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The Broad Highway

by Jeffery Farnol · English · Gutenberg #5257 · 833,620 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Broad Highway

Author: Jeffery Farnol


        
Release date: March 1, 2004 [eBook #5257]
                Most recently updated: July 9, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5257

Credits: Produced by Polly Stratton and Andrew Sly


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROAD HIGHWAY ***




The Broad Highway

by Jeffery Farnol




  To
  Shirley Byron Jevons
  The friend of my boyish ambitions
  This book is dedicated
  As a mark of my gratitude, affection and esteem

  J. F.





ANTE SCRIPTUM


As I sat of an early summer morning in the shade of a tree, eating
fried bacon with a tinker, the thought came to me that I might some day
write a book of my own: a book that should treat of the roads and
by-roads, of trees, and wind in lonely places, of rapid brooks and lazy
streams, of the glory of dawn, the glow of evening, and the purple
solitude of night; a book of wayside inns and sequestered taverns; a
book of country things and ways and people.  And the thought pleased me
much.

"But," objected the Tinker, for I had spoken my thought aloud, "trees
and suchlike don't sound very interestin'—leastways—not in a book,
for after all a tree's only a tree and an inn, an inn; no, you must
tell of other things as well."

"Yes," said I, a little damped, "to be sure there is a highwayman—"

"Come, that's better!" said the Tinker encouragingly.

"Then," I went on, ticking off each item on my fingers, "come Tom
Cragg, the pugilist—"

"Better and better!" nodded the Tinker.

"—a one-legged soldier of the Peninsula, an adventure at a lonely
tavern, a flight through woods at midnight pursued by desperate
villains, and—a most extraordinary tinker.  So far so good, I think,
and it all sounds adventurous enough."

"What!" cried the Tinker.  "Would you put me in your book then?"

"Assuredly."

"Why then," said the Tinker, "it's true I mends kettles, sharpens
scissors and such, but I likewise peddles books an' nov-els, an' what's
more I reads 'em—so, if you must put me in your book, you might call
me a literary cove."

"A literary cove?" said I.

"Ah!" said the Tinker, "it sounds better—a sight better—besides, I
never read a nov-el with a tinker in it as I remember; they're
generally dooks, or earls, or barronites—nobody wants to read about a
tinker."

"That all depends," said I; "a tinker may be much more interesting than
an earl or even a duke."

The Tinker examined the piece of bacon upon his knifepoint with a cold
and disparaging eye.

"I've read a good many nov-els in my time," said he, shaking his head,
"and I knows what I'm talking of;" here he bolted the morsel of bacon
with much apparent relish.  "I've made love to duchesses, run off with
heiresses, and fought dooels—ah! by the hundred—all between the
covers of some book or other and enjoyed it uncommonly well—especially
the dooels.  If you can get a little blood into your book, so much the
better; there's nothing like a little blood in a book—not a great
deal, but just enough to give it a 'tang,' so to speak; if you could
kill your highwayman to start with it would be a very good beginning to
your story."

"I could do that, certainly," said I, "but it would not be according to
fact."

"So much the better," said the Tinker; "who wants facts in a nov-el?"

"Hum!" said I.

"And then again—"

"What more?" I inquired.

"Love!" said the Tinker, wiping his knife-blade on the leg of his
breeches.

"Love?" I repeated.

"And plenty of it," said the Tinker.

"I'm afraid that is impossible," said I, after a moment's thought.

"How impossible?"

"Because I know nothing about love."

"That's a pity," said the Tinker.

"Under the circumstances, it is," said I.

"Not a doubt of it," said the Tinker, beginning to scrub out the
frying-pan with a handful of grass, "though to be sure you might learn;
you're young enough."

"Yes, I might learn," said I; "who knows?"

"Ah! who knows?" said the Tinker.  And after he had cleansed the pan to
his satisfaction, he turned to me with dexter finger upraised and brow
of heavy portent.  "Young fellow," said he, "no man can write a good
nov-el without he knows summat about love; it aren't to be expected—so
the sooner you do learn, the better."

"Hum!" said I.

"And then, as I said afore and I say it again, they wants love in a
book nowadays, and wot's more they will have it."

"They?" said I.

"The folk as will read your book—after it is written."

"Ah! to be sure," said I, somewhat taken aback; "I had forgotten them."

"Forgotten them?" repeated the Tinker, staring.

"Forgotten that people might went to read it—after it is written."

"But," said the Tinker, rubbing his nose hard, "books are written for
people to read, aren't they?"

"Not always," said I.

Hereupon the Tinker rubbed his nose harder than ever.

"Many of the world's greatest books, those masterpieces which have
lived and shall live on forever, were written (as I believe) for the
pure love of writing them."

"Oh!" said the Tinker.

"Yes," said I, warming to my theme, "and with little or no idea of the
eyes of those unborn generations which were to read and marvel at them;
hence it is we get those sublime thoughts untrammelled by passing
tastes and fashions, unbounded by narrow creed or popular prejudice."

"Ah?" said the Tinker.

"Many a great writer has been spoiled by fashion and success, for, so
soon as he begins to think upon his public, how best to please and hold
their fancy (which is ever the most fickle of mundane things)
straightway Genius spreads abroad his pinions and leaves him in the
mire."

"Poor cove!" said the Tinker.  "Young man, you smile, I think?"

"No," said I.

"Well, supposing a writer never had no gen'us—how then?"

"Why then," said I, "he should never dare to write at all."

"Young fellow," said the Tinker, glancing at me from the corners of his
eyes, "are you sure you are a gen'us then?"

Now when my companion said this I fell silent, for the very sufficient
reason that I found nothing to say.

"Lord love you!" said he at last, seeing me thus "hipped"—"don't be
downhearted—don't be dashed afore you begin; we can't all be
gen'uses—it aren't to be expected, but some on us is a good deal
better than most and that's something arter all.  As for your book, wot
you have to do is to give 'em a little blood now and then with plenty
of love and you can't go far wrong!"

Now whether the Tinker's theory for the writing of a good novel be
right or wrong, I will not presume to say.  But in this book that lies
before you, though you shall read, if you choose, of country things and
ways and people, yet, because that part of my life herein recorded was
a something hard, rough life, you shall read also of blood; and,
because I came, in the end, to love very greatly, so shall you read of
love.

Wherefore, then, I am emboldened to hope that when you shall have
turned the last page and closed this book, you shall do so with a sigh.

                                         P. V.

LONDON.





BOOK ONE




CHAPTER I

CHIEFLY CONCERNING MY UNCLE'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT


"'And to my nephew, Maurice Vibart, I bequeath the sum of twenty
thousand pounds in the fervent hope that it may help him to the devil
within the year, or as soon after as may be.'"

Here Mr. Grainger paused in his reading to glance up over the rim of
his spectacles, while Sir Richard lay back in his chair and laughed
loudly.  "Gad!" he exclaimed, still chuckling, "I'd give a hundred
pounds if he could have been present to hear that," and the baronet
went off into another roar of merriment.

Mr. Grainger, on the other hand, dignified and solemn, coughed a short,
dry cough behind his hand.

"Help him to the devil within the year," repeated Sir Richard, still
chuckling.

"Pray proceed, sir," said I, motioning towards the will....  But
instead of complying, Mr. Grainger laid down the parchment, and
removing his spectacles, began to polish them with a large silk
handkerchief.

"You are, I believe, unacquainted with your cousin, Sir Maurice
Vibart?" he inquired.

"I have never seen him," said I; "all my life has been passed either at
school or the university, but I have frequently heard mention of him,
nevertheless."

"Egad!" cried Sir Richard, "who hasn't heard of Buck Vibart—beat Ted
Jarraway of Swansea in five rounds—drove coach and four down
Whitehall—on sidewalk—ran away with a French marquise while but a boy
of twenty, and shot her husband into the bargain.  Devilish celebrated
figure in 'sporting circles,' friend of the Prince Regent—"

"So I understand," said I.

"Altogether as complete a young blackguard as ever swaggered down St.
James's."  Having said which, Sir Richard crossed his legs and inhaled
a pinch of snuff.

"Twenty thousand pounds is a very handsome sum," remarked Mr. Grainger
ponderously and as though more with the intention of saying something
rather than remain silent just then.

"Indeed it is," said I, "and might help a man to the devil as
comfortably as need be, but—"

"Though," pursued Mr. Grainger, "much below his expectations and sadly
inadequate to his present needs, I fear."

"That is most unfortunate," said I, "but—"

"His debts," said Mr. Grainger, busy at his spectacles again, "his
debts are very heavy, I believe."

"Then doubtless some arrangement can be made to—but continue your
reading, I beg," said I.

Mr. Grainger repeated his short, dry cough and taking up the will,
slowly and almost as though unwillingly, cleared his throat and began
as follows:

"'Furthermore, to my nephew, Peter Vibart, cousin to the above, I will
and bequeath my blessing and the sum of ten guineas in cash, wherewith
to purchase a copy of Zeno or any other of the stoic philosophers he
may prefer.'"

Again Mr. Grainger laid down the will, and again he regarded me over
the rim of his spectacles.

"Good God!" cried Sir Richard, leaping to his feet, "the man must have
been mad.  Ten guineas—why, it's an insult—damme!—it's an
insult—you'll never take it of course, Peter."

"On the contrary, sir," said I.

"But—ten guineas!" bellowed the baronet; "on my soul now, George was a
cold-blooded fish, but I didn't think even he was capable of such a
despicable trick—no—curse me if I did!  Why, it would have been
kinder to have left you nothing at all—but it was like George—bitter
to the end—ten guineas!"

"Is ten guineas," said I, "and when one comes to think of it, much may
be done with ten guineas."

Sir Richard grew purple in the face, but before he could speak, Mr.
Grainger began to read again:

"'Moreover, the sum of five hundred thousand pounds, now vested in the
funds, shall be paid to either Maurice or Peter Vibart aforesaid, if
either shall, within one calendar year, become the husband of the Lady
Sophia Sefton of Cambourne.'"

"Good God!" exclaimed Sir Richard.

"'Failing which,'" read Mr. Grainger, "'the said sum, namely, five
hundred thousand pounds, shall be bestowed upon such charity or
charities as the trustees shall select.  Signed by me, this tenth day
of April, eighteen hundred and—, GEORGE VIBART.  Duly witnessed by
ADAM PENFLEET, MARTHA TRENT."'

Here Mr. Grainger's voice stopped, and I remember, in the silence that
followed, the parchment crackled very loudly as he folded it precisely
and laid it on the table before him.  I remember also that Sir Richard
was swearing vehemently under his breath as he paced to and fro between
me and the window.

"And that is all?" I inquired at last.

"That," said Mr. Grainger, not looking at me now, "is all."

"The Lady Sophia," murmured Sir Richard as if to himself, "the Lady
Sophia!"  And then, stopping suddenly before me in his walk, "Oh,
Peter!" said he, clapping his hand down upon my shoulder, "oh, Peter,
that settles it; you're done for, boy—a crueller will was never made."

"Marriage!" said I to myself.  "Hum!"

"A damnable iniquity," exclaimed Sir Richard, striding up and down the
room again.

"The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne!" said I, rubbing my chin.

"Why, that's just it," roared the baronet; "she's a reigning
toast—most famous beauty in the country, London's mad over her—she
can pick and choose from all the finest gentlemen in England.  Oh, it's
'good-by' to all your hopes of the inheritance, Peter, and that's the
devil of it."

"Sir, I fail to see your argument," said I.

"What?" cried Sir Richard, facing round on me, "d'you think you'd have
a chance with her then?"

"Why not?"

"Without friends, position, or money?  Pish, boy! don't I tell you that
every buck and dandy—every mincing macaroni in the three kingdoms
would give his very legs to marry her—either for her beauty or her
fortune?" spluttered the baronet.  "And let me inform you further that
she's devilish high and haughty with it all—they do say she even
rebuffed the Prince Regent himself."

"But then, sir, I consider myself a better man than the Prince Regent,"
said I.

Sir Richard sank into the nearest chair and stared at me openmouthed.

"Sir," I continued, "you doubtless set me down as an egoist of egoists.
I freely confess it; so are you, so is Mr. Grainger yonder, so are we
all of us egoists in thinking ourselves as good as some few of our
neighbors and better than a great many."

"Deuce take me!" said Sir Richard.

"Referring to the Lady Sophia, I have heard that she once galloped her
horse up the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral—"

"And down again, Peter," added Sir Richard.

"Also she is said to be possessed of a temper," I continued, "and is
above the average height, I believe, and I have a natural antipathy to
termagants, more especially tall ones."

"Termagant!" cried Sir Richard.  "Why, she's the handsomest woman in
London, boy.  She's none of your milk-and-watery, meek-mouthed
misses—curse me, no!  She's all fire and blood and high mettle—a
woman, sir—glorious—divine—damme, sir, a black-browed goddess—a
positive plum!"

"Sir Richard," said I, "should I ever contemplate marriage, which is
most improbable, my wife must be sweet and shy, gentle-eyed and soft of
voice, instead of your bold, strong-armed, horse-galloping creature;
above all, she must be sweet and clinging—"

"Sweet and sticky, oh, the devil!  Hark to the boy, Grainger," cried
Sir Richard, "hark to him—and one glance of the glorious Sefton's
bright eyes—one glance only, Grainger, and he'd be at her feet—on his
knees—on his confounded knees, sir!"

"The question is, how do you propose to maintain yourself in the
future?" said Mr. Grainger at this point; "life under your altered
fortunes must prove necessarily hard, Mr. Peter."

"And yet, sir," I answered, "a fortune with a wife tagged on to it must
prove a very mixed blessing after all; and then again, there may be a
certain amount of satisfaction in stepping into a dead man's shoes, but
I, very foolishly, perhaps, have a hankering for shoes of my own.
Surely there must be some position in life that I am competent to fill,
some position that would maintain me honorably and well; I flatter
myself that my years at Oxford were not altogether barren of result—"

"By no means," put in Sir Richard; "you won the High Jump, I believe?"

"Sir, I did," said I; "also 'Throwing the Hammer.'"

"And spent two thousand pounds per annum?" said Sir Richard.

"Sir, I did, but between whiles managed to do fairly well in the
Tripos, to finish a new and original translation of Quintilian, another
of Petronius Arbiter and also a literal rendering into the English of
the Memoirs of the Sieur de Brantome."

"For none of which you have hitherto found a publisher?" inquired Mr.
Grainger.

"Not as yet," said I, "but I have great hopes of my Brantome, as you
are probably aware this is the first time he has ever been translated
into the English."

"Hum!" said Sir Richard, "ha!—and in the meantime what do you intend
to do?"

"On that head I have as yet come to no definite conclusion, sir," I
answered.

"I have been wondering," began Mr. Grainger, somewhat diffidently, "if
you would care to accept a position in my office.  To be sure the
remuneration would be small at first and quite insignificant in
comparison to the income you have been in the receipt of."

"But it would have been money earned," said I, "which is infinitely
preferable to that for which we never turn a hand—at least, I think
so."

"Then you accept?"

"No, sir," said I, "though I am grateful to you, and thank you most
sincerely for your offer, yet I have never felt the least inclination
to the practice of law; where there is no interest one's work must
necessarily suffer, and I have no desire that your business should be
injured by any carelessness of mine."

"What do you think of a private tutorship?"

"It would suit me above all things were it not for the fact that the
genus 'Boy' is the most aggravating of all animals, and that I am
conscious of a certain shortness of temper at times, which might result
in pain to my pupil, loss of dignity to myself, and general
unpleasantness to all concerned—otherwise a private tutorship would
suit most admirably."

Here Sir Richard took another pinch of snuff and sat frowning up at the
ceiling, while Mr. Grainger began tying up that document which had so
altered my prospects.  As for me, I crossed to the window and stood
staring out at the evening.  Everywhere were trees tinted by the rosy
glow of sunset, trees that stirred sleepily in the gentle wind, and far
away I could see that famous highway, built and paved for the march of
Roman Legions, winding away to where it vanished over distant Shooter's
Hill.

"And pray," said Sir Richard, still frowning at the ceiling, "what do
you propose to do with yourself?"

Now, as I looked out upon this fair evening, I became, of a sudden,
possessed of an overmastering desire, a great longing for field and
meadow and hedgerow, for wood and coppice and shady stream, for
sequestered inns and wide, wind-swept heaths, and ever the broad
highway in front.  Thus I answered Sir Richard's question
unhesitatingly, and without turning from the window:

"I shall go, sir, on a walking tour through Kent and Surrey into
Devonshire, and thence probably to Cornwall."

"And with a miserable ten guineas in your pocket?
Preposterous—absurd!" retorted Sir Richard.

"On the contrary, sir," said I, "the more I ponder the project, the
more enamored of it I become."

"And when your money is all gone—how then?"

"I shall turn my hand to some useful employment," said I; "digging, for
instance."

"Digging!" ejaculated Sir Richard, "and you a scholar—and what is
more, a gentleman!"

"My dear Sir Richard," said I, "that all depends upon how you would
define a gentleman.  To me he would appear, of late years, to have
degenerated into a creature whose chief end in life is to spend money
he has never earned, to reproduce his species with a deplorable
frequency and promiscuity, habitually to drink more than is good for
him, and, between whiles, to fill in his time hunting, cock-fighting,
or watching entranced while two men pound each other unrecognizable in
the prize ring.  Occasionally he has the good taste to break his neck
in the hunting field, or get himself gloriously shot in a duel, but the
generality live on to a good old age, turn their attention to matters
political and, following the dictates of their class, damn reform with
a whole-hearted fervor equalled only by their rancor."

"Deuce take me!" ejaculated Sir Richard feebly, while Mr. Grainger
buried his face in his pocket-handkerchief.

"To my mind," I ended, "the man who sweats over a spade or follows the
tail of a plough is far nobler and higher in the Scheme of Things than
any of your young 'bloods' driving his coach and four to Brighton to
the danger of all and sundry."

Sir Richard slowly got up out of his chair, staring at me open-mouthed.
"Good God!" he exclaimed at last, "the boy's a Revolutionary."

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders, but, before I could speak, Mr.
Grainger interposed, sedate and solemn as usual:

"Referring to your proposed tour, Mr. Peter, when do you expect to
start?"

"Early to-morrow morning, sir."

"I will not attempt to dissuade you, well knowing the difficulty," said
he, with a faint smile, "but a letter addressed to me at Lincoln's Inn
will always find me and receive my most earnest attention."  So saying,
he rose, bowed, and having shaken my hand, left the room, closing the
door behind him.

"Peter," exclaimed the baronet, striding up and down, "Peter, you are a
fool, sir, a hot-headed, self-sufficient, pragmatical young fool, sir,
curse me!"

"I am sorry you should think so," I answered.

"And," he continued, regarding me with a defiant eye, "I shall expect
you to draw upon me for any sum that—that you may require for the
present—friendship's sake—boyhood and—and all that sort of thing,
and—er—oh, damme, you understand, Peter?"

"Sir Richard," said I, grasping his unwilling hand, "I—I thank you
from the bottom of my heart."

"Pooh, Peter, dammit!" said he, snatching his hand away and thrusting
it hurriedly into his pocket, out of farther reach.

"Thank you, sir," I reiterated; "be sure that should I fall ill or any
unforeseen calamity happen to me, I will most gladly, most gratefully
accept your generous aid in the spirit in which it is offered, but—"

"But?" exclaimed Sir Richard.

"Until then—"

"Oh, the devil!" said Sir Richard, and ringing the bell ordered his
horse to be brought to the door, and thereafter stood with his back to
the empty fireplace, his fists thrust down into his pockets, frowning
heavily and with a fixed intentness at the nearest armchair.

Sir Richard Anstruther is tall and broad, ruddy of face, with a
prominent nose and great square chin whose grimness is offset by a
mouth singularly sweet and tender, and the kindly light of blue eyes;
he is in very truth a gentleman.  Indeed, as he stood there in his
plain blue coat with its high roll collar and shining silver buttons,
his spotless moleskins and heavy, square-toed riding boots, he was as
fair a type as might be of the English country gentleman.  It is such
men as he, who, fearless upon the littered quarterdecks of reeling
battleships, undismayed amid the smoke and death of stricken fields,
their duty well and nobly done, have turned their feet homewards to
pass their latter days amid their turnips and cabbages, beating their
swords into pruning-hooks, and glad enough to do it.

"Peter," said he suddenly.

"Sir?" said I.

"You never saw your father to remember, did you?"

"No, Sir Richard."

"Nor your mother?"

"Nor my mother."

"Poor boy—poor boy!"

"You knew my mother?"

"Yes, Peter, I knew your mother," said Sir Richard, staring very hard
at the chair again, and I saw that his mouth had grown wonderfully
tender.  "Yours has been a very secluded life hitherto, Peter," he went
on after a moment.

"Entirely so," said I, "with the exception of my never-to-be-forgotten
visits to the Hall."

"Ah, yes, I taught you to ride, remember."

"You are associated with every boyish pleasure I ever knew," said I,
laying my hand upon his arm.  Sir Richard coughed and grew suddenly red
in the face.

"Why—ah—you see, Peter," he began, picking up his riding whip and
staring at it, "you see your uncle was never very fond of company at
any time, whereas I—"

"Whereas you could always find time to remember the lonely boy left
when all his companions were gone on their holidays—left to his books
and the dreary desolation of the empty schoolhouse, and echoing
cloisters—"

"Pooh!" exclaimed Sir Richard, redder than ever.  "Bosh!"

"Do you think I can ever forget the glorious day when you drove over in
your coach and four, and carried me off in triumph, and how we raced
the white-hatted fellow in the tilbury—?"

"And beat him!" added Sir Richard.

"Took off his near wheel on the turn," said I.

"The fool's own fault," said Sir Richard.

"And left him in the ditch, cursing us!" said I.

"Egad, yes, Peter!  Oh, but those were fine horses and though I say it,
no better team in the south country.  You'll remember the 'off wheeler'
broke his leg shortly after and had to be shot, poor devil."

"And later, at Oxford," I began.

"What now, Peter?" said Sir Richard, frowning darkly.

"Do you remember the bronze vase that used to stand on the mantelpiece
in my study?"

"Bronze vase?" repeated Sir Richard, intent upon his whip again.

"I used to find bank-notes in it after you had visited me, and when I
hid the vase they turned up just the same in most unexpected places."

"Young fellow—must have money—necessary—now and then," muttered Sir
Richard.

At this juncture, with a discreet knock, the butler appeared to
announce that Sir Richard's horse was waiting.  Hereupon the baronet,
somewhat hastily, caught up his hat and gloves, and I followed him out
of the house and down the steps.

Sir Richard drew on his gloves, thrust his toe into the stirrup, and
then turned to look at me over his arm.

"Peter," said he.

"Sir Richard?" said I.

"Regarding your walking tour—"

"Yes?"

"I think it's all damned tomfoolery!" said Sir Richard.  After saying
which he swung himself into the saddle with a lightness and ease that
many younger might have envied.

