It was to Wilson, his valet, with whom he frequently chatted in airy
fashion before rising of a morning, that Rollo Finch first disclosed
his great idea. Wilson was a man of silent habit, and men of silent
habit rarely escaped Rollo's confidences.
'Wilson,' he said one morning from the recesses of his bed, as the
valet entered with his shaving-water, 'have you ever been in love?'
'Yes, sir,' said the valet, unperturbed.
One would hardly have expected the answer to be in the affirmative.
Like most valets and all chauffeurs, Wilson gave the impression of
being above the softer emotions.
'What happened?' inquired Rollo.
'It came to nothing, sir,' said Wilson, beginning to strop the razor
with no appearance of concern.
'Ah!' said Rollo. 'And I bet I know why. You didn't go the right way to
work.'
'No, sir?'
'Not one fellow in a hundred does. I know. I've thought it out. I've
been thinking the deuce of a lot about it lately. It's dashed tricky,
this making love. Most fellows haven't a notion how to work it. No
system. No system, Wilson, old scout.'
'No, sir?'
'Now, I _have_ a system. And I'll tell it you. It may do you a bit
of good next time you feel that impulse. You're not dead yet. Now, my
system is simply to go to it gradually, by degrees. Work by schedule.
See what I mean?'
'Not entirely, sir.'
'Well, I'll give you the details. First thing, you want to find the
girl.'
'Just so, sir.'
'Well, when you've found her, what do you do? You just look at her. See
what I mean?'
'Not entirely, sir.'
'Look at her, my boy. That's just the start--the foundation. You
develop from that. But you keep away. That's the point. I've thought
this thing out. Mind you, I don't claim absolutely all the credit for
the idea myself. It's by way of being based on Christian Science.
Absent treatment, and all that. But most of it's mine. All the fine
work.'
'Yes, sir?'
'Yes. Absolutely all the fine work. Here's the thing in a nutshell. You
find the girl. Right. Of course, you've got to meet her once, just to
establish the connexion. Then you get busy. First week, looks. Just
look at her. Second week, letters. Write to her every day. Third week,
flowers. Send her some every afternoon. Fourth week, presents with a
bit more class about them. Bit of jewellery now and then. See what I
mean? Fifth week,--lunches and suppers and things. Sixth week, propose,
though you can do it in the fifth week if you see a chance. You've got
to leave that to the fellow's judgement. Well, there you are. See what
I mean?'
Wilson stropped his master's razor thoughtfully.
'A trifle elaborate, sir, is it not?' he said.
Rollo thumped the counterpane.
'I knew you'd say that. That's what nine fellows out of ten
_would_ say. They'd want to rush it. I tell you, Wilson, old
scout, you _can't_ rush it.'
Wilson brooded awhile, his mind back in the passionate past.
'In Market Bumpstead, sir--'
'What the deuce is Market Bumpstead?'
'A village, sir, where I lived until I came to London.'
'Well?'
'In Market Bumpstead, sir, the prevailing custom was to escort the
young lady home from church, buy her some little present--some ribbons,
possibly--next day, take her for a walk, and kiss her, sir.'
Wilson's voice, as he unfolded these devices of the dashing youth of
Market Bumpstead, had taken on an animation quite unsuitable to a
conscientious valet. He gave the impression of a man who does not
depend on idle rumour for his facts. His eye gleamed unprofessionally
for a moment before resuming its habitual expression of quiet
introspection.
Rollo shook his head.
'That sort of thing might work in a village,' he said, 'but you want
something better for London.'
* * * * *
Rollo Finch--in the present unsatisfactory state of the law parents may
still christen a child Rollo--was a youth to whom Nature had given a
cheerful disposition not marred by any superfluity of brain. Everyone
liked Rollo--the great majority on sight, the rest as soon as they
heard that he would be a millionaire on the death of his Uncle Andrew.
There is a subtle something, a sort of nebulous charm, as it were,
about young men who will be millionaires on the death of their Uncle
Andrew which softens the ruggedest misanthrope.
Rollo's mother had been a Miss Galloway, of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,
U.S.A.; and Andrew Galloway, the world-famous Braces King, the inventor
and proprietor of the inimitable 'Tried and Proven', was her brother.
His braces had penetrated to every corner of the earth. Wherever
civilization reigned you would find men wearing Galloway's 'Tried and
Proven'.
Between Rollo and this human benefactor there had always existed
friendly relations, and it was an open secret that, unless his uncle
were to marry and supply the world with little Galloways as well as
braces, the young man would come into his money.
So Rollo moved on his way through life, popular and happy. Always merry
and bright. That was Rollo.
Or nearly always. For there were moments--we all have our greyer
moments--when he could have wished that Mr Galloway had been a trifle
older or a trifle less robust. The Braces potentate was at present
passing, in excellent health, through the Indian summer of life. He
was, moreover, as has been stated, by birth and residence a Pittsburgh
man. And the tendency of middle-aged Pittsburgh millionaires to marry
chorus-girls is notoriously like the homing instinct of pigeons.
Something--it may be the smoke--seems to work on them like a charm.
In the case of Andrew Galloway, Nature had been thwarted up till now by
the accident of an unfortunate attachment in early life. The facts were
not fully known, but it was generally understood that his fiancee had
exercised Woman's prerogative and changed her mind. Also, that she had
done this on the actual wedding-day, causing annoyance to all, and had
clinched the matter by eloping to Jersey City with the prospective
bridegroom's own coachman. Whatever the facts, there was no doubt about
their result. Mr Galloway, having abjured woman utterly, had flung
himself with moody energy into the manufacture and propagation of his
'Tried and Proven' Braces, and had found consolation in it ever since.
He would be strong, he told himself, like his braces. Hearts might snap
beneath a sudden strain. Not so the 'Tried and Proven'. Love might tug
and tug again, but never more should the trousers of passion break away
from the tough, masterful braces of self-control.
As Mr Galloway had been in this frame of mind for a matter of eleven
years, it seemed to Rollo not unreasonable to hope that he might
continue in it permanently. He had the very strongest objection to his
uncle marrying a chorus-girl; and, as the years went on and the
disaster did not happen, his hopes of playing the role of heir till the
fall of the curtain grew stronger and stronger. He was one of those
young men who must be heirs or nothing. This is the age of the
specialist, and years ago Rollo had settled on his career. Even as a
boy, hardly capable of connected thought, he had been convinced that
his speciality, the one thing he could do really well, was to inherit
money. All he wanted was a chance. It would be bitter if Fate should
withhold it from him.
