HIERONYMUS GOES
AN IDYLL OF LONDON
*A BIRD OF PASSAGE.*
*BY BEATRICE HARRADEN.*
It was about four in the afternoon when a young girl came into the salon
of the little hotel at C. in Switzerland, and drew her chair up to the
fire.
"You are soaked through," said an elderly lady, who was herself trying
to get roasted. "You ought to lose no time in changing your clothes."
"I have not anything to change," said the young girl, laughing. "Oh, I
shall soon be dry."
"Have you lost all your luggage?" asked the lady sympathetically.
"No," said the young girl, "I had none to lose." And she smiled a
little mischievously, as though she knew by instinct that her
companion's sympathy would at once degenerate into suspicion!
"I don't mean to say that I have not a knapsack," she added
considerately. "I have walked a long distance--in fact from _Z_."
"And where did you leave your companions?" asked the lady, with a touch
of forgiveness in her voice.
"I am without companions, just as I am without luggage," laughed the
girl.
And then she opened the piano, and struck a few notes. There was
something caressing in the way in which she touched the keys; whoever
she was, she knew how to make sweet music; sad music too, full of that
undefinable longing, like the holding out of one's arms to one's friends
in the hopeless distance.
The lady bending over the fire looked up at the little girl, and forgot
that she had brought neither friends nor luggage with her. She hesitated
for one moment, and then she took the childish face between her hands
and kissed it.
"Thank you, dear, for your music," she said gently.
"The piano is terribly out of tune," said the little girl suddenly, and
she ran out of the room and came back carrying her knapsack.
"What are you going to do?" asked her companion.
"I am going to tune the piano," the little girl said; and she took a
tuning-hammer out of her knapsack, and began her work in real earnest.
She evidently knew what she was about, and pegged away at the notes as
though her whole life depended on the result.
The lady by the fire was lost in amazement. Who could she be? Without
luggage and without friends, and with a tuning hammer!
Meanwhile one of the gentlemen had strolled into the salon; but hearing
the sound of tuning, and being in secret possession of nerves, he fled,
saying, "The tuner, by Jove!"
A few minutes afterwards, Miss Blake, whose nerves were no secret
possession, hastened into the salon, and in her usual imperious fashion
demanded silence.
"I have just done," said the little girl. "The piano was so terribly out
of tune, I could not resist the temptation."
Miss Blake, who never listened to what any one said, took it for granted
that the little girl was the tuner for whom M. le Proprietaire had
promised to send; and having bestowed upon her a condescending nod,
passed out into the garden, where she told some of the visitors that the
piano had been tuned at last, and that the tuner was a young woman of
rather eccentric appearance.
"Really it is quite abominable how women thrust themselves into every
profession," she remarked in her masculine voice. "It is so unfeminine,
so unseemly."
There was nothing of the feminine about Miss Blake: her horse-cloth
dress, her waistcoat and high collar, and her billy-cock hat were of the
masculine genus; even her nerves could not be called feminine, since we
learn from two or three doctors (taken off their guard) that nerves are
neither feminine nor masculine, but common.
"I should like to see this tuner," said one of the tennis players,
leaning against a tree.
"Here she comes," said Miss Blake, as the little girl was seen
sauntering, into the garden.
The men put up their eye-glasses, and saw a little lady with a childish
face and soft brown hair, of strictly feminine appearance and bearing.
The goat came toward her and began nibbling at her frock. She seemed to
understand the manner of goats, and played with him to his heart's
content. One of the tennis players, Oswald Everard by name, strolled
down to the bank where she was having her frolic.
"Good afternoon," he said, raising his cap. "I hope the goat is not
worrying you. Poor little fellow! This is his last day of play. He is
to be killed to-morrow for table d'hote."
"What a shame!" she said. "Fancy to be killed, and then grumbled at!"
"That is precisely what we do here," he said, laughing. "We grumble at
everything we eat. And I own to being one of the grumpiest; though the
lady in the horse-cloth dress yonder follows close upon my heels."
"She was the lady who was annoyed at me because I tuned the piano," the
little girl said. "Still it had to be done. It was plainly my duty. I
seemed to have come for that purpose."
"It has been confoundedly annoying having it out of tune," he said.
"I've had to give up singing altogether. But what a strange profession
you have chosen! Very unusual, isn't it?"
"Why, surely not," she answered, amused. "It seems to me that every
other woman has taken to it. The wonder to me is that any one ever
scores a success. Nowadays, however, no one could amass a huge fortune
out of it."
"No one, indeed!" replied Oswald Everard, laughing. "What on earth made
you take to it?"
"It took to me," she said simply. "It wrapt me round with enthusiasm.
I could think of nothing else. I vowed that I would rise to the top of
my profession. I worked day and night. But it means incessant toil for
years if one wants to make any headway."
"Good gracious! I thought it was merely a matter of a few months," he
said, smiling at the little girl.
"A few months!" she repeated scornfully. "You are speaking the language
of an amateur. No; one has to work faithfully year after year, to grasp
the possibilities and pass on to greater possibilities. You imagine
what it must feel like to touch the notes, and know that you are keeping
the listeners spellbound; that you are taking them into a fairyland of
sound, where petty personality is lost in vague longing and regret."
"I confess that I had not thought of it in that way," he said humbly.
"I have only regarded it as a necessary everyday evil; and to be quite
honest with you, I fail to see now how it can inspire enthusiasm. I
wish I could see," he added, looking up at the engaging little figure
before him.
"Never mind," she said, laughing at his distress; "I forgive you. And
after all, you are not the only person who looks upon it as a necessary
evil. My poor guardian abominated it. He made many sacrifices to come
and listen to me. He knew I liked to see his kind old face, and that
the presence of a real friend inspired me with confidence."
"I should not have thought it was nervous work," he said.
"Try it and see," she answered. "But surely you spoke of singing. Are
you not nervous when you sing?"
"Sometimes," he replied, rather stiffly. "But that is slightly
different." (He was very proud of his singing, and made a great fuss
about it.) "Your profession, as I remarked before, is an unavoidable
nuisance. When I think what I have suffered from the gentlemen of your
profession, I only wonder that I have any brains left. But I am
uncourteous."
"No, no," she said. "Let me hear about your sufferings."
"Whenever I have specially wanted to be quiet," he said; and then he
glanced at her childish little face, and he hesitated. "It seems so
rude of me," he added. He was the soul of courtesy, although he was an
amateur tenor singer.
"Please tell me," the little girl said, in her winning way.
"Well," he said, gathering himself together, "it is the one subject on
which I can be eloquent. Ever since I can remember I have been worried
and tortured by those rascals. I have tried in every way to escape from
them, but there is no hope for me. Yes; I believe that all the tuners
in the universe are in league against me, and have marked me out for
their special prey."
"_All the what?_" asked the little girl, with a jerk in her voice.
"All the tuners, of course," he replied, rather snappishly. "I know
that we cannot do without them; but, good heavens! they have no tact, no
consideration, no mercy. Whenever I've wanted to write or read quietly
that fatal knock has come at the door, and I've known by instinct that
all chance of peace was over. Whenever I've been giving a luncheon
party, the tuner has arrived, with his abominable black bag, and his
abominable card, which has to be signed at once. On one occasion I was
just proposing to a girl in her father's library, when the tuner struck
up in the drawing-room. I left off suddenly, and fled from the house.
But there is no escape from these fiends; I believe they are swarming
about in the air like so many bacteria. And how, in the name of
goodness, you should deliberately choose to be one of them, and should
be so enthusiastic over your work, puzzles me beyond all words. Don't
say that you carry a black bag, and present cards that have to be filled
up at the most inconvenient time; don't----"
He stopped suddenly, for the little girl was convulsed with laughter.
She laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks; and then she dried
her eyes and laughed again.
"Excuse me," she said, "I can't help myself; it's so funny."
"It may be funny to you," he said, laughing in spite of himself; "but it
is not funny to me."
"Of course it isn't," she replied, making a desperate effort to be
serious. "Well, tell me something more about these tuners."
"Not another word," he said gallantly. "I am ashamed of myself as it
is. Come to the end of the garden, and let me show you the view down
into the valley."
She had conquered her fit of merriment, but her face wore a settled look
of mischief, and she was evidently the possessor of some secret joke.
She seemed in capital health and spirits, and had so much to say that
was bright and interesting, that Oswald Everard found himself becoming
reconciled to the whole race of tuners. He was amazed to learn that she
had walked all the way from _Z_, and quite alone too.
"Oh, I don't think anything of that," she said; "I had a splendid time,
and I caught four rare butterflies. I would not have missed those for
anything. As for the going about by myself, that is a second nature.
Besides, I do not belong to any one. That has its advantages, and I
suppose its disadvantages; but at present I have only discovered the
advantages. The disadvantages will discover themselves!"
"I believe you are what the novels call an advanced young woman," he
said. "Perhaps you give lectures on Woman's Suffrage or something of
that sort."
"I have very often mounted the platform," she answered. "In fact, I am
never so happy as when addressing an immense audience. A most unfeminine
thing to do, isn't it? What would the lady yonder in the horse-cloth
dress and billy-cock hat say? Don't you think you ought to go and help
her drive away the goat? She looks so frightened. She interests me
deeply. I wonder whether she has written an essay on the Feminine in
Woman. I should like to read it; it would do me so much good."
"You are at least a true woman," he said, laughing, "for I see you can
be spiteful. The tuning has not driven that away."
"Ah, I had forgotten about the tuning," she answered brightly; "but now
you remind me, I have been seized with a great idea."
"Won't you tell it to me?" he asked.
"No," she answered. "I keep my great ideas for myself, and work them
out in secret. And this one is particularly amusing. What fun I shall
have!"
"But why keep the fun to yourself?" he said. "We all want to be amused
here; we all want to be stirred up; a little fun would be a charity."
"Very well, since you wish it, but you must give me time to work out my
great idea. I do not hurry about things, not even about my professional
duties. For I have a strong feeling that it is vulgar to be always
amassing riches! As I have neither a husband nor a brother to support,
I have chosen less wealth, and more leisure to enjoy all the loveliness
of life! So you see I take my time about everything. And to-morrow I
shall catch butterflies at my leisure, and lie among the dear old pines,
and work at my great idea."
"I shall catch butterflies," said her companion. "And I too shall lie
among the dear old pines."
"Just as you please," she said; and at that moment the table d'hote bell
rang.
The little girl hastened to the bureau and spoke rapidly in German to
the cashier.
"Ach, Fraeulein!" he said. "You are not really serious?"
"Yes, I am," she said. "I don't want them to know my name. It will
only worry me. Say I am the young lady who tuned the piano."
She had scarcely given these directions and mounted to her room, when
Oswald Everard, who was much interested in his mysterious companion,
came to the bureau and asked for the name of the little lady. "Es ist
das Fraeulein welches das Piano gestimmt hat," answered the man,
returning with unusual quickness to his account-book.
No one spoke to the little girl at table d'hote; but for all that she
enjoyed her dinner, and gave her serious attention to all the courses.
Being thus solidly occupied, she had not much leisure to bestow on the
conversation of the other guests. Nor was it specially original: it
treated of the shortcomings of the chef, the tastelessness of the soup,
the toughness of the beef, and all the many failings which go to
complete a mountain-hotel dinner. But suddenly, so it seemed to the
little girl, this time-honored talk passed into another phase; she heard
the word music mentioned, and she became at once interested to learn
what these people had to say on a subject which was dearer to her than
any other.
"For my own part," said a stern-looking old man, "I have no words to
describe what a gracious comfort music has been to me all my life. It
is the noblest language which man may understand and speak. And I
sometimes think that those who know it, or know something of it, are
able at rare moments to find an answer to life's perplexing problems."
The little girl looked up from her plate. Robert Browning's words rose
to her lips, but she did not give them utterance:
"God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear;
The rest may reason, and welcome; 'tis we musicians know."
"I have lived through a long life," said another elderly man, "and have
therefore had my share of trouble, but the grief of being obliged to
give up music was the grief which held me longest, or which perhaps has
never left me. I still crave for the gracious pleasure of touching once
more the strings of a violoncello, and hearing the dear tender voice
singing and throbbing and answering even to such poor skill as mine. I
still yearn to take my part in concerted music, and be one of those
privileged to play Beethoven's string quartettes. But that will have to
be in another incarnation, I think."
He glanced at his shrunken arm, and then, as though ashamed of this
allusion to his own personal infirmity, he added hastily:
"But when the first pang of such a pain is over, there remains the
comfort of being a listener. At first one does not think it a comfort;
but as time goes on, there is no resisting its magic influence. And
Lowell said rightly that 'one of God's great charities is music.'"
"I did not know you were musical, Mr. Keith," said an English lady.
"You have never before spoken of music."
"Perhaps not, madam," he answered. "One does not often speak of what one
cares for most of all. But when I am in London I rarely miss hearing
our best players."
At this point others joined in, and the various merits of eminent
pianists were warmly discussed.
"What a wonderful name that little English lady has made for herself!"
said the Major, who was considered an authority on all subjects. "I
would go anywhere to hear Miss Thyra Flowerdew. We all ought to be very
proud of her. She has taken even the German musical world by storm, and
they say her recitals at Paris have been brilliantly successful. I
myself have heard her at New York, Leipsic, London, Berlin, and even
Chicago."
The little girl stirred uneasily in her chair.
"I don't think Miss Flowerdew has ever been to Chicago," she said.
There was a dead silence. The admirer of Miss Thyra Flowerdew looked
much annoyed, and twiddled his watch chain. He had meant to say
Philadelphia, but he did not think it necessary to own to his mistake.
"What impertinence!" said one of the ladies to Miss Blake. "What can
she know about it? Is she not the young person who tuned the piano?"
"Perhaps she tunes Miss Thyra Flowerdew's piano!" suggested Miss Blake
in a loud whisper.
"You are right, madam," said the little girl quietly. "I have often
tuned Miss Flowerdew's piano."
There was another embarrassing silence, and then a lovely old lady, whom
every one reverenced, came to the rescue.
"I think her playing is simply superb," she said. "Nothing that I ever
hear satisfies me so entirely. She has all the tenderness of an angel's
touch."
"Listening to her," said the Major, who had now recovered from his
annoyance at being interrupted, "one becomes unconscious of her
presence, for she _is the music itself_. And that is rare. It is but
seldom nowadays that we are allowed to forget the personality of the
player. And yet her personality is an unusual one; having once seen
her, it would not be easy to forget her. I should recognize her
anywhere."
As he spoke he glanced at the little tuner, and could not help admiring
her dignified composure under circumstances which might have been
distressing to any one; and when she rose with the others, he followed
her, and said stiffly:
"I regret that I was the indirect cause of putting you in an awkward
position."
"It is really of no consequence," she said brightly. "If you think I
was impertinent, I ask your forgiveness. I did not mean to be
officious. The words were spoken before I was aware of them."
She passed into the salon, where she found a quiet corner for herself,
and read some of the newspapers. No one took the slightest notice of
her; not a word was spoken to her; but when she relieved the company of
her presence her impertinence was commented on.
"I am sorry that she heard what I said," remarked Miss Blake. "But she
did not seem to mind. These young women who go out into the world lose
the edge of their sensitiveness and femininity. I have always observed
that."
