Meanwhile, on leaving Helen, Burley strode on; and, as if by some better
instinct, for he was unconscious of his own steps, he took his 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 farmyard 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 colour 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 fireplace, 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 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 tire some 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 be nears his favourite 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 check on my bankers not three months ago!"
"But it war n't 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 honour 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.