"I'm sorry for that, sir, because my mind is set upon it."

"With ten guineas in your pocket!"

"That, with due economy, should be ample until I can find some means to
earn more."

"A fiddlestick, sir—an accursed fiddlestick!" snorted Sir Richard.
"How is a boy, an unsophisticated, hot-headed young fool of a boy to
earn his own living?"

"Others have done it," I began.

"Pish!" said the baronet.

"And been the better for it in the end."

"Tush!" said the baronet.

"And I have a great desire to see the world from the viewpoint of the
multitude."

"Bah!" said the baronet, so forcibly that his mare started; "this comes
of your damnable Revolutionary tendencies.  Let me tell you, Want is a
hard master, and the world a bad place for one who is moneyless and
without friends."

"You forget, sir, I shall never be without a friend."

"God knows it, boy," answered Sir Richard, and his hand fell and rested
for a moment upon my shoulder.  "Peter," said he, very slowly and
heavily, "I'm growing old—and I shall never marry—and sometimes,
Peter, of an evening I get very lonely and—lonely, Peter."  He stopped
for a while, gazing away towards the green slopes of distant Shooter's
Hill.  "Oh, boy!" said he at last, "won't you come to the Hall and help
me to spend my money?"

Without answering I reached up and clasped his hand; it was the hand
which held his whip, and I noticed how tightly he gripped the handle,
and wondered.

"Sir Richard," said I at last, "wherever I go I shall treasure the
recollection of this moment, but—"

"But, Peter?"

"But, sir—"

"Oh, dammit!" he exclaimed, and set spurs to his mare.  Yet once he
turned in his saddle to flourish his whip to me ere he galloped out of
sight.




CHAPTER II

I SET OUT


The clock of the square-towered Norman church, a mile away, was
striking the hour of four as I let myself out into the morning. It was
dark as yet, and chilly, but in the east was already a faint glimmer of
dawn.  Reaching the stables, I paused with my hand on the door-hasp,
listening to the hiss, hissing that told me Adam, the groom, was
already at work within.  As I entered he looked up from the saddle he
was polishing and touched his forehead with a grimy forefinger.

"You be early abroad, Mr. Peter."

"Yes," said I.  "I wish to be on Shooter's Hill at sunrise; but first I
came to say 'good-by' to 'Wings.'"

"To be sure, sir," nodded Adam, picking up his lanthorn.

Upon the ensuing interview I will not dwell; it was affecting both to
her and to myself, for we were mutually attached.

"Sir," said Adam, when at last the stable door had closed behind us,
"that there mare knows as you're a-leaving her."

"I think she does, Adam."

"'Osses be wonderful wise, sir!"

"Yes, Adam."

"This is a bad day for Wings, sir—and all of us, for that matter."

"I hope not, Adam."

"You be a-going away, they tell me, sir?"

"Yes, going away," I nodded.

"Wonder what'll become o' the mare, sir?"

"Ah, yes, I wonder," said I.

"Everything to be sold under the will, I think, sir?"

"Everything, Adam."

"Excuse me, sir," said he, knuckling his forehead, "you won't be
wanting ever a groom, will you?"

"No, Adam," I answered, shaking my head, "I sha'n't be wanting a groom."

"Nor yet a body servant, sir?"

"No, Adam, nor yet a body servant."

Here there ensued a silence during which Adam knuckled his right temple
again and I tightened the buckle of my knapsack.

"I think, Adam," said I, "I think it is going to be a fine day."

"Yes, sir."

"Good-by, Adam!" said I, and held out my hand.

"Good-by, sir."  And, having shaken my hand, he turned and went back
into the stable.

So I set off, walking beneath an avenue of trees looming up gigantic on
either hand.  At the end was the lodge and, ere I opened the gates—for
John, the lodgekeeper, was not yet astir—ere I opened the gates, I
say, I paused for one last look at the house that had been all the home
I had ever known since I could remember.  As I stood thus, with my eyes
upon the indistinct mass, I presently distinguished a figure running
towards me and, as he came up, recognized Adam.

"It ain't much, sir, but it's all I 'ave," said he, and thrust a short,
thick, well-smoked clay pipe into my hand—a pipe that was fashioned to
the shape of a negro's head.  "It's a good pipe, sir," he went on, "a
mortal good pipe, and as sweet as a nut!" saying which, he turned about
and ran off, leaving me standing there with his parting gift in my hand.

And having put the pipe into an inner pocket, I opened the gate and
started off at a good pace along the broad highway.

It was a bleak, desolate world that lay about me, a world of shadows
and a white, low-lying mist that filled every hollow and swathed hedge
and tree; a lowering earth and a frowning heaven infinitely depressing.
But the eastern sky was clear with an ever-growing brightness; hope lay
there, so, as I walked, I kept my eyes towards the east.

Being come at last to that eminence which is called Shooter's Hill, I
sat down upon a bank beside the way and turned to look back upon the
wonderful city.  And as I watched, the pearly east changed little by
little, to a varying pink, which in turn slowly gave place to reds and
yellows, until up came the sun in all his majesty, gilding vane and
weathercock upon a hundred spires and steeples, and making a glory of
the river.  Far away upon the white riband of road that led across
Blackheath, a chaise was crawling, but save for that the world seemed
deserted.

I sat thus a great while gazing upon the city and marvelling at the
greatness of it.

"Truly," said I to myself, "nowhere in the whole world is there such
another city as London!"  And presently I sighed and, rising, set my
back to the city and went on down the hill.

Yes—the sun was up at last, and at his advent the mists rolled up and
vanished, the birds awoke in brake and thicket and, lifting their
voices, sang together, a song of universal praise. Bushes rustled,
trees whispered, while from every leaf and twig, from every blade of
grass, there hung a flashing jewel.

With the mists my doubts of the future vanished too, and I strode upon
my way, a very god, king of my destiny, walking through a tribute world
where feathered songsters carolled for me and blossoming flowers wafted
sweet perfume upon my path.  So I went on gayly down the hill,
rejoicing that I was alive.

In the knapsack at my back I had stowed a few clothes, the strongest
and plainest I possessed, together with a shirt, some half-dozen
favorite books, and my translation of Brantome; Quintilian and
Petronius I had left with Mr. Grainger, who had promised to send them
to a publisher, a friend of his, and in my pocket was my uncle George's
legacy,—namely, ten guineas in gold. And, as I walked, I began to
compute how long such a sum might be made to last a man.  By practising
the strictest economy, I thought I might manage well enough on two
shillings a day, and this left me some hundred odd days in which to
find some means of livelihood, and if a man could not suit himself in
such time, then (thought I) he must be a fool indeed.

Thus, my thoughts caught something of the glory of the bright sky above
and the smiling earth about me, as I strode along that "Broad Highway"
which was to lead me I knew not whither, yet where disaster was already
lying in wait for me—as you shall hear.




CHAPTER III

CONCERNS ITSELF MAINLY WITH A HAT


As the day advanced, the sun beat down with an ever-increasing heat,
and what with this and the dust I presently grew very thirsty;
wherefore, as I went, I must needs conjure up tantalizing visions of
ale—of ale that foamed gloriously in tankards, that sparkled in
glasses, and gurgled deliciously from the spouts of earthen pitchers,
and I began to look about me for some inn where these visions might be
realized and my burning thirst nobly quenched (as such a thirst
deserved to be).  On I went, through this beautiful land of Kent, past
tree and hedge and smiling meadow, by hill and dale and sloping upland,
while ever the sun grew hotter, the winding road the dustier, and my
mighty thirst the mightier.

At length, reaching the brow of a hill, I espied a small inn or hedge
tavern that stood back from the glare of the road, seeming to nestle in
the shade of a great tree, and joyfully I hastened toward it.

As I approached I heard loud voices, raised as though in altercation,
and a hat came hurtling through the open doorway and, bounding into the
road, rolled over and over to my very feet.  And, looking down at it, I
saw that it was a very ill-used hat, frayed and worn, dented of crown
and broken of brim, yet beneath its sordid shabbiness there lurked the
dim semblance of what it had once been, for, in the scratched and
tarnished buckle, in the jaunty curl of the brim, it still preserved a
certain pitiful air of rakishness; wherefore, I stooped, and, picking
it up, began to brush the dust from it as well as I might.

I was thus engaged when there arose a sudden bull-like roar and,
glancing up, I beheld a man who reeled backwards out of the inn and
who, after staggering a yard or so, thudded down into the road and so
lay, staring vacantly up at the sky.  Before I could reach him,
however, he got upon his legs and, crossing unsteadily to the tree I
have mentioned, leaned there, and I saw there was much blood upon his
face which he essayed to wipe away with the cuff of his coat.  Now,
upon his whole person, from the crown of his unkempt head down to his
broken, dusty boots, there yet clung that air of jaunty, devil-may-care
rakishness which I had seen, and pitied in his hat.

Observing, as I came up, how heavily he leaned against the tree, and
noting the extreme pallor of his face and the blank gaze of his sunken
eyes, I touched him upon the shoulder.

"Sir, I trust you are not hurt?" said I.

"Thank you," he answered, his glance still wandering, "not in the
least—assure you—merely tap on the nose, sir—unpleasant—damnably,
but no more, no more."

"I think," said I, holding out the battered hat, "I think this is
yours?"

His eye encountering it in due time, he reached out his hand somewhat
fumblingly, and took it from me with a slight movement of the head and
shoulders that might have been a bow.

"Thank you—yes—should know it among a thousand," said he dreamily,
"an old friend and a tried—a very much tried one—many thanks."  With
which words he clapped the much-tried friend upon his head, and with
another movement that might have been a bow, turned short round and
strode away.  And as he went, despite the careless swing of his
shoulder, his legs seemed to falter somewhat in their stride and once I
thought he staggered; yet, as I watched, half minded to follow after
him, he settled his hat more firmly with a light tap upon the crown
and, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his threadbare coat, fell
to whistling lustily, and so, turning a bend in the road, vanished from
my sight.

And presently, my thirst recurring to me, I approached the inn, and
descending three steps entered its cool shade.  Here I found four men,
each with his pipe and tankard, to whom a large, red-faced, big-fisted
fellow was holding forth in a high state of heat and indignation.

"Wot's England a-comin' to?—that's wot I wants to know," he was
saying; "wot's England a-comin' to when thievin' robbers can come
a-walkin' in on you a-stealin' a pint o' your best ale out o' your very
own tankard under your very own nose—wot's it a-comin' to?"

"Ah!" nodded the others solemnly, "that's it, Joel—wot?"

"W'y," growled the red-faced innkeeper, bringing his big fist down with
a bang, "it's a-comin' to per—dition; that's wot it's a-comin' to!"

"And wot," inquired a rather long, bony man with a face half-hidden in
sandy whisker, "wot might per—dition be, Joel; likewise, wheer?"

"You must be a danged fule, Tom, my lad!" retorted he whom they called
Joel, redder in the face than ever.

"Ay, that ye must!" chorused the others.

"I only axed 'wot an' wheer."

"Only axed, did ye?" repeated Joel scornfully,

"Ah," nodded the other, "that's all."

"But you're always a-axin', you are," said Joel gloomily.

"W'ich I notice," retorted the man Tom, blowing into his tankard,
"w'ich I notice as you ain't never over-fond o' answerin'."

"Oh!—I ain't, ain't I?"

"No, you ain't," repeated Tom, "nohow."

Here the red-faced man grew so very red indeed that the others fell to
coughing, all together, and shuffling their feet and giving divers
other evidences of their embarrassment, all save the unimpressionable
Tom.

Seizing the occasion that now presented itself, I knocked loudly upon
the floor with my stick, whereupon the red-faced man, removing his eyes
slowly and by degrees from the unconcerned Tom, fixed them darkly upon
me.

"Supposing," said I, "supposing you are so very obliging as to serve me
with a pint of ale?"

"Then supposin' you show me the color o' your money?" he growled,
"come, money fust; I aren't takin' no more risks."

For answer I laid the coins before him.  And having pocketed the money,
he filled and thrust a foaming tankard towards me, which I emptied
forthwith and called upon him for another.

"Wheer's your money?"

"Here," said I, tossing a sixpence to him, "and you can keep the
change."

"Why, ye see, sir," he began, somewhat mollified, "it be precious 'ard
to know who's a gentleman, an' who ain't; who's a thief, an' who ain't
these days."

"How so?"

"Why, only a little while ago—just afore you—chap comes a-walkin' in
'ere, no account much to look at, but very 'aughty for all that—comes
a-walkin in 'ere 'e do an' calls for a pint o' ale—you 'eard 'im, all
on ye?"  He broke off, turning to the others; "you all 'eard 'im call
for a pint o' ale?"

"Ah—we 'eard 'im," they nodded.

"Comes a-walkin' in 'ere 'e do, bold as brass—calls for a pint o'
ale—drinks it off, an'—'ands me 'is 'at; you all seen 'im 'and me 'is
'at?" he inquired, once more addressing the others.

"Every man of us," the four chimed in with four individual nods.

"'Wot's this 'ere?' says I, turnin' it over.  'It's a 'at, or once
was,' says 'e.  'Well, I don't want it,' says I.  'Since you've got it
you'd better keep it,' says 'e.  'Wot for?' says I?  'Why,' says 'e,
'it's only fair seein' I've got your ale—it's a case of exchange,'
says 'e.  'Oh! is it?' says I, an' pitched the thing out into the road
an' 'im arter it—an' so it ended.  An' wot," said the red-faced man
nodding his big head at me, "wot d'ye think o' that now?"

"Why, I think you were perhaps a trifle hasty," said I.

"Oh, ye do, do ye?"

"Yes," I nodded.

"An' for why?"

"Well, you will probably remember that the hat had a band round it—"

"Ay, all wore away it were too—"

"And that in the band was a buckle—"

"Ay, all scratched an' rusty it were—well?"

"Well, that tarnished buckle was of silver—"

"Silver!" gasped the man, his jaw falling.

"And easily worth five shillings, perhaps more, so that I think you
were, upon the whole, rather hasty."  Saying which, I finished my ale
and, taking up my staff, stepped out into the sunshine.




CHAPTER IV

I MEET WITH A GREAT MISFORTUNE


That day I passed through several villages, stopping only to eat and
drink; thus evening was falling as, having left fair Sevenoaks behind,
I came to the brow of a certain hill, a long and very steep descent
which (I think) is called the River Hill. And here, rising stark
against the evening sky, was a gibbet, and standing beneath it a man, a
short, square man in a somewhat shabby coat of a bottle-green, and with
a wide-brimmed beaver hat sloped down over his eyes, who stood with his
feet well apart, sucking the knob of a stick he carried, while he
stared up at that which dangled by a stout chain from the cross-beam of
the gibbet,—something black and shrivelled and horrible that had once
been human.

As I came up, the man drew the stick from his mouth and touched the
brim of his hat with it in salutation.

"An object lesson, sir," said he, and nodded towards the loathsome mass
above.

"A very hideous one!" said I, pausing, "and I think a very useless one."

"He was as fine a fellow as ever thrust toe into stirrup," the man went
on, pointing upwards with his stick, "though you'd never think so to
look at him now!"

"It's a horrible sight!" said I.

"It is," nodded the man, "it's a sight to turn a man's stomach, that it
is!"

"You knew him perhaps?" said I.

"Knew him," repeated the man, staring at me over his shoulder, "knew
him—ah—that is, I knew of him."

"A highwayman?"

"Nick Scrope his name was," answered the man with a nod, "hung at
Maidstone assizes last year, and a very good end he made of it too; and
here he be—hung up in chains all nat'ral and reg'lar, as a warning to
all and sundry."

"The more shame to England," said I; "to my thinking it is a scandal
that our highways should be rendered odious by such horrors, and as
wicked as it is useless."

"'Od rot me!" cried the fellow, slapping a cloud of dust from his coat
with his stick, "hark to that now."

"What?" said I, "do you think for one moment that such a sight,
horrible though it is, could possibly deter a man from robbery or
murder whose mind is already made up to it by reason of circumstances
or starvation?"

"Well, but it's an old custom, as old as this here road."

"True," said I, "and that of itself but proves my argument, for men
have been hanged and gibbeted all these years, yet robbery and murder
abide with us still, and are of daily occurrence."

"Why, as to that, sir," said the man, falling into step beside me as I
walked on down the hill, "I won't say yes and I won't say no, but what
I do say is—as many a man might think twice afore running the chance
of coming to that—look!"  And he stopped to turn, and point back at
the gibbet with his stick.  "Nick can't last much longer, though I've
know'd 'em hang a good time—but they made a botch of Nick—not enough
tar; you can see where the sun catches him there!"

Once more, though my whole being revolted at the sight, I must needs
turn to look at the thing—the tall, black shaft of the gibbet, and the
grisly horror that dangled beneath with its chains and iron bands; and
from this, back again to my companion, to find him regarding me with a
curiously twisted smile, and a long-barrelled pistol held within a foot
of my head.

"Well?" said I, staring.

"Sir," said he, tapping his boot with his stick, "I must trouble you
for the shiner I see a-winking at me from your cravat, likewise your
watch and any small change you may have."

For a moment I hesitated, glancing from his grinning mouth swiftly over
the deserted road, and back again.

"Likewise," said the fellow, "I must ask you to be sharp about it."  It
was with singularly clumsy fingers that I drew the watch from my fob
and the pin from my cravat, and passed them to him.

"Now your pockets," he suggested, "turn 'em out."

This command I reluctantly obeyed, bringing to light my ten guineas,
which were as yet intact, and which he pocketed forthwith, and two
pennies—which he bade me keep.

"For," said he, "'t will buy you a draught of ale, sir, and there's
good stuff to be had at 'The White Hart' yonder, and there's nothin'
like a draught of good ale to comfort a man in any such small adversity
like this here.  As to that knapsack now," he pursued, eyeing it
thoughtfully, "it looks heavy and might hold valleybels, but then, on
the other hand, it might not, and those there straps takes time to
unbuckle and—"  He broke off suddenly, for from somewhere on the hill
below us came the unmistakable sound of wheels.  Hereupon the fellow
very nimbly ran across the road, turned, nodded, and vanished among the
trees and underbrush that clothed the steep slope down to the valley
below.




CHAPTER V

THE BAGMAN


I was yet standing there, half stunned by my loss and the suddenness of
it all, when a tilbury came slowly round a bend in the road, the driver
of which nodded lazily in his seat while his horse, a sorry, jaded
animal, plodded wearily up the steep slope of the hill.  As he
approached I hailed him loudly, upon which he suddenly dived down
between his knees and produced a brass-bound blunderbuss.

"What's to do?" cried he, a thick-set, round-faced fellow, "what's to
do, eh?" and he covered me with the wide mouth of the blunderbuss.

"Thieves!" said I, "I've been robbed, and not three minutes since."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, in a tone of great relief, and with the color
returning to his plump cheeks, "is that the way of it?"

"It is," said I, "and a very bad way; the fellow has left me but
twopence in the world."

"Twopence—ah?"

"Come," I went on, "you are armed, I see; the thief took to the
brushwood, here, not three minutes ago; we may catch him yet—"

"Catch him?" repeated the fellow, staring.

"Yes, don't I tell you he has stolen all the money I possess?"

"Except twopence," said the fellow.

"Yes—"

"Well, twopence ain't to be sneezed at, and if I was you—"

"Come, we're losing time," said I, cutting him short.

"But—my mare, what about my mare?"

"She'll stand," I answered; "she's tired enough."

The Bagman, for such I took him to be, sighed, and, blunderbuss in
hand, prepared to alight, but, in the act of doing so, paused:

"Was the rascal armed?" he inquired, over his shoulder

"To be sure he was," said I.

The Bagman got back into his seat and took up the reins.

"What now?" I inquired.

"It's this accursed mare of mine," he answered; "she'll bolt again,
d'ye see—twice yesterday and once the day before, she bolted, sir, and
on a road like this—"

"Then lend me your blunderbuss."

"I can't do that," he replied, shaking his head.

"But why not?" said I impatiently.

"Because this is a dangerous road, and I don't intend to be left
unarmed on a dangerous road; I never have been and I never will, and
there's an end of it, d'ye see!"

"Then do you mean to say that you refuse your aid to a
fellow-traveler—that you will sit there and let the rogue get away
with all the money I possess in the world—"

"Oh, no; not on no account; just you get up here beside me and we'll
drive to 'The White Hart.'  I'm well known at 'The White Hart;' we'll
get a few honest fellows at our heels and have this thieving, rascally
villain in the twinkling of an—"  He stopped suddenly, made a frantic
clutch at his blunderbuss, and sat staring.  Turning short round, I saw
the man in the beaver hat standing within a yard of us, fingering his
long pistol and with the same twisted smile upon his lips.

"I've a mind," said he, nodding his head at the Bagman, "I've a great
mind to blow your face off."

The blunderbuss fell to the roadway, with a clatter.

"Thievin', rascally villain—was it?  Damme!  I think I will blow your
face off."

"No—don't do—that," said the Bagman, in a strange, jerky voice, "what
'ud be—the good?"

"Why, that there poor animal wouldn't have to drag that fat carkiss of
yours up and down hills, for one thing."

"I'll get out and walk."

"And it might learn ye to keep a civil tongue in your head."

"I—I didn't mean—any—offence."

"Then chuck us your purse," growled the other, "and be quick about it."
The Bagman obeyed with wonderful celerity, and I heard the purse chink
as the footpad dropped it into the pocket of his greatcoat.

"As for you," said he, turning to me, "you get on your way and never
mind me; forget you ever had ten guineas and don't go a-riskin' your
vallyble young life; come—up with you!" and he motioned me into the
tilbury with his pistol.

"What about my blunderbuss?" expostulated the Bagman, faintly, as I
seated myself beside him, "you'll give me my blunderbuss—cost me five
pound it did."

"More fool you!" said the highwayman, and, picking up the unwieldy
weapon, he hove it into the ditch.

"As to our argyment—regardin' gibbetin', sir," said he, nodding to me,
"I'm rayther inclined to think you was in the right on it arter all."
Then, turning towards the Bagman: "Drive on, fat-face!" said he, "and
sharp's the word."  Whereupon the Bagman whipped up his horse and, as
the tired animal struggled forward over the crest of the hill, I saw
the highwayman still watching us.

Very soon we came in view of "The White Hart," an inn I remembered to
have passed on the right hand side of the road, and scarce were we
driven up to the door than down jumped the Bagman, leaving me to follow
at my leisure, and running into the tap, forthwith began recounting his
loss to all and sundry, so that I soon found we were become the center
of a gaping crowd, much to my disgust. Indeed, I would have slipped
away, but each time I attempted to do so the Bagman would appeal to me
to corroborate some statement.

"Galloping Dick himself, or I'm a Dutchman!" he cried for the twentieth
time; "up he comes, bold as brass, bless you, and a horse-pistol in
each hand.  'Hold hard!' says I, and ups with my blunderbuss; you
remember as I ups with my blunderbuss?" he inquired, turning to me.

