OF SOULS, SOLITUDE AND A DUSTY ROAD
Very soon they had lost sight of the inn and the magic of the night
was all about them, a night of vasty stillness wherein the leaves hung
motionless and none moved but themselves, and with no sound to break the
slumberous quiet save the tread of their feet. Before them stretched
the tree-bordered road leading away and away to distances vague and
mysterious, a silvery causeway fretted by purple-black shadows, with, to
right and left, a wide prospect of rolling, wooded country.
Sir John walked in serene and silent contemplation of earth and heaven
until his companion, as though awed by the all-pervading stillness, drew
a little nearer and spoke in hushed voice:
“’Tis dreadful solitary, sir!”
“It is, child,” he answered, his gaze still wandering; “but mine is a
nature that craves solitude and, at times, I am possessed of a very
passion for silence.”
“Is this why your honour went and lived in Paris?” she questioned softly.
Sir John’s wandering gaze fixed itself rather hastily upon the speaker,
but her face was hidden in enveloping hood.
“One can find solitude anywhere, Rose,” he retorted.
“Can one, sir?”
“To be sure, child! ’Mid the busiest throng, the gayest crowd, one’s soul
may sit immune, abstracted, in solitary communion with the Infinite.”
“Aye, but—can souls sit, your honour?” she questioned.
Once again Sir John’s roaming gaze focused itself upon his companion,
and when he spoke his voice sounded a trifle pettish.
“’Twas but a figure of speech, girl! Souls, being abstractions, ha’
no need to—tush! Why a plague should we puzzle your pretty head with
metaphysics? What know you o’ the soul, child—or I, for that matter?”
“Not much, your honour,” she answered submissively. “Though parson do say
the soul is more precious than much fine gold.”
“Have you a soul, I wonder, Rose?”
“I ... hope so, sir.”
“Then look before you, child, and tell me what you see.”
“A dusty road!” she sighed.
“And is it nothing more to you, girl? Doth it strike no deeper note? Do
you not see it as a path mysterious, leading to the unknown—the very
symbol of life itself? And yet, poor child, how should you?” he sighed.
“Let us talk of simpler things.”
“Oh, thank ye kindly, sir,” she sighed. “An’ I should like to hear about
yourself, an’t please your honour.”
“Rose!” he exclaimed in sudden dubiety.
“Yes, your honour?”
“I ... I wish to heaven you would not muffle your face in that pestilent
hood!”
Mutely obedient, she pushed back the offending headgear, and Sir John,
beholding the stolid placidity of her, the serene eyes and grave,
unsmiling mouth, grew a little reassured.
“Pray what would you learn of so simple a creature as myself?” he
demanded.
“As much as you’ll tell me, sir. ’Deed, I don’t even know your honour’s
name—except that ’tis John.”
“Then call me John.”
“Nay, sir, I couldn’t be so bold to take such liberty! You a grand
gentleman an’ me a poor maid in service!”
“But I’m in service also, Rose,” he answered. “Indeed we all are, more or
less. I particularly so.”
“You!” she exclaimed, turning to stare at him. “You in service! Who with?”
“A rather difficult, very exacting person named Sir John Dering.”
“Him!” she cried, and immediately began to walk faster than before.
“But,” she questioned suddenly, stopping to view him up and down,
“but—your grand clothes?”
“His, Rose! Sir John’s—borrowed for the occasion!”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, and walked on again.
“As for my name, you’ll find I shall answer readily to John Derwent.”
“John?” she repeated. “’Tis the same as your master’s!”
“You may call me ‘Jack,’” he suggested.
“Being Sir John Dering’s servant, you will know all about him and his
evil ways?”
“None better, child.”
“Is he so wicked as they tell?”
“Faith, child, no man could be; ’twere beyond all finite achievement, and
Sir John is only human!”
“But,” said she, her eyes fiercely accusing, “he—murders men!”
“Not often, child,” he answered lightly.
“He fights duels!”
“But only when necessary.”
“He hath broke poor women’s hearts!”
“Only such as were cracked.”
“You are his champion, it seems?”
“Because he hath none other—a poor, lonely dog with a bad name, child, a
solitary creature for the kicks and buffets o’ the world! Doth not your
woman’s heart yearn to such?”
But instead of answering she clasped his arm in sudden terror.
“Look!” she whispered. “There’s something there ... moving in the
shadows—a man!”
