A passenger or two were picked up, and we went on in peace for a little while: but the chaffing was commenced again, and kept up to such an extent that I longed for the journey to be at an end.
“’Member Jack Jones?” said the driver.
“Ah! what about him?” said the conductor.
“He went and got married last year.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Who did he marry?”
“That there Mrs Simmons as kep’ the ‘Queen’s Arms’ at Tunnum Green.”
“Ah!”
“Nice job he made of it.”
“Did he?”
“Yes; he thought she was a widder.”
“Well, warn’t she?”
“No; she turned out a big-a-mee; and one day her fust husban’ comes back from ’Stralia, and kicks Jack Jones out, and takes his place; and when Jack ’peals against it, Mrs Simmons says it was all a mistake.”
“That was warm for Jack, wasn’t it?”
“Hot, I say.”
“Well,” said the conductor; “when I makes up my mind again, and the parsons ain’t so busy, I shall have the missus cross-examined.”
“What for, Joey?”
“So as to see as she ain’t a big-a-mee.”
Revitts, who was drinking all this in, looked very serious here, as if the conversation was tending towards official matters. Perhaps it occurred to him that he had not cross-examined Mary before he was married; but he began to smile again soon after, for the conductor took a very battered old copper key-bugle from a basket on the roof, and, after a few preliminary toots, began to rattle off “The Wedding-Day.” The driver shook the reins, the four horses broke into a canter, and as we swept past the green hedgerows and market-gardens, with here and there a pretty villa, I began to enjoy the ride, longing all the same, though, for Revitts and Mary to begin to talk, instead of smiling at each other in such a horribly happy way, and indulging in what was meant for a secret squeeze of the hand, but which was, however, generally seen by half the passengers.
The air coming to an end, and the bugle being duly drained, wiped, and returned to its basket, the driver turned his head again:
“Nice toon that, Joey.”
“Like it?”
“Ah, I was going to say ‘hangcore,’ on’y we’re so clost to Richmond. What was it – ‘Weddin’ Day’?”
“That’s right, old man.”
“Ah! thought it was.”
Revitts sent his elbows into Mary and me again, and had a silent laugh under one glove, but pricked up his ears directly, as the conductor shouted again:
“Ain’t that Bob Binnies?”
“What, him on the orf side?” said the driver, pointing with his whip.
“Yes.”
“Well, what of him?”
“What of him? Why, he’s the chap as got married, and had such a large family.”
“Did he, though?” said the driver seriously.
“Ten children in five years, Bill.”
“Lor’! with only five-and-twenty shillings a week. How did he manage?”
Revitts looked very serious here, and sat listening for the answer.
“Kep’ him precious poor; but, stop a moment, I ain’t quite right. It was five children in ten years.”
Revitts made another serious assault on my ribs, and I saw Mary give herself a hitch; and whisper again to her lord.
There was a general laugh at this stale old joke, which, like many more well-worn ones, however, seemed to take better than the keenest wit, and just then the omnibus drew up in front of an inn to change horses.
The driver unbuckled and threw down his reins, previous to descending to join the conductor, who was already off his perch. Several of the passengers got down, and after bidding Mary and me keep our places, Revitts prepared to descend, rather more slowly though, for his wedding garments were not commodious.
“Don’t drink anything, William dear,” whispered Mary.
“Not drink anything to-day?” he said, laughing. “Oh, come, that won’t do!”
He jumped off the step, and I saw him join the driver and conductor, who laughed and nodded, and, directly after, each man had a foaming pint of ale, which they held before putting to their lips, till Revitts came round to our side with a waiter bearing two glasses of wine and another pint of ale, the driver and conductor following.
“Oh, I don’t want anything,” said Mary, rather sharply.
“It’s only sherry wine, my dear,” said Revitts magnificently; and, as if to avoid remark, Mary stooped down and took the glasses, one being for me, Revitts taking his shiny pewter measure of ale.
“Here is long life and happiness to you, mum, and both on you,” said the driver, nodding in the most friendly way.
“Aforesaid,” exclaimed the conductor, “and a bit o’ chaff on’y meant as fun. Long life and a merry one to both on you. Shaver, same to you.”
I was the “Shaver,” and the healths being drunk in solemn silence, and I accommodated with a tumbler, and some water to my sherry, the driver mounted again, the conductor took out his key-bugle, the streets of pretty Richmond echoed to an old-fashioned air, and the four fresh but very dilapidated old screws that did the journey to Hampton Court and back to Richmond were shaken into a scrambling canter, so that in due time we reached the royal village, the chaff having been damped at Richmond with the ale, and ceasing afterwards to fly.
