CHAPTER I

The Broad Highway

by Jeffery Farnol

To

Shirley Byron Jevons

The friend of my boyish ambitions

This book is dedicated

As a mark of my gratitude, affection and esteem

J. F.

ANTE SCRIPTUM

As I sat of an early summer morning in the shade of a tree, eating

fried bacon with a tinker, the thought came to me that I might some day

write a book of my own: a book that should treat of the roads and

by-roads, of trees, and wind in lonely places, of rapid brooks and lazy

streams, of the glory of dawn, the glow of evening, and the purple

solitude of night; a book of wayside inns and sequestered taverns; a

book of country things and ways and people. And the thought pleased me

much.

"But," objected the Tinker, for I had spoken my thought aloud, "trees

and suchlike don't sound very interestin'—leastways—not in a book,

for after all a tree's only a tree and an inn, an inn; no, you must

tell of other things as well."

"Yes," said I, a little damped, "to be sure there is a highwayman—"

"Come, that's better!" said the Tinker encouragingly.

"Then," I went on, ticking off each item on my fingers, "come Tom

Cragg, the pugilist—"

"Better and better!" nodded the Tinker.

"—a one-legged soldier of the Peninsula, an adventure at a lonely

tavern, a flight through woods at midnight pursued by desperate

villains, and—a most extraordinary tinker. So far so good, I think,

and it all sounds adventurous enough."

"What!" cried the Tinker. "Would you put me in your book then?"

"Assuredly."

"Why then," said the Tinker, "it's true I mends kettles, sharpens

scissors and such, but I likewise peddles books an' nov-els, an' what's

more I reads 'em—so, if you must put me in your book, you might call

me a literary cove."

"A literary cove?" said I.

"Ah!" said the Tinker, "it sounds better—a sight better—besides, I

never read a nov-el with a tinker in it as I remember; they're

generally dooks, or earls, or barronites—nobody wants to read about a

tinker."

"That all depends," said I; "a tinker may be much more interesting than

an earl or even a duke."

The Tinker examined the piece of bacon upon his knifepoint with a cold

and disparaging eye.

"I've read a good many nov-els in my time," said he, shaking his head,

"and I knows what I'm talking of;" here he bolted the morsel of bacon

with much apparent relish. "I've made love to duchesses, run off with

heiresses, and fought dooels—ah! by the hundred—all between the

covers of some book or other and enjoyed it uncommonly well—especially

the dooels. If you can get a little blood into your book, so much the

better; there's nothing like a little blood in a book—not a great

deal, but just enough to give it a 'tang,' so to speak; if you could

kill your highwayman to start with it would be a very good beginning to

your story."

"I could do that, certainly," said I, "but it would not be according to

fact."

"So much the better," said the Tinker; "who wants facts in a nov-el?"

"Hum!" said I.

"And then again—"

"What more?" I inquired.

"Love!" said the Tinker, wiping his knife-blade on the leg of his

breeches.

"Love?" I repeated.

"And plenty of it," said the Tinker.

"I'm afraid that is impossible," said I, after a moment's thought.

"How impossible?"

"Because I know nothing about love."

"That's a pity," said the Tinker.

"Under the circumstances, it is," said I.

"Not a doubt of it," said the Tinker, beginning to scrub out the

frying-pan with a handful of grass, "though to be sure you might learn;

you're young enough."

"Yes, I might learn," said I; "who knows?"

"Ah! who knows?" said the Tinker. And after he had cleansed the pan to

his satisfaction, he turned to me with dexter finger upraised and brow

of heavy portent. "Young fellow," said he, "no man can write a good

nov-el without he knows summat about love; it aren't to be expected—so

the sooner you do learn, the better."

"Hum!" said I.

"And then, as I said afore and I say it again, they wants love in a

book nowadays, and wot's more they will have it."

"They?" said I.

"The folk as will read your book—after it is written."

"Ah! to be sure," said I, somewhat taken aback; "I had forgotten them."

"Forgotten them?" repeated the Tinker, staring.

"Forgotten that people might went to read it—after it is written."

"But," said the Tinker, rubbing his nose hard, "books are written for

people to read, aren't they?"

"Not always," said I.

Hereupon the Tinker rubbed his nose harder than ever.

"Many of the world's greatest books, those masterpieces which have

lived and shall live on forever, were written (as I believe) for the

pure love of writing them."

"Oh!" said the Tinker.

"Yes," said I, warming to my theme, "and with little or no idea of the

eyes of those unborn generations which were to read and marvel at them;

hence it is we get those sublime thoughts untrammelled by passing

tastes and fashions, unbounded by narrow creed or popular prejudice."

"Ah?" said the Tinker.

"Many a great writer has been spoiled by fashion and success, for, so

soon as he begins to think upon his public, how best to please and hold

their fancy (which is ever the most fickle of mundane things)

straightway Genius spreads abroad his pinions and leaves him in the

mire."

"Poor cove!" said the Tinker. "Young man, you smile, I think?"

"No," said I.

"Well, supposing a writer never had no gen'us—how then?"

"Why then," said I, "he should never dare to write at all."

"Young fellow," said the Tinker, glancing at me from the corners of his

eyes, "are you sure you are a gen'us then?"

Now when my companion said this I fell silent, for the very sufficient

reason that I found nothing to say.

"Lord love you!" said he at last, seeing me thus "hipped"—"don't be

downhearted—don't be dashed afore you begin; we can't all be

gen'uses—it aren't to be expected, but some on us is a good deal

better than most and that's something arter all. As for your book, wot

you have to do is to give 'em a little blood now and then with plenty

of love and you can't go far wrong!"

