nay, that will not avail with us. We know you.”

“You know me? Who am I?”

The men laughed.

“Have you not been married to-day? Have you not got your wife’s dower with you? Fifty pounds in gold and the rest in silver? You see we know all.”

“That is what you know,” said Luke, with something of relief in his tone, but also with a spice of mockery.

“What more would you have us know?”

“Oh, certainly, nothing more.”

“You have the money with you