"Quite well," said I.

"Ah, but you should have seen the fellow's face, when he saw my
blunderbuss ready at my shoulder; green it was—green as grass, for if
ever there was death in a man's face, and sudden death at that, there
was sudden death in mine, when, all at once, my mare, my accursed mare,
jibbed—"

"Yes, yes?" cried half-a-dozen breathless voices, "what then?"

"Why, then, gentlemen," said the Bagman, shaking his head and frowning
round upon the ring of intent faces, "why then, gentlemen, being a
resolute, determined fellow, I did what any other man of spirit would
have done—I—"

"Dropped your blunderbuss," said I.

"Ay, to be sure I did—"

"And he pitched it into the ditch," said I.

"Ay," nodded the Bagman dubiously, while the others crowded nearer.

"And then he took your money, and called you 'Fool' and 'Fatface,' and
so it ended," said I.  With which I pushed my way from the circle, and,
finding a quiet corner beside the chimney, sat down, and with my last
twopence paid for a tankard of ale.




CHAPTER VI

WHAT BEFELL ME AT "THE WHITE HART"


When a man has experienced some great and totally unexpected reverse of
fortune, has been swept from one plane of existence to another, that he
should fail at once to recognize the full magnitude of that change is
but natural, for his faculties must of necessity be numbed more or less
by its very suddenness.

Yesterday I had been reduced from affluence to poverty with an
unexpectedness that had dazed me for the time being, and, from the
poverty of an hour ago, I now found myself reduced to an utter
destitution, without the wherewithal to pay for the meanest night's
lodging.  And, contrasting the careless ease of a few days since with
my present lamentable situation, I fell into a gloomy meditation; and
the longer I thought it over, the more dejected I became.  To be sure,
I might apply to Sir Richard for assistance, but my pride revolted at
even the thought, more especially at such an early stage; moreover, I
had determined, beforehand, to walk my appointed road unaided from the
first.

From these depressing thoughts I was presently aroused by a loud, rough
voice at no great distance, to which, though I had been dimly conscious
of it for some time, I had before paid no attention. Now, however, I
raised my eyes from the spot upon the floor where they had rested
hitherto, and fixed them upon the speaker.

He was a square-shouldered, bullet-headed fellow, evidently held in
much respect by his companions, for he occupied the head of the table,
and I noticed that when ever he spoke the others held their peace, and
hung upon the words with an appearance of much respect.

"'Yes, sirs,' says I," he began, louder than before, and with a
flourish of his long-stemmed pipe, "'yes, sirs, Tom Cragg's my name an'
craggy's my natur,' says I.  'I be 'ard, sirs, dey-vilish 'ard an'
uncommon rocky!  'Ere's a face as likes good knocks,' I says, 'w'y,
when I fought Crib Burke o' Bristol 'e broke 'is 'and again' my jaw, so
'e did, an' I scarce knowed 'e'd 'it me till I see 'im 'oppin' wi' the
pain of it.  Come, sirs,' says I, 'who'll give me a black eye; a
fiver's all I ask.'  Well, up comes a young buck, ready an' willin'.
'Tom,' says 'e, 'I'll take two flaps at that figger-head o' yourn for
seven guineas, come, what d'ye say?' I says, 'done,' says I.  So my
fine gentleman lays by 'is 'at an' cane, strips off 'is right-'and
glove, an' 'eavin' back lets fly at me.  Bang comes 'is fist again' my
jaw, an' there's my gentleman a-dabbin' at 'is broken knuckles wi' 'is
'ankercher.  'Come, my lord,' says I, 'fair is fair, take your other
whack.'  'Damnation!' says 'e, 'take your money an' go to the devil!'
says 'e, 'I thought you was flesh an' blood an' not cast iron!'
'Craggy, my lord,' says I, gathering up the rhino, 'Cragg by name an'
craggy by natur', my lord,' says I."

Hereupon ensued a roar of laughter, with much slapping of thighs, and
stamping of feet, while the bullet-headed man solemnly emptied his
tankard, which was the signal for two or three of those nearest to vie
for its possession, during which Tom Cragg sucked dreamily at his pipe
and stared placidly up at the ceiling.

"Now, Tom," said a tall, bony individual, chiefly remarkable in
possessing but one eye, and that so extremely pale and watery as to
give one the idea that it was very much overworked, "now, Tom," said
he, setting down the refilled tankard at the great man's elbow with a
triumphant flourish, "tell us 'ow you shook 'ands wi' the Prince
Regent."

"Ah! tell us," chimed the rest.

"Well," said the bullet-headed man, stooping to blow the froth from his
ale, "it was arter I beat Jack Nolan of Brummagem.  The Prince 'e come
a-runnin' to me 'e did, as I sat in my corner a-workin' at a loose
tusk.  'Tom,' 'e says, 'Tom, you be a wonder.' 'I done Jack Nolan up
proper I think, your 'Ighness,' says I. 'Tom,' says 'e, wi' tears in
'is eyes, 'you 'ave; an' if I 'ad my way,' says 'e, 'I'd make you Prime
Minister to-morrer!' 'e says. An' slapped me on the back 'e did, wi'
'is merry own 'and, an' likewise gave me this 'ere pin," saying which,
he pointed to a flaming diamond horseshoe which he wore stuck through
his neckerchief.  The stones were extremely large and handsome, looking
very much out of place on the fellow's rough person, and seemed in some
part to bear out his story.  Though, indeed, as regarded his
association with the Prince Regent, whose tastes were at all times
peculiar (to say the least), and whose love for "the fancy" was
notorious, I thought it, on the whole, very probable; for despite
Craggy's words, foolishly blatant though they sounded, there was about
him in his low, retreating brow, his small, deep-set eyes, his great
square jowl and heavy chin, a certain air there was no mistaking.  I
also noticed that the upper half of one ear was unduly thick and
swollen, which is a mark (I believe) of the professional pugilist alone.

"Tom," cried the one-eyed man, "wot's all this we heerd of Ted Jarraway
of Swansea bein' knocked out in five rounds by this 'ere Lord Vibbot,
up in London?"

"Vibbot?" repeated Cragg, frowning into his tankard, "I 'aven't 'eard
of no Vibbot, neither lord, earl, nor dook."

"Come, Tom," coaxed the other, "everybody's heerd o' Buck Vibbot, 'im
they calls the 'Fightin' Barronite.'"

"If," said Cragg, rolling his bullet-head, "if you was to ask me who
put Ted Jarraway to sleep, I should answer you, Sir Maurice Vibart,
commonly called 'Buck' Vibart; an' it took ten rounds to do it, not
five."

As may be expected, at this mention of my cousin's name I pricked up my
ears.

"And what's all this 'bout him 'putting out' Tom Cragg, in three?" At
this there was a sudden silence and all eyes were turned towards the
speaker, a small, red-headed fellow, with a truculent eye. "Come," said
he, blowing out a cloud of tobacco smoke, "in three rounds!  What d'ye
say to that now, come?"

Cragg had started up in his chair and now sat scowling at his
inquisitor open-mouthed; and in the hush I could hear the ticking of
the clock in the corner, and the crackle of the logs upon the hearth.
Then, all at once, Cragg's pipe shivered to fragments on the floor and
he leapt to his feet.  In one stride, as it seemed, he reached the
speaker, who occupied the corner opposite mine, but, even as he raised
his fist, he checked himself before the pocket-pistol which the other
held levelled across the table.

"Come, come—none o' that," said the red-headed man, his eye more
truculent than ever, "I ain't a fightin' cove myself, and I don't want
no trouble—all I asks is, what about Buck Vibart putting out Tom
Cragg—in three rounds?  That's a civil question, ain't it—what d'ye
say now—come?"

"I says," cried Tom Cragg, flourishing a great fist in the air, "I says
as 'e done it—on a foul!"  And he smote the table a blow that set the
glasses ringing.

"Done it on a foul?" cried three or four voices.

"On a foul!" repeated Cragg.

"Think again," said the red-headed man, "'t were said as it was a werry
clean knock-out."

"An' I say it were done on a foul," reiterated Cragg, with another blow
of his fist, "an' wot's more, if Buck Vibart stood afore me—ah, in
this 'ere very room, I'd prove my words."

"Humph!" said the red-headed man, "they do say as he's wonderful quick
wi' his 'mauleys,' an' can hit—like a sledgehammer."

"Quick wi' 'is 'ands 'e may be, an' able to give a goodish thump, but
as for beatin' me—it's 'all me eye an' Betty Martin,' an' you can lay
to that, my lads.  I could put 'im to sleep any time an' anywhere, an'
I'd like—ah!  I'd like to see the chap as says contrairy!"  And here
the pugilist scowled round upon his hearers (more especially the
red-headed man) so blackly that one or two of them shuffled uneasily,
and the latter individual appeared to become interested in the lock of
his pistol.

"I'd like," repeated Cragg, "ah! I'd like to see the cove as says
contrairy."

"No one ain't a-goin' to, Tom," said the one-eyed man soothingly, "not
a soul, Lord bless you!"

"I only wish they would," growled Cragg.

"Ain't there nobody to obleege the gentleman?" inquired the red-headed
man.

"I'd fight any man as ever was born—wish I may die!" snorted Cragg.

"You always was so fiery, Tom!" purred the one-eyed man, blinking his
pale orb.

"I were," cried the prizefighter, working himself into another rage,
"ah! an' I'm proud of it.  I'd fight any man as ever wore
breeches—why, burn me! I'd give any man ten shillin' as could stand up
to me for ten minutes."

"Ten shillings!" said I to myself, "ten shillings, when one comes to
think of it, is a very handsome sum—more especially when one is
penniless and destitute!"

"Wish I may die!" roared Cragg, smiting his fist down on the table
again, "a guinea—a golden guinea to the man as could stand on 'is pins
an' fight me for five minutes—an' as for Buck Vibart—curse 'im, I say
as 'e won on a foul!"

"A guinea," said I to myself, "is a fortune!"  And, setting down my
empty tankard, I crossed the room and touched Cragg upon the shoulder.

"I will fight you," said I, "for a guinea."

Now, as the fellow's eyes met mine, he rose up out of his chair and his
mouth opened slowly, but he spoke no word, backing from me until he was
stayed by the table, where he stood, staring at me. And once again
there fell a silence, in which I heard the tick of the clock in the
corner and the crackle of the logs upon the hearth.

"You?" said he, recovering himself with an effort, "you?" and, as he
spoke, I saw his left eyelid twitch suddenly.

"Exactly," I answered, "I think I can stand up to even you—for five
minutes."  Now, as I spoke, he winked at me again.  That it was meant
for me was certain, seeing that his back was towards the others, though
what he intended to convey I could form no idea, so I assumed as
confident an air as possible and waited. Hereupon the one-eyed man
broke into a sudden raucous laugh, in which the others joined.

"'Ark to 'im, lads," he cried, pointing to me with the stern of his
pipe, "'e be a fine un to stand up to Tom Cragg—I don't think."

"Tell 'un to go an' larn hisself to grow whiskers fust!" cried a second.

"Ay, to be sure, 'e aren't got so much as our old cat!" grinned a third.

"Stay!" cried the one-eyed man, peering up at me beneath his hand.  "Is
they whiskers a-peepin' at me over 'is cravat or do my eyes deceive
me?"  Which pleasantry called forth another roar of laughter at my
expense.

Now, very foolishly perhaps, this nonsense greatly exasperated me, for
I was, at that time, painfully conscious of my bare lips and chin.  It
was, therefore, with an effort that I mastered my quickly rising
temper, and once more addressed myself to Cragg.

"I am willing," said I, "to accept your conditions and fight you—for a
guinea—or any other man here for that matter, except the humorous
gentleman with the watery eye, who can name his own price."  The fellow
in question stared at me, glanced slowly round, and, sitting down,
buried his face in his tankard.

"Come, Tom Cragg," said I, "a while ago you seemed very anxious for a
man to fight; well—I'm your man," and with the words I stripped off my
coat and laid it across a chairback.

This apparent willingness on my part was but a cloak for my real
feelings, for I will not here disguise the fact that the prospect
before me was anything but agreeable; indeed my heart was thumping in a
most unpleasant manner, and my tongue and lips had become strangely
parched and dry, as I fronted Cragg.

Truly, he looked dangerous enough, with his beetling brow, his great
depth of chest, and massive shoulders; and the possibility of a black
eye or so, and general pounding from the fellow's knotted fists, was
daunting in the extreme.  Still, the chance of earning a guinea, even
under such conditions, was not to be lightly thrown away; therefore I
folded my arms and waited with as much resolution as I could.

"Sir," said Cragg, speaking in a very altered tone, "sir, you seem
oncommon—eager for it."

"I shall be glad to get it over," said I.

"If," he went on slowly, "if I said anything against—you know who, I'm
sorry for it—me 'aving the greatest respec' for—you know who—you
understand me, I think."  And herewith he winked, three separate and
distinct times.

"No, I don't understand you in the least," said I, "nor do I think it
at all necessary; all that I care about is the guinea in question."

"Come, Tom," cried one of the company, "knock 'is 'ead off to begin
with."

"Ay, set about 'm, Tom—cut your gab an' finish 'im," and here came the
clatter of chairs as the company rose.

"Can't be done," said Cragg, shaking his head, "leastways—not 'ere."

"I'm not particular," said I, "if you prefer, we might manage it very
well in the stable with a couple of lanthorns."

"The barn would be the very place," suggested the landlord, bustling
eagerly forward and wiping his hands on his apron, "the very
place—plenty of room and nice and soft to fall on.  If you would only
put off your fightin' till to-morrow, we might cry it through the
villages; 'twould be a big draw.  Ecod! we might make a purse o' twenty
pound—if you only would!  Think it over—think it over."

"To-morrow I hope to be a good distance from here," said I; "come, the
sooner it is over the better, show us your barn."  So the landlord
called for lanthorns and led the way to a large outbuilding at the back
of the inn, into which we all trooped.

"It seems to be a good place and very suitable," said I.

"You may well say that," returned the landlord; "it's many a fine bout
as has been brought off in 'ere; the time Jem Belcher beat 'The Young
Ruffian' the Prince o' Wales sat in a cheer over in that theer
corner—ah, that was a day, if you please!"

"If Tom Cragg is ready," said I, turning up the wristbands of my shirt,
"why, so am I."  Here it was found to every one's surprise, and mine in
particular, that Tom Cragg was not in the barn. Surprise gave place to
noisy astonishment when, after much running to and fro, it was further
learned that he had vanished altogether. The inn itself, the stables,
and even the haylofts were ransacked without avail.  Tom Cragg was gone
as completely as though he had melted into thin air, and with him all
my hopes of winning the guinea and a comfortable bed.

It was with all my old dejection upon me, therefore, that I returned to
the tap-room, and, refusing the officious aid of the One-Eyed Man, put
on my coat, readjusted my knapsack and crossed to the door.  On the
threshold I paused, and looked back.

"If," said I, glancing round the ring of faces, "if there is any man
here who is at all willing to fight for a guinea, ten shillings, or
even five, I should be very glad of the chance to earn it."  But,
seeing how each, wilfully avoiding my eye, held his peace, I sighed,
and turning my back upon them, set off along the darkening road.




CHAPTER VII

OF THE FURTHER PUZZLING BEHAVIOR OF TOM CRAGG, THE PUGILIST


Evening had fallen, and I walked along in no very happy frame of mind,
the more so, as the rising wind and flying wrack of clouds above
(through which a watery moon had peeped at fitful intervals) seemed to
presage a wild night.  It needed but this to make my misery the more
complete, for, as far as I could tell, if I slept at all (and I was
already very weary), it must, of necessity, be beneath some hedge or
tree.

As I approached the brow of the hill, I suddenly remembered that I must
once more pass the gibbet, and began to strain my eyes for it.
Presently I spied it, sure enough, its grim, gaunt outline looming
through the murk, and instinctively I quickened my stride so as to pass
it as soon as might be.

I was almost abreast of it when a figure rose from beneath it and
slouched into the road to meet me.  I stopped there and then, and
grasping my heavy staff waited its approach.

"Be that you, sir?" said a voice, and I recognized the voice of Tom
Cragg.

"What are you doing—and there of all places?"

"Oh—I ain't afeared of 'im," answered Cragg, jerking his thumb towards
the gibbet, "I ain't afeard o' none as ever drawed breath—dead or
livin'—except it be 'is 'Ighness the Prince Regent."

"And what do you want with me?"

"I 'opes as theer's no offence, my lord," said he, knuckling his
forehead, and speaking in a tone that was a strange mixture of would-be
comradeship and cringing servility.  "Cragg is my name, an' craggy's my
natur', but I know when I'm beat.  I knowed ye as soon as I laid my
'peepers' on ye, an' if I said as it were a foul, why, when a man's in
'is cups, d'ye see, 'e's apt to shoot rayther wide o' the gospel, d'ye
see, an' there was no offence, my lord, strike me blind! I know you,
an' you know me—Tom Cragg by name an' craggy by—"

"But I don't know you," said I, "and, for that matter, neither do you
know me."

"W'y, you ain't got no whiskers, my lord—leastways, not with you now,
but—"

"And what the devil has that got to do with it?" said I angrily.

"Disguises, p'raps!" said the fellow, with a sly leer, "arter that
theer kidnappin'—an' me 'avin' laid out Sir Jarsper Trent, in Wych
Street, accordin' to your orders, my lord, the Prince give me word to
'clear out'—cut an' run for it, till it blow'd over; an' I thought,
p'raps, knowin' as you an' 'im 'ad 'ad words, I thought as you 'ad 'cut
stick' too—"

"And I think—that you are manifestly drunk," said I, "if you still
wish to fight, for any sum—no matter how small—put up your hands; if
not, get out of my road."  The craggy one stepped aside, somewhat
hastily, which done, he removed his hat and stood staring and
scratching his bullet-head as one in sore perplexity.

"I seen a many rum goes in my time," said he, "but I never see so rummy
a go as this 'ere—strike me dead!"

So I left him, and strode on down the hill.  As I went, the moon shot
out a feeble ray, through some rift in the rolling clouds, and, looking
back, I saw him standing where I had left him beneath the gibbet, still
scratching his bullethead, and staring after me down the hill.

Now, though the whole attitude and behavior of the fellow was puzzling
to no small degree, my mind was too full of my own concerns to give
much thought to him—indeed, scarce was he out of my sight but I forgot
him altogether; for, what with my weariness, the long, dark road before
and behind me, and my empty pockets, I became a prey to great
dejection.  So much so that I presently sank wearily beside the way,
and, resting my chin in my hands, sat there, miserably enough, watching
the night deepen about me.

"And yet," said I to myself, "if, as Epictetus says—'to despise a
thing is to possess it,' then am I rich, for I have always despised
money; and if, weary as I am, I can manage to condemn the luxury of a
feather bed, then tonight, lying in this grassy ditch beneath the
stars, I shall slumber as sweetly as ever I did between the snowy
sheets."  Saying which, I rose and began to look about for some likely
nook in the hedge, where I might pass the night.  I was thus engaged
when I heard the creak of wheels, and the pleasant rhythmic jingle of
harness on the dark hill above, and, in a little while, a great wagon
or wain, piled high with hay, hove into view, the driver of which
rolled loosely in his seat with every jolt of the wheels, so that it
was a wonder he did not roll off altogether.  As he came level with me
I hailed him loudly, whereupon he started erect and brought his horses
to a stand:

"Hulloa!" he bellowed, in the loud, strident tone of one rudely
awakened, "w'at do 'ee want wi' I?"

"A lift," I answered, "will you give a tired fellow a lift on his way?"

"W'y—I dunno—be you a talkin' chap?"

"I don't think so," said I.

"Because, if you be a talkin' chap, I beant a-goin' to give 'ee a lift,
no'ow—not if I knows it; give a chap a lift, t' other day, I did—took
'im up t' other side o' Sevenoaks, an' 'e talked me up 'ill an' down
'ill, 'e did—dang me! if I could get a wink o' sleep all the way to
Tonbridge; so if you 'm a talkin' chap, you don't get no lift wi' I."

"I am generally a very silent chap," said I; "besides, I am too tired
and sleepy to talk, even if I wished—"

"Sleepy," yawned the man, "then up you get, my chap—I'm sleepy too—I
allus am, Lord love ye! theer's nowt like sleep—up wi' you, my chap."
Forthwith, up I clambered and, laying myself down among the fragrant
hay, stretched out my tired limbs, and sighed. Never shall I forget the
delicious sense of restfulness that stole over me as I lay there upon
my back, listening to the creak of the wheels, the deliberate
hoof-strokes of the horses, muffled in the thick dust of the road, and
the gentle snore of the driver who had promptly fallen asleep again.
On we went as if borne on air, so soft was my bed, now beneath the
far-flung branches of trees, sometimes so low that I could have touched
them with my hand, now, beneath a sky heavy with sombre masses of
flying cloud or bright with the soft radiance of the moon.  On I went,
careless alike of destination, of time, and of future, content to lie
there upon the hay, and rest.  And so, lulled by the gentle movement,
by the sound of wheels and harness, and the whisper of the soft wind
about me, I presently fell into a most blessed sleep.




CHAPTER VIII

WHICH CONCERNS ITSELF WITH A FARMER'S WHISKERS AND A WAISTCOAT


How long I slept I have no idea, but when I opened my eyes it was to
find the moon shining down on me from a cloudless heaven; the wind also
had died away; it seemed my early fears of a wild night were not to be
fulfilled, and for this I was sufficiently grateful. Now as I lay,
blinking up to the moon, I presently noticed that we had come to a
standstill and I listened expectantly for the jingle of harness and
creak of the wheels to recommence.  "Strange!" said I to myself, after
having waited vainly some little time, and wondering what could cause
the delay, I sat up and looked about me. The first object my eyes
encountered was a haystack and, beyond that, another, with, a little to
one side, a row of barns, and again beyond these, a great, rambling
farmhouse.  Evidently the wain had reached its destination, wherever
that might be, and the sleepy wagoner, forgetful of my presence, had
tumbled off to bed. The which I thought so excellent an example that I
lay down again, and, drawing the loose hay over me, closed my eyes, and
once more fell asleep.

My second awakening was gradual.  I at first became conscious of a
sound, rising and falling with a certain monotonous regularity, that my
drowsy ears could make nothing of.  Little by little, however, the
sound developed itself into a somewhat mournful melody or refrain,
chanted by a not unmusical voice.  I yawned and, having stretched
myself, sat up to look and listen.  And the words of the song were
these:

         "When a man, who muffins cries,
          Cries not, when his father dies,
          'Tis a proof that he would rather
          Have a muffin than his father."

The singer was a tall, strapping fellow with a good-tempered face,
whose ruddy health was set off by a handsome pair of black whiskers.
As I watched him, he laid aside the pitchfork he had been using, and
approached the wagon, but, chancing to look up, his eye met mine, and
he stopped:

"Hulloa!" he exclaimed, breaking short off in the middle of a note,
"hulloa!"