"How much they are spared then!" answered some one.
Meanwhile the little girl slept soundly. She had merry dreams, and
finally woke up laughing. She hurried over her breakfast, and then
stood ready to go for a butterfly hunt. She looked thoroughly happy,
and evidently had found, and was holding tightly the key to life's
enjoyment.
Oswald Everard was waiting on the balcony, and he reminded her that he
intended to go with her.
"Come along, then," she answered; "we must not lose a moment."
They caught butterflies, they picked flowers, they ran; they lingered by
the wayside, they sang; they climbed, and he marveled at her easy speed.
Nothing seemed to tire her, and everything seemed to delight her: the
flowers, the birds, the clouds, the grasses, and the fragrance of the
pine-woods.
"Is it not good to live?" she cried, "Is it not splendid to take in the
scented air? Draw in as many long breaths as you can. Isn't it good?
Don't you feel now as though you were ready to move mountains? I do.
What a dear old nurse Nature is! How she pets us, and gives us the best
of her treasures!"
Her happiness invaded Oswald Everard's soul, and he felt like a
schoolboy once more, rejoicing in a fine day and his liberty; with
nothing to spoil the freshness of the air, and nothing to threaten the
freedom of the moment.
"Is it not good to live?" he cried. "Yes, indeed it is, if we know how
to enjoy."
They had come upon some haymakers, and the little girl hastened up to
help them. There she was in the midst of them, laughing and talking to
the women, and helping them to pile up the hay on the shoulders of a
broad-backed man, who then conveyed his burden to a pear-shaped stack.
Oswald Everard watched his companion for a moment, and then, quite
forgetting his dignity as an amateur tenor singer, he too, lent his aid,
and did not leave off until his companion sank exhausted on the ground.
"Oh," she laughed, "what delightful work for a very short time! Come
along; let us go into that brown chalet yonder and ask for some milk. I
am simply parched with thirst. Thank you, but I prefer to carry my own
flowers."
"What an independent little lady you are!" he said.
"It is quite necessary in our profession, I can assure you," she said,
with a tone of mischief in her voice. "That reminds me that my
profession is evidently not looked upon with any favor by the visitors
at the hotel. I am heartbroken to think that I have not won the esteem
of that lady in the billy-cock hat. What will she say to you for coming
with me? And what will she say of me for allowing you to come? I
wonder whether she will say, 'How unfeminine!' I wish I could hear
her!"
"I don't suppose you care," he said. "You seem to be a wild little
bird."
"I don't care what a person of that description says," replied his
companion.
"What on earth made you contradict the Major at dinner last night?" he
asked. "I was not at the table, but some one told me of the incident;
and I felt very sorry about it. What could you know of Miss Thyra
Flowerdew?"
"Well, considering that she is in my profession, of course I know
something about her," said the little girl.
"Confound it all!" he said, rather rudely. "Surely there is some
difference between the bellows-blower and the organist."
"Absolutely none," she answered--"merely a variation of the original
theme!"
As she spoke she knocked at the door of the chalet, and asked the old
dame to give them some milk. They sat in the _Stube_, and the little
girl looked about, and admired the spinning-wheel, and the quaint
chairs, and the queer old jugs, and the pictures on the walls.
"Ah, but you shall see the other room," the old peasant woman said, and
she led them into a small apartment, which was evidently intended for a
study. It bore evidences of unusual taste and care, and one could see
that some loving hand had been trying to make it a real sanctum of
refinement. There was even a small piano. A carved book-rack was
fastened to the wall.
The old dame did not speak at first; she gave her guests time to recover
from the astonishment which she felt they must be experiencing; then she
pointed proudly to the piano.
"I bought that for my daughters," she said, with a strange mixture of
sadness and triumph. "I wanted to keep them at home with me, and I
saved and saved and got enough money to buy the piano. They had always
wanted to have one, and I thought they would then stay with me. They
liked music and books, and I knew they would be glad to have a room of
their own where they might read and play and study; and so I gave them
this corner."
"Well, mother," asked the little girl, "and where are they this
afternoon?"
"Ah!" she answered sadly, "they did not care to stay. But it was
natural enough; and I was foolish to grieve. Besides, they come to see
me."
"And then they play to you?" asked the little girl gently.
"They say the piano is out of tune," the old dame said "I don't know.
Perhaps you can tell."
The little girl sat down to the piano, and struck a few chords.
"Yes," she said. "It is badly out of tune. Give me the tuning-hammer.
I am sorry," she added, smiling at Oswald Everard, "but I cannot neglect
my duty. Don't wait for me."
"I will wait for you," he said sullenly; and he went into the balcony
and smoked his pipe, and tried to possess his soul in patience.
When she had faithfully done her work, she played a few simple melodies,
such as she knew the old woman would love and understand; and she turned
away when she saw that the listener's eyes were moist.
"Play once again," the old woman whispered. "I am dreaming of beautiful
things."
So the little tuner touched the keys again with all the tenderness of an
angel.
"Tell your daughters," she said, as she rose to say good-bye, "that the
piano is now in good tune. Then they will play to you the next time
they come."
"I shall always remember you, mademoiselle," the old woman said; and,
almost unconsciously, she too took the childish face and kissed it.
Oswald Everard was waiting in the hayfield for his companion; and when
she apologized to him for this little professional intermezzo, as she
called it, he recovered from his sulkiness and readjusted his nerves,
which the noise of the tuning had somewhat disturbed.
"It was very good of you to tune the old dame's piano," he said, looking
at her with renewed interest.
"Some one had to do it, of course," she answered brightly, "and I am
glad the chance fell to me. What a comfort it is to think that the next
time those daughters come to see her, they will play to her, and make
her very happy! Poor old dear!"
"You puzzle me greatly," he said. "I cannot for the life of me think
what made you choose your calling. You must have many gifts; any one
who talks with you must see that at once. And you play quite nicely
too."
"I am sorry that my profession sticks in your throat," she answered.
"Do be thankful that I am nothing worse than a tuner. For I might be
something worse--a snob, for instance."
And so speaking, she dashed after a butterfly, and left him to recover
from her words. He was conscious of having deserved a reproof; and when
at last he overtook her, he said as much, and asked for her kind
indulgence.
"I forgive you," she said, laughing. "You and I are not looking at
things from the same point of view; but we have had a splendid morning
together, and I have enjoyed every minute of it. And to-morrow I go on
my way."
"And to-morrow you go!" he repeated. "Can it not be the day after
to-morrow?"
"I am a bird of passage," she said, shaking her head. "You must not
seek to detain me. I have taken my rest, and off I go to other climes."
They had arrived at the hotel, and Oswald Everard saw no more of his
companion until the evening, when she came down rather late for table
d'hote. She hurried over her dinner and went into the salon. She
closed the door and sat down to the piano, and lingered there without
touching the keys; once or twice she raised her hands, and then she let
them rest on the notes, and half-unconsciously they began to move and
make sweet music, and then they drifted into Schumann's _Abendlied_, and
then the little girl played some of his _Kinderscenen_, and some of his
_Fantasie Stucke_, and some of his songs.
Her touch and feeling were exquisite; and her phrasing betrayed the true
musician. The strains of music reached the dining-room, and one by one
the guests came creeping in, moved by the music, and anxious to see the
musician.
The little girl did not look up; she was in a Schumann mood that
evening, and only the players of Schumann know what enthralling
possession he takes of their very spirit. All the passion and pathos
and wildness and longing had found an inspired interpreter; and those
who listened to her were held by the magic which was her own secret, and
which had won for her such honor as comes only to the few. She
understood Schumann's music, and was at her best with him.
Had she, perhaps, chosen to play his music this evening because she
wished to be at her best? Or was she merely being impelled by an
overwhelming force within her? Perhaps it was something of both.