I’ve learned that a return omnibus left the “Toy” at seven o’clock, and then started for our peregrination of the palace and grounds. But somehow that pint or ale seemed to have completely changed poor Revitts. The late injury to his head had made him so weak there, that the ale acted upon him in the strangest manner. He was excited and irritable, and seemed to be brooding over the remarks he had heard upon the omnibus.
The gardens, of course, took our attention first, and there being few people about, and those of a holiday class, the gay costume of my companions ceased to excite notice, and I began to enjoy our trip. There were the great smooth gravel walks, the closely shaven lawns, the quaintly clipped shrubs, and old-fashioned flower beds to admire. The fountain in the centre made so much spray in the pleasant breeze that from one point of view there was a miniature rainbow, and when we walked down to the iron railings, and gazed at the long avenue of the Home Park, with its bright canal-like lake between, Mary was enraptured.
“Oh, do look, dear!” she exclaimed; “isn’t it ’evingly, William?”
“Yes,” he said stolidly, as he took hold of the railing with his white kid glove; “but what I say is this: Every man who enters into the state of wedlock ought fust to make sure as the woman he marries ain’t a big-a-mee.”
Here he unbuttoned his waistcoat, under the impression that it was his uniform coat, so as to get out his notebook, and then, awakening to his mistake, hastily buttoned it again.
“Haven’t got a pencil and a bit o’ paper, have you, Ant’ny?” he said.
“What are you talking about, William?” exclaimed Mary. “Don’t be so foolish. Now, take us and show us the oranges Master Antony,” she said.
This was on the strength of my having invested in a guidebook, though both my companions seemed to place themselves in my hands, and looked up to me as being crammed with a vast amount of knowledge about Cardinal Wolsey, Henry the Eighth, and those who had made the palace their home.
So I took them to see the Orangery, which Revitts, who seemed quite out of temper, looked down upon with contempt.
“Bah!” he exclaimed; “call them oranges! Why, I could go and buy twice as good in Grey’s Inn Lane for three a penny. That there woman, Ant’ny, what was her name?”
“What woman?”
“Her as committed big-a-mee?”
“Oh, do adone with such stuff, William dear. Now, Master Antony, what’s next?”
“I know,” said Revitts oracularly, “Mrs Simmons. I say she ought to have been examined before a police magistrate, and after proper adjournments, and the case regularly made up by the sergeant who had it in charge, she ought to have been committed for trial.”
“Oh, William dear, do adone,” cried Mary, clinging to his arm.
“Cent. Crim. Court – ”
“William!”
“Old Bailey – ”
“William dear!”
“Before a jury of her fellow-countrymen, or, – I say, Ant’ny ain’t that wrong?”
“What?” I said, laughing.
“Oh, it ain’t a thing to laugh at, my lad. It’s serious,” he said, taking off his hat and rubbing his head, exhaling, as he did so, a strong smell of hair-oil.
“What is serious?” I said.
“Why, that,” replied Revitts, “I ain’t sure, in a case like that, it oughtn’t to be a jury of matrons.”
“Oh do, pray, hurry him along, Master Antony,” cried Mary piteously. “Whatever is the matter with you to-day, William?”
“I’m married,” he said severely.
“And you don’t wish you weren’t. William, don’t say so, please,” exclaimed Mary pitifully.
“I don’t know,” said Revitts stolidly. “Go on, Ant’ny.”
He went on, himself, towards the Vinery, Mary following with me, and looking at me helplessly, as if asking what she should do.
The sight of the great bunches of grapes in such enormous numbers seemed to change the course of William Revitts’ thoughts, and we went on pretty comfortably for a time, Mary’s spirits rising, and her tongue going more freely, but there were no more weak, amiable smiles.
At last we entered the palace, and on seeing a light dragoon on duty, Revitts pulled himself together, looked severe, and marched by him, as if belonging to a kindred force; but he stopped to ask questions on the grand staircase, respecting the painted ceilings.
“Are them angels, Ant’ny?” he said.
“I suppose so,” I replied.
“Then I don’t believe it,” he said angrily. “Why, if such evidence was given at Clerkenwell, everybody in the police-court would go into fits, and the reporters would say in the papers, ‘Loud laughter, which was promptly repressed’! or, ‘Loud laughter, in which the magistrate joined.’”
