CHAPTER VI

Quite at Home

The day had brightened very much, and still brightened as we went westward.  We went our way through the sunshine and the fresh air, wondering more and more at the extent of the streets, the brilliancy of the shops, the great traffic, and the crowds of people whom the pleasanter weather seemed to have brought out like many-coloured flowers.  By and by we began to leave the wonderful city and to proceed through suburbs which, of themselves, would have made a pretty large town in my eyes; and at last we got into a real country road again, with windmills, rick-yards, milestones, farmers’ waggons, scents of old hay, swinging signs, and horse troughs:  trees, fields, and hedge-rows.  It was delightful to see the green landscape before us and the immense metropolis behind; and when a waggon with a train of beautiful horses, furnished with red trappings and clear-sounding bells, came by us with its music, I believe we could all three have sung to the bells, so cheerful were the influences around.

“The whole road has been reminding me of my namesake Whittington,” said Richard, “and that waggon is the finishing touch.  Halloa!  What’s the matter?”

We had stopped, and the waggon had stopped too.  Its music changed as the horses came to a stand, and subsided to a gentle tinkling, except when a horse tossed his head or shook himself and sprinkled off a little shower of bell-ringing.

“Our postilion is looking after the waggoner,” said Richard, “and the waggoner is coming back after us.  Good day, friend!” The waggoner was at our coach-door.  “Why, here’s an extraordinary thing!” added Richard, looking closely at the man.  “He has got your name, Ada, in his hat!”

He had all our names in his hat.  Tucked within the band were three small notes—­one addressed to Ada, one to Richard, one to me.  These the waggoner delivered to each of us respectively, reading the name aloud first.  In answer to Richard’s inquiry from whom they came, he briefly answered, “Master, sir, if you please”; and putting on his hat again (which was like a soft bowl), cracked his whip, re-awakened his music, and went melodiously away.

“Is that Mr. Jarndyce’s waggon?” said Richard, calling to our post-boy.

“Yes, sir,” he replied.  “Going to London.”

We opened the notes.  Each was a counterpart of the other and contained these words in a solid, plain hand.

“I look forward, my dear, to our meeting easily and without constraint on either side.  I therefore have to propose that we meet as old friends and take the past for granted.  It will be a relief to you possibly, and to me certainly, and so my love to you.

“John Jarndyce”

I had perhaps less reason to be surprised than either of my companions, having never yet enjoyed an opportunity of thanking one who had been my benefactor and sole earthly dependence through so many years.  I had not considered how I could thank him, my gratitude lying too deep in my heart for that; but I now began to consider how I could meet him without thanking him, and felt it would be very difficult indeed.