“Two men, child!” he whispered back. “I’ve been watching ’em for some
time.”
“What ... what will they do to us?”
“That depends. Art afraid, child?”
“Yes ... yes——” she gasped.
“Then pretend you are not—as I do! Come, step out, and go on talking.”
As they walked on thus she, stealing terrified glances, saw how these
vague yet sinister shapes began gradually edging towards them, nearer and
nearer, crouching forms that moved on soundless feet—closer and closer,
until she had a vision of sordid, skulking, ragged misery, of murderous
desperation, hunger-fierce eyes, the grim silhouette of a bludgeon, the
evil gleam of a stealthy knife——
And then, with sudden, swift leap, Sir John was upon them, and she saw
him fronting them, a pistol thrust into each pallid, shrinking face——
“Rose!” he called. “Rose, come hither, child!”
Instinctively, and despite the terror that shook her, she obeyed. “Good
girl!” quoth he, with an approving nod. “I’ the right-hand pocket o’ my
waistcoat you will find five or six guineas; take two and bestow ’em upon
the poor rascals for affording us a sensation.” Trembling still, she
carried out Sir John’s instructions, who, with a brief word and imperious
gesture, commanded the astonished rogues begone. Nor did they need a
second bidding, but flitted away on silent feet, though oft turning
pallid faces to stare their amazement ere they vanished into the shadows
whence they came.
“Rose, child,” quoth Sir John, uncocking and repocketing his pistols, “I
am pleased with thee. ’S heart, I’m vastly pleased with thee! I rejoice
that being fearful you commanded your fear and neither shrieked, swooned,
squeaked, moaned, laughed, wept or fell to a fit o’ the vapours. Thank
God, child, that thou’rt a fine, buxom, lusty country wench, sound o’
wind and limb, all wholesome flesh and blood and bone——”
“Oh, fie—hush and ha’ done!” she exclaimed, tossing her handsome head.
“You make me sound as I were a prize cow!”
“Tush!” he laughed. “I do but take your body first. As to your mind——”
“I ha’ none—so never mind!” she retorted bitterly, and making the most of
her stately height.
“Aye, but I do mind,” he answered seriously. “I mind infinitely, because
’tis your mind needeth a great deal o’ painful care. ’S life, girl, were
your mind the peer o’ your body you’d be a creature without peer. The
which, sounding paradoxical, is yet very truth.”
“’Stead of which,” she retorted angrily, “I am only a buxom country wench
... a poor maid, as you think, all body an’ no soul, an’ talk of as she
were a piece o’ cattle! Oh, I could cry wi’ shame, I could!”
“Then I shall kiss you, Rose!”
“You—ah, you wouldn’t dare!”
“Not unless you cry, child. I can endure a woman’s scorn, her fleerings,
even her caresses—but her tears melt my adamantine fortitude quite.
So pray do not weep, Rose. And as for your sweet country ways, your
rustic simplicity, God bless you for ’em, child. With your goddess-form
uncramped by cursed, ’prisoning whalebone—with no rusks or busks or such
damned contrivances to pinch your figure to the prevailing mode you
are as the hand of Nature moulded you, a woman apt to motherhood, and
therefore to be reverenced ... and a curse on all rusks.”
“They are called busks, your honour, and I wear ’em!” she retorted.
“Howbeit, as you walk beside me now, Rose, free-limbed as a nymph,
fragrant with naught but health, you are a thousand times more alluring
than any modish lady laced to suffocation and ready to sink, to swoon, to
languish and vapour accordingly on the least provocation.”
“I ’spose you’ve endured a vast deal o’ such ladylike weaknesses, sir?”
she questioned.
“To an infinity o’ weariness!” sighed Sir John. “That is to say, my
master hath, and I ha’ suffered with him.”
“Your master be a great beau, my mistress says, and mighty successful wi’
the ladies—French ladies! But my mistress do say as Sir John Dering’s
nothing in particular to look at—a plain, insignificant little man!”
“Insignificant, girl!” Sir John nearly tripped over one of his spurs.
“Insignificant!” he repeated. “Oh, begad! But then, child, ’twas easy to
recognise your mistress for a person of little taste and no discernment,
poor soul! An insignificant little man!” he repeated for the second time,
and then laughed joyously. “And yet, Rose, sink me but she’s right!”
quoth he. “For in many particulars you behold in me the very reverse and
opposite of Sir John Dering.”