Now whether the Tinker's theory for the writing of a good novel be

right or wrong, I will not presume to say. But in this book that lies

before you, though you shall read, if you choose, of country things and

ways and people, yet, because that part of my life herein recorded was

a something hard, rough life, you shall read also of blood; and,

because I came, in the end, to love very greatly, so shall you read of

love.

Wherefore, then, I am emboldened to hope that when you shall have

turned the last page and closed this book, you shall do so with a sigh.

P. V.

LONDON.

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER I

CHIEFLY CONCERNING MY UNCLE'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

"'And to my nephew, Maurice Vibart, I bequeath the sum of twenty

thousand pounds in the fervent hope that it may help him to the devil

within the year, or as soon after as may be.'"

Here Mr. Grainger paused in his reading to glance up over the rim of

his spectacles, while Sir Richard lay back in his chair and laughed

loudly. "Gad!" he exclaimed, still chuckling, "I'd give a hundred

pounds if he could have been present to hear that," and the baronet

went off into another roar of merriment.

Mr. Grainger, on the other hand, dignified and solemn, coughed a short,

dry cough behind his hand.

"Help him to the devil within the year," repeated Sir Richard, still

chuckling.

"Pray proceed, sir," said I, motioning towards the will.... But

instead of complying, Mr. Grainger laid down the parchment, and

removing his spectacles, began to polish them with a large silk

handkerchief.

"You are, I believe, unacquainted with your cousin, Sir Maurice

Vibart?" he inquired.

"I have never seen him," said I; "all my life has been passed either at

school or the university, but I have frequently heard mention of him,

nevertheless."

"Egad!" cried Sir Richard, "who hasn't heard of Buck Vibart—beat Ted

Jarraway of Swansea in five rounds—drove coach and four down

Whitehall—on sidewalk—ran away with a French marquise while but a boy

of twenty, and shot her husband into the bargain. Devilish celebrated

figure in 'sporting circles,' friend of the Prince Regent—"

"So I understand," said I.

"Altogether as complete a young blackguard as ever swaggered down St.

James's." Having said which, Sir Richard crossed his legs and inhaled

a pinch of snuff.

"Twenty thousand pounds is a very handsome sum," remarked Mr. Grainger

ponderously and as though more with the intention of saying something

rather than remain silent just then.

"Indeed it is," said I, "and might help a man to the devil as

comfortably as need be, but—"

"Though," pursued Mr. Grainger, "much below his expectations and sadly

inadequate to his present needs, I fear."

"That is most unfortunate," said I, "but—"

"His debts," said Mr. Grainger, busy at his spectacles again, "his

debts are very heavy, I believe."

"Then doubtless some arrangement can be made to—but continue your

reading, I beg," said I.

Mr. Grainger repeated his short, dry cough and taking up the will,

slowly and almost as though unwillingly, cleared his throat and began

as follows:

"'Furthermore, to my nephew, Peter Vibart, cousin to the above, I will

and bequeath my blessing and the sum of ten guineas in cash, wherewith

to purchase a copy of Zeno or any other of the stoic philosophers he

may prefer.'"

Again Mr. Grainger laid down the will, and again he regarded me over

the rim of his spectacles.

"Good God!" cried Sir Richard, leaping to his feet, "the man must have

been mad. Ten guineas—why, it's an insult—damme!—it's an

insult—you'll never take it of course, Peter."

"On the contrary, sir," said I.

"But—ten guineas!" bellowed the baronet; "on my soul now, George was a

cold-blooded fish, but I didn't think even he was capable of such a

despicable trick—no—curse me if I did! Why, it would have been

kinder to have left you nothing at all—but it was like George—bitter

to the end—ten guineas!"

"Is ten guineas," said I, "and when one comes to think of it, much may

be done with ten guineas."

Sir Richard grew purple in the face, but before he could speak, Mr.

Grainger began to read again:

"'Moreover, the sum of five hundred thousand pounds, now vested in the

funds, shall be paid to either Maurice or Peter Vibart aforesaid, if

either shall, within one calendar year, become the husband of the Lady

Sophia Sefton of Cambourne.'"

"Good God!" exclaimed Sir Richard.

"'Failing which,'" read Mr. Grainger, "'the said sum, namely, five

hundred thousand pounds, shall be bestowed upon such charity or

charities as the trustees shall select. Signed by me, this tenth day

of April, eighteen hundred and—, GEORGE VIBART. Duly witnessed by

ADAM PENFLEET, MARTHA TRENT."'

Here Mr. Grainger's voice stopped, and I remember, in the silence that

followed, the parchment crackled very loudly as he folded it precisely

and laid it on the table before him. I remember also that Sir Richard

was swearing vehemently under his breath as he paced to and fro between

me and the window.

"And that is all?" I inquired at last.

"That," said Mr. Grainger, not looking at me now, "is all."

"The Lady Sophia," murmured Sir Richard as if to himself, "the Lady

Sophia!" And then, stopping suddenly before me in his walk, "Oh,

Peter!" said he, clapping his hand down upon my shoulder, "oh, Peter,

that settles it; you're done for, boy—a crueller will was never made."

"Marriage!" said I to myself. "Hum!"

"A damnable iniquity," exclaimed Sir Richard, striding up and down the

room again.

"The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne!" said I, rubbing my chin.

"Why, that's just it," roared the baronet; "she's a reigning

toast—most famous beauty in the country, London's mad over her—she

can pick and choose from all the finest gentlemen in England. Oh, it's

'good-by' to all your hopes of the inheritance, Peter, and that's the

devil of it."

"Sir, I fail to see your argument," said I.

"What?" cried Sir Richard, facing round on me, "d'you think you'd have

a chance with her then?"

"Why not?"

