The afternoon was still very warm, but a grey mist, drifting from
the Irish Channel and sailing eastward over the low-lying Island of
Anglesea, was beginning to scatter a thin penetrating drizzle on the
driver of the caravan.
To right and left of the highway stretched a bleak and bare prospect of
marshland and moorland, closed to the west by a sky of ever-deepening
redness, and relieved here and there by black clumps of stunted
woodland. Here and there peeped a solitary farmhouse, with outlying
fields of swampy greenness, where lean and spectral cattle were
lugubriously grazing; and ever and anon came a glimpse of some lonely
lake or tarn, fringed all round with thick sedges, and dotted with
water-lilies. The road was as desolate as the prospect, with not a
living soul upon it, far as the eye could see. To all this, however, the
driver of the caravan paid little attention, owing to the simple fact
that he was fast asleep.
He was roused by a sudden jolting and swaying of the clumsy vehicle,
combined with a sound of splashing water, and opening his eyes sleepily,
he perceived that the grey mare had turned aside from the centre of
the road, and, having entered a stagnant pond on the roadside, was
floundering and struggling in the mud thereof, with the caravan rocking
behind her. At the same moment, a head was thrust round the back part of
the vehicle, and an angry voice exclaimed--
“Tim, you scoundrel, where the devil are you driving to? Wake up, or
I’ll break every bone in your skin.”
Thus addressed, Tim woke himself with an effort, and looking round with
an insinuating smile, replied--
“Begorra, Master Charles, I thought it was an earthquake
entirely----Come out of that, now! Is it wanting to drownd yourself you
are?--G-r-r-r! Sh! Aisy now, aisy!”
The latter portion of the above sentence was addressed to the mare,
which was at last persuaded to wade out of the cool mud, and return to
the dusty track, where she stood quivering and panting. No sooner was
the return to _terra firma_ accomplished than a light agile figure
descended the steps at the back of the caravan, and ran round to the
front. An excited colloquy, angry on the one side, and apologetic on the
other, ensued, and did not cease, even when the driver, with a flick
of his whip, put the caravan again in motion, while the other strode
alongside on foot.
It was just such a caravan as may be seen any summer day forming part
of the camp on an English common, with the swart face of a gipsy woman
looking out at the door, and half a dozen ragged imps and elves rolling
on the grass beneath; as may be observed, smothered in wickerwork of all
descriptions, or glittering pots and pans, moving from door to door in
some sleepy country town, guided by a gloomy gentleman in a velveteen
coat and a hareskin cap, and attended by a brawny hussy, also smothered
in wickerwork or pots and pans; as, furthermore, may be descried forming
part of the procession of a travelling circus, and drawn by a piebald
horse which, whenever a good “pitch” is found, will complete its day’s
labour by performances in the ring. A caravan of the good old English
kind, with small windows ornamented by white muslin curtains, with a
chimney atop for the smoke to come through from the fire inside, with a
door behind ornamented with a knocker, and only lacking a doorplate to
make it quite complete; in short, a house on wheels.
The driver, though rough enough, and red with sun and wind, had nothing
in common with the ordinary drivers of such vehicles, and, in point
of fact, he was neither a gipsy, nor a travelling tinker, nor a circus
performer. Though it was summer-time, he wore a large frieze coat,
descending almost to his heels, and on his head a wideawake hat,
underneath which his lazy, beardless, and somewhat sheepish face shone
with indolent good humour. His companion, Master Charles, as he was
called, bore still less resemblance to the Bohemians of English lanes
and woodlands. He was a slight, handsome, fair-haired young fellow
of two or three and twenty, in the tweed attire of an ordinary summer
tourist; and every movement he made, every word he spoke, implied the
“gentleman born.”
Presently, at a signal from his master (such he was), Tim drew rein
again. By this time the sun was setting fiery red, far away to the west,
and the thin drizzle was becoming more persistent.
“How far did they say it was to Pencroes?”
“Ten miles, sor.”
“The mare is tired out, I think. We shall have to camp by the roadside.”
“All right, Master Charles. There’s a handy shelter beyant there where
you see the trees,” Tim added, pointing up the road with his whip. The
young man looked in that direction, and saw, about a quarter of a
mile away, that the highway entered a dark clump of woodland. He nodded
assent, and walked rapidly forward, while the caravan followed slowly in
his rear.
