2. II.
MY ADVENTURE AT WENDOVER.
As though to indicate the adventurous character of
the career I was to run, a singular incident befell me
on this the first day of my journey.
But first I will attempt, reader, to present you with
an outline of myself as I thus went forth from the
family nest,—a callow fledgeling, scarce winged as yet,
—gazing around me eagerly on the fertile lands, on
the old minsters and castles, and the fields so soon to
be trampled.
The Edmund Cecil who thus rode to seek his fortune,
was a youth of twenty-three, slight, active, with
brown eyes, and hair of the same color; and he wore
a dark cloth riding-habit, chamois boots, a hat with a
black feather, and the old family sword clattering
against his hunting-spurs. A downy mustache and
royale, after the fashion of the time, set off the face,—
a face in which, I think, hope and happiness must have
shone; for the youth found something charming in the
idea of London, whither he was going, and bestrode
with delight his favorite hunter from the Cecil Court
stables. There were not many there now; the Cecils
were poor; but what was poverty to the young knight-errant?
Youth was stronger,—youth, the source of
nearly every joy; to return to which to-day, when my
pulse rarely throbs, I would give all the experience
and wisdom I have since acquired! Experience?
Wisdom? The tints of autumn are charming, and the
sunset is of solemn beauty; but spring is sweeter than
autumn, the dawn fresher than evening! My old age
is happy, and I am content with it. But oh for the
curls and roses, the eye and pulse, of twenty!
I passed Aylesbury, in Buckinghamshire, and slept at
the Cat and Bagpipes, an inn in the small town of Wendover.
I had just descended at sunrise, and was about
to resume my journey, when a traveling-carriage, coming
from the north and drawn by four spirited horses,
rattled up to the door, and through the window I
caught sight of an exquisite face. It was that of a
young lady apparently about twenty, her countenance
half concealed by a cloak and hood. I could
still discern its outlines, however; and its rare beauty
was unmistakable. The cheeks were rosy, the eyes
large and earnest, the lips mild and full of a charming
innocence and sweetness. Such was the occupant of
the coach,—a woman, evidently her attendant, being
the sole other person visible.
The coach stopped, and the driver leaped down.
“Fresh horses for London!” he cried to the portly
landlord, who had hastened out.
At the sound of that voice I started, and my whole
attention was now concentrated upon the speaker. He
was a mere coachman, at least in costume,—huge overall,
plain beaver, a handkerchief bundled around his
throat, and heavy top-boots. I went closer, and looked
under the low hat. The coachman was my brother
Harry, of the Queen's Guardsmen!
Our eyes met, and he turned quickly, endeavoring
to conceal his face. I began to laugh, and called out,—
“Don't you know me, Harry?”
Thereat the supposed coachman turned, and whispered,—
“'Ware hawks, Ned!—on secret service for her
majesty!”
He said no more, but went to the coach and seemed
to propose that the young lady should breakfast therein;
for, in compliance with a rapid order, food was brought,
and she ate hastily.
Meanwhile fresh horses were rapidly attached;
the postilion mounted; Harry cracked his whip with
the air of a born Jehu, and the carriage set off, the
horses going at a gallop.
Harry had carefully avoided a private interview. He
had simply whispered, in passing me,—
“I will see you in London.”
Ten minutes afterwards, the carriage had disappeared
over the crest of a hill, leaving me standing in the
middle of the street gazing after it.
I hastened to follow; but it was half an hour before
I got to saddle. I then rode on rapidly, but did not
catch up with the carriage. It had disappeared like
a dream,—a visionary equipage drawn by phantom
horses.