Was she wishing to humiliate these people who had received her so
coldly? This little girl was only human: perhaps there was something of
that feeling too. Who can tell? But she played as she had never played
in London, or Paris, or Berlin, or New York, or Philadelphia.
At last she arrived at the Carneval, and those who heard her declared
afterward that they had never listened to a more magnificent rendering;
the tenderness was so restrained, the vigor was so refined. When the
last notes of that spirited _Marche des Davidsbundler contre les
Philistins_ had died away, she glanced at Oswald Everard, who was
standing near her, almost dazed.
"And now my favorite piece of all," she said; and she at once began the
Second Novellette, the finest of the eight, but seldom played in public.
What can one say of the wild rush of the leading theme, and the pathetic
longing of the Intermezzo?
"... The murmuring dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea;"
and
"The passionate strain that deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through."
What can one say of those vague aspirations and finest thoughts which
possess the very dullest among us when such music as that which the
little girl had chosen catches us and keeps us, if only for a passing
moment, but that moment of the rarest worth and loveliness in our
unlovely lives?
What can one say of the highest music, except that, like death, it is
the great leveler: it gathers us all to its tender keeping--and we rest.
The little girl ceased playing. There was not a sound to be heard; the
magic was still holding her listeners. When at last they had freed
themselves with a sigh, they pressed forward to greet her.
"There is only one person who can play like that," cried the Major, with
sudden inspiration; "she is Miss Thyra Flowerdew."
The little girl smiled.
"That is my name," she said simply; and she slipped out of the room.
The next morning, at an early hour, the Bird of Passage took her flight
onward, but she was not destined to go off unobserved. Oswald Everard
saw the little figure swinging along the road, and he overtook her.
"You little wild bird!" he said. "And so this was your great idea: to
have your fun out of us all, and then play to us and make us feel, I
don't know how--and then to go."
"You said the company wanted stirring up," she answered; "and I rather
fancy I have stirred them up."
"And what do you suppose you have done for me?" he asked.
"I hope I have proved to you that the bellows-blower and the organist
are sometimes identical," she answered.
But he shook his head.
"Little wild bird," he said, "you have given me a great idea, and I will
tell you what it is: _to tame you_. So good-bye for the present."
"Good-bye," she said. "But wild birds are not so easily tamed."
Then she waved her hand over her head, and went on her way singing.
THE END.
* * * * * * * *
*AT THE GREEN DRAGON.*
*BY BEATRICE HARRADEN.*
*CHAPTER I.*
*HIERONYMUS COMES.*
It was a pouring September evening when a stranger knocked at the door
of the Crown Inn. Old Mrs. Howells saw that he carried a portmanteau in
his hand.
"If it's a bedroom you want," she said, "I can't be bothered with you.
What with brewing the beer and cleaning the brass, I've more than I can
manage. I'm that tired!"
"And so am I," said the stranger pathetically.
"Go over the way to the Green Dragon," suggested Mrs. Howells. "Mrs.
Benbow may be able to put you up. But what with the brewing and the
cleaning, I can't do with you."
The stranger stepped across the road to the Green Dragon. He tapped at
the door, and a cheery little woman made her appearance. She was
carrying what they call in Shropshire a devil of hot beer. It smelt
good.
"Good-evening, ma'am," said the stranger. "Can you house me for the
night? The hostess of the Crown Inn has turned me away. But you surely
will not do the same? You observe what a bad cold I have."
Mrs. Benbow glanced sharply at the stranger. She had not kept the Green
Dragon for ten years without learning to judge somewhat of character;
and to-night she was particularly on her guard, for her husband had gone
to stay for two days with some relatives in Shrewsbury, so that Mrs.
Benbow and old John of the wooden leg, called _Dot and carry one_, were
left as sole guardians of the little wayside public house.
"It is not very convenient for me to take you in," she said.
"And it would not be very convenient for me to be shut out," he replied.
"Besides which, I have had a whiff of that hot beer."
At that moment a voice from the kitchen cried impatiently. "Here,
missus! where be that beer of your'n. I be feeling quite faint-like!"
"As though he could call out like that if he was faint!" laughed Mrs.
Benbow, running off into the kitchen.
When she returned she found the stranger seated at the foot of the
staircase.
"And what do you propose to do for me?" he asked patiently.
There was no mistaking the genial manner. Mrs. Benbow was conquered.
"I propose to fry some eggs and bacon for your supper," she said
cheerily. "And then I propose to make your bedroom ready."
"Sensible woman!" he said, as he followed her into the parlor, where a
fire was burning brightly. He threw himself into the easychair, and
immediately experienced that sensation of repose and thankfulness which
comes over us when we have found a haven. There he rested, content with
himself and his surroundings. The fire lit up his face, and showed him
to be a man of about forty years.
There was nothing especially remarkable about him. The face in repose
was sad and thoughtful; and yet when he discovered a yellow cat sleeping
under the table, he smiled as though some great pleasure had come into
his life.
"Come along, little comrade!" he said, as he captured her. She looked
up into his face so frankly that the stranger was much impressed. "Why,
I do believe you are a dog undergoing a cat incarnation," he continued.
"What qualities did you lack when you were a dog, I wonder? Perhaps you
did not steal sufficiently well; perhaps you had net cultivated
restfulness. And your name? Your name shall be Gamboge. I think that
is a suitable appellation for you--certainly more suitable than most of
the names thrust upon unoffending humanity. My own name, for instance,
Hieronymus! Ah, you may well mew! You are a thoroughly sensible
creature."
So he amused himself until Mrs. Benbow came with his supper. Then he
pointed to the cat and said quietly:
"That is a very companionable dog of yours."
Mrs. Benbow darted a look of suspicion at the stranger.
"We call that a cat in Shropshire," she said, beginning to regret that
she had agreed to house the stranger.
"Well, no doubt you are partially right," said the stranger solemnly;
"but, at the same time, you are partially wrong. To use the language of
the theosophists----"
Mrs. Benbow interrupted him.
"Eat your supper while it is hot," she said, "then perhaps you'll feel
better. Your cold is rather heavy in your head, isn't it?"
He laughed good-temperedly, and smiled at her as though to reassure her
that he was quite in his right senses; and then, without further
discussion, he began to make short work of the fried eggs and bacon.
Gamboge, sitting quietly by the fireside, scorned to beg; she preferred
to steal. That is a way some people have.
The stranger finished his supper, and lit his pipe. Once or twice he
began to doze. The first time he was aroused by Gamboge, who had jumped
on the table, and was seeking what she might devour.
"Ah, Gamboge," he said sleepily, "I am sorry I have not left anything
appetizing for you. I was so hungry. Pray excuse."
Then he dozed off again. The second time he was aroused by the sound of
singing. He caught the words of the chorus:
"I'll gayly sing from day to day,
And do the best I can;
If sorrows meet me on the way,
I'll bear them like a man."
"An excellent resolution," murmured the stranger, becoming drowsy once
more. "Only I wish they'd kept their determinations to themselves."
The third time he was disturbed by the sound of angry voices. There was
some quarreling going on in the kitchen of the Green Dragon. The voices
became louder. There was a clatter of stools and a crash of glasses.
"You are a pack of lying gypsies!" sang out some one. "You know well
you didn't pay the missus!"
"Go for him! go for him!" was the cry.
Then the parlor door was flung open and Mrs. Benbow rushed in. "Oh!"
she cried, "those gypsy men are killing the carpenter!"
