AT A FAIR
And so these two entered into partnership--a partnership that, on
the side of Democritus, was marked by an entire adoration, the full
and overwhelming love and trust of a dog's soul, and on Peter's
by affection and a real sense of comfort in the small animal's
companionship.
The days that passed were days of unbroken sunshine; England was
revelling, as she rarely does, in long-continued sun and warmth. Peter
spent the mornings and a good part of the afternoon in the shade of
some coppice or in the shadow of some old quarry or haystack, engrossed
in his writing, while Democritus at first lay curled beside him, and
later, as the ugly wound healed, set off on rabbiting expeditions of
his own, to return at noon and share Peter's midday meal.
After having worked for some weeks under a roof, Peter at first did
not find it so easy to write in the open. There were countless things
to prove of distraction--the sunlight spots that danced on the ground
beside him, the glint of a dragon-fly's wing, the butterflies that
flitted in the sunshine, the bleating of sheep, the lowing of cows,
the cry of the curlew, the plaintive pipe of the plover, all served to
carry his thoughts into dreamy realms of fancy away from the work of
the moment.
And in these realms there were three or four pictures that kept
recurring to his mind. There was a woman sitting in the sunshine on
a terrace, her hair warm and lustrous in the light. Peter would see
again the indescribable note of race and breeding that predominated in
her; see her eyes grey and shining; the warm ivory of her skin; her
white hands long-fingered and slender, rose-tipped, with almond-shaped
nails; the lines of her graceful figure; the whole fragrance, the warm
vitality of her; and hear her low, round voice. There was a moonlight
picture, elusive, full of a rare charm. There was a picture half-hidden
in driving rain, and then a woman by his hearth, lifting a glass of red
wine to her lips. And, lastly, a picture of a woman, looking at him,
white, silent, her eyes holding depths of contempt.
And here Peter would catch his underlip with his teeth and turn again
fiercely to his writing. It was gay writing, witty writing. His
Wanderer wore his cap and bells finely, jesting right royally, and it
would have needed a penetrating insight to recognize the sigh beneath
the smile.
The world, as Peter had told Democritus, has borne much in her time.
Through countless ages she has seen the sin, the sorrow, the pain of
mankind; but she knows, if they could but realize it, that all this is
as transitory as the barren days of winter that cover her, and that
life and hope are never dead, but only sleeping, and will awake again
with the spring. She tells us this times out of number. Every year
she silently speaks her allegory, but it falls for the most part on
unheeding ears. In the barren winter of our lives it is not easy to
believe that spring will once more wake for us, that however long and
dreary the grey months, somewhere and at some time the spring will
dawn. Peter was facing his winter bravely, but he could not yet believe
that one day the sun would shine again for him, the birds sing, the
flowers bloom. For all his outward gaiety, the present physical warmth
and sunshine only served to emphasize his mental winter. But Nature
knew and did her best to cheer him, and to tell him that our interior
spring and summer, though their advent is sure, do not always accord
with hers.
* * * * *
One day, somewhere about the middle of September, Peter reached a
small town. He was progressing slowly northward, but as he spent a
considerable part of his time in writing his progress was by no means
hurried.
In this town a fair was in full swing, and Peter was reminded of a
letter he had once received, which talked of another fair--one in the
South of England.
It was a gay scene enough, and Peter, with Democritus, at his heels,
paused a while to watch it. There were crowds of people in holiday
attire; there were endless couples--girl and swain. There were coco-nut
shies; there were merry-go-rounds of horses and boat-cars, which
revolved to some excruciating music (so-called), set in motion by the
machinery which worked the highly coloured wooden horses and cars.
There were stalls covered with miscellaneous articles of marvellous
manufacture--glass vases with undulated edges, beginning white at the
base and slowly increasing in colour from pale pink to a violent ruby;
china mugs and cups covered with floreate designs or flags, between two
of which King George and Queen Mary stared forth with painted pained
surprise. There were gilt clocks, boxes of sweets, tin butter-dishes
politely called silver, and all the rest of the articles which usually
adorn the stalls at a fair.