"Hallo!" said I.

"W'at be doin' up theer?"

"I was thinking," I returned, "that, under certain circumstances, I,
for one, could not blame the individual, mentioned in your song, for
his passionate attachment to muffins.  At this precise moment a
muffin—or, say, five or six, would be highly acceptable, personally."

"Be you partial to muffins, then?"

"Yes, indeed," said I, "more especially seeing I have not broken my
fast since midday yesterday."

"Well, an' w'at be doin' in my hay?"

"I have been asleep," said I.

"Well, an' what business 'ave ye got a-sleepin' an' a-snorin' in my
hay?"

"I was tired," said I, "and 'Nature her custom holds, let shame say
what it will,' still—I do not think I snored."

"'Ow do I know that—or you, for that matter?" rejoined the farmer,
stroking his glossy whiskers, "hows'ever, if you be quite awake, come
on down out o' my hay."  As he said this he eyed me with rather a
truculent air, likewise he clenched his fist. Thinking it wisest to
appear unconscious of this, I nodded affably, and letting myself down
from the hay, was next moment standing beside him.

"Supposin' I was to thump 'ee on the nose?" he inquired.

"What for?"

"For makin' so free wi' my hay."

"Why then," said I, "I should earnestly endeavor to thump you on yours."

The farmer looked me slowly over from head to foot, with a dawning
surprise.

"Thought you was a common tramper, I did," said he.

"Why, so I am," I answered, brushing the clinging hay from me.

"Trampers o' the road don't wear gentlemen's clothes—leastways, I
never see one as did."  Here his eyes wandered over me again, from my
boots upward.  Half-way up, they stopped, evidently arrested by my
waistcoat, a flowered satin of the very latest cut, for which I had
paid forty shillings in the Haymarket, scarcely a week before; and, as
I looked down at it, I would joyfully have given it, and every
waistcoat that was ever cut, to have had that forty shillings safe back
in my pocket again.

"That be a mighty fine weskit, sir!"

"Do you think so?" said I.

"Ah, that I do—w'at might be the cost of a weskit the like o' that,
now?"

"I paid forty shillings for it, in the Haymarket, in London, scarcely a
week ago," I answered.  The fellow very slowly closed one eye at the
same time striking his nose three successive raps with his forefinger:

"Gammon!" said he.

"None the less, it's true," said I.

"Any man as would give forty shillin' for a garment as is no mortal
good agen the cold—not reachin' fur enough, even if it do be silk, an'
all worked wi' little flowers—is a dommed fool!—"

"Assuredly!" said I, with a nod.

"Howsomever," he continued, "it's a handsome weskit, there's no
denyin', an' well worth a woman's lookin' at—a proper man inside of
it."

"Not a doubt of it," said I.

"I mean," said he, scratching his ear, and staring hard at the handle
of the pitchfork, "a chap wi' a fine pair o' whiskers, say."

"Hum!" said I.

"Now, woman," he went on, shifting his gaze to the top button of his
left gaiter, "woman is uncommon fond o' a good pair o'
whiskers—leastways, so I've heerd."

"Indeed," said I, "few women can look upon such things unmoved, I
believe, and nothing can set off a pair of fine, black whiskers better
than a flowered satin waistcoat."

"That's so!" nodded the farmer.

"But, unfortunately," said I, passing my hand over my smooth lips and
chin, "I have no whiskers."

"No," returned the farmer, with a thoughtful shake of the head,
"leastways, none as I can observe."

"Now, you have," said I.

"So they do tell me," he answered modestly.

"And the natural inference is that you ought to have a flowered
waistcoat to go with them."

"Why, that's true, to be sure!" he nodded.

"The price of this one is—fifteen shillings," said I.

"That's a lot o' money, master," said he, shaking his head.

"It's a great deal less than forty," said I.

"An' ten is less than fifteen, an' ten shillin' is my price; what d'ye
say—come now."

"You drive a hard bargain," said I, "but the waistcoat is yours at your
own price."  So saying, I slipped off knapsack and coat, and removing
the garment in question, having first felt through the pockets, handed
it to him, whereupon he slowly counted the ten shillings into my hand;
which done, he sat down upon the shaft of a cart near by, and,
spreading out the waistcoat on his knees, looked it over with
glistening eyes.

"Forty shillin' you paid for 'un, up to Lunnon," said he, "forty
shillin' it were, I think?"

"Forty shillings!" said I.

"Ecod, it's a sight o' money!  But it's a grand weskit—ah, that it is!"

"So you believe me now, do you?" said I, pocketing the ten shillings.

"Well," he answered slowly, "I won't go so fur as that, but 'tis a
mighty fine weskit theer's no denyin', an' must ha' cost a sight o'
money—a powerful sight!"  I picked up my knapsack and, slipping it on,
took my staff, and turned to depart.  "Theer's a mug o' homebrewed, an'
a slice o' fine roast beef up at th' 'ouse, if you should be so
inclined—"

"Why, as to that," said I, over my shoulder, "I neither eat nor drink
with a man who doubts my word."

"Meanin' those forty shillin'?"

"Precisely!"

"Well," said he, twisting his whisker with a thoughtful air, "if you
could manage to mak' it twenty—or even twenty-five, I might mak' some
shift to believe it—though 'twould be a strain, but forty!—no, damme,
I can't swaller that!"

"Then, neither can I swallow your beef and ale," said I.

"Wheer be goin'?" he inquired, rising, and following as I made for the gate.

"To the end of the road," I answered.

"Then you be goin' pretty fur—that theer road leads to the sea."

"Why, then I'm going to the sea," said I.

"What to do?"

"I haven't the ghost of an idea," I returned.

"Can you work?"

"Yes," said I.

"Can ye thatch a rick?"

"No," said I.

"Shear a sheep?"

"No," said I.

"Guide a plough?"

"No," said I.

"Shoe a 'oss?"

"No," said I.

"Then ye can't work—Lord love me, wheer 'ave 'e been?"

"At a university," said I.

"Where, master?"

"At a place warranted to turn one out a highly educated incompetent," I
explained.

"Why, I don't hold wi' eddication nor book-larnin', myself, master.
Here I be wi' a good farm, an' money in the bank, an' can't write my
own name," said the farmer.

"And here am I, a 'first' in 'Litterae Humaniores,' selling my
waistcoat that I may eat," said I.  Being come to the gate of the yard,
I paused.  "There is one favor you might grant me," said I.

"As what, master?"

"Five minutes under the pump yonder, and a clean towel."  The farmer
nodded, and crossing to one of the outhouses, presently returned with a
towel.  And, resting the towel upon the pump-head, he seized the
handle, and sent a jet of clear, cool water over my head, and face, and
hands.

"You've got a tidy, sizeable arm," said he, as I dried myself
vigorously, "likewise a good strong back an' shoulders; theer's the
makin's of a man in you as might do summat—say in the plough or
smithin' way, but it's easy to see as you're a gentleman, more's the
pity, an' won't.  Hows'ever, sir, if you've a mind to a cut o' good
beef, an' a mug o' fine ale—say the word."

"First," said I, "do you believe it was forty shillings yes or no?"

The farmer twisted his whisker, and stared very hard at the spout of
the pump.

"Tell 'ee what," said he at length, "mak' it thirty, an' I give ye my
Bible oath to do the best wi' it I can."

"Then I must needs seek my breakfast at the nearest inn," said I.

"An' that is the 'Old Cock,' a mile an' a half nearer Tonbridge."

"Then the sooner I start the better," said I, "for I'm mightily sharp
set."

"Why, as to that," said he, busy with his whisker again, "I might
stretch a pint or two an' call it—thirty-five, at a pinch—what d'ye
say?"

"Why, I say 'good morning,' and many of them!"  And, opening the gate,
I started off down the road at a brisk pace.  Now, as I went, it began
to rain.




CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH I STUMBLE UPON AN AFFAIR OF HONOR.


There are times (as I suppose) when the most aesthetic of souls will
forget the snow of lilies, and the down of a butterfly's wing, to revel
in the grosser joys of, say, a beefsteak.  One cannot rhapsodize upon
the beauties of a sunset, or contemplate the pale witchery of the moon
with any real degree of poetic fervor, or any degree of comfort, while
hunger gnaws at one's vitals, for comfort is essential to your
aesthete, and, after all, soul goes hand in hand with stomach.

Thus, I swung along the road beneath the swaying green of trees, past
the fragrant, blooming hedges, paying small heed to the beauties of
wooded hill and grassy dale, my eyes constantly searching the road
before me for some sign of the "Old Cock" tavern.  And presently, sure
enough, I espied it, an ugly, flat-fronted building, before which stood
a dilapidated horse trough and a battered sign.  Despite its uninviting
exterior, I hurried forward, and mounting the three worn steps pushed
open the door. I now found myself in a room of somewhat uninviting
aspect, though upon the hearth a smouldering fire was being kicked into
a blaze by a sulky-faced fellow, to whom I addressed myself:

"Can I have some breakfast here?" said I.

"Why, it's all according, master," he answered, in a surly tone.

"According to what?" said I.

"According to what you want, master."

"Why, as to that—" I began.

"Because," he went on, administering a particularly vicious kick to the
fire, "if you was to ask me for a French hortolon—or even the 'ump of
a cam-el—being a very truthful man, I should say—no."

"But I want no such things," said I.

"And 'ow am I to know that—'ow am I to know as you ain't set your
'eart on the 'ump of a cam-el?"

"I tell you I want nothing of the sort," said I, "a chop would do—"

"Chop!" sighed the man, scowling threateningly at the fire, "chop!"

"Or steak," I hastened to add.

"Now it's a steak!" said the man, shaking his head ruefully, and
turning upon me a doleful eye, "a steak!" he repeated; "of course—it
would be; I s'pose you'd turn up your nose at 'am and eggs—it's only
to be expected."

"On the contrary," said I, "ham and eggs will suit me very well; why
couldn't you have mentioned them before?"

"Why, you never axed me as I remember," growled the fellow.

Slipping my knapsack from my shoulders, I sat down at a small table in
a corner while the man, with a final kick at the fire, went to give my
order.  In a few minutes he reappeared with some billets of wood
beneath his arm, and followed by a merry-eyed, rosy-cheeked lass, who
proceeded, very deftly, to lay a snowy cloth and thereupon in due
season, a dish of savory ham and golden-yolked eggs.

"It's a lovely morning!" said I, lifting my eyes to her comely face.

"It is indeed, sir," said she, setting down the cruet with a turn of
her slender wrist.

"Which I make so bold as to deny," said the surly man, dropping the
wood on the hearth with a prodigious clatter, "'ow can any morning be
lovely when there ain't no love in it—no, not so much as would fill a
thimble?  I say it ain't a lovely morning, not by no manner o' means,
and what I says I ain't ashamed on, being a nat'rally truthful man!"
With which words he sighed, kicked the fire again, and stumped out.

"Our friend would seem somewhat gloomy this morning," said I.

"He've been that way a fortnight now, come Satu'day," replied the slim
lass, nodding.

"Oh?" said I.

"Yes," she continued, checking a smile, and sighing instead; "it's very
sad, he've been crossed in love you see, sir."

"Poor fellow!" said I, "can't you try to console him?"

"Me, sir—oh no!"

"And why not?  I should think you might console a man for a great deal."

"Why, you see, sir," said she, blushing and dimpling very prettily, "it
do so happen as I'm the one as crossed him."

"Ah!—I understand," said I.

"I'm to be married to a farmer—down the road yonder; leastways, I
haven't quite made up my mind yet."

"A fine, tall fellow?" I inquired.

"Yes—do 'ee know him, sir?"

"With a handsome pair of black whiskers?" said I.

"The very same, sir, and they do be handsome whiskers, though I do say
it."

"The finest I ever saw.  I wish you every happiness," said I.

"Thankee sir, I'm sure," said she, and, dimpling more prettily than
ever, she tripped away, and left me to my repast.

And when I had assuaged my hunger, I took out the pipe of Adam, the
groom, the pipe shaped like a negro's head, and, calling for a paper of
tobacco, I filled and lighted the pipe, and sat staring dreamily out of
the window.

Happy is that man who, by reason of an abundant fortune, knows not the
meaning of the word hunger; but thrice happy is he who, when the hand
of famine pinches, may stay his craving with such a meal as this of
mine.  Never before, and never since have I tasted just such eggs, and
such ham—so tender! so delicate! so full of flavor!  It is a memory
that can never fade.  Indeed, sometimes (even now), when I grow hungry,
(about dinner-time) I see once more the surly-faced man, the
rosy-cheeked waiting-maid, and the gloomy chamber of the "Old Cock"
tavern as I saw them upon that early May morning of the year of grace
18—.

So I sat, with a contented mind, smoking my pipe, and staring out at
the falling summer rain.  And presently, chancing to turn my eyes up
the road, I beheld a chaise that galloped in a smother of mud.  As I
watched its rapid approach, the postilion swung his horses towards the
inn, and a moment later had pulled up before the door.  They had
evidently travelled fast and far, for the chaise was covered with dirt;
and the poor horses, in a lather of foam, hung their heads, while their
flanks heaved distressfully.

The chaise door was now thrown open, and three gentlemen alighted. The
first was a short, plethoric individual, bull-necked and loud of voice,
for I could hear him roundly cursing the post-boy for some fault; the
second was a tall, languid gentleman, who carried a flat, oblong box
beneath one arm, and who paused to fondle his whisker, and look up at
the inn with an exaggerated air of disgust; while the third stood
mutely by, his hands thrust into the pockets of his greatcoat, and
stared straight before him.

The three of them entered the room together, and, while the languid
gentleman paused to survey himself in the small, cracked mirror that
hung against the wall, the plethoric individual bustled to the fire,
and, loosening his coats and neckerchief, spread out his hands to the
blaze.

"A good half-hour before our time," said he, glancing towards the third
gentleman, who stood looking out of the window with his hands still
deep in his pockets; "we did the last ten miles well under the
hour—come, what do you say to a glass of brandy?"

At this, his languid companion turned from the mirror, and I noticed
that he, too, glanced at the silent figure by the window.

"By all means," said he, "though Sir Jasper would hardly seem in a
drinking humor," and, with the very slightest shrug of the shoulders,
he turned back to the mirror again.

"No, Mr. Chester, I am not—in a drinking humor," answered Sir Jasper,
without turning round, or taking his eyes from the window.

"Sir Jasper?" said I to myself, "now where, and in what connection,
have I heard such a name before?"

He was of a slight build, and seemingly younger than either of his
companions by some years, but what struck me particularly about him was
the extreme pallor of his face.  I noticed also a peculiar habit he had
of moistening his lips at frequent intervals with the tip of his
tongue, and there was, besides, something in the way he stared at the
trees, the wet road, and the gray sky—a strange wide-eyed
intensity—that drew and held my attention.

"Devilish weather—devilish, on my life and soul!" exclaimed the short,
red-faced man, in a loud, peevish tone, tugging viciously at the
bell-rope, "hot one day, cold the next, now sun, now rain— Oh, damn
it!  Now in France—ah, what a climate—heavenly—positively divine;
say what you will of a Frenchman, damn him by all means, but the
climate, the country, and the women—who would not worship 'em?"

"Exactly!" said the languid gentleman, examining a pimple upon his chin
with a high degree of interest, "always 'dored a Frenchwoman myself;
they're so—so ah—so deuced French, though mark you, Selby," he broke
off, as the rosy-cheeked maid appeared with the brandy and glasses,
"though mark you, there's much to be said for your English country
wenches, after all," saying which, he slipped his arm about the girl's
round waist.  There was the sound of a kiss, a muffled shriek, and she
had run from the room, slamming the door behind her, whereupon the
languid gentleman went back to his pimple.

"Oh! as to that, Chester, I quarrel only with the climate.  God made
England, and the devil sends the weather!"

"Selby," said Sir Jasper, in the same repressed tone that he had used
before and still without taking his eyes from the gray prospect of sky
and tree and winding road, "there is no fairer land, in all the world,
than this England of ours; it were a good thing to die—for England,
but that is a happiness reserved for comparatively few."  And, with the
words, he sighed, a strange, fluttering sigh, and thrust his hands
deeper into his pockets.

"Die!" repeated the man Selby, in a loud, boisterous way.  "Who talks
of death?"

"Deuced unpleasant subject!" said the other, with a shrug at the
cracked mirror.  "Something so infernally cold and clammy about
it—like the weather."

"And yet it will be a glorious day later.  The clouds are thinning
already," Sir Jasper went on; "strange, but I never realized, until
this morning, how green—and wonderful—everything is!"

The languid Mr. Chester forgot the mirror, and turned to stare at Sir
Jasper's back, with raised brows, while the man Selby shook his head,
and smiled unpleasantly.  As he did so, his eye encountered me, where I
sat, quietly in my corner, smoking my negro-head pipe, and his thick
brows twitched sharply together in a frown.

"In an hour's time, gentlemen," pursued Sir Jasper, "we shall write
'finis' to a more or less interesting incident, and I beg of you, in
that hour, to remember my prophecy—that it would be a glorious day,
later."

Mr. Chester filled a glass, and crossing to the speaker, tendered it to
him without a word; as for Selby, he stood stolidly enough, his hands
thrust truculently beneath his coat-tails, frowning at me.

"Come," said Mr. Chester persuasively, "Just a bracer!" Sir Jasper
shook his head, but next moment reached out a white, unsteady hand, and
raised the brandy to his lips; yet as he drank, I saw the spirit slop
over, and trickle from his chin.

"Thanks, Chester," said he, returning the empty glass; "is it time we
started yet?"

"It's just half-past seven," answered Mr. Chester, consulting his
watch, "and I'm rather hazy as to the exact place."

"Deepdene Wood," said Sir Jasper dreamily.

"You know the place?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Then we may as well start, if you are ready?"

"Yes, it will be cool and fresh, outside."

"Settle the bill, Selby, we'll walk on slowly," said Mr. Chester, and,
with a last glance at the mirror, he slipped his arm within Sir
Jasper's, and they went out together.

Mr. Selby meanwhile rang for the bill, frowning at me all the time.

"What the devil are you staring at?" he demanded suddenly, in a loud,
bullying tone.

"If you are pleased to refer to me, sir," said I, "I would say that my
eyes were given for use, and that having used them upon you, I have
long since arrived at the conclusion that I don't like you."

"Ah?" said he, frowning fiercer than ever.

"Yes," said I, "though whether it is your person, your manner, or your
voice that displeases me most, I am unable to say."

"An impertinent young jackanapes!" said he; "damnation, I think I'll
pull your nose!"

"Why, you may try, and welcome, sir," said I; "though I should advise
you not, for should you make the attempt I should be compelled to throw
you out of the window."

At this moment the pretty maid appeared, and tendered him the bill with
a curtesy.  He glanced at it, tossed some money upon the table, and
turned to stare at me again.

"If ever I meet you again—" he began.

"You'd probably know me," I put in.

"Without a doubt," he answered, putting on his hat and buttoning his
befrogged surtout; "and should you," he continued, drawing on his
gloves, "should you stare at me with those damned, impertinent fishes'
eyes of yours, I should, most certainly, pull your nose for you—on the
spot, sir."

"And I should as certainly throw you out of the window!" I nodded.

"An impertinent young jackanapes!" said he again, and went out, banging
the door behind him.  Glancing from the window, I saw him catch up with
the other two, and all three walk on together down the road.  Sir
Jasper was in the middle, and I noticed that his hands were still deep
in his pockets.  Now, as I watched their forms getting smaller and
smaller in the distance, there grew upon me a feeling that he who
walked between would nevermore come walking back.

And, in a little, having knocked out my negro-head pipe upon my palm, I
called for and settled my score.  As I rose, the pretty chambermaid
picked up my knapsack from the corner, and blushing, aided me to put it
on.

"My dear, thank you," said I, and kissed her.  This time she neither
shrieked nor ran from the room; she merely blushed a trifle rosier.

"Do you think I have fishes' eyes, my dear?"

"La! no, sir—handsome they be, I'm sure, so bright an' black an' wi'
little lights a-dancing in them—there, sir, do ha' done, and go along
wi' you!"

"By the way," I said, pausing upon the worn steps, and looking back at
her, "by the way, how far is it to Deepdene Wood?"




CHAPTER X

WHICH RELATES THE END OF AN HONORABLE AFFAIR


Some half-mile along the road, upon the left hand, was a stile, and
beyond the stile, a path—a path that led away over field, and meadow,
and winding stream, to the blue verge of distant woods.

Now, midway between these woods and the place where I stood, there
moved three figures; and, far away though they were, I could still make
out that the middle one walked with his hands—those tremulous
betraying hands—thrust deep within his pockets.

And presently I climbed the stile, and set off along the path.

"Sir Jasper!" said I to myself.  Somewhere in the background of my
consciousness I had a vague recollection of having heard mention of
such a name before, but exactly when and where I could not, for the
life of me, remember.

"Sir Jasper!" said I to myself again.  "It is a very uncommon name, and
should be easy to recollect."  I had often prided myself on possessing
a singularly retentive memory, more especially for names and faces,
but, upon the present occasion, the more I pondered the matter, the
more hazy I became.  So I walked on through the sweet, wet grass,
racking my brain for a solution of the problem, but finding none.

When I again looked up, the three figures had vanished where the path
took a sharp bend round a clump of pollard oaks, and, determined not to
lose them, I hurried my steps; but when I, in turn, rounded the corner,
not a soul was in sight.

The path sloped up gently before me, with a thick hedge upon my right,
and, after crossing a brawling stream, lost itself in the small wood or
coppice, that crowned the ascent.  Wondering, I hastened forward, and
then, happening to look through the hedge, which grew very thick and
high, I stopped all at once.

On the other side of the hedge was a strip of meadow bounded by the
brook I have mentioned; now across this stream was a small rustic
bridge, and on this bridge was a man.  Midway between this man and
myself stood a group of four gentlemen, all talking very earnestly
together, to judge by their actions, while somewhat apart from these,
his head bent, his hands still thrust deep in his pockets, stood Sir
Jasper.  And from him, for no apparent reason, my eyes wandered to the
man upon the bridge—a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, in a buff-colored
greatcoat, who whistled to himself, and stared down into the stream,
swinging his tasselled riding-boot to and fro.  All at once, as if in
response to some signal, he rose, and unbuttoning his surtout, drew it
off and flung it across the handrail of the bridge.

Mr. Chester was on his knees before the oblong box, and I saw the glint
of the pistols as he handed them up.  The distance had already been
paced and marked out, and now each man took his ground—Sir Jasper,
still in his greatcoat, his hat over his eyes, his neckerchief loose
and dangling, one hand in his pocket, the other grasping his weapon;
his antagonist, on the contrary, jaunty and debonnair, a dandy from the
crown of his hat to the soles of his shining boots.