Hieronymus Howard rushed into the kitchen, and threw himself into the
midst of the contest. Three powerful tramps were kicking a figure
prostrate on the ground. One other man, Mr. Greaves, the blacksmith, was
trying in vain to defend his comrade. He had no chance against these
gypsy fellows, and though he fought like a lion, his strength was, of
course, nothing against theirs. Old John of the one leg had been
knocked over, and was picking himself up with difficulty. Everything
depended on the promptness of the stranger. He was nothing of a
warrior, this Hieronymus Howard; he was just a quiet student, who knew
how to tussle with Greek roots rather than with English tramps. But he
threw himself upon the gypsies, fought hand to hand with them, was
blinded with blows, nearly trampled beneath their feet, all but crushed
against the wall. Now he thrust them back. Now they pressed on him
afresh. Now the blacksmith, with desperate effort, attacked them again.
Now the carpenter, bruised and battered, but wild for revenge, dragged
himself from the floor, and aimed a blow at the third gypsy's head. He
fell. Then after a short, sharp contest, the other two gypsies were
driven to the door, which Mrs. Benbow had opened wide, and were thrust
out. The door was bolted safely.
But they had bolted one gypsy in with them. When they returned to the
kitchen they found him waiting for them. He had recovered himself.
Mrs. Benbow raised a cry of terror. She had thought herself safe in her
castle. The carpenter and the blacksmith were past fighting.
Hieronymus Howard gazed placidly at the great tramp.
"I am sorry we had forgotten you," he said courteously. "Perhaps you
will oblige us by following your comrades. I will open the door for
you. I think we are all rather tired--aren't we? So perhaps you will
go at once."
The man gazed sheepishly at him, and then followed him. Hieronymus
Howard opened the door.
"Good-evening to you," he said.
And the gypsy passed out without a word.
"Well now," said Hieronymus, as he drew the bolt, "that is the end of
that."
Then he hastened into the parlor. Mrs. Benbow hurried after him, and
was just in time to break his fall. He had swooned away.
*CHAPTER II.*
*HIERONYMUS STAYS.*
Hieronymus Howard had only intended to pass one night at the Green
Dragon. But his sharp encounter with the gypsies altered his plans. He
was battered and bruised and thoroughly shaken, and quite unable to do
anything else except rest in the arm-chair and converse with Gamboge,
who had attached herself to him, and evidently appreciated his
companionship. His right hand was badly sprained. Mrs. Benbow looked
after him most tenderly, bemoaning all the time that he should be in
such a plight because of her. There was nothing that she was not willing
to do for him; it was a long time since Hieronymus Howard had been so
petted and spoiled. Mrs. Benbow treated every one like a young child
that needed to be taken care of. The very men who came to drink her
famous ale were under her strict motherly authority. "There now, Mr.
Andrew, that's enough for ye," she would say; "not another glass
to-night. No, no, John Curtis; get you gone home. You'll not coax
another half-pint out of me."
She was generally obeyed; even Hieronymus Howard, who refused rather
peevishly to take a third cup of beef-tea, found himself obliged to
comply. When she told him to lie on the sofa, he did so without a
murmur. When she told him to get up and take his dinner while it was
still hot, he obeyed like a well-trained child. She cut his food, and
then took the knife away.
"You mustn't try to use your right hand," she said sternly. "Put it
back in the sling at once."
Hieronymus obeyed. Her kind tyranny pleased and amused him, and he was
not at all sorry to go on staying at the Green Dragon. He was really on
his way to visit some friends just on the border between Shropshire and
Wales, to form one of a large house-party, consisting of people both
interesting and intellectual: qualities, by the way, not necessarily
inseparable. But he was just at the time needing quiet of mind, and he
promised himself some really peaceful hours in this little Shropshire
village, with its hills, some of them bare, and others girt with a belt
of trees, and the brook gurgling past the wayside inn. He was tired,
and here he would find rest. The only vexatious part was that he had
hurt his hand. But for this mishap he would have been quite content.
He told this to Mr. Benbow, who returned that afternoon, and who
expressed his regret at the whole occurrence.
"Oh, I am well satisfied here," said Hieronymus cheerily. "Your little
wife is a capital hostess: somewhat of the tyrant, you know. Still, one
likes that; until one gets to the fourth cup of beef-tea! And she is an
excellent cook, and the Green Dragon is most comfortable. I've nothing
to complain of except my hand. That is a nuisance, for I wanted to do
some writing. I suppose there is no one here who could write for me."
"Well," said Mr. Benbow, "perhaps the missus can. She can do most
things. She's real clever."
Mrs. Benbow, being consulted on this matter, confessed that she could
not do much in that line.
"I used to spell pretty well once," she said brightly; "but the brewing
and the scouring and the looking after other things have knocked all
that out of me."
"You wrote to me finely when I was away," her husband said. He was a
quiet fellow, and proud of his little wife, and liked people to know how
capable she was.
"Ah, but you aren't over-particular, Ben, bless you," she answered,
laughing, and running away to her many duties. Then she returned to
tell Hieronymus that there was a splendid fire in the kitchen, and that
he was to go and sit there.
"I'm busy doing the washing in the back-yard," she said. "Ben has gone
to look after the sheep. Perhaps you'll give an eye to the door, and
serve out the ale. It would help me mighty. I'm rather pressed for
time to-day. We shall brew to-morrow, and I must get the washing done
this afternoon."
She took it for granted that he would obey, and of course he did. He
transferred himself, his pipe, and his book to the front kitchen, and
prepared for customers. Hieronymus Howard had once been an ambitious
man, but never before had he been seized by such an overwhelming
aspiration as now possessed him--to serve out the Green Dragon ale!
"If only some one would come!" he said to himself scores of times.
No one came. Hieronymus, becoming impatient, sprang up from his chair
and gazed anxiously out of the window, just in time to see three men
stroll into the opposite inn.
"Confound them!" he cried; "why don't they come here?"
The next moment four riders stopped at the rival public-house, and old
Mrs. Howells hurried out to them, as though to prevent any possibility
of them slipping across to the other side of the road.
This was almost more than Hieronymus could bear quietly. He could
scarcely refrain from opening the Green Dragon door and advertising in a
loud voice the manifold virtues of Mrs. Benbow's ale and spirits. But he
recollected in time that even wayside inns have their fixed code of
etiquette, and that nothing remained for him but to possess his soul in
patience. He was rewarded; in a few minutes a procession of wagons
filed slowly past the Green Dragon; he counted ten horses and five men.
Would they stop? Hieronymus waited in breathless excitement. Yes, they
did stop, and four of the drivers came into the kitchen. "Where is the
fifth?" asked Hieronymus sharply, having a keen eye to business. "He is
minding the horses," they answered, looking at him curiously. But they
seemed to take it for granted that he was there to serve them, and they
leaned back luxuriously in the great oak settle, while Hieronymus poured
out the beer, and received in exchange some grimy coppers.
After they had gone the fifth man came to have his share of the
refreshments; and then followed a long pause, which seemed to Hieronymus
like whole centuries.
"It was during a lengthened period like this," he remarked to himself,
as he paced up and down the kitchen--"yes, it was during infinite time
like this that the rugged rocks became waveworn pebbles!"
Suddenly he heard the sound of horses' feet.
"It is a rider," he said. "I shall have to go out to him." He hastened
to the door, and saw a young woman on a great white horse. She carried a
market basket on her arm. She wore no riding-habit, but was dressed in
the ordinary way. There was nothing picturesque about her appearance,
but Hieronymus thought her face looked interesting. She glanced at him
as though she wondered what he could possibly be doing at the Green
Dragon.
"Well, and what may I do for you?" he asked. He did not quite like to
say, "What may I bring for you?" He left her to decide that matter.
"I wanted to see Mrs. Benbow," she said.
"She is busy doing the washing," he answered. "But I will go and tell
her, if you will kindly detain any customer who may chance to pass by."
He hurried away, and came back with the answer that Mrs. Benbow would be
out in a minute.