“Whatever does he mean, Master Antony? I don’t know what’s come to him to-day,” whispered Mary.
“Why, that there,” said Revitts contemptuously. “Just fancy a witness coming and swearing as the angels in heaven played big fiddles, and things like the conductor blew coming down. The painter must have been a fool.”
He was better pleased with the arms and armour, stopping to carefully examine a fine old mace.
“Yes, that would give a fellow a awful wunner, Ant’ny,” he said; “but it would be heavy, and all them pikes and things ain’t necessary. A good truncheon properly handled can’t be beat.”
Old furniture, tapestry, and the like had their share of attention, but Revitts hurried me on when I stopped before some of the pictures, shaking his head and nudging me.
“I wonder at you, Ant’ny,” he whispered.
His face was scarlet, and he had not recovered his composure when we reached another room, where a series of portraits made me refer to my guide.
“Ladies of Charles the Second’s Court,” I said, “painted by Sir Peter Lely.”
“Then he ought to have been ashamed of himself,” said Revitts sharply; and drawing Mary’s arm through his, he hurried me off, evidently highly disapproving of the style of bodice then in vogue.
Chapter Thirty Nine.
William Revitts is Eccentric
The dinner we had at the inn was not a success. The waiters evidently settled that we were a wedding-party, and charged accordingly. Mary tried hard to keep Revitts from taking any more to drink; but he said it was necessary on a day like that, and ordered wine accordingly.
He drank slowly, and never once showed the slightest trace of intoxication; but the wine also produced a strange irritability, which made him angry, even to being fierce at times; and over and over again I saw the tears in poor Mary’s eyes.
Ever and again that bigamy case – real or imaginary – of which he had heard as we came down kept cropping up, and the more Mary tried to turn the conversation, the more eager he became to discuss it. The wedding-day, his wife, my remarks, all were forgotten or set aside, so that he might explain to us, with a vast amount of minutiae, how he would have got up such a case, beginning with the preliminary inquiries and ending with the culprit’s sentence.
We had it over the dinner, with the waiters in the room; we had it in culs-de-sac in the maze; and we had it over again in Bushy Park, as we sat under the shade of a great chestnut; after which Revitts lay down, seeming to drop asleep, and Mary said to me, piteously:
“I do believe, dear, as he’s took it into his head that I’ve committed big-a-mee?”
The words were uttered in a whisper, but they seemed to galvanise Revitts, who started up into a sitting posture, and exclaimed sharply:
“I don’t know as you ain’t. I never cross-examined you before we was married. But look here, Mary Revitts, it’s my dooty to tell you as what you say now will be took down, and may be used as evidence against you.”
After which oracular delivery he lay down and went off fast asleep, leaving Mary to weep in silence, and wish we had never come away from home.
I could not help joining her in the wish, though I did not say so, but did all I could to comfort her, as Mr Peter Rowle’s moral aphorisms about drink kept coming to my mind. Not that poor Revitts had, in the slightest degree, exceeded; and we joined in saying that it was all due to over-excitement consequent upon his illness.
“If I could only get him home again, poor boy, I wouldn’t, care,” said Mary; and we then comforted ourselves with the hope that he would be better when he awoke, and that then we would go to one of the many places offering, have a quiet cup of tea, which would be sure to do him good, and then go back home, quietly, inside the omnibus.
Revitts woke in about an hour, evidently much refreshed and better, but still he seemed strange. The tea, however, appeared to do him good, and in due time we mounted to our seats outside the omnibus, for he stubbornly refused to go within.
He did not say much on the return journey, but the bigamy case was evidently running in his head, from what he said; and once, in a whisper, poor Mary, who was half broken-hearted, confided to me now, sitting on her other side, that she felt sure poor William was regretting that they had been married.
“And I did so want to wait,” she said: “but he wouldn’t any longer.”
“Are you two whispering about that there case?” he cried sharply.
“No, William dear,” said Mary. “Do you feel better?”
“Better?” he said irritably. “There isn’t anything the matter with me.”
He turned away from her, and sat watching the side of the road, muttering every now and then to himself in a half-angry way, while poor Mary, in place of going into a tantrum, got hold of my hand between both hers, and held it very hard pressed against the front of her dress, where she was protected by a rigid piece of bone or steel. Every now and then, poor woman, she gave the hand a convulsive pressure, and a great sob in the act of escaping would feel like a throb against my arm.
