Peregrine's Progress
by Jeffery Farnol · English · Gutenberg #7059 · 735,362 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Peregrine's Progress
Author: Jeffery Farnol
Release date: December 1, 2004 [eBook #7059]
Most recently updated: June 27, 2016
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7059
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PEREGRINE'S PROGRESS ***
Produced by Yvonne Dailey, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
PEREGRINE'S PROGRESS
BY JEFFERY FARNOL
_He who hath Imagination is blessed or cursed with a fearful magic
whereby he may scale the heights of Heaven or plumb the deeps of
Hell_
CONTENTS
ANTE SCRIPTUM
BOOK I--THE SILENT PLACES
I Introducing Myself
II Tells How and Why I Set Forth Upon the Quest in Question
III Wherein the Reader Shall Find Some Description of an Extraordinary
Tinker
IV In Which I Meet a Down-at-Heels Gentleman
V Further Concerning the Aforesaid Gentleman, One Anthony
VI Describes Certain Lively Happenings at the "Jolly Waggoner" Inn
VII White Magic
VIII I Am Left Forlorn
IX Describes the Woes of Galloping Jerry, a Notorious Highwayman
X The Philosophy of the Same
XI Which Proves Beyond All Argument That Clothes Make the Man
XII The Price of a Goddess
XIII Which Tells Somewhat of My Deplorable Situation
XIV In Which I Satisfy Myself of My Cowardice
XV Proving That a Goddess Is Wholly Feminine
XVI In Which I Begin to Appreciate the Virtues of the Chaste Goddess
XVII How We Set Out for Tonbridge
XVIII Concerning the Grammar of a Goddess
XIX How and Why I Fought with One Gabbing Dick, a Peddler
XX Of the Tongue of a Woman and the Feet of a Goddess
XXI In Which I Learned That I Am Less of a Coward Than I Had Supposed
XXII Describing the Hospitality of One Jerry Jarvis, a Tinker
XXIII Discusses the Virtues of the Onion
XXIV How I Met One Jessamy Todd, a Snatcher of Souls
XXV Tells of My Adventures at the Fair
XXVI The Ethics of Prigging
XXVII Juno Versus Diana
XXVIII Exemplifying That Clothes Do Make the Man
XXIX Tells of an Ominous Meeting
XXX Of a Truly Memorable Occasion
XXXI A Vereker's Advice to a Vereker
XXXII How I Made a Surprising Discovery, Which, However, May Not
Surprise the Reader in the Least
XXXIII Of Two Incomparable Things. The Voice of Diana and Jessamy's
"Right"
XXXIV The Noble Art of Organ-Playing
XXXV Of a Shadow in the Sun
XXXVI Tells How I Met Anthony Again
XXXVII A Disquisition on True Love
XXXVIII A Crucifixion
XXXIX How I Came Home Again
TO THE READER
BOOK II--SHADOW
I The Incidents of an Early Morning Walk
II Introducing Jasper Shrig, a Bow Street Runner
III Concerning a Black Postchaise
IV Of a Scarabaeus Ring and a Gossamer Veil
V Storm and Tempest
VI I Am Haunted of Evil Dreams
VII Concerning the Song of a Blackbird at Evening
VIII The Deeps of Hell
IX Concerning the Opening of a Door
X Tells How a Mystery Was Resolved
XI Which Shows That My Uncle Jervas Was Right, After All
XII Tells How I Went Upon an Expedition with Mr. Shrig
TO MY PATIENT AND KINDLY READER
BOOK III--DAWN
I Concerning One Tom Martin, an Ostler
II I Go to Find Diana
III Tells How I Found Diana and Sooner Than I Deserved
IV I Wait for a Confession
V In Which We Meet Old Friends
VI Which, as the Patient Reader Sees, Is the Last
ANTE SCRIPTUM
This is the tale of Diana, the Gipsy, the Goddess, the Woman, one in
all and all in one and that one so wonderful, so elusive, so utterly
feminine that I, being but a man and no great student in the Sex, may,
in striving to set her before you in cold words, distort this dear
image out of all semblance and true proportion.
Here and now I would begin this book by telling of Diana as I remember
her, a young dryad vivid with life, treading the leafy ways, grey eyes
a-dream, kissed by sun and wind, filling the woodland with the glory
of her singing, out-carolling the birds.
I would fain show her to you in her swift angers and ineffable
tenderness, in her lofty pride and sweet humility, passionate with
life yet boldly virginal, fronting evil scornful and undismayed, with
eyes glittering bright as her "little _churi_" yet yielding
herself a willing sacrifice and meekly enduring for Friendship's sake.
With her should this book properly commence; but because I doubt my
pen (more especially at this so early stage) I will begin not with
Diana but with my aunt Julia, my uncle Jervas, my uncle George and my
painfully conscious self, trusting that, as this narrative progresses,
my halting pen may grow more assured and my lack of art be atoned for
by sincerity. For if any writer or historian were sincere then most
truly that am I.
Therefore I set forth upon this relation humbly aware of my failings,
yet trusting those who read will not fall asleep over my first
ineffectual chapter nor throw the book aside after my second, but with
kind and tolerant patience will bear with me and read bravely on
until, being more at my ease, I venture to tell of Diana's wonderful
self.
And when they shall come to the final chapter of this history (if they
ever do) may they be merciful in their judgment of their humble
author, that is to say this same poor, ineffectual, unheroical person
who now subscribes himself
PEREGRINE VEREKER.
Book One
THE SILENT PLACES
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCING MYSELF
"Nineteen to-day, is he!" said my uncle Jervas, viewing me languidly
through his quizzing-glass. "How confoundedly the years flit!
Nineteen--and on me soul, our poor youth looks as if he hadn't a
single gentlemanly vice to bless himself with!"
"Not one, Jervas, my boy," quoth my uncle George, shaking his comely
head at me. "Not one, begad, and that's the dooce of it! It seems he
don't swear, he don't drink, he don't gamble, he don't make love, he
don't even--"
"Don't, George," exclaimed my aunt Julia in her sternest tone, her
handsome face flushed, her stately back very rigid.
"Don't what, Julia?"
"Fill our nephew's mind with your own base masculine ideas--I forbid."
"But damme--no, Julia, no--I mean, bless us! What's to become of a
man--what's a man to do who don't--"
"Cease, George!"
"But he's almost a man, ain't he?"
"Certainly not; Peregrine is--my nephew--"
"And ours, Julia. We are his legal guardians besides--"
"And set him in my care until he comes of age!" retorted my aunt
defiantly.
"And there, happy youth, is his misfortune!" sighed my uncle Jervas.
"Misfortune?" echoed my aunt in whisper so awful that I, for one,
nearly trembled. "Misfortune!" she repeated. "Hush! Silence! Not a
word! I must think this over! Misfortune!"
In the dreadful pause ensuing, I glanced half-furtively from one to
other of my three guardians; at my uncle Jervas, lounging gracefully
in his chair, an exquisite work of art from glossy curls to polished
Hessians; at my uncle George, standing broad back to the mantel, a
graceful, stalwart figure in tight-fitting riding-coat, buckskins and
spurred boots; at my wonderful aunt, her dark and statuesque beauty as
she sat, her noble form posed like an offended Juno, dimpled chin on
dimpled fist, dark brows bent above long-lashed eyes, ruddy lips
close-set and arched foot tapping softly beneath the folds of her
ample robe.
"His misfortune!" she repeated for the fourth time, softly and as to
herself. "And ever have I striven to be to him the tender mother he
never knew, to stand in place of the father he never saw!"
"I'm sure of it, Julia!" said my uncle George, fidgeting with his
stock.
"His misfortune! And I have watched over him with care unfailing--"
"Er--of course, yes--not a doubt of it, Julia," said uncle George,
fiddling with a coat button.
"His upbringing has been the passion of my life--"
"I'm sure of it, Julia, your sweet and--er--womanly nature--"
"George, have the goodness not to interrupt!" sighed my aunt, with a
little gesture of her hand. "I have furthermore kept him segregated
from all that could in any way vitiate or vulgarise; he has had the
ablest tutors and been my constant companion, and to-day--I am
told--all this is but his misfortune. Now and therefore. Sir Jervas
Vereker, pray explain yourself."
"Briefly and with joy, m'dear Julia," answered my uncle Jervas,
smiling sleepily into my aunt's fierce black eyes. "I simply mean that
your meticulous care of our nephew has turned what should have been an
ordinary and humanly promising, raucous and impish hobbledehoy into a
very precise, something superior, charmingly prim and modest, ladylike
young fellow--"
"Ladyli--!" My stately aunt came as near gasping as was possible in
such a woman, then her stately form grew more rigidly statuesque, her
mouth and chin took on that indomitable look I knew so well, and she
swept the speaker with the blasting fire of her fine black eyes. "Sir
Jervas Vereker!" she exclaimed at last, and in tones of such chilling
haughtiness that I, for one, felt very like shivering. There fell
another awful silence, aunt Julia sitting very upright, hands clenched
on the arms of her chair, dark brows bent against my uncle Jervas, who
met her withering glance with all his wonted impassivity, while my
uncle George, square face slightly flushed, glanced half-furtively
from one to the other and clicked nervous heels together so that his
spurs jingled.
"George!" exclaimed my aunt suddenly. "In heaven's name, cease
rattling your spurs as if you were in your native stables."
"Certainly, m'dear Julia!" he mumbled, and stood motionless and
abashed.
"'Pon me life, Julia," sighed my uncle Jervas, "I swear the years but
lend you new graces; time makes you but the handsomer--"
"Begad, but that's the very naked truth, Julia!" cried uncle George.
"You grow handsomer than ever."
"Tush!" exclaimed my aunt, yet her long lashes drooped suddenly.
"Your hair is--" said uncle Jervas.
"Wonderful!" quoth uncle George. "Always was, begad!"
"Tchah!" exclaimed my aunt.
"Your hair is as silky," pursued my uncle Jervas, "as abundant and as
black as--"
"As night!" added uncle George.
"A fiddlestick!" exclaimed my aunt.
"A raven's wing!" pursued my uncle Jervas. "Time hath not changed the
wonder of it--"
"Phoh!" exclaimed my aunt.
"Devil a white hair to be seen, Julia!" added uncle George.
"While as for myself, Julia," sighed my uncle Jervas, "my fellow
discovered no fewer than four white hairs above my right ear this
morning, alas! And look at poor George--as infernally grey as a
badger."
"I think," said my aunt, leaning back in her chair, "I think we were
discussing my nephew Peregrine--"
"Our mutual ward--precisely, Julia."
"Aye," quoth uncle George, "we are legal guardians of the lad and--"
"Fie, George!" cried aunt Julia. "A vulgar word, an unseemly word!"
"Eh? Word, Julia? What word?"
"'Lad'!" exclaimed my aunt, frowning. "A most obnoxious word,
applicable only to beings with pitchforks and persons in sleeved
waistcoats who chew straws and attend to horses. Lads pertain only to
your world! Peregrine never was, will, or could be such a thing!"
"Good God!" exclaimed my uncle George feebly, and groped for his
short, crisp-curling whisker with fumbling fingers.
"Peregrine never was, will, or could be such a thing!" repeated my
aunt in a tone of finality.
"Then what the dev--"
"George!"
"I should say then--pray, Julia, what the--hum--ha--is he?"
"Being my nephew, he is a young gentleman, of course!"
"Ha!" quoth my uncle George.
"Hum!" sighed my uncle Jervas. "A gentleman is usually a better man
for having been a lad! As to our nephew--"
"Pray, Jervas," said aunt Julia, lifting white imperious hand, "suffer
me one word, at least; in justice to myself I can sit mute no
longer--"
"Mute?" exclaimed uncle George, grasping whisker again. "Mute, were
you, Julia; oh, begad, why then--"
"George--silence--I plead!" said my aunt, and folding her white hands
demurely on her knee gazed down at them wistfully beneath drooping
lashes.
"Proceed, Julia," quoth my uncle Jervas, "your voice is music to my
soul--"
"Mine too!" added uncle George, "mine too, dooce take me if 't isn't!"
MY AUNT (her voice soft and plaintively sad). For nineteen happy years
I have devoted myself to caring for my nephew Peregrine, body and
mind. My every thought has been of him or for him, my love has been
his shield against discomforts, bodily ailments and ills of the mind--
MY UNCLE JERVAS. And precisely there, Julia, lies his happy
misfortune. You have thought for him so effectively he has had small
scope to think for himself; cared for him so sedulously that he shall
hardly know how to take care of himself; sheltered him so rigorously
that, once removed from the sphere of your strong personality, he
would be pitifully lost and helpless. In short, he is suffering of a
surfeit of love, determined tenderness and pertinacious care--in a
word, Julia, he is over-Juliaized!
MY UNCLE GEORGE (a little diffidently, and jingling his spurs). B'gad,
and there ye have it, sweet soul--d'ye see--
MY AUNT (smiting him speechless with flashing eye). I--am--not your
sweet soul. And as for poor dear Peregrine--
MY UNCLE JERVAS. The poor youth is become altogether too
preternaturally dignified, too confounded sober, solemn and sedate for
this mundane sphere; he needs more--
UNCLE GEORGE. Brimstone and the devil!
MY AUNT (freezingly). George Vereker!
UNCLE JERVAS. Wholesome ungentleness.
UNCLE GEORGE (hazarding the suggestion). An occasional black
eye--bloody nose, d'ye see, Julia, healthy bruise or so--
MY AUNT. Mr. Vereker!
UNCLE GEORGE (groping for whisker). What I mean to say is, Julia,
a--ha--hum! (Subsides.)
UNCLE JERVAS. George is exactly right, Julia. Our nephew is well
enough in many ways, I'll admit, but corporeally he is no Vereker; he
fills the eye but meanly--
MY AUNT (in tones of icy gloom). Sir Jervas--explain!
UNCLE JERVAS. Well, my dear Julia, scan him, I beg; regard him with an
observant eye, the eye not of a doting woman but a dispassionate
critic--examine him!
(Here I sank lower in my great chair.)
MY AUNT. If Peregrine is not so--large as your robust self or so burly
as--monstrous George, am I to blame?
MY UNCLE JERVAS. The adjective robust as applied to myself is, I
think, a trifle misplaced. I suggest the word "elegant" instead.
MY AUNT (patient and sighful). What have you to remark, George
Vereker?
UNCLE GEORGE (measuring me with knowing eye). I should say he would
strip devilish--I mean--uncommonly light--
MY AUNT (in murmurous horror). Strip? An odious suggestion! Only
ostlers, pugilists, and such as yourself, George, would stoop to do
such a thing! Oh, monstrous!
UNCLE GEORGE (pathetically). No, no, Julia m'dear, you mistake; to
"strip" is a term o' the "fancy"--milling, d'ye see--fibbing is a
very gentlemanly art, assure you; I went three rounds with the
"Camberwell Chicken" before I--
My AUNT (scornfully). Have done with your chickens, sir--
UNCLE GEORGE (ruefully). B'gad, he nearly did for me--naked mauleys,
you'll understand. In--
MY AUNT (covers ears). Horrors! this ribaldry, George Vereker!
UNCLE GEORGE. O Lord! (Sinks into chair and gloomy silence.)
MY UNCLE JERVAS (rising gracefully, taking aunt Julia's indignant
hands and kissing them gallantly). George is perfectly right, dear
soul. Our Peregrine requires a naked mauley (clenches Aunt Julia's
white hand into a fist)--something like this, only bigger and
harder--applied to his torso--
UNCLE GEORGE. Of course, above the belt, you'll understand, Julia! Now
the Camberwell Chicken--
MY UNCLE JERVAS. Applied, I say, with sufficient force to awake him to
the stern--shall we say the harsh realities of life.
AUNT JULIA. Life can be real without sordid brutality.
UNCLE JERVAS. Not unless one is blind and deaf, or runs away and hides
from his fellows like a coward; for brutality, alas, is a very human
attribute and slumbers more or less in each one of us, let us deny it
how we will.
UNCLE GEORGE. True enough, Jervas, and as you'll remember when I
fought the "Camberwell Chicken," my right ogle being closed and claret
flowing pretty freely, the crowd afraid of their money--
MY AUNT (coldly determined). Enough! My nephew shall never experience
such horrors or consort with such brutish ruffians.
UNCLE GEORGE. Then he'll never be a man, Julia.
MY AUNT. Nature made him that. I intend him for a poet.
Here my uncle George rose up, sat down and rose again, striving for
speech, while uncle Jervas smiled and dangled his eyeglass.
MY UNCLE GEORGE (breathing heavily). That's done it, Jervas, that's
one in the wind. A poet! Poor, poor lad.
MY AUNT (triumphantly). He has written some charming sonnets, and an
ode to a throstle that has been much admired.
UNCLE GEORGE (faintly). Ode! B'gad! Throstle!
MY UNCLE JERVAS. He trifles with paints and brushes, too, I believe?
MY AUNT. Charmingly! He may dazzle the world with a noble picture yet;
who knows?
MY UNCLE JERVAS. Oh, my dear Julia, who indeed! He has a pronounced
aversion for most manly sports, I believe: horses, for instance--
MY AUNT. He rides with me occasionally, but as for your inhuman
hunting and racing--certainly not!
UNCLE GEORGE. And before we were his age, I had broken my collarbone
and you had won the county steeplechase from me by a head, Jervas. Ha,
that was a race, lad, never enjoyed anything more unless it was when
the "Camberwell Chicken" went down and couldn't come up to time and
the crowd--
AUNT JULIA. You were both so terribly wild and reckless!
UNCLE JERVAS. No, my sweet woman, just ordinary healthy young animals.
AUNT JULIA. My nephew is a young gentleman.
UNCLE GEORGE. Ha!
UNCLE JERVAS. H'm! A gentleman should know how to use his fists--there
is Sir Peter Vibart, for instance.
UNCLE GEORGE. And to shoot straight, Julia.
UNCLE JERVAS. And comport himself in the society of the Sex. Yet you
keep Peregrine as secluded as a young nun.
MY AUNT. He prefers solitude. Love will come later.
UNCLE JERVAS. Most unnatural! Before I was Peregrine's age I had been
head over ears in and out of love with at least--
MY AUNT. Reprobate!
UNCLE GEORGE. So had I, Julia. There was Mary--or was it Ann--at least
if it wasn't Ann it was Betty or Bessie; anyhow, I know she was--
AUNT JULIA. Rake!
UNCLE JERVAS. Remember, we were very young and had never been
privileged to behold the Lady Julia Conroy--
UNCLE GEORGE. Begad, Julia--and there y'have it!
MY AUNT. We were discussing my nephew, I think!
MY UNCLE JERVAS. True, Julia, and I was about to remark that since you
refuse to send him up to Oxford or Cambridge, the only chance I see
for him is to quit your apron strings and go out into the world to
find his manhood if he can.
My aunt turned upon the speaker, handsome head upflung, but, ere she
could speak, the grandfather clock in the corner rang the hour in its
mellow chime. Thereupon my aunt rose to her stately height and reached
out to me her slender, imperious hand.
"Peregrine, it is ten o'clock. Good night, dear boy!" said she and
kissed me. Thereafter, having kissed the hand that clasped mine, I
bowed to my two uncles and went dutifully to bed.
CHAPTER II
TELLS HOW AND WHY I SET FORTH UPON THE QUEST IN QUESTION
"Ladylike!" said I to myself, leaning forth from my chamber window
into a fragrant summer night radiant with an orbed moon. But for once
I was heedless of the ethereal beauty of the scene before me and felt
none of that poetic rapture that would otherwise undoubtedly have
inspired me, since my vision was turned inwards rather than out and my
customary serenity hatefully disturbed.
"Ladylike!"
Thus, all unregarding, I breathed the incense of flowery perfumes and
stared blindly upon the moon's splendour, pondering this hateful word
in its application to myself. And gradually, having regard to the
manifest injustice and bad taste of the term, conscious of the affront
it implied, I grew warm with a righteous indignation that magnified
itself into a furious anger against my two uncles.
"Damn them! Damn them both!" exclaimed I and, in that moment, caught
my breath, shocked, amazed, and not a little ashamed at this outburst,
an exhibition so extremely foreign to my usually placid nature.
'To swear is a painful exhibition of vulgarity, and passion
uncontrolled lessens one's dignity and is a sign of weakness.'
Remembering this, one of my wonderful aunt's incontrovertible maxims,
I grew abashed (as I say) by reason of this my deplorable lapse. And
yet:
"'Ladylike!'"
I repeated the opprobrious epithet for the third time and scowled up
at the placid moon.
And this, merely because I had a shrinking horror of all brutal and
sordid things, a detestation for anything smacking of vulgarity or bad
taste. To me, the subtle beauty of line or colour, the singing music
of a phrase, were of more account than the reek of stables or the
whooping clamour and excitement of the hunting-field, my joys being
rather raptures of the soul than the more material pleasures of the
flesh.
"And was it," I asked myself, "was it essential to exchange buffets
with a 'Camberwell Chicken,' to shoot and be shot at, to spur sweating
and unwilling horses over dangerous fences--were such things truly
necessary to prove one's manhood? Assuredly not! And yet--'Ladylike!'"
Moved by a sudden impulse I turned from the lattice to the elegant
luxuriousness of my bedchamber, its soft carpets, rich hangings and
exquisite harmonies of colour; and coming before the cheval mirror I
stood to view and examine myself as I had never done hitherto,
surveying my reflection not with the accustomed eyes of Peregrine
Vereker, but rather with the coldly appraising eyes of a stranger, and
beheld this:
A youthful, slender person of no great stature, clothed in garments
elegantly unostentatious.
His face grave and of a saturnine cast--but the features fairly
regular.
His complexion sallow--but clear and without blemish.
His hair rather too long--but dark and crisp-curled.
His brow a little too prominent--but high and broad.
His eyes dark and soft--but well-opened and direct.
His nose a little too short to please me--but otherwise well-shaped.
His mouth too tender in its curves--but the lips close and firm.
His chin too smoothly rounded, at a glance--but when set, looks
determined enough.
His whole aspect not altogether unpleasing, though I yearned mightily
to see him a few inches taller.
Thus then I took dispassionate regard to, and here as dispassionately
set down, my outer being; as to my inner, that shall appear, I hope,
as this history progresses.
I was yet engaged on this most critical examination of my person when
I was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the flagged terrace
beneath my open window and the voices of my two uncles as they passed
slowly to and fro, each word of their conversation very plain to hear
upon the warm, still air. Honour should have compelled me to close my
ears or the lattice; had I done so, how different might this history
have been, how utterly different my career. As it was, attracted by
the sound of my own name, I turned from contemplation of my person
and, coming to the window, leaned out again.
"Poor Peregrine," said my uncle George for the second time.
"Why the pity, George? Curse and confound it, wherefore the pity? Our
youth is a perfect ass, an infernal young fish, a puppy-dog--pah!"
"Aye, but," quoth my uncle George (and I could distinguish the faint
jingle of his spurs), "we roasted him devilishly to-night between us,
Jervas, and never a word out o' the lad--"
"Egad, Julia did the talking for him--"
"Ha, yes--dooce take me, she did so!" exclaimed uncle George. "What an
amazingly magnificent creature she is--"
"And did ye mark our youth's cool insolence, his disdainful airs--the
cock of his supercilious nose--curst young puppy!"