"Thank you," the young woman said quietly. Then she added: "You have
hurt your arm, I see."
"Yes," he answered; "it is a great nuisance. I cannot write. I have
been wondering whether I could get any one to write for me. Do you know
of any one?"
"No," she said bitterly; "we don't write here. We make butter and
cheese, and we fatten up our poultry, and then we go to market and sell
our butter, cheese, and poultry."
"Well," said Hieronymus, "and why shouldn't you?"
He looked up at her, and saw what a discontented expression had come
over her young face.
She took no notice of his interruption, but just switched the horse's
ears with the end of her whip.
"That is what we do year after year," she continued, "until I suppose we
have become so dull that we don't care to do anything else. That is
what we have come into the world for: to make butter and cheese, and
fatten up our poultry, and go to market."
"Yes," he answered cheerily, "and we all have to do it in some form or
other. We all go to market to sell our goods, whether they be brains, or
practical common-sense (which often, you know, has nothing to do with
brains), or butter, or poultry. Now I don't know, of course, what you
have in your basket; but supposing you have eggs, which you are taking
to market. Well, you are precisely in the same condition as the poet
who is on his way to a publisher's, carrying a new poem in his vest
pocket. And yet there is a difference."
"Of course there is," she jerked out scornfully.
"Yes, there _is_ a difference," he continued, placidly; "it is this: you
will return without those eggs, but the poet will come back still
carrying his poem in his breast-pocket!"
Then he laughed at his own remark.
"That is how things go in the great world, you know," he said. "Out in
the great world there is an odd way of settling matters. Still they must
be settled somehow or other!"
"Out in the world!" she exclaimed. "That is where I long to go."
"Then why on earth don't you?" he replied.
At that moment Mrs. Benbow came running out.
"I am so sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Hammond," she said to the young
girl; "but what with the washing and the making ready for the brewing
to-morrow, I don't know where to turn."
Then followed a series of messages to which Hieronymus paid no
attention. And then Miss Hammond cracked her whip, waved her greetings
with it, and the old white horse trotted away.
"And who is the rider of the horse?" asked Hieronymus.
"Oh, she is Farmer Hammond's daughter," said Mrs. Benbow. "Her name is
Joan. She is an odd girl, different from the other girls here. They
say she is quite a scholar too. Why, _she_ would be the one to write for
you. The very one, of course! I'll call to her."
But by that time the old white horse was out of sight.
*CHAPTER III.*
*THE PRIMARY GLORY.*
The next day at the Green Dragon was a busy one. Mrs. and Mr. Benbow
were up betimes, banging casks about in the cellar. When Hieronymus
Howard came down to breakfast, he found that they had brought three
barrels into the kitchen, and that one was already half full of some
horrible brown liquid, undergoing the process of fermentation. He felt
himself much aggrieved that he was unable to contribute his share of
work to the proceedings. It was but little comfort to him that he was
again allowed to attend to the customers. The pouring out of the beer
had lost its charm for him.
"It is a secondary glory to pour out the beer," he grumbled. "I aspire
to the primary glory of helping to make the beer."
Mrs. Benbow was heaping on the coal in the furnace. She turned round
and looked at the disconsolate figure.
"There is one thing you might do," she said. "I've not half enough
barm. There are two or three places where you might call for some; and
between them all perhaps you'll get enough."
She then mentioned three houses, Farmer Hammond's being among the
number.
"Very likely the Hammonds would oblige us," she said. "They are
neighborly folk. They live at the Malt-House Farm, two miles off. You
can't carry the jar, but you can take the perambulator and wheel it
back. I've often done that when I had much to carry."
Hieronymus Howard looked doubtfully at the perambulator.
"Very well," he said submissively. "I suppose I shall only look like an
ordinary tramp. It seems to be the fashion to tramp on this road!"
It never entered his head to rebel. The great jar was lifted into the
perambulator, and Hieronymus wheeled it away, still keeping up his
dignity, though under somewhat trying circumstances.
"I rather wish I had not mentioned anything about primary glory," he
remarked to himself. "However, I will not faint by the wayside; Mrs.
Benbow is a person not lightly to be disobeyed. In this respect she
reminds me distinctly of Queen Elizabeth, or Margaret of Anjou, with
just a dash of Napoleon Bonaparte!"
So he walked on along the highroad. Two or three tramps passed him,
wheeling similar perambulators, some heaped up with rags and old tins
and umbrellas, and occasionally a baby; representing the sum total of
their respective possessions in the world. They looked at him with
curiosity, but no pleasantry passed their lips. There was nothing to
laugh at in Hieronymus' appearance; there was a quiet dignity about him
which was never lost on any one. His bearing tallied with his
character, the character of a mellowed human being. There was a
restfulness about him which had soothed more than one tired person; not
the restfulness of stupidity, but the repose only gained by those who
have struggled through a great fever to a great calm. His was a
clean-shaven face; his hair was iron-gray. There was a kind but firm
expression about his mouth, and a suspicion of humor lingering in the
corners. His eyes looked at you frankly. There seemed to be no
self-consciousness in his manner; long ago, perhaps, he had managed to
get away from himself. He enjoyed the country, and stopped more than
once to pick some richly tinted leaf, or some tiny flower nestling in
the hedge. He confided all his treasures to the care of the
perambulator. It was a beautiful morning, and the sun lit up the hills,
which were girt with a belt of many gems: a belt of trees, each rivaling
the other in colored luxuriance. Hieronymus sang. Then he turned down a
lane to the left and found some nuts. He ate these, and went on his way
again, and at last found himself outside a farm of large and important
aspect. A man was stacking a hayrick. Hieronymus watched him keenly.
"Good gracious!" he exclaimed; "I wish I could do that. How on earth do
you manage it? And did it take you long to learn?"
The man smiled in the usual yokel fashion, and went on with his work.
Hieronymus plainly did not interest him.
"Is this the Malt-House Farm?" cried Hieronymus lustily.
"What else should it be?" answered the man.
"These rural characters are inclined to be one-sided," thought
Hieronymus, as he opened the gate and wheeled the perambulator into the
pretty garden. "It seems to me that they are almost as narrow-minded as
the people who live in cities and pride themselves on their breadth of
view. Almost--but on reflection, not quite!"
He knocked at the door of the porch, and a great bustling woman opened
it. He explained his mission to her, and pointed to the jar for the
barm.
"You would oblige Mrs. Benbow greatly, ma'am," he said. "In fact, we
cannot get on with our beer unless you come to our assistance."
"Step into the parlor, sir," she said, smiling, "and I'll see how much
we've got. I think you are the gentleman who fought the gypsies.
You've hurt your arm, I see."
"Yes, a great nuisance," he answered cheerily; "and that reminds me of
my other request. I want some one to write for me an hour or two every
day. Mrs. Benbow mentioned your daughter, the young lady who came to us
on the white horse yesterday."
He was going to add: "The young lady who wishes to go out into the
world;" but he checked himself, guessing by instinct that the young lady
and her mother had probably very little in common.
"Perhaps, though," he said, "I take a liberty in making the suggestion.
If so, you have only to reprove me, and that is the end of it."
"Oh, I daresay she'd like to write for you," said Mrs. Hammond, "if she
can be spared from the butter and the fowls. She likes books and pen
and paper. They're things as I don't favor."
"No," said Hieronymus, suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of his
own littleness; "you are occupied with other more useful matters."
"Yes, indeed," rejoined Mrs. Hammond fervently. "Well, if you'll be
seated, I'll send Joan to you, and I'll see about the barm."
Hieronymus settled down in an old chair, and took a glance at the
comfortable paneled room. There was every appearance of ease about the
Malt-House Farm, and yet Farmer Hammond and his wife toiled incessantly
from morning to evening, exacting continual labor from their daughter
too. There was a good deal of brass-work in the parlor; it was kept
spotlessly bright.