Their arms were raised almost together.  The man Selby glanced from one
to the other, a handkerchief fluttered, fell, and in that instant came
the report of a pistol.  I saw Sir Jasper reel backward, steady
himself, and fire in return; then, while the blue smoke yet hung in the
still air, he staggered blindly, and fell.

Mr. Chester, and two or three more, ran forward and knelt beside him,
while his opponent shrugged his shoulders, and, taking off his hat,
pointed out the bullet hole to his white-faced second.

And in a little while they lifted Sir Jasper in their arms, but seeing
how his head hung, a sudden sickness came upon me, for I knew, indeed,
that he would go walking back nevermore.  Yet his eyes were wide and
staring—staring up at the blue heaven with the same fixed intensity as
they had done at the inn.

Then I, too, looked up at the cloudless sky, and round upon the fair
earth; and, in that moment, I, for one, remembered his prophecy of an
hour ago.  And, indeed, the day was glorious.




CHAPTER XI

WHICH RELATES A BRIEF PASSAGE-AT-ARMS AT "THE CHEQUERS" INN


In due season I came into Tonbridge town, and following the High
Street, presently observed a fine inn upon the right-hand side of the
way, which, as I remember, is called "The Chequers."  And here were
divers loiterers, lounging round the door, or seated upon the benches;
but the eyes of all were turned the one way.

And presently, as I paused before the inn, to look up at its snow-white
plaster, and massive cross-beams, there issued from the stable yard one
in a striped waistcoat, with top-boots and a red face, who took a straw
from behind his ear, and began to chew it meditatively; to whom I now
addressed myself.

"Good afternoon!" said I.

"Arternoon!" he answered.

"A fine day!" said I.

"Is it?" said he.

"Why—to be sure it is," said I, somewhat taken aback by his manner;
"to be sure it is."

"Oh!" said he, and shifted the straw very dexterously from one corner
of his mouth to the other, by some unseen agency, and stared up the
road harder than ever.

"What are you looking at?" I inquired.

"'Ill," said he.

"And why do you look at the hill?"

"Mail," said he.

"Oh!" said I.

"Ah!" said he.

"Is it the London coach?"

"Ah!" said he.

"Does it stop here?"

"Ah!" said he.

"Do you ever say anything much beside 'ah'?" I inquired.

He stopped chewing the straw, and with his eyes on the distance, seemed
to turn this question over in his mind; having done which, he began to
chew again.

"Ah!" said he.

"Why, then you can, perhaps, tell me how many miles it is—"

"Five," said he.

"I was about to ask how far it was to—"

"The Wells!" said he.

"Why—yes, to be sure, but how did you know that?"

"It's use!" said he.

"What do you mean?"

"They all ask!" said he.

"Who do?"

"Tramps!" said he.

"Oh! so you take me for a tramp?"

"Ah!" said he.

"And you," said I, "put me in mind of a certain Semi-quavering Friar."

"Eh?" said he, frowning a little at the hill.

"You've never heard of Rabelais, or Panurge, of course," said I. The
Ostler took out his straw, eyed it thoughtfully, and put it back again.

"No," said he.

"More's the pity!" said I, and was about to turn away, when he drew the
nearest fist abruptly from his pocket, and extended it towards me.

"Look at that!" he commanded.

"Rather dirty," I commented, "but otherwise a good, useful member, I
make no doubt."

"It's a-goin'," said he, alternately drawing in and shooting out the
fist in question, "it's a-goin' to fill your eye up."

"Is it?" said I.

"Ah!" said he.

"But what for?"

"I aren't a Semmy, nor yet a Quaver, an' as for Friers," said he, very
deliberately, "why—Frier yourself, says I."

"Nevertheless," said I, "you are gifted with a certain terse directness
of speech that greatly reminds me of—"

"Joe!" he called out suddenly over his shoulder.  "Mail, Joe!"

Lifting my eyes to the brow of the hill, I could see nothing save a
faint haze, which, however, gradually grew denser and thicker; and out
from this gathering cloud, soft, and faint with distance, stole the
silvery notes of a horn.  Now I saw the coach itself, and, as I watched
it rapidly descending the hill, I longed to be upon it, with the sun
above, the smooth road below, and the wind rushing through my hair.  On
it came at a gallop, rocking and swaying, a good fifteen miles an hour;
on it came, plunging into the green shade of trees, and out into the
sun again, with ever the gathering dust cloud behind; while clear and
high rang the cheery note of the horn.  And now, from the cool shadows
of the inn yard, there rose a prodigious stamping of hoofs, rattling of
chains, and swearing of oaths, and out came four fresh horses, led by
two men, each of whom wore topboots, a striped waistcoat, and chewed
upon straws.

And now the coach swung round the bend, and came thundering down upon
"The Chequers," chains jingling, wheels rumbling, horn braying and,
with a stamp and ring of hoof, pulled up before the inn.

And then what a running to and fro! what a prodigious unbuckling and
buckling of straps, while the jovial-faced coachman fanned himself with
his hat; and swore jovially at the ostlers, and the ostlers swore back
at the coachman, and the guard, and the coach, and the horses,
individually and collectively; in the midst of which confusion, down
came the window with a bang, and out of the window came a flask, and a
hand, and an arm, and, last of all, a great, fat face, round, and
mottled, and roaring as it came:

"Oho—I say damn it! damn everybody's eyes and bones—brandy! O yoho,
house—I say brandy!  Guard, landlord, ostlers—brandy, d'ye hear?  I
say, what the devil!  Am I to die for want of a drop of brandy?  Oho!"

Now, little by little, I became conscious (how, I cannot define) that I
was the object of a close and persistent scrutiny—that I was being
watched and stared at by some one near by.  Shifting my eyes,
therefore, from the mottled face at the coach window, I cast them
swiftly about until they presently met those of one of the four outside
passengers—a tall, roughly-clad man who leaned far out from the coach
roof, watching me intently; and his face was thin, and very pale, and
the eyes which stared into mine glowed beneath a jagged prominence of
brow.

At the time, though I wondered at the man's expression, and the fixity
of his gaze, I paid him no further heed, but turned my attention back
to Mottle-face, who had, by this time, bellowed himself purple.
Howbeit, in due time, the flask having been replenished and handed to
him, he dived back into the recesses of the coach, jerked up the
window, and vanished as suddenly as he had appeared.

But now the four fresh horses were in and harnessed, capering and
dancing with an ostler at the head of each; the Driver tossed off his
glass of rum and water, cast an eye up at the clouds, remarked: "Wind,
by Gemini!" settled his feet against the dashboard, and gathered up the
reins.  And now, too, the Guard appeared, wiping his lips as he came,
who also cast an eye up at the heavens, remarked: "Dust, by Jingo!" and
swung himself up into the rumble.

"All right behind?" sang out the Driver, over his shoulder.

"All right!" sang back the guard.

"Then—let 'em go!" cried the Driver.  Whereupon the ostlers jumped
nimbly back, the horses threw up their heads, and danced undecidedly
for a moment, the long whip cracked, hoofs clattered, sparks flew, and,
rumbling and creaking, off went the London Mail with such a flourish of
the horn as woke many a sleepy echo, near and far.  As I turned away, I
noticed that there remained but three outside passengers; the
pale-faced man had evidently alighted, yet, although I glanced round
for him, he was nowhere to be seen.

Hereupon, being in no mind to undergo the operation of having my eye
filled up, and, moreover, finding myself thirsty, I stepped into the
"Tap."  And there, sure enough, was the Outside Passenger staring
moodily out of the window, and with an untouched mug of ale at his
elbow.  Opposite him sat an old man in a smock frock, who leaned upon a
holly-stick, talking to a very short, fat man behind the bar, who took
my twopence with a smile, smiled as he drew my ale, and, smiling,
watched me drink.

"Be you from Lunnon, sir?" inquired the old man, eyeing me beneath his
hoary brows as I set down my tankard.

"Yes," said I.

"Well, think o' that now—I've been a-goin' to Lunnon this five an'
forty year—started out twice, I did, but I never got no furder nor
Sevenoaks!"

"How was that?" I inquired.

"Why, theer's 'The White Hart' at Sevenoaks, an' they brews fine ale at
'The White Hart,' d'ye see, an' one glass begets another."

"And they sent ye back in the carrier's cart!" said the fat man,
smiling broader than ever.

"Ever see the Lord Mayor a-ridin' in 'is goold coach, sir?" pursued the
old man.

"Yes," said I.

"Ever speak to 'im?"

"Why, no."

"Ah well, I once knowed a man as spoke to the Lord Mayor o' Lunnon's
coachman—but 'e's dead, took the smallpox the year arterwards an'
died, 'e did."

At this juncture the door was thrown noisily open, and two gentlemen
entered.  The first was a very tall man with black hair that curled
beneath his hat-brim, and so luxuriant a growth of whisker that it left
little of his florid countenance exposed. The second was more slightly
built, with a pale, hairless face, wherein were set two small, very
bright eyes, rather close together, separated by a high, thin nose with
nostrils that worked and quivered when he spoke, a face whose most
potent feature was the mouth, coarse and red, with a somewhat
protuberant under lip, yet supported by a square, determined chin
below—a sensual mouth with more than a suspicion of cruelty lurking in
its full curves, and the big teeth which gleamed white and serrated
when he laughed.  Indeed, the whole aspect of the man filled me with an
instinctive disgust.

They were dressed in that mixture of ultra-fashionable and horsey
styles peculiar to the "Corinthian," or "Buck" of the period, and there
was in their air an overbearing yet lazy insolence towards all and
sundry that greatly annoyed me.

"Fifteen thousand a year, by gad!" exclaimed the taller of the two,
giving a supercilious sniff to the brandy he had just poured out.

"Yes, ha! ha!—and a damnably pretty filly into the bargain!"

"You always were so infernally lucky!" retorted the first.

"Call it rather the reward of virtue," answered his companion with a
laugh that showed his big, white teeth.

"And what of Beverley—poor dey-vil?" inquired the first.

"Beverley!" repeated the other; "had he possessed any spirit he would
have blown his brains out, like a gentleman; as it was, he preferred
merely to disappear," and herewith the speaker shrugged his shoulders,
and drank off his glass with infinite relish and gusto.

"And a—pretty filly, you say?"

"Oh, I believe you! Country bred, but devilish well-blooded—trust
Beverley for that."

"Egad, yes—Beverley had a true eye for beauty or breed, poor dey-vil!"
This expression of pity seemed to afford each of them much subtle
enjoyment.  "Harking back to this—filly," said the big man, checking
his merriment, "how if she jibs, and cuts up rough, kicks over the
traces—devilish awkward, eh?"

His companion raised his foot and rested it carelessly, upon the settle
near by, and upon the heel of his slim riding-boot I saw a particularly
cruel-looking, long-necked spur.

"My dear Mostyn," said he, his nostrils working, "for such an emergency
there is nothing like a pair of good sharp 'persuaders,'" here he
tapped the spur lightly with the slender gold-mounted cane he carried;
"and I rather fancy I know just how and when to use 'em, Mostyn."  And
once again I saw the gleam of his big, white teeth.

All this I heard as they lolled within a yard of me, manifesting a
lofty and contemptuous disregard for all save themselves, waited upon
most deferentially by the smiling fat fellow, and stared at by the aged
man with as much admiring awe as if they had each been nothing less
than a lord mayor of London at the very least.  But now they leaned
their heads together and spoke in lowered tones, but something in the
leering eyes of the one, and the smiling lips of the other, told me
that it was not of horses that they spoke.

"... Bring her to reason, by gad!" said the slighter of the two,
setting down his empty glass with a bang, "oh, trust me to know their
pretty, skittish ways, trust me to manage 'em; I've never failed yet,
by gad!"

"Curse me, that's true enough!" said the other, and here they sank
their voices again.

My ale being finished, I took up my staff, a heavy, knotted affair, and
turned to go.  Now, as I did so, my foot, by accident, came in contact
with the gold-mounted cane I have mentioned, and sent it clattering to
the floor.  I was on the point of stooping for it, when a rough hand
gripped my shoulder from behind, twisting me savagely about, and I thus
found myself staring upon two rows of sharp, white teeth.

"Pick it up!" said he, motioning imperiously to the cane on the floor
between us.

"Heaven forbid, sir," said I; "'is thy servant a dog that he should do
this thing?'"

"I told you to pick it up," he repeated, thrusting his head towards me;
"are you going to do so, or must I make you?" and his nostrils worked
more than ever.

For answer I raised my foot and sent the cane spinning across the room.
Somebody laughed, and next moment my hat was knocked from my head.
Before he could strike again, however, I raised my staff, but suddenly
remembering its formidable weight, I altered the direction of the blow,
and thrust it strongly into the very middle of his gayly flowered
waistcoat.  So strongly did I thrust, indeed, that he would have fallen
but for the timely assistance of his companion.

"Come, come," said I, holding him off on the end of my staff, "be calm
now, and let us reason together like logical beings.  I knocked down
your cane by accident, and you, my hat by intent; very well then, be so
good as to return me my property, from the corner yonder, and we will
call 'quits.'"

"No, by gad!" gasped my antagonist, bending almost double, "wait—only
wait until I get—my wind—I'll choke—the infernal life out of
you—only wait, by gad!"

"Willingly," said I, "but whatever else you do, you will certainly
reach me my hat, otherwise, just so soon as you find yourself
sufficiently recovered, I shall endeavor to throw you after it."
Saying which, I laid aside my staff, and buttoned up my coat.

"Why," he began, "you infernally low, dusty, ditch-trotting
blackguard—"  But his companion, who had been regarding me very
closely, twitched him by the sleeve, and whispered something in his
ear.  Whatever it was it affected my antagonist strangely, for he grew
suddenly very red, and then very white, and abruptly turned his back
upon me.

"Are you sure, Mostyn?" said he in an undertone.

"Certain."

"Well, I'd fight him were he the devil himself!  Pistols perhaps would
be—"

"Don't be a fool, Harry," cried the other, and seizing his arm, drew
him farther away, and, though they lowered their voices, I caught such
fragments as "What of George?" "changes since your time," "ruin your
chances at the start," "dead shot."

"Sir," said I, "my hat—in the corner yonder."

Almost to my surprise, the taller of the two crossed the room, followed
by his friend, to whom he still spoke in lowered tones, stooped, picked
up my hat, and, while the other stood scowling, approached, and handed
it to me with a bow.

"That my friend, Sir Harry Mortimer, lost his temper, is regretted both
by him and myself," said he, "but is readily explained by the fact that
he has been a long time from London, while I labored under a—a
disadvantage, sir—until your hat was off."

Now, as he spoke, his left eyelid flickered twice in rapid succession.

"I beg you won't mention it," said I, putting on my hat; "but, sir, why
do you wink at me?"

"No, no," cried he, laughing and shaking his head, "ha! ha!—deyvilish
good!  By the way, they tell me George himself is in these
parts—incog. of course—"

"George?" said I, staring.

"Cursed rich, on my life and soul!" cried the tall gentleman, shaking
his head and laughing again.  "Mum's the word, of course, and I swear a
shaven face becomes you most deyvilishly!"

"Perhaps you will be so obliging as to tell me what you mean?" said I,
frowning.

"Oh, by gad!" he cried, fairly hugging himself with delight. "Oh, the
devil! this is too rich—too infernally rich, on my life and soul it
is!"

Now all at once there recurred to me the memory of Tom Cragg, the
Pugilist; of how he too had winked at me, and of his incomprehensible
manner afterwards beneath the gibbet on River Hill.

"Sir," said I, "do you happen to know a pugilist, Tom Cragg by name?"

"Tom Cragg! well, I should think so; who doesn't, sir?"

"Because," I went on, "he too seems to labor under the delusion that he
is acquainted with me, and—"

"Acquainted!" repeated the tall gentleman, "acquainted!  Oh, gad!" and
immediately hugged himself in another ecstasy.

"If," said I, "you will have the goodness to tell me for whom you
evidently mistake me—"

"Mistake you!" he gasped, throwing himself upon the settle and rocking
to and fro, "ha! ha!—mistake you!"

Seeing I did but waste my breath, I turned upon my heel, and made for
the door.  As I went, my eye, by chance, lighted upon a cheese that
stood at the fat landlord's elbow, and upon which he cast amorous
glances from time to time.

"That seems a fine cheese!" said I.

"It is, sir, if I might make so bold, a noble cheese!" he rejoined, and
laid his hand upon it with a touch that was a caress.

"Then I will take three pennyworth of your noble cheese," said I.

"Cheese!" faintly echoed the gentleman upon the settle, "three
pennyworth.  Oh, I shall die, positively I shall burst!"

"Also a loaf," said I.  And when the landlord had cut the cheese with
great nicety—a generous portion—and had wrapped it into a parcel, I
put it, together with the loaf, into my knapsack, and giving him "Good
day!" strode to the door.  As I reached it, the tall gentleman rose
from the settle, and bowed.

"Referring to George, sir—"

"George!" said I shortly; "to the devil with George!"

Now I could not help being struck by the effect of my words, for Sir
Harry let fall his cane, and stared open-mouthed, while his companion
regarded me with an expression between a frown and wide-eyed dismay.

"Now I wonder," said I to myself as I descended the steps, "I wonder
who George can be?"

Before the inn there stood a yellow-wheeled stanhope with a horse
which, from his manner of trembling all over for no conceivable reason,
and manifest desire to stand upon his hind legs, I conceived to be a
thorough-bred; and, hanging grimly to the bridle, now in the air, now
on terra firma, alternately coaxing and cursing, was my friend the
Semi-quavering Ostler.  He caught sight of me just as a particularly
vicious jerk swung him off his legs.

"Damn your liver!" he cried to the horse, and then, to me: "If you'll
jest call Joe to 'old this 'ere black varmin for me, I'll—fill
yer—eye up."

"Thanks," said I, "but I much prefer to keep it as it is; really there
is no need to trouble Joe, and as for you, I wish you good morning!"

And when I had gone a little way, chancing to glance back over my
shoulder, I saw that the Outside Passenger stood upon the inn steps,
and was staring after me.




CHAPTER XII

THE ONE-LEGGED SOLDIER


Following the high road, I came, in a little, to where the ways
divided, the one leading straight before me, the other turning sharp to
the left, where (as I remember) is a very steep hill.

And at the parting of the ways was a finger-post with the words: "To
LONDON.  To TONBRIDGE WELLS.  To PEMBRY."  Now as I stood beneath the
finger-post, debating which road I should take, I was aware of the
sound of wheels, and, glancing about, saw a carrier's cart approaching.
The driver was a fine, tall, ruddy-faced fellow, very spruce as to his
person, who held himself with shoulders squared and bolt upright, and
who shouted a cheery greeting to me.

"If so be you are for Pembry, or thereabouts, sir," said he, bringing
his horses to a standstill, "why, jump up, sir—that is, if you be so
minded."

"My course lies anywhere," said I.

"Then—if you be so minded—?"

"I am so minded," said I.

"Then, sir, jump up," said he.

"Thanks!" said I.

So I climbed upon the seat beside him, and then I saw that he had a
wooden leg, and straightway understood his smart bearing, and general
neat appearance.

"You have been a soldier?" said I.

"And my name's Tom, and I could tell you a sight about them Spanishers,
and Frenchies—that is, if—you be so minded?"

"I am so minded; fire away, Tom."

"Well," he began, fixing his eyes on the "wheeler's" ears, "they
Frenchies ain't so bad as is thought, though they do eat frogs, but
what I say is—if they be so minded, why frogs let it be!"

"To be sure!" said I.

"And after all they're well worth fighting, and that's more than you
can say for a many!"

"True," said I, "one generally has a certain respect for the man one
fights."

"Then there's Old Bony."

"Have you ever seen him?"

"I have, sir; I were captured outside the Lines of Torres Vedras, and I
saw Old Bony eating his breakfast off a drum-head wi' one hand and
a-writing a dispatch wi' the other—a little fat man not so high as my
shoulder, look you.  There's some as says as Old Bony lives on new-born
babies, but I know different.   Because why, says you?  Because I've
seen with these 'ere 'peepers,' says I—bread it were, and cheese, and
garlic, and a uncommon lot at that."

"And where did you lose your leg, Tom?"

"Vittoria—I 'appened to be carrying my off'cer, Ensign Standish his
name, barely eighteen year old.  Shot through the lung he were, and
a-trying to tell me to put him down and go, the fire being uncommonly
'ot there, you'll understand, sir, and as I say, he were trying to tell
me to drop him and run for it, and blowing blood-bubbles wi' every
word, when all at once I feels a sort of a shock, and there I was on my
back and him atop o' me; and when I went to get up—damme! there was my
leg gone below the knee, and no pleasant sight, neither."

"And afterward?"

"Arterwards," he repeated.  "Why, that were the end o' my sojerin', ye
see; we lay in the same 'ospital 'im an' me, side by side, and he swore
as I'd saved his life—which I 'adn't, look you, and likewise swore as
he'd never forget it.  And he never 'as either, for here am I wi' my
own horse and cart, Tom Price by name, carrier by trade, an' very much
at your service, sir, I'm sure."

Thus we climbed the hill of Pembry, by tree and hedge, and lonely
cottage, by rolling meadow, and twilit wood, Tom the Soldier and I.

Much he told me of lonely night watches, of death sudden and sharp, of
long, weary marches, and stricken fields, of the bloody doings of the
Spanish Guerrillas, of Mina, and his deviltries. And in my ears was the
roar of guns, and before my eyes the gleam and twinkle of bayonets.  By
the side of Tom the Soldier I waited the thunderous charge of French
Dragoons, saw their stern, set faces, and the flash of their brandished
steel as they swept down upon our devoted square, swept down to break
in red confusion before our bristling bayonets; and the air was full of
the screams of smitten horses, and the deep-throated shouts and groans
of men.  By the side of Tom the Soldier I stormed through many a
reeking breach, swept by fire, and slippery with blood; and all for
love of it, the munificent sum of eightpence per day, and that which we
call "Glory."  Bravo, Tom the Soldier!

And presently I became aware that he had stopped his horses, and was
regarding me smilingly.

"Tom," said I, "you are a wonderful talker!"

"And you, sir," said he, "are a better listener, and, look you, a good
listener is mighty hard to come by.  Howsomever, here's the end o' my
journey, more's the pity, but if you—"

"Tom," said I suddenly, "you never heard of Tom Cragg, did you?"

"Can't say as I have," he answered, stroking his chin thoughtfully,
"though there was a Dick Snagget in the 'Thirty-Ninth,' I remember."

"And you don't know who 'George' is, of course?" I continued musingly.

"Why, I've knowed a many Georges in my time," said he, "and then
there's George, Prince o' Wales, the Prince Regent, as they calls him
now."

"George, Prince of Wales!" said I, staring; "by heavens, Tom, I believe
you've hit it!"  And, with the word, I sprang down from the cart.

"My cottage is near by, sir, and I should be proud for you to eat
supper wi' me—that is—if you be so minded?"

"Many thanks," said I, "but I am not so minded, and so, good-by, Tom!"
And, with the words, I wrung the soldier's honest hand in mine, and
went upon my way.

