Meanwhile, on leaving Helen, Burley strode on; and, as if by some better
instinct, for he was unconscious of his own steps, he took the way towards
the still green haunts of his youth. When he paused at length, he was
already before the door of a rural cottage, standing alone in the midst of
fields, with a little farm-yard at the back; and far through the trees in
front was caught a glimpse of the winding Brent.
With this cottage Burley was familiar; it was inhabited by a good old
couple who had known him from a boy. There he habitually left his rods and
fishing-tackle; there, for intervals in his turbid, riotous life, he had
sojourned for two or three days together--fancying, the first day that the
country was a heaven, and convinced before the third that it was a
purgatory.
An old woman of neat and tidy exterior came forth to greet him.
"Ah, Master John," said she, clasping his nerveless hand--"well, the fields
be pleasant now--I hope you are come to stay a bit? Do; it will freshen
you; you lose all the fine color you had once, in Lunnon town."
"I will stay with you, my kind friend," said Burley, with unusual
meekness--"I can have the old room, then?"
"Oh yes, come and look at it. I never let it now to any one but you--never
have let it since the dear beautiful lady with the angel's face went away.
Poor thing, what could have become of her?"
Thus speaking, while Burley listened not, the old woman drew him within the
cottage, and led him up the stairs into a room that might have well become
a better house, for it was furnished with taste, and even elegance. A small
cabinet pianoforte stood opposite the fire-place, and the window looked
upon pleasant meads and tangled hedgerows, and the narrow windings of the
blue rivulet. Burley sank down exhausted, and gazed wistfully from the
casement.
"You have not breakfasted?" said the hostess anxiously.
"No."
"Well, the eggs are fresh laid, and you would like a rasher of bacon,
Master John? And if you _will_ have brandy in your tea, I have some that
you left long ago in your own bottle."
Burley shook his head. "No brandy, Mrs. Goodyer; only fresh milk. I will
see whether I can yet coax Nature."
Mrs. Goodyer did not know what was meant by coaxing Nature, but she said,
"Pray do, Master John," and vanished.
That day Burley went out with his rod, and he fished hard for the one-eyed
perch; but in vain. Then he roved along the stream with his hands in his
pockets, whistling. He returned to the cottage at sunset, partook of the
fare provided for him, abstained from the brandy, and felt dreadfully low.
He called for pen, ink, and paper, and sought to write, but he could not
achieve two lines. He summoned Mrs. Goodyer, "Tell your husband to come and
sit and talk."
Up came old Jacob Goodyer, and the great wit bade him tell him all the news
of the village. Jacob obeyed willingly, and Burley at last fell asleep. The
next day it was much the same, only at dinner he had up the brandy bottle,
and finished it; and he did _not_ have up Jacob, but he contrived to write.
The third day it rained incessantly.
"Have you no books, Mrs. Goodyer?" asked poor John Burley.
"Oh yes; some that the dear lady left behind her; and perhaps you would
like to look at some papers in her own writing?"
"No, not the papers--all women scribble, and all scribble the same things.
Get me the books."
The books were brought up--poetry and essays--John knew them by heart. He
looked out on the rain, and at evening the rain had ceased. He rushed to
his hat and fled.
"Nature, Nature!" he exclaimed when he was out in the air, and hurrying by
the dripping hedgerows, "you are not to be coaxed by me! I have jilted you
shamefully, I own it; you are a female and unforgiving. I don't complain.
You may be very pretty, but you are the stupidest and most tiresome
companion that ever I met with. Thank heaven, I am not married to you!"
Thus John Burley made his way into town, and paused at the first
public-house. Out of that house he came with a jovial air, and on he strode
towards the heart of London. Now he is in Leicester Square, and he gazes on
the foreigners who stalk that region, and hums a tune; and now from yonder
alley two forms emerge, and dog his careless footsteps; now through the
maze of passages towards St. Martin's he threads his path, and,
anticipating an orgy as he nears his favorite haunts, jingles the silver in
his pockets; and now the two forms are at his heels.
"Hail to thee, O Freedom!" muttered John Burley; "thy dwelling is in
cities, and thy palace is the tavern."
"In the king's name," quoth a gruff voice; and John Burley feels the horrid
and familiar tap on the shoulder.
The two bailiffs who dogged have seized their prey.
"At whose suit?" asked John Burley, falteringly.
"Mr. Cox, the wine-merchant."
"Cox! A man to whom I gave a cheque on my bankers not three months ago!"
"But it war'nt cashed."
"What does that signify?--the intention was the same. A good heart takes
the will for the deed. Cox is a monster of ingratitude; and I withdraw my
custom."
"Sarve him right. Would your honor like a jarvey?"
"I would rather spend the money on something else," said John Burley. "Give
me your arm, I am not proud. After all, thank heaven, I shall not sleep in
the country."
And John Burley made a night of it in the Fleet.