"Without friends, position, or money? Pish, boy! don't I tell you that

every buck and dandy—every mincing macaroni in the three kingdoms

would give his very legs to marry her—either for her beauty or her

fortune?" spluttered the baronet. "And let me inform you further that

she's devilish high and haughty with it all—they do say she even

rebuffed the Prince Regent himself."

"But then, sir, I consider myself a better man than the Prince Regent,"

said I.

Sir Richard sank into the nearest chair and stared at me openmouthed.

"Sir," I continued, "you doubtless set me down as an egoist of egoists.

I freely confess it; so are you, so is Mr. Grainger yonder, so are we

all of us egoists in thinking ourselves as good as some few of our

neighbors and better than a great many."

"Deuce take me!" said Sir Richard.

"Referring to the Lady Sophia, I have heard that she once galloped her

horse up the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral—"

"And down again, Peter," added Sir Richard.

"Also she is said to be possessed of a temper," I continued, "and is

above the average height, I believe, and I have a natural antipathy to

termagants, more especially tall ones."

"Termagant!" cried Sir Richard. "Why, she's the handsomest woman in

London, boy. She's none of your milk-and-watery, meek-mouthed

misses—curse me, no! She's all fire and blood and high mettle—a

woman, sir—glorious—divine—damme, sir, a black-browed goddess—a

positive plum!"

"Sir Richard," said I, "should I ever contemplate marriage, which is

most improbable, my wife must be sweet and shy, gentle-eyed and soft of

voice, instead of your bold, strong-armed, horse-galloping creature;

above all, she must be sweet and clinging—"

"Sweet and sticky, oh, the devil! Hark to the boy, Grainger," cried

Sir Richard, "hark to him—and one glance of the glorious Sefton's

bright eyes—one glance only, Grainger, and he'd be at her feet—on his

knees—on his confounded knees, sir!"

"The question is, how do you propose to maintain yourself in the

future?" said Mr. Grainger at this point; "life under your altered

fortunes must prove necessarily hard, Mr. Peter."

"And yet, sir," I answered, "a fortune with a wife tagged on to it must

prove a very mixed blessing after all; and then again, there may be a

certain amount of satisfaction in stepping into a dead man's shoes, but

I, very foolishly, perhaps, have a hankering for shoes of my own.

Surely there must be some position in life that I am competent to fill,

some position that would maintain me honorably and well; I flatter

myself that my years at Oxford were not altogether barren of result—"

"By no means," put in Sir Richard; "you won the High Jump, I believe?"

"Sir, I did," said I; "also 'Throwing the Hammer.'"

"And spent two thousand pounds per annum?" said Sir Richard.

"Sir, I did, but between whiles managed to do fairly well in the

Tripos, to finish a new and original translation of Quintilian, another

of Petronius Arbiter and also a literal rendering into the English of

the Memoirs of the Sieur de Brantome."

"For none of which you have hitherto found a publisher?" inquired Mr.

Grainger.

"Not as yet," said I, "but I have great hopes of my Brantome, as you

are probably aware this is the first time he has ever been translated

into the English."

"Hum!" said Sir Richard, "ha!—and in the meantime what do you intend

to do?"

"On that head I have as yet come to no definite conclusion, sir," I

answered.

"I have been wondering," began Mr. Grainger, somewhat diffidently, "if

you would care to accept a position in my office. To be sure the

remuneration would be small at first and quite insignificant in

comparison to the income you have been in the receipt of."

"But it would have been money earned," said I, "which is infinitely

preferable to that for which we never turn a hand—at least, I think

so."

"Then you accept?"

"No, sir," said I, "though I am grateful to you, and thank you most

sincerely for your offer, yet I have never felt the least inclination

to the practice of law; where there is no interest one's work must

necessarily suffer, and I have no desire that your business should be

injured by any carelessness of mine."

"What do you think of a private tutorship?"

"It would suit me above all things were it not for the fact that the

genus 'Boy' is the most aggravating of all animals, and that I am

conscious of a certain shortness of temper at times, which might result

in pain to my pupil, loss of dignity to myself, and general

unpleasantness to all concerned—otherwise a private tutorship would

suit most admirably."

Here Sir Richard took another pinch of snuff and sat frowning up at the

ceiling, while Mr. Grainger began tying up that document which had so

altered my prospects. As for me, I crossed to the window and stood

staring out at the evening. Everywhere were trees tinted by the rosy

glow of sunset, trees that stirred sleepily in the gentle wind, and far

away I could see that famous highway, built and paved for the march of

Roman Legions, winding away to where it vanished over distant Shooter's

Hill.

"And pray," said Sir Richard, still frowning at the ceiling, "what do

you propose to do with yourself?"

Now, as I looked out upon this fair evening, I became, of a sudden,

possessed of an overmastering desire, a great longing for field and

meadow and hedgerow, for wood and coppice and shady stream, for

sequestered inns and wide, wind-swept heaths, and ever the broad

highway in front. Thus I answered Sir Richard's question

unhesitatingly, and without turning from the window:

"I shall go, sir, on a walking tour through Kent and Surrey into

Devonshire, and thence probably to Cornwall."

"And with a miserable ten guineas in your pocket?

Preposterous—absurd!" retorted Sir Richard.

"On the contrary, sir," said I, "the more I ponder the project, the

more enamored of it I become."

"And when your money is all gone—how then?"

"I shall turn my hand to some useful employment," said I; "digging, for

instance."

"Digging!" ejaculated Sir Richard, "and you a scholar—and what is

more, a gentleman!"

