HOW THE MAN OF SENTIMENT SENTIMENTALISED IN A DITCH
He was not to remain long undisturbed, it seemed, for presently upon the
stilly air was the faint, regular tapping of a stick that drew gradually
nearer, and glancing up he saw an old woman approaching, one who trudged
sturdily with the aid of a formidable staff and bore a large wooden
basket on her arm; a tall old creature with a great jut of nose and
chin and fierce bright eyes that glittered beneath thick brows, whose
jetty-black contrasted very strangely with her snow-white hair. But just
now these fierce old eyes were dimmed with tears, and more than once
she sniffed loud and dolorously; perceiving which and noting how she
laboured with the heavy-laden basket, Sir John pocketed his tablets and
rose. But, quite lost in her grief, the old creature paused to sob and
sniff and wipe away her tears with a corner of her shawl, in the doing
of which she let fall her basket, scattering its contents broadcast in
the dust. At this calamity she wailed distressfully, and was in the act
of bending her old joints to collect her property when she was aware of
one who did this for her, a slender, very nimble young man, at sight of
whom she forgot her troubles a while, watching him in mute surprise, yet
quick to heed the white delicacy of these hands as they darted here and
there collecting the bundles of herbs and simples with the other more
homely vegetables that lay so widely scattered. Thus Sir John, happening
to glance up as he stooped for a large cabbage, met the fixed scrutiny of
a pair of black eyes, so fierce and keenly direct beneath their jutting
brows that he stared back, surprised and a little disconcerted.
“My good dame, why d’ye stare so?” he questioned.
“I dream, young sir! Your bright eyes do ha’ set me a-dreamin’ o’ other
days ... better days ... when the world was younger ... an’ kinder. Old I
be an’ tur’ble lonesome, but I ha’ my dreams ... ’tis arl the years ha’
left me.... But why must ye meddle wi’ the likes o’ me?” ... she demanded
in sudden ferocity. “Why don’t ’ee cross y’r fingers or mak’ ‘the horns’
agin me?”
“Why should I?” he inquired, wondering.
“Because they du say as I’ve the ‘evil eye’ an’ can blight a man wi’ a
look as easy as I can a pig ... or a cow.”
“To be sure your eyes are very strange and bright,” he answered gently,
“and must have been very beautiful once, like yourself—when the world was
younger.”
“Beautiful,” she repeated in changed tone; and her eyes grew less
keen, the harsh lines of her fierce, old face softening wonderfully.
“Beautiful?” said she again. “Aye, so I was, years agone ... though there
be few as would believe it o’ me now an’ fewer eyes sharp enough t’
see.... An’ you bean’t fruttened o’ me then, young man?”
“No, I am not frightened,” answered Sir John.
“Why then,” quoth she, “when you’m done wi’ that cabbage o’ mine, there
be an onion over yonder, agin the dik!” Sir John deposited the cabbage,
and having retrieved the errant onion, added this also to the well-laden
basket.
“That is all, I think?” said he, glancing about.
“Aye!” she nodded. “An’ it be plain t’ know you be a stranger hereabouts.
There bean’t a man nor bye, aye, an’ mortal few o’ the women, would ha’
stooped to du so much for poor old Penelope Haryott, I reckon.”
“And pray why not?”
“Because they say I be a witch, an’ they be arl main fruttened o’ me, an’
them as say they ain’t, du hate me most. Aye, me! I’ve been thrattened
wi’ the fire afore now; an’ only las’ March, an’ main cold it were, they
was for a-duckin’ o’ me in the Cuckmere.... Ah, an’ they’d ha’ done it tu
if Passon Hartop ’adn’t galloped over tu Alfriston an’ fetched Sir Hector
MacLean as knew me years ago, an’ Jarge Potter as I’ve dandled a babe on
my knee. Sir Hector were main fierce again the crowd an’ swore t’ cut any
man’s throat as dared tetch me, an’ Jarge Potter ’ad on his old frieze
coat—so the crowd let me go ... they ain’t tried to harm me since.... But
’tis very sure you be a stranger in these parts, young man.”
“Indeed, yes!” sighed Sir John, once more oppressed by the sense of his
responsibility and of the duties left undone.