"Most glorious eyes in Christendom," continued my uncle George,
"always make me feel so dooced--er--so curst humble--no, humble's not
quite the word; what I do mean is--"
"Fatuous, George?" suggested Uncle Jervas a trifle impatiently.
"Unworthy--yes, unworthy and er--altogether dooced, d'ye see--her
whole life one of exemplary self-sacrifice and so forth, d'ye see,
Jervas--"
"Exactly, George! Julia will never marry, we know, while she has this
precious youth to pet and pamper and cherish--"
"Instead of us, Jervas!"
"Us? George, don't be a fool! She couldn't wed us both, man!"
"Why, no!" sighed uncle George. "She'd ha' to be content wi' one of
us, to be sure, and that one would be--"
"Myself, George!"
"Aye!" quoth uncle George, sighing more gustily than ever. "Begad, I
think it would, Jervas."
"Though, mark me, George, I have sometimes thought she has the
preposterous lack of judgment to prefer you."
"No--did you though!" exclaimed my uncle George, spurs jingling again.
"B'gad, and did you though--dooce take me!"
"Aye, George, I did, but only very occasionally. Of course, were she
free of this incubus Peregrine, free to live for her own happiness
instead of his, I should have her wedded and wifed while you were
thinking about it."
"Aye," sighed my uncle George, "you were always such an infernal
dasher--"
"As it is, the boy will grow into a priggish, self-satisfied
do-nothing, and she into an adoring, solitary old woman--"
"Julia! An old woman! Good God! Hush, Jervas--it sounds dooced
indecent!"
"But true, George, devilish true! Here's Julia must grow into a
crotchety old female, myself into a solitary, embittered recluse, and
you into a lonely, doddering old curmudgeon--and all for sake of this
damned lad--"
At this, stirred by sudden impulse, I thrust my head out of the window
and hemmed loudly, whereupon they halted very suddenly and stood
staring up at me, their surprised looks plain to see by reason of the
brilliant moon.
"Pardon me, my dear uncles," said I, bowing to them as well as I
might, "pardon me, but I venture to think not--"
"Now 'pon me everlasting soul!" exclaimed my uncle Jervas, fumbling
for his eyeglass. "What does the lad mean?"
"With your kind attention, he will come down and explain," said I, and
clambering through the casement, I descended forthwith, hand over
hand, by means of the ivy stems that grew very thick and strong
hereabouts.
Reaching the terrace, I paused to brush the dust from knee and elbow
while my uncle Jervas, lounging against the balustrade, viewed me
languidly through his glass, and uncle George stared at me very round
of eye and groped at his close-trimmed whisker.
"Sirs," said I, glancing from one to other, "I regret that I should
appear to you as a 'fish,' a 'puppy' and a 'self-satisfied
do-nothing,' but I utterly refuse to be considered either an 'incubus'
or a 'damned lad'!"
"Oh, the dooce!" ejaculated uncle George.
"To the which end," I proceeded, "I propose to remove myself for a
while--let us say for six months or thereabouts--on a condition."
"Remove yourself, nephew?" repeated uncle Jervas, peering at me a
little more narrowly. "Pray where?"
"Anywhere, sir. I shall follow the wind, tramp the roads, consort with
all and sundry, open the book of Life and endeavour to learn of man by
man himself."
"Very fine!" said my uncle Jervas,--"and damned foolish!"
"In a word," I continued, "I propose to follow your very excellent
advice, Uncle Jervas, and go out into the world to find my manhood if
I can! That was your phrase, I think?"
"Ah, and when, may I ask?"
"At once, sir. But, as I said before--on a condition."
"Hum!" quoth my uncle Jervas, dropping his glass to tenderly stroke
his somewhat too prominent chin.
"And might we humbly venture to enquire as to the condition?"
"Merely this, sir; so soon as Aunt Julia is freed of her incubus--so
soon as I am gone--you will see to it she is not lonely. You will woo
her, beginning at once, both together or turn about, because I would
not have her--this best, this noblest and most generous of
women--forfeit anything of happiness on my account; because, having
neither father nor mother that I ever remember, the love and reverence
that should have been theirs I have given to her."
"Lord!" exclaimed my uncle George, clashing his spurs suddenly. "Lord
love the lad--begad--oh, the dooce!"
As for uncle Jervas, forgetting his languor, he stood suddenly erect,
frowning, his chin more aggressive than ever.
"You haven't been drinking, have you, Peregrine?" he demanded.
"No, sir!"
"Then you must be mad!"
"I think not, sir. Howbeit, I shall go!"
"Preposterousandamridiculous!" he exclaimed in a breath.
"Possibly, sir!" quoth I, squaring my shoulders resolutely. "But my
mind is resolved--"
"Julia--your aunt, will never permit such tom-fool nonsense, boy!"
"I am determined, sir!" said I, folding my arms. "I go for her
sake--her future happiness--"
"Happiness?" cried my uncle George, pulling at his whisker, "'t would
break her heart, Perry; she'd grieve, boy, aye, begad she would--she'd
grieve, as I say, and--grieve, d'ye see--"
"Then you must comfort her--you or Uncle Jervas, or both! Woo her, win
her whoever can, only make her happy--that happiness she has denied
herself for my sake, all these years. This you must do--it is for this
I am about to sacrifice the joy of her companionship, the gentle quiet
and luxury of home to pit myself, alone and friendless, against an
alien world. This, my dear uncles," said I, finding myself not a
little moved as I concluded, "this is my prayer, that, through one of
you she may find a greater happiness than has ever been hers
hitherto."
"Tush, boy!" murmured my uncle Jervas, lounging gracefully against the
balustrade of the terrace again, "Tush and fiddle-de-dee! If you have
done with these heroics, let us get to our several beds like
common-sense beings," and he yawned behind a white and languid hand.
His words stung me, I will own; but it was not so much these that
wrought me to sudden, cold fury, as that contemptuous yawn. Even as I
stood mute with righteous indignation, all my finer feelings thus
wantonly outraged, he yawned again.
"Come, Peregrine," he mumbled sleepily, "come you in to bed, like a
sensible lad."
"Uncle Jervas," said I, smiling up at him as contemptuously as
possible, "I will see you damned first!"
"Good God!" exclaimed my uncle George, and letting go his whisker he
fell back a step, staring down at me as if he had never seen me before
in all his life. Uncle Jervas, on the contrary, regarded me silently
awhile, then I saw his grim lips twitch suddenly and he broke into a
peal of softly modulated laughter.
"Our sucking dove can roar, it seems, George--our lamb can bellow on
occasion. On me soul, I begin to hope we were perhaps a trifle out in
our estimation of him. There was an evil word very well meant and
heartily expressed!" And he laughed again; then his long arm shot out,
though whether to cuff or pat my head I do not know nor stayed to
enquire, for, eluding that white hand, I vaulted nimbly over the
balustrade and, from the flower bed below, bowed to him with a
flourish.
"Uncle Jervas," said I, "pray observe that I bow to your impertinence,
by reason of your age; may God mend your manners, sir! Uncle George,
farewell. Uncles both, heaven teach you to be some day more worthy my
loved aunt Julia!" Saying which, I turned and strode resolutely away
across the shadowy park, not a little pleased with myself.
I was close upon the gates that opened upon the high road when,
turning for one last look at the great house that had been my home, I
was amazed and somewhat disconcerted to find my two uncles hastening
after me; hotfoot they came, at something betwixt walk and run, their
long legs covering the ground with remarkable speed. Instinctively I
began to back away and was deliberating whether or not to cast dignity
to the winds and take to my heels outright, when my uncle George
hailed me, and I saw he flourished a hat the which I recognised as my
own.
"Hold hard a minute, Perry!" he called, spurs jingling with his haste.
"My good uncles," I called, "you are two to one--two very large,
ponderous men; pray excuse me therefore if I keep my distance."
"My poor young dolt," quoth uncle Jervas a trifle breathlessly, "we
merely desire a word with you--"
"Aye, just a word, Perry!" cried uncle George. "Besides, we've brought
your hat and coat, d'ye see."
"You have no other purpose?" I enquired, maintaining my rearward
movement.
"Dammit--no!" answered uncle Jervas.
"Word of honour!" cried uncle George.
At this I halted and suffered them to approach nearer.
"You do not meditate attempting the futility of force?" I demanded.
"We do not!" said uncle Jervas.
"Word of honour!" cried uncle George.
"On the contrary," continued uncle Jervas, handing me my
silver-buttoned, frogged surtout, "I for one heartily concur and
commend your decision in so far as concerns yourself--a trifle of
hardship is good for youth and should benefit you amazingly, nephew--"
"B'gad, yes!" nodded uncle George. "Fine thing, hardship--if not too
hard. So we thought it well to see that you did not go short of
the--ah--needful, d'ye see."
"Needful, sir?" I enquired.
"Rhino, lad--chink, my boy!"
"Ha, to be sure," sighed uncle Jervas, noting my bewilderment. "These
coarse metaphors are but empty sounds in your chaste ears,
nephew--brother George is trying to say money. Do you happen to have a
sufficiency of such dross about you, pray?" A search of my various
pockets resulted in the discovery of one shilling and a groat.
"Precisely as I surmised," nodded my uncle Jervas, "having had your
every possible want supplied hitherto, money is a sordid vulgarity you
know little about, yet, if you persist in adventuring your precious
person into the world of men and action, you will find money a
somewhat useful adjunct. In this purse are some twelve guineas or
so--" here he thrust the purse into the right-hand pocket of my coat.
"And six in this, Perry!" said uncle George, thrusting his purse into
my left pocket.
"So here are eighteen-odd guineas," quoth uncle Jervas, "a paltry and
most inadequate sum, perhaps, but these should last you a few
days--with care, or at least until, wearying of hardship, you steal
back into the silken lap of luxury."
"And look 'ee, Perry lad," added uncle George, clapping me on the
shoulder and eyeing me a little anxiously, "come back soon, boy--soon,
d'ye see--"
"He will, George, he will!" nodded uncle Jervas.
"He looks damnably solitary, somehow, Jervas."
"And small, George."
"Sirs," said I, "for my lack of size, blame nature. As to
loneliness--'my mind to me my kingdom is,' and one peopled by a
thousand loved friends, or of what avail the reading of books?"
"Books? M--yes, precisely!" quoth my uncle George, ruffling up his
thick curls and eyeing me askance. "But what are we to tell your aunt
Julia?"
"Nothing, sir. At the first inn I stop at I will write her fully
regarding my departure and future plans--"
"But--oh, curse it. Perry," exclaimed uncle George, fumbling for his
whisker, "she'll be sure to blame us, aye, she will so, b'gad d'ye
see--"
"Not when she reads my letter, sir. Indeed I feel--nay, I know that my
absence will but serve to draw you nearer together, all three, and I
look forward with assured hope to seeing her happily wedded to--to one
or other of you when--when I return--"
"Lord love me!"
"Now on me immortal soul!" exclaimed my two uncles in one breath.
"My dear sirs," I continued, "I have long suspected your passion for
my peerless aunt, nor do I venture to blame you--"
"Blame, b'gad!" exclaimed my uncle George faintly.
"To-night I chanced to overhear words pass between you that put the
matter beyond doubt--"
"Impertinent young eavesdropper!" exclaimed my uncle Jervas, very red
in the face.
"Thus, in taking my departure, I can but wish you every happiness. But
before I go, I would beg of you to satisfy me on a point of family
history--if you will. My parents died young, I believe?"
"They did!" answered my uncle Jervas in strangely repressed voice.
"Very young!" sighed my uncle George.
"And what--how came they to die?" I questioned.
"Your mother died of--a broken heart, Peregrine," said uncle Jervas.
"Sweet child!" added uncle George.
"Then I pray that God in His mercy has mended it long ere this," said
I. "And my father, sirs,--how came he by death so early?"
Here my two uncles exchanged looks as though a little at a loss.
"Has your aunt never told you?" enquired my uncle Jervas.
"Never, sir! And her distress forbade my questioning more than the
once. But you are men and so I ask you how did your brother and my
father die?"
"Shot in a duel, lad, killed on the spot!" said my uncle George, and I
saw his big hand clench itself into a quivering fist. "They fought in
a little wood not so far from here--such a lad he was--our fag at
school, d'ye see. I remember they carried him up these very steps--and
the sun so bright--and he had scarcely begun to live--"
"And the bullet that slew him," added my uncle Jervas, "just as surely
killed your mother also."
"Yes!" said I. "And whose hand sped that bullet?"
"He is dead!" murmured my uncle Jervas, gazing up at the placid moon.
"Dead and out of reach--years ago."
"Aye--he died abroad," added uncle George, "Brussels, I think, or
Paris--or was it Vienna--anyhow he--is dead!"
"And--out of reach!" murmured uncle Jervas, still apparently lost in
contemplation of the moon.
"As to yourself, dear, foolish lad," said uncle George, laying his
hand upon my shoulder, "if go you will, come back soon! And should you
meet trouble--need a friend--any assistance, d'ye see, you can always
find me at the Grange."
"Or a letter to me, Peregrine, directed to my chambers in St. James's
Street, will always bring you prompt advice in any difficulty and,
what is better, perhaps--money. Moreover, should you wish to see the
town or aspire socially, you will find I can be of some small
service--"
"My dear uncles," I exclaimed, grasping their hands in turn, "for this
kind solicitude God bless you both again and--good-bye!"
So saying, I turned (somewhat hastily) and went my way; but after I
had gone some distance I glanced back to behold them watching me,
motionless and side by side; hereupon, moved by their wistful
attitude, I forgot my dignity and, whipping off my hat, I flourished
it to them above my head ere a bend in the drive hid them from my
view.
CHAPTER III
WHEREIN THE READER SHALL FIND SOME DESCRIPTION OF AN EXTRAORDINARY
TINKER
I went at a good, round pace, being determined to cover as much
distance as possible ere dawn, since I felt assured that so soon as my
indomitable aunt Julia discovered my departure she would immediately
head a search party in quest of me; for which cogent reason I
determined to abandon the high road as soon as possible and go by less
frequented byways.
A distant church clock chimed the hour and, pausing to hearken, I
thrilled as I counted eleven, for, according to the laws which had
ordered my life hitherto, at this so late hour I should have been
blissfully asleep between lavender-scented sheets. Indeed my loved
aunt abhorred the night air for me, under the delusion that I suffered
from a delicate chest; yet here was I out upon the open road and
eleven o'clock chiming in my ears. Thus as I strode on into the
unknown I experienced an exhilarating sense of high adventure unknown
till now.
It was a night of brooding stillness and the moon, high-risen, touched
the world about me with her magic, whereby things familiar became
transformed into objects of wonder; tree and hedgerow took on shapes
strange and fantastic; the road became a gleaming causeway whereon I
walked, godlike, master of my destiny. Beyond meadow and cornfield to
right and left gloomed woods, remote and full of mystery, in whose
enchanted twilight elves and fairies might have danced or slender
dryads peeped and sported. Thus walked I in an ecstasy, scanning with
eager eyes the novel beauties around me, my mind full of the poetic
imaginations conjured up by the magic of this midsummer night, so that
I yearned to paint it, or set it to music, or write it into adequate
words; and knowing this beyond me, I fell to repeating Milton's noble
verses the while:
"I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wand'ring moon
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heaven's wide pathless way."
After some while I espied a stile upon my right and climbing this, I
crossed a broad meadow to a small, rustic bridge spanning a stream
that flowed murmurous in the shade of alder and willow. Being upon
this bridge, I paused to look down upon these rippling waters and to
watch their flash and sparkle where the moon caught them.
And hearkening to the melodious voice of this streamlet, I began to
understand how great poems were written and books happened. At last I
turned and, crossing the bridge, went my way, pondering on Death, of
which I knew nothing, and on Life, of which I knew little more, and so
at last came to the woods.
On I went amid the trees, following a grassy ride; but as I advanced,
this grew ever narrower and I walked in an ever-deepening gloom,
wherefore I turned about, minded to go back, but found myself quite
lost and shut in, what with the dense underbrush around me and the
twisted, writhen branches above, whose myriad leaves obscured the
moon's kindly beam. In this dim twilight I pushed on then, as well as
I might, often running foul of unseen obstacles or pausing to loose my
garments from clutching thorns. Sudden there met me a wind, dank and
chill, that sighed fitfully near and far, very dismal to hear.
And now, as I traversed the gloom of these leafy solitudes, what must
come into my head but murders, suicides and death in lonely places. I
remembered that not so long ago the famous Buck and Corinthian Sir
Maurice Vibart had been found shot to death in just such another
desolate place as this. And there was my own long-dead father!
"They fought in a little wood not so far from here!"
These, my uncle George's words, seemed to ring in my ears and,
shivering, I stopped to glance about me full of sick apprehension. For
all I knew, this might be the very wood where my youthful father had
staggered and fallen, to tear at the tender grass with dying fingers;
these sombre, leafy aisles perhaps had echoed to the shot--his gasping
moan that had borne his young spirit up to the Infinite! At this
thought, Horror leapt upon me, wherefore I sought to flee these gloomy
shades, only to trip and fall heavily, so that I lay breathless and
half-stunned, and no will to rise.
It was at this moment, lying with my cheek against Mother Earth, that
I heard it,--a strange, uncanny sound that brought me to my hands and
knees, peering fearfully into the shadows that seemed to be deepening
about me moment by moment.
With breath held in check I crouched there, straining my ears for a
repetition of this unearthly sound that was like nothing I had ever
heard before,--a quick, light, tapping chink, now in rhythm, now out,
now ceasing, now recommencing, so that I almost doubted but that this
wood must be haunted indeed.
Suddenly these foolish apprehensions were quelled somewhat by the
sound of a human voice, a full, rich voice, very deep and sonorous,
upraised in song; and this voice being so powerful and the night so
still, I could hear every word.
"A tinker I am, O a tinker am I,
A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll die;
If the King in his crown would change places wi' me
I'd laugh so I would, and I'd say unto he:
'A tinker I am, O a tinker am I,
A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll'--"
The voice checked suddenly and I cowered down again as in upon me
rushed the shadows, burying me in a pitchy gloom so that my fears
racked me anew, until I bethought me this sudden darkness could be no
more than a cloud veiling the moon, and I waited, though very
impatiently, for her to light me again.
Now as I crouched there, I beheld a light that was not of the moon,
but a red and palpitant glow that I judged must be caused by a fire at
no great distance; therefore I arose and made my way towards it as
well as I could for the many leafy obstacles that beset my way. And
thus at last I came upon a glade where burned a fire and beyond this,
flourishing a tin kettle in highly threatening fashion, stood a small,
fierce-eyed man.
"Hold hard!" quoth he in mighty voice, peering at me over the fire.
"I've a blunderbuss here and two popps, so hold hard or I'll be forced
to brain ye wi' this here kettle. Now then--come forward slow, my
covey, slow, and gi'e us a peep o' you _churi_--step cautious now
or I'll be the gory death o' you!"
Not a little perturbed by these ferocious expressions, I advanced
slowly and very unwillingly into the firelight and, halting well out
of his reach, spoke in tone as conciliatory as possible.
"Pray pardon my intrusion, but--"
"Your what?" he demanded, while his quick, bright eyes roved over my
shrinking person.
"Intrusion," I repeated, "and now, if you will kindly allow--"
"Intrusion," quoth he, mouthing the word, "intrusion! Why, here's one
as don't come my way often! Intrusion! 'T is a good word and rhymes
wi' confusion, don't it?"
"It does!" said I, wondering at his manner.
"And 'oo might you be--and what?" he questioned, beckoning me nearer
with a motion of the kettle.
"One who has lost his way--"
"In silver buttons an' a jerry 'at--hum! You're a young nob, you are,
a swell, a tippy, a go--that's what you are! Wherefore and therefore I
ask what you might be a-doing in this here wood at midnight's lone
hour?"
"I am lost--"
"Aha!" said he, eyeing me dubiously and scratching his long, blue chin
with the spout of his kettle. "A young gent in a jerry 'at--lost an'
wandering far from a luxurious 'ome in a wood at midnight! And
wherefore? It ain't murder, is it? You aren't been doing to death any
pore, con-fiding young fe-male, have ye?"
"Good God--no!" I answered in indignant horror.
"Why then, you don't 'appen to ha' been robbing your rich uncle and
now on your way to London wi' the family jew-ells to make your
fortun', having set fire to the fam-ly mansion to cover the traces o'
your dark an' desp'ret doin's?"
"Certainly not!"
"Ha!" said he, with rueful shake of his head, "I knew it--from the
first. I suppose you'll tell me you ain't even forged your
'oary-'eaded grandfather's name for to pay off your gambling debts and
other gentlemanly dissipations--come now?"
"No," said I, a little haughtily, "I am not the rogue and scoundrel
you seem determined to take me for."
"True!" he sighed. "And what's more, you ain't even got the look of
it. Life's full o' disapp'intments to a romantic soul like me and not
half so inter-esting as a good nov-el. Now if you'd only 'appened to
be a murderer reeking wi' crime an' blood--but you ain't, you tell
me?" he questioned, his keen eyes twinkling more brightly than ever.
"I am not!"
"Why, very well then!" said he, nodding and seating himself upon a
small stool. "So be it, young master, and if you'm minded to talk wi'
a lonely man an' share his fire, sit ye down an' welcome. Though being
of a nat'rally enquiring turn o' mind, I'd like to know what you've
been a-doing or who, to be hiding in this wood at this witching hour
when graves do yawn?"
"I might as well ask you why you sit mending a kettle and singing?"
"Because I'm a tinker an' foller my trade, an' trade's uncommon brisk
hereabouts. But as to yourself--"
"You are a strange tinker, I think!" said I, to stay his questioning.
"And why strange?"
"You quote Shakespeare, for one thing--"
"Aha! That's because, although I'm a tinker, I'm a literary cove
besides. I mend kettles and such for a living and make verses for a
pleasure!"
"What, are you a poet?"
"'Ardly that, young sir, 'ardly that!" said he, rubbing his chin with
the shaft of his hammer. "No, 'ardly a poet, p'raps,--but thereabouts.
My verses rhyme an' go wi' a swing, which is summat, arter all, ain't
it? I made the song I was a-singing so blithe an' 'earty--did ye like
it?"
"Indeed, yes."
"No, but did ye though?" he questioned wistfully, slanting his head
at me. "Honest an' true?"
"Honest and true!"
At this, his bright eyes danced and a smile curved his grim lips;
setting by hammer and kettle, he rose and disappeared into the small
dingy tent behind him, whence he presently emerged bearing a large
case-bottle, which he uncorked and proffered to me.
"Rum!" said he, nodding. "Any cove as likes verses, 'specially my
verses, is a friend--so drink hearty, friend, to our better
acquaintance."
"Thank you, but I never drink!"
"Lord!" he exclaimed, and stood bottle in hand, like one quite at a
loss; whereupon, perceiving his embarrassment, I took the bottle and
swallowed a gulp for good-fellowship's sake and straightway gasped.
