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It was all arranged that evening. Temperance said we must wait a week at least, for her corns to be cured, and the plum-colored silk made, which had been shut up in a band-box for three years. We started on our journey one bright morning in June, to go to Boston in a stagecoach, a hundred miles from Surrey, and thence to Rosville, forty miles further, by railroad.
From the moment of his first speaking to us his voice had connected itself with an association in my mind that I could not define; but now, all at once, a something sudden in his manner and a pleasant expression in his eyes recalled the gentleman in the stagecoach six years ago on the memorable day of my journey to Reading. I was certain it was he.
As I was mounting the stairs of the magnificent residence, I was startled by the sight of a face which was easily distinguishable even in this crowd of southern beauties. It was she, my unknown, the mysterious woman of the stagecoach, in fact, No. 1, of whom I spoke at the beginning of this narrative. I made my way toward her, extending my hand in greeting. She recognized me at once.
"Why don't we get a letter from Betsey?" was often asked by the fond parents, the loving sisters, and thoughtful little brothers; but no satisfactory answer could be given. The father would hasten to the city as often as "mail day" returned and watch for the ponderous stagecoach, but come back more moderately, with a shadow upon his countenance, and "No letter!"
He had exhausted the antique in America he thirsted to refresh his imagination in England. The Centennial Exhibition had done its deadly work Abbey and Parsons were dissatisfied they wanted to see more. Back of the stagecoach times lay the days of the castle. Back of the musket was the blunderbuss, and back of these were the portcullis, the moat, the spear and coats of mail.
But I forgot. I am in elegant France now, and not scurrying through the great South Pass and the Wind River Mountains, among antelopes and buffaloes and painted Indians on the warpath. It is not meet that I should make too disparaging comparisons between humdrum travel on a railway and that royal summer flight across a continent in a stagecoach.
When I left, they were holdin' 'em off. Fifty or sixty Indians!" Some of the saloon customers began to murmur their sympathy. But it was evident that they were none too eager to go to the aid of the ambushed stagecoach. Young Robbins covered with dust, his face scratched by cactus thorns, and with an arrow still hanging from his clothing saw the indifference in their eyes.
I had been much too long confined to the mast-head as long as a man might take to go from London to Bath in a stagecoach; I had lost all my meals; and these poor fellows, to save me from further punishment, had voluntarily exposed themselves to a flogging at the gangway by telling a barefaced falsehood in my defence.
Bert exclaimed, suddenly, "I saw an old lantern up under the seat in that stagecoach. Maybe it has some oil in it. I'll go back and see." "All right, son," replied the father, "we won't get far ahead of you." And while Bert made his way back to the wagon, the others bumped up and down through the fields that led to the vacant barn. There was no house within sight.
"When is the next time to be?" asked Brown, somewhat placated. "As soon as you please." "What is it?" "I will tell you. You remember that stagecoach full of passengers that fooled us some time since?" "I ought to." "I always meant to get on the track of that Melville, who spoiled our plot by overhearing us and giving us away to the passengers.
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