“An’ yet there be a look about ’ee, young man, as do whisper me you was
barn here in Sussex an’ not s’ fur away, I reckon.”
“Oh ... begad!” he exclaimed, starting. “What should make you think so,
pray?”
“Y’r hands, young sir, the high cock o’ your chin, y’r pretty eyes ...
they do mind me of other eyes as looked into mine ... long afore you
was barn ... when the world was happier.... Though ’e were bigger’n
you, young man ... so tall an’ noble-lookin’! Alack, ’twas long ago an’
the world be changed for the worse since then—’specially High Dering!
Aye, me! I’ll be a-goin’, young sir, thankin’ ye for your kindness to a
solitary old woman.”
“How far are you going?” he questioned.
“Only to the village yonder.”
“This basket is much too heavy for you.”
“Lud, young master, I do be stronger than I look!” she answered, with a
mirthless laugh. “Aye, tur’ble strong I be or I should ha’ died years
agone, I reckon. So doan’t ’ee trouble, sir ... besides, folk ’ud stare
t’ see s’fine a young man along o’ me, an’ a-carryin’ my old trug an’ arl
... so let be!”
Sir John smiled, took up the basket, reached his stick whence it leaned
against the stile and set off with old Penelope Haryott, suiting his pace
to hers and talking with such blithe ease that old Penelope, forgetting
her rustic pride at last, talked in her turn, as she might have done
“when the world was younger and better.”
“Ah yes, I mind Sir Hector years agone, when he were jest Mr. Hector an’
friend t’ Sir John Dering—him as was the ‘real’ Sir John as lived at ‘the
gert house’ yonder an’ married here ... an’ marched away t’ the wars wi’
Mr. Hector, both s’fine in their red coats, and him s’handsome an’ gay
... him as was killed an’ never come marchin’ back.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Sir John as she paused. “So you knew Sir John Dering, the
Sir John who was killed years ago in Flanders? Pray tell me of him.”
“An’ why should I?” quoth the old woman in sudden anger. “He’s been dead
long years an’ forgot, I reckon. But when he lived the world was a better
place ... ’specially High Dering! Aye, he was ... a man!”
“And what,” questioned Sir John wistfully, “what of the new Sir John
Dering?”
Old Penelope spat contemptuously and trudged on a little faster.
“Take care o’ my old trug, young man,” she admonished; “the ’andle be
main loose! Aye, me, if my troubles was no ’eavier than that theer trug
I’d bear’em j’yful!”
“Are you so greatly troubled, then?” he asked gently.
“Ah, more’n my share, I reckon! And an old woman so solitary as I be must
allus go full o’ sorrow!”
“Will you tell me some of your sorrows, old Penelope?”
“Why should I?”
“Because I ask reverently and respect you.”
“Respect! Me?” she muttered. “Respect? O kind Lord, ’tis a strange word
in my old ears! Folks mostly curse me ... the children throws stones at
me! ’Tis an ill thing to be named a witch ... an’ all because I can see
deeper and further than most fules, can read the good an’ evil in faces
an’ know a sight about yarbs an’ simples. An’ they’re fruttened o’ me,
the fules ... ah, an’ they need be, some on ’em—’specially one!”
“You were weeping when I saw you first, Penelope; yet tears do not come
easily with you, I judge.”
“Tears?” she exclaimed fiercely. “An’ yet I’ve shed s’ many ’tis gert
wonder there be any left. ’Tis wonnerful how much one woman can weep in
one lifetime, I reckon.”
“And why did you weep to-day?”
“’Tidn’t no manner o’ business o’ yourn, young man!” she exclaimed
bitterly.
“Why, then, pray forgive me!” he answered, with a little bow; at this she
stared and immediately spoke in changed voice.
“I wep’, sir, because this day week I’m to be turned out o’ doors wi’
never a roof to shelter me—unless some o’ the neighbours offers—which
they won’t ... Lord, tak’ care o’ the trug, young man, if ye swing it so
fierce ’twill go to pieces!”
“Why are you being turned out?”
“Because they be arl fruttened o’ me—an’ him most of arl——”
“Whom do you mean by ‘him’?”
But old Penelope tramped on unheeding, only she muttered to herself
fiercely.
“Do you dread the future so greatly, Penelope?”