"Why, 'tis a bit strong," quoth he, "but for the concocting, or, as
you might say, com-posing o' verses there's nothing like a drop o'
rum, absorbed moderate, to hearten the muse now and then--here's
health an' long life!"
Having said which, he swallowed some of the liquor in turn, sighed,
corked the bottle and, having deposited it in the little tent, sat
down to his work again with a friendly nod to me.
"Young sir," quoth he, "'tis very plain you are one o' the real sort
wi' nothing flash about you, therefore I am the more con-sarned on
your account, and wonder to see the likes o' you sitting alongside the
likes o' me at midnight in Dead Man's Copse--"
"Dead Man's Copse!" I repeated, glancing into the shadows and drawing
nearer the fire. "It is a very dreadful name--"
"But very suitable, young sir. There's many a dead 'un been found
hereabouts, laying so quiet an' peaceful at last--pore souls as ha'
found this big world and life too much for 'em an' have crept here to
end their misery--and why not? There's the poor woman that's lost,
say, and wandering in the dark, but with her tired eyes lifted up to
the kindly stars; so she struggles on awhile, but by an' by come storm
clouds an' one by one the stars go out till only one remains, a little
twinkling light that is for her the very light of Hope itself--an'
presently that winks an' goes, an' with it goes Hope as well, an'
she--poor helpless, weary soul--comes a-creeping into some quiet place
like this, an' presently only her poor, bruised body lies here, for
the soul of her flies away--up an' up a-singing an' a-carolling--back
to the stars!"
"This is a great thought--that the soul may not perish!" said I,
staring into the Tinker's earnest face.
"Ah, young sir, where does the soul come from--where does it go to?
Look yonder!" said he, pointing upwards with his hammer where stars
twinkled down upon us through the leaves. "So they've been for ages,
and so they will be, winking down through the dark upon you an' me an'
others like us, to teach us by their wisdom. An' as to our
souls--Lord, I've seen so many corpses in my time I know the soul
can't die. Corpses? Aye, by goles, I'm always a-finding of 'em. Found
one in this very copse none so long ago--very young she was--poor,
lonely lass! Ah, well! Her troubles be all forgot, long ago. An'
here's the likes o' you sitting along o' the likes o' me in a wood at
midnight--you as should be snug in sheets luxoorious, judging by your
looks--an' wherefore not, young friend?"
Now there was about this small, quick, keen-eyed tinker a latent
kindliness, a sympathy that attracted me involuntarily, so that, after
some demur, I told him my story in few words as possible and careful
to suppress all names. Long before I had ended he had laid by hammer
and kettle and turned, elbows on knees and chin on sinewy fists,
viewing me steadfastly where I sat in the fireglow.
"So you make verses likewise, do you?" he questioned, when I had done.
"Yes."
"And can paint pic-toors, beside?"
"Yes--of a sort!" I answered, finding myself suddenly and strangely
diffident.
"An' you so young!" said he in hushed and awestruck tones. "Have you
writ many poems, sir?"
"I have published only one volume so far."
"Lord!" he whispered. "Published a vollum--in print--a book! Ah--what
wouldn't I give t' see my verses in print--in a book--to know they
were good enough--"
"Ah, pray don't mistake!" said I hastily, my new diffidence growing by
reason of his unfeigned and awestruck wonder. "I published them
myself--no bookseller would take them, so I--I paid to have them
printed."
"And did it cost much--very much?" he enquired eagerly. "Anywhere
near, well, say--five pound?"
"A great deal nearer a hundred!"
"A hun--" he gasped. "By goles!" he ejaculated after a moment, "poetry
comes expensive, don't it? A hundred pound! Lord love me, I don't make
so much in a year! So I'll never see any o' my verses in a book, 'tis
very sure. Ah, well," said he with a profound sigh, "that won't stop
me a-thinking or a-making of 'em, will it?"
"And what do you write about?" I enquired, vastly interested.
"All sorts o' things--common things, trees an' brooks, fields an'
winding roads, and then--there's always the stars. Wrote one about 'em
this very week, if you'd care to--"
"I should," cried I eagerly. "Indeed I should!"
"Should you, friend?" said he, fumbling in a pocket of his sleeved
waistcoat. "Why, then, so you shall, though there ain't much of it,
which is p'raps just as well!"
From his pocket he brought forth a strange collection of oddments
whence he selected a crumpled wisp of paper; this he smoothed out and
bending low to the fire, read aloud as follows:
"When night comes down, where'er I be
I want no roof to shelter me;
I love to lie where I may see
The blessed stars.
"Though I am one not over-wise
They seem to me like friendly eyes That watch us kindly from the skies,
These winking stars.
"Though I've no friend to share my woe
And bitter tears unseen may flow,
To soothe my grief I silent go
To tell the stars.
"And when my time shall come to die
I care not where my flesh shall lie
Because I know my soul shall fly
Back to the stars!"
"Did you write that?" I exclaimed.
"Aye, I did!" he answered, a little anxiously. "Rhymes true, don't
it?"
"Yes."
"Goes wi' a swing, don't it?"
"Yes."
"Very well then; what more can you want in a verse?"
"But you've got more--much more!"
"What more?"
"A great deal! Atmosphere, for one thing--"
"Why, 't was writ under a hedge," he explained. "And now, friend,
p'raps you'll oblige me wi' one o' yourn?"
"Indeed I would rather not," said I, finding myself oddly ill at ease
for once.
"Come, fair is fair!" he urged. Hereupon, after some little
reflection, I began reciting this, one of my latest efforts:
"Hail, gentle Dian, goddess-queen
Throned 'mid th' Olympian vasts
Majestic, splendidly serene
'Spite Boreas' rageful blasts.
Immaculate, 'midst starry fires
Incalculable thou--"
here I stopped suddenly and bowed my head.
"Why, what now, young sir; what's wrong?" questioned the Tinker.
"Everything!" said I miserably. "This is not poetry!"
"It--sounds very fine!" said the Tinker kindly.
"But it is just sound and nothing more--it is fatuous--trivial--it has
no soul, no meaning, nothing of value--I shall never be a poet!" And
knowing this for very truth, there was born in me a humility wholly
unknown until this moment.
"Nay--never despond, friend!" quoth the Tinker, laying his hand on my
bowed shoulder. "For arter all you've got what I ain't got--words! All
you need is to suffer a bit, mind an' body, an' not so much for
yourself as for some one or something else. Nobody can expect to be a
real poet, I think, as hasn't suffered or grieved over summat or some
one! So cheer up; suffering's bound to come t' ye soon or late; 'tis
only to be expected in this world. Meanwhile how are ye going to
live?"
"I haven't thought of it yet."
"Hum! Any money?"
"Only eighteen guineas."
"Why, 'tis a tidy sum! But even eighteen pound can't last for ever,
an' when 'tis all gone--how then?"
"I don't know."
"Hum!" quoth the Tinker again and sat rubbing his chin and staring
into the fire, while I, lost in my new humility, wondered if my
painting was not as futile as my poetry.
"Can ye work?" enquired my companion suddenly.
"I think so!"
"What at?"
"I don't know!"
"Hum! Any trade or profession?"
"None!"
"Ha! too well eddicated, I suppose. Well, 'tis a queer kettle o' fish,
but so's life, yet, though heaviness endure for a night, j'y cometh in
the morning, and mind, I'm your friend if you're so minded. And now,
what I says is--let's to sleep, for I must be early abroad." Here he
reached into the little tent and presently brought thence two
blankets, one of which he proffered me, but the night being very hot
and oppressive, I declined it and presently we were lying side by
side, staring up at the stars. But suddenly upon the stillness, from
somewhere amid the surrounding boskages that shut us in, came the
sound of one sighing gustily, and I sat up, peering.
"All right, friend," murmured the Tinker drowsily; "'tis only my
Diogenes!"
"And who is Diogenes?"
"My pony, for sure!"
"But why do you call him Diogenes?"
"Because Diogenes lived in a tub an'--he don't! Good night, young
friend! Never thought o' writing a nov-el, I s'pose?" he enquired
suddenly.
"Never! Why do you ask?"
"I met a young cove once, much like you only bigger, and this young
cove threatened to write a nov-el an' put me into it. That was years
ago, an' I've sold and read a good many nov-els since then, but never
came across myself in ever a one on 'em."
"Good night!" said I and very presently heard him snore. But as for me
I lay wakeful, busied with my thoughts and staring up at the radiant
heaven. "No!" said I to myself at last, speaking my thought aloud,
"No, I shall never be a poet!"
CHAPTER IV
IN WHICH I MEET A DOWN-AT-HEELS GENTLEMAN
I awoke uncomfortably warm, to find the high-risen sun pouring his
dazzling beams full upon me while, hard by, the Tinker's fire yet
smouldered; up I started to rub my eyes and stare about me upon the
unfamiliar scene. Birds piped and chirped merrily amid the leaves
above and around, a rabbit sat to watch me inquisitively, but
otherwise I was alone, for the Tinker had vanished and his tent with
him.
Now as I sat, feeling strangely lonely and disconsolate, I espied a
bulbous parcel lying in reach and, opening this, found it to contain a
small loaf, three slices of bacon and a piece of cheese, together with
a folded paper whereon I deciphered these words inscribed in painfully
neat characters.
YOUNG SIR:
What is one thing at night is another in the morning, so I have gone
my way and taken my course appointed. If you should wish to meet me
again, which would be strange, I think, you shall hear of me at the
White Hart nigh to Sevenoaks, or the Chequers at Tonbridge or from
mostly any of the padding kind, since the high road is my home and has
been long. I am glad you liked my verses, I have more I could have
read you and I think better of yours than you think I thought, though
you have taken Lord Byron for your model I think and he is only a poet
when he forgets to be a fine gentleman. May you prosper, young sir,
and find your manhood which I reckon is none so far to seek. And this
is the true desire of me.
Jeremiah Jarvis.
Tinker and occasionally literary cove.
I have left you some breakfast also fire to cook same, eat hearty. You
will find a frying-pan in a cleft of the tree we slept under.
Thereupon, being much more hungry than was my wont, I came to the tree
in question and presently found a roomy cleft where was the
frying-pan, sure enough. And now, having made up the fire, I set about
cooking my breakfast for the first time in my life and found it no
great business, turning the rashers this way and that in the pan until
what with their delectable sight and smell, my hunger grew to a
voracious desire that amazed me by its intensity. So, placing the
frying-pan on the grass between my knees, I began to eat with the aid
of my penknife and a hunch of crusty bread, and never in all my days
enjoyed anything more.
In due time, the bacon being despatched together with the greater part
of the loaf and cheese, I lay propped against the tree, blinking in
the sun and drowsily content. But this blissful aftermath was
presently marred by haunting memories of tea, coffee and creamy
chocolate until at last, roused by an insistent and ever-growing
thirst, I arose, minded to seek some means of assuaging this appetite.
Thus, having scrubbed out the frying-pan with a handful of bracken, I
restored it to the tree and set out. After some little while I came on
a brook bubbling pleasantly amid mossy stones and yet, though it
looked sweet and clean enough, I could not bring myself to drink of
it, being too proud-stomached, and must go wandering on, plagued by my
thirst, until, chancing on the same brook or another, I could resist
no longer, and stretching myself full-length upon the bank I stooped
to the murmurous water and drank my fill and found it none so ill,
although a little brackish.
As the day advanced, the cool wind died away so that what with the
heat and this unwonted exercise I grew distressed and was about to
cast myself down in the shade of a hedge, when I espied a small tavern
bowered in trees some little distance along the road, very pleasant to
see, and hasted thitherward accordingly. I was yet some distance away
when I became aware that something untoward was afoot, for, borne to
my ears, came a sound of excited voices, dominated all at once by one
deep and hoarse and loud in virtuous indignation.
"Drunk me beer, I tell 'ee--every drop! Drunk me beer at one gullup so
quick's a flash--the 'eartless ruffin!"
Hereupon rose an answering chorus.
"Throw 'im out! Duck 'im! Gi'e 'un one for 'isself!"
Reaching the tavern, I halted on the threshold of a low, wide chamber,
floored with red tiles and furnished with oaken tables and benches,
where I beheld some half-dozen angry country-fellows grouped about a
solitary individual who fronted them in very desperate and determined
manner, his back to the wall; an extremely down-at-heels gentleman
this, who yet cocked his hat and glared about him with an air of
polite ferocity.
"In half a pig's whisper," said he, squaring his arms belligerently,
"in half a pig's whisper or less, blood will flow, gore will gush and
spatter--" Here, chancing to catch sight of me in the doorway, he
flourished off his hat, a miserably sorry-looking object, and bowed
profoundly. "Aha, Sir Oswald," quoth he, "you arrive most aptly--in
the very nick, the moment, the absolute tick! If you have a mind to
see a little delicate fibbing, some scientific bruising as taught by
the famous Natty Bell, foot and fist-work as exhibited by Glorious
John, Jem Belcher and--"
"'E swallowed all my beer, 'e did, sir!" exclaimed a red-faced man in
gaiters and smock-frock, "in one gullup--so quick no 'and could stay
the deed! Stole me beer an' can't deny it--"
"No, by heaven!" exclaimed the down-at-heels gentleman. "I drank the
fellow's beer, every drop--could have drunk more. Our fat and furious
friend labours under a delusion, for to drink good beer with a man out
of that man's own pot is surely a mark of high esteem--"
"Dang your 'steem!" cried the stout fellow, flourishing his empty
tankard threateningly. "A chap as thieves a chap's beer is a chap as
can't be no chap's friend! 'Ow about it, you chaps?" quoth he,
appealing to his fellows. "Shall us let a chap thieve a chap's beer
an' not kick that chap out where that chap belongs--'ow about it?"
Whereupon came the answering chorus:
"Aye, Sim, go for 'im, lad--we'm wi' 'ee! Pitch 'im out! Duck 'im in
th' 'orsepond!"
At this juncture spake one I deemed to be the landlord, a gloomy being
who drooped above a small bar in one corner.
"Do as ye will, neighbours all, do as ye will--only don't break
nothink--them as breaks, pays!"
"One moment, please!" said I, stepping forward. "If the gentleman
committed the solecism complained of, it was, I am sure, not so much a
wish to offend as an error of judgment--"
"Admirably expressed, sir!" exclaimed the gentleman in question. "And
suffer me to add--the exigencies of fortune and circumstance!"
"Therefore," I continued, returning the gentleman's polite bow, "I
shall be happy to make such restitution on his behalf as I may."
At this there fell a strange silence during which every eye was fixed
on me in somewhat disconcerting fashion, feet shuffled, heads were
scratched.
"Ax your pardon, sir--" said the red-faced man at last, rasping shaven
chin with tankard rim, "but if you could manage to talk a little less
furrin'--more plain English-like?"
"I mean I will buy more beer for you--and any one else who--"
"D'ye hear that, landlord?" cried a voice. "The genelman do mean pots
all round!"
"Do ye mean that same, sir?" enquired the landlord, glooming and
doubtful.
"I will pay for as many pots as they can drink, for good-fellowship's
sake," said I, and laid down a coin.
"Spoken like a true sportsman, sir!" exclaimed the down-at-heels
gentleman. "Sir Oswald, permit me to bring to your notice one
Anthony--myself, once blooming gayest of the gay, now, alas! a faded
blossom, cankered, sir, blighted, yet not to be trodden upon with
impunity and always your most obliged, humble servant!" Here he paused
to lift the brimming tankard the gloomy landlord had just set before
him and bow to me across the creamy foam. "Sir Oswald, your health!"
said he. "And may heaven preserve you from these three fatal
F's--fathers, friends and females!" Having said which, he drank
thirstily and thereafter sat frowning down at his broken boots beneath
the brim of his woebegone hat, apparently lost in bitter thought. And
beholding him thus, his flippancy forgotten, his air of dashing
ferocity laid aside, I saw he was pale and thin and haggard and much
younger than I had thought. Suddenly, chancing to meet my eye, his
pale cheeks flushed painfully, then, squaring his drooping shoulders,
he smote his hat more over one eye than ever, nodded gaily, sprang
lightly to his feet and gripped at the table to steady himself.
"E'gad, sir," said he, laughing, "they brew uncommonly strong ale in
these parts, it seems!"
"Yes!" said I, well knowing it was not this had so shaken him or
caused his hands to quiver as he leaned. "I was thinking," I
continued, "that with such ale a crust of bread and cheese might not
be amiss?"
"Cheese!" he exclaimed fiercely. "Sir--I--I detest cheese!" But as he
spoke I noticed his nearest hand had clenched itself into a quivering
fist.
"Why, indeed," said I, furtively watching that telltale hand, "I
myself should prefer a slice of roast beef--or a rasher of ham--"
"Ham!" he murmured softly as if to himself--and then in the same tone,
"Sir, I never eat ham, it is an abom--"
"'Am, sir?" sighed the gloomy landlord at this juncture, "if you
gentleman was a-thinking of 'am, I've as fine a gammon as was ever
smoked, leastways so my missus do say, so if you'm minded for a
rasher or so--cut thick--an' say 'arf a dozen eggs--why, say the word,
sir."
"The word is 'yes'--if this gentleman will honour me with his
company," said I. Hereupon the down-at-heels gentleman shook his head,
scowled into his tankard, sighed, and, meeting my eye, broke into a
wry smile.
"With all the pleasure in life, sir!" said he.
Thus in a little while we were seated in a small, clean room with the
ham and eggs smoking on a dish between us, whence emanated a savour
most delectable.
"It smells very appetising!" said I, taking up knife and fork.
"So much so," said he, "so very much so, that before I accept more of
your hospitality, it is as well you should know whom you would
honour--" here I paused and stared down at the ham and eggs. "Sir, I
am a thief!" Here I let fall the knife. "Three nights since, sir," he
continued in the same passionless voice, "I broke into a farmhouse and
stole a loaf and a piece of cheese. I should have stolen more but that
I was interrupted and pursued. I lost the cheese clambering over a
wall, the last of the loaf I finished yesterday morning, since when I
have subsisted on air and an occasional mangel-wurzel--"
"Then surely it is time you ate something more substantial--this ham
seems excellent and--"
"God love you, Sir Oswald--you're a trump!" he exclaimed and sitting
down, fell to upon the food I had set before him.
"It is good ham!" said I.
"Sublime!" he answered, and seeing with what fervour he addressed
himself to the viands, I troubled him with no further speech until,
his plate empty, he leaned back in his chair and vented a sigh of
blissful and utter content.
"For that--" he began haltingly, his voice a little hoarse, "for--your
hospitality--accept the thanks of a starving wretch!"
"And my name is not Oswald!" said I.
"Of course not, but it answered very well with the fellows
outside--nothing like a high-sounding name or title to awe your
British rustic. And now," said he, with an expression half-whimsical,
half-rueful, as he picked up his woebegone hat, "having by your
courtesy eaten and drunk my fill, I will do my best to repay you by
ridding you of my company."
"I was christened Peregrine," said I, reaching over to refill his
tankard. Now at this he stood mute a space, and very still, only he
fumbled nervously with his hat and I heard his breath catch oddly,
wherefore I kept my gaze bent upon the jug in my hand.
"Sir," said he at last, speaking as with an effort, "when I stole the
bread and cheese, I would have stolen--anything that had chanced in my
reach--money--jewels--anything. I was mad and desperate with hunger.
And yet many a poor rogue in the same circumstances did no more and
their bodies dangle in chains on the highway. I have even contemplated
turning footpad--"
"I think," said I, "you told me your name was Anthony--well, if you
are going on, I will come with you, if I may."
"You will trust yourself--with me--in these solitary byways!"
"Of course," said I, rising, "because, in spite of everything, you are
a gentleman!"
At this he turned very abruptly and strode to the latticed casement,
while I, having summoned the landlord, paid the reckoning. Then,
bidding the company good-day, we set forth together.
CHAPTER V
FURTHER CONCERNING THE AFORESAID GENTLEMAN, ONE ANTHONY
So we walked on together, side by side, through leafy byways and
winding paths, past smiling cornfield and darkling wood; we talked of
the Government, of country and town, of the Fashionable World and its
most famous denizens, concerning which last my companion's knowledge
seemed profound; we spoke but little of books, of which he seemed
amazingly ignorant--in fine, we exchanged thoughts and reflections on
any and everything except ourselves. And thus, as evening drew nigh,
we came to the top of a hill. Here he stopped all at once and taking
off his dilapidated hat, pointed with it up at the thing that rose
above us, looming against the sunset-glory, beam, cross-bar and chain.
"Look at that!" quoth he, staring up at something hideously warped and
weather-beaten and clasped round with iron bands,--an awful shape that
dangled from rusting chain. "But for my light heels--I might have come
to that--and yet why not--his troubles are over. So in a year--six
months--who knows,--there hang I--"
"God forbid, Anthony?" cried I.
Now at this he whirled round and, clapping his two hands upon my
shoulders, burst forth into vehement oaths to my deep amazement until
I saw the tears in his haggard eyes.
"....Curse and confound it!" he ended. "Why must you call me Anthony!"
"Because it is the only name I know you by, for one thing."
"Well!" said he, blinking and scowling savagely.
"And because I like the name of Anthony."
"Oh! egad do you? Well, I like the name Peregrine."
"Good!" said I, and we walked on down the hill together. "My other
name is Vereker," I volunteered, seeing he was silent.
"Vereker?" he repeated and stopped to stare at me. "No relation to Sir
Jervas Vereker?"
"His nephew!"
"The devil you are!" And here he stood looking down at me from his
superior height, rasping his fingers up and down his thin, unshaven
cheek like one quite dumbfounded.
"Do you happen to know my uncle?"
"I do--or rather I did, humbly and at a distance, for Sir Jervas is,
and always will be, magnificently aloof from all and sundry--but you
know this, of course?"
"On the contrary, though I have seen him frequently, I know him not in
the least."
"My dear Vereker--who does?"
"My name is Peregrine!" said I, whereupon came that impulsive hand to
rest lightly upon my shoulder again for a moment.
"My dear Peregrine, your uncle is unique; there never was any one
quite like him unless it were Sir Maurice Vibart, the famous Buck,
though your uncle, perhaps, is not quite so coldly devilish; still,
he's sufficiently remarkable."
"How so?"
"Well, he has fought three duels to my knowledge, won a point-to-point
steeplechase not so long ago and a fortune with it--came down at the
first jump and rode with a broken arm though nobody knew until he
fainted. Youthful despite years, quick of eye, hand and tongue,
correct in himself and all that pertains to him, one who must be
sought--even by Royalty, it seems--who might have married among the
fairest and lives solitary except for his man John. Sir Jervas Vereker
is--Sir Jervas."
"You seem to know my uncle rather well."
"I did--for my name besides Anthony is Vere-Manville!" Here he paused
as expecting some comment but finding me silent, continued: "My father
was killed with Sir John Moore, at Corunna, and I was brought up by a
curmudgeonly uncle, the most preposterous unavuncular uncle that ever
bullied a defenceless nephew to the dogs. Well, I grew up and was a
moderately happy man despite my uncle, until I took to my bosom a
friend who deceived me and a mistress who broke my heart."