In a few minutes Joan came in. She carried the jar.
"I have filled the jar with barm," she said, without any preliminaries.
"One of the men can take it back if you like."
"Oh no, thank you," he said cheerily, looking at her with some interest.
"It came in the perambulator; it can return in the same conveyance."
She bent over the table, leaning against the jar. She smiled at his
words, and the angry look of resentfulness, which seemed to be her
habitual expression, gave way to a more pleasing one. Joan was not
good-looking, but her face was decidedly interesting. She was of middle
stature, slight but strong; not the typical country girl with rosy
cheeks, but pale, though not unhealthy. She was dark of complexion;
soft brown hair, over which she seemed to have no control, was done into
a confused mass at the back, untidy, but pleasing. Her forehead was not
interfered with; you might see it for yourself, and note the great bumps
which those rogues of phrenologists delight to finger. She carried her
head proudly, and from certain determined jerks which she gave to it you
might judge of her decided character. She was dressed in a dark gown,
and wore an apron of coarse linen. At the most she was nineteen years
of age. Hieronymus just glanced at her, and could not help comparing
her with her mother.
"Well," he said pleasantly, "and now, having settled the affairs of the
Green Dragon, I proceed to my own. Will you come and be my scribbler
for a few days? Or if you wish for a grander title, will you act as my
amanuensis? I am sadly in need of a little help. I have found out that
you can help me."
"I don't know whether you could read my writing," she said shyly.
"That does not matter in the least," he answered. "I shan't have to
read it. Some one else will."
"My spelling is not faultless," she said.
"Also a trifle!" he replied. "Spelling, like every other virtue, is a
relative thing, depending largely on the character of the individual.
Have you any other objection?"
She shook her head, and smiled brightly at him.
"I should like to write for you," she said, "if only I could do it well
enough."
"I am sure of that," he answered kindly. "Mrs. Benbow tells me you are a
young lady who does good work. I admire that beyond everything. You
fatten up the poultry well, you make butter and pastry well--shouldn't I
just like to taste it! And I am sure you have cleaned this brass-work."
"Yes," she said, "when I'm tired of every one and everything, I go and
rub up the brasses until they are spotless. When I am utterly weary of
the whole concern, and just burning to get away from this stupid little
village, I polish the candlesticks and handles until my arms are worn
out. I had a good turn at it yesterday."
"Was yesterday a bad day with you, then?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered. "When I was riding the old white horse yesterday,
I just felt that I could go on riding, riding forever. But she is such
a slow coach. She won't go quickly!"
"No, I should think you could walk more quickly," said Hieronymus.
"Your legs would take you out into the world more swiftly than that old
white horse. And being clear of this little village, and being out in
the great world, what do you want to do?"
"To learn!" she cried; "to learn to know something about life, and to
get to have other interests: something great and big, something worth
wearing one's strength away for." Then she stopped suddenly. "What a
goose I am!" she said, turning away half ashamed.
"Something great and big," he repeated. "Cynics would tell you that you
have a weary quest before you. But I think it is very easy to find
something great and big. Only it all depends on the strength of your
telescope. You must order the best kind, and unfortunately one can't
afford the best kind when one is very young. You have to pay for your
telescope, not with money, but with years. But when at last it comes
into your possession--ah, how it alters the look of things!"
He paused a moment, as though lost in thought; and then, with the
brightness so characteristic of him, he added:
"Well, I must be going home to my humble duties at the Green Dragon, and
you, no doubt, have to return to your task of feeding up the poultry for
the market. When is market-day at Church Stretton?"
"On Friday," she answered.
"That is the day I have to send off some of my writing," he said; "my
market-day, also, you see."
"Are you a poet?" she asked timidly.
"No," he answered, smiling at her; "I am that poor creature, an
historian: one of those restless persons who furridge among the annals
of the past."
"Oh," she said enthusiastically, "I have always cared more about history
than anything else!"
"Well, then, if you come to-morrow to the Green Dragon at eleven
o'clock," he said kindly, "you will have the privilege of writing
history instead of reading it. And now I suppose I must hasten back to
the tyranny of Queen Elizabeth. Can you lift that jar into the
perambulator? You see I can't."
She hoisted it into the perambulator, and then stood at the gate,
watching him as he pushed it patiently over the rough road.
*CHAPTER IV.*
*THE MAKING OF THE PASTRY.*
That same afternoon Mrs. Hammond put on her best things and drove in the
dogcart to Minton, where Auntie Lloyd of the Tan-House Farm was giving a
tea-party. Joan had refused to go. She had a profound contempt for
these social gatherings, and Auntie Lloyd and she had no great love, the
one for the other. Auntie Lloyd, who was regarded as the oracle of the
family, summed Joan up in a few sentences:
"She's a wayward creature, with all her fads about books and book
learning. I've no patience with her. Fowls and butter and such things
have been good enough for us; why does she want to meddle with things
which don't concern her? She's clever at her work, and diligent too.
If it weren't for that, there'd be no abiding her."
Joan summed Auntie Lloyd up in a few words:
"Oh, she's Auntie Lloyd," she said, shrugging her shoulders.
So when her mother urged her to go to Minton to this tea-party, which
was to be something special, Joan said:
"No, I don't care about going. Auntie Lloyd worries me to death. And
what with her, and the rum in the tea, and those horrid crumpets, I'd
far rather stay at home, and make pastry and read a book."
So she stayed. There was plenty of pastry in the larder, and there
seemed no particular reason why she should add to the store. But she
evidently thought differently about the matter, for she went into the
kitchen and rolled up her sleeves and began her work.
"I hope this will be the best pastry I have ever made," she said to
herself, as she prepared several jam-puffs and an open tart. "I should
like him to taste my pastry. An historian. I wonder what we shall
write about to-morrow."
She put the pastry into the oven, and sat lazily in the ingle, nursing
her knees, and musing. She was thinking the whole time of Hieronymus,
of his kind and genial manner, and his face with the iron-gray hair; she
would remember him always, even if she never saw him again. Once or
twice it crossed her mind that she had been foolish to speak so
impatiently to him of her village life. He would just think her a
silly, discontented girl, and nothing more. And yet it had seemed so
natural to talk to him in that strain; she knew by instinct that he
would understand, and he was the first she had ever met who would be
likely to understand. The others--her father, her mother, David Ellis
the exciseman, who was supposed to be fond of her, these and others in
the neighborhood--what did they care about her desires to improve her
mind, and widen out her life, and multiply her interests? She had been
waiting for months, almost for years indeed, to speak openly to some
one; she could not have let the chance go by, now that it had come to
her.
The puffs meanwhile were forgotten. When at last she recollected them,
she hastened to their rescue, and found she was only just in time. Two
were burned; she placed the others in a dish, and threw the damaged ones
on the table. As she did so the kitchen door opened, and the exciseman
came in, and seeing the pastry, he exclaimed:
"Oh, Joan, making pastry! Then I'll test it!"
"You'll do nothing of the sort," she said half angrily, as she put her
hands over the dish. "I won't have it touched. You can eat the burnt
ones it you like."
"Not I," he answered. "I want the best. Why, Joan, what's the matter
with you? You're downright cross to-day."
"I'm no different from usual," she said.
"Yes, you are," he said; "and what's more, you grow different every
week."
"I grow more tired of this horrid little village and every one in it, if
that's what you mean," she answered.