“No!” she answered sturdily. “I bean’t fruttened o’ now’t but fire ...
an’ dogs!”
“Dogs?” he questioned.
“Aye, young man, they du set ’em on me sometimes, ’tis why I carry this
gert staff ... killed a dog wi’ it once, I did—though I were badly
bit! So they clapped me in the stocks, the dog was valleyble, y’ see,
an’ chanced to belong to Lord Sayle, him as du live at the great ’ouse
’Friston way.”
Talking thus, they became aware of leisured hoof-strokes behind them,
and, turning to stare, old Penelope pointed suddenly at the approaching
rider with her long staff.
“Yonder ’e comes!” she whispered fiercely; “him as ought t’ be dead an’
gibbeted ... him as be afeart o’ me!”
Glancing round in turn, Sir John beheld a man bestriding a large, plump
steed, a man who rode at a hand-pace, apparently lost in thought; thus
Sir John had full time to observe him narrowly as he approached.
He seemed a prosperous and highly respectable man, for he went in
broadcloth and fine linen; but his garments, devoid of all embellishings,
were of sober hue, so that, looked at from behind, he might have been an
itinerant preacher with a hint of the Quaker, but seen from in front, the
narrow eyes, predatory nose, vulperine mouth and fleshy chin stamped him
as being like nothing in life but himself.
Slowly he approached, until, suddenly espying the old woman, he urged his
somnolent horse to quicker gait and rode towards her, brandishing the
stick he carried.
“Damned hag,” cried he, “you ought to burn!”
“Dirty twoad,” she retorted, “you’d ought to hang!” At this, the man
struck at her passionately, and, being out of reach, spurred his powerful
horse as if to ride her down; but Sir John, setting by the basket, sprang
and caught the bridle.
“Steady, sir, steady!” quoth he mildly.
“Mind your own business!” cried the horseman.
“Faith, sir,” answered Sir John ruefully, “’tis high time I did, ’twould
seem. And indeed I propose doing so, but in my own fashion. And first I
desire to learn why you ride the king’s highway to the common danger——”
“Oh, and who the devil might you be?”
“One who hath played divers rôles, sir,” answered Sir John. “Just at
present I find myself a Man o’ Sentiment, full o’ loving-kindness,
especially to sorrowful old age——”
“What the devil!” exclaimed the horseman, staring.
“Come then, sir, let us together bare our heads in homage to Age, Sorrow
and Womanhood in the person of this much-enduring Mistress Haryott!” and
off came Sir John’s hat forthwith.
“Are ye mad?” demanded the other scornfully. “Are ye mad or drunk, my
lad?”
“Sir, a Man of Sentiment is never——”
“Curse your sentiment! Let me warn ye that yon hag is a notorious
evil-liver and a damned witch——”
“Which as a Man of Sentiment——”
“Hold y’r tongue, d’ye hear! She’s a witch, I tell ye, so tak’ my advice,
my lad, throw that old trug o’ her’n over the hedge and leave her to the
devil! And now loose my bridle; I’m done.”
“But I am not, sir!” answered Sir John. “You attempted to strike a woman
in my presence, and have dared allude to me twice as your ‘lad’—two very
heinous offences——”
“Loose my bridle or ’twill be the worse for ye. D’ye know who I am?”
“Judging by your right eye, sir, its rainbow colouring, I opine you must
be Mr. James Sturton——”
“Damn your insolence—leggo my bridle!”
But instead of complying, Sir John gave a sudden twist to the bit,
whereupon the plump and somnolent steed waked to sudden action, insomuch
that Mr. Sturton was nearly unseated and his hat tumbled off; whereupon
Sir John deftly skewered it upon the end of his stick and tossed it over
the hedge; and old Penelope, watching its brief flight, uttered a single
screech of laughter and was immediately silent again.
Mr. Sturton, having quieted his horse, raised his stick and struck
viciously, but Sir John, deftly parrying the blow, answered it with a
thrust, a lightning riposte that took his aggressor full upon fleshy
chin. Mr. Sturton dropped his stick, clapped hand to chin and, seeing
his own blood, spurred madly upon Sir John, who, in escaping the lashing
hoofs, tripped and fell into the ditch.