"Oh," said I, not a little touched by this gloomy and romantic tale,
"then this explains your--your--"
"My present misery, Peregrine? Not altogether. Had I been a
philosopher and bent to the storm, I might perchance have gone my
solitary way a broken and embittered man, but philosophy and bending
to storms is not in me, unhappily, for chancing to encounter my
faithless friend, I twisted his nose to such a tune that he demanded
satisfaction which resulted in my wounding him; after which I
consigned my perjured mistress to perdition; after which again, purely
because she happened to be a wealthy heiress, my curmudgeonly uncle
cast me adrift, cut me off and consigned me to the devil."
"Here is a very moving story!" said I.
"It is, Peregrine, it is, egad--and consequently I have been moving
ever since and going to the devil as fast as I can, though sadly
hampered by lack of funds."
"What do you mean by 'going to the devil?'"
"Why, there are many ways, Peregrine, as of course you know, but mine
would be ale, beer, wine, brandy--had I the necessary money."
"Are you determined on it?"
"Absolutely!" said he, taking off his battered hat to scowl at it and
clap it on again. "Absolutely, Peregrine--I am firmly determined to
drink myself to the final exodus."
"How much money should you require, Anthony?"
At this he turned to stare with an expression of whimsical dubiety and
thereafter fell to rubbing his unshaven chin as rather at a loss.
"Let us say fifty guineas--no, we'll make it a hundred while we're
about it--a hundred guineas would do the thing admirably--though to be
sure much might be done with less."
"I have only eighteen pounds," said I, thrusting hand into pocket;
"which will leave nine for you--"
"Hey!" he exclaimed, stopping in his sudden fashion. "What's
this--what the devil--I say, curse and confound everything, man, what
d'ye mean?"
"Being both solitary wanderers, we will share equally so far as we
may--"
"No--not to be thought of--preposterous--"
"So I ask you to honour me by accepting these nine pounds--"
"I'll be shot if I do!"
"They may help you to--"
"To my drunken dissolution? Ridiculous! Nine pounds' worth would never
do it, I'm so infernally healthy and strong! Nine accursed, miserable
pounds--what use to a drinker such as I?"
"Many, Anthony, and I think I can guess one of the first--"
"And that?"
"To procure yourself a shave!"
"Egad!" cried he with a sudden, merry look, "I believe you're in the
right of it! A stubbly chin makes a man feel such a pernicious,
scoundrelly, hangdog walking misery."
"Precisely!" said I, holding out the nine pounds. "So take your money,
Anthony."
"Positively no!" said he, scowling down at the coins. "I thieve
occasionally, but I don't beg--yet, and be damned t' you!" And
thrusting hands into pockets, he went on again. So I put up the money
and we walked on, but in silence now, while the shadows deepened about
us. And thus we went for a great while until with every stride this
silence became painfully irksome--at least, to me. All at once his arm
was about my shoulders, a long, nervous arm drawing me to him, then he
had freed me and we stood facing each other in the gathering dusk.
"Perry!" said he, in strange, shaken voice. "Dear fellow, will you
forgive a graceless dog? You meant kindly, but I couldn't--I should
despise myself more than I do--so--Oh, curse and confound it--what
about it?"
For answer I reached out and took his hand; so we stood for a long
moment speaking never a word. And presently we went on down the
darkling road together.
CHAPTER VI
DESCRIBES CERTAIN LIVELY HAPPENINGS AT THE "JOLLY WAGGONER" INN
We had gone thus no great distance when we heard a sound of hoofs and
wheels and perceived an open travelling chaise coming up behind us.
The lane was narrow and rutted and thus the vehicle was progressing at
an inconsiderable pace, and as it passed us where we stood in the
hedge, I saw it contained a man and a woman. This man was richly
dressed, and handsome in a big, plethoric fashion, but beholding his
face, the small eyes, heavy jowls and fleshy nose, I took an instant
aversion to him.
"Did you notice that fellow?" I enquired, brushing the dust from me.
"Did you see--her?" exclaimed Anthony.
"A fleshly brute if ever there was one!" said I.
"Such glorious eyes and hair--a sweet angelic creature, Perry. Her
eyes seemed so big and appealing. Oh, curse it, why must women have
such eyes. Damn everything!"
"It will be a beautiful night!" said I, staring up at the purple vault
where stars began to wink.
"She looked--miserable--almost like one afraid."
"I wonder where we shall sleep, Anthony?"
"Oh, anywhere, in some barn, under a hedge, in a rick--what matter?
Why should she look afraid, I wonder?"
I made no answer, for truth to tell my mind yearned and my body
hungered for the sweet, cool luxury of lavender sheets; the thought of
a draughty barn or comfortless ditch appalled me, but I held my peace,
only I scanned the dim road before me with eager eyes for some sign of
tavern or inn.
And presently from the loom of trees I espied a twinkling light that
upon our nearer approach I saw proceeded from a wayside inn with a
great trough of water before it and a signboard whereon, though
evening was falling apace, I could make out the legend--
THE JOLLY WAGGONER
and above this the dim semblance of a man in gaiters and smock,
bearing a whip in one hand while in the other he upheld a foaming
beaker--but never in nature did ale or beer ever so foam, froth,
bubble and seethe as did this painted waggoner's painted beer.
"What now?" enquired my companion, for I had halted. "What is it,
Peregrine?"
"The beer!" said I.
"Where, man, where?"
"Yonder!" and I pointed to the sign. "Did ever eyes behold beer so
preternaturally frothy?"
"Of course not, Perry my lad, because reality is never so perfect as
the dream! The cove who painted that was damnably dry, perishing of a
noble thirst, not a doubt of it, and being a true artist he painted it
all in--egad, there's thirst in every inch of that foam--it's a
masterpiece!"
"It's a daub--and a bad one!" said I. "Indeed, on closer inspection
the foam looks very like cheese!"
"Excellent--the poor painting-cove was hungry also, and there you are!
I'd hang that thing in my dining room (supposing I had one) to get me
an appetite--it's made me hungry already and as for the thirst--Oh,
confound it--come on--"
"By no means!" said I resolutely. "Here is a cosy inn; here will we
eat and sleep--"
"At your expense? Curse me, no, Peregrine."
"Damme, yes, Anthony."
"I say positively I'll not--"
"Look at that cheese-like foam, Anthony!"
"Curse your pitiful eighteen pounds!"
"A dinner, a glass and a downy bed with sheets, Anthony!"
"Remember I'm a man of astonishing determination, Peregrine!"
"Forget your ridiculous pride, Anthony!"
"Ha--ridiculous, d'ye say, sir?"
"And utterly preposterous, sir!"
"Preposterous! By heaven!" he exclaimed, cocking the battered hat very
ferociously over one eye. "Were you a little nearer my weight and
size, sir--"
"Sir," quoth I, nettled by the allusion, "does my size offend you--"
"Rather say lack of size, sir--"
"Sir?"
"Sir!"
Now while we stood glaring upon each other in this very ridiculous
manner, we were startled by a clatter of hoofs from the inn yard, and
the snorting squeal of a horse in pain.
"By heaven, Perry!" he exclaimed, forgetting his ferocity and settling
his hat more firmly with a blow of his fist, "I believe some damned
scoundrel is kicking a horse!" And away he strode forthwith and I
hastened after him. Reaching the yard behind the inn we perceived an
ostler and a postboy who cherished a trembling horse between them,
talking together in hushed but sullen tones.
"Who's been savaging the horse, my lads?" demanded Anthony, running a
hand over the sweating animal with the caressing touch of a true
horseman. "Come, speak up and no mumbling!"
"'T were the genelman in the blue spencer as druv up 'ere a while ago
cursing 'orrid, an' 'im wi' a young fe-male. A bad 'un by 'is looks
an' ways, I think, an' I don't care if 'e 'ears me say it."
"Ah--with a lady, was he?"
"'E were!"
"A very beautiful lady--young, with hair--eyes--"
"W'y, she may 'ave 'ad heyes an' she might 'ave 'ad 'air--likewise she
may not--she may ha' been as bald as a coot an' as blind as a mole for
all I see--"
"That'll do, my lad, that'll do! But she was young, wasn't she?"
"'Ow should I know?" exclaimed the ostler, his manner losing all
respect as he observed Anthony's general down-at-heel appearance. "I
didn't think to open 'er mouth nor yet ob-serve 'er teeth--"
"That'll do, my lad, that'll do--"
"Oh, will it an' all--why then, git out o' this yere yard. Who are you
t' ax questions--out wi' ye an' quick's the word!" Saying which, the
tall ostler approached in a very dangerous and threatening fashion;
but even as he moved, so moved Anthony, only infinitely quicker, and
lo! in place of large, scowling visage were two large hobnailed shoes
that wavered uncertainly aloft in air while their owner rolled upon a
pile of stable sweepings.
"That was what Natty Bell would call 'one to go on with!'"
"Lorramity!" gasped the ostler, sitting up and glancing about in dazed
fashion. "Lorramity--that's done it, that 'as!"
"If it hasn't, we'll try another!" suggested Anthony in cheery tone.
"By cripes!" exclaimed the ostler, taking up a handful of stable
sweepings in an aimless sort of manner. "That was a one-er, that was!"
"I believe you!" quoth the postboy. "It were a leveller as you was a
fair askin' an' a-pleading for, an' you got it!"
"Is the lady stopping here to-night?" enquired Anthony.
"She are, sir!" answered the postboy.
"She am, sir!" answered the other, "an' because why, sir--I'll tell ye
true, if you won't go a-landin' me no more o' them one-er's--"
"Because 'is near 'orse cast a shoe, sir," explained the postboy.
"An' no smith nigher than Sevenoaks, which is seven miles away."
"Peregrine," said my companion, turning towards the inn, "remembering
the foam and your magnanimous offer we will reconsider our decision.
This way!" And pushing open a door, we found ourselves in a
comfortable chamber, half bar, half kitchen, where was a woman of
large and heroic proportions who, beholding Anthony's draggled
exterior, frowned, but the sight of my silver buttons and tasseled
Hessians seemed to reassure her, for she smiled and bobbed a curtsey
to them and asked my pleasure. At my suggestion of supper and beds for
two, she turned to frown at Anthony's attire again and called,
"Susie!"
In answer to which summons presently appeared a trim maid who, at her
mistress's bidding, forthwith brought us to a small chamber none too
comfortable, and there left us to kick our heels.
"As lovely a pair of eyes that ever eyes looked into, Perry!"
"Why, she's a fine, plump, buxom kind of creature," said I, "but I
think she squints a little--"
"Squints!" cried Anthony, turning with a kind of leap--"I'll be damned
if she does--"
"Well, then, take notice when she comes to lay the table--"
"What table? Who?"
"Why, the maid--"
"Ass! I meant the Lady of the Chaise! And she was frightened,
Perry--and no wonder--a man who would kick a horse would savage a
woman--by heaven, there are times when murder is a virtue!" Here he
rose suddenly as a heavy, trampling footstep shook the ceiling above
us. "Peregrine," said he, tossing his hat into a corner, "while you
remain here to observe the squint-eyed maid, I will forthwith
investigate."
Left alone, I sat impatiently enough, twiddling my thumbs; but as time
passed and brought neither Anthony nor the maid with supper, my
impatience redoubled, so that I rose and, opening a door, found myself
in a passage wherein were other doors, from behind one of which came
the dull, low sound of a woman's passionate weeping. Inexpressibly
moved by this, I hastened forward impulsively and, opening this door,
stepped into the room beyond.
She was crouching at the table, a slender, desolate figure, her face
hidden in her arms, but hearing my footstep, she lifted her head with
a weary gesture and, looking into the beauty of this pale, tear-wet
face, I read there a hopeless terror that went far beyond fear.
At sight of me she half rose, then sank down again, as from an inner
chamber strode a tall, heavily built man in whom I instantly
recognised the gentleman of the chaise. Beholding me, he halted
suddenly and stood a minute like one utterly amazed, then his face was
convulsed with sudden fury, his full lips curled back from strong,
white teeth, and uttering a snarling, inarticulate sound, he caught up
a heavy walking cane and strode towards me, whereupon I retreated so
precipitately that my heel catching in the worn floor-covering, I
tripped and fell; then, or ever I could rise, he stooped and catching
me in merciless hands, shook me like the savage monster he was and
dragging me across the floor, hurled me into the passage; lying
breathless and half-stunned, I heard the slam of the door, the rattle
of a bolt and thereafter the sound of his voice, hoarse and muffled
and very evil to be heard. I was upon my knees and groping for my hat
when powerful arms caught me and lifted me to my feet.
"Why, Perry--curse and confound it!" exclaimed Anthony. "What in the
name of--"
He broke off suddenly and I felt the arm about me grow tense and rigid
as from beyond the bolted door the harsh voice reached us, fiercer,
louder than before.
"Let you go back--and be laughed at for a fool? Not I! Little fool....
No, by God ... weep your eyes out ... we're as good as married ...
to-morrow morning ... come here ... obey me--"
"God!" exclaimed Anthony between shut teeth.
"And the door is bolted!" said I.
"No matter! Out o' my way!"
I saw him leap, saw his foot shoot out, heard a rending crash and next
moment he was in the room and I behind him. The man in the blue
spencer was in the act of locking the door of the inner room and
stood, his hand upon the key, glaring at us beneath drawn brows.
"What the devil!" quoth he, and snatching the stick where it lay on
the table, turned upon Anthony with the weapon quivering in his big
fist. "Out of this!" he snarled. "Back to the mud that bred you--d'ye
hear!"
"One moment!" said Anthony, his grey eyes very wide and bright. "There
is a lady in the room yonder and the doors are devilish flimsy,
otherwise I should endeavour to describe the kind of thing you are--I
intend very shortly to tread on you, but first--"
I saw the heavy stick whirl high, to fall whistling on empty air as
Anthony, timing the blow, sprang lightly aside, then leapt heavily in
with stiffened arm and fist that smote the scowling face reeling back
to the wall. And now rose sounds evil to hear, fierce-panted oaths,
the trampling of quick, purposeful feet, and a dust wherein they
swayed and smote each other in desperate, murderous fashion; sickened
by this beastly spectacle I shrank away, then ran to catch up the
flickering lamp and with this grasped in tremulous hands, waited for
the end. They were down at last, rolling upon the floor; then I saw
the shabby, weather-beaten figure was uppermost, saw this figure reach
for and grasp the heavy cane, saw the long arm rise and fall, heard a
muffled groan, a sharp cry, a shout of agony; but the long arm rose
and fell untiring, merciless, until all sounds were hushed save for a
dull moaning and the monotonous sound of blows.
"Anthony--for God's sake--don't kill him!" I cried.
"Murder--sometimes--virtue!" he gasped. At this I set down the lamp in
a safe place and, running in, caught that merciless arm, commanding
and beseeching in turn. "Right, Peregrine--loose my arm--he's had
about--enough--besides, I'm devilish blown!"
So I loosed him and, standing back, saw beyond the door a throng of
pale, fearful faces, that parted suddenly to make way for a short,
squat man who carried a blunderbuss. Anthony saw him too, for in a
moment he was up and, thrusting hand into his bosom, drew thence a
small pistol.
"Put down that blunderbuss!" he commanded; whereupon, after a
momentary hesitation, the squat fellow stepped forward and laid it
sulkily upon the table. "Here, Peregrine," said Anthony, "take this
pistol and keep 'em quiet while I walk on this scoundrel a little!"
Unwillingly enough, I took the weapon, while Anthony forthwith stood
upon his prostrate antagonist and proceeded very deliberately to wipe
his villainous-looking boots upon the gentleman's fine blue spencer;
this done, he stepped down and beckoned the squat man to approach, who
came in, though very unwillingly, and closely followed by the ostler
and postillion.
"'Ave ye killed the pore soul?" questioned the squat fellow, eyeing
the prostrate man very much askance.
"Alas, no--so I will ask you and these good fellows to carry him out
and lay him in the horse-trough--"
"'Orse-trough?" exclaimed the landlord.
"Horse-trough!" nodded Anthony.
"Not us!" answered the landlord.
"Think again!" said Anthony, taking up the blunderbuss.
"Ye mean t' say--" began the landlord.
"Horse-trough!" said Anthony, levelling the ungainly weapon.
"Come on, master," quoth the ostler, "'e du be a mortal desp'rit cove
for sure! An' what's a little water; 't will du un good!" So in the
end they raised the groaning man and bore him forth, followed by
Anthony with the blunderbuss across his arm. And presently from
without came a splash, a fierce sputtering and a furious torrent of
gasping oaths, which last sound greatly relieved me; and now, what
with this and the excitement of the whole affair, I sank down in a
chair, trembling from head to foot and my head bowed upon my hands.
But hearing a light footstep, I looked up to behold the lady, a
bewitching vision despite red eyes and pallid cheeks, where she stood
surveying me--then all at once she came forward, impetuous, her hands
clasped.
"Oh, sir, how can I ever thank you--and my nose so red and my eyes so
dreadfully bleared!"
And in the extremity of her gratitude I believe this beautiful young
creature would have knelt to me but that I caught and held her hands
in mine; and it was at this moment that Anthony strode in, still a
little breathless by reason of his late exertions.
"Oh, Peregrine--" he began and stopped, for at sight of him the lady
shrank closer to me, viewing him with terrified eyes, as indeed well
she might, for now, in addition to the woeful misery of his garments
and stubble of beard, his wild and desperate appearance was heightened
by a smear of blood across his pallid cheek. "Ah!" said he, beholding
her instinctive gesture of aversion. "Pray assure madam that in spite
of my looks she has nothing to fear!" and with one of his grand
obeisances he turned to go, but in that moment I had him by the
sleeve.
"Madam," said I, bowing to her as she stood viewing us with startled
eyes, "I have the honour to present your deliverer and my friend, Mr.
Anthony Vere-Manville!" And now I saw that her eyes indeed were very
beautiful. So I turned away and left them together.
CHAPTER VII
WHITE MAGIC
Reaching the other room I found the squint-eyed maid had set forth our
supper--a goodly joint of cold beef flanked by a loaf, cheese and a
jug of ale. A mere glance at this simple fare reminded me how
extraordinary was my hunger which I was greatly tempted to satisfy
then and there, but checked the impulse resolutely and sat down to
wait for Anthony. Nevertheless my gaze must needs wander from crusty
loaf to mellow cheese and thence to juicy beef so that I was greatly
tempted to begin there and then but schooled my appetite to patience.
At last in strode Anthony who, seizing my hand, shook it heartily.
"Peregrine," said he, staring very hard at the beef, "what perfectly
glorious hair--"
"Hair?" said I.
"So silky, Peregrine, and--ripply."
"Ah!" said I, glancing from the beef to his ecstatic face. "You
mean--"
"To be sure I do!" said he, and shook my hand again.
"And her eyes--you must have observed her eyes?"
"Somewhat red and swollen--"
"Tush!" said he, and catching my hand again, led me to a small and
dingy mirror against the wall.
"An ill-looking scoundrel!" he exclaimed, pointing to his reflection.
"A miserable wretch, a friendless dog, and Peregrine, I tell you she
stooped to trust this scoundrel, to touch this wretch's hand, to speak
gentle words to this homeless dog. She's a saint, begad--a positive
angel and--oh, stab my vitals--she's hungry and I forgot it--"
"So am I, Anthony--so are you--and here's supper--"
"Where?" he enquired, still lost in contemplation of his villainous
reflection.
"On the table, of course."
"Dammit, what a repulsive object I look!" he groaned. "And yet, what
matter? Yes--it's just as well she should have seen me at my very
worst! And yet--these cursed bristles! I tell you she's an angel,
Perry!"
"And hungry, Anthony."
"So she is, sweet soul!" he exclaimed and was gone as he spoke, to
reappear in another moment ushering in our fair guest, whose mere
presence and dainty grace seemed to make the dingy chamber more sweet
and homelike.
"Madam," said I, taking up the carving-knife and bowing as she seated
herself between us, "I fear we can offer you but the very simplest of
fare, but if you are hungry--"
"Ravenous, sir!" said she, with a little upward motion of the eyes
that I thought very engaging. "I have eaten nothing since I ran away
this morning--"
"And this beef cuts very well!" said I. And so we began to eat
forthwith, speaking but seldom (and Anthony not at all) until our
hunger was somewhat appeased.
More than once I had noticed her bright eyes flit from the elegance of
my garments to the ruin of Anthony's; at last she spoke:
"And you are--two friends, I understand?" she questioned.
"Yes, madam," answered Anthony, "of about six hours standing. My
friend Mr. Vereker found me upon the road and took pity on my
destitution. It is to Peregrine we are indebted for the food we eat--"
"And to Anthony for your safety. As to friendship," I pursued, "it is
a gift of heaven, greater than time and born in a moment--and this I
hope may endure as long as time, because Anthony is the only friend I
possess."
Now at this she leaned back and glanced at us beneath wrinkled brows
for a moment, then suddenly and with sweet impulse she reached out a
hand to each of us.
"Then let us all be friends," said she, "for I am lonely too!"
So for a long moment we sat thus, hand in hand, and neither speaking.
"And now," said she at last, "since we are friends, I want you to know
how I came to run such risks. I am Barbara Knollys, and my father
wishes me to marry a man I hate, so I determined to run away to my
aunt Aspasia, because, though I fear my father, my father fears aunt
Aspasia more. Captain Danby offered to escort me to aunt's house at
Sevenoaks, but once I was in his chaise I grew afraid of him and
instead of following the high road he drove by desolate lanes and--oh,
he was hateful and so at last we came here. And now you say that
Captain Danby has gone?" she enquired of Anthony.
"Quite!" said he a little grimly. "He is, I believe, snug in bed."
"I trust, sir, you--didn't--hurt him--more than was--necessary?"
"Rest assured of it, madam."
"Heaven is very kind to have brought me out of such danger and set me
safe in the care of--gentlemen," said she, glancing from one to other
of us.
"Rest assured of this also, madam!" said I, while Anthony looked from
her to me with shining eyes. At this moment we started, all three, as
borne to our ears came the distant rumble of thunder, followed by a
fierce wind-gust that rattled crazy door and lattice and, dying in a
dismal wail, left behind the mournful sound of pattering rain.
"O heavens!" exclaimed our companion, clasping slender hands. "A
storm--and I am terrified of thunder--"
"It will soon pass!" said I.
"But I must start at once!" she faltered. "I must reach my aunt's
house to-night."
"There is the chaise!" suggested Anthony.
"Ah, no, no--impossible!" she cried. "The chaise was engaged by
Captain Danby and the postillion is in his pay--"
"The chaise shall be ready whenever you desire," said Anthony, rising,
"and the postillion shall drive you wherever you appoint if--if you
can trust yourself to the care of such a--a down-at-heels rogue
as--myself."
"Mr. Anthony," said she, very gravely, "this morning I was a foolish
girl--to-night I am a woman--my adventure has taught me much--and a
woman always knows whom she may trust. And you are a friend and a
gentleman, and one I can trust and so I accept your offer most
thankfully." Saying which, she reached out her hand to him and with
such a look as made me half wish myself in Anthony's place. So he took
her hand, made as though to raise it to his lips, then loosed it and
stood with bowed head, seemingly lost in contemplation of his broken
boots.