He did not object on principle to men marrying chorus-girls. On the
contrary, he wanted to marry one himself.
It was this fact which had given that turn to his thoughts which had
finally resulted in the schedule.
* * * * *
The first intimation that Wilson had that the schedule was actually to
be put into practical operation was when his employer, one Monday
evening, requested him to buy a medium-sized bunch of the best red
roses and deliver them personally, with a note, to Miss Marguerite
Parker at the stage-door of the Duke of Cornwall's Theatre.
Wilson received the order in his customary gravely deferential manner,
and was turning to go; but Rollo had more to add.
'Flowers, Wilson,' he said, significantly.
'So I understood you to say, sir. I will see to it at once.'
'See what I mean? Third week, Wilson.'
'Indeed, sir?'
Rollo remained for a moment in what he would have called thought.
'Charming girl, Wilson.'
'Indeed, sir?'
'Seen the show?'
'Not yet, sir.'
'You should,' said Rollo, earnestly. 'Take my advice, old scout, and
see it first chance you get. It's topping. I've had the same seat in
the middle of the front row of the stalls for two weeks.'
'Indeed, sir?'
'Looks, Wilson! The good old schedule.'
'Have you noticed any satisfactory results, sir?'
'It's working. On Saturday night she looked at me five times. She's a
delightful girl, Wilson. Nice, quiet girl--not the usual sort. I met
her first at a lunch at Oddy's. She's the last girl on the O.P. side.
I'm sure you'd like her, Wilson.'
'I have every confidence in your taste, sir.'
'You'll see her for yourself this evening. Don't let the fellow at the
stage-door put you off. Slip him half a crown or a couple of quid or
something, and say you must see her personally. Are you a close
observer, Wilson?'
'I think so, sir.'
'Because I want you to notice particularly how she takes it. See that
she reads the note in your presence. I've taken a good deal of trouble
over that note, Wilson. It's a good note. Well expressed. Watch her
face while she's reading it.'
'Very good, sir. Excuse me, sir.'
'Eh?'
'I had almost forgotten to mention it. Mr Galloway rang up on the
telephone shortly before you came in.'
'What! Is he in England?'
Mr Galloway was in the habit of taking occasional trips to Great
Britain to confer with the general manager of his London branch. Rollo
had grown accustomed to receiving no notice of these visits.
'He arrived two days ago on the _Baltic_, sir. He left a message
that he was in London for a week, and would be glad if you would dine
with him tomorrow at his club.'
Rollo nodded. On these occasions it was his practice to hold himself
unreservedly at Mr Galloway's disposal. The latter's invitations were
royal commands. Rollo was glad that the visit had happened now. In
another two weeks it might have been disastrous to the schedule.
The club to which the Braces King belonged was a richly but gloomily
furnished building in Pall Mall, a place of soft carpets, shaded
lights, and whispers. Grave, elderly men moved noiselessly to and fro,
or sat in meditative silence in deep arm-chairs. Sometimes the visitor
felt that he was in a cathedral, sometimes in a Turkish bath; while now
and then there was a suggestion of the waiting-room of a more than
usually prosperous dentist. It was magnificent, but not exhilarating.
Rollo was shown into the smoking-room, where his uncle received him.
There was a good deal of Mr Andrew Galloway. Grief, gnawing at his
heart, had not sagged his ample waistcoat, which preceded him as he
moved in much the same manner as Birnam Woods preceded the army of
Macduff. A well-nourished hand crept round the corner of the edifice
and enveloped Rollo's in a powerful grip.
'Ah, my boy!' bellowed Mr Galloway cheerfully. His voice was always
loud. 'Glad you've come.'
It would be absurd to say that Rollo looked at his uncle keenly. He was
not capable of looking keenly at anyone. But certainly a puzzled
expression came into his face. Whether it was the heartiness of the
other's hand-shake or the unusual cheeriness of his voice, he could not
say; but something gave him the impression that a curious change had
come over the Braces King. When they had met before during the last few
years Mr Galloway had been practically sixteen stone five of blood and
iron--one of those stern, soured men. His attitude had been that of one
for whom Life's music had ceased. Had he then inserted another record?
His manner conveyed that idea.
Sustained thought always gave Rollo a headache. He ceased to speculate.
'Still got the same _chef_ here, uncle?' he said. 'Deuced brainy
fellow. I always like dining here.'
'Here!' Mr Galloway surveyed the somnolent occupants of the room with
spirited scorn. 'We aren't going to dine in this forsaken old
mausoleum. I've sent in my resignation today. If I find myself wanting
this sort of thing at any time, I'll go to Paris and hunt up the
Morgue. Bunch of old dead-beats! Bah! I've engaged a table at Romano's.
That's more in my line. Get your coat, and let's be going.'
In the cab Rollo risked the headache. At whatever cost this thing must
be pondered over. His uncle prattled gaily throughout the journey. Once
he whooped--some weird, forgotten college yell, dragged from the misty
depths of the past. It was passing strange. And in this unusual manner
the two rolled into the Strand, and drew up at Romano's door.
Mr Galloway was a good trencherman. At a very early date he had
realized that a man who wishes to make satisfactory braces must keep
his strength up. He wanted a good deal here below, and he wanted it
warm and well cooked. It was, therefore, not immediately that his
dinner with Rollo became a feast of reason and a flow of soul. Indeed,
the two revellers had lighted their cigars before the elder gave forth
any remark that was not purely gastronomic.
When he did jerk the conversation up on to a higher plane, he jerked it
hard. He sent it shooting into the realms of the soulful with a whiz.
'Rollo,' he said, blowing a smoke-ring, 'do you believe in affinities?'
Rollo, in the act of sipping a liqueur brandy, lowered his glass in
surprise. His head was singing slightly as the result of some rather
spirited Bollinger (extra sec), and he wondered if he had heard aright.
Mr Galloway continued, his voice rising as he spoke.
'My boy,' he said, 'I feel young tonight for the first time in years.
And, hang it, I'm not so old! Men have married at twice my age.'
Strictly speaking, this was incorrect, unless one counted Methuselah;
but perhaps Mr Galloway spoke figuratively.
'Three times my age,' he proceeded, leaning back and blowing smoke,
thereby missing his nephew's agitated start. 'Four times my age. Five
times my age. Six--'
He pulled himself together in some confusion. A generous wine, that
Bollinger. He must be careful.