“And yet his clothes do fit ’ee to admiration!” she added.
“Hum!” quoth Sir John, and walked in silence awhile and, beholding the
moon near to setting, sighed; as her tender light waned, his gloom waxed,
for the countryside seemed to lose something of its magic allurement;
moreover, his long riding-boots, elegantly light though they were, began
to irk him, and the faint, monotonous jingle of his spurs irritated him
so that at last he must needs pause to unbuckle them.
“A pedestrian in spurs is a pitiable object, Rose,” he explained, “and
their jingle upon a toilsome road is deuced dismal!”
“An’ I be that weary I could weep!” she sighed.
“Don’t!” he admonished. “Your weariness I can endure with an effort, but
your tears—— There, take my arm, child, lean on me—so!”
“An’ I don’t know where you’m a-takin’ me.”
“To England, sure!” he answered encouragingly. “To Sussex, to the gentle
Down-country—home!”
“You can’t!” she sighed. “Ye see, I ha’ no home.”
“Your mother—father?”
“I—I’m an orphan wi’ no one in the world—except a grandmother.”
“Then your grandmother be it.”
“Her’ll only clout me for leaving my lady an’ losing a good place. And
you—you’d be glad to be quit o’ me already.”
“My poor child,” said he in changed tone, becoming aware how painfully
she limped, “you are worn out!”
“And your voice sounded kind!” she answered, turning to look at him; and
he saw the cold, austere beauty of her face transfigured by a sudden
tenderness so new and unexpected that he was amazed.
“Why—why, Rose,” he stammered, “you can be more—much more than merely
handsome.”
“See,” she whispered, “the moon’s a’most down—’twill be dark soon!”
“Nay, child, in a little ’twill be dawn; you have walked with me all
night. And this is the most desolate part of the road as I remember—never
an inn, or cottage or bed for you, my poor girl!”
“The ditch will serve,” she sighed, “for indeed I can go no farther.”
“Nay, I will lodge you better than that ... there’s a haystack i’ the
field yonder, if you can walk so far?”
“I’ll try!” said she between her teeth; but, catching her foot in a wheel
rut, she staggered and uttered a cry of pain. And then Sir John had
caught her up in his arms and bore her, albeit very unsteadily, across
the stretch of meadow. Reeling and stumbling, he reached the haystack at
last, and, setting her down, leaned to gasp and catch his breath.
“A goddess is ... an awkward burden ... for a ... mere human man!” he
panted.
“Especially if she be ‘buxom!’” she added, with a little unsteady laugh.
“Oh, but you are kind! And stronger than you look! I shouldn’t ha’ let
you ... but me so tired ... and the pain! I think I shall cry!”
“Aye, do!” he pleaded, and reached for her hands. But she laughed
instead, and bade him show her where she must sleep. Therefore Sir John
tossed off his cloak, and by dint of some labour had soon burrowed a
niche in the stack where she might lie softly couched on fragrant hay.
Being within this niche and Sir John going to cover her with his long
riding-cloak, she would have none of it unless he shared it with her; so
at last down they lay side by side.
“Close your eyes and go to sleep, child!” he murmured. “Sleep you secure
... for I ... will watch ... awhile....” But, even as he spoke, his eyes
closed and he sank to heavenly slumber. Yet after some while he awoke,
conscious of an intolerable unease, and, groping for the cause, found
himself lying upon a pistol. The day was breaking, and by the gathering
light he saw this pistol for none of his; a small, silver-mounted weapon,
very apt for concealment—say in the folds of a long grey cloak.
She lay deep-plunged in slumber, her face concealed by the hood of
this same grey cloak and naught to see of her save one hand, a slim,
shapely hand, very white and delicate; observing which hand, its pink,
soft palm, its long, taper fingers and rosy, polished nails, Sir John’s
eyes grew suddenly keen, his lips grim as, lying down again, he stared
on the brightening dawn; slowly his grim look vanished and, smiling
enigmatically, he fell asleep again.
And presently up came the sun to transform a myriad dewdrops into so many
scintillating gems and make a glory of the world; to rouse the birds and
fill them with the gladness of a new day; to kiss the slumberous eyes of
her who stirred sighfully in the comfort of her grey cloak, and waking
to a glory of sunshine and carolling birds, sat up suddenly, peering
eager-eyed at him who lay beside her very fast asleep and with a faint,
enigmatic smile upon his lips.