"Thanks!" he mumbled. "I--I--thank you!"
"Now I must prepare for the road!" said she and sped away with never
so much as a glance at me, leaving Anthony staring after her like one
in a dream, and I saw his eyes bright with unshed tears.
"Perry!" he exclaimed, "O Perry--did you hear her?" And crossing to
the little mirror he stood to behold his reflection again. "She has
given me back my self-respect!" said he. And then, "Oh, for a barber!"
he groaned. "Damn this stubble. I look like an accursed gooseberry!
And now for the chaise, she must be safe with her aunt to-night, sweet
soul. And she trusts me, Perry--me!" Here he turned to scowl at his
reflection again. "An angel!" he murmured.
"But Anthony, if one of the horses has cast a shoe--"
"Shoe?" he repeated dreamily. "The prettiest, daintiest shoe in all
Christendom. I noticed it particularly as she stood there--on that
old, worn mat--"
Seeing him so lost, I ventured to shake his arm and repeat my query,
whereupon he roused and nodded.
"To be sure. Perry, to be sure! We must persuade our ostler and
postboy to find us another--let us see to it forthwith!" So saying, he
picked up Captain Danby's heavy cane and with it gripped in purposeful
hand, led the way from the room.
CHAPTER VIII
I AM LEFT FORLORN
At the extreme end of a narrow and somewhat dingy passage we came on a
door, from behind which proceeded a din of voices in loud
confabulation, together with much jingling of glasses, so that I
judged the worthies we sought were engaged upon what I believe is
known as "making a night of it."
This hoarse babel ended suddenly as, opening the door, Anthony strode
in, his whole person and attitude suggestive of that air I have
already mentioned as one of polite ferocity.
"Aha!" said he, feet wide-planted, Captain Danby's stout cane bending
in his powerful hands. "How far is it to Sevenoaks, pray?"
"Better nor seven mile!" answered the surly landlord, setting down his
spirit-glass.
"Ah, all o' that!" nodded the ostler over his tankard.
"Every bit!" added the postboy.
"An' 'oo might you be?" demanded an individual in top-boots, a large
man chiefly remarkable for a pair of fierce, black whiskers and a
truculent eye.
"Seven miles!" exclaimed Anthony, unheeding his interrupter. "I had
feared it shorter--oh, excellent! Now my lads, we require the
chaise--up with you, set to the horses and be ready to start in ten
minutes at most. Come--bustle!"
"Lord!" exclaimed Black Whiskers, "You'd think 'e was a nearl or a
jook to 'ear un--'oo is 'e?"
"Why, it's 'im as we was tellin' you of, Mr. Vokes!" quoth the
landlord.
"'Is werry own selluf!" nodded the postboy.
"The desp'rit cove as gie me the one-er!" added the ostler.
"Aye, Mr. Vokes," continued the landlord with unction, "this is 'im as
committed the 'ssault an' battery on 'is betters."
"Oh, is it?" said Mr. Vokes, nodding in highly menacing fashion.
"Ah!" nodded the landlord. "An' then goes for to make us go for to
nigh drownd the pore, unfort'nate genelman in my own 'oss-trough, an'
'im now a-sneezin' an' a-groanin' an' a-swearin' in bed fit to break
your 'eart. 'Ere be the desp'rit rogue as done the deed!"
"Oh, is it!" repeated Black Whiskers, scowling. "Why, very well,
then--'ere's to show 'im 'oo's 'oo!" and he reached for a heavy
riding-whip that lay on the floor beside him.
"Sit still, Mr. Vokes--remain seated, lest I pink you!" commanded
Anthony, saluting him with the Captain's cane as if it had been a
sword. The man Vokes stared, swore and rose up, whip in hand,
whereupon Anthony lunged gracefully, thrusting the cane so extremely
accurately into the middle of Mr. Vokes' waistcoat that he doubled up
with marked suddenness and fell back helpless in his chair, groaning
and gasping painfully.
"Now, my lads," quoth Anthony cheerily, as he picked up the whip, "the
word is 'horses'! Come, bustle now!" and he cracked the whip like a
pistol shot.
"Lord love me!" exclaimed the landlord, retreating precipitately. "I
never see no thin' like this 'ere--no, never!"
"That'll do, my lad, that'll do!" said Anthony, flourishing the whip.
"In six minutes or so I expect the chaise at the door."
"But I can't drive a hoss wot's cast a shoe, can I, sir?" whined the
postillion, his eye on the whip.
"You can get another, my lad."
"Theer ain't no other 'oss nowhere, except Mr. Vokes' mare!" quoth the
ostler.
"Then of course Mr. Vokes will be glad to lend us his mare, I'm sure."
But here Black Whiskers found voice and breath for a very decided
negative, with divers gasping allusions to Anthony's eyes and limbs.
Hereupon Anthony betook him again to his posture of _escrime_,
the cane-point levelled threateningly within a foot of Mr. Vokes'
already outraged person.
"Fellow," said he, "next time address me as 'sir'--and say 'yes'!"
For a moment the flinching Mr. Yokes paused to eye the levelled cane,
the ready hand and fierce grey eyes behind it, then spoke the desired
words in voice scarcely audible by reason of pain and passion; but
they sufficed, the cane was lowered, the whip cracked, and forthwith
into the yard filed landlord, ostler and postillion with us at their
heels. And here by aid of flickering lanthorns, amid wind and rain,
the horses were harnessed and put to, the chaise brought to the door
where stood one cloaked and hooded who, with Anthony's ready
assistance, climbed nimbly into the chaise.
"Anthony--your pistol!" and I handed it to him. "Take care," said I,
as he thrust it carelessly into his bosom.
"Tush!" he laughed, "had it been loaded I should have blown out what
brains I have days ago!"
"Good-bye, Anthony!" said I, and, or ever he could prevent, thrust a
guinea into his hand. For a moment I thought he would toss it in my
face, then he thrust it into his pocket.
"Egad, Perry!" said he, seizing my hand in his vital clasp. "You are a
devilish--likeable fellow and--d'ye see--what I mean is--oh, dammit!
Look for me at Tonbridge." Having said which, he sprang down the
steps, entered the chaise and banged to the door. But now at the open
window was a lovely face. "Good-bye--Peregrine," and with the word she
reached out her hand to me.
"Good-bye," said I.
"Barbara," she suggested.
"Good-bye, Barbara!" said I, and lifted the hand to my lips.
"At Tonbridge, Perry!" repeated Anthony.
"At Tonbridge!" said I, whereupon the postillion vituperated the rain
and wind, chirruped to his horses, and the chaise rolled away into the
tempestuous dark.
For them, rain and wind and darkness, for me such comfort as the inn
afforded, but of the three it was I who was desolate and forlorn.
CHAPTER IX
DESCRIBES THE WOES OF GALLOPING JERRY, A NOTORIOUS HIGHWAYMAN
"An' now--wot about my door?" demanded a gruff voice. Starting, I
turned to find the landlord at my elbow and immediately my forlornness
grew intensified. I felt miserably helpless and at a loss, for the
man's sullen face seemed to hold positive menace and I yearned
mightily for Anthony's masterful presence beside me or a little of his
polite ferocity.
"Come--wot about my door?" demanded the landlord, more threatening
than ever. "Ten shillin' won't mend my door--"
"What door?" I questioned, fronting his insolent look with as much
resolution as I could summon.
"The door as you an' that desp'rit villain broke betwixt ye--fifteen
shillin'--ah, a pound won't pay for the mendin' o' my door--wot about
it--come!" Here he lurched towards me, shoulders hunched, chin
brutally out-thrust so that I shrank instinctively from him,
perceiving which, he grew the more aggressive.
"That will do!" said I in woefully feeble imitation of Anthony's
masterful manner. "That will do--and what is more--"
"Oh, will it do? Wot about my door?"
"You may charge it in your bill--"
"Not me, by goles! 'T is money as I wants--thirty shillin'--in my
'and--this 'ere very moment."
"I intend to stay the night, so will you please have a fire lighted in
your best--"
"Thirty-five shillin's the word--in my 'and--this moment--my fine
little gent--that's wot!"
Feeling myself quite powerless to cope with this drunken creature, I
shrank before him, trembling with mingled rage and disgust; perceiving
which, he scowled the fiercer and thrust a hairy fist into my face.
Threatened thus with bodily harm, I glanced hastily over my shoulder
with some wild notion of ignominious flight, but dignity forbidding, I
stood my ground sick with apprehension and with my sweating hands
tight-clenched.
"Smell it!" quoth the landlord, setting his fist under my nose. "Which
is it t' be,--forty shillin' or this?"
I was groping for my purse when over my shoulder came a large, plump,
red hand that took my scowling aggressor by an ear and tweaked it till
he writhed, and turning, I beheld the large, plump woman who, putting
me aside, interposed her comfortable bulk before me.
"Oh, Sammy," sighed she reproachfully. "You been a-drinkin'
again--shame on ye to go a-frightin' an' a-scarin' this poor child. Go
an' put your wicked 'ead under the pump this instant, you bad boy. As
for you, my pore lamb, never 'eed 'im; 'e bean't so bad when 'e's
sober. Come your ways along o' me, dearie." And folding me within one
robust arm she brought me into that room that was half bar and half
kitchen.
"There!" she exclaimed, leading me to the great settle beside the
fire. "Sit ye there, my lamb, and never mind nobody. Lor'! You be
a-shiverin' an' shakin' like a little asp, I declare. Poor child!"
sighed she, gustily commiserate, and patting my head with her great
plump hand. "Pore little soul--never mind, then!"
"Madam," said I, somewhat overwhelmed by her solicitude, "I am not so
very--so extreme youthful as you deem me."
"Ain't you, lovey?"
"Indeed, no! I am nineteen."
"Nineteen, dearie--lor', an' you s' small an' all--"
"I am five feet three--almost!"
"Are ye, dearie--lor'! But then I'm s' big, most other folks seems
small to me--'specially men--men is all children--'specially my man.
Which do mind me. Sammy," she called, "go into the wash'us an' let
Susie pump on ye. Susie, jest you pump water on your master's
'ead--this moment."
"Yes, ma'm!" And presently sure enough, from somewhere adjacent rose
the clank of a pump to the accompaniment of much splashing and
gasping.
"That'll do, Susie!"
"Yes, ma'm."
"Now you, Sammy, go an' lie down--this moment. 'E'll be all right
arter this, dearie. Susie!"
"Yes, ma'm."
"Go light a fire for this young genelman in Number Four. This moment."
"Yes, ma'm."
"The best chamber but one, dearie. And a feather bed!" All this as she
bustled to and fro, and very quietly despite her size, while I sat
gazing into the fire and hearkening to the patter of rain on the
windows and the wind that howled dismally without and rumbled in the
wide chimney so that I must needs wonder how it fared with the
travellers and if I should ever see either of them again.
"You look very lonesome, dearie!" remarked the landlady at last, with
a large wooden spoon in her hand. "Can I get ye anythink? A drop o'
kind rum or nice brandy--or say a glass o' purl--a drop o' purl took
warm would be very comfortin' for your little inside."
"Thank you--no!" said I, a little shortly. "But if you could oblige me
with pen, ink and paper, I should be grateful."
"Why, for sure, though I'm afraid the pen's broke."
"I'll cut another."
"Ye see there ain't much writin' done 'ere, 'cept by me with my
B-e-t-y for Betty and S-a-m-i-e for Samuel." So saying, she presently
set out the articles in question; then, having made shift to cut and
trim a new point to the quill, I wrote as follows:
NOBLEST AND BEST OF AUNTS:
It is now an eternity of twenty-four hours since I left the secure
haven of your loving care. Within this space I have found the world
more wonderful than my dreams and man more varied than a book. I have
also learned to know myself for no poet--it remains for me to convince
myself that I am truly a man.
As to my sudden departure, I do beg you to banish from your mind any
doubt of my deep love and everlasting gratitude to you, the noblest of
women, believe rather I was actuated by motives as unselfish as
sincere. Writing this, I pray that though this separation pain you as
it does me, it may yet serve to bring to you sooner or late a deeper
happiness than your great unselfish heart has ever known. In which
sincere hope I rest ever your grateful, loving
PEREGRINE.
P.S. I shall write you of my further adventures from time to time.
I was in the act of folding my epistle when I started, for above the
lash of rain and buffeting wind, it seemed that some one was hailing
from the road. Presently, as I listened, I heard a mutter of rough
voices without, a tramp of feet, and the door swung suddenly open to
admit two men, or rather three, for between them they dragged one, a
short, squat fellow in riding boots and horseman's coat, but all so
torn and bedraggled, so foul of blood and mire, as to seem scarce
human. His hat was gone and his long, rain-soaked hair clung in black
tangles about his bruised face and as he stood, swaying in his bonds,
I thought him the very figure of misery.
"House!" roared one of his captors. "House--ho!" In response the
landlady entered, followed by her sullen spouse (somewhat sobered by
his late ablutions) and the man Vokes.
"Lor'!" exclaimed the landlord, plump fists on plump hips and eyeing
the newcomers very much askance. "An' what might all this be?"
"Thieves, missus--a murderin' 'ighwayman--Galloping Jerry 'isself--a
bloody rogue--"
"'E looks it!" nodded the landlady. "Bleedin' all over my clean
kitchen, 'e be. Take 'im out t' barn--"
"Not us, ma'm, not us--'e's nigh give us the slip once a'ready, dang
'im!" Saying which, the speaker kicked the poor wretch so that he
would have fallen but for the wall, whereupon the man Vokes laughed
and nodded.
"Ecod!" quoth he. "I'm minded to try my boots on 'im myself."
"Not you, Mr. Vokes!" said the landlady. "No one ain't a-goin' t' kick
nobody in my kitchen, and no more I don't want no murderin' 'ighwaymen
neither--so out ye go."
"Not us, missus, not us! We be officers--Bow Street officers--wi' a
werry dangerous criminal took red 'anded an' a fifty-pound reward good
as in our pockets--so 'ere we be, an' 'ere we bide till mornin'. Lay
down, you!" Saying which he fetched the wretched captive a buffet that
tumbled him into a corner where he lay, his muddy back supported in
the angle. And lying thus, it chanced that his eye met mine, a bright
eye, very piercing and keen. Now beholding him thus in his
helplessness and misery, I will confess that my very natural and
proper repugnance for him and his past desperate crimes was greatly
modified by pity for his present deplorable situation, the which it
seemed he was quick to notice, for with his keen gaze yet holding
mine, he spoke, albeit mumbling and somewhat indistinct by reason of
his swollen lips:
"Oh, brother, I'm parched wi' thirst--a drink o' water--"
"Stow ye gab!" growled the man Tom. "Gi'e him one for 'is nob, Jimmy."
But as his nearer captor raised his cudgel, I sprang to my feet.
"That'll do!" I cried so imperatively that the fellow stayed his blow
and turned to stare, as did the others. "You've maltreated him
enough," said I, quite beside myself; "if he desires a little water
where's the harm; he will find few enough comforts where he is going?"
And taking up a jug of water that chanced to be near I approached the
poor wretch, but ere I could reach him, the man Tom interposed, yet as
he eyed me over, from rumpled cravat to dusty Hessians, his manner
underwent a subtle change.
"No, no, young sir--can't be--I knows a genelman when I sees one, but
it's no go--Jerry's a rare desperate cove an' oncommon sly--"
"Then give him the water yourself--"
"Not me, sir!"
"I tell you the man is faint with thirst and ill-usage--"
"Then let 'im faint. A young gent like you don't want nothin' to do
wi' th' likes o' 'im--let 'im faint--"
At this I set down the jug and taking out my purse, extracted a
guinea.
"Landlord," said I, tossing the coin upon the table, "a bottle of your
best rum for the officers--a bowl of punch would do none of us any
harm, I think."
"Lor'!" exclaimed the landlady, sitting down heavily.
"By goles!" quoth the landlord, reaching for the guinea.
"Allus know a genelman when I sees one!" said the man Tom, making a
leg to me and knuckling shaggy eyebrow. So they suffered me to take
the water to their prisoner, who drank avidly, his eyes upraised to
mine in speechless gratitude.
"Don't believe 'em, brother," he whispered under cover of the talk
where the others clustered around the hearth watching the preparations
for the punch; "don't believe 'em, friend--I'm no murderer an' my pore
old stricken mother on 'er knees for me this night, an' my sweet wife
an' babbies weepin' their pretty eyes out, an' all for me. I'm a pore
lame dog, brother, an' here's a stile as be 'ard to come over;
howsomever, whether 'tis sweet wind an' open road for me by an' by, or
Tyburn Tree--why God love ye for this, brother!"
Here he closed his eyes and bowed his head as one in prayer, for I saw
his swollen lips moving painfully, then glancing up, beheld the man
Jimmy watching us.
"Wot's Jerry a-sayin' of, sir?" he questioned.
"Praying, I believe."
"More like cursing. Jerry's a-flamming o' ye, young sir. An' the punch
is ready at last." So while the storm raged outside, we sat down at
the table beside the hearth where glasses were filled from a great
bowl of steaming brew and forthwith emptied to my very good health.
And now to the accompaniment of howling wind and lashing rain, the Bow
Street officers recounted the history of Galloping Jerry's capture.
"'T were this evenin' as ever was just about dark, on the 'ill yonder.
About 'arf way up there's a biggish tree, an' we was a-layin' for 'im
there, Jimmy an' me, wi' our barkers ready, 'avin' been given the
office. Presently we 'ears the sound o' hoofs an' down 'ill easy-like
comes a mounted cove. It's 'im!' says I. 'Sure?' says Jimmy. 'Sartin,'
says I, 'I knows 'im by 'is 'at!' 'Werry good!' says Jimmy, an' lets
fly an' down comes the 'oss 'eadfirst, squealin' like a stuck pig, an'
away down 'ill shoots Jerry, rollin' over an' over, an' then we was on
'im wi' our truncheons an' we give 'im wot for--eh, Jimmy?"
"Ar!" quoth Jimmy. "We did!"
"And a werry pretty little job it were--eh, Jimmy?"
"Ar!" quoth Jimmy. "It were!"
"Considerin' 'im such a werry desp'rit cove an' all--an' a pair o'
popps in 'is 'olsters as long as your arm--they're in the pockets o'
my greatcoat yonder--you can see 'em stickin' out. Yes, a sweet,
pretty bit o' work as ever we done, eh, Jimmy?"
"Ar--though 'e floored you once."
"Aye--that was when 'e slipped off the darbies--Oh, a desp'rit cove
an' the more credit to us! A desp'rit villain--slipped th' darbies, 'e
did, an' us was forced to truss 'im wi' rope."
Here every one vied in expressions of acclaim and all eyes turned to
that shadowy corner where the prisoner sat crouched in the same
posture, bloody head bowed feebly on bowed breast. And now, as the
glasses emptied and were refilled (with the exception of mine), we
hearkened to tales of horrid murders and ghastly suicides, of gruesome
deeds and bloody affrays of hunters and hunted until the landlady
gasped and, calling the maid for company, went off to bed, while the
men turned to stare uneasily behind them and I myself felt my flesh
creep. But as the great bowl emptied, tongues began to stutter, and in
the midst of a somewhat incoherent reminiscence of Tom's, the man
Vokes snored loudly, whereupon Tom blinked and pillowing his bullet
head on the table, promptly snored also; and glancing drowsily around
upon the others, I saw they slumbered every one. Hereupon I rose,
minded to seek my chamber, but before I reached the door I was
arrested by a hoarse whisper:
"Brother--for th' love o' God!"
Peering towards the captive, I saw him upon his back, his face ghastly
in the shadow. "Oh, brother," he whispered faintly, "I think I'm
a-dyin'! Show kindness to a dyin' man an' ease my poor arms a bit."
Moved by pity for his misery and seeing how cruelly he was bound, I
contrived, with no small ado, to loosen his bonds somewhat, whereupon
he blessed me faintly and closed his eyes. "If ye could bring me a
drop more water, death 'ud come easier," he whispered.
So I rose and, coming to the table, found the jug empty, therefore out
I went to the place beyond where I judged was the pump, and here found
a bucket brimming with water wherewith I filled the jug. Creeping back
to the kitchen, I stopped at once, my heart thumping, for to my wonder
and dismay I beheld the prisoner on his feet, free of his bonds and
rubbing and chafing his wrists and hands and arms. Then all at once
this pitiful creature leapt to swift and terrible action, for at one
bound, as it seemed, he had reached the chair where hung the officer's
greatcoat, whipped forth and cocked the pistols and with these
murderous things levelled in his hands, crept upon the sleepers. The
jug slipped from my nerveless hold and, roused by the crash of its
fall, the man Tom lifted his head only to stare dazedly into the
nearest pistol muzzle and the awful scowling face behind it; while the
highwayman, reaching out his second pistol, awoke Mr. Vokes with a
smart rap on the crown, whereupon, cursing drowsily, he sat up,
clasping his hurt and immediately sank cowering in his chair, which
action roused the landlord who stared, gasped a feeble "Lorramighty!"
and sat motionless.
"Norra word!" quoth the highwayman. "Let a man s' much as whisper an'
I blow that man's face off. Ah, an' by hookey, I would, whether or no,
if I was th' bloody rogue ye tell me for, 'stead of an 'ighly
respectable genelman o' the road with a eye to business. So now turn
out your pockets all--an' quick about it."
It was strange to see with what apparent eagerness each man stripped
himself of such valuables as he possessed, all of which the highwayman
appraised with expert eye.
"Young master," quoth he, beckoning to me with a flourish of his
nearest pistol, "come you here!" Trembling I obeyed and at his command
transferred the spoil to the capacious pockets of his muddy coat--in I
thrust them with unsteady fingers,--rings, purses, a couple of
watches, silver snuff and tobacco boxes, etc.: which done, he bade me
fetch the ropes that had bound him.
"Now you," quoth he, tapping the flinching Tom's bristly cheek with
his pistol barrel, "you're a likely cove at tying knots--get to work,
my lad, and sharp it is!"
So under his watchful eye, Tom proceeded to bind his companions very
securely to their chairs, which done, the highwayman again summoned me
and commanding Tom to remove his belt, constrained me to bind the
officer's arms behind him therewith and scarce knowing what I did, I
lashed the man Tom fast to his chair. This done, the highwayman showed
me how I must gag them and when this had been done to his
satisfaction, he nodded:
"And now," quoth the highwayman, his battered features twisted in a
wry smile as they sat thus gagged and helpless, "hearken all. If I was
the murderous cove you name me, I might cut your throats as ye sit,
which would be a j'y, or I might shoot ye or set the place afire an'
roast ye, 'stead o' which I spits on an' leaves ye. An' now, young
master, for your own sake--come along o' me; they'll likely be arter
you too for this as a accomplice o' the fact. So come along o' Jerry
an' damn their eyes an' limbs, say I!" With which, having stayed to
kick Mr. Vokes and the two Bow Street officers, he thrust pistols into
pockets and seizing me in powerful grip, hurried me away.