“Let that learn ye!” cried Mr. Sturton, exultantly shaking his fist. “A
ditch is the proper place for you, my lad.... I only hope as you’ve broke
a bone.”
“Thank you,” answered Sir John, sitting up, and groping for his hat, “I
find myself very well, for:
Though in posture unheroic
You behold me still a stoic.
And, further, here’s a truth, sir, which is:
There are places worse than ditches!
Indeed, Mr. Sturton,” he added, leaning back in the ditch and folding his
arms, “’tis in my mind that you may find yourself yearning passionately
for a good, dry ditch one o’ these days.”
“Bah!” cried the other contemptuously. “If ye can crawl—crawl and bring
me my hat.”
“The heavens,” answered Sir John, pointing thither with graceful
flourish, “the heavens shall fall first, sir.”
“Ha, now—look’ee! You’ll bring me my hat, young man, or I’ll march you
and yon vile old beldam into Dering and ha’ ye clapped into the stocks
together for assault on the highway! D’ye hear?”
“Sir,” answered Sir John, “a fiddlestick!”
Uttering an angry exclamation, Mr. Sturton whipped a pistol from his
holster, but as he did so, old Penelope whirled her long staff which,
missing him by a fraction, took effect upon his horse, whereupon this
much-enduring animal promptly bolted and galloped furiously away with Mr.
Sturton in a cloud of dust.
“Lord ha’ mercy!” gasped old Penelope as the galloping hoof-beats
blurred and died away. “Lord, what ’ave I done?”
“Removed an offence by a mere flourish o’ your magic wand, like the fairy
godmother you are!” answered Sir John. “Mistress Penelope, accept my
thanks—I salute you!” And, standing up in the ditch, he bowed gravely.
“Ha’ done, young man, ha’ done!” she cried distressfully. “He’ll raise
the village again’ me ... he’ll ha’ me in the stocks again—an’ arl along
o’ you! An’ I can’t bear they stocks like I used to ... they cramps my
old bones s’cruel.... O Lord ha’ mercy! The stocks!” And, leaning on her
staff, she bowed her white head and sobbed miserably.
In a moment Sir John was out of the ditch and, standing beside her, laid
one white hand upon her shoulder, patting it gently.
“Penelope,” said he softly, “don’t weep! No man shall do you violence....
I swear none shall harm you any more ... so be comforted!”
“An’ who be you t’ promise s’much?” she demanded fiercely.
“One who will keep his word——”
“I be so old,” she wailed—“so old an’ lonesome an’ weary of ’t all.”
“But very courageous!” he added gently. “And I think, Penelope, nay, I’m
sure there are better days coming for you—and me. So come, let us go on,
confident in ourselves and the future.”
And taking stick and basket in one hand, he slipped the other within his
aged companion’s arm and they tramped on again.
“You speak mighty bold, young man!” said she after a while, with another
of her keen glances. “Aye, an’ look mighty bold—why?”
“Perhaps because I feel mighty bold!” he answered lightly.
“Aye, like ye did when he knocked ye into the ditch, young man!”
“The ditch?” repeated Sir John. “Aye, begad, the ditch! ’S heart, it
needed but this!” And here he laughed so blithely that old Penelope
stared and, forgetting her recent tears, presently smiled.
“Ye tumbled so ’mazin’ sudden, young man,” she nodded. “An’ then I never
’eerd no one talk po’try in a dik’ afore.”
“And you probably never will again, Penelope. The occasion was unique and
my extempore rhymes none too bad.”
“Eh—eh, young man, did ye mak’ ’em up ... a-settin’ in t’ dik’ ... arl
out o’ y’r head? Lord!”
So they reached the village at last, its deep-thatched cottages nestled
beneath the sheltering down; a quiet, sleepy place where a brook gurgled
pleasantly and rooks cawed lazily amid lofty, ancient trees; a place of
peace, it seemed, very remote from the world.
But, as they went, rose a stir, a flutter, a growing bustle; heads peered
from casements, from open doorways and dim interiors; children ceased
their play to point, a woman laughed shrilly, men, home-coming from the
fields, stood to stare, to laugh, to hoot and jeer; and foremost, among a
group of loungers before the ancient inn, Sir John espied Mr. Sturton.
And thus amid hoots, jeers and derisive laughter came Sir John to High
Dering.