Gibbous House 9

By morning, and after a change of horses which could only have coincided with the pitifully short period of slumber allowed to me, we had reached Stevenage. Moved by a hunger so great as to overcome the immobility of my frozen limbs, I descended gingerly to terra firma. My movements were as stiff and jerky as those of one of the Automata so beloved of the French. Despite my debilitation, I was fleeter in entering the inn than my fellow passengers. I took a seat in the corner the better to view my travelling companions. The inn itself, the Roebuck, had once striven bravely for a gentility quite beyond it. No longer: the grime and dirt of myriad travellers had soiled what upholstery and swagging that was not marred by tearing and inexpert patching. Mayhap in former times, a century ago in the optimism of the turnpiking of the high road, the accoutrements of the inn had been tended more carefully. But even in the decade since I had last travelled the Great North Road, it seemed that such places had sunk still further. It was by no means a question of squalor, just the outward manifestation of indifference in the face of the inevitable.

Astonishment -and nothing less – was my reaction when I saw the young lady enter with the Reverend, her hand on his arm. She appeared a little pale in contrast to the high colour of the cleric’s cheeks and bulbous nose. They conversed in whispers, but the woman threw me a glance as like to have been given over a fan in a Hampstead drawing room. They took their seats to await the breaking of their fast. Two gentlemen of the mercantile class followed, so alike in demeanour,dress and deportment as to have been twins of the kind seen in a circus.

Two others came in, clearly of deep acquaintance or overcome by the instant and superficially profound cameraderie of travellers. The contrast between the two could hardly have been greater. Of an age, one struck a remarkably healthy figure, from the soles of his high-topped boots to the astounding whiskers via his proudly bantam chest; if his clothes were not the height of fashion, they had been costly once; his boon companion, seemed sickly in comparison, possessed of a narrow trunk and the high forehead of an aesthete. His clothes too, differed greatly, being at once new and shabby worn with the indifference of one with his mind on nobler things. He carried a notebook close to his chest. Their conversation was convivial and loud.

Our repast consisted of a hearty broth and bread that needs must be submerged in it, else we should have been the poorer a tooth or two afterward. Hungry and cold as I was I could not enjoy my victuals. The aesthete was partaking little of his own, being engaged in staring closely at myself, speaking to the large fellow from the side of his mouth and writing in his notebook from time to time. When his companion brayed a laugh offensive in most company, I could take no more. Striding to their table, I enquired of them:

‘Are you mocking me, sirs?’

‘By no means, sir. By no means.’ Replied the bluff fellow.

The aesthete made no reply, merely stood and offered his hand:

‘John Huffam, sir. It is an undoubted pleasure to meet you.’