Reaching the spot where the wood began, and entering the shadow of the
trees, he soon found a spot well fitted for his purpose. To the left,
the road widened out into a grassy patch of common, adorned with, one
or two bushes of stunted brown, and stretched out a dusty arm to touch
a large white gate, which opened on a gloomy grass-grown avenue winding
right through the heart of the wood. The caravan, coming slowly up,
was soon placed in a snug position not far from the gate; the horse was
taken out and suffered to graze; while Tim, searching about, soon found
some dry sticks, and began to light a fire. Diving into the caravan, the
young man re-emerged with a camp-stool, on which he sat down, lighted
a meerschaum pipe, and began to smoke. They could hear the rain faintly
pattering in the boughs above them, but the spot they had chosen was
quite sheltered and dry.
The fire soon blazed up. Entering the caravan in his turn, Tim brought
out a tin kettle full of water, and placed it on the fire, preparatory
to making tea. He was thus engaged when the sound of horse’s hoofs
was heard along the highway, and presently the figure of a horseman
appeared, approaching at a rapid trot. As it came near to the group in
the wayside, the horse shied violently, springing from one side of the
road to the other, so that its rider, a dark, middle-aged man in an
old-fashioned cloak, was almost thrown from the saddle. Uttering a
fierce oath, he recovered himself, and, reining in the frightened
animal, looked angrily round; then, seeing the cause of the mischance,
he forced his horse with no small difficulty to approach the figures by
the fire.
“Who are you?” he demanded, in harsh, peremptory tones. “What are you
doing here?”
The young man, pipe in mouth, looked up at him with a smile, but made no
reply.
“What are you? Vagrants? Do you know this place is private?”
And he pointed with his riding-whip to a printed “Notice!” fixed close
to the gate upon the stem of a large fir tree.
“I beg your pardon,” said the young man, with the utmost _sang froid_;
“we are, I imagine, on the Queen’s highway, and there, with your
permission, we purpose to remain for the night.”
Struck by the superior manner of the speaker, the new-comer looked at
him in some surprise, but with no abatement of his haughty manner. He
then glanced at Tim, who was busy with the kettle, from Tim to the grey
mare, and from the grey mare to the house on wheels. The scowl on his
dark face deepened, and he turned his fierce eyes again on the young
man.
“Let me warn you that these grounds are private. I suffer no wandering
vagabonds to pass that gate.”
“May I ask your name?” said the young man in the same cool tones, and
with the same quiet smile.
“What is my name to you?”
“Well, not much, only I should like to know the title of so very amiable
a person.”
The other condescended to no reply, but walked his horse towards the
gate.
“Here, fellow!” he cried, addressing Tim. “Open this gate for me!”
“Don’t stir!” said his master. “Let our amiable friend open the gate for
himself.”
With an angry exclamation, the rider leapt from his saddle, and still
holding the horse’s reins, threw the gate wide open. Then, still leading
his horse, he strode over towards the young man, who, looking up, saw
that he was nearly six feet high, and very powerfully built, “My name is
Monk, of Monkshurst,” he said. “I’ve a good mind to teach you to
remember it.”
“Don’t be afraid,” was the reply. “Monk, of Monkshurst? I shall be
certain not to forget it, Mr. Monk, of Monkshurst!--Tim, is the water
boiling?”
For a moment Mr. Monk, as he called himself, seemed, ready to draw his
ridingwhip across the young man’s face; but, conquering himself, he
surveyed him from head to foot with savage anger. Nothing daunted, the
young man returned his stare with something very like supreme contempt.
At last, muttering beneath his breath, Mr. Monk turned away, and leading
his horse into the avenue, closed the gate, and remounted; but even then
he did not immediately depart, but remained for some minutes, seated in
the saddle, scowling over at the encampment.
Thus occupied, his face and figure set in the gloomy framework of the
trees, he looked even more forbidding than before.’ His face, though
naturally handsome, was dark with tempestuous passions, his eyes
deep-set and fierce, his clean-shaven jaw square and determined. For
the rest, his black hair, which was thickly mixed with iron-grey, fell
almost to his shoulders, and his upper lip was covered with an iron-grey
moustache.
At last, as if satisfied with his scrutiny, Mr. Monk turned his horse
round with a fierce jerk of the rein, and rode rapidly away in the
shadow of the wood.