"George, Prince of Wales!" said I to myself; "could this be the
'George' they had meant?  If so, then who and what had they supposed
me?"  Hereupon, as I walked, I fell into a profound meditation, in
which I presently remembered how that Tom Cragg had also mentioned the
Prince, giving me to understand that his Highness had actually ordered
him (Tom Cragg) to leave London; and why?  "Arter that theer
kidnappin', an' me 'avin' laid out Sir Jarsper Trent—accordin' to yer
order."

Sir Jasper Trent! I stopped stock still in the road.  Sir Jasper Trent!
At last I remembered the name that had eluded me so persistently.
Remembered it?  Nay, indeed, it was rather as if the Pugilist had
whispered the words into my ear, and I glanced round almost expecting
to see him.

"Arter that theer kidnappin', an' me 'avin' laid out Sir Jarsper
Trent—accordin' to yer orders!"

According to my orders, or rather, the orders of the man for whom he
(in common with the two gentlemen at "The Chequers") had mistaken me.
But who was that man?  Of him I knew two facts—namely, that he was
much like me in person, and had formerly worn, or possibly still wore,
whiskers.  And beyond these two facts I could get no farther, revolve
the matter how I might, so I presently shrugged my shoulders, and
banishing it from my thoughts for the time being, set forward at a good
pace.




CHAPTER XIII

IN WHICH I FIND AN ANSWER TO MY RIDDLE


The sun was already westering when I came to a pump beside the way; and
seizing the handle I worked it vigorously, then, placing my hollowed
hands beneath the gushing spout, drank and pumped, alternately, until I
had quenched my thirst.  I now found myself prodigiously hungry, and
remembering the bread and cheese in my knapsack, looked about for an
inviting spot in which to eat.

On one side of the road was a thick hedge, and, beneath this hedge, a
deep, dry, grassy ditch; and here, after first slipping off my
knapsack, I sat down, took out the loaf and the cheese, and opening my
clasp-knife, prepared to fall to.

At this moment I was interrupted in a rather singular fashion, for
hearing a rustling close by, I looked up, and into a face that was
protruded through a gap in the hedge above me.

It needed but a glance at the battered hat with its jaunty brim, and
great silver buckle, and the haggard, devil-may-care face below, to
recognize the individual whom I had seen thrown out of the hedge tavern
the morning before.

It was a very thin face, as I have said, pale and hollow-eyed and
framed in black curly hair, whose very blackness did but accentuate the
extreme pallor of the skin, which was tight, and drawn above the cheek
bones and angle of the jaw.  Yet, as I looked at this face, worn and
cadaverous though it was, in the glance of the hollow eyes, in the line
of the clean-cut mouth I saw that mysterious something which marks a
man, what we call for want of a better word, a gentleman.

"Good evening!" said he, and lifted the battered hat.

"Good evening!" I returned.

"Pardon me," said he, "but I was saluting the bread and cheese."

"Indeed!" said I.

"Indeed!" he rejoined, "it is the first edible I have been on speaking
terms with, so to speak, for rather more than three days, sir."

"You are probably hungry?" said I.

"It would be foolish to deny it, sir."

"Then, if you care to eat with me in the ditch here, you are heartily
welcome," said I.

"With all the pleasure in life!" said he, vaulting very nimbly through
the hedge; "you shall not ask me twice or the very deuce is in it!
Believe me, I—"  Here he stopped, very suddenly, and stood looking at
me.

"Ah!" said he gently, and with a rising inflection, letting the
ejaculation escape in a long-drawn breath.

"Well?" I inquired.  Now as I looked up at him, the whole aspect of the
man, from the toes of his broken boots to the crown of the battered
hat, seemed to undergo a change, as though a sudden, fierce anger had
leapt into life, and been controlled, but by a strong effort.

"On my life and soul, now!" said he, falling back a step, and eyeing me
with a vaguely unpleasant smile, "this is a most unexpected—a most
unlooked for pleasure; it is—I vow it is."

"You flatter me," said I.

"No, sir, no; to meet you again—some day—somewhere—alone—quite
alone, sir, is a pleasure I have frequently dwelt upon, but never hoped
to realize.  As it is, sir, having, in my present condition, no chance
of procuring better weapons than my fists, allow me to suggest that
they are, none the less, entirely at your service; do me the infinite
kindness to stand up."

"Sir," I answered, cutting a slice from the loaf, "you are the third
person within the last forty-eight hours who has mistaken me for
another; it really gets quite wearisome."

"Mistaken you," he broke in, and his smile grew suddenly bitter, "do
you think it possible that I could ever mistake you?"

"I am sure of it!" said I.  "Furthermore, pray do not disparage your
fists, sir.  A bout at fisticuffs never did a man any harm that I ever
heard; a man's fists are good, honest weapons supplied by a beneficent
Providence—far better than your unnatural swords and murderous
hair-triggers; at least, so I think, being, I trust, something of a
philosopher.  Still, in this instance, never having seen your face, or
heard your voice until yesterday, I shall continue to sit here, and eat
my bread and cheese, and if you are wise you will hasten to follow my
so excellent example while there is any left, for, I warn you, I am
mightily sharp set."

"Come, come," said he, advancing upon me threateningly, "enough of this
foolery!"

"By all means," said I, "sit down, like a sensible fellow, and tell me
for whom you mistake me."

"Sir, with all the pleasure in life!" said he, clenching his fists, and
I saw his nostrils dilate suddenly.  "I take you for the greatest
rogue, the most gentlemanly rascal but one, in all England!"

"Yes," said I, "and my name?"

"Sir Maurice Vibart!"

"Sir Maurice Vibart?" I sprang to my feet, staring at him in amazement.
"Sir Maurice Vibart is my cousin," said I.

And so we stood, for a long minute, immobile and silent, eyeing each
other above the bread and cheese.




CHAPTER XIV

FURTHER CONCERNING THE GENTLEMAN IN THE BATTERED HAT


"Sir," said my companion at last, lifting the battered hat, "I tender
you my apology, and I shall be delighted to eat with you in the ditch,
if you are in the same mind about it?"

"Then you believe me?"

"Indubitably, sir," he answered with a faint smile; "had you indeed
been Sir Maurice, either he or I, and most probably I, would be lying
flat in the road, by this."

So, without more ado, we sat down in the ditch together, side by side,
and began to eat.  And now I noticed that when he thought my eye was
upon him, my companion ate with a due deliberation and nicety, and when
he thought it was off, with a voracity that was painful to witness.
And after we had eaten a while in silence, he turned to me with a sigh.

"This is very excellent cheese!" said he.

"The man from whom I bought it," said I, "called it a noble cheese, I
remember."

"I never tasted one of a finer flavor!" said my companion.

"Hunger is a fine sauce," said I, "and you are probably hungry?"

"Hungry!" he repeated, bolting a mouthful and knocking his hat over his
eyes with a slap on its dusty crown.  "Egad, Mr. Vibart! so would you
be—so would any man be who has lived on anything he could beg, borrow,
or steal, with an occasional meal of turnips—in the digging of which I
am become astonishingly expert—and unripe blackberries, which latter I
have proved to be a very trying diet in many ways—hungry, oh, damme!"

And after a while, when there nothing remained of loaf or cheese save a
few scattered crumbs, my companion leaned back, and gave another sigh.

"Sir," said he, with an airy wave of the hand, "in me you behold a
highly promising young gentleman ruined by a most implacable
enemy—himself, sir.  In the first place you must know my name is
Beverley—"

"Beverley?" I repeated.

"Beverley," he nodded, "Peregrine Beverley, very much at your
service—late of Beverley Place, Surrey, now of Nowhere-in-Particular."

"Beverley," said I again, "I have heard that name before."

"It is highly probable, Mr. Vibart; a fool of that name—fortunate or
unfortunate as you choose to classify him—lost houses, land, and money
in a single night's play.  I am that fool, sir, though you have
doubtless heard particulars ere now?"

"Not a word!" said I.  Mr. Beverley glanced at me with a faint mingling
of pity and surprise.  "My life," I explained, "has been altogether a
studious one, with the not altogether unnatural result that I also am
bound for Nowhere-in-Particular with just eight shillings and sixpence
in my pocket."

"And mine, as I tell you," said he, "has been an altogether riotous
one.  Thus each of us, though by widely separate roads—you by the
narrow and difficult path of Virtue, and I by the broad and easy road
of Folly—have managed to find our way into this Howling Destitution,
which we will call Nowhere-in-Particular.  Then how does your path of
Virtue better my road of Evil?"

"The point to be considered," said I, "is not so much what we now are,
but rather, what we have done, and may ultimately be, and do."

"Well?" said he, turning to look at me.

"For my own achievements, hitherto," I continued, "I have won the High
Jump, and Throwing the Hammer, also translated the works of Quintilian,
with the Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter, and the Life, Lives, and
Memoirs of the Seigneur de Brantome, which last, as you are probably
aware, has never before been done into the English."

"Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Beverley, sitting up suddenly, with his ill-used
hat very much over one eye, "there we have it!  Whoever heard of Old
Quin—What's-his-name, or cared, except, perhaps, a few bald-headed
bookworms and withered litterateurs?  While you were dreaming of life,
and reading the lives of other fellows, I was living it.  In my career,
episodically brief though it was, I have met and talked with all the
wits, and celebrated men, have drunk good wine, and worshipped
beautiful women, Mr. Vibart."

"And what has it all taught you?" said I.

"That there are an infernal number of rogues and rascals in the world,
for one thing—and that is worth knowing."

"Yes," said I.

"That, though money can buy anything, from the love of a woman to the
death of an enemy, it can only be spent once—and that is worth knowing
also."

"Yes," said I.

"And that I am a most preposterous ass!—and that last, look you, is
more valuable than all the others.  Solomon, I think, says something
about a wise man being truly wise who knoweth himself a fool, doesn't
he?"

"Something of the sort."

"Then," said he, flinging his hat down upon the grass beside him, "what
argument can you advance in favor of your 'Narrow and Thorny'?"

"The sum of eight shillings and sixpence, a loaf of bread, and a slice
of noble cheese, now no more," said I.

"Egad!" said he, looking at me from the corners of his blue eyes, "the
argument is unanswerable, more especially the cheese part, against
which I'd say nothing, even if I could."  Having remarked which, he lay
flat on his back again, staring up at the leaves, and the calm serenity
of the sky beyond, while I filled my negro-head pipe from my paper of
tobacco, and forthwith began to smoke.

And, presently, as I sat alternately watching the blue wreaths of my
pipe and the bedraggled figure extended beside me, he suddenly rolled
over on his arm, and so lay, watching me.

"On my soul!" he exclaimed at length, "it is positively marvellous."

"What is?" I inquired.

"The resemblance between you and your famous cousin."

"It would appear so," said I, shrugging my shoulders, "though,
personally, I was unaware of this fact up till now."

"Do I understand that you have never seen Sir Maurice Vibart, never
seen 'Buck' Vibart?"

"Never!" said I.

"Too much occupied—in keeping to the Narrow and Thorny, I suppose?
Your cousin's is the Broad and Flowery, with a vengeance."

"So I understand," said I.

"Nevertheless, the resemblance between you, both in face and figure, is
positively astounding!  With the sole exception that he wears hair upon
his face, and is of a ruddy complexion, while you are pale, and smooth
smooth-cheeked as as a boy—"

"Or yourself!" said I.

"Ah—exactly!" he answered, and passed his fingers across his chin
tentatively, and fell again to staring lazily up into the sky.  "Do you
happen to know anything about that most remarkable species of the
'genus homo' calling themselves 'Bucks,' or 'Corinthians'?" he
inquired, after a while.

"Very little," said I, "and that, only by hearsay."

"Well, up to six months ago, I was one of them, Mr. Vibart, until
Fortune, and I think now, wisely, decreed it otherwise."  And herewith,
lying upon his back, looking up through the quivering green of leaves,
he told mad tales of a reckless Prince, of the placid Brummel, of the
"Dashing" Vibart, the brilliant Sheridan, of Fox, and Grattan, and many
others, whose names are now a byword one way or the other.  He
recounted a story of wild prodigality, of drunken midnight orgies, of
days and nights over the cards, of wine, women, and horses.  But,
lastly and very reverently, he spoke of a woman, of her love, and
faith, and deathless trust. "Of course," he ended, "I might have
starved very comfortably, and much quicker, in London, but when my time
comes, I prefer to do my dying beneath some green hedge, or in the
shelter of some friendly rick, with the cool, clean wind upon my face.
Besides— She loved the country."

"Then there are some women who can't be bought?" said I, looking at his
glistening eyes.

"Mr. Vibart," said he, "so far as I know, there are two—the Lady Helen
Dunstan and the 'Glorious' Sefton."

"The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne?" said I.

"And—the Lady Helen Dunstan," he repeated.

"Do you know the Lady Sophia Sefton?"

"I have had the honor of dancing with her frequently," he answered.

"And is she so beautiful as they say?"

"She is the handsomest woman in London, one of your black-browed,
deep-eyed goddesses, tall, and gracious, and most nobly shaped; though,
sir, for my own part, I prefer less fire and ice—and more gentle
beauty."

"As, for instance, the Lady Helen Dunstan?" said I.

"Exactly!" nodded Mr. Beverley.

"Referring to the Lady Sophia Sefton," I pursued, "she is a reigning
toast, I believe?"

"Gad, yes! her worshippers are legion, and chief among them his Royal
Highness, and your cousin, Sir Maurice, who has actually had the
temerity to enter the field as the Prince's avowed rival; no one but
'Buck' Vibart could be so madly rash!"

"A most fortunate lady!" said I.

"Mr. Vibart!" exclaimed my companion, cocking his battered hat and
regarding me with a smouldering eye, "Mr. Vibart, I object to your
tone; the noble Sefton's virtue is proud and high, and above even the
breath of suspicion."

"And yet my cousin would seem to be no laggard in love, and as to the
Prince—his glance is contamination to a woman."

"Sir," returned Mr. Beverley very earnestly, "disabuse your mind of all
unworthy suspicions, I beg; your cousin she laughs to scorn, and his
Royal Highness she had rebuffed as few women have, hitherto, dared do."

"It would almost seem," said I, after a pause, "that, from what I have
inadvertently learned, my cousin has some dirty work afoot, though
exactly what, I cannot imagine."

"My dear Mr. Vibart, your excellent cousin is forever up to something
or other, and has escaped the well-merited consequences, more than
once, owing to his friendship with, and the favor of his friend—"

"George?" said I.

"Exactly!" said my companion, raising himself on his elbow, and
nodding: "George."

"Have you ever heard mention of Tom Cragg, the Pugilist?" I inquired,
blowing a cloud of smoke into the warm air.

"I won ten thousand guineas when he knocked out Ted Jarraway of
Swansea," yawned my companion; "a good fighter, but a rogue—like all
the rest of 'em, and a creature of your excellent cousin's."

"I guessed as much," I nodded, and forthwith plunged into an account of
my meeting with the "craggy one," the which seemed to amuse Mr.
Beverley mightily, more especially when I related Cragg's mysterious
disappearance.

"Oh, gad!" cried Beverley, wiping his eyes on the tattered lapel of his
coat, "the resemblance served you luckily there; your cousin gave him
the thrashing of his life, and poor Tom evidently thought he was in for
another.  That was the last you saw of him, I'll be bound."

"No, I met him afterwards beneath the gibbet on River Hill, where,
among other incomprehensible things, he gave me to understand that he
recognized me despite my disguise, assumed, as he supposed, on account
of his having kidnapped some one or other, and 'laid out' a certain Sir
Jasper Trent in Wych Street according to my orders, or rather, it would
seem, my cousin's orders, the author of which outrage Sir Jasper had
evidently found out—"

"The devil!" exclaimed Mr. Beverley, and sat up with a jerk.

"And furthermore," I went on, "he informed me that the Prince himself
had given him the word to leave London until the affair had blown over."

Now while I spoke, Mr. Beverley had been regarding me with a very
strange expression, his cheeks had gone even paler than before, his
eyes seemed to stare through, and beyond me, and his hands were
tight-clenched at his sides.

"Mr. Beverley," said I, "what ails you?"

For a moment he did not speak, then answered, with the same strange
look:

"Sir Jasper Trent—is my cousin, sir."

My negro-head pipe slipped suddenly, and fell into the grass, happily
without injury.

"Indeed!" said I.

"Can you not see what this means, sir?" he went on hurriedly. "Jasper
will fight."

"Indeed," said I again, "I fear so."

"Jasper was always a bit of a fish, and with no particular affection
for his graceless kinsman, but I am his only relative; and—and he
hardly knows one end of a pistol from the other, while your cousin is a
dead shot."

"My cousin!" I exclaimed; "then it was he—to be sure I saw only his
back."

"Sir Jasper is unmarried—has no relations but myself," my companion
repeated, with the same fixed intentness of look; "can you appreciate,
I wonder, what this would mean to me?"

"Rank, and fortune, and London," said I.

"No, no!"  He sprang to his feet, and threw wide his ragged arms with a
swift, passionate gesture.  "It means Life—and Helen.  My God!" he
went on, speaking almost in a whisper, "I never knew how much I wanted
her—how much I had wilfully tossed aside—till now! I never realized
the full misery of it all—till now!  I could have starved very well in
time, and managed it as quietly as most other ruined fools.  But
now—to see the chance of beginning again, of coming back to
self-respect and—Helen, my God!"  And, of a sudden, he cast himself
upon his face, and so lay, tearing up the grass by handfuls.  Then,
almost as suddenly, he was upon his feet again, and had caught up his
hat.  "Sir," said he somewhat shamefacedly, smoothing its ruffled nap
with fingers that still quivered, "pray forgive that little ebullition
of feeling; it is over—quite over, but your tidings affected me, and I
am not quite myself at times; as I have already said, turnips and
unripe blackberries are not altogether desirable as a diet."

"Indeed," said I, "you seemed strangely perturbed."

"Mr. Vibart," said he, staring very hard at the battered hat, and
turning it round and round, "Mr. Vibart, the devil is surprisingly
strong in some of us."

"True," said I.

"My cousin, Sir Jasper, is a bookish fellow, and, as I have said, a
fool where anything else is in question; if this meeting is allowed to
take place, I feel that he will most certainly be killed, and his death
would mean a new life—more than life to me."

"Yes," said I.

"And for a moment, Mr. Vibart, I was tempted to sit down in the ditch
again, and let things take their course.  The devil, I repeat, is
remarkably strong in some of us."

"Then what is your present intention?"

"I am going to London to find Sir Maurice Vibart—to stop this duel."

"Impossible!" said I.

"But you see, sir, it so happens that I am possessed of certain
intelligence which might make Sir Maurice's existence in England
positively untenable."

"Nevertheless," said I, "it is impossible."

"That remains to be seen, Mr. Vibart," said he, and speaking, turned
upon his heel.

"One moment," said I, "was not your cousin, Sir Jasper, of the middle
height, slim-built and fair-haired, with a habit of plucking at his
lips when at all nervous or excited?"

"Exactly; you know him, sir?"

"No," I answered, "but I have seen him, very lately, and I say again to
stop this duel is an impossibility."

"Do you mean—" he began, and paused.  Now, as his eyes met mine, the
battered hat escaped his fingers, and lay all unheeded.  "Do you
mean—" he began again, and again stopped.

"Yes," said I, "I mean that you are too late.  Sir Jasper was killed at
a place called Deepdene Wood, no longer since than to-day at half-past
seven in the morning.  It was raining at the time, I remember, but the
day grew glorious later."

For a long moment Mr. Beverley stood silent with bent head, then,
apparently becoming aware of the hat at his feet, he sent it flying
with a sudden kick, and watched it describe a wide parabola ere it
disappeared into the ditch, some yards away.  Which done, he walked
after it, and returned, brushing it very carefully with his ragged cuff.

"And—you are sure—quite sure, Mr. Vibart?" he inquired, smoothing the
broken brim with the greatest solicitude.

"I stood behind a hedge, and watched it done," said I.

"Then—my God!—I am Sir Peregrine Beverley!  I am Sir Peregrine
Beverley of Burnham Hall, very much at your service.  Jasper—dead! A
knight banneret of Kent, and Justice of the Peace!  How utterly
preposterous it all sounds! But to-day I begin life anew, ah, yes, a
new life, a new life!  To-day all things are possible again! The fool
has learned wisdom, and, I hope, become a man.  But come," said he in a
more natural tone, "let us get back to our ditch, and, while you tell
me the particulars, if you don't object I should much like to try a
whiff at that pipe of yours."

So, while I recounted the affair as briefly as I might, he sat puffing
at my pipe, and staring away into the distance.  But gradually his head
sank lower and lower, until his face was quite hidden from me, and for
a long moment after I had ended my narration, there was silence.

"Poor Jasper!" said he at last, without raising his head, "poor old
Jasper!"

"I congratulate you, Sir Peregrine," said I.

"And I used to pummel him so, when we were boys together at Eton—poor
old Jasper!"  And, presently, he handed me my pipe, and rose.  "Mr.
Vibart," said he, "it would seem that by no effort, or virtue of my
own, I am to win free of this howling desolation of
Nowhere-in-Particular, after all; believe me, I would gladly take you
with me.  Had I not met with you it is—rather more than probable—that
I—should never have seen another dawn; so if—if ever I can be of—use
to you, pray honor me so far; you can always hear of me at Burnham
Hall, Pembry.  Good-by, Mr. Vibart, I am going to her—in all my
rags—for I am a man again."

So I bade him good-by, and, sitting in the ditch, watched him stride
away to his new life.  Presently, reaching the brow of the hill (there
are hills everywhere in the South country), I saw him turn to flourish
the battered hat ere he disappeared from my sight.




CHAPTER XV

IN WHICH I MEET WITH A PEDLER BY THE NAME OF "GABBING" DICK


"You won't be wantin' ever a broom, now?"

I sat up, sleepily, and rubbed my eyes.  The sun was gone, and the blue
sky had changed to a deep purple, set here and there with a quivering
star.  Yet the light was still strong enough to enable me to
distinguish the speaker—a short, thick-set man. Upon his shoulder he
carried a bundle of brooms, a pack was slung to his back, while round
his neck there dangled a heterogeneous collection of articles—ribbons,
laces, tawdry neck chains, and the like; indeed, so smothered was he in
his wares that, as he stood there, he had more the aspect of some
disordered fancy than of a human being.

"You won't be wantin' ever a broom, now?" he repeated, in a somewhat
melancholy tone.

"No," said I.

"Nor yet a mop?"

"Nor that either," said I.

"A belt, now," he suggested mournfully, "a fine leather belt wi' a
steel buckle made in Brummagem as ever was, and all for a shillin';
what d'ye say to a fine belt?"

"That I have no need of one, thank you."

"Ah, well!" said the man, spitting dejectedly at a patch of shadow, "I
thought as much; you aren't got the look of a buyer."