So silent and self-contained did Revitts grow at last, that poor Mary began to pour forth in a whisper the burden of her trouble, while I sat wondering, and thinking what a curious thing this love must be, that could so completely transform people, and yet give them so much pain.
“It wasn’t my doing, Master Antony dear,” whispered Mary; “for I said it would be so much better for me to go back to service for a few years, and I always thought as hasty marriages meant misery. But William was so masterful, he said it was no use his getting on and improving his spelling, and getting his promotion, if he was always to live a weary, dreary bachelor – them was his very words, Master Antony; and now, above all times, was the one for us to get married.”
“He’s tired, Mary,” I said; “that’s all.”
“That’s all? Ah, my dear! it’s a very great all. He’s tired of me, that’s what he is; and I shall never forgive my self for being so rash.”
“But you have been engaged several years, haven’t you, Mary?”
“Yes, my dear; but years ain’t long when you’re busy and always hard at work. I dessay they’re a long time to gentlefolks as has to wait, but it never seemed long to me, and I’ve done a very rash thing; but I didn’t think the punishment was coming quite so soon.”
“Oh, nonsense, Mary; Bill will be all right again soon,” I said, as I could see, by the light of a gas-lamp we passed, that the poor disappointed woman had been crying till she had soaked and spoiled her showy bonnet-strings.
“No, my dear, I don’t think so; I feel as if it was all a punishment upon me, and that I ought to have waited till he was quite well and strong.”
It was of no avail to try and comfort, so I contented myself with sitting still and pressing poor Mary’s rough honest hand, while the horses rattled merrily along, and we gradually neared the great city.
I was obliged to own that if this was a specimen of a wedding-day, it was anything but a joyous and festive time; and it seemed to me that the day that had begun so unsatisfactorily was to be kept in character to the end.
For, before reaching Hammersmith, one of the horses shied and fell, and those at the pole went right upon it before the omnibus could be stopped, with the consequence that the vehicle was nearly upset, and a general shriek arose.
No harm, however, was done, and in a quarter of an hour we were once more under weigh, but Mary said, with a sigh and a rub of the back of my hand against the buttons of her dress, that it was a warning of worse things to come; and though very sorry for her, I could not help longing for our journey’s end.
“Just you come over here, Ant’ny,” said Revitts suddenly; and I had to change places and sit between him and his wife, of whom he seemed not to take the slightest notice.
“Are you better, Bill?” I said.
“Better?” he said sharply; “what do you mean by better? I’m all right.”
“That’s well,” I said.
“Of course it is. Now look here, Ant’ny, I’ve been thinking a good deal about that there big-a-mee as we come along, and I’ll just tell you what I should have done.”
I heard Mary give a gulp; but I thought it better not to try and thwart him, so prepared to listen.
“You see, Ant’ny,” he said, in a very didactic manner, “when a fellow is in the force, and is always taking up people and getting up cases, and attending at the police-courts, and Old Bailey sessions and coroners’ inquests, he picks up a deal of valuable information.”
“Of course, Bill.”
“He do; it stands to reason that he do. Well, then, I ought to know just two or three things.”
“Say two or three thousand, Bill.”
“Well,” he said, giving his head an official roll, as if settling it in his great stock, “we won’t say that. Let’s put it at ’undreds – two or three ’undreds. Now, if I’d had such a case as that big-a-mee in hand, I should have begun at the beginning. – Where are we now?” he said, after a pause, during which he had taken off his hat, and rubbed his head in a puzzled way.
“You were talking about the case,” I said, “and beginning at the beginning.”
“Don’t you try to be funny, young fellow,” he said severely. “I said, where are we now?”
“Just passing Hyde Park Corner, Bill.”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “Well, look here, my lad, there’s no doubt about one thing: women, take ’em all together, are – no, I won’t say a bad lot, but they’re weak – awful weak. I’ve seen a deal on ’em at the police-courts.”
“I suppose so,” I said, as I heard Mary give a low sigh.
“They’re not what they should be, Ant’ny, by a long chalk, and the way they’ll tell lies and deceive and cheat ’s about awful, that it is.”
“Some women are bad, I daresay,” I said, in a qualifying tone.
“Some?” he said, with a short, dry laugh; “it’s some as is good. Most women’s bad.”