A number of these articles were displayed on a circular table covered
with red twill and surrounded by a barricade, beside which stood a
man with a number of small hoops in his hand. In a loud voice he was
urging the onlookers to try their luck. The hoops, it appeared, were
to be loaned to them at the rate of three a penny; they were then to
be flung quoit-like over any article on the table. Provided they fell
surrounding the article without touching it, it became the property of
the thrower. If you had ill-luck you had disbursed your money with no
result; moderate luck would bring you a packet of sweets or a china
dog or cat, and by surprising good luck you might become the possessor
of a certain largish gilt clock or a ruby vase, and all for a sum
which might be the fraction of a penny. It sounded seductive, and
the throwers of the hoops were fairly numerous, though the acquirers
of prizes were few. The wooden hoop had an unpleasant way of falling
against the article required and propping itself up by it as though
too tired for further exertion. But the throwers, with the hearts of
born gamblers, continued to throw and hope for better things, till
diminishing coppers or entirely empty pockets sent them sadly away.
Naturally there was an occasional piece of luck, which fired the
assembly to fresh enthusiasm.
Peter stood still to watch, amused by the wild vagaries of the wooden
hoops. Suddenly a small voice at his elbow spoke.
"It ain't easy, is it? I've thrown a shilling on that there table and
not got so much as a penny packet o' sweets. It's dis'eartening!"
Peter looked round. At his elbow was a small and ugly girl, possibly
the ugliest girl on which it had ever been his fortune to set eyes. Her
pale, square face was covered with freckles, her eyes, small and green,
were like little slits, her nose--a mere apology for that feature--was
a dab in the middle of her face, her mouth wide and formless.
"Apparently it is not easy," said Peter politely. And then he removed
his eyes from her face, fearing that his astonishment at her plainness
might be perceived by her.
She sighed. "I wish I 'adn't thrown my shilling on that there table.
It's the third year now as I've made a fool of myself, and not a penny
left for the 'orses nor nothin'. 'Tisn't as if I were one o' the girls
wot folks treat. 'Oo could, with a face like mine?"
There was no complaint in the remark. It was not even a hint to Peter;
it was merely the grave statement of a fact, with the explanation of
the reason for it.
"Why," asked Peter solemnly, "did you throw your money on that table?"
She came a trifle nearer to him, and spoke in a whisper.
"It's them two things," she said. "That there vase--the crimson one
with the white snake a-curling round it, and the gold clock. I've
watched 'em now for three years, and me 'eart's in me mouth lest some
one should get the 'oops over. I can't get away from 'ere, nor enjoy
the fair no 'ow for watchin', so the 'orses and boats wouldn't be much
good even if I 'adn't throwed that shilling away." It was poured forth
in a rapid undertone, as if the mere mention of her longing might lead
a hoop to encircle either of the two coveted treasures.
Peter eyed them gravely. Of course they were unutterably hideous,
that went without saying; but there they were, representing the
goal--unattainable--of three years' ambition.
"I wonder--" said Peter, and stopped. He had once had some skill as a
player of quoits. He drew a copper from his pocket. "I'll have three of
those hoops," he said to the man in charge of the stall.
The Ugly Little Girl watched him, anxiety in her eyes. Democritus, at
his master's heels, was regarding the proceedings unperturbed.
Peter flung one hoop; it fell on the table and rested in its usual
melancholy fashion against a china figure. The Ugly Little Girl heaved
a sigh of relief; she felt that her confidence had been misplaced.
Peter threw again. The hoop fell fairly over the gilt clock.
"Good!" said the owner of the stall, with an attempt at cheerfulness.
And he picked up the hoop, handing Peter the clock.
Amazed, wrathful, fighting with her tears, the Ugly Little Girl watched
Peter. He threw a third time. The ruby vase with the white snake
climbing up it was neatly encircled. The man handed it to Peter in a
melancholy fashion.
"More 'oops?" he asked dejectedly.
"Not at the moment," returned Peter jauntily, and he moved away. The
Ugly Little Girl was no longer at his elbow.