He coughed.
'Are you--you aren't--are you--' Rollo paused. 'Are you thinking of
getting married, uncle?'
Mr Galloway's gaze was still on the ceiling.
'A great deal of nonsense,' he yelled severely, 'is talked about men
lowering themselves by marrying actresses. I was a guest at a
supper-party last night at which an actress was present. And a more
charming, sensible girl I never wish to meet. Not one of your silly,
brainless chits who don't know the difference between lobster Newburg
and canvas-back duck, and who prefer sweet champagne to dry. No, sir!
Not one of your mincing, affected kind who pretend they never touch
anything except a spoonful of cold _consomme_. No, sir! Good, healthy
appetite. Enjoyed her food, and knew why she was enjoying it. I give
you my word, my boy, until I met her I didn't know a woman existed who
could talk so damned sensibly about a _bavaroise au rhum_.'
He suspended his striking tribute in order to relight his cigar.
'She can use a chafing-dish,' he resumed, his voice vibrating with
emotion. 'She told me so. She said she could fix chicken so that a man
would leave home for it.' He paused, momentarily overcome. '_And_
Welsh rarebits,' he added reverently.
He puffed hard at his cigar.
'Yes,' he said. 'Welsh rarebits, too. And because,' he shouted
wrathfully, 'because, forsooth, she earns an honest living by singing
in the chorus of a comic opera, a whole bunch of snivelling idiots will
say I have made a fool of myself. Let them!' he bellowed, sitting up
and glaring at Rollo. 'I say, let them! I'll show them that Andrew
Galloway is not the man to--to--is not the man--' He stopped. 'Well,
anyway, I'll show them,' he concluded rather lamely.
Rollo eyed him with fallen jaw. His liqueur had turned to wormwood. He
had been fearing this for years. You may drive out Nature with a
pitchfork, but she will return. Blood will tell. Once a Pittsburgh
millionaire, always a Pittsburgh millionaire. For eleven years his
uncle had fought against his natural propensities, with apparent
success; but Nature had won in the end. His words could have no other
meaning. Andrew Galloway was going to marry a chorus-girl.
Mr Galloway rapped on the table, and ordered another kummel.
'Marguerite Parker!' he roared dreamily, rolling the words round his
tongue, like port.
'Marguerite Parker!' exclaimed Rollo, bounding in his chair.
His uncle met his eye sternly.
'That was the name I said. You seem to know it. Perhaps you have
something to say against the lady. Eh? Have you? Have you? I warn you
to be careful. What do you know of Miss Parker? Speak!'
'Er--no, no. Oh, no! I just know the name, that's all. I--I rather
think I met her once at lunch. Or it may have been somebody else. I
know it was someone.'
He plunged at his glass. His uncle's gaze relaxed its austerity.
'I hope you will meet her many more times at lunch, my boy. I hope you
will come to look upon her as a second mother.'
This was where Rollo asked if he might have a little more brandy.
When the restorative came he drank it at a gulp; then looked across at
his uncle. The great man still mused.
'Er--when is it to be?' asked Rollo. 'The wedding, and all that?'
'Hardly before the Fall, I think. No, not before the Fall. I shall be
busy till then. I have taken no steps in the matter yet.'
'No steps? You mean--? Haven't you--haven't you proposed?'
'I have had no time. Be reasonable, my boy; be reasonable.'
'Oh!' said Rollo.
He breathed a long breath. A suspicion of silver lining had become
visible through the clouds.
'I doubt,' said Mr Galloway, meditatively, 'if I shall be able to find
time till the end of the week. I am very busy. Let me see. Tomorrow?
No. Meeting of the shareholders. Thursday? Friday? No. No, it will have
to stand over till Saturday. After Saturday's matinee. That will do
excellently.'
* * * * *
There is a dramatic spectacle to be observed every day in this land of
ours, which, though deserving of recognition, no artist has yet
pictured on canvas. We allude to the suburban season-ticket holder's
sudden flash of speed. Everyone must have seen at one time or another a
happy, bright-faced season-ticket holder strolling placidly towards the
station, humming, perhaps, in his light-heartedness, some gay air. He
feels secure. Fate cannot touch him, for he has left himself for once
plenty of time to catch that 8.50, for which he has so often sprinted
like the gazelle of the prairie. As he strolls, suddenly his eye falls
on the church clock. The next moment with a passionate cry he is
endeavouring to lower his record for the fifty-yard dash. All the while
his watch has been fifteen minutes slow.
In just such a case was Rollo Finch. He had fancied that he had plenty
of time. And now, in an instant, the fact was borne in upon him that he
must hurry.
For the greater part of the night of his uncle's dinner he lay
sleepless, vainly endeavouring to find a way out of the difficulty. It
was not till early morning that he faced the inevitable. He hated to
abandon the schedule. To do so meant changing a well-ordered advance
into a forlorn hope. But circumstances compelled it. There are moments
when speed alone can save love's season-ticket holder.
On the following afternoon he acted. It was no occasion for stint. He
had to condense into one day the carefully considered movements of two
weeks, and to the best of his ability he did so. He bought three
bouquets, a bracelet, and a gold Billiken with ruby eyes, and sent them
to the theatre by messenger-boy. With them went an invitation to
supper.
Then, with the feeling that he had done all that was possible, he
returned to his flat and waited for the hour.
He dressed with more than usual care that night. Your wise general
never throws away a move. He was particular about his tie. As a rule,
Wilson selected one for him. But there had been times when Wilson had
made mistakes. One could not rely absolutely on Wilson's taste in ties.
He did not blame him. Better men than Wilson had gone wrong over an
evening tie. But tonight there must be no taking of chances.
'Where do we keep our ties, Wilson?' he asked.
'The closet to the right of the door, sir. The first twelve shallow
shelves, counting from the top, sir. They contain a fair selection of
our various cravats. Replicas in bulk are to be found in the third nest
of drawers in your dressing-room, sir.'
'I only want one, my good man. I'm not a regiment. Ah! I stake all on
this one. Not a word, Wilson. No discussion. This is the tie I wear.
What's the time?'
'Eight minutes to eleven, sir.'
'I must be off. I shall be late. I shan't want you any more tonight.
Don't wait for me.'
'Very good, sir.'
Rollo left the room, pale but determined, and hailed a taxi.
* * * * *
It is a pleasant spot, the vestibule of the Carlton Hotel.
