In which another old friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and to some purpose T HE NIGHT , fraught with so much bitterness to one poor soul, had given place to a bright and cloudless summer morning, when a north-country mail-coach traversed, with cheerful noise, the yet silent streets of Islington, and, giving brisk note of its approach with the lively winding of the guard's horn, clattered onward to its halting-place hard by the Post Office.
The only outside passenger was a burly, honest-looking countryman on the box, who, with his eyes fixed upon the dome of St Paul's Cathedral, appeared so wrapt in admiring wonder, as to be quite insensible to all the bustle of getting out the bags and parcels, until one of the coach windows being let sharply down, he looked round, and encountered a pretty female face which was just then thrust out.
`See there, lass!' bawled the countryman, pointing towards the object of his admiration. `There be Paul's Church. Ecod, he be a soizable 'un, he be.'
`Goodness, John! I shouldn't have thought it could have been half the size. What a monster!'
`Monsther! -- Ye're aboot right there, I reckon, Mrs Browdie,' said the countryman good-humouredly, as he came slowly down in his huge top-coat;`and wa'at dost thee tak you place to be noo -- thot 'un owor the wa'?
Ye'd never coom near it 'gin you thried for twolve moonths. It's na' but a Poast Office! Ho! ho! They need to charge for dooble latthers. A Poast Office! Wa'at dost thee think o' thot? Ecod, if thot's on'y a Poast Office, I'd loike to see where the Lord Mayor o' Lunnun lives.'
So saying, John Browdie -- for he it was -- opened the coach-door, and tapping Mrs Browdie, late Miss Price, on the cheek as he looked in, burst into a boisterous fit of laughter.
`Weel!' said John. `Dang my bootuns if she bean't asleep agean!'
`She's been asleep all night, and was, all yesterday, except for a minute or two now and then,' replied John Browdie's choice, `and I was very sorry when she woke, for she has been so cross!'
The subject of these remarks was a slumbering figure, so muffled in shawl and cloak, that it would have been matter of impossibility to guess at its sex but for a brown beaver bonnet and green veil which ornamented the head, and which, having been crushed and flattened, for two hundred and fifty miles, in that particular angle of the vehicle from which the lady's snores now proceeded, presented an appearance sufficiently ludicrous to have moved less risible muscles than those of John Browdie's ruddy face.
`Hollo!' cried John, twitching one end of the dragged veil. `Coom, wakken oop, will 'ee?'
After several burrowings into the old corner, and many exclamations of impatience and fatigue, the figure struggled into a sitting posture;and there, under a mass of crumpled beaver, and surrounded by a semicircle of blue curl-papers, were the delicate features of Miss Fanny Squeers.
`Oh, 'Tilda!' cried Miss Squeers, `how you have been kicking of me through this blessed night!'
`Well, I do like that,' replied her friend, laughing, `when you have had nearly the whole coach to yourself.'
`Don't deny it, 'Tilda,' said Miss Squeers, impressively, `because you have, and it's no use to go attempting to say you haven't. You mightn't have known it in your sleep, 'Tilda, but I haven't closed my eyes for a single wink, and so I think I am to be believed.'
With which reply, Miss Squeers adjusted the bonnet and veil, which nothing but supernatural interference and an utter suspension of nature's laws could have reduced to any shape or form; and evidently flattering herself that it looked uncommonly neat, brushed off the sandwich-crumbs and bits of biscuit which had accumulated in her lap, and availing herself of John Browdie's proffered arm, descended from the coach.
`Noo,' said John, when a hackney coach had been called, and the ladies and the luggage hurried in, `gang to the Sarah's Head, mun.'
`To the vere ?' cried the coachman.
`Lawk, Mr Browdie!' interrupted Miss Squeers. `The idea! Saracen's Head.'
`Sure-ly,' said John, `I know'd it was something aboot Sarah's Son's Head. Dost thou know thot?'
`Oh, ah -- I know that,' replied the coachman gruffly, as he banged the door.
`'Tilda, dear -- really,' remonstrated Miss Squeers, `we shall be taken for I don't know what.'
`Let them tak us as they foind us,' said John Browdie; `we dean't come to Lunnun to do nought but 'joy oursel, do we?'
`I hope not, Mr Browdie,' replied Miss Squeers, looking singularly dismal.
`Well, then,' said John, `it's no matther. I've only been a married man fower days, 'account of poor old feyther deein, and puttin' it off.
Here be a weddin' party -- broide and broide's-maid, and the groom -- if a mun dean't 'joy himsel noo, when ought he, hey? Drat it all, thot's what I want to know.'
So, in order that he might begin to enjoy himself at once, and lose no time, Mr Browdie gave his wife a hearty kiss, and succeeded in wresting another from Miss Squeers, after a maidenly resistance of scratching and struggling on the part of that young lady, which was not quite over when they reached the Saracen's Head.
Here, the party straightway retired to rest; the refreshment of sleep being necessary after so long a journey; and here they met again about noon, to a substantial breakfast, spread by direction of Mr John Browdie, in a small private room upstairs commanding an uninterrupted view of the stables.
