The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful evening, when they arrived at a point where the road made a sharp turn and struck across a common. On the border of this common, and close to the hedge which divided it from the cultivated fields, a caravan was drawn up to rest; upon which, by reason of its situation, they came so suddenly that they could not have avoided it if they would.
It was not a shabby, dingy, dusty cart, but a smart little house upon wheels, with white dimity curtains festooning the windows, and window-shutters of green picked out with panels of a staring red, in which happily-contrasted colours the whole concern shone brilliant. Neither was it a poor caravan drawn by a single donkey or emaciated horse, for a pair of horses in pretty good condition were released from the shafts and grazing on the frowzy grass. Neither was it a gipsy caravan, for at the open door (graced with a bright brass knocker) sat a christian lady, stout and comfortable to look upon, who wore a large bonnet trembling with bows. And that it was not an unprovided or destitute caravan was clear from this lady’s occupation, which was the very pleasant and refreshing one of taking tea. The tea-things, including a bottle of rather suspicious character and a cold knuckle of ham, were set forth upon a drum, covered with a white napkin; and there, as if at the most convenient roundtable in all the world, sat this roving lady, taking her tea and enjoying the prospect.
It happened that at that moment the lady of the caravan had her cup (which, that everything about her might be of a stout and comfortable kind, was a breakfast cup) to her lips, and that having her eyes lifted to the sky in her enjoyment of the full flavour of the tea, not unmingled possibly with just the slightest dash or gleam of something out of the suspicious bottle—but this is mere speculation and not distinct matter of history—it happened that being thus agreeably engaged, she did not see the travellers when they first came up. It was not until she was in the act of setting down the cup, and drawing a long breath after the exertion of causing its contents to disappear, that the lady of the caravan beheld an old man and a young child walking slowly by, and glancing at her proceedings with eyes of modest but hungry admiration.
“Hey!” cried the lady of the caravan, scooping the crumbs out of her lap and swallowing the same before wiping her lips. “Yes, to be sure.—Who won the Helter-Skelter Plate, child?”
“Won what, ma’am?” asked Nell.
“The Helter-Skelter Plate at the races, child—the plate that was run for on the second day.”
“On the second day, ma’am?”
“Second day! Yes, second day,” repeated the lady with an air of impatience. “Can’t you say who won the Helter-Skelter Plate when you’re asked the question civilly?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Don’t know!” repeated the lady of the caravan; “why, you were there. I saw you with my own eyes.”
Nell was not a little alarmed to hear this, supposing that the lady might be intimately acquainted with the firm of Short and Codlin; but what followed tended to reassure her.
“And very sorry I was,” said the lady of the caravan, “to see you in company with a Punch; a low, practical, wulgar wretch, that people should scorn to look at.”
“I was not there by choice,” returned the child; “we didn’t know our way, and the two men were very kind to us, and let us travel with them. Do you—do you know them, ma’am?”
“Know ’em, child!” cried the lady of the caravan in a sort of shriek. “Know them! But you’re young and inexperienced, and that’s your excuse for asking sich a question. Do I look as if I know’d ’em, does the caravan look as if it know’d ’em?”
“No, ma’am, no” said the child, fearing she had committed some grievous fault. “I beg your pardon.”
It was granted immediately, though the lady still appeared much ruffled and discomposed by the degrading supposition. The child then explained that they had left the races on the first day, and were travelling to the next town on that road, where they purposed to spend the night. As the countenance of the stout lady began to clear up, she ventured to inquire how far it was. The reply—which the stout lady did not come to, until she had thoroughly explained that she went to the races on the first day in a gig, and as an expedition of pleasure, and that her presence there had no connection with any matters of business or profit—was, that the town was eight miles off.
This discouraging information a little dashed the child, who could scarcely repress a tear as she glanced along the darkening road. Her grandfather made no complaint, but he sighed heavily as he leaned upon his staff, and vainly tried to pierce the dusty distance.
The lady of the caravan was in the act of gathering her tea equipage together preparatory to clearing the table, but noting the child’s anxious manner she hesitated and stopped. The child curtseyed, thanked her for her information, and giving her hand to the old man had already got some fifty yards or so, away, when the lady of the caravan called to her to return.
“Come nearer, nearer still”—said she, beckoning to her to ascend the steps. “Are you hungry, child?”
“Not very, but we are tired, and it’s—it is a long way”—
“Well, hungry or not, you had better have some tea,” rejoined her new acquaintance. “I suppose you are agreeable to that, old gentleman?”
The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat and thanked her. The lady of