Glare--glitter--distant music--fair women--brave men. But one can have
too much of it, and as the moments pass, and she does not arrive, a
chill seems to creep into the atmosphere. We wait on, hoping against
hope, and at last, just as waiters and commissionaires are beginning to
eye us with suspicion, we face the truth. She is not coming. Then out we
crawl into cold, callous Pall Mall, and so home. You have been through
it, dear reader, and so have I.
And so, at eleven forty-five that evening, had Rollo. For a full
three-quarters of an hour he waited, scanning the face of each new
arrival with the anxious scrutiny of a lost dog seeking its master; but
at fourteen minutes to twelve the last faint flicker of hope had died
away. A girl may be a quarter of an hour late for supper. She may be
half an hour late. But there is a limit, and to Rollo's mind forty-five
minutes passed it. At ten minutes to twelve a uniformed official
outside the Carlton signalled to a taxi-cab, and there entered it a
young man whose faith in Woman was dead.
Rollo meditated bitterly as he drove home. It was not so much the fact
that she had not come that stirred him. Many things may keep a girl
from supper. It was the calm way in which she had ignored the
invitation. When you send a girl three bouquets, a bracelet, and a gold
Billiken with ruby eyes, you do not expect an entire absence of
recognition. Even a penny-in-the-slot machine treats you better than
that. It may give you hairpins when you want matches but at least it
takes some notice of you.
He was still deep in gloomy thought when he inserted his latchkey and
opened the door of his flat.
He was roused from his reflections by a laugh from the sitting-room. He
started. It was a pleasant laugh, and musical, but it sent Rollo
diving, outraged, for the handle of the door. What was a woman doing in
his sitting-room at this hour? Was his flat an hotel?
The advent of an unbidden guest rarely fails to produce a certain
_gene_. The sudden appearance of Rollo caused a dead silence.
It was broken by the fall of a chair on the carpet as Wilson rose
hurriedly to his feet.
Rollo stood in the doorway, an impressive statue of restrained
indignation. He could see the outlying portions of a girl in blue at
the further end of the table, but Wilson obscured his vision.
'Didn't expect you back, sir,' said Wilson.
For the first time in the history of their acquaintance his accustomed
calm seemed somewhat ruffled.
'So I should think,' said Rollo. 'I believe you, by George!'
'You had better explain, Jim,' said a dispassionate voice from the end
of the table.
Wilson stepped aside.
'My wife, sir,' he said, apologetically, but with pride.
'Your wife!'
'We were married this morning, sir.'
The lady nodded cheerfully at Rollo. She was small and slight, with an
impudent nose and a mass of brown hair.
'Awfully glad to meet you,' she said, cracking a walnut.
Rollo gaped.
She looked at him again.
'We've met, haven't we? Oh yes, I remember. We met at lunch once. And
you sent me some flowers. It was ever so kind of you,' she said,
beaming.
She cracked another nut. She seemed to consider that the introductions
were complete and that formality could now be dispensed with once more.
She appeared at peace with all men.
The situation was slipping from Rollo's grip. He continued to gape.
Then he remembered his grievance.
'I think you might have let me know you weren't coming to supper.'
'Supper?'
'I sent a note to the theatre this afternoon.'
'I haven't been to the theatre today. They let me off because I was
going to be married. I'm so sorry. I hope you didn't wait long.'
Rollo's resentment melted before the friendliness of her smile.
'Hardly any time,' he said, untruthfully.
'If I might explain, sir,' said Wilson.
'By George! If you can, you'll save me from a brainstorm. Cut loose,
and don't be afraid you'll bore me. You won't.'
'Mrs Wilson and I are old friends, sir. We come from the same town. In
fact--'
Rollo's face cleared.
'By George! Market what's-its-name! Why, of course. Then she--'
'Just so, sir. If you recollect, you asked me once if I had ever been
in love, and I replied in the affirmative.'
'And it was--'
'Mrs Wilson and I were engaged to be married before either of us came
to London. There was a misunderstanding, which was entirely my--'
'Jim! It was mine.'
'No, it was all through my being a fool.'
'It was not. You know it wasn't!'
Rollo intervened.
'Well?'
'And when you sent me with the flowers, sir--well, we talked it over
again, and--that was how it came about, sir.'
The bride looked up from her walnuts.
'You aren't angry?' she smiled up at Rollo.
'Angry?' He reflected. Of course, it was only reasonable that he should
be a little--well, not exactly angry, but--And then for the first time
it came to him that the situation was not entirely without its
compensations. Until that moment he had completely forgotten Mr
Galloway.
'Angry?' he said. 'Great Scott, no! Jolly glad I came back in time to
get a bit of the wedding-breakfast. I want it, I can tell you. I'm
hungry. Here we all are, eh? Let's enjoy ourselves. Wilson, old scout,
bustle about and give us your imitation of a bridegroom mixing a "B.
and S." for the best man. Mrs Wilson, if you'll look in at the theatre
tomorrow you'll find one or two small wedding presents waiting for you.
Three bouquets--they'll be a bit withered, I'm afraid--a bracelet, and
a gold Billiken with ruby eyes. I hope he'll bring you luck. Oh,
Wilson!'
'Sir?'
'Touching this little business--don't answer if it's a delicate
question, but I _should_ like to know--I suppose you didn't try
the schedule. What? More the Market Thingummy method, eh? The one you
described to me?'
'Market Bumpstead, sir?' said Wilson. 'On those lines.'
Rollo nodded thoughtfully.
'It seems to me,' he said, 'they know a thing or two down in Market
Bumpstead.'
'A very rising little place, sir,' assented Wilson.
SIR AGRAVAINE
A TALE OF KING ARTHUR'S ROUND TABLE
Some time ago, when spending a delightful week-end at the ancestral
castle of my dear old friend, the Duke of Weatherstonhope (pronounced
Wop), I came across an old black-letter MS. It is on this that the
story which follows is based.
I have found it necessary to touch the thing up a little here and
there, for writers in those days were weak in construction. Their idea
of telling a story was to take a long breath and start droning away
without any stops or dialogue till the thing was over.
I have also condensed the title. In the original it ran, '"How it came
about that ye good Knight Sir Agravaine ye Dolorous of ye Table Round
did fare forth to succour a damsel in distress and after divers
journeyings and perils by flood and by field did win her for his bride
and right happily did they twain live ever afterwards," by Ambrose ye
monk.'