CHAPTER X
THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SAME
The storm had passed and I remember the moon was shining as, turning
our backs upon the silent inn of the "Jolly Waggoner," we made off
along the road at a good, sharp pace. And now, what with the stillness
of the night and the strange happenings of the last few hours and the
wild figure of the highwayman who seemed even more grim and terrifying
by moonlight, my overwrought emotions brought on me a nausea of horror
and faintness so that I stumbled more than once, whereupon my
companion, tightening his grip, dragged me on, cursing me heartily; so
that, contrasting his brutality with my aunt Julia's tender, loving
care and my desperate plight with the luxurious security of home, I
felt all at once the hot smart of tears and so fell to a silent
passion of grief and yearning.
Thus we tramped on some while, the highwayman and I, until, having
mastered this weakness somewhat, I ventured to steal a glance at him
and immediately forgot my own grief in stark wonder and amaze to
behold him weeping also, for upon his scarred cheek the moon showed me
the gleam of tears, and even as I stared he rubbed at his eyes with
hairy knuckle, sniffed and cursed softly. So great was my astonishment
that I stopped to stare at him, whereupon he stopped to scowl at me.
"Well?" he enquired gruffly. "An' what now?"
"You--can shed tears also, then?" said I.
"Well, an' why not?" he demanded. "Can't a cove grieve now an' then if
he's a mind to?"
"But you're a highwayman!"
"Which seein' you say so, I'll not deny," said he. "So I'll trouble
you for your purse an' also your ticker--an' sharp's the word!" And
speaking, he whipped a pistol beneath my chin, whereupon I delivered
up the articles named as quickly as my consternation would allow. "And
now," said he, pocketing my erstwhile property and seizing my arm
again, "come on, friend, an' let this be a warnin' never to disturb a
'ighwayman wot grieves."
"Why do you grieve?"
"For my Chloe!"
"Your wife?"
"Wife--no! Never 'ad a wife--never shall. There's no woman breathin'
could ekal my Chloe for love an' faithfulness--used to nibble my 'air,
she did, poor lass!"
"Nibble your hair?" I repeated. "Pray who was she?"
"My mare, for sure--my pretty mare as 'adn't 'er ekal for speed nor
wind--my mare as they Bow Street dogs shot an' left to bleed 'er life
out in the mud an' be damned to 'em."
"Then the tale of your wife and babies weeping for you was untrue?"
"Every word of it, friend. An' what then? A man's apt to say anything
to save 'is neck--now ain't 'e? Wouldn't you?"
Now at this I was silent and we walked for a while with never a word.
"And your mother?" I questioned at last. "Your mother praying for
you--was that also untrue?"
"My mother," said he, lifting his face to the radiant moon, "my mother
died three years ago--on her knees--prayin' for me--an' it's like
enough she's on 'er knees afore th' Throne a-prayin' for me this werry
minute."
"And yet you are a--highwayman?"
"Why, friend, 'tis in the family, y' see. My father was one afore me
an' uncommon successful--much looked up to in 'is perfession, though a
little too quick o' th' trigger finger--but 'e was took at last, 'ung
at Tyburn an' gibbeted on Blackheath. They took me to see 'im in 'is
chains, an' bein' only a little lad, I cried all the way back 'ome to
my mother an' found 'er a-cryin' too. But because 'e'd been so famous
in 'is perfession they gibbeted 'im very 'igh, an' so, as folk 'ad
looked up to 'im in life they did the same in death."
"Yours is a very evil, dangerous life," said I, after a while.
"Evil?" he repeated. "Well, life mostly is evil if ye come to think on
it. An' as for danger--'t's so-so--three times shot, six times in jail
an' many a rousin' gallop wi' the hue an' cry behind. But arter all
'tis my perfession an' there's worse, so what I am I'll be."
"And will you let your mother pray in vain?"
"In vain," he repeated, "in vain? Why, blast the Pope, hasn't she
saved me from bein' scragged many a time--didn't she save me t'night?"
"Doesn't she pray rather that you may turn honest?"
"Honest!" quoth he, spitting. "Let them be honest as can! An' look
'ee, my lad, I'll tell ye what--you leave my dead mother alone or 't
will be the worse for ye."
Having uttered which threat he strode on, scowling and snorting, now
and then, in a very disturbing manner, so that I ventured no further
remark and we walked a great way in silence until, suddenly venting a
snort fiercer and louder then ever, he spoke:
"Honest!" he ejaculated. "Honest--why, curse your carkis, who are you
to talk o' honesty? d'ye know as you're liable to be took by any o'
these honest uns--took an' appre'ended as my accomplice afore an'
arter the fact--d'ye know that?"
"God help me!" I ejaculated, in agonised dismay. "Oh, heaven help me!"
"Let's 'ope so!" he nodded grimly. "Meantime, I intend to do a bit for
ye that way meself--seein' as you 'elped me t'night wi' that cursed
knot. I'd managed 'em all but one an' that were out o' reach--so
because o' that theer knot an' my good mother, I'm a-goin' to--do the
best I can for ye."
"How--when--what do you mean?" I questioned eagerly.
"Never you mind, only I am--an' no man can say honester or fairer, an'
I'm a-goin' t' do my best for ye because, bein' the son o' my blessed
mother, I'm that tender-'earted that, though I'm th' son o' my feyther
I've knowed myself to drop a tear in the very act o' business. She
were an' old lady in a pair-'oss phaeton wi' plenty o' sparklers an'
nice white hair: a rosy old creetur, comfortably plump and
round--'specially in front. 'O Mr. 'ighwayman!' says she, weepin'
doleful as she tipped me 'er purse an' the shiners, ''ow could ye do
it?' 'Ma'm,' I says, wipin' my eyes wi' my pistol--and--'ma'm, I don't
know--but do it I must!' An' I rode away quite down-'earted." Here he
turned to regard me with his wry smile.
Thus we held on, by field paths and narrow muddy tracks until the moon
was down and I was stumbling with weariness. At last, my strength
almost spent, we entered a wood, a dismal place where a mournful wind
stirred, where trees dripped upon me and wet leaves brushed my face
like ghostly fingers, while rain-sodden underbrush and bracken clung
about my wearied limbs. Through this clammy dreariness I followed my
tireless companion until suddenly his dim form vanished and I was
groping amid damp leaves; but through this dense thicket came his hand
to seize and drag me on until I found myself in a place of utter
darkness.
"Stand still!" he commanded.
A moment after I heard him strike flint and steel and presently he
lighted a candle-end by whose welcome beam I saw we stood in a roomy
cave. And an evil place I thought it, full of unexpected corners,
littered with all manner of odds and ends and divers misshapen
bundles. Having set down the candle, the highwayman drew a dingy
blanket before the cave mouth and turned to scowl at me, eyeing my
shrinking person over from dripping hat to sodden boots; and well
might I shrink, for surely few waking eyes have beheld such a wild and
terrifying vision as he presented, his battered face, his garments
mired and torn, his hands hidden in the pockets of his riding-coat.
"Tyburn Tree!" said he suddenly. "The nubbing cheat! 'Tis there I'm
like to go one o' these days an' all along o' my kind 'eart--with a
curse on't. There were only three men in this 'ard world as knew o'
this 'ere refuge, an' Ben Purvis was shot three year ago an' poor Nick
Scrope swings a-top o' River Hill--which left only me. An' now 'ere's
you--curse on my kind 'eart, says I!"
"Indeed--oh, indeed you may trust me--"
"W'y, there it is--I must trust you, blast my kind 'eart, I says! But
look now, my cove, this here cave being as ye might say the secoor
'aven of a pore soul as the world don't love--if you should ever peach
to a nark or speak a word of it to the queer coves, why then this pore
soul will come a-seekin' till you're found an' blow your danged face
off."
Hereupon I broke into such fervent protestations of secrecy as seemed
to satisfy him, for he turned, and from a roughly constructed cupboard
took a black bottle and two mugs; having filled the mugs he passed one
to me and, raising the other to his lips, nodded:
"Happy days, pal!" said he; and so we drank together. The potent
spirit warmed and comforted me despite the misery of wet boots and
damp clothes, and seated on a box I was already half-asleep when his
grip on my shoulder roused me and, starting up, I saw he had undone
one of the bundles and spread the contents before me on the floor,
namely: a rough jacket, cord breeches, woollen stockings and a pair of
stout, clumsy shoes. "Get 'em on!" he commanded. So because I needs
must, I obeyed; and though these rough garments fitted me but ill, I
found them warm and comfortable enough.
"You'll do!" he nodded. "Roll ye'self in the mud an' your own
mother'll never know ye. An' now--off wi' you!"
"Do you mean--I must go?" said I, aghast and shivering at the
recollection of the dreary wilderness outside.
"Aye, I do so!" quoth he, seating himself on the small barrel that
served him as a chair.
"And will you send me away destitute--without a penny?"
At this he was silent awhile, head bowed as one in profound thought,
then groping in his capacious pocket, he at last drew forth my purse,
stared at it, weighed it on his palm and suddenly thrust it into my
hand; then as I stood amazed beyond speech, he took out my watch.
"Gold!" he muttered, as if to himself. "A gold tattler as would bring
me--take it an' be damned!" saying which he thrust it savagely upon
me.
"This--this is generous--" I began.
"Norra word!" he growled. "They said my feyther was a rogue an' hanged
him according, but my mother was a saint as went back to heaven, so if
you must thank anybody, thank 'er memory. An' now off wi' ye, lest
minding my feyther, I take 'em back again."
Hereupon I made haste to be gone, but reaching the blanket at the cave
mouth, I turned and came back again.
"Good-bye, Galloping Jerry!" said I, and held out my hand.
Now at this he drew in his breath sharply and sat scowling at my
outstretched hand as though it had been something very rare and
curious; at last he raised his keen eyes to my face in quick, strange
scrutiny.
"Why, Lord love my eyes!" he exclaimed, like one greatly amazed, "Lord
love my eyes and limbs!" Then, all at once, he took my hand, gripping
it very hard, and held it thus a long moment, loosing it as suddenly;
and so I turned and, lifting the blanket, went out into the dreary
desolation of the wood.
On the misery of this night's wanderings I will not dwell; let it
suffice to say that, sick and reeling with weariness and lack of
sleep, I came at sunrise upon a barn into which I crept and here, with
no better couch than a pile of hay, I was thankful to stretch my
aching body, and so fell into a deep and dreamless slumber.
CHAPTER XI
WHICH PROVES BEYOND ALL ARGUMENT THAT CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN
I awoke very stiff and sore and full of a black, oppressive melancholy
despite the bright sunshine that poured in at every crack and crevice
of the old barn. To this depression was added sudden dread as I
recalled the incidents of last night and how (albeit unwittingly) I
had favoured the escape of a desperate outlaw, thus placing myself in
danger of arrest and possible imprisonment.
At this horrid thought I started up in great perturbation until
observing thus my clumsy shoes, thick stockings and other garments of
my rustical disguise, my apprehensions abated somewhat and I sat down
again to ponder gloomily on my future course.
And now leapt Memory to tempt me, for I must needs think of my aunt
who, viewed from my present deep of misery and loneliness, seemed like
some goddess very high and remote. I yearned bitterly for that
passionate, if somewhat tyrannic, devotion to my every need and
comfort, and for the serene, untroubled haven her love and mere
presence had ever afforded me.
With the money in my possession I had but to charter a horse or
vehicle and in a few hours should be with her again, safe from all
fears and dangers, secure from all further hardships. Moved by this
thought, I rose to eager feet, but remembering the keen, critical eyes
and aggressive chin of my uncle Jervas, I sat down again.
I remained thus some considerable time, torn between these conflicting
emotions until at last, clenching my hands, I determined I would go on
and persevere in the adventure at all hazards; though I must confess I
came to this final decision more from pride and fear of ridicule than
strength of character.
I remember I had just arrived at this conclusion that was to so
vitally affect and change my after life, when the door of the barn
creaked suddenly open and a man appeared who, espying me where I sat
crouched among the hay, stooped to view me over. For a moment I
blinked, dazzled by the sun-glare, then I saw him for a tall, bony man
with a long nose and a ferrety eye.
"Come out o' that!" quoth he, fondling the lash of an ugly-looking
whip he carried. "Who give you leave to snore in my barn? Come out of
it!"
"Sir," said I, rising and saluting him with a somewhat haughty bow, "I
regret to have trespassed upon your property, but when I remind you of
last night's dreadful storm and further inform you that I was lost,
you will, I am sure--"
"Come out of it--d'ye hear!" he repeated more angrily then before.
"And don't try coming any o' your imperence wi' me, my lad--come, out
ye go!"
"Willingly!" said I disdainfully. "Permit me first to assure you that
if my sheltering in this barn has caused any damage to your property,
I will reimburse you to any reasonable--"
"Get out--ye damned young thieving gipsy!" he roared, and cut at me
fiercely with his whip; whereupon, forgetting dignity and all else in
the sharp, unaccustomed pain, I took to my heels nor did I stop until
I was safe beyond pursuit and out of sight of the scene of my
humiliation.
This incident (though I could have wept for very indignation) served
but to make me the more fixed in my resolution to follow the course I
had marked out for myself, come what might.
My present worldly possessions amounted to some fourteen pounds and a
valuable gold watch, thanks to the highwayman's gratitude; moreover I
remembered Anthony's promise to meet me at Tonbridge and this cheered
me greatly. To Tonbridge I would go and there await his coming.
Musing thus, I was aroused by the hoof strokes of a horse and,
glancing up, beheld a plump man on plump steed ambling towards me down
the lane. Waiting until he was sufficiently near, I stepped into the
road and saluted him.
"Good-day, sir!" said I. "Pray pardon my detaining you, but this
neighbourhood is strange to me. Will you therefore have the kindness
to direct me to Tonbridge?"
The plump man eyed me over, damned my impudence, and rode off with
never another word, leaving me to stare after him mute with
indignation and surprise; and so to plod on, racking my brain to
discover in what particular I could have offended.
I was yet busied on this perplexing problem when I espied a
pleasant-faced fellow leaning over a gate; him I accosted thus:
"Sir, I am a stranger hereabouts and should esteem it a kindness if
you would direct me to Tonbridge." The man stared, open-mouthed, and
hardly had I finished speaking than he threw back his head and laughed
loudly.
"Sir, why do you laugh?" I demanded, a little stiffly.
"Good lad!" he grinned. "Ye be a play-actor, for sure?"
"Certainly I am--not! Pray how may I get to Tonbridge?"
"Why, like Gammer Perkins' old sow," he grinned, "one leg afore t'
other! I bean't sich a green 'un as ye think."
"Thank you for nothing!" said I sharply.
"Oh, ye can't make a fule of I!" quoth he, grinning.
"No," I retorted, "Nature has done so already!"
This seemed to tickle him mightily for some reason.
"By gum, but you be a rare un, ecod!" he cried, slapping his leg.
"Gi'e us some more, lad--I'd rayther laugh than eat any day--sing us a
song--step us a jig, will 'ee? Come, I don't mind payin' for 't. I du
love a good laugh an' I'll pay. I don't mind spendin' a penny--no b'
gum, 'ere's a groat--there y' are! Now tip us a song or jig--come!"
Saying which, he tossed the four-penny piece into the road at my feet.
Now at this I grew angry beyond words, but he was a large man, so I
turned on indignant heel and left him leaning over the gate to stare
from me to the despised coin and back again in open-mouthed
wonderment.
And now, as I trudged on, my mind was exercised on the question as to
whether this part of the world was peopled only by ill-tempered
bullies, surly wretches, or bovine fools. So came I to a place where
the ways divided and I was deliberating which to follow when I heard a
shrill whistling and glancing about, beheld a large woman who talked
very fast and angrily to a small man, who whistled extremely loud and
shrill, heeding her not in the least. Being come to where I stood, the
man paused and stopped his whistling.
"O laddie," quoth he, jerking grimy thumb at his companion, "will ye
'ark to this brimstone witch--been clackin' away all along from
Sevenoaks, she 'ave! Gimme a tanner an' she's yourn--say
thrippence--say a penny!" At this the woman started to berate him
again and he to whistling.
"Pardon me," said I, when at last I might make myself heard, "will you
be so obliging as to tell me the way to Tonbridge?"
"Look at 'im, Neddy, look at 'im!" cried the virago, stabbing bony
finger at me. "Tell 'im t' close 'is trap or it's twist 'is yeres I
will. Tell 'im 'e can't make fun o' we--"
"Make fun of you!" exclaimed I, falling back a pace, aghast at the
suggestion. "Indeed nothing was further from my intent! Believe me, my
good woman, I--"
"Don't ye dare go callin' me ye 'good woman' in them breeches an' ye
shirt all tore! An' look at ye 'at--I seen better on a scarecrow, I
'ave! You're trash apeing y'r betters--poor trash, that's wot you are!
Good woman indeed! You tell 'im wot we think of 'im, Neddy--tell 'im
plain an' p'inted!" Instantly the little man set thumb to nose and,
spreading his fingers, wagged them at me in a highly offensive manner,
at the same time ejaculating the one word:
"Walker!"
Which done, he nodded, the woman scowled, and so they left me.
So here it was, then, the answer to this perplexing riddle--my
clothes! Mechanically I took off my hat and examined it as I had not
troubled to do hitherto and saw it for a shapeless monstrosity faded
to the colour of dust and with more than one hole in crown and brim.
Truly I (like the woman) had seen better on many a scarecrow. I now
stooped to survey as much of my person as possible--my thick and
clumsy shoes, my rough stockings, the old, cord breeches that
disfigured me, hideous in themselves and rendered more so by numerous
darns and ill-contrived patches. Here then, as it seemed, was the
explanation for the brutality, surliness and odious familiarity I had
been subjected to; for my voice and manner being out of all keeping
with my appearance, I must naturally become an object of suspicion,
coarse merriment, or aversion.
Here I must needs begin to realise and justly appreciate how very much
I had owed in the past to the excellence of my tailor, for, clothed in
the dignity of broadcloth and fine linen I had unconsciously lived up
to them and walked serene, accustomed to such deference as they
inspired and accepting it as my due; but stripped of these sartorial
aids and embellishings, who was to recognise the aristocrat? Nay, his
very airs of birth and breeding, his customary dignity of manner would
be of themselves but matter for laughter. To strive for dignity in
such a hat was to be ridiculous and peering down at the cord breeches,
stockings and shoes, I knew that these henceforth must govern my
behaviour. But how adapt myself to these debasing atrocities? This
question proving unanswerable, I determined to buy other clothes at
the first opportunity.
On I tramped, rejoicing in the peaceful solitude of these leafy byways
though, as the day advanced, conscious of a growing thirst and
prodigious hunger. At last I espied an inn before me and hurried
forward; but an inn meant people, folk who would talk and
stare--remembering which, I paused, despite my hunger, and
half-fearing to enter the place by reason of my clothes. As I stood
thus, viewing the inn shyly and askance, a man stepped from the open
doorway and came striding towards me, a jovial-faced, full-bodied man
who, catching my eye, nodded good-humouredly, whereupon I ventured to
address him.
"If you please, sir," said I, touching my hat respectfully (as such a
hat should be touched), "can you tell me the way to Tonbridge?"
"I can, my lad, I can!" quoth he, crossing muscular hands on the
handle of the thick stick he carried. "But Tonbridge is a goodish step
from here and you look tired, my lad, peaked and pale about the gills.
Are ye hungry?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Ha, thought so! Must eat beef--beef's the thing! d'ye like beef,
hey?"
"Yes, sir!"
"How about pudding-steak and kidney pudding--d'ye like that?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Good lad! So do I! Just had some in the 'Artichoke' yonder--all hot!
Go and do likewise, my poor lad! Say Squire sent ye--and eat hearty!"
As he spoke he reached into a pocket of his smallclothes, took out a
shilling, pressed it into my hand, nodded and strode away.
CHAPTER XII
THE PRICE OF A GODDESS
Stomach is and ever has been a mighty factor in the affairs of
mankind: the proud and lowly, the fool and sage, all alike are slaves
to its imperious dictates. Let it go empty, and it is a curse,
breeding cowardice, gloomy suspicions, unreasonableness, angers and a
thousand evils and dissensions; fill it and it is a comfort, promoting
good-fellowship, kindliness and abounding virtue. Hence, instead of
saying of a man--"He has a good heart"--should not the dictum be
rather--"He is the happy possessor of an excellent stomach regularly
and adequately filled?" For truly how many actions, evil and good, may
be directly traced to the influence of this most important organ!
Thus, to your true Philosopher, "the Stomach is the thing," and so
long as his own be comfortable he may philosophise with stoical
fortitude upon other people's woes (and occasionally his own) more or
less agreeably; but starve him and our Philosopher will grieve for
himself as miserably as I--or even you. The Tooth of Remorse may be
sharp but the Fangs of Hunger bite deeper still, and who shall cherish
beauty in his soul or who find patience to rhapsodise on a sunset when
his stomach is empty as a drum? Thus, alas, Soul goes shackled by, and
Intellect is the slave of, Stomach!
All of the which foregoing points to the fact that the steak and
kidney pudding had been excellent, even as my benefactor had said;
wherefore, drowsing in somnolent content, I sat amid leaves beside a
prattling rill musing comfortably as a well-fed young philosopher may,
when these reflections were banished in sudden alarm, for upon the
drowsy afternoon stillness rose a stir of leaves, a snapping of twigs,
the sounds of one who burst through all obstacles in desperate flight.
Starting to an elbow I gazed wildly about and thus espied a girl who,
breaking through the bushes that crowned the bank above, came bounding
down the steep. At sight of me she checked her wild career and turned
to stare back whence she had come, catching her breath in great,
sobbing gasps very distressing to hear.
I remember the round, full column of her throat as she stood thus, her
long, night-black hair a troubled torrent stirring in the gentle wind.
Then she swung about to face me, one hand upon her quick-moving bosom,
the other grasping a small, evil-looking knife.
"Young man," she panted, "young man--help me--!"
As she uttered the words, two men appeared on the bank above us, tall,
dark-complexioned fellows who scowled down on me in manner I found
exceedingly disturbing. "Oh, young man," cried the girl, flourishing
her knife and frowning up at her pursuers, "young man, if you've any
manhood in ye--stand up and help me!"
And now the two men began to descend into the little dell with a
certain deliberation very discomforting to witness, and I arose,
greatly at a loss and looking from one to other of them in growing
apprehension.
"Young man," demanded the girl in scornful undertones, "why do ye
tremble?"
At this moment (and to my inexpressible relief) from the leafy tangles
adjacent rose a voice, shrill and imperious:
"Jochabed--Bennigo!"
The men halted and, following their gaze, I beheld a woman, ancient
and bowed with years yet apparently wonderfully active none the less,
a strange, wrinkled old creature extremely neat of person, with keen,
bright eyes and a portentous chin. Having descended the bank, she
stood leaning on the staff she carried, her quick glance darting from
the men to the girl, and the girl to me, many times over.
"Oho--aha!" she ejaculated at last. "Scant o' breath be I, tur'ble
scant, being s' very old--aha--but age be wise!"
And now she turned to address the woman, though in language quite
beyond my comprehension, stabbing her staff at us all four in turn.