"Then why ask me?"

"Hinstinct!" said he, "it's jest hinstinct—it comes as nat'ral to me
as eatin', or walkin' these 'ere roads."

"Have you come far to-day?"

"Twenty mile, maybe," he answered, setting down his bundle of brooms.

"Are you tired?"

"'Course I'm tired."

"Then why not sit down and rest?"

"Because I'd 'ave to get up again, wouldn't I?"

"Are you hungry?

"'Ungry aren't the word for it."

"And how is trade?"

"Couldn't be worse!"

"I perceive you are a pessimist," said I.

"No," said he, "I'm a pedler—baptism'l name Richard, commonly known as
'Gabbin' Dick.'"

"At least yours is a fine healthy trade," said I.

"'Ow so?"

"A life of constant exercise, and fresh air; to-day for instance—"

"'Ot as a hoven!" said he.

"Yet there was a good, cool wind," said I.

"Ah! an' with dust enough to choke a man! And then there's the
loneliness o' these 'ere roads."

"Loneliness?" said I.

"That's the word; sometimes it gets so bad as I'm minded to do away wi'
myself—"

"Strange!" I began.

"Not a bit," said he; "when you've been a-walkin' an' a-walkin' all day
past 'edge and 'edge, and tree and tree, it's bad enough, but it's
worse when the sun's gone out, an' you foller the glimmer o' the road
on and on, past 'edges as ain't 'edges, and trees as ain't trees, but
things as touch you as you pass, and reach out arter you in the dark,
behind.  Theer's one on 'em, back theer on the Cranbrook road, looks
like an oak-tree in the daytime—ah, an' a big 'un—it's nearly 'ad me
three times a'ready—once by the leg, once by the arm, and once by the
neck. I don't pass it arter dark no more, but it'll 'ave me yet—mark
my words—it'll 'ave me one o' these fine nights; and they'll find me
a-danglin' in the gray o' the dawn!"

"Do you mean that you are afraid?" I inquired.

"No, not afeared exactly; it's jest the loneliness—the lonely
quietness.  Why, Lord! you aren't got no notion o' the tricks the trees
and 'edges gets up to a' nights—nobody 'as but us as tramps the roads.
Bill Nye knowed, same as I know, but Bill Nye's dead; cut 'is throat,
'e did, wi' one o' 'is own razors—under a 'edge."

"And what for?" I inquired, as the Pedler paused to spit lugubriously
into the road again.

"Nobody knowed but me.  William Nye 'e were a tinker, and a rare, merry
'un 'e were—a little man always up to 'is jinkin' and jokin' and
laughin'.  'Dick,' 'e used to say (but Richard I were baptized, though
they calls me Dick for short), 'Dick,' 'e used to say, 'd'ye know that
theer big oak-tree—the big, 'oller oak as stands at the crossroads a
mile and a 'alf out o' Cranbrook? A man might do for 'isself very nice,
and quiet, tucked away inside of it, Dick,' says 'e; 'it's such a nice,
quiet place, so snug and dark, I wonder as nobody does.  I never pass
by,' says 'e, 'but I takes a peep inside, jest to make sure as theer
aren't no legs a-danglin', nor nobody 'unched up dead in the dark.
It's such a nice, quiet place,' e used to say, shakin' 'is 'ead, and
smilin' sad-like, 'I wonder as nobody's never thought of it afore.'
Well, one day, sure enough, poor Bill Nye disappeared—nobody knowed
wheer.  Bill, as I say, was a merry sort, always ready wi' a joke, and
that's apt to get a man friends, and they searched for 'im 'igh and
low, but neither 'ide nor 'air o' poor Bill did they find.  At last,
one evenin' I 'appened to pass the big oak—the 'oller oak, and mindin'
Bill's words, thinks I—'ere's to see if 'tis empty as Bill said.
Goin' up to it I got down on my 'ands and knees, and, strikin' a light,
looked inside; and there, sure enough, was poor Bill Nye hunched up
inside of it wi' a razor in 'is 'and, and 'is 'ead nigh cut off—and
what wi' one thing and another, a very unpleasant sight he were."

"And why—why did he do it?" I asked.

"Because 'e 'ad to, o' course—it's jest the loneliness. They'll find
me some day, danglin'—I never could abide 'blood myself—danglin' to
the thing as looks like a oak tree in the daytime."

"What do you mean?" said I.

The Pedler sighed, shook his head, and shouldered his brooms.

"It's jest the loneliness!" said he, and, spitting over this shoulder,
trudged upon his way.




CHAPTER XVI

HOW I HEARD THE STEPS OF ONE WHO DOGGED ME IN THE SHADOWS


And, in a little while, I rose, and buckled on my knapsack.  The
shadows were creeping on apace, but the sky was wonderfully clear,
while, low down upon the horizon, I saw the full-orbed moon, very broad
and big.  It would be a brilliant night later, and this knowledge
rejoiced me not a little.  Before me stretched a succession of
hills—that chain of hills which, I believe, is called the Weald, and
over which the dim road dipped, and wound, with, on either hand, a
rolling country, dark with wood, and coppice—full of mystery.  The
wind had quite fallen, but from the hedges came sudden rustlings and
soft, unaccountable noises. Once, something small and dark scuttered
across the road before me, and once a bird, hidden near by, set up a
loud complaint, while, from the deeps of a neighboring wood, came the
mournful note of a night-jar.

And, as I walked, I bethought me of poor Bill Nye, the Tinker.  I could
picture him tramping upon this very road, his jingling load upon his
back, and the "loneliness" upon and around him.  A small man, he would
be, with a peaked face, little, round, twinkling eyes, grizzled hair,
and a long, blue chin.  How I came to know all this I cannot tell, only
it seemed he must be so.  On he went, his chin first upon one shoulder,
and now upon the other, shooting furtive glances at hedges which were
not hedges, and trees which were not trees.  Somewhere there was a
"thing" that looked like a big oak tree in the daytime—a hollow oak.
On he went through the shadows, on and on.  Presently he turned out of
the road, and there, sure enough, was the oak itself.  Kneeling down,
he slipped off his burden and pushed it through a jagged hole at the
root.  Then he glanced round him, a long, stealthy look, down at the
earth and up at the sky, and crept into the tree.  In the dimness I
could see him fumble for the thing he wanted, pause to thumb its edge,
and, throwing up his chin, raise his hand—

"Folly!" said I aloud, and stopped suddenly in my stride.

The moon's rim was just topping the trees to my left, and its light,
feeble though it was as yet, served to show that I had reached a place
where four roads met.

Now, casting my eyes about me, they were attracted by a great tree that
grew near by, a tree of vast girth and bigness.  And, as I looked, I
saw that it was an oak-tree, near the root of which there was a jagged,
black hole.

How long I stood staring at this, I cannot say, but, all at once, the
leaves of the tree were agitated as by a breath of wind, and rustled
with a sound indescribably desolate, and from the dark mass rose the
long-drawn, mournful cry of some night bird.

Heedless of my direction, I hurried away, yet, even when I had left it
far behind, I glanced back more than once ere its towering branches
were lost to my view.

So I walked on through the shadows, past trees that were not trees, and
hedges that were not hedges, but frightful phantoms, rather, lifting
menacing arms above my head, and reaching after me with clutching
fingers.  Time and again, ashamed of such weakness, I cursed myself for
an imaginative fool, but kept well in the middle of the road, and
grasped my staff firmly, notwithstanding.

I had gone, perhaps, some mile or so in this way, alternately rating
and reasoning with myself, when I suddenly fancied I heard a step
behind me, and swung round upon my heel, with ready stick; but the road
stretched away empty as far as I could see.  Having looked about me on
all sides, I presently went on again, yet, immediately, it seemed that
the steps began also, keeping time with my own, now slow, now fast, now
slow again; but, whenever I turned, the road behind was apparently as
empty and desolate as ever.

I can conceive of few things more nerve-racking than the knowledge that
we are being dogged by something which we can only guess at, and that
all our actions are watched by eyes which we cannot see.  Thus, with
every step, I found the situation grow more intolerable, for though I
kept a close watch behind me and upon the black gloom of the hedges, I
could see nothing.  At length, however, I came upon a gap in the hedge
where was a gate, and beyond this, vaguely outlined against a glimmer
of sky, I saw a dim figure.

Hereupon, running forward, I set my hand upon the gate, and leaping
over, found myself face to face with a man who carried a gun across his
arm.  If I was startled at this sudden encounter he was no less so, and
thus we stood eyeing each other as well as we might in the half light.

"Well," I demanded, at last, "what do you mean by following me like
this?"

"I aren't follered ye," retorted the man.

"But I heard your steps behind me."

"Not mine, master.  I've sat and waited 'ere 'arf a hour, or more, for
a poachin' cove—"

"But some one was following me."

"Well, it weren't I.  A keeper I be, a-lookin' for a poachin' cove just
about your size, and it's precious lucky for you as you are a-wearin'
that there bell-crowned 'at!"

"Why so?"

"Because, if you 'adn't 'appened to be a-wearin' that there
bell-crowner, and I 'adn't 'appened to be of a argifyin' and inquirin'
turn o' mind, I should ha' filled you full o' buckshot."

"Oh?" said I.

"Yes," said he, nodding, while I experienced a series of cold chills up
my spine, "not a blessed doubt of it.  Poachers," he went on, "don't
wear bell-crowned 'ats as a rule—I never seed one as did; and so,
while I was a-watchin' of you be'ind this 'ere 'edge, I argies the
matter in my mind.  'Robert,' I says to meself, 'Robert,' I sez, 'did
you ever 'appen to see a poachin' cove in a bell-crowner afore?  No,
you never did,' sez I.  'But, on the other 'and, this 'ere cove is the
very spit o' the poachin' cove as I'm a-lookin' for.  True!' sez I to
meself, 'but this 'ere cove is a-wearin' of a bell-crowner 'at, but the
poachin' cove never wore a bell-crowner—nor never will.'  Still, I
must say I come very near pullin' trigger on ye—just to make sure.  So
ye see it were precious lucky for you as you was a-wearin' o' that
there—"

"It certainly was," said I, turning away.

"—that there bell-crowner, and likewise as I'm a man of a nat'ral gift
for argiment, and of a inquirin'—"

"Without doubt," said I, vaulting over the gate into the road once more.

"—turn o' mind, because if I 'adn't 'a' been, and you 'adn't 'a' wore
that there bell-crowner—"

"The consequences are unpleasantly obvious!" said I, over my shoulder,
as I walked on down the road.

"—I should ha' shot ye—like a dog!" he shouted, hanging over the gate
to do so.

And, when I had gone on some distance, I took off that which the man
had called a "bell-crowner," and bestowed upon it a touch, and looked
at it as I had never done before; and there was gratitude in look and
touch, for tonight it had, indeed, stood my friend.

Slowly, slowly the moon, at whose advent the starry host "paled their
ineffectual fires," mounted into a cloudless heaven, higher and higher,
in queenly majesty, until the dark world was filled with her glory, and
the road before me became transformed into a silver track splashed here
and there with the inky shadow of hedge and trees, and leading away
into a land of "Faerie."

Indeed, to my mind, there is nothing more delightful than to walk upon
a country road, beneath a midsummer moon, when there is no sound to
break the stillness, save, perhaps, the murmur of wind in trees, or the
throbbing melody of some hidden brook.  At such times the world of
every day—the world of Things Material, the hard, hard world of
Common-sense—seems to vanish quite, and we walk within the fair haven
of our dreams, where Imagination meets, and kisses us upon the brow.
And, at his touch, the Impossible straightway becomes the Possible; the
Abstract becomes the Concrete; our fondest hopes are realized; our most
cherished visions take form, and stand before us; surely, at such an
hour, the gods come down to walk with us awhile.

From this ecstasy I was suddenly aroused by hearing once more the sound
of a footstep upon the road behind me.  So distinct and unmistakable
was it that I turned sharp about, and, though the road seemed as
deserted as ever, I walked back, looking into every patch of shadow,
and even thrust into the denser parts of the hedges with my staff; but
still I found no one.  And yet I knew that I was being followed
persistently, step by step, but by whom, and for what reason?

A little farther on, upon one side of the way, was a small wood or
coppice, and now I made towards this, keeping well in the shadow of the
hedge.  The trees were somewhat scattered, but the underbrush was very
dense, and amongst this I hid myself where I could watch the road, and
waited.  Minute after minute elapsed, and, losing patience, I was about
to give up all hope of thus discovering my unknown pursuer, when a
stick snapped sharply near by, and, glancing round, I thought I saw a
head vanish behind the bole of an adjacent tree; wherefore I made
quickly towards that tree, but ere I reached it, a man stepped out.  A
tall, loose-limbed fellow he was, clad in rough clothes (that somehow
had about them a vague suggestion of ships and the sea), and with a
moth-eaten, fur cap crushed down upon his head.  His face gleamed pale,
and his eyes were deep-sunken, and very bright; also, I noticed that
one hand was hidden in the pocket of his coat.  But most of all, I was
struck by the extreme pallor of his face, and the burning brilliancy of
his eyes.

And, with the glance that showed me all this, I recognized the Outside
Passenger.




CHAPTER XVII

HOW I TALKED WITH A MADMAN IN A WOOD BY MOONLIGHT


"Good evening, sir!" he said, in a strange, hurried sort of way, "the
moon, you will perceive, is very nearly at the full to-night." And his
voice, immediately, struck me as being at odds with his clothes.

"Why do you stand and peer at me?" said I sharply.

"Peer at you, sir?"

"Yes, from behind the tree, yonder."  As I spoke, he craned his head
towards me, and I saw his pale lips twitch suddenly.  "And why have you
dogged me; why have you followed me all the way from Tonbridge?"

"Why, sir, surely there is nothing so strange in that.  I am a shadow."

"What do you mean by 'a shadow'?"

"Sir, I am a shadow cast by neither sun, nor moon, nor star, that moves
on unceasingly in dark as in light.  Sir, it is my fate (in common with
my kind), to be ever upon the move—a stranger everywhere without
friends or kindred.  I have been, during the past year, all over
England, east, and west, and north, and south; within the past week,
for instance, I have travelled from London to Epsom, from Epsom to
Brighton, from Brighton back again to London, and from London here.
And I peer at you, sir, because I wished to make certain what manner of
man you were before I spoke, and though the moon is bright, yet your
hat-brim left your face in shade."

"Well, are you satisfied?"

"So much so, sir, so very much so, that I should like to talk with you,
to—to ask you a question," he answered, passing his hand—a thin,
white hand—across his brow, and up over the fur cap that was so out of
keeping with the pale face below.

"A question?"

"If you will be so obliging as to listen, sir; let us sit awhile, for I
am very weary."  And with the words he sank down upon the grass.  After
a momentary hesitation, I followed his example, for my curiosity was
piqued by the fellow's strange manner; yet, when we were sitting
opposite each other, I saw that his hand was still hidden in the pocket
of his coat.

"Perhaps, sir," said he, in his nervous, hurried manner, "perhaps you
would be better able to answer my question were I first to tell you a
story—an ordinary, a very commonplace one, I fear, but with the virtue
that it is short, and soon told."

"My time is entirely my own," said I, leaning with my shoulders against
the tree behind me; "proceed with your story."

"First, then, my name is Strickland—John Strickland!"

Here he paused, and, though his head was bent, I saw him watching me
beneath his brows.

"Well?" said I.

"I am a supercargo."

Again he paused expectantly, but seeing I merely nodded, he continued:

"Upon one of my voyages, our vessel was wrecked, and, so far as I know,
all save myself and six others—four seamen and two passengers—were
drowned.  The passengers I speak of were an old merchant—and his
daughter, a very beautiful girl; her name was—Angela, sir."

Once again he paused and again he eyed me narrowly.

"Well?" said I.

"Well, sir," he resumed, speaking in a low, repressed voice, "we seven,
after two miserable days in a drifting boat, reached an island where,
that same night, the old merchant died.  Sir, the sailors were wild,
rough men; the island was a desolate one from whence there was
seemingly no chance of escape, it lying out of the usual track of
ships, and this girl was, as I have said, very beautiful.  Under such
conditions her fate would have been unspeakable degradation, and
probably death; but, sir, I fought and bled for her, not once but many
times, and eventually I killed one of them with my sheath-knife, and I
remember, to this hour, how his blood gushed over my hands and arms,
and sickened me.  After that they waited hourly to avenge his death,
and get me out of their way once and for all, but I had my long knife,
and they but such rude weapons as they could devise.  Day after day,
and night after night, I watched for an opportunity to escape with the
boat, until at last, one day while they were all three gone inland, not
dreaming of any such attempt, for the sea was very dangerous and high,
with the girl's help I managed to launch the boat, and so stood out to
sea.  And I remember those three sailors came running with great shouts
and cries, and flung themselves down upon the beach, and crawled upon
their knees, praying to be taken off along with us, and begging us not
to leave them to perish.  After three days' buffeting at the mercy of
the seas, we were picked up by a brig bound for Portsmouth, and, six
months later, were in England.  Sir, it is impossible for a man to have
lived beside a beautiful woman day by day, to have fought for and
suffered with her, not to love her also. Thus, seeing her friendless
and penniless, I wooed and won her to wife.  We came to London, and for
a year our life was perfect, until, through stress of circumstances, I
was forced to take another position aboard ship.  Well, sir, I bade
farewell to my wife, and we set sail.  The voyage, which was to have
lasted but three months, was lengthened out through one misadventure
after another, so that it was a year before I saw my wife again, At
first I noticed little difference in her save that she was paler, but,
gradually, I came to see that she was unhappy.  Often I have wakened in
the night to find her weeping silently.

"Oh, sir!" he broke out, "I do not think there is anything more
terrible than to witness in one we love a sorrow we are unable to
reach!"  Here he paused, and I saw that the sweat stood out upon his
brow, and that his hand was tight clenched as he drew it across his
temples.  "At last, sir," he went on, speaking once more in a low,
repressed tone, "returning home one day, I found her—gone."

"Gone?" said I.

"Gone, sir."

"And she left no trace—no letter?"

"No, she left no letter, sir, but I did find something—a something
that had rolled into a corner of the room."

"And what was that?"

"This, sir!"  As he spoke, his burning eyes never leaving mine, he
thrust a hand into his bosom—his left hand, for his right was where it
had been all along, hidden in his pocket—and held out to me a gold
seal such as gentlemen wear at their fobs.

"Ah!" I exclaimed.

"Take it!" said the man, thrusting it towards me; "look at it!"
Obediently I took the trinket from him, and, examining it as well as I
might, saw that a letter was engraved upon it, one of those ornamental
initials surrounded by rococo scrolls and flourishes. "What letter does
it bear?" asked the man in a strangled voice.

"It looks very like the letter 'Y,'" I answered

"The letter 'Y'!" cried the man, and then, with a gesture sudden and
fierce, he snatched the seal from me, and, thrusting it back into his
bosom, laughed strangely.

"Why do you laugh?" said I.

"To be sure," said he harshly, "the light might be better, and
yet—well! well! my story is nearly done.  I lived on in my lonely
house from day to day, and month to month, hoping and waiting for her
to come back to me.  And one day she did come back to me—just about
this hour it was, sir, and on just such another evening; and that same
night—she died."

"Good God!" I exclaimed.  "Poor fellow!"  And, leaning forward, I laid
my hand upon his knee, but, at my touch, he drew back so quickly, and
with a look so evil, that I was startled.

"Hands off!" said he, and so sat staring at me with his smouldering
eyes.

"Are you mad?" said I, and sprang to my feet.

"Not yet," he answered, and once again he passed his hand up, and over
his face and brow; "no, not yet, sir."  Here he rose, and stood facing
me, and I noticed that one hand was still hidden in his pocket, and,
thereafter, while I listened to him, I kept my eyes directed thither.
"That night—before she—died, sir," he continued, "she told me the
name of the man who had destroyed her, and killed my soul; and I have
been searching for him ever since—east, and west, and north, and
south.  Now, sir, here is my question: If I should ever meet that man
face to face, as I now see you, should I not be justified in—killing
him?"

For a moment I stood with bent head, yet conscious all the while of the
burning eyes that scanned my face, then:

"Yes," said I.

The man  stood utterly still, his mouth opened as if he would have
spoken, but no word came.  All at once he turned about, and walked
unsteadily five or six paces.  Now, as I looked, I saw him suddenly
draw his hand from his pocket, then, as he wheeled, I knew, and hurled
myself face downward as the pistol flashed.

"Madman!" I cried, and next moment was on my feet; but, with a sound
that was neither a groan nor a scream, and yet something of both, he
leapt into the thickest part of the underbrush, and made off.  And
standing there, dazed by the suddenness of it all, I heard the snapping
of twigs grow fainter and fainter as he crashed through in headlong
flight.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE HEDGE-TAVERN


Twigs whipped my face, thorns and brambles dragged at my clothes,
hidden obstacles lay in wait for my feet, for the wood grew denser as I
advanced, but I pushed on, heedless alike of these and of what
direction I took.  But, as luck would have it, I presently blundered
upon a path which, in a short time, brought me out very suddenly into
what appeared to be a small tavern yard, for on either hand was a row
of tumble-down stables and barns, while before me was a low, rambling
structure which I judged was the tavern itself.  I was yet standing
looking about me when a man issued from the stables upon my right,
bearing a hammer in one hand and a lanthorn in the other.

"Hallo!" said he, staring at me.

"Hallo!" said I, staring at him.

"You don't chance to 'ave a axle-bolt about you, I suppose?"

"No," said I.

"Humph!" he grunted, and, lowering his lanthorn, began searching among
the cobblestones.

"Is this it?" I inquired, picking up a rusty screw-bolt at my feet.

"Ah!" said he, taking it from me with a nod, "know'd I dropped it 'ere
some'eres.  Ye see," he went on, "couldn't get another round 'ere
to-night, and that cussed axle's got to be in place to-morra."

"Yes?" said I.

"Ah!" nodded the man; "chaise come in 'ere 'arf-an-hour ago wi' two
gentlemen and a lady, in the Lord's own 'urry too.  'Mend this axle, me
man,' says one on 'em—a top-sawyer be the looks on 'im—'mend this
axle, and quick about it.'  'Can't be done, my lord,' says I.  'W'y
not?' says 'e, showin' 'is teeth savage-like.  'Because it can't,' says
I, 'not no'ow, me lord,' says I.  Well, after cussin' 'isself well-nigh
black in the face, 'e orders me to have it ready fust thing to-morra,
and if you 'adn't found that there bolt for me it wouldn't have been
ready fust thing to-morra, which would ha' been mighty bad for me, for
this 'ere gentleman's a fire-and-fury out-and-outer, and no error."

"Can I have a bed here, do you think?" I inquired.

"Ah," said he, "I think you can."

"For how much, do you suppose?"

"To you—sixpence."

"Why, that seems reasonable," said I.

"It are," nodded the man, "and a fine feather bed too!  But then, Lord,
one good turn deserves another—"

"Meaning?"