He had thrown his whip on the chair, and stood facing her. He was a
prosperous man, much respected, and much liked for many miles round
Little Stretton. It was an open secret that he loved Joan Hammond, the
only question in the village being whether Joan would have him when the
time came for him to propose to her. No girl in her senses would have
been likely to refuse the exciseman; but then Joan was not in her
senses, so that anything might be expected of her. At least such was the
verdict of Auntie Lloyd, who regarded her niece with the strictest
disapproval. Joan had always been more friendly with David than with
any one else; and it was no doubt this friendliness, remarkable in one
who kept habitually apart from others, which had encouraged David to go
on hoping to win her, not by persuasion but by patience. He loved her,
indeed he had always loved her; and in the old days, when he was a
schoolboy and she was a little baby child, he had left his companions to
go and play with his tiny girl-friend up at the Malt-House Farm. He had
no sister of his own, and he liked to nurse and pet the querulous little
creature who was always quiet in his arms. He could soothe her when no
one else had any influence. But the years had come and gone, and they
had grown apart; not he from her, but she from him. And now he stood in
the kitchen of the old farm, reading in her very manner the answer to
the question which he had not yet asked her. That question was always
on his lips; how many times had he not said it aloud when he rode his
horse over the country? But Joan was forbidding of late months, and
especially of late weeks, and the exciseman had always told himself
sadly that the right moment had not yet come. And to-day, also, it was
not the right moment. A great sorrow seized him, for he longed to tell
her that he loved her, and that he was yearning to make her happy. She
should have books of her own; books, books, books; he had already bought
a few volumes to form the beginning of her library. They were not well
chosen, perhaps, but there they were, locked up in his private drawer.
He was not learned, but he would learn for her sake. All this flashed
through his mind as he stood before her. He looked at her face, and
could not trace one single expression of kindliness or encouragement.
"Then I must go on waiting," he thought, and he stooped and picked up
his whip.
"Good-bye, Joan," he said quietly.
The kitchen door swung on its hinges, and Joan was once more alone.
"An historian," she said to herself, as she took away the rolling-pin,
and put the pastry into the larder. "I wonder what we shall write about
to-morrow."
*CHAPTER V.*
*PASTRY AND PERSONAL MONARCHY.*
Joan sat in the parlor of the Green Dragon, waiting until Hieronymus had
finished eating a third jam-puff, and could pronounce himself ready to
begin dictating. A few papers were scattered about on the table, and
Gamboge was curled up on the hearth-rug. Joan was radiant with
pleasure, for this was her nearest approach to intellectuality; a new
world had opened to her as though by magic. And she was radiant with
another kind of pleasure: this was only the third time she had seen the
historian, and each time she was the happier. It was at first a little
shock to her sense of intellectual propriety that the scholar yonder
could condescend to so trivial a matter as pastry; but then Hieronymus
had his own way about him, which carried conviction in the end.
"Well," he said cheerily. "I think I am ready to begin. Dear me! What
excellent pastry!"
Joan smiled, and dipped her pen in the ink.
"And to _think_ that David nearly ate it!" she said to herself. And
that was about the first time she had thought of him since yesterday.
Then the historian began. His language was simple and dignified, like
the man himself. His subject was "An Introduction to the Personal
Monarchy, which began with the reign of Henry VIII." Everything he said
was crystal-clear. Moreover, he had that rare gift, the power of
condensing and of suggesting too. He was nothing if not an
impressionist. Joan had no difficulty in keeping pace with him, for he
dictated slowly. After nearly two hours he left off, and gave a great
sigh of relief.
"There now," he said, "that's enough for to-day." And he seemed just
like a schoolboy released from lessons.
"Come, come," he added, as he looked over the manuscript. "I shall be
quite proud to send that in to the printer. You would make a capital
little secretary. You are so quiet and you don't scratch with your pen:
qualities which are only too rare. Well, we shall be able to go on with
this work, if you can spare the time and will oblige me. And we must
make some arrangements about money matters."
"As for that," said Joan hastily, "it's such a change from the
never-ending fowls and that everlasting butter."
"Of course it is," said Hieronymus, as he took his pipe from the
mantel-shelf. "But all the same, we will be business-like. Besides,
consider the advantage; you will be earning a little money with which
you can either buy books to read, or fowls to fatten up. You can take
your choice, you know."
"I should choose the books," she said, quite fiercely.
"How spiteful you are to those fowls!" he said.
"So would you be, if you had been looking after them all your life,"
Joan answered, still more fiercely.
"There is no doubt about you being a volcanic young lady," Hieronymus
remarked thoughtfully. "But I understand. I was also a volcano once.
I am now extinct. You will be extinct after a few years, and you will
be thankful for the repose. But one has to go through a great many
eruptions as preliminaries to peace."
"Any kind of experience is better than none at all," Joan said, more
gently this time. "You can't think how I dread a life in which nothing
happens. I want to have my days crammed full of interests and events.
Then I shall learn something; but here--what can one learn? You should
just see Auntie Lloyd, and be with her for a quarter of an hour. When
you've seen her, you've seen the whole neighborhood. Oh, how I dislike
her!"
Her tone of voice expressed so heartily her feelings about Auntie Lloyd
that Hieronymus laughed, and Joan laughed too.
She had put on her bonnet, and stood ready to go home. The historian
stroked Gamboge, put away his papers, and expressed himself inclined to
accompany Joan part of the way.
He ran to the kitchen to tell Mrs. Benbow that he would not be long
gone.
"Dinner won't be ready for quite an hour," she said, "as the butcher
came so late. But here is a cup of beef-tea for you. You look rather
tired."
"I've had such a lot of pastry," Hieronymus pleaded, and he turned to
Mr. Benbow, who had just come into the kitchen followed by his faithful
collie. "I don't feel as though I could manage the beef-tea."
"It's no use kicking over the traces," said Mr. Benbow, laughing. "I've
found that out long ago. Sarah is a tyrant."
But it was evidently a tyranny which suited him very well, for there
seemed to be a kind of settled happiness between the host and hostess of
the Green Dragon. Some such thought passed through Hieronymus' mind as
he gulped down the beef-tea, and then started off happily with Joan.
"I like both the Benbows," he said to her. "And it is very soothing to
be with people who are happy together. I'm cozily housed there, and not
at all sorry to have had my plans altered by the gypsies; especially now
that I can go on with my work so comfortably. My friends in Wales may
wait for me as long as they choose."
Joan would have wished to tell him how glad she was that he was going to
stay. But she just smiled happily. He was so bright himself that it
was impossible not to be happy in his company.
"I'm so pleased I have done some dictating to-day," he said, as he
plucked an autumn leaf and put it into his buttonhole. "And now I can
enjoy myself all the more. You cannot think how I do enjoy the country.
These hills are so wonderfully soothing. I never remember being in a
place where the hills have given me such a sense of repose as here.
Those words constantly recur to me:
'His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
(Though on its slopes men sow and reap).
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
He giveth His beloved sleep.'
"It's all so true, you know, and yonder _are_ the slopes cultivated by
men. I am always thinking of these words here. They match with the
hills and they match with my feelings."
"I have never thought about the hills in that way," she said.
"No," he answered kindly, "because you are not tired yet. But when you
are tired, not with imaginary battlings, but with the real campaigns of
life, then you will think about the dews falling softly on the hills."
"Are you tired, then?" she asked.
"I have been very tired," he answered simply.
They walked on in silence for a few minutes, and then he added: "You
wished for knowledge, and here you are surrounded by opportunities for
attaining to it."
"I have never found Auntie Lloyd a specially interesting subject for
study," Joan said obstinately.
Hieronymus smiled.
"I was not thinking of Auntie Lloyd," he said. "I was thinking of all
these beautiful hedges, these lanes with their countless treasures, and
this stream with its bed of stones, and those hills yonder; all of them
eloquent with the wonder of the earth's history. You are literally
surrounded with the means of making your minds beautiful, you country
people. And why don't you do it?"
Joan listened. This was new language to her.
Hieronymus continued: