ANOTHER LITTLE DRIVE
He ran across the courtyard, glancing up at the silent house behind
him. In the moonlight Mecklemburg House looked like a house of the
dead. Through the gate, and out into the road; then, for a moment,
Bertie paused.
"Which way shall I go?"
He stood, hesitating, looking up and down the road. In his anxiety to
reach the Land of Golden Dreams he had not paused to consider which
was the road he had to take to get there. Such a detail had not
occurred to him. He had taken it for granted that the road would
choose itself; now he perceived that he had to choose the road.
"I'll go to London--something's sure to turn up when I get there. It
always does. In London all sorts of things happen to a fellow."
His right hand in his pocket, clasping his one and fivepence, he
turned his face towards Cobham. He had a vague idea that to reach town
one had to get to Kingston, and he knew that through Cobham and Esher
was the road to Kingston. If he kept to the road the way was easy, he
had simply to keep straight on. He had pictured himself flying across
the moonlit fields; but he concluded that, for the present, at any
rate, he had better confine himself to the plain broad road.
The weather was glorious. It was just about that time when the night
is about to give way to the morning, and there is that peculiar chill
abroad in the world which, even in the height of summer, ushers in the
dawn. It was as light as day--indeed, very soon it would be day;
already in the eastern heavens were premonitory gleams of the
approaching sun. But at present a moon which was almost at the full
held undisputed reign in the cloudless sky. So bright were her rays
that the stars were dimmed. All the world was flooded with her light.
All was still, except the footsteps of the boy beating time upon the
road. Not a sound was heard, nor was there any living thing in sight
with the exception of the lad. Bertie Bailey had it all to himself.
Bertie strode along the Cobham road at a speed which he believed to be
first rate, but which was probably under four miles an hour. Every now
and then he broke into a trot, but as a rule he confined himself to
walking. Conscious that he would not be missed till several hours had
passed, he told himself that he would have plenty of time to place
himself beyond reach of re-capture before pursuit could follow. Secure
in this belief, every now and then he stopped and looked about him on
the road.
He was filled with a sense of strange excitement. He did not show this
in his outward bearing, for nature had formed his person in an
impassive mould, and he was never able to dispossess himself of an air
of phlegm. An ordinary observer would have said that this young
gentleman was constitutionally heavy and dull, and impervious to
strong feeling of any sort. Mr. Fletcher, for instance, had been wont
to declare that Bailey was his dullest pupil, and in continual
possession of the demons of obstinacy and sulkiness. Yet, on this
occasion, at least, Bailey was on fire with a variety of feelings to
every one of which Mr. Fletcher would have deemed him of necessity a
stranger.
It seemed to him, as he walked on and on, that he walked in fairyland.
He was conscious of a thousand things which were imperceptible to his
outward sense. His heart seemed too light for his bosom; to soar out
of it; to bear him to a land of visions. That Land of Golden Dreams
towards which he travelled he had already reached with his mind's eye,
and that before he had gone a mile upon the road to Cobham.
Mecklemburg House was already a thing of the past That petty poring
over books, which some call study, and which Mr. George Washington
Bankes had declared was such a culpable waste of time, was gone for
ever. No more books for him; no more school; no more rubbish of any
kind. The world was at his feet for him to pick and choose.
By the time he had got to Cobham he was making up his mind as to the
particular line of heroism to which he would apply himself. The old
town, for Cobham calls itself a town, was still and silent, apparently
unconscious of the glorious morning which was dawning on the world,
and certainly unconscious of the young gentleman who was passing
through its pleasant street, scheming schemes which, when brought to
full fruition, would proclaim him a hero in the sight of a universe of
men.
"I'll be a highwayman; I'd like to be; I will be. If a coach and four
were to come along the road this minute I'd stop the horses. Yes! and
I'd set one of them loose, and I'd mount it, and I'd go to the window
of the coach, and I'd say, 'Stand and deliver.' And I'd make them hand
over all they'd got, watches, purses, jewellery, everything--I
shouldn't care if it was L10,000."
He fingered the one and fivepence in his pocket; the sound of the
rattling coppers fired his blood.
"And then I'd dash away on the horse's back, and I'd buy a ship, and
I'd man it with a first-rate crew, and I'd sink it in the middle of
the sea. And, first of all, I'd fill the long-boat with everything
that I could want--guns, and pistols, and revolvers, and swords, and
bullets, and powder, and cartridges and things--and I'd get into it
alone, and I'd say farewell to the sinking ship and crew, and I'd row
off to a desert island, and I'd stop there five-and-twenty years. Yes;
and I'd tame all the birds and animals and things, and I'd be happy as
a king. And then I'd come away."
He did not pause to consider how he was to come away; but that was a
detail too trivial to deserve consideration. By this time Cobham was
being left behind; but he saw nothing save the life which was to be
after he had left that desert isle.
"I'd go to Sherwood Forest, and I'd live under the greenwood tree, and
I'd form a band of robbers, and I'd have them dressed in green, and
I'd seize the Archbishop of Canterbury, and I'd make him fight me with
single-sticks, and I'd let the beggars go, and I'd give the poor all
the booty that I got."
What the rest of the band would say to this generous distribution of
their hard-earned gains was another detail which escaped
consideration.
"And I'd be the oppressor of the rich and the champion of the poor,
and I'd make everybody happy." How the rich were to be made happy by
oppression it is difficult to see; but so few systems of philosophy
bear a rigorous examination. "And I'd have peace and plenty through
the land, and I'd have lots of fighting, and if there was anybody in
prison I'd break the prisons open and I'd let the prisoners out, and
I'd be Ruler of the Greenwood Tree."
His thoughts turned to Jack the Giant-Killer. By now the day was
really breaking, and with the rising sun his spirits rose still
higher. The moonlight merging into the sunshine filled the country
with a rosy haze, which was just the kind of thing for magic.
"I wish there still were fairies."
If he only had had the eyes no fairyland would have been more
beautiful than the world just then.
"No, I don't exactly wish that there were fairies--fairies are such
stuff; but I wish that there were giants and all that kind of thing.
And I wish that I had a magic sword, and a purse that was always more
full the more you emptied it, and that I could walk ten thousand miles
a day. I wish that you had only got to wish for a thing to get
it--wouldn't I just start wishing! I don't know what I wouldn't
wish for."
He did not. The catalogue would have filled a volume.
"But the chief thing for which I'd wish would be to be exactly where I
am, and to be going exactly where I'm going to."
He laughed, and thrust his hands deeper in his pockets when he thought
of this, and was so possessed by his emotions that he kicked up his
heels and began to dance a sort of fandango in the middle of the road.
He perceived that it was a pleasant thing to wish to be exactly where
he was, and to be so well satisfied with the journey's end he had in
view. It is not every boy who is bound for the Land of Golden Dreams;
and especially by the short cut which reaches it by way of the Cobham
road.
So far he had not met a single human being, nor seen a sign, nor heard
a sound of one. But when he had fairly left Cobham in the rear, and
was yet engaged in the performance of that dance which resembled the
fandango, he heard behind him the sound of wheels rapidly approaching.
They were yet a considerable distance off, but they were approaching
so swiftly that one's first thought was that a luckless driver was
being run away with. When Bertie heard them first he started. His
thought was of pursuit; his impulse was to scramble into an adjoining
field, and to hide behind a hedge. It would be terrible to be
re-captured in the initiatory stage of his journey to the Land of
Golden Dreams.
But his alarm vanished when he turned and looked behind him. The
vehicle approaching contained a friend. Even at that distance he
recognised it as the dog-cart of Mr. George Washington Bankes. The
ungainly-looking beast flying at such a terrific pace along the lonely
road was none other than the redoubtable Mary Anne.
In a remarkably short space of time the vehicle was level with Bertie.
For a moment the boy wondered if he had been recognised; but the doubt
did not linger long, for with startling suddenness Mary Anne was
brought to a halt.
"Hallo! Who's that? Haven't I seen you before? Turn round, you
youngster, and let me see your face. I know the cut of your jib, or
I'm mistaken."
Bertie turned. He looked at Mr. Bankes and Mr. Bankes looked at him.
Mr. George Washington Bankes whistled.
"Whew--w--w, if it isn't the boy who stood up to the lout. What's your
name?"
"Bailey, sir; Bertie Bailey."
"Oh, yes; Bailey! Early hours, Bailey--taking a stroll, eh? What in
thunder brings you here this time of day? I thought good boys like you
were fast asleep in bed."
Bailey looked sheepish, and felt it. There was something in the tone
of Mr. Bankes' voice which was a little trying. Bertie hung his head,
and held his peace.
"Lost your tongue? Poor little dear! Speak up. What are you doing here
this time of day?"
"If you please, sir, I'm running away."
"Running away!"
For a moment Mr. Bankes started. Then he burst into a loud and
continued roar of laughter, which had an effect upon Bertie very
closely resembling that of an extinguisher upon a candle.
"I say, Bailey, what are you running away for?"
Under the circumstances Bertie felt this question cruel. When he had
last seen Mr. Bankes the question had been put the other way. He had
been treated as a poor-spirited young gentleman because he had not run
away already. Plucking up courage, he looked up at his questioner.
"You told me to run away."
The only immediate answer was another roar of laughter. Something very
like tears came into the boy's eyes, and his face assumed that
characteristically sullen expression for which he was famous. This was
not the sort of treatment he had expected.
"You don't mean to say--now look me in the face, youngster--you don't
mean to say that you're running away because I told you to?"
The last words of the question were spoken very deliberately, with a
slight pause between each. Bertie's answer was to the point. He looked
up at Mr. Bankes with that sullen, bull-dog look of his, and said,--
"I do."
"And where do you think you're running to?"
"To the Land of Golden Dreams."
There was a sullen obstinacy about the lad's tone, as though the
confession was extracted from him against his will.
"To the Land of Golden Dreams! Well! Here, you'd better get up. I'll
give you a lift upon the road? and there's a word or two I'd like to
say as we are going."
Bertie climbed up to the speaker's side, and Mary Anne was again in
motion. The swift travelling through the sweet, fresh morning was
pleasant; and as the current of air dashed against his cheeks Bertie's
heart began to re-ascend a little. For some moments not a word was
spoken; but Bertie felt that Mr. Bankes' big black eyes wandered from
Mary Anne to him, and from him to Mary Anne, with a half-mocking,
half-curious expression.
"I say, boy, are any of your family lunatics?"
The question was scarcely courteous. Bertie's lips shut close.
"No."
"Quite sure? Now just you think? Anybody on your mother's side just a
little touched? They say insanity don't spring to a head at once, but
gathers strength through successive generations."
Bailey did not quite understand what was meant; but knowing it was
something not exactly complimentary he held his peace.
"Now--straight out--you don't mean to say you're running away because
I told you to?"
"Yes, I do."
"And for nothing else?"
Bertie paused for a moment to consider.
"I don't know about nothing else, but I shouldn't have thought of it
if you hadn't told me to."
"Then it strikes me the best thing I can do is to turn round and drive
you back again."
"I won't go."
Mr. Bankes laughed. There was such a sullen meaning in the boy's slow
utterance.
"Oh! won't you? What'll you do?"
In an instant Bertie had risen from his seat, and if Mr. Bankes had
not been very quick in putting his arm about him he would have sprung
out upon the road. As it was, Mr. Bankes, taken by surprise, gave an
unintentional tug at the left rein, and had he not corrected his error
with wonderful dexterity Mary Anne would have landed the trap and its
occupants in a convenient ditch.
"Don't you try that on again," said Mr. Bankes, retaining his hold on
the lad.
"Don't you say you'll drive me back again."
"Here's a fighting cock. There have been lunatics in the family--I
know there have. Don't be a little idiot. Sit still."
"Promise you won't drive me back."
"And supposing I won't promise you, what then?"
Bertie's only answer was to give a sudden twist, and before Mr. Bankes
had realized what he intended he had slipped out of his grasp, and was
sprawling on the road. Fortunately the trap had been brought to a
standstill, for had Bertie carried out his original design of
springing out with Mary Anne going at full speed, the probabilities
are that he would have brought his adventures to a final termination
on the spot. Mr. Bankes stared for a moment, and then laughed.
"Well, of all the young ones ever I heard tell of!"
Then, seeing that Bertie had picked himself up, and was preparing to
escape by scrambling through a quickset hedge into a field of uncut
hay--
"Stop!" he cried. "I won't take you back. I promise you upon my honour
I won't. A lad of your kidney's born to be hanged; and if it's hanging
you've made up your mind to, I'm not the man to stop you."
The lad eyed him doubtfully.
"You promise you'll let me do as I please?"
"I swear it, my bantam cock. You shall do as you please, and go where
you please. I can't stop mooning here all day; jump in, and let's be
friends again. I'm square, upon my honour."
The lad resumed his former seat; Mary Anne was once more started.
"Next time you feel it coming on, why, tip me the wink, and I'll pull
up. It's a pity that a neck like yours should be broken before the
proper time; and if you were to jump out while Mary Anne was
travelling like this, why, there'd be nothing left to do but to pick
up the pieces."
As Bertie vouchsafed no answer, after a pause Mr. Bankes went on.
"Now, Bailey, joking aside, what is the place you're making for?"
"I'm going to London."
"London. Got any friends there?"
"No."
"Ever been there before?"
"I've been there with father."
"Know anything about it?"
"I don't know much."
"So I should say, by the build of you. I shouldn't be surprised if you
know more when you come back again--if you ever do come back again, my
bantam. Shall I tell you what generally happens to boys like you who
go up to London without knowing much about it, and without any friends
there? They generally"--Mr. Bankes, as it were, punctuated these
words, laying an emphasis on each--"go under, and they stop under, and
there's an end of them."
He paused; if for a reply, in vain, for there was none from Bailey.
"Do you think London's the Land of Golden Dreams? Well, it is; that's
exactly what it is--it's the Land of Golden Dreams, and the dreams are
short ones, and when you wake from them you're up to your neck in
filth, and you wish that you were dead. For they're nothing else but
dreams, and the reality is dirt, and shame, and want, and misery, and
death."
Again he paused; and again there was no reply from Bertie. "How much
money have you got?"
"One and fivepence."
"Is that all?"
"Yes."
"Well! well! I say nothing, but I think a lot. And do you mean to tell
me that you're off to London with the sum of one shilling and
fivepence in your pocket?"
"You said you ran away with ninepence-halfpenny."
"Well, that's a score! And so I did, but circumstances alter cases,
and that was the foolishest thing that ever I did."
"You said it was the most sensible thing you'd ever done."
"You've a remarkable memory--a remarkable memory; and if you keep it
up you'll improve as you go on. If I said that, I was a liar--I was
the biggest liar that ever lived. I wonder if you could go through the
sort of thing that I have done?"
Mr. Bankes' eyes were again fixed on Bertie, as though he would take
his measure.
"Most men would have been dead a dozen times. I don't know that I
haven't been; I know I've often wished that I could have died just
once--that I could have been wiped clean out. God save you, young one,
from such a life as mine. Pray God to pull you up in time."
Another pause and then--
"What's your plans?"
"I don't know."
"I shouldn't think you did by the look of you. And how long do you
suppose you're going to live, on the sum of one and fivepence?"
"I don't know."
"Well, I should say that with economy you could manage to live two
hours--perhaps a little more, perhaps a little less; that's to say, an
hour before you have your dinner and an hour after. Some could manage
to stretch it out to tea, but you're not one. And when the money's
gone how do you suppose you're going to get some more?"
"I don't know."
"Now don't you think that I'd better turn Mary Anne right round, and
take you back again? You've had a pleasant little drive, you know, and
the morning air's refreshing."
"I won't go, and you promised that you wouldn't."
"You'll wish you had about this time to-morrow; and perhaps a little
before. However, a promise is a promise, so on we go. Know where you
are?"
Bailey did not; Mr. Bankes had turned some sharp corners, and having
left the highroad behind was guiding Mary Anne along a narrow lane in
which there was scarcely room for two vehicles to pass abreast.
"These are the Ember lanes. There's East Molesey right ahead, then the
Thames, then Hampton Court, and then I'll have to leave you. I've come
round this way to stretch the old girl's legs." This was a graceful
allusion to Mary Anne. "My shortest cut would have been across Walton
Bridge, as I'm off to Kempton to see a trial of a horse in which I'm
interested; so when I get to Hampton Court I'll have to go some of my
way back again. Now make up your mind. There isn't much time left to
do it in. Say the word, and I'll take you all the way along with me,
and land you back just where you started. Take a hint, and think a bit
before you speak."
Apparently Bertie took the hint, for it was a moment or two before he
answered.
"I'm not going back."
"Very well. That's the last time of asking, so I wish you joy on your
journey to the Land of the Golden Dreams."