“That’s a nice wholesale sort of a charge,” said a passenger behind him, in rather a huffy tone.
“You mind your own business,” said Revitts sharply. “I wasn’t talking to you;” and he spoke in such a fierce way that the man coloured, while Mary leaned forward, and looked imploringly at me, as much as to say, “Pray, pray, don’t let him quarrel.”
“I say it, and I ought to know,” said Revitts dictatorially, “that women’s a bad lot, and after hearing of that case this morning, I say as every woman afore she gets married ought to go through a reg’lar cross-examination, and produce sittifikits of character, and witnesses to show where she’s been, and what she’s been a-doing of for say the last seven years. If that was made law, we shouldn’t have poor fellows taken in and delooded, and then find out afterwards as it’s a case of big-a-mee, like we heerd of this morning. Why, as I was a-saying, Ant’ny, if I’d had that case in hand – eh? Oh, ah, yes, so it is. I’ll get down first. I didn’t think we was so near.”
For poor Bill’s plans about the bigamy case were brought to an end by the stopping of the omnibus in Piccadilly, and I gave a sigh of relief as we drew up in the bright, busy thoroughfare, after a look at the dark sea of shining lights that lay spread to the right over the Green Park and Westminster.
Carriages were passing, the pavement was thronged, and it being a fine night, all looked very bright and cheery after what had been rather a dull ride. Revitts got down, and I was about to follow, offering my hand to poor, sad Mary, when just as my back was turned, Revitts called out to me:
“Ant’ny, Ant’ny, look after my wife!” and as I turned sharply, I just caught sight of him turning the corner of the street, and he was gone.
Chapter Forty.
Hallett’s News
I was so staggered by this strange behaviour that I did not think of pursuit. Moreover, I was in the act of helping poor Mary to the ladder placed for her to descend, while she, poor thing, gave vent to a cutting sigh, and clung tightly to my hand.
As we stood together on the pavement, our eyes met, and there was something so piteous in the poor woman’s face, that it roused me to action, and catching her hand, I drew it through my arm.
“He has gone to get a glass of ale, Mary,” I said cheerfully. “Let’s see if we can see him.”
“No,” she said huskily; “he has gone: he has left me for good, Master Antony, and I’m a miserable, wretched woman.”
“Oh, nonsense,” I cried. “Come along. We shall find him.”
“No,” she said, in a decisive way; “he has gone. He’s been regretting it ever since this morning.”
“Don’t, pray; don’t cry, Mary,” I whispered in alarm, for I was afraid of a scene in the streets.
“No, my dear; don’t you be afraid of that,” she said, with a sigh. “I’ll try and bear it till we get home; but I won’t promise for any longer.”
“Don’t you be foolish, Mary,” I said sharply. “He has not left you. He’s too fond of you. Let’s see if he is in the bar.”
Mary sighed; but she allowed herself to be led where I pleased, and for the next half-hour we stood peering about in every likely place for the truant husband, but in vain; and at last, feeling that it was useless to search longer, I reluctantly turned to poor, patient, silent Mary, wondering greatly that she had not burst out into a “tantrum,” and said that we had better go home.
“Go where?” she said dolefully.
“Home,” I replied, “to your lodgings.”
“My lodgings, Master Antony,” she wailed. “I have no lodgings. I’m a poor, helpless, forsaken woman!”
“Oh, what nonsense, Mary,” I cried, hurrying her along; “don’t be so foolish!” – for I was in mortal terror of a violent burst of tears. “Come along, do. Here!” I shouted; “cab!” – and I sighed with relief as I got her inside, and gave the man directions to take us to Caroline Street, Pentonville.
But even in the cab Mary held up, striving hard, poor woman, to master her emotion – her pride, no doubt, helping her to preserve her calmness till she got to the happy home.
“I dare say we shall find him upstairs,” I said, after giving the cabman a shilling more than his fare; but though there was a light burning, and the landlady had spread the table, to make the place look welcome to the newly wedded pair, there was no sign of Revitts, and we neither of us, in our shame, dared to ask if he had been back.
On the contrary, we gladly got to the rooms – Revitts’ one having now expanded to three – and once there, Mary gasped out: “Master Antony dear, shut and lock the door – quick – quick!” I hastily did as she bade me, and as I turned, it was to see poor Mary tear off her bonnet and scarf, throw herself on the little couch, cover her face with her hands, and lie there crying and sobbing in a very passion of grief, misery, and shame.