"This 'ere bolt."

"Are you the landlord, then?"

"I be; and if you feel inclined for a mug o' good ale say the word."

"Most willingly," said I, "but what of the axle?"

"Plenty o' time for th' axle," nodded the landlord, and setting down
his hammer upon a bench hard by, he led the way into the tap.  The ale
was very strong and good; indeed this lovely county of Kent is justly
famous for such.  Finding myself very hungry, the landlord forthwith
produced a mighty round of beef, upon which we both fell to, and ate
with a will.  Which done, I pulled out my negro-head pipe, and the
landlord fetching himself another, we sat awhile smoking.  And
presently, learning I was from London, he began plying me with all
manner of questions concerning the great city, of which it seemed he
could not hear enough, and I, to describe its wonders as well as I
might.  At length, bethinking him of his axle, he rose with a sigh.
Upon my requesting to be shown my room, he lighted a candle, and led
the way up a somewhat rickety stair, along a narrow passage, and
throwing open a door at the end, I found myself in a fair-sized chamber
with a decent white bed, which he introduced to my notice by the one
word, "feathers."  Hereupon he pinched off the snuff of the candle with
an expression of ponderous thought.

"And so the Tower o' London ain't a tower?" he inquired at last.

"No," I answered; "it is composed of several towers surrounded by very
strong, battlemented walls."

"Ah—to—be—sure," said he, "ah, to be sure!  And me 'ave allus
thought on it like it was a great big tower standin' in the midst o'
the city, as 'igh as a mountain.  Humph—not a tower—ha! disapp'inted
I be.  Humph! Good night, master.  Disapp'inted I be—yes."  And having
nodded his head ponderously several times, he turned and went
ponderously along the passage and down the stair.

At the end of my chamber was a long, low casement, and, drawn thither
by the beauty of the night, I flung open the lattice and leaned out.  I
looked down upon a narrow, deeply-rutted lane, one of those winding,
inconsequent byways which it seems out of all possibility can ever lead
the traveler anywhere, and I was idly wondering what fool had troubled
to build a tavern in such a remote, out-of-the-way spot, when my ears
were saluted by the sound of voices.  Now, immediately beneath my
window there was a heavy porch, low and squat, from which jutted a beam
with a broken sign-board, and it was from beneath this porch that the
voices proceeded, the one loud and hectoring, the other gruff and
sullen.  I was about to turn away when a man stepped out into the
moonlight.  His face was hidden in the shadow of his hat-brim, but from
his general air and appearance I judged him to be one of the gentlemen
whose chaise had broken down.  As I watched him he walked slowly round
the angle of the house and disappeared.  In a little while, I drew in
my head from the casement, and, having removed my dusty boots, together
with my knapsack and coat, blew out the candle, and composed myself to
sleep.

Now it seemed to me that I was back upon the road, standing once more
beside the great oak-tree.  And, as I watched, a small, hunched figure
crept from the jagged opening in the trunk, a figure with a jingling
pack upon its back, at sight of which I turned and ran, filled with an
indescribable terror.  But, as I went, the Tinker's pack jingled loud
behind me, and when I glanced back, I saw that he ran with head
dangling in most hideous fashion, and that his right hand grasped a
razor.  On I sped faster and faster, but with the Tinker ever at my
heels, until I had reached this tavern; the door crashed to, behind me,
only just in time, and I knew, as I lay there, that he was standing
outside, in the moonlight, staring up at my casement with his horrible,
dead face.

Here I very mercifully awoke, and lay, for a while, blinking in the
ghostly radiance of the moon, which was flooding in at the window
directly upon me.  Now whether it was owing to the vividness of my
dream, I know not, but as I lay, there leapt up within me a sudden
conviction that somebody was indeed standing outside in the lane,
staring up at my window.  So firmly was I convinced of this that, moved
by a sudden impulse, I rose, and, cautiously approaching the window,
peered out.  And there, sure enough, his feet planted wide apart, his
hands behind his back, stood a man staring up at my window.  His head
was thrown back so that I could see his face distinctly a fleshy face
with small, close-set eyes and thick lips, behind which I caught the
gleam of big, white teeth.  This was no tinker, but as I looked, I
recognized him as the slenderer of the two "Corinthians" with whom I
had fallen out at "The Chequers."  Hereupon I got me back to bed,
drowsily wondering what should bring the fellow hanging about a
dilapidated hedge-tavern at such an hour.  But gradually my thoughts
grew less coherent, my eyes closed, and in another moment I should have
been asleep, when I suddenly came to my elbow, broad awake and
listening, for I had heard two sounds, the soft creak of a window
opened cautiously near by, and a stealthy footstep outside my door.




CHAPTER XIX

IN WHICH I BECOME A SQUIRE OF DAMES


Who does not recognize the solemn majesty of Night—that season of
awesome stillness when tired mankind lies supine in that strange
inertia so like death; when the soul, quitting the wearied body for a
space, flies hence—but whither?

What wonder is it if, at such an hour as this, we are prone to magnify
trifles, or that the most insignificant thing becomes an omen full of
ghastly meaning and possibilities?  The creak of a door in the silence,
a rustle in the dark, become to us of infinitely greater moment than
the crash of falling empires.

Thus, for a space, I lay, with ears on the stretch, and every nerve
tingling, waiting for—I knew not what.

In a little, I became conscious of yet another sound, indescribably
desolate: the low, repressed sound of a woman's sobbing.

Once more I rose, and looking down into the lane, found it deserted;
the watcher had vanished.  I also noticed that the casement next to
mine had been opened wide, and it was from here, as it seemed, that the
weeping proceeded.

After some little hesitation, I knocked softly upon the wall, at which
the weeping was checked abruptly, save for an occasional sob, whereupon
I presently rapped again.  At this, after a moment or so, I saw a very
small, white hand appear at the neighboring window, and next moment was
looking into a lovely, flushed face framed in bright hair, with eyes
woefully swelled by tears—but a glance showed me that she was young,
and of a rare and gentle beauty. Before I could speak, she laid her
finger upon her lip with a warning gesture.

"Help me—oh, help me!" she whispered hurriedly; "they have locked me
in here, and I dare not go to bed, and—and—oh, what shall I do?"

"Locked you in?" I exclaimed.

"Oh, what shall I do?" she sobbed.  "I tell you I am afraid of him—his
hateful, wicked eyes!"  Here a tremor seemed to shake her, and she
covered her face with her hands.  "To-night, when I found the key gone
from the door, and remembered his look as he bade me 'Good night,' I
thought I should have died.  I waited here, close beside the
window—listening, listening.  Once I thought I heard a step outside my
door, and opened the casement to throw myself out; he shall not find me
here when he comes."

"No," said I, "he shall not find you here when he comes."

All this she had imparted to me in broken whispers, and with her face
still hidden, but, at my words, she peeped at me through her fingers.

"You mean?"

"You must run away."

"But the door is locked."

"There remains the window."

"The window!" she repeated, trembling.

"You would find it easy enough with my help."

"Quick, then!" she exclaimed, and held out her hand.

"Wait," said I, and turned back into my room.  Hereupon, having locked
the door, I got into my boots, slipped on my coat and knapsack, and,
last of all, threw my blackthorn staff out of the window (where I was
sure of finding it) and climbed out after it.

The porch I have mentioned, upon which I now stood, sloped steeply down
upon two sides, so that I had no little difficulty in maintaining my
foothold; on the other hand, it was no great distance from the ground,
and I thought that it would be easy enough of descent.

At this moment the lady reappeared at the lattice.

"What is it?" I whispered, struck by the terror in her face.

"Quick!" she cried, forgetting all prudence in her fear, "quick—they
are coming—I hear some one upon the stair.  Oh, you are too late!"
and, sinking upon her knees, she covered her face with her hands.
Without more ado I swung myself up, and clambered over the sill into
the room beside her.  I was looking round for something that might
serve me for a weapon, when my eye encountered a tall oak press, a
heavy, cumbersome affair, but, save the bed, the only furniture the
room possessed.  Setting my shoulder to it therefore, I began to urge
it towards the door. But it was soon apparent that I could not get it
there in time, for the creeping footstep was already close outside,
and, next moment, a key was softly inserted in the lock.

"Quick! hide yourself!" I whispered, over my shoulder, and, stepping
back from the door to give myself room, I clenched my fists.  There was
a faint creak as the key turned, the door was opened cautiously, and a
man's dim figure loomed upon the threshold.

He had advanced two or three paces on tiptoe before he discovered my
presence, for the room was in shadow, and I heard his breath catch,
suddenly, and hiss between his teeth; then, without a word, he sprang
at me.  But as he came, I leapt aside, and my fist took him full and
squarely beneath the ear.  He pitched sideways, and, falling heavily,
rolled over upon his back, and lay still.

As I leaned above him, however (for the blow had been a heavy one), he
uttered a groaning oath, whereupon, pinning him forthwith by the
collar, I dragged him out into the passage, and, whipping the key from
the lock, transferred it to the inside and locked the door.  Waiting
for no more, I scrambled back through the casement, and reached up my
hand to the lady.

"Come," said I, and (almost as quickly as it takes to set it down here)
she was beside me upon the roof of the porch, clinging to my arm.
Exactly how it was managed I am unable to say; all that I remember
being the vision of a slender foot and ankle, and an excellently shaped
leg.

Our farther descent to the ground proved much more difficult than I had
supposed, but, though I could feel her trembling, my companion obeyed
my whispered instructions, and yielded herself implicitly to my
guidance, so that we were soon standing in the lane before the house,
safe and sound except for a few rents to our garments.

"What is it?" she whispered, seeing me searching about in the grass.

"My staff," said I, "a faithful friend; I would not lose it."

"But they will be here in a minute—we shall be seen."

"I cannot lose my staff," said I.

"Oh, hurry! hurry!" she cried, wringing her hands.  And, in a little
while, having found my staff, we turned our backs upon the tavern and
began to run up the lane, side by side.  As we went, came the slam of a
door behind us—a sudden clamor of voices, followed, a moment later, by
the sharp report of a pistol, and, in that same fraction of time, I
stumbled over some unseen obstacle, and my hat was whisked from my head.

"Are you hurt?" panted my companion.

"No," said I, "but it was a very excellent shot nevertheless!" For, as
I picked up my hat, I saw a small round hole that pierced it through
and through, midway between crown and brim.

The lane wound away between high hedges, which rendered our going very
dark, for the moon was getting low, and difficult by reason of the deep
wheel-ruts; but we hurried forward notwithstanding, urged on by the
noise of the chase.  We had traversed some half mile thus, when my ears
warned me that our pursuers were gaining upon us, and I was inwardly
congratulating myself that I had stopped to find my staff, and
wondering how much execution such a weapon might reasonably be capable
of, when I found that my companion was no longer at my side.  As I
paused, irresolute, her voice reached me from the shadow of the hedge.

"This way," she panted.

"Where?" said I.

"Here!" and, as she spoke, her hand slipped into mine, and so she led
me through a small gate, into a broad, open meadow beyond. But to
attempt crossing this would be little short of madness, for (as I
pointed out) we could not go a yard without being seen.

"No, no," she returned, her breath still laboring, "wait—wait till
they are past."  And so, hand in hand, we stood there in the shadow,
screened very effectively from the lane by the thick hedge, while the
rush of our pursuers' feet drew nearer and nearer; until we could hear
a voice that panted out curses upon the dark lane, ourselves, and
everything concerned; at sound of which my companion seemed to fall
into a shivering fit, her clasp tightened upon my hand, and she drew
closer to me.  Thus we remained until voices and footsteps had grown
faint with distance, but, even then, I could feel that she was
trembling still.  Suddenly she drew her fingers from mine, and covered
her face with her hands.

"Oh, that man!" she exclaimed, in a whisper, "I didn't quite realize
till now—what I have escaped.  Oh, that beast!"

"Sir Harry Mortimer?" said I.

"You know him?" she cried.

"Heaven forbid!" I answered, "but I have seen him once before at 'The
Chequers' inn at Tonbridge, and I never forget names or
faces—especially such as his."

"How I hate him!" she whispered.

"An unpleasant animal, to be sure," said I.  "But come, it were wiser
to get as far from here as possible, they will doubtless be returning
soon."

So we started off again, running in the shadow of the hedge.  We had
thus doubled back upon our pursuers, and, leaving the tavern upon our
left, soon gained the kindly shadow of those woods through which I had
passed in the early evening.

Borne to us upon the gentle wind was the haunting perfume of hidden
flowers, and the sinking moon sent long shafts of silvery light to
pierce the leafy gloom, and make the shadows more mysterious.

The path we followed was very narrow, so that sometimes my companion's
knee touched mine, or her long, silken hair brushed my brow or cheek,
as I stooped to lift some trailing branch that barred her way, or open
a path for her through the leaves.

So we journeyed on through the mysteries of the woods together.




CHAPTER XX

CONCERNING DAEMONS IN GENERAL AND ONE IN PARTICULAR


In certain old books you shall find strange mention of witches,
warlocks, succubae, spirits, daemons, and a thousand other powers of
darkness, whose pronounced vocation was the plague of poor humanity.
Within these books you may read (if you will) divers wondrous accounts,
together with many learned disquisitions upon the same, and most minute
and particular descriptions of witch-marks and the like.

Aforetime, when a man committed some great offence against laws human
or divine, he was said to be possessed of a daemon—that is to say, he
became the medium and instrument through, and by which, the evil was
wrought; thus, when in due season he came to be hanged, tortured, or
burned, it was inflicted not so much as a punishment upon him, the man,
as to exorcise, once and for all, the devil which possessed him.

In these material, common-sense days, we are wont to smile the superior
smile at the dark superstitions and deplorable ignorance of our
forefathers; yet life is much the same now as then, the devil goeth up
and down in the world, spirits, daemons, and the thousand powers of
darkness abide with us still, though to-day they go by different names,
for there is no man in this smug, complacent age of ours, but carries
within him a power of evil greater or less, according to his intellect.
Scratch off the social veneer, lift but a corner of the very decent
cloak of our civilization, and behold! there stands the Primal Man in
all his old, wild savagery, and with the devil leering upon his
shoulder. Indeed, to-day as surely as in the dim past, we are all
possessed of a devil great or small, weaker or stronger as the case may
be; a daemon which, though he sometimes seems to slumber, is yet
watchful and ever ready to spring up and possess us, to the undoing of
ourselves and others.

Thus, as I followed my companion through the wood, I was conscious of a
Daemon that ran beside me, leaping and gambolling at my elbow, though I
kept my eyes straight before me.  Anon, his clutching fingers were upon
my arm, and fain I would have shaken him off, but could not; while, as
I watched the swing and grace of the lithe, feminine body before me,
from the little foot to the crowning glory of her hair, she seemed a
thousand times more beautiful than I had supposed.  And I had saved her
tonight—from what?  There had been the fear of worse than death in her
eyes when that step had sounded outside her chamber door.  Hereupon, as
I walked, I began to recall much that I had read in the old romances of
the gratitude of rescued ladies.

"Truly," said I to myself, "in olden days a lady well knew how to
reward her rescuer!"

"Woman is woman—the same to-day as then—try her, try her!" chuckled
the Daemon.  And now, as I looked more fully at this Daemon, he seemed
no daemon at all, but rather, a jovial companion who nodded, and
winked, and nudged me slyly with his elbow. "What are pretty faces for
but to be admired?" said he in my ear; "what are slender waists for but
to be pressed; and as for a kiss or two in a dark wood, with no one to
spy—they like it, you dog, they like it!"

So we traversed the alleys of the wood, now in shadow, now in
moonlight, the Lady, the Daemon, and I, and always the perfume of
hidden flowers seemed sweeter and stronger, the gleam of her hair and
the sway of her body the more alluring, and always the voice at my ear
whispered: "Try her, you dog, try her."

At last, being come to a broad, grassy glade, the lady paused, and,
standing in the full radiance of the dying moon, looked up at me with a
smile on her red lips.

"They can never find us now!" she said.

"No, they can never find us now," I repeated, while the Daemon at my
elbow chuckled again.

"And—oh, sir!  I can never, never thank you," she began.

"Don't," said I, not looking at her; "don't thank me till—we are out
of the wood."

"I think," she went on slowly, "that you—can guess from—from what you
saved me, and can understand something of my gratitude, for I can never
express it all."

"Indeed," said I, "indeed you overestimate my service."

"You risked your life for me, sir," said she, her eyes glistening,
"surely my thanks are due to you for that?  And I do thank you—from my
heart!"  And with a swift, impulsive gesture, she stretched out her
hands to me.  For a brief moment I hesitated, then seized them, and,
drew her close.  But, even as I stooped above her, she repulsed me
desperately; her loosened hair brushed my eyes and lips—blinded,
maddened me; my hat fell off, and all at once her struggles ceased.

"Sir Maurice Vibart!" she panted, and I saw a hopeless terror in her
face.  But the Daemon's jovial voice chuckled in my ear:

"Ho, Peter Vibart, act up to your cousin's reputation; who's to know
the difference?"  My arms tightened about her, then I loosed her
suddenly, and, turning, smote my clenched fist against a tree; which
done, I stooped and picked up my hat and blackthorn staff.

"Madam," said I, looking down upon my bleeding knuckles, "I am not Sir
Maurice Vibart.  It seems my fate to be mistaken for him wherever I go.
My name is Peter, plain and unvarnished, and I am very humbly your
servant."  Now as I spoke, it seemed that the Daemon, no longer the
jovial companion, was himself again, horns, hoof, and tail—nay,
indeed, he seemed a thousand times more foul and hideous than before,
as he mouthed and jibed at me in baffled fury; wherefore, I smiled and
turned my back upon him.

"Come," said I, extending my hand to the trembling girl, "let us get
out of these dismal woods."  For a space she hesitated, looking up at
me beneath her lashes, then reached out, and laid her fingers in mine;
and, as we turned away, I knew that the Daemon had cast himself upon
the ground, and was tearing at the grass in a paroxysm of rage and
bafflement.

"It is strange," said I, after we had gone some little distance, "very
strange that you should only have discovered this resemblance here, and
now, for surely you saw my face plainly enough at the inn."

"No; you see, I hardly looked at you."

"And, now that you do look at me, am I so very much like Sir Maurice?"

"Not now," she answered, shaking her head, "for though you are of his
height, and though your features are much the same as his, your
expression is different.  But—a moment ago—when your hat fell off—"

"Yes?" said I.

"Your expression—your face looked—"

"Demoniac?" I suggested.

"Yes," she answered.

"Yes?" said I.

So we went upon our way, nor paused until we had left the Daemon and
the dark woods behind us.  Then I looked from the beauty of the sweet,
pure earth to the beauty of her who stood beside me, and I saw that her
glance rested upon the broken knuckles of my right hand.  Meeting my
eyes, her own drooped, and a flush crept into her cheeks, and, though
of course she could not have seen the Daemon, yet I think that she
understood.




CHAPTER XXI

"JOURNEYS END IN LOVERS' MEETINGS"


The moon was fast sinking below the treetops to our left, what time we
reached a road, or rather cart-track that wound away up a hill.  Faint
and far a church clock slowly chimed the hour of three, the solemn
notes coming sweet and silvery with distance.

"What chimes are those?" I inquired.

"Cranbrook Church."

"Is it far to Cranbrook?"

"One mile this way, but two by the road yonder."

"You seem very well acquainted with these parts," said I.

"I have lived here all my life; those are the Cambourne Woods over
there—"

"Cambourne Woods!" said I.

"Part of the Sefton estates," she continued; "Cambourne village lies to
the right, beyond."

"The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne!" said I thoughtfully.

"My dearest friend," nodded my companion.

"They say she is very handsome," said I.

"Then they speak truth, sir."

"She has been described to me," I went on, "as a Peach, a Goddess, and
a Plum; which should you consider the most proper term?" My companion
shot an arch glance at me from the corners of her eyes, and I saw a
dimple come and go, beside the curve of her mouth.

"Goddess, to be sure," said she; "peaches have such rough skins, and
plums are apt to be sticky."

"And goddesses," I added, "were all very well upon Olympus, but, in
this matter-of-fact age, must be sadly out of place.  Speaking for
myself—"

"Have you ever seen this particular Goddess?" inquired my companion.

"Never."

"Then wait until you have, sir."

The moon was down now, yet the summer sky was wonderfully luminous and
in the east I almost fancied I could detect the first faint gleam of
day.  And after we had traversed some distance in silence, my companion
suddenly spoke, but without looking at me.

"You have never once asked who I am," she said, almost reproachfully I
thought, "nor how I came to be shut up in such a place—with such a
man."

"Why, as to that," I answered, "I make it a general rule to avoid
awkward subjects when I can, and never to ask questions that it will be
difficult to answer."

"I should find not the least difficulty in answering either," said she.

"Besides," I continued, "it is no affair of mine, after all."

"Oh!" said she, turning away from me; and then, very slowly: "No, I
suppose not."

"Certainly not," I added; "how should it be?"

"How indeed!" said she, over her shoulder.  And then I saw that she was
angry, and wondered.

"And yet," I went on, after a lapse of silence, "I think I could have
answered both questions the moment I saw you at your casement."

"Oh!" said she—this time in a tone of surprise, and her anger all gone
again, for I saw that she was smiling; and again I wondered.

"Yes," I nodded.

"Then," said she, seeing I was silent, "whom do you suppose me?"

"You are, to the best of my belief, the Lady Helen Dunstan."  My
companion stood still, and regarded me for a moment in wide-eyed
astonishment.

"And how, sir, pray, did you learn all this?" she demanded, with the
dimple once more peeping at me slyly from the corner of her pretty
mouth.

"By the very simple method of adding two and two together," I answered;
"moreover, no longer ago than yesterday I broke bread with a certain
Mr. Beverley—"

I heard her breath come in a sudden gasp, and next moment she was
peering up into my face while her hands beat upon my breast with soft,
quick little taps.

"Beverley!" she whispered.  "Beverley!—no, no—why, they told me—Sir
Harry told me that Peregrine lay dying—at Tonbridge."

"Then Sir Harry Mortimer lied to you," said I, "for no longer ago than
yesterday afternoon I sat in a ditch eating bread and cheese with a Mr.
Peregrine Beverley."

"Oh!—are you sure—are you sure?"

"Quite sure.  And, as we ate, he told me many things, and among them of
a life of wasted opportunities—of foolish riot, and prodigal
extravagance, and of its logical consequence—want."

"My poor Perry!" she murmured.

"He spoke also of his love for a very beautiful and good woman, and its
hopelessness."

"My dear, dear Perry!" said she again.

"And yet," said I, "all this is admittedly his own fault, and, as I
think Heraclitus says: 'Suffering is the inevitable consequence of Sin,
or Folly.'"

"And he is well?" she asked; "quite—quite well?"

"He is," said I.

"Thank God!" she whispered.  "Tell me," she went on, "is he so very,
very poor—is he much altered?  I have not seen him 

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