"No, gammer--no!" cried the girl passionately, but at the ancient
woman's commanding gesture she fell mute, though she scowled in sullen
defiance and I saw the knife glitter where she gripped it, half
concealed by a fold of her petticoat. Here one of the men muttered
some unintelligible word and pointed scornfully at me, whereupon the
old woman rapped him smartly over the knuckles and fixed her
uncomfortably shrewd gaze on my person, scanning me over very keenly,
more especially my face and hands.
"Well, my pretty young gorgio," said she, "there be horses a-sweating
along o' you, eyes a-looking and hearts a-grieving all along o'
you--though you ain't much to look at--so--I guess you be better than
ye look. Now here be a maid--a regular dimber-damber dell as looketh
better than she be, for her's a gnashing, tearing shrew wi' no
kindness in her. But she be handsome--as ye may see--and courted by
many, whereby hath been overmuch ill-feeling, fighting and bloodshed
among our young men--so wed this day she shall be for peace and
quiet's sake! Him as can show most o' the pretty gold taketh her for
good, and all according to our laws and ways."
Scarcely had she done speaking than the two young fellows hastened to
count over to her such monies as they possessed, while the girl
watched sullen and defiant.
"Aie--aie!" quoth the old woman suddenly. "Bennigo, you have but three
to Jochabed's eight, so Jochabed taketh her--unless the nice, kind,
young gorgio will give more--the fine young gorgio as my wisdom
telleth me is other than he do seem--aha! What of it, young
master--aie--aie?"
"Young man," whispered the girl, grasping my arm in strong, compelling
fingers and staring at me with eyes big and desperate, "young man, if
you would not see bloody work--turn out your pockets!"
Moved by her wild looks, I obeyed almost involuntarily, but hardly was
my purse out of my pocket than she snatched and tossed it to the old
woman.
"Count, grannam, count!" she cried imperiously, "and if't is not
enough I've my little _churi_ for the first as dare touch me!"
The old woman opened my purse, told over its contents very
deliberately, nodded and, thrusting it into her bosom, spoke with the
fierce-eyed men in her strange dialect, tapped each with her staff and
motioned them to be gone; hereupon, and to my unutterable wonder, they
obeyed her and slunk off without a word.
"Fourteen guineas!" said she. "Fourteen guineas be more than
eight--fourteen guineas, a florin, one groat and three pennies! Aha,
't is more than she be worth, I think, by reason of her shrewish
tongue and unkindly ways, and if only a _hindity mengro_ and no true
_Camlo_ yet she be's a _rinkinni fakement_ to look at, but
then a bargain is a bargain--an' I wishes ye j'y o' her, my young
rye!" Which said, she reached out her staff and touched first me and
then the girl lightly on head and breast, muttering a farrago of
strange words while her bright glance flashed from one to other of us;
then she turned and, bowed upon her staff, climbed the ferny steep
nimble and sure-footed despite her years and left us staring after
her, the girl frowning and sullen as ever, I full of chagrined
surprise and a growing uneasiness.
CHAPTER XIII
WHICH TELLS SOMEWHAT OF MY DEPLORABLE SITUATION
And after we had stood thus some while my companion spoke, though
without troubling to turn her head or so much as glance towards me:
"Young man, what now?"
"Why, now," I answered, taking off my hat and bowing, "I have the
honour to bid you good-bye!"
At this she wheeled quickly and stood viewing me over with a bold,
unwavering gaze that it seemed nothing might abash; and though her
eyes were large and well-shaped, yet I remember thinking them
excessively unfeminine, the eyes rather of an ill-natured, pugnacious
boy; and now, because of the hard coldness of her look, the
unmaidenly, calculating intensity of her regard, I grew very conscious
of my disfiguring garments and felt myself quite out of countenance.
"Why d'ye blush, young man?"
"Because you don't!"
"And why should I blush?"
"It would be more maidenly--?"
"Maidenly?" she repeated, and broke into such a mockery of laughter
that I felt my cheeks indeed burn with a painful effusion and turning
abruptly, I walked away in high dudgeon.
"Come back!" she commanded, but I went only the faster and being very
earnest to rid myself of her, was even meditating ignominious flight,
when I heard the leap of her feet in pursuit, felt her grip upon my
arm and was checked thus so violently that I was amazed at the
strength of her.
"Don't come your fine airs over me, young man," she panted in hot
anger, her full, red lips tight-drawn, her great eyes dark and
passionate. "Don't do it!" she repeated. "Don't ye dare!"
"Most decidedly not!" I answered, retreating before her threatening
mien; and thus, not caring to turn my back on this young virago, I
fronted her fierce scrutiny with what resolution I could, while
devoutly wishing myself anywhere else in the world. And it was now
that I realised she was taller than myself by fully an inch--indeed,
perhaps a little more.
"Why does ye stare so?" she demanded.
I craved her forgiveness and lifted my offending gaze to the leaves
above her head and maintained a dignified silence; whereupon she
questioned me breathlessly,
"Now what are ye thinking?"
"That the ancient person spoke truly."
"You means as I'm a shrew?"
"Pray remember it was not I said so."
"But you means so! Come, does ye or don't ye?"
"Madam," I began, very conscious of the evil glitter of her knife, "if
you will permit me to--"
"Don't 'madame' me, young man! I don't like it and I won't be madamed
by you or any other--so don't dare--"
"Certainly not!" said I, fixing my gaze on the leaves again. "And may
I suggest that we might converse more easily if you would have the
kindness to put away your knife?"
"My little _churi_, d'ye mean? Not I, young man, not I! 'T is my
best friend as saves from evil more than once! And how do I know as
you won't come any games?"
"Games?" I repeated, shaking my head in mystification. "The sports of
youth never interested me--indeed, I never play games--"
"No," cried she, with sudden, shrill laugh, "I don't think you do!"
Here (to my startled amazement) she whipped short petticoats above her
knee and thrust the knife into her garter. Now though my gaze was
immediately abased to earth I none the less had a memory of an
exceedingly well-turned and shapely limb.
"And so you thinks I'm a shrew, does ye?" she demanded, head aslant,
and hands on shapely hips.
"I think you might perhaps be just a little more gentle."
"Tush, young man, gentleness don't serve a maid among the Folk!"
"What folk?"
"The Romans."
"Romans?" said I, puzzled.
"Aye, Romans. The Romany, gipsies, the poor folk."
"Are you a gipsy, then?"
"I guess so! Though old Azor, of the Romany _rawni Camlo_, do
ever tell I'm no true Roman. So mayhap I'm not. However, when I grows
up I takes to my little knife--by reason of the _chals_--aye, and
uses it too, otherwise I might ha' been tamed by now instead o' being
free to choose. Ah, yes, I might ha' been creeping the ways wi' some
man's brat on my shoulders, to work while he slept, go hungry till
he'd ate his fill and slave for him--ah, I hate men!" And she spat in
contempt and very coarsely. Yet I could not but notice how perfectly
shaped was this vivid, scornful mouth.
"So you don't like me, young man, and I do not like you, which is a
pity, seeing you buys me out o' the tribe and--"
"Bought you!" I exclaimed, utterly aghast.
"Indeed and to be sure you did. Which is what many a man has wished to
do ere this. However, according to the law of our tribe we are
mates--"
"Great heaven!" I exclaimed in such unfeigned consternation that she
knit her black brows at me. "Impossible!" quoth I. "Ridiculous--absolutely
preposterous! There is no bond between us--you are free, quite free--nay,
I'll go--now--"
"Are ye a man?" cried she between snapping white teeth. "If so, you'll
be the first as runs away from me. And why? Is it that I'm not good
enough--fine enough--handsome enough--"
"My good girl, pray be reasonable--" I pleaded, which seemed only to
enrage her the more until, finding me mute and so helpless against the
torrent of her wrath, she checked upon a word, her red lips curved to
sudden smile, and her voice grew singularly and sweetly soft.
"Poor young man, sit down and let us talk," said she, as if we hadn't
uttered a word hitherto. So willy-nilly down I sat facing her amid the
fern and very ill at ease. "Poor young man," said she again, "don't go
for to look so downcast over so small a matter. Here's you and here's
me; what's done is done! Treat me fair and you'll find me faithful,
quick with my needle, a good hand at cooking and not so unkind as they
tell o' me. Your life shall be my life and mine yours. Where you go
I'll follow and belike it is we shall get along without overmuch
fighting and bloodshed."
"But," said I, my brain whirling, "I had no idea--I--I--never imagined
anything of this sort--the whole situation is--impossible!"
"You bought me, remember!"
"Did I?"
"Of course you did!" said she, looking at me great-eyed and I saw her
lips quivering. "You pays over to old Azor fourteen guineas, a florin,
one groat and three pennies."
"The act was slightly involuntary, as I remember!" said I.
"Talk plain, young man, talk plain! You buys me, and what's more, old
Azor weds us and makes me your mort according to the law o' the Folk."
"But not according to the laws of the English Church," said I, "and I
am not one of the Folk. So you are quite free: the words of old Azor
cannot bind me--"
"But they do bind me, young man, now and hereafter. Besides, you have
bought me away from the tribe and I may never go back and you can
never leave me solitary."
Here I groaned and she sighed, but with that quiver of red lips that
might mean tears or laughter.
"A truly terrible situation!" said I.
"It is, young man, it is! Though it might ha' been worse."
"How so?"
"Well, though I have no liking for you, neither your looks, nor your
ways, nor your talk, you are better than Bennigo and Jochabed that are
very brute beasts."
Now at this I leapt to my feet and, turning on indignant heel, strode
off, but soon she was up with me and together we presently came out
into the high road. And now as she went beside me I saw with added
misgiving that the sun was already westering.
CHAPTER XIV
IN WHICH I SATISFY MYSELF OF MY COWARDICE
After we had walked thus in silence for may be a mile or more, she
spoke.
"Where are you taking me?" she demanded.
"Why do you follow me?" I retorted.
"Because I must--also it is my whim--and you so wishful to be rid o'
me! And why?" she demanded sullenly.
"I prefer solitude."
"That's a pity!"
"Under the circumstances, it is!" I agreed.
"You haven't said what you mean to do wi' me!"
"Nothing!"
"Or where you takes me to?"
"I don't know."
"You must be a fool, young man. Where shall ye stay the night?"
"I don't know this either!"
"Lord, young man, you _are_ a fool!"
"I begin to suspect I am!" said I bitterly. "However, I wish you would
not call me 'young man.'"
"Why not, young man?"
"Because I resent the appellation."
"Talk plain, young man. You do what?"
"I strongly object to the term 'young man.'"
"But you are a man, ain't you--or something like one? And then you're
young--very young, I can see that."
"I am nineteen!"
"And I am eighteen and years older than you! But if you don't like
'young man' what must I call ye?"
"Whatever you please," said I stiffly.
"I called ye 'fool' just now, but that won't do, seeing there's s'
many about, so I think you shall be 'Tom'--"
"My name is Peregrine!" said I in sudden wrath. For a moment she
viewed me with her direct, half-sullen gaze, then drooping dark
lashes, laughed with a flash of strong white teeth.
"Hoity-toity! Don't be angry, Joe!" she mocked; and then: "Peregrine,"
said she, as if trying the sound of it. "'Peregrine' sounds very fine
but then it don't agree wi' your looks--yes, I thinks Tom will suit ye
better--or Sam, p'raps."
To this I deigned no answer but trudged on in moody silence,
endeavouring to formulate some method of escape from this outrageous
creature and so absorbed that I paid not the least heed to her foolish
chatter until suddenly and most unpleasantly roused by the touch of
her fingers on my ear which she tweaked none too gently. This
extraordinary familiarity bred in me such indignant disgust that I
sprang from her touch to stand dumb and trembling with fury.
"What," cried she, wilfully mistaking these tremors, "did I fright him
then! Lord, how he do tremble! Oh, young man, you be a poor sort, I
think!"
"Poor indeed!" cried I passionately. "Poorer even than you judge me,
for I haven't a penny in the world! But here is my watch--all I have
left--take it--take it, for God's sake, and let me go!" Saying which I
drew forth my gold repeater and would have forced it into her hand,
but now she sprang back in her turn and, bowing her head, fronted me
with both arms rigidly out-thrust.
"Lord God!" she muttered. "D'ye think 'tis your money I want--your
dirty money!"
"What matter my thoughts?" I cried. "Here is my watch; pray take it
and let us say good-bye!"
Now here, to my unutterable amazement, she flung herself down, and
crouched against the high, grassy bank, burst into a tempestuous
weeping while I stood gaping and infinitely distressed.
"I--I beg your pardon!" said I at last and then, struck by the
inadequacy of these trite words, drew a pace nearer. "Oh, pray--pray
don't weep!" I pleaded. "If I have hurt you, I crave your
forgiveness!" Here she sobbed but the fiercer. "But indeed--indeed," I
stammered, "I thought--that is, I did not think, I--I mean I could not
leave you destitute and having no money to bestow, I--"
"Money!" cried she bitterly. "Money!" And here, checking her sobs,
added very unreasonably, "I hates you!"
"Please," said I, "oh, pray believe I meant only kindness! I thought
you were--"
"A girl o' the road, a creeper o' ditches and byways--well, I'm not, I
tell ye--I'm not! And I only followed ye because you were so wishful
to be rid o' me and because you were so silly and young and strange I
couldn't understand ye. But I do now, and I'm done wi' you! Go
away--go away; I hates you more than Bennigo or Jochabed--go away, I
hates you!"
"Blind me, and no wonder!" chuckled a hoarse voice behind me with such
startling suddenness as for a moment bereft me of speech or motion;
then, wheeling about, I came face to face with a rough-clad,
villainous-looking man who stood, powerful legs apart, hairy fists
grasping a short, heavy stick or bludgeon, and evil head out-thrust to
stare beyond me at the prostrate form of my companion who had merely
lifted her head to watch us through her tumbled hair.
"What d' you want?" I questioned the fellow, breathlessly.
"Never you mind, my chick," he growled, leering upon the girl's
shapeliness with evil eyes. "I know what she wants--and it ain't you,
so cut your stick and leave 'er to the man who can comfort a fine,
'andsome lass."
Though addressing me, his eyes were for my companion, his loathsome
gaze never swerving from her prostrate form; very slowly and
deliberately he began to approach her, and now in the man himself, in
his every look and gesture there was an indescribable beastliness that
turned me physically sick. But none the less, though my soul shrank
within me, I ventured to grasp him by the sleeve.
"Let her alone--let her alone!" I gasped, dry-mouthed.
At this he turned on me, his evil face convulsed with a look of such
brutish ferocity as appalled me, yet I only tightened my grip more
desperately and repeated my passionate cry:
"Let her alone, I say; let her alone!"
Snarling inarticulately he leapt, striking at me with his bludgeon, a
cruel blow that staggered and dazed me, sapping alike my strength and
fortitude for, beholding the murderous glare of his eyes as he made to
smite again, blind panic seized me and, reeling aside, I sped away on
stumbling feet, my head throbbing with the blow,--deafened, sick and
half-blind. But all at once I stopped, suddenly oblivious of self as,
louder than the buzzing torment of my wounded head, rose a distressful
cry and the more hateful sound of desperate struggling. Round I turned
and, peering, saw them locked in close grapple, and her slender body
bent and swaying in his merciless clutch: at which sight my pain and
sickness and selfish fear were all forgotten and in their stead sprang
a passionate desire to kill and be done with this evil thing that
defiled the earth in man's shape. So back again sped I, and with every
step this murderous desire grew until my mind held no other purpose. I
remember snatching up the bludgeon he had let fall, whirling it aloft
in both hands and striking for his bullet head, but in that instant
(and well for him) he espied his danger and, loosing the girl, stooped
and taking the blow across the broad of his back was beaten to his
knees; but, as I swung again, he sprang in beneath my lifted arms. I
felt the sickening impact of a blow and the bludgeon flew from my
hold; then he was upon me, belabouring me with both fists, but twining
my legs in his, I clung to those merciless arms, while above his
fierce snarling and the painful shock of his blows, I heard the girl
calling out to me:
"Fight him--fight! Don't cling like a woman--stand away--hit him
back--fight!"
But though spent and faint with my hurts, I clung the more
tenaciously, my face buried in his foul-smelling jacket, but at last
he wrenched one arm from my desperate embrace; there was a sudden
blinding shock that hurled me backward into the road: lying thus
helpless, my antagonist leapt to kick the life out of my defenceless
body, but I saw him reel suddenly and whirl about, grasping at an arm
that spouted blood between his hairy fingers, while he stared at the
girl crouched for another spring, the knife glittering in her hand.
"Go--go, filthy beast!" she panted. "Go, or I'll be the death o' ye!"
And speaking, she began to creep towards me. The fellow gave back,
staring from this deadly knife to her fierce eyes and reading there
the truth of her words, he turned and made off, spattering blood as he
went.
Relieved of his evil presence, I closed my eyes awhile feeling myself
very faint and sick; when I opened them again I saw her standing above
me, knife in hand, looking down on me with her sombre gaze.
"Kick me if you will!" I groaned.
"Why should I kick you?"
"Because I am a coward!" I mumbled, covering my bruised face. "I ran
away--and left you--"
"Still, I don't think I'll kick you," said she in a soft, grave voice,
"because although you runs away like a coward, you comes back again.
Though to be sure I didn't need you--"
"But," said I, keeping my face hidden, "I heard you cry out--"
"That was because I wished you to come back, though having my little
_churi_, I didn't need you; I've managed worse than him before
now! However, you did come back--which was more than I expected. But
I'll never call you 'young man' any more because you ain't a real man,
are you?"
"God help me!" I groaned, for added to my shame the pain of my hurts
was more than I could well bear, "O God help me!" And now indeed it
seemed that in some measure He answered my prayer, for, as I strove to
rise, the faintness seized me again and I sank to a blessed
unconsciousness.
CHAPTER XV
PROVING THAT A GODDESS IS WHOLLY FEMININE
I was lying beneath a tree, my head softly pillowed and wet with cool
water that refreshed me wonderfully; thus I presently turned my head
and glanced up into eyes that gazed down upon me, very beautiful eyes
these seemed, being soft and tender and darkly grey.
"Are ye better?" she questioned. Now at this I wondered, for the voice
matched the eyes for gentleness.
"Thank you, much better."
"He hurt you more than I thought."
"It was the blow on the head--slight concussion, I think."
"And you stands up to him like--"
"You mean I ran away like a coward."
"He was twice as big as you--"
"No matter! Cowardice is always despicable, more especially in defence
of one of the weaker sex," said I dismally.
"But you saves me, to be sure!"
At this I strove to rise in sheer amazement and thus found my head
pillowed in her lap.
"How did I save you?" I demanded bitterly. "I that am a craven!"
"By giving me the chance to reach my little _churi_. However, I
was never once afraid of the beast."
"I was!" I confessed miserably. "Afraid beyond words!"
"But you comes running back, and very fierce too!"
"I meant to kill him!"
"Why trouble to kill him?"
"I could not bear he should foul you in his brutal arms!"
Here came her hand to touch my aching brow and I closed my eyes again.
"Does your head ache very much?" she enquired.
"A little!" I groaned.
"Can ye walk?" she enquired. "'Tis goin' to storm and rain on us soon,
I think--can ye walk a small ways?"
For answer I got to my knees and, with her ready assistance, to my
feet, but found myself very faint and sick and with my head throbbing
as though it would burst.
"Come!" said she, taking my hand in her warm, strong, clasp. "There's
rain in this wind--come! I knows a fair, likely place--"
"No, no!" cried I. "Please leave me, I shall be very well here--the
rain will do me good, perhaps--besides, I have no money to pay for a
night's lodging--"
"But I have!"
"No matter, I cannot live on your money."
"Aye, but you can, for this money is yourn as much as mine, seeing as
I prigs it."
"What do you mean?"
"Lord, what should I mean except as I takes it, nabs it--steals it
from yon dirty beast while he struggled wi' me. Look!" And taking out
a ragged belcher neckerchief she unknotted one corner and showed me
three bright, new guineas.
"Ah, throw them away!" I cried. "The man was so vile--"
"He was!" she nodded. "But his money is clean enough and will be
useful to us--"
"But you are--a thief!" I exclaimed, aghast.
"And you are a fool!" she retorted, thrusting the money into a small
leathern bag she carried at her girdle. "And he was a dirty rogue and
his money shall feed us until I can earn more. And now let us hurry
afore the storm ketches us."
"Where to?"
"There's a place I know where we can be warm and sheltered and nothing
to pay."
And so, because of her persistence and my sickness, I suffered her to
lead me where she would, though more than once I tripped and should
have fallen but for her ready arm. Presently turning out of the road
we came to a meadow and here, half-blinded by the pain of my head and
scarcely able to drag one foot after the other, I earnestly besought
her to leave me, storm or no storm; to which she merely bade me not to
be a fool, with the further assurance that she would leave me when she
wished and not before.
I remember stumbling down a grassy slope and through a tangle of
bushes and dense-growing trees, amid whose whispering leafage shadows
were deepening, and so at last to a half-ruined barn, very remote and
desolate, into which she conducted me.
Here, from amid a pile of mouldy hay, she dragged a ladder which she
reared to a small hatch or trap in the floor above and bade me mount.
This I did, though very clumsily and presently found myself in an
upper chamber or loft, illuminated by a small, unglazed window that
opened beneath the eaves at one end. Scarcely was I here than she was
beside me and brought me to an adjacent corner where was a great pile
of hay that made the place sweet with its fragrance, whereon, at her
behest, I sank down and would have expressed my gratitude, but she
checked me, frowning.
"Are ye hungry?" she demanded ungraciously.
"Indeed, no, I thank you," I answered, lying back upon my fragrant
couch.
"Well, I am!" she retorted sullenly. "And you will be, sooner or
later, so I'll go afore the storm ketches me."
"Go where, and for what?"
"To buy supper with money as I stole, for you an' me to eat--"
"I'd rather starve!" quoth I, sitting up the better to say it.
"Starve!" she repeated, with a scornful flash of her great eyes. "You?
d'ye know what starvation means? Ha' you ever tried it?"
"No," I admitted, "but none the less--"
"Then don't talk foolishness!" said she disdainfully. "You'll be glad
t' eat an' ask no questions when you're hungry enough! And don't go
pitying yourself and grieving over your bruises. If your eyes are
bulged and blacked a bit--what of it? Lord! I've seen men get it worse
than you an' come up smiling, but then to be sure they were men and
stronger than you. However, you'll be better to-morrow! So now go to
sleep and forget all about yourself if ye can--sleep till supper's
ready and when I say eat--eat."
"Many thanks, but I do not desire any supper."
"Wait till you smell it!"
"I shall neither smell it nor eat it," I answered, frowning, "because
I propose to rid you of my presence almost immediately."
"Meaning as you will cut your stick?"
"Certainly not! I mean that I shall take my departure just so soon as
I find myself sufficiently recovered."
"Why, then," said she, compressing her lips and jutting her round chin
at me in highly unfeminine fashion, "you'll have to jump or fly."
"What do you mean?"
"I shall take away the ladder!"
"You would never do such a thing!" quoth I, starting.
"Tush!" she retorted and, turning from me with a disdainful swirl of
her short petticoat, began to descend into the depths below, seeing
which, I scrambled to my feet and crossed to the trap, only to behold
her standing beneath me, the ladder dragged quite out of my reach.
"Fly down, little bird!" she cried insolently. "Jump, Jack--jump!" and
snapping finger and thumb at me, was gone before my anger might find
vent in words.
Trapped and imprisoned thus, I presently came wandering disconsolately
back to the hay-pile and lying there began to ponder upon the extreme
unlovely deportment of this strange creature whose almost every speech
and look and gesture outraged all my preconceived ideas of "the sex",
and bitterly to deplore my present situation.
Evening was falling apace but there was still sufficient light to show
me something of the place wherein I lay and the orderly disorder that
surrounded me. In one corner, upon a rough board that served for a
shelf, stood six battered volumes flanked by divers pots and pans;
against the wall near by hung a small, cracked mirror, while dangling
from nails driven into the warped and twisted timbering of roof and
walls hung a great variety of baskets, large and small and variously
shaped, of rush or bent withies, many of which seemed in course of
manufacture. These and many other objects I took casual heed of as I
lay, but often my gaze would rove back to the six books standing so
orderly amid the pots and pans; indeed, these so stirred my interest
that I began to wonder what manner of books these might be and what
should bring them in such a strange and desolate place, so that
despite my aches and pains I felt much disposed to rise and
investigate them, but in the end was content to lie and stare at them
while the light failed and shadows deepened until, my eyes little
serving me, I closed them and fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER XVI
IN WHICH I BEGIN TO APPRECIATE THE VIRTUES OF THE CHASTE GODDESS
Assuredly never were the nostrils of mortal youth saluted with odour
more inspiring and altogether more delectable than that which, wooing
me from the drowsy arms of Morpheus, awoke me to growing consciousness
of three several things, namely: light, movement and an
extraordinarily poignant hunger.
Being awake, I firstly sniffed of this most appetising aroma, then
lifting my head espied the girl busily combing her long hair before
that small mirror I have mentioned. Now although the place was
illumined by no more than a farthing dip, yet this was sufficient to
wake many fugitive gleams and coppery lights in these long, rippling
tresses, so that I lay for some time content to watch as she combed
with smooth-sweeping motions of arm and wrist; but suddenly this arm
grew still and I knew that she was viewing me through this silky
curtain as it hung.
"Well?" she demanded suddenly, and putting back the hair from her
face, stood looking down at me with her sombre, half-sullen gaze.
"Well?" said I, sitting up. And now, beholding her face framed thus in
her glossy tresses, the wide, low brow, the deep eyes, the delicate
modelling of nose and chin, the vivid lips, I realised that she was
beautiful--beautiful as any fabled goddess or dryad; and what with
this, the rippling splendour of her hair that covered her like a
garment, the deep silence of this remote solitude, there rushed upon
me a sense of such intimacy that I caught my breath and averted my
gaze instinctively, awed by, yet delighting in, this sudden
consciousness of her beauty.
"Well," said she again, "d'ye smell it?"
Starting, I glanced up, to find her busied with the comb again and
immediately recognised that here was neither goddess nor dryad but
merely a well-shaped, comely young woman with extraordinarily long
hair; which fact established, my hunger (momentarily forgotten)
returned with keener pang than ever.
"Are ye going to sleep again?" she enquired, finding me silent.
"No!"
"Well, don't you smell it?"
"Pray what is it?"
"A duck as I be roasting to our supper."
"Duck!" I repeated, mouth watering. "I have breathed its enticement
ever since I awoke."
"Wi' plenty o' sage and onion, a new loaf, and cheese!" she added,
with a nod of her shapely head at each item, "unless," said she,
eyeing me askance, "you're minded to starve--as you said?"
At this I grew very despondent and, sighing, watched her twist her
glossy hair into two long braids and tie up the ends with small
ribbands which I thought a very quaint and pretty fashion.
She now bade me help her to set up the supper table, which proved to
be a weather-beaten half-door propped upon baskets. This done, she
took the candle and descended below, I following; and here, within an
old cauldron pierced with many holes, burned a fire, above which was a
covered pot whence emanated that fragrance I have already mentioned,
but stronger and more savoury than ever now, so that my hunger was
wrought to a passionate yearning, more especially when, having removed
the pot from the fire, she lifted the cover. Ascending to the loft she
pronounced supper all ready and bade me sit down and eat. But this I
could not do for my pride's sake as I freely confessed, which seemed
to surprise her not a little.
"Well then," said she, perceiving me thus determined, "you may eat if
you are truly hungry, because none o' the money I prigs pays for this
duck."
So down I sat forthwith and never in all my life enjoyed any meal
quite so much, as I told her.
"Well, then, eat it!" said she in her ungracious, half-sullen
manner.
"I mean to," I retorted, "though I must say you are a wonderful cook."
At this she merely scowled at me and I did not venture another remark
until the sharper pangs of hunger were appeased, then, sighing, I
spoke again. "Yes, I repeat you are a wonderful cook! But then
everything seems so wonderful to me--this place, for instance--so
strange and so solitary!"
"It is!" she answered, leaning her chin on her hands and staring at me
across the table. "That's why I runs away here to hide from the
_chals_ or when in any trouble wi' old Azor--yes, 'tis a very
lonely place, which do make me wonder if you be afeard o' ghosts?"
"No--that is, I don't think so--if such things do really exist. But
why do you ask?"
"A woman was murdered here once an' they say her spirit walks, so
there's few people dare venter here by day an' never a one by night,
an' that's why 'tis so lonely an' that's why I loves the place."
"Then you don't believe in ghosts?"
"Well I sees strange things among the Romans; there's the
_dukkerin_ and _dukkeripen_, an' the Walkers o' the Heath.
They're a strange folk, the Romans--'specially old Azor!"
"But you are not afraid--never have been?"
"No," she answered, shaking her head slowly, "I've never been afeard
of anything or any one yet--except old Azor." And beholding her as she
said this, observing the proud cast of her features, the lofty
carriage of her head, her compelling eyes, resolute chin and the noble
lines of her form, I knew she spoke truth and began to doubt if she
were no more than a mere comely, well-shaped young female, after all.
"Pray, what is your name?" I enquired.
"Anna."
"Indeed it is a pretty name, though you are more like my conception of
Diana."
"Who's she?"
"She was a young goddess."
"A goddess?" repeated my companion in her deep, soft voice, "that
don't sound much like me."
"A goddess, very brave and strong, who despised all men and feared
none!"
"That does sound more like me! Though I thought all goddesses were
beautiful?" she added wistfully.
"So they were," I nodded, "but how do you know this?"
"From Jerry Jarvis--"
"What, the Tinker?" I exclaimed. "Do you mean the tinker who calls
himself a 'literary cove'--the wonderful tinker who writes excellent
poetry and travels about with a pony named Diogenes?"
"Yes, there be only one Jerry Jarvis," answered my companion. "'Twas
Jerry taught me to write and lent me books to read. I've known him
since I can remember and he was always kind. Jerry's a good man!"
"And writes real poetry!" I nodded. "At least I think so. I should
like to meet him again."
"Well, he'll be Tonbridge way about now. I knows all his rounds an'
he's reg'lar as a clock."
"Do you know the way to Tonbridge?"
"Of course!"
"Yes, I'll go to Tonbridge to-morrow; you shall tell me the best way
to get there, if you will."
"'Tis very sure you are better of your beating."
"Yes, thank God!" I answered.
"Though your eyes will be black to-morrow."
"Which will serve me right and properly for my cowardice."
"But you're not afeard o' ghosts!"
"Heaven knows," quoth I bitterly, "I might be if I saw one. And as for
solitude, I don't think I should care to stay here alone night after
night and day after day as you seem to have done."
"Oh, you gets used to it."
"But how do you pass your time in this solitude?"
"Reads mostly, and makes my baskets; there be few can ekal me at rush
or willow. And there's good money in baskets!"
"What books have you read?"
"Not so many as I'd like."
"Tell me some of them."
"Well there's the 'Castle of Otranto' and Virgil and 'Peregrine
Pickle' and the Psalms, and 'Tom Jones' and John Milton's Poems,
'Tristram Shandy.' Dryden, Plutarch's lives--oh, and a lot beside--"
"And which do you like best?"
For answer she reached the six volumes from amongst her pots and pans
and these I found to be: Shakespeare, 'Tristram Shandy,' the Bible,
Anson's Voyages and 'Robinson Crusoe.'
"You have shown most excellent judgment and a most catholic taste!"
said I.
"You loves books, too!" she nodded. "I sees that by the way you
handles 'em. And I keeps these six here because I can read them over
and over and never tires, though there's a lot I don't understand."
"That," said I, looking upon my companion with new vision, "that is
because each of these books shrines some part of undying Truth which
can never weary and never die. I think," said I, setting the books
back in their accustomed place, "I think I will call you Diana, if I
may?"
"Very well."
"And my name is Peregrine."
"You seemed to like your supper," said she, beginning to clear away
the platters.
"More than words can express!"
"So did I," she nodded, "and that was worth a little risk."
"What risk, Diana?"
"Well, I tells you the duck was not bought with any of the beast's
money, didn't I?"
"Yes. Pray, how did you come by it?"
"Prigged it!"
"Great heaven! You mean that you--"
"Yes. I goes to a farmhouse as I knows of to get some milk an' eggs,
an' spies four ducks on the kitchen table, trussed an' stuffed all
ready for the oven, so I brings one away--only one, though I might ha'
nabbed two just as easy--"
"But this was burglary!" I gasped.
"But 'twas a dainty supper!"
"This is frightful!" I exclaimed.
"But the duck was very tender--you said so."
"Oh, girl," I cried, "don't you know it is very wicked to steal? Are
you aware you have broken one of God's commandments, contravened the
law and made yourself liable to arrest and imprisonment--indeed,
people have been hanged for less! O Diana, how could you do a thing
so shameful, so unworthy your womanhood--how could you--how could
you?"
But instead of answering or paying the least heed to this so earnest
appeal, she continued her business of clearing away supper things and
table, and thereafter begun to make herself a couch of hay in the
corner remotest from mine, and all without so much as a glance in my
direction.
"And now," said she at last, "if you're quite ready, I'll blow out the
candle."
"Whenever you will," I answered, stretching myself upon my hay-pile.
Almost as I spoke the light vanished, and in the pitchy gloom my
hearing seemed to grow the more acute; I heard her light, assured
tread, the fall of her shoes as she kicked them off, the rustle of the
hay that was her bed, a long-drawn, sleepy sigh. These sounds at last
subsiding, I spoke:
"Have I angered you, Diana?" Here I paused for answer but getting none
continued, "Though indeed my strictures were all well-meant, for I
cannot bear that you should do anything unworthy--" Here, though she
uttered no word, I distinguished a sudden, petulant rustle of hay as
if she had kicked viciously. "And so, Diana," I continued, "I want you
to promise that henceforth you will so govern your conduct, so order
your life that you may become a woman, gentle and sweet and good, in
whose presence no evil thing may exist, one who is herself an
inspiration to good and noble things, a woman whose friendship is a
privilege and whose--whose love would be a crowning glory. Do you
understand, Diana?"
"Hold your tongue!" she cried very suddenly. "Hold y'r tongue an' go
to sleep--do!"
In the fervour of my exordium I had assumed a sitting posture but at
her coarse rejoinder I fell back, inexpressibly shocked, and lay
staring upon the dark, tingling with mortification that I should have
wasted myself in such vain appeal and been thus callously repulsed by
one who was no more than an ignorant gipsy-wench, prone to coarse
expressions and small larcenies, a creature knowing little difference
between good and evil and caring less. But now, remembering her rough
upbringing and the wild folk who had fostered her, my anger gave place
to commiseration, for how could she, under such circumstances, be
other than what she seemed? And yet--was she in herself good or evil?
This doubt troubled me so much that I turned to stare towards that
dark corner where she lay; and listening to her gentle and regular
breathing, I judged that she slept already, though more than once I
heard the hay rustle as she stirred, sighing plaintively. But sleep
was not for me, my mind being greatly troubled by this same
unanswerable question: Was she a Diana indeed, dowered with the
virtues of that chaste goddess, or only a poor, small-souled creature
debased by the circumstances of her lawless origin?
Now as I lay thus wakeful, vainly seeking an answer to this most
distressing question, I became aware that the place was no longer
dark; instead was a soft glow, an ever-increasing radiance, and
lifting my eyes to the unglazed window I beheld the moon,--Dian's fair
self, throned in splendour, queen of this midsummer night, serene and
infinitely remote, who yet sent down a kindly beam, that, darting
athwart the gloom, fell in a glory upon that other Diana where she lay
outstretched in peaceful slumber. And gazing upon this face, softened
and beautified by gentle sleep--the wide, low brow, these tender lips,
this firm and resolute chin, I thought to read therein a sweet
nobility, purity and strength; and, like the darkness, my doubts and
trouble were quite banished.
Therefore, lifting my gaze once more to Dian's placid loveliness, I
breathed her a sigh of gratitude, for it seemed that she had shown me
the answer to my question. And thus, my mind at rest, I presently fell
asleep.
CHAPTER XVII
HOW WE SET OUT FOR TONBRIDGE
"Oho--hey--hallo!"
Starting up, I opened sleepy eyes to be dazzled by a glory of early
sunshine, and creeping from the hay wherein I lay half-buried, I came
blinking to the open trapdoor and beheld Diana standing below,
flourishing a long-handled fork at me.
"Kooshti divvus," said she.
"Good morning!" said I.
"It is!" she nodded. "That's what I said! And the less reason to
sleep--here's me been up an hour an' more."
"You should have waked me, Diana."
"I was too busy. But if you are awake, come down and wash."
"Wash what?"
"Yourself--Lord, you needs it bad enough by your looks! And
'cleanliness is next to godliness'--they says. So go an' wash!"
"Certainly!" said I, a little haughtily. "Though permit me to assure
you that I am not in the habit of neglecting so healthful and
necessary--"
"Soap an' towel--in th' basket--corner yonder!" said she, kneeling to
puff the fire to a blaze as I descended the ladder.
"Thank you, and where shall I find the necessary water?"
"Outside--in the brook--enough to drownd you! And take your time, make
a good job of it--a clean body makes a clean mind--sometimes. So scrub
hard!" At this I came where she must meet my look.
"And pray, madam," I demanded, head aloft and arms folded, "do you
thus suggest that my mind is so very unclean?"
"O la!" cried she, waving the fork at me with a pettish gesture.
"Don't try to come your fine airs over me in such breeches and your
eyes black and face all smutty--go an' get washed first!"
At this I turned and marched out of the barn, quite forgetting soap
and towel until she came running to thrust them upon me, willy-nilly.
"There's ham an' eggs for breakfast!" she volunteered.
"Then I trust you will enjoy them," said I stiffly, "but as regards
myself I most certainly shall not--"
"Don't frown," she admonished, "for with your face so bruised and
swollen it do make you look that comical!" And laughing, she sped
away, leaving me to scowl upon the empty air.
But the morning was glorious; I stood in a dew-spangled world radiant
with sunshine while all about me the feathered host, that choir
invisible, poured forth a song of universal praise to greet this
new-born day. With this joyful clamour in my ears, this fresh, green
world before my eyes, I grew joyful too, and hasted towards the brook,
my foolish petulance quite forgotten.
Following these murmurous, sun-kissed waters, I came where they
widened suddenly into a dark and silent pool; and here, well-screened
by bending willows, I ventured to bathe and found in the cool, sweet
water such gasping delight that I could have sung and shouted for pure
joy of it. Greatly invigorated and prodigiously hungry, I donned my
unlovely garments happily enough but stooping above this watery mirror
to comb my damp locks into such order as my fingers might compass, I
beheld my face, its features bruised and distorted out of all shape;
and remembering Diana had laughed at and made mock of these
disfigurements, I sat down, not troubling about my hair, and began to
muse upon her heartlessness, contrasting this with my aunt Julia's
unfailing sympathy and tender, loving care, and immediately felt
myself woefully solitary, miserably cold and desperately hungry. The
world, despite sunshine and bird-song, was a dark and evil place
wherein I stood desolate and forlorn; here, bowing my head between my
hands, I began to despair of myself and the future. But now, and all
at once, what must obtrude upon these gloomy thoughts but a vision of
ham and eggs, a tantalisation that would not be banished.
"Perry--green!" I lifted my head to listen intently; and presently
heard it again, a voice rich and full and smooth as note of blackbird,
calling upon my name: "Perry--green! Breakfast's ready--ham an' eggs!
Perry--green!" Snatching soap and towel I rose, my gloomy thoughts
forgotten again, and hasted whither this voice summoned me.
"Are ye washed?" she enquired, dexterously skewering a large ham
rasher upon the iron fork and transferring it to a platter.
"I am!"
"And hungry?"
"Extremely!"
"Then you may eat! Here's breakfast--only don't go asking how I got
it--nor yet where!"
So we ate, scarce speaking; I, for one, seldom lifting my gaze from
the platter balanced upon my knees. I ate, I say, each mouthful a joy,
ham that was a melting ecstasy and eggs of such delicate flavour as I
had never tasted till now, it seemed.
"Diana," I sighed at last, "you are a truly wonderful cook!"
"No," she answered; "you are hungry, that's all. 'T is a good thing to
be hungry--sometimes!"
O gentle and perspicacious reader! You, madam, who being so daintily
feminine, cannot be supposed to revel in the joys of hog-flesh, flesh
of ox, sheep, bird or fish, no matter how excellent well cooked; and
you, honourable sir, who, being comfortably replete of such, seated
before your groaning board at duly frequent and regular intervals,
masticate in duty to yourself and digestion, but with none of that
fine fervour of enthusiasm which true hunger may bestow--I cry ye
mercy! For your author, tramping the roads, weary yet aglow with
exercise, hath met and had familiar fellowship with lusty Hunger, and
learned that eating, though a base necessity, may also be a joy. If
therefore your author forgetteth soul awhile to something describe and
mayhap dilate upon such material things as food and drink and their
due assimilation, here and now he doth most humbly crave your patient
forbearance.
"It is a good thing to be hungry--sometimes!" said Diana.
"If one may assuage that hunger with such ham and eggs!" I added.
"Though I greatly fear I shall never taste their like again."
"Anything'll taste good," quoth she, rising, "if you're hungry
enough!"
"Diana," said I, watching her as she flitted lightly to and fro,
engaged on what she called "tidying up." "Diana, what are we going to
do?"
"I thought we were going to Tonbridge?"
"I am."
"Well then, the sooner we starts the better."
"But," I demurred, rubbing my chin and staring hard at the toe of my
clumsy shoe, "don't you think it a little unwise--very extraordinary
and--yes, extremely irregular for--for two people of opposite sexes to
consort thus? Are not folk apt to misjudge our intimacy?"
"What folk?"
"Well, I mean the world."
"Lord, Peregrine, who's us for the world to trouble about?"
"I merely mention this because I dread lest I compromise you."
"What's compromise?"
"Well," I explained, lifting my gaze to the time-worn timbering above
my head, "people seeing us together might suppose we--we
were--lovers--"
"But we ain't!" she retorted, turning to look at me. "And never shall
be--shall we?"
"No!" said I with my gaze still turned upward. "Of course not! But
none the less people might think we were--were living together!"
"Well, so we are, ain't we?" she demanded.
"But," said I, staring at my shoe again, "suppose they imagine--"
"What, Peregrine?"
"Evil of us?"
"What matter, s' long as we knows different?"
"But I cannot bear that any should speak or even think evil of you,
Diana--"
"Never mind about me--though it's kind of you!" she added in that
suddenly soft, half-shy tone that I have before attempted to describe.
"Y' see," she continued, "nobody ever troubled themselves about me all
my life, except Jerry--or them as I keeps my little knife for. And you
ain't that sort, so we'll go on together until I feels like leaving
you, an' then I'll go--"
"Go where, Diana?"
"Back to the lonely places--"
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing!" she answered, shaking her head. "You wouldn't never
understand. But I'll go along wi' you to Tonbridge."
"Very well!" said I. "And on the way, if you'll allow me, I'll teach
you to speak more correctly and to behave with a--a little
more--feminine restraint--"
"Oh--and why should I?" she demanded, cheeks flushed and proud head
aloft.
"Because," I answered, struck anew by her beauty, "though you look
like a goddess you speak and act like a--like--"
"A what? And--be careful!" she warned.
"I don't know."
"Come, speak out!"
"Indeed, I can think of no just parallel; you are like no one I ever
saw or heard. But your speech and actions often do not match your
looks."
"And your looks don't match your words or actions!" she retorted, "you
speak s' very grand and look s' very--s' very--"
"What?" I questioned anxiously.
"I don't know. 'T isn't a scarecrow--scarecrow's clothes fits
better--but you looks an' acts like nobody as ever I see afore."
"At the very first opportunity I will certainly purchase better
garments!" quoth I, scowling down at the noxious things that covered
me.
"With no money?" she scoffed.
"I have my watch!" quoth I.
"They'll think as you prigs it and hand you over to the narks an'
queer cuffins--"
"That sounds very terrible; what do you mean?"
"I means the _plastramengroes_."
"What in the world is that?" said I.
"Oh, _Kooshti duvvel_!" she exclaimed. "You don't know nothin';
you're what they calls a _rye_, ain't you?"
"Pray, what is a rye?" I enquired, a little diffidently.
"A _gorgio_ gentleman," she explained patiently.
"What should give you that impression?"
"You're s' different to the 'Folk'--or any of the padding kind."
"Yes, I suppose I am--despite my clothes!"
"Your speech is soft an' your ways are softer, but you have a high an'
mighty look about ye at times--although you're so precious green."
"Green?"
"As grass!" she nodded, "Very green--like your name."
"My name is Peregrine, as you know."
"But t' other suits ye best!"
"You grow more unkind, Diana!"
"You're a scholar too, o' course?"
"I have received a somewhat careful education."
"What d'ye know?"
"Well, I am fairly conversant with Greek and Latin, though a trifle
shaky on the higher mathematics, I fear."
"You've read lots an' lots o' books?"
"I have."
"And you're nineteen years old?"
"True!"
"And such a very poor, helpless thing!" said she in lofty scorn. "Oh,
you may be able to teach me how t' speak an' how t' behave, but 'tis
me as could teach ye how to live without friends or money! You may
know how to use words but ye can't use your hands! You can talk but ye
can't 'do'--you don't know how to help yourself nor nobody else!
You're a poor creature as would creep into a wet ditch an' perish o'
want an' misery--an' all because you're so full o' Greek an' Latin an'
fine airs that you can't even tell how many beans make five!" Having
said which, all in a breath, she turned and, mounting the ladder, left
me staring vacantly at the crumbling wall and greatly humbled since
all these indictments I knew for very truth. Sitting thus, I heard her
descend the ladder, felt her hand upon my bowed shoulder and glancing
up, saw her eyes big and soft and tender.
"Come, Peregrine," said she in her gentle voice, "let us go, and while
we walk you shall give me my first lesson how to talk--and behave, if
you will."
"No," said I, rising, "first you shall teach me how to be a little
less of a fool. Pray--how many beans do make five?"
"Why, four an' a little one, o' course," she answe
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