Peter worked his way through the group of envious admirers round the
stall, and at a little distance he saw her. He walked in her direction,
Democritus at his heels.
"Permit me," quoth Peter as he approached.
She turned round; her eyes were full of tears, her mouth distorted in a
grimace of woe.
"Now, by all the gods," exclaimed Peter, amazed, "what's the matter
with the child?"
"Might 'ave known you'd 'ave got them. Might 'ave known the luck was
all agin me."
"Ye gods and little fishes!" cried Peter, raising his eyes to the sky.
"And how was I to know you wanted the honour of throwing the blessed
little wooden hoops yourself? I fancied it was the mere possession of
the gorgeous articles that you coveted."
"What d'you mean?" she queried.
"I acquired these treasures," returned Peter, "with the sole intention
of presenting them to you. If, however, I have been mistaken----"
"For me!" It had never dawned upon her that any one would willingly
part with such treasures, once acquired.
"Of course," said Peter patiently, "for you. May I ask what else you
imagined I was going to do with them?" He held the gilt clock and the
ruby vase towards her.
Her ugly face was all a-quiver with rapture. "Oh!" she breathed, and
she looked at Peter with adoring eyes.
"Here, take them!" laughed Peter.
She took them tenderly, still half-unbelieving in her good fortune.
"I never thought," she whispered, "that no one would 'ave thrown 'oops
for me. Oh, I say!"
Peter looked at her, and then some spirit took possession of him.
Perhaps it was one of enterprise, perhaps it was one of mischief,
perhaps it was one of kindliness, or perhaps--and this is more
probable--it was a mixture of all three.
"Shall we do the fair together?" he asked.
It was her turn now to look at him. Incredulity, joy, and something
akin to tears struggled for the mastery. The last are apt to come to
the surface at a kindness to one not used to it.
"I--I--d'you mean it?" she asked, ecstatic.
"With all the faith in the world," replied Peter. "Come along."
They were an odd trio--the tall, lean man in his shabby coat and
trousers and the fantastic peacock feather in his hat, the small ugly
girl in her tawdry finery, the mongrel puppy which trotted solemnly at
Peter's heels.
To the Ugly Little Girl it was a never-to-be-forgotten afternoon. She
had a man all of her own, and one, too, who flung shillings abroad
with never so much as a hint at his reckless expenditure. Never again
was she to care for the pitying looks cast upon her lonely self by the
other girls who walked abroad with their swains. Never again was she
lonely. Her life was to hold a dream-knight, a man with sad eyes and
a whimsical smile, who had fêted her throughout one glorious September
day. And her dream was infinitely more beautiful than any other
girl's reality, for in it her man was ever courtly, ever considerate,
laughing, gay, with odd little speeches that somehow tugged at her
heart-strings and brought the happy tears to her eyes. There was never
a blow, never a harsh word, such as fell too often to the lot of the
others. Thrice happy Ugly Little Girl, with her one day of innocent joy
and her dream throughout her life!
As for Peter, having undertaken the rôle of swain, you may be sure he
played his part royally. He whirled on wooden horses till his brain
was dizzy, while Democritus, from the safety of the solid earth,
watched his antics in dumb amazement, marvelling at his undignified
proceedings. He bought and ate waffles made by a stout woman with a
motherly face, who blessed the two in a way that caused the Ugly Little
Girl to blush scarlet and convulsed Peter with inward laughter; he
bought sticks of sugar-candy and huge peppermints called "humbugs"; and
finally he watched a hunchbacked harlequin, in green and gold spangles,
turn somersaults and jest for the motley herd around him.
The Ugly Little Girl gazed in awestruck wonder, laughing every now and
then in a spasm of merriment. Suddenly she looked up and saw Peter's
face.
"Don't it make you laugh?" she queried. "Ain't it funny?"
"For the crowd, perhaps," answered Peter. "But for the harlequin--" He
shrugged his shoulders, and the Ugly Little Girl somehow understood and
ceased to smile.
Later they saw him outside a tent; he was jesting no longer. Morose,
silent, he was gazing on the ground. Peter said a word or two,
insignificant but friendly.