It was a pretty snappy title for those days, but we have such a high
standard in titles nowadays that I have felt compelled to omit a few
yards of it.
We may now proceed to the story.
* * * * *
The great tournament was in full swing. All through the afternoon
boiler-plated knights on mettlesome chargers had hurled themselves on
each other's spears, to the vast contentment of all. Bright eyes shone;
handkerchiefs fluttered; musical voices urged chosen champions to knock
the cover off their brawny adversaries. The cheap seats had long since
become hoarse with emotion. All round the arena rose the cries of
itinerant merchants: 'Iced malvoisie,' 'Score-cards; ye cannot tell the
jousters without a score-card.' All was revelry and excitement.
A hush fell on the throng. From either end of the arena a mounted
knight in armour had entered.
The herald raised his hand.
'Ladeez'n gemmen! Battling Galahad and Agravaine the Dolorous. Galahad
on my right, Agravaine on my left. Squires out of the ring. Time!'
A speculator among the crowd offered six to one on Galahad, but found
no takers. Nor was the public's caution without reason.
A moment later the two had met in a cloud of dust, and Agravaine,
shooting over his horse's crupper, had fallen with a metallic clang.
He picked himself up, and limped slowly from the arena. He was not
unused to this sort of thing. Indeed, nothing else had happened to him
in his whole jousting career.
The truth was that Sir Agravaine the Dolorous was out of his element at
King Arthur's court, and he knew it. It was this knowledge that had
given him that settled air of melancholy from which he derived his
title.
Until I came upon this black-letter MS. I had been under the
impression, like, I presume, everybody else, that every Knight of the
Round Table was a model of physical strength and beauty. Malory says
nothing to suggest the contrary. Nor does Tennyson. But apparently
there were exceptions, of whom Sir Agravaine the Dolorous must have
been the chief.
There was, it seems, nothing to mitigate this unfortunate man's
physical deficiencies. There is a place in the world for the strong,
ugly man, and there is a place for the weak, handsome man. But to fall
short both in features and in muscle is to stake your all on brain. And
in the days of King Arthur you did not find the populace turning out to
do homage to brain. It was a drug on the market. Agravaine was a good
deal better equipped than his contemporaries with grey matter, but his
height in his socks was but five feet four; and his muscles, though he
had taken three correspondence courses in physical culture, remained
distressingly flaccid. His eyes were pale and mild, his nose snub, and
his chin receded sharply from his lower lip, as if Nature, designing
him, had had to leave off in a hurry and finish the job anyhow. The
upper teeth, protruding, completed the resemblance to a nervous rabbit.
Handicapped in this manner, it is no wonder that he should feel sad and
lonely in King Arthur's court. At heart he ached for romance; but
romance passed him by. The ladies of the court ignored his existence,
while, as for those wandering damsels who came periodically to Camelot
to complain of the behaviour of dragons, giants, and the like, and to
ask permission of the king to take a knight back with them to fight
their cause (just as, nowadays, one goes out and calls a policeman), he
simply had no chance. The choice always fell on Lancelot or some other
popular favourite.
* * * * *
The tournament was followed by a feast. In those brave days almost
everything was followed by a feast. The scene was gay and animated.
Fair ladies, brave knights, churls, varlets, squires, scurvy knaves,
men-at-arms, malapert rogues--all were merry. All save Agravaine. He
sat silent and moody. To the jests of Dagonet he turned a deaf ear. And
when his neighbour, Sir Kay, arguing with Sir Percivale on current
form, appealed to him to back up his statement that Sir Gawain, though
a workman-like middle-weight, lacked the punch, he did not answer,
though the subject was one on which he held strong views. He sat on,
brooding.
As he sat there, a man-at-arms entered the hall.
'Your majesty,' he cried, 'a damsel in distress waits without.'
There was a murmur of excitement and interest.
'Show her in,' said the king, beaming.
The man-at-arms retired. Around the table the knights were struggling
into an upright position in their seats and twirling their moustaches.
Agravaine alone made no movement. He had been through this sort of
thing so often. What were distressed damsels to him? His whole
demeanour said, as plainly as if he had spoken the words, 'What's the
use?'
The crowd at the door parted, and through the opening came a figure at
the sight of whom the expectant faces of the knights turned pale with
consternation. For the new-comer was quite the plainest girl those
stately halls had ever seen. Possibly the only plain girl they had ever
seen, for no instance is recorded in our authorities of the existence
at that period of any such.
The knights gazed at her blankly. Those were the grand old days of
chivalry, when a thousand swords would leap from their scabbards to
protect defenceless woman, if she were beautiful. The present seemed
something in the nature of a special case, and nobody was quite certain
as to the correct procedure.
An awkward silence was broken by the king.
'Er--yes?' he said.
The damsel halted.
'Your majesty,' she cried, 'I am in distress. I crave help!'
'Just so,' said the king, uneasily, flashing an apprehensive glance at
the rows of perturbed faces before him. 'Just _so_. What--er--what is
the exact nature of the--ah--trouble? Any assistance these gallant
knights can render will, I am sure, be--ah--eagerly rendered.'
He looked imploringly at the silent warriors. As a rule, this speech
was the signal for roars of applause. But now there was not even a
murmur.
'I may say enthusiastically,' he added.
Not a sound.
'Precisely,' said the king, ever tactful. 'And now--you were saying?'
'I am Yvonne, the daughter of Earl Dorm of the Hills,' said the damsel,
'and my father has sent me to ask protection from a gallant knight
against a fiery dragon that ravages the country-side.'
'A dragon, gentlemen,' said the king, aside. It was usually a safe
draw. Nothing pleased the knight of that time more than a brisk bout
with a dragon. But now the tempting word was received in silence.
'Fiery,' said the king.
Some more silence.
The king had recourse to the direct appeal. 'Sir Gawain, this Court
would be greatly indebted to you if--'
Sir Gawain said he had strained a muscle at the last tournament.
'Sir Pelleas.'
The king's voice was growing flat with consternation. The situation was
unprecedented.
Sir Pelleas said he had an ingrowing toe-nail.
The king's eye rolled in anguish around the table. Suddenly it stopped.
It brightened. His look of dismay changed to one of relief.
A knight had risen to his feet. It was Agravaine.
'Ah!' said the king, drawing a deep breath.