"Ah!" said the fellow, looking up; "you can see the man beneath the
fool."
"Many of us wear the cap and bells," said Peter. "It's better to raise
a laugh than be an object of pity to a non-understanding multitude."
"You, too!" said the man. "Another in the world with a laugh on his
lips and an ache at his heart!"
"Sighing won't ease the ache," said Peter; "and a laugh is often more
dignified than a groan."
"You're right there," was the answer. "And a laughing fool is better
than a moping wise man."
"Well said!" quoth Peter. And then there was a call from within the
tent, and the harlequin vanished with a nod.
"I understand," said the Ugly Little Girl slowly. "It ain't nice to be
laughed at because you 'ave an ugly body, but it's better to let folk
laugh at you and laugh with them than go around with a long face. It's
comfortin' to think that God don't take no account of your body. They
say as 'ow 'E made it, but I'm thinking as it's your father and mother
'as a good 'and in it, and it ain't fair to lay all the blame on God."
"Oh no," said Peter airily but vaguely, and completely at a loss for a
suitable reply. And then he bethought him of the coco-nut shies, and
led the way in that direction.
"Ain't you givin' me a time!" said the Ugly Little Girl gleefully.
Much later, in the gathering dusk, there was dancing; and, as is the
way with fairs, a certain roughness and rowdyism began to prevail.
Peter had his own ideas as to the propriety of certain places for
women, of whatever class.
"It is time you left," he remarked coolly.
She glanced up, surprised.
"It is," said Peter authoritatively, "too rough here now for a woman."
She blushed with pleasure. The other swains would keep their girls
there till Heaven knows what o'clock.
"Where do you live?" demanded Peter.
"In Watermill Street," she replied, meek, delighted. And then, with a
sudden burst of honesty, "I'm--I'm only a maid-of-all-work."
"Jack-of-all-trades," smiled Peter. "I'll give myself the pleasure of
escorting you to your door."
They walked through the deserted streets. Every man abroad was at the
fair. Democritus followed. It had been a day of perplexity to him.
The Ugly Little Girl was fumbling with one hand at her neck; in the
other arm she held the precious clock and vase.
"What," asked Peter politely, "is the trouble? Can I assist you?"
"'Ere, 'old them a minute, will you?" She thrust the clock and vase
towards him. Peter took them. She fumbled now with both hands, and in
a moment brought them away, holding in them a small medal, one of the
Immaculate Conception. It was attached to a thick boot-lace.
Peter gazed at her.
"I 'aven't nothin' else worth 'avin'," she said hurriedly. "Father
Mordaunt 'e blessed it for me. I'd--I'd like you to take it."
Peter looked from the medal and boot-lace to the ugly, imploring face.
"Oh, but--" he said, and he hesitated. It was obviously a great
possession.
"Father Mordaunt 'e'd never mind," she said earnestly; "and--and Our
Lady'll understand, seein' as 'ow it's the only thing I've got to give
you, and you've made me so 'appy." She still tendered it, wistful,
anxious.
Peter took it, and dropped it, boot-lace and all, into his pocket.
"Thank you," he said quietly, with no trace of whimsical nonsense now
in his tone.
Then she took the clock and vase again from him, and they turned into
Watermill Street. At a door she paused.
"I ain't goin' to try and say thank you," she whispered, "because I
can't. I know you're a real gentleman--not only by your speech, but by
the way you've treated me so considerate and good. I'll pray to Our
Lady for you as long as ever I live, and ask 'Er to give you whatever
you wants most. And I'll begin this very night."
"Oh," smiled Peter, "you queer, dear little girl!" But though he
smiled his eyes were a trifle misty. It had been, after all, a mere
freak of fancy on his part to play the squire of dames to a small
maid-of-all-work that afternoon. He felt himself to be a bit of a
fraud, undeserving of this wealth of gratitude. He crushed the small
work-worn fingers hard in his.
And so the two parted. It had been a trifling incident; but, after all,
it is rather pleasant to think of, as somehow characteristic of Peter.