Sir Agravaine gulped. He was feeling more nervous than he had ever felt
in his life. Never before had he risen to volunteer his services in a
matter of this kind, and his state of mind was that of a small boy
about to recite his first piece of poetry.
It was not only the consciousness that every eye, except one of Sir
Balin's which had been closed in the tournament that afternoon, was
upon him. What made him feel like a mild gentleman in a post-office who
has asked the lady assistant if she will have time to attend to him
soon and has caught her eye, was the fact that he thought he had
observed the damsel Yvonne frown as he rose. He groaned in spirit. This
damsel, he felt, wanted the proper goods or none at all. She might not
be able to get Sir Lancelot or Sir Galahad; but she was not going to be
satisfied with a half-portion.
The fact was that Sir Agravaine had fallen in love at first sight. The
moment he had caught a glimpse of the damsel Yvonne, he loved her
devotedly. To others she seemed plain and unattractive. To him she was
a Queen of Beauty. He was amazed at the inexplicable attitude of the
knights around him. He had expected them to rise in a body to clamour
for the chance of assisting this radiant vision. He could hardly
believe, even now, that he was positively the only starter.
'This is Sir Agravaine the Dolorous,' said the king to the damsel.
'Will you take him as your champion?'
Agravaine held his breath. But all was well. The damsel bowed.
'Then, Sir Agravaine,' said the king, 'perhaps you had better have your
charger sent round at once. I imagine that the matter is pressing--time
and--er--dragons wait for no man.'
Ten minutes later Agravaine, still dazed, was jogging along to the
hills, with the damsel by his side.
It was some time before either of them spoke. The damsel seemed
preoccupied, and Agravaine's mind was a welter of confused thoughts,
the most prominent of which and the one to which he kept returning
being the startling reflection that he, who had pined for romance so
long, had got it now in full measure.
A dragon! Fiery withal. Was he absolutely certain that he was capable
of handling an argument with a fiery dragon? He would have given much
for a little previous experience of this sort of thing. It was too late
now, but he wished he had had the forethought to get Merlin to put up a
magic prescription for him, rendering him immune to dragon-bites. But
did dragons bite? Or did they whack at you with their tails? Or just
blow fire?
There were a dozen such points that he would have liked to have settled
before starting. It was silly to start out on a venture of this sort
without special knowledge. He had half a mind to plead a forgotten
engagement and go straight back.
Then he looked at the damsel, and his mind was made up. What did death
matter if he could serve her?
He coughed. She came out of her reverie with a start.
'This dragon, now?' said Agravaine.
For a moment the damsel did not reply. 'A fearsome worm, Sir Knight,'
she said at length. 'It raveneth by day and by night. It breathes fire
from its nostrils.'
'Does it!' said Agravaine. '_Does_ it! You couldn't give some
idea what it looks like, what kind of _size_ it is?'
'Its body is as thick as ten stout trees, and its head touches the
clouds.'
'Does it!' said Agravaine thoughtfully. '_Does_ it!'
'Oh, Sir Knight, I pray you have a care.'
'I will,' said Agravaine. And he had seldom said anything more
fervently. The future looked about as bad as it could be. Any hopes
he may have entertained that this dragon might turn out to
be comparatively small and inoffensive were dissipated. This was
plainly no debilitated wreck of a dragon, its growth stunted by
excessive-fire-breathing. A body as thick as ten stout trees! He would
not even have the melancholy satisfaction of giving the creature
indigestion. For all the impression he was likely to make on that vast
interior, he might as well be a salted almond.
As they were speaking, a dim mass on the skyline began to take shape.
'Behold!' said the damsel. 'My father's castle.' And presently they
were riding across the drawbridge and through the great gate, which
shut behind them with a clang.
As they dismounted a man came out through a door at the farther end of
the courtyard.
'Father,' said Yvonne, 'this is the gallant knight Sir Agravaine, who
has come to--' it seemed to Agravaine that she hesitated for a moment.
'To tackle our dragon?' said the father. 'Excellent. Come right in.'
Earl Dorm of the Hills, was a small, elderly man, with what Agravaine
considered a distinctly furtive air about him. His eyes were too close
together, and he was over-lavish with a weak, cunning smile. Even
Agravaine, who was in the mood to like the whole family, if possible,
for Yvonne's sake, could not help feeling that appearances were against
this particular exhibit. He might have a heart of gold beneath the
outward aspect of a confidence-trick expert whose hobby was dog-stealing,
but there was no doubt that his exterior did not inspire a genial glow
of confidence.
'Very good of you to come,' said the earl.
'It's a pleasure,' said Agravaine. 'I have been hearing all about the
dragon.'
'A great scourge,' agreed his host. 'We must have a long talk about it
after dinner.'
It was the custom in those days in the stately homes of England for the
whole strength of the company to take their meals together. The guests
sat at the upper table, the ladies in a gallery above them, while the
usual drove of men-at-arms, archers, malapert rogues, varlets, scurvy
knaves, scullions, and plug-uglies attached to all medieval households,
squashed in near the door, wherever they could find room.
The retinue of Earl Dorm was not strong numerically--the household
being, to judge from appearances, one that had seen better days; but it
struck Agravaine that what it lacked in numbers it made up in
toughness. Among all those at the bottom of the room there was not one
whom it would have been agreeable to meet alone in a dark alley. Of
all those foreheads not one achieved a height of more than one point
nought four inches. A sinister collection, indeed, and one which,
Agravaine felt, should have been capable of handling without his
assistance any dragon that ever came into the world to stimulate the
asbestos industry.
He was roused from his reflections by the voice of his host.
'I hope you are not tired after your journey, Sir Agravaine? My little
girl did not bore you, I trust? We are very quiet folk here. Country
mice. But we must try to make your visit interesting.'
Agravaine felt that the dragon might be counted upon to do that. He
said as much.
'Ah, yes, the dragon,' said Earl Dorm, 'I was forgetting the dragon. I
want to have a long talk with you about that dragon. Not now. Later
on.'
His eye caught Agravaine's, and he smiled that weak, cunning smile of
his. And for the first time the knight was conscious of a curious
feeling that all was not square and aboveboard in this castle. A
conviction began to steal over him that in some way he was being played
with, that some game was afoot which he did not understand, that--in a
word--there was dirty work at the cross-roads.
There was a touch of mystery in the atmosphere which made him vaguely
uneasy. When a fiery dragon is ravaging the country-side to such an
extent that the S.O.S. call has been sent out to the Round Table, a
knight has a right to expect the monster to be the main theme of
conversation. The tendency on his host's part was apparently to avoid
touching on the subject at all. He was vague and elusive; and the one
topic on which an honest man is not vague and elusive is that of fiery
dragons. It was not right. It was as if one should phone for the police
and engage them, on arrival, in a discussion on the day's football
results.
A wave of distrust swept over Agravaine. He had heard stories of robber
chiefs who lured strangers into their strongholds and then held them
prisoners while the public nervously dodged their anxious friends who
had formed subscription lists to make up the ransom. Could this be such
a case? The man certainly had an evasive manner and a smile which would
have justified any jury in returning a verdict without leaving the box.
On the other hand, there was Yvonne. His reason revolted against the
idea of that sweet girl being a party to any such conspiracy.
No, probably it was only the Earl's unfortunate manner. Perhaps he
suffered from some muscular weakness of the face which made him smile
like that.
Nevertheless, he certainly wished that he had not allowed himself to be
deprived of his sword and armour. At the time it had seemed to him that
the Earl's remark that the latter needed polishing and the former
stropping betrayed only a kindly consideration for his guest's well-being.
Now, it had the aspect of being part of a carefully-constructed plot.
On the other hand--here philosophy came to his rescue--if anybody did
mean to start anything, his sword and armour might just as well not be
there. Any one of those mammoth low-brows at the door could eat him,
armour and all.
He resumed his meal, uneasy but resigned.
Dinner at Earl Dorm's was no lunch-counter scuffle. It started early
and finished late. It was not till an advanced hour that Agravaine was
conducted to his room.
The room which had been allotted to him was high up in the eastern
tower. It was a nice room, but to one in Agravaine's state of
suppressed suspicion a trifle too solidly upholstered. The door was of
the thickest oak, studded with iron nails. Iron bars formed a neat
pattern across the only window.
Hardly had Agravaine observed these things when the door opened, and
before him stood the damsel Yvonne, pale of face and panting for
breath.
She leaned against the doorpost and gulped.
'Fly!' she whispered.
Reader, if you had come to spend the night in the lonely castle of a
perfect stranger with a shifty eye and a rogues' gallery smile, and on
retiring to your room had found the door kick-proof and the window
barred, and if, immediately after your discovery of these phenomena, a
white-faced young lady had plunged in upon you and urged you to
immediate flight, wouldn't that jar you?
It jarred Agravaine.
'Eh?' he cried.
'Fly! Fly, Sir Knight.'
Another footstep sounded in the passage. The damsel gave a startled
look over her shoulder.
'And what's all this?'
Earl Dorm appeared in the dim-lit corridor. His voice had a nasty
tinkle in it.
'Your--your daughter,' said Agravaine, hurriedly, 'was just telling me
that breakfast would--'
The sentence remained unfinished. A sudden movement of the earl's hand,
and the great door banged in his face. There came the sound of a bolt
shooting into its socket. A key turned in the lock. He was trapped.
Outside, the earl had seized his daughter by the wrist and was
administering a paternal cross-examination.
'What were you saying to him?'
Yvonne did not flinch.
'I was bidding him fly.'
'If he wants to leave this castle,' said the earl, grimly, 'he'll have
to.'
'Father,' said Yvonne,' I can't.'
'Can't what?'
'I can't.'
His grip on her wrist tightened. From the other side of the door came
the muffled sound of blows on the solid oak. 'Oh?' said Earl Dorm.
'You can't, eh? Well, listen to me. You've got to. Do you understand? I
admit he might be better-looking, but--'
'Father, I love him.'
He released her wrist, and stared at her in the uncertain light.
'You love him!'
'Yes.'
'Then what--? Why? Well, I never did understand women,' he said at
last, and stumped off down the passage.
While this cryptic conversation was in progress, Agravaine, his worst
apprehensions realized, was trying to batter down the door. After a few
moments, however, he realized the futility of his efforts, and sat down
on the bed to think.
At the risk of forfeiting the reader's respect, it must be admitted
that his first emotion was one of profound relief. If he was locked up
like this, it must mean that that dragon story was fictitious, and that
all danger was at an end of having to pit his inexperience against a
ravening monster who had spent a lifetime devouring knights. He had
never liked the prospect, though he had been prepared to go through
with it, and to feel that it was definitely cancelled made up for a
good deal.
His mind next turned to his immediate future. What were they going to
do with him? On this point he felt tolerably comfortable. This
imprisonment could mean nothing more than that he would be compelled to
disgorge a ransom. This did not trouble him. He was rich, and, now that
the situation had been switched to a purely business basis, he felt
that he could handle it.
In any case, there was nothing to be gained by sitting up, so he went
to bed, like a good philosopher.
The sun was pouring through the barred window when he was awoken by the
entrance of a gigantic figure bearing food and drink.
He recognized him as one of the scurvy knaves who had dined at the
bottom of the room the night before--a vast, beetle-browed fellow with
a squint, a mop of red hair, and a genius for silence. To Agravaine's
attempts to engage him in conversation he replied only with grunts, and
in a short time left the room, closing and locking the door behind him.
He was succeeded at dusk by another of about the same size and
ugliness, and with even less conversational _elan_. This one did
not even grunt.
Small-talk, it seemed, was not an art cultivated in any great measure
by the lower orders in the employment of Earl Dorm.
The next day passed without incident. In the morning the strabismic
plug-ugly with the red hair brought him food and drink, while in the
evening the non-grunter did the honours. It was a peaceful life, but
tending towards monotony, and Agravaine was soon in the frame of mind
which welcomes any break in the daily round.
He was fortunate enough to get it.
He had composed himself for sleep that night, and was just dropping
comfortably off, when from the other side of the door he heard the
sound of angry voices.
It was enough to arouse him. On the previous night silence had reigned.
Evidently something out of the ordinary was taking place.
He listened intently and distinguished words.
'Who was it I did see thee coming down the road with?'
'Who was it thou didst see me coming down the road with?'
'Aye, who was it I did see thee coming down the road with?'
'Who dost thou think thou art?'
'Who do I think that I am?'
'Aye, who dost thou think thou art?'
Agravaine could make nothing of it. As a matter of fact, he was hearing
the first genuine cross-talk that had ever occurred in those dim,
pre-music-hall days. In years to come dialogue on these lines was to
be popular throughout the length and breadth of Great Britain. But
till then it had been unknown.
The voices grew angrier. To an initiated listener it would have been
plain that in a short while words would be found inadequate and the
dagger, that medieval forerunner of the slap-stick, brought into play.
But to Agravaine, all inexperienced, it came as a surprise when
suddenly with a muffled thud two bodies fell against the door. There
was a scuffling noise, some groans, and then silence.
And then with amazement he heard the bolt shoot back and a key grate in
the keyhole.
The door swung open. It was dark outside, but Agravaine could
distinguish a female form, and, beyond, a shapeless mass which he took
correctly to be the remains of the two plug-uglies.
'It is I, Yvonne,' said a voice.
'What is it? What has been happening?'
'It was I. I set them against each other. They both loved one of the
kitchen-maids. I made them jealous. I told Walt privily that she had
favoured Dickon, and Dickon privily that she loved Walt. And now--'
She glanced at the shapeless heap, and shuddered. Agravaine nodded.
'No wedding-bells for her,' he said, reverently.
'And I don't care. I did it to save you. But come! We are wasting time.
Come! I will help you to escape.'
A man who has been shut up for two days in a small room is seldom slow
off the mark when a chance presents itself of taking exercise.
Agravaine followed without a word, and together they crept down the
dark staircase until they had reached the main hall. From somewhere in
the distance came the rhythmic snores of scurvy knaves getting their
eight hours.
Softly Yvonne unbolted a small door, and, passing through it, Agravaine
found himself looking up at the stars, while the great walls of the
castle towered above him.
'Good-bye,' said Yvonne.
There was a pause. For the first time Agravaine found himself
examining the exact position of affairs. After his sojourn in the
guarded room, freedom looked very good to him. But freedom meant
parting from Yvonne.
He looked at the sky and he looked at the castle walls, and he took a
step back towards the door.
'I'm not so sure I want to go,' he said.
'Oh, fly! Fly, Sir Knight!' she cried.
'You don't understand,' said Agravaine. 'I don't want to seem to be
saying anything that might be interpreted as in the least derogatory to
your father in any way whatever, but without prejudice, surely he is
just a plain, ordinary brigand? I mean it's only a question of a
ransom? And I don't in the least object--'
'No, no, no.' Her voice trembled. 'He would ask no ransom.'
'Don't tell me he kidnaps people just as a hobby!'
'You don't understand. He--No, I cannot tell you. Fly!'
'What don't I understand?'
She was silent. Then she began to speak rapidly. 'Very well. I will
tell you. Listen. My father had six children, all daughters. We were
poor. We had to stay buried in this out-of-the-way spot. We saw no one.
It seemed impossible that any of us should ever marry. My father was in
despair. Then he said, "If we cannot get to town, the town must come to
us." So he sent my sister Yseult to Camelot to ask the king to let us
have a knight to protect us against a giant with three heads. There was
no giant, but she got the knight. It was Sir Sagramore. Perhaps you
knew him?'
Agravaine nodded. He began to see daylight.
'My sister Yseult was very beautiful. After the first day Sir Sagramore
forgot all about the giant, and seemed to want to do nothing else
except have Yseult show him how to play cat's cradle. They were married
two months later, and my father sent my sister Elaine to Camelot to
ask for a knight to protect us against a wild unicorn.'
'And who bit?' asked Agravaine, deeply interested.
'Sir Malibran of Devon. They were married within three weeks, and my
father--I can't go on. You understand now.'
'I understand the main idea,' said Agravaine. 'But in my case--'
'You were to marry me,' said Yvonne. Her voice was quiet and cold, but
she was quivering.
Agravaine was conscious of a dull, heavy weight pressing on his heart.
He had known his love was hopeless, but even hopelessness is the better
for being indefinite. He understood now.
'And you naturally want to get rid of me before it can happen,' he
said. 'I don't wonder. I'm not vain... Well, I'll go. I knew I had no
chance. Good-bye.'
He turned. She stopped him with a sharp cry.
'What do you mean? You cannot wish to stay now? I am saving you.'
'Saving me! I have loved you since the moment you entered the Hall at
Camelot,' said Agravaine.
She drew in her breath.
'You--you love me!'
They looked at each other in the starlight. She held out her hands.
'Agravaine!'
She drooped towards him, and he gathered her into his arms. For a
novice, he did it uncommonly well.
It was about six months later that Agravaine, having ridden into the
forest, called upon a Wise Man at his cell.
In those days almost anyone who was not a perfect bonehead could set up
as a Wise Man and get away with it. All you had to do was to live in a
forest and grow a white beard. This particular Wise Man, for a wonder,
had a certain amount of rude sagacity. He listened carefully to what
the knight had to say.
'It has puzzled me to such an extent,' said Agravaine, 'that I felt
that I must consult a specialist. You see me. Take a good look at me.
What do you think of my personal appearance? You needn't hesitate. It's
worse than that. I am the ugliest man in England.'
'Would you go as far as that?' said the Wise Man, politely.
'Farther. And everybody else thinks so. Everybody except my wife. She
tells me that I am a model of manly beauty. You know Lancelot? Well,
she says I have Lancelot whipped to a custard. What do you make of
that? And here's another thing. It is perfectly obvious to me that my
wife is one of the most beautiful creatures in existence. I have seen
them all, and I tell you that she stands alone. She is literally
marooned in Class A, all by herself. Yet she insists that she is plain.
What do you make of it?'
The Wise Man stroked his beard.
'My son,' he said, 'the matter is simple. True love takes no account of
looks.'
'No?' said Agravaine.
'You two are affinities. Therefore, to you the outward aspect is nothing.
Put it like this. Love is a thingummybob who what-d'you-call-its.'
'I'm beginning to see,' said Agravaine.
'What I meant was this. Love is a wizard greater than Merlin. He plays
odd tricks with the eyesight.'
'Yes,' said Agravaine.
'Or, put it another way. Love is a sculptor greater than Praxiteles. He
takes an unsightly piece of clay and moulds it into a thing divine.'
'I get you,' said Agravaine.
The Wise Man began to warm to his work.
'Or shall we say--'
'I think I must be going,' said Agravaine. 'I promised my wife I would
be back early.'
'We might put it--' began the Wise Man perseveringly.
'I understand,' said Agravaine, hurriedly. 'I quite see now. Good-bye.'
The Wise Man sighed resignedly.
'Good-bye, Sir Knight,' he said. 'Good-bye. Pay at ye desk.'
And Agravaine rode on his way marvelling.