"My dear Sir Richard," said I, "that all depends upon how you would

define a gentleman. To me he would appear, of late years, to have

degenerated into a creature whose chief end in life is to spend money

he has never earned, to reproduce his species with a deplorable

frequency and promiscuity, habitually to drink more than is good for

him, and, between whiles, to fill in his time hunting, cock-fighting,

or watching entranced while two men pound each other unrecognizable in

the prize ring. Occasionally he has the good taste to break his neck

in the hunting field, or get himself gloriously shot in a duel, but the

generality live on to a good old age, turn their attention to matters

political and, following the dictates of their class, damn reform with

a whole-hearted fervor equalled only by their rancor."

"Deuce take me!" ejaculated Sir Richard feebly, while Mr. Grainger

buried his face in his pocket-handkerchief.

"To my mind," I ended, "the man who sweats over a spade or follows the

tail of a plough is far nobler and higher in the Scheme of Things than

any of your young 'bloods' driving his coach and four to Brighton to

the danger of all and sundry."

Sir Richard slowly got up out of his chair, staring at me open-mouthed.

"Good God!" he exclaimed at last, "the boy's a Revolutionary."

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders, but, before I could speak, Mr.

Grainger interposed, sedate and solemn as usual:

"Referring to your proposed tour, Mr. Peter, when do you expect to

start?"

"Early to-morrow morning, sir."

"I will not attempt to dissuade you, well knowing the difficulty," said

he, with a faint smile, "but a letter addressed to me at Lincoln's Inn

will always find me and receive my most earnest attention." So saying,

he rose, bowed, and having shaken my hand, left the room, closing the

door behind him.

"Peter," exclaimed the baronet, striding up and down, "Peter, you are a

fool, sir, a hot-headed, self-sufficient, pragmatical young fool, sir,

curse me!"

"I am sorry you should think so," I answered.

"And," he continued, regarding me with a defiant eye, "I shall expect

you to draw upon me for any sum that—that you may require for the

present—friendship's sake—boyhood and—and all that sort of thing,

and—er—oh, damme, you understand, Peter?"

"Sir Richard," said I, grasping his unwilling hand, "I—I thank you

from the bottom of my heart."

"Pooh, Peter, dammit!" said he, snatching his hand away and thrusting

it hurriedly into his pocket, out of farther reach.

"Thank you, sir," I reiterated; "be sure that should I fall ill or any

unforeseen calamity happen to me, I will most gladly, most gratefully

accept your generous aid in the spirit in which it is offered, but—"

"But?" exclaimed Sir Richard.

"Until then—"

"Oh, the devil!" said Sir Richard, and ringing the bell ordered his

horse to be brought to the door, and thereafter stood with his back to

the empty fireplace, his fists thrust down into his pockets, frowning

heavily and with a fixed intentness at the nearest armchair.

Sir Richard Anstruther is tall and broad, ruddy of face, with a

prominent nose and great square chin whose grimness is offset by a

mouth singularly sweet and tender, and the kindly light of blue eyes;

he is in very truth a gentleman. Indeed, as he stood there in his

plain blue coat with its high roll collar and shining silver buttons,

his spotless moleskins and heavy, square-toed riding boots, he was as

fair a type as might be of the English country gentleman. It is such

men as he, who, fearless upon the littered quarterdecks of reeling

battleships, undismayed amid the smoke and death of stricken fields,

their duty well and nobly done, have turned their feet homewards to

pass their latter days amid their turnips and cabbages, beating their

swords into pruning-hooks, and glad enough to do it.

"Peter," said he suddenly.

"Sir?" said I.

"You never saw your father to remember, did you?"

"No, Sir Richard."

"Nor your mother?"

"Nor my mother."

"Poor boy—poor boy!"

"You knew my mother?"

"Yes, Peter, I knew your mother," said Sir Richard, staring very hard

at the chair again, and I saw that his mouth had grown wonderfully

tender. "Yours has been a very secluded life hitherto, Peter," he went

on after a moment.

"Entirely so," said I, "with the exception of my never-to-be-forgotten

visits to the Hall."

"Ah, yes, I taught you to ride, remember."

"You are associated with every boyish pleasure I ever knew," said I,

laying my hand upon his arm. Sir Richard coughed and grew suddenly red

in the face.

"Why—ah—you see, Peter," he began, picking up his riding whip and

staring at it, "you see your uncle was never very fond of company at

any time, whereas I—"

"Whereas you could always find time to remember the lonely boy left

when all his companions were gone on their holidays—left to his books

and the dreary desolation of the empty schoolhouse, and echoing

cloisters—"

"Pooh!" exclaimed Sir Richard, redder than ever. "Bosh!"

"Do you think I can ever forget the glorious day when you drove over in

your coach and four, and carried me off in triumph, and how we raced

the white-hatted fellow in the tilbury—?"

"And beat him!" added Sir Richard.

"Took off his near wheel on the turn," said I.

"The fool's own fault," said Sir Richard.

"And left him in the ditch, cursing us!" said I.

"Egad, yes, Peter! Oh, but those were fine horses and though I say it,

no better team in the south country. You'll remember the 'off wheeler'

broke his leg shortly after and had to be shot, poor devil."

"And later, at Oxford," I began.

"What now, Peter?" said Sir Richard, frowning darkly.

"Do you remember the bronze vase that used to stand on the mantelpiece

in my study?"

"Bronze vase?" repeated Sir Richard, intent upon his whip again.

"I used to find bank-notes in it after you had visited me, and when I

hid the vase they turned up just the same in most unexpected places."

"Young fellow—must have money—necessary—now and then," muttered Sir

Richard.

At this juncture, with a discreet knock, the butler appeared to

announce that Sir Richard's horse was waiting. Hereupon the baronet,

somewhat hastily, caught up his hat and gloves, and I followed him out

of the house and down the steps.

Sir Richard drew on his gloves, thrust his toe into the stirrup, and

then turned to look at me over his arm.

"Peter," said he.

"Sir Richard?" said I.

"Regarding your walking tour—"

"Yes?"

"I think it's all damned tomfoolery!" said Sir Richard. After saying

which he swung himself into the saddle with a lightness and ease that

many younger might have envied.

"I'm sorry for that, sir, because my mind is set upon it."

"With ten guineas in your pocket!"

"That, with due economy, should be ample until I can find some means to

earn more."

"A fiddlestick, sir—an accursed fiddlestick!" snorted Sir Richard.

"How is a boy, an unsophisticated, hot-headed young fool of a boy to

earn his own living?"

"Others have done it," I began.

"Pish!" said the baronet.

"And been the better for it in the end."

"Tush!" said the baronet.

"And I have a great desire to see the world from the viewpoint of the

multitude."

"Bah!" said the baronet, so forcibly that his mare started; "this comes

of your damnable Revolutionary tendencies. Let me tell you, Want is a

hard master, and the world a bad place for one who is moneyless and

without friends."

"You forget, sir, I shall never be without a friend."

"God knows it, boy," answered Sir Richard, and his hand fell and rested

for a moment upon my shoulder. "Peter," said he, very slowly and

heavily, "I'm growing old—and I shall never marry—and sometimes,

Peter, of an evening I get very lonely and—lonely, Peter." He stopped

for a while, gazing away towards the green slopes of distant Shooter's

Hill. "Oh, boy!" said he at last, "won't you come to the Hall and help

me to spend my money?"

Without answering I reached up and clasped his hand; it was the hand

which held his whip, and I noticed how tightly he gripped the handle,

and wondered.

"Sir Richard," said I at last, "wherever I go I shall treasure the

recollection of this moment, but—"

"But, Peter?"

"But, sir—"

"Oh, dammit!" he exclaimed, and set spurs to his mare. Yet once he

turned in his saddle to flourish his whip to me ere he galloped out of

sight.

CHAPTER II

I SET OUT

The clock of the square-towered Norman church, a mile away, was

striking the hour of four as I let myself out into the morning. It was

dark as yet, and chilly, but in the east was already a faint glimmer of

dawn. Reaching the stables, I paused with my hand on the door-hasp,

listening to the hiss, hissing that told me Adam, the groom, was

already at work within. As I entered he looked up from the saddle he

was polishing and touched his forehead with a grimy forefinger.

"You be early abroad, Mr. Peter."

"Yes," said I. "I wish to be on Shooter's Hill at sunrise; but first I

came to say 'good-by' to 'Wings.'"

"To be sure, sir," nodded Adam, picking up his lanthorn.

Upon the ensuing interview I will not dwell; it was affecting both to

her and to myself, for we were mutually attached.

"Sir," said Adam, when at last the stable door had closed behind us,

"that there mare knows as you're a-leaving her."

"I think she does, Adam."

"'Osses be wonderful wise, sir!"

"Yes, Adam."

"This is a bad day for Wings, sir—and all of us, for that matter."

"I hope not, Adam."

"You be a-going away, they tell me, sir?"

"Yes, going away," I nodded.

"Wonder what'll become o' the mare, sir?"

"Ah, yes, I wonder," said I.

"Everything to be sold under the will, I think, sir?"

"Everything, Adam."

"Excuse me, sir," said he, knuckling his forehead, "you won't be

wanting ever a groom, will you?"

"No, Adam," I answered, shaking my head, "I sha'n't be wanting a groom."

"Nor yet a body servant, sir?"

"No, Adam, nor yet a body servant."

Here there ensued a silence during which Adam knuckled his right temple

again and I tightened the buckle of my knapsack.

"I think, Adam," said I, "I think it is going to be a fine day."

"Yes, sir."

"Good-by, Adam!" said I, and held out my hand.

"Good-by, sir." And, having shaken my hand, he turned and went back

into the stable.

So I set off, walking beneath an avenue of trees looming up gigantic on

either hand. At the end was the lodge and, ere I opened the gates—for

John, the lodgekeeper, was not yet astir—ere I opened the gates, I

say, I paused for one last look at the house that had been all the home

I had ever known since I could remember. As I stood thus, with my eyes

upon the indistinct mass, I presently distinguished a figure running

towards me and, as he came up, recognized Adam.

"It ain't much, sir, but it's all I 'ave," said he, and thrust a short,

thick, well-smoked clay pipe into my hand—a pipe that was fashioned to

the shape of a negro's head. "It's a good pipe, sir," he went on, "a

mortal good pipe, and as sweet as a nut!" saying which, he turned about

and ran off, leaving me standing there with his parting gift in my hand.

And having put the pipe into an inner pocket, I opened the gate and

started off at a good pace along the broad highway.

It was a bleak, desolate world that lay about me, a world of shadows

and a white, low-lying mist that filled every hollow and swathed hedge

and tree; a lowering earth and a frowning heaven infinitely depressing.

But the eastern sky was clear with an ever-growing brightness; hope lay

there, so, as I walked, I kept my eyes towards the east.

Being come at last to that eminence which is called Shooter's Hill, I

sat down upon a bank beside the way and turned to look back upon the

wonderful city. And as I watched, the pearly east changed little by

little, to a varying pink, which in turn slowly gave place to reds and

yellows, until up came the sun in all his majesty, gilding vane and

weathercock upon a hundred spires and steeples, and making a glory of

the river. Far away upon the white riband of road that led across

Blackheath, a chaise was crawling, but save for that the world seemed

deserted.

I sat thus a great while gazing upon the city and marvelling at the

greatness of it.

"Truly," said I to myself, "nowhere in the whole world is there such

another city as London!" And presently I sighed and, rising, set my

back to the city and went on down the hill.

Yes—the sun was up at last, and at his advent the mists rolled up and

vanished, the birds awoke in brake and thicket and, lifting their

voices, sang together, a song of universal praise. Bushes rustled,

trees whispered, while from every leaf and twig, from every blade of

grass, there hung a flashing jewel.

With the mists my doubts of the future vanished too, and I strode upon

my way, a very god, king of my destiny, walking through a tribute world

where feathered songsters carolled for me and blossoming flowers wafted

sweet perfume upon my path. So I went on gayly down the hill,

rejoicing that I was alive.

In the knapsack at my back I had stowed a few clothes, the strongest

and plainest I possessed, together with a shirt, some half-dozen

favorite books, and my translation of Brantome; Quintilian and

Petronius I had left with Mr. Grainger, who had promised to send them

to a publisher, a friend of his, and in my pocket was my uncle George's

legacy,—namely, ten guineas in gold. And, as I walked, I began to

compute how long such a sum might be made to last a man. By practising

the strictest economy, I thought I might manage well enough on two

shillings a day, and this left me some hundred odd days in which to

find some means of livelihood, and if a man could not suit himself in

such time, then (thought I) he must be a fool indeed.

Thus, my thoughts caught something of the glory of the bright sky above

and the smiling earth about me, as I strode along that "Broad Highway"

which was to lead me I knew not whither, yet where disaster was already

lying in wait for me—as you shall hear.

CHAPTER III

CONCERNS ITSELF MAINLY WITH A HAT

As the day advanced, the sun beat down with an ever-increasing heat,

and what with this and the dust I presently grew very thirsty;

wherefore, as I went, I must needs conjure up tantalizing visions of

ale—of ale that foamed gloriously in tankards, that sparkled in

glasses, and gurgled deliciously from the spouts of earthen pitchers,

and I began to look about me for some inn where these visions might be

realized and my burning thirst nobly quenched (as such a thirst

deserved to be). On I went, through this beautiful land of Kent, past

tree and hedge and smiling meadow, by hill and dale and sloping upland,

while ever the sun grew hotter, the winding road the dustier, and my

mighty thirst the mightier.

At length, reaching the brow of a hill, I espied a small inn or hedge

tavern that stood back from the glare of the road, seeming to nestle in

the shade of a great tree, and joyfully I hastened toward it.

As I approached I heard loud voices, raised as though in altercation,

and a hat came hurtling through the open doorway and, bounding into the

road, rolled over and over to my very feet. And, looking down at it, I

saw that it was a very ill-used hat, frayed and worn, dented of crown

and broken of brim, yet beneath its sordid shabbiness there lurked the

dim semblance of what it had once been, for, in the scratched and

tarnished buckle, in the jaunty curl of the brim, it still preserved a

certain pitiful air of rakishness; wherefore, I stooped, and, picking

it up, began to brush the dust from it as well as I might.

I was thus engaged when there arose a sudden bull-like roar and,

glancing up, I beheld a man who reeled backwards out of the inn and

who, after staggering a yard or so, thudded down into the road and so

lay, staring vacantly up at the sky. Before I could reach him,

however, he got upon his legs and, crossing unsteadily to the tree I

have mentioned, leaned there, and I saw there was much blood upon his

face which he essayed to wipe away with the cuff of his coat. Now,

upon his whole person, from the crown of his unkempt head down to his

broken, dusty boots, there yet clung that air of jaunty, devil-may-care

rakishness which I had seen, and pitied in his hat.

Observing, as I came up, how heavily he leaned against the tree, and

noting the extreme pallor of his face and the blank gaze of his sunken

eyes, I touched him upon the shoulder.

"Sir, I trust you are not hurt?" said I.

"Thank you," he answered, his glance still wandering, "not in the

least—assure you—merely tap on the nose, sir—unpleasant—damnably,

but no more, no more."

"I think," said I, holding out the battered hat, "I think this is

yours?"

His eye encountering it in due time, he reached out his hand somewhat

fumblingly, and took it from me with a slight movement of the head and

shoulders that might have been a bow.

"Thank you—yes—should know it among a thousand," said he dreamily,

"an old friend and a tried—a very much tried one—many thanks." With

which words he clapped the much-tried friend upon his head, and with

another movement that might have been a bow, turned short round and

strode away. And as he went, despite the careless swing of his

shoulder, his legs seemed to falter somewhat in their stride and once I

thought he staggered; yet, as I watched, half minded to follow after

him, he settled his hat more firmly with a light tap upon the crown

and, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his threadbare coat, fell

to whistling lustily, and so, turning a bend in the road, vanished from

my sight.

And presently, my thirst recurring to me, I approached the inn, and

descending three steps entered its cool shade. Here I found four men,

each with his pipe and tankard, to whom a large, red-faced, big-fisted

fellow was holding forth in a high state of heat and indignation.

"Wot's England a-comin' to?—that's wot I wants to know," he was

saying; "wot's England a-comin' to when thievin' robbers can come

a-walkin' in on you a-stealin' a pint o' your best ale out o' your very

own tankard under your very own nose—wot's it a-comin' to?"

"Ah!" nodded the others solemnly, "that's it, Joel—wot?"

"W'y," growled the red-faced innkeeper, bringing his big fist down with

a bang, "it's a-comin' to per—dition; that's wot it's a-comin' to!"

"And wot," inquired a rather long, bony man with a face half-hidden in

sandy whisker, "wot might per—dition be, Joel; likewise, wheer?"

"You must be a danged fule, Tom, my lad!" retorted he whom they called

Joel, redder in the face than ever.

"Ay, that ye must!" chorused the others.

"I only axed 'wot an' wheer."

"Only axed, did ye?" repeated Joel scornfully,

"Ah," nodded the other, "that's all."

"But you're always a-axin', you are," said Joel gloomily.

"W'ich I notice," retorted the man Tom, blowing into his tankard,

"w'ich I notice as you ain't never over-fond o' answerin'."

"Oh!—I ain't, ain't I?"

"No, you ain't," repeated Tom, "nohow."

Here the red-faced man grew so very red indeed that the others fell to

coughing, all together, and shuffling their feet and giving divers

other evidences of their embarrassment, all save the unimpressionable

Tom.

Seizing the occasion that now presented itself, I knocked loudly upon

the floor with my stick, whereupon the red-faced man, removing his eyes

slowly and by degrees from the unconcerned Tom, fixed them darkly upon

me.

"Supposing," said I, "supposing you are so very obliging as to serve me

with a pint of ale?"

"Then supposin' you show me the color o' your money?" he growled,

"come, money fust; I aren't takin' no more risks."

For answer I laid the coins before him. And having pocketed the money,

he filled and thrust a foaming tankard towards me, which I emptied

forthwith and called upon him for another.

"Wheer's your money?"

"Here," said I, tossing a sixpence to him, "and you can keep the

change."

"Why, ye see, sir," he began, somewhat mollified, "it be precious 'ard

to know who's a gentleman, an' who ain't; who's a thief, an' who ain't

these days."

"How so?"

"Why, only a little while ago—just afore you—chap comes a-walkin' in

'ere, no account much to look at, but very 'aughty for all that—comes

a-walkin in 'ere 'e do an' calls for a pint o' ale—you 'eard 'im, all

on ye?" He broke off, turning to the others; "you all 'eard 'im call

for a pint o' ale?"

"Ah—we 'eard 'im," they nodded.

"Comes a-walkin' in 'ere 'e do, bold as brass—calls for a pint o'

ale—drinks it off, an'—'ands me 'is 'at; you all seen 'im 'and me 'is

'at?" he inquired, once more addressing the others.

"Every man of us," the four chimed in with four individual nods.

"'Wot's this 'ere?' says I, turnin' it over. 'It's a 'at, or once

was,' says 'e. 'Well, I don't want it,' says I. 'Since you've got it

you'd better keep it,' says 'e. 'Wot for?' says I? 'Why,' says 'e,

'it's only fair seein' I've got your ale—it's a case of exchange,'

says 'e. 'Oh! is it?' says I, an' pitched the thing out into the road

an' 'im arter it—an' so it ended. An' wot," said the red-faced man

nodding his big head at me, "wot d'ye think o' that now?"

"Why, I think you were perhaps a trifle hasty," said I.

"Oh, ye do, do ye?"

"Yes," I nodded.

"An' for why?"

"Well, you will probably remember that the hat had a band round it—"

"Ay, all wore away it were too—"

"And that in the band was a buckle—"

"Ay, all scratched an' rusty it were—well?"

"Well, that tarnished buckle was of silver—"

"Silver!" gasped the man, his jaw falling.

"And easily worth five shillings, perhaps more, so that I think you

were, upon the whole, rather hasty." Saying which, I finished my ale

and, taking up my staff, stepped out into the sunshine.

CHAPTER IV

I MEET WITH A GREAT MISFORTUNE

That day I passed through several villages, stopping only to eat and

drink; thus evening was falling as, having left fair Sevenoaks behind,

I came to the brow of a certain hill, a long and very steep descent

which (I think) is called the River Hill. And here, rising stark

against the evening sky, was a gibbet, and standing beneath it a man, a

short, square man in a somewhat shabby coat of a bottle-green, and with

a wide-brimmed beaver hat sloped down over his eyes, who stood with his

feet well apart, sucking the knob of a stick he carried, while he

stared up at that which dangled by a stout chain from the cross-beam of

the gibbet,—something black and shrivelled and horrible that had once

been human.

As I came up, the man drew the stick from his mouth and touched the

brim of his hat with it in salutation.

"An object lesson, sir," said he, and nodded towards the loathsome mass

above.

"A very hideous one!" said I, pausing, "and I think a very useless one."

"He was as fine a fellow as ever thrust toe into stirrup," the man went

on, pointing upwards with his stick, "though you'd never think so to

look at him now!"

"It's a horrible sight!" said I.

"It is," nodded the man, "it's a sight to turn a man's stomach, that it

is!"

"You knew him perhaps?" said I.

"Knew him," repeated the man, staring at me over his shoulder, "knew

him—ah—that is, I knew of him."

"A highwayman?"

"Nick Scrope his name was," answered the man with a nod, "hung at

Maidstone assizes last year, and a very good end he made of it too; and

here he be—hung up in chains all nat'ral and reg'lar, as a warning to

all and sundry."

"The more shame to England," said I; "to my thinking it is a scandal

that our highways should be rendered odious by such horrors, and as

wicked as it is useless."

"'Od rot me!" cried the fellow, slapping a cloud of dust from his coat

with his stick, "hark to that now."

"What?" said I, "do you think for one moment that such a sight,

horrible though it is, could possibly deter a man from robbery or

murder whose mind is already made up to it by reason of circumstances

or starvation?"

"Well, but it's an old custom, as old as this here road."

"True," said I, "and that of itself but proves my argument, for men

have been hanged and gibbeted all these years, yet robbery and murder

abide with us still, and are of daily occurrence."

"Why, as to that, sir," said the man, falling into step beside me as I

walked on down the hill, "I won't say yes and I won't say no, but what

I do say is—as many a man might think twice afore running the chance

of coming to that—look!" And he stopped to turn, and point back at

the gibbet with his stick. "Nick can't last much longer, though I've

know'd 'em hang a good time—but they made a botch of Nick—not enough

tar; you can see where the sun catches him there!"

Once more, though my whole being revolted at the sight, I must needs

turn to look at the thing—the tall, black shaft of the gibbet, and the

grisly horror that dangled beneath with its chains and iron bands; and

from this, back again to my companion, to find him regarding me with a

curiously twisted smile, and a long-barrelled pistol held within a foot

of my head.

"Well?" said I, staring.

"Sir," said he, tapping his boot with his stick, "I must trouble you

for the shiner I see a-winking at me from your cravat, likewise your

watch and any small change you may have."

For a moment I hesitated, glancing from his grinning mouth swiftly over

the deserted road, and back again.

"Likewise," said the fellow, "I must ask you to be sharp about it." It

was with singularly clumsy fingers that I drew the watch from my fob

and the pin from my cravat, and passed them to him.

"Now your pockets," he suggested, "turn 'em out."

This command I reluctantly obeyed, bringing to light my ten guineas,

which were as yet intact, and which he pocketed forthwith, and two

pennies—which he bade me keep.

"For," said he, "'t will buy you a draught of ale, sir, and there's

good stuff to be had at 'The White Hart' yonder, and there's nothin'

like a draught of good ale to comfort a man in any such small adversity

like this here. As to that knapsack now," he pursued, eyeing it

thoughtfully, "it looks heavy and might hold valleybels, but then, on

the other hand, it might not, and those there straps takes time to

unbuckle and—" He broke off suddenly, for from somewhere on the hill

below us came the unmistakable sound of wheels. Hereupon the fellow

very nimbly ran across the road, turned, nodded, and vanished among the

trees and underbrush that clothed the steep slope down to the valley

below.

CHAPTER V

THE BAGMAN

I was yet standing there, half stunned by my loss and the suddenness of

it all, when a tilbury came slowly round a bend in the road, the driver

of which nodded lazily in his seat while his horse, a sorry, jaded

animal, plodded wearily up the steep slope of the hill. As he

approached I hailed him loudly, upon which he suddenly dived down

between his knees and produced a brass-bound blunderbuss.

"What's to do?" cried he, a thick-set, round-faced fellow, "what's to

do, eh?" and he covered me with the wide mouth of the blunderbuss.

"Thieves!" said I, "I've been robbed, and not three minutes since."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, in a tone of great relief, and with the color

returning to his plump cheeks, "is that the way of it?"

"It is," said I, "and a very bad way; the fellow has left me but

twopence in the world."

"Twopence—ah?"

"Come," I went on, "you are armed, I see; the thief took to the

brushwood, here, not three minutes ago; we may catch him yet—"

"Catch him?" repeated the fellow, staring.

"Yes, don't I tell you he has stolen all the money I possess?"

"Except twopence," said the fellow.

"Yes—"

"Well, twopence ain't to be sneezed at, and if I was you—"

"Come, we're losing time," said I, cutting him short.

"But—my mare, what about my mare?"

"She'll stand," I answered; "she's tired enough."

The Bagman, for such I took him to be, sighed, and, blunderbuss in

hand, prepared to alight, but, in the act of doing so, paused:

"Was the rascal armed?" he inquired, over his shoulder

"To be sure he was," said I.

The Bagman got back into his seat and took up the reins.

"What now?" I inquired.

"It's this accursed mare of mine," he answered; "she'll bolt again,

d'ye see—twice yesterday and once the day before, she bolted, sir, and

on a road like this—"

"Then lend me your blunderbuss."

"I can't do that," he replied, shaking his head.

"But why not?" said I impatiently.

"Because this is a dangerous road, and I don't intend to be left

unarmed on a dangerous road; I never have been and I never will, and

there's an end of it, d'ye see!"

"Then do you mean to say that you refuse your aid to a

fellow-traveler—that you will sit there and let the rogue get away

with all the money I possess in the world—"

"Oh, no; not on no account; just you get up here beside me and we'll

drive to 'The White Hart.' I'm well known at 'The White Hart;' we'll

get a few honest fellows at our heels and have this thieving, rascally

villain in the twinkling of an—" He stopped suddenly, made a frantic

clutch at his blunderbuss, and sat staring. Turning short round, I saw

the man in the beaver hat standing within a yard of us, fingering his

long pistol and with the same twisted smile upon his lips.

"I've a mind," said he, nodding his head at the Bagman, "I've a great

mind to blow your face off."

The blunderbuss fell to the roadway, with a clatter.

"Thievin', rascally villain—was it? Damme! I think I will blow your

face off."

"No—don't do—that," said the Bagman, in a strange, jerky voice, "what

'ud be—the good?"

"Why, that there poor animal wouldn't have to drag that fat carkiss of

yours up and down hills, for one thing."

"I'll get out and walk."

"And it might learn ye to keep a civil tongue in your head."

"I—I didn't mean—any—offence."

"Then chuck us your purse," growled the other, "and be quick about it."

The Bagman obeyed with wonderful celerity, and I heard the purse chink

as the footpad dropped it into the pocket of his greatcoat.

"As for you," said he, turning to me, "you get on your way and never

mind me; forget you ever had ten guineas and don't go a-riskin' your

vallyble young life; come—up with you!" and he motioned me into the

tilbury with his pistol.

"What about my blunderbuss?" expostulated the Bagman, faintly, as I

seated myself beside him, "you'll give me my blunderbuss—cost me five

pound it did."

"More fool you!" said the highwayman, and, picking up the unwieldy

weapon, he hove it into the ditch.

"As to our argyment—regardin' gibbetin', sir," said he, nodding to me,

"I'm rayther inclined to think you was in the right on it arter all."

Then, turning towards the Bagman: "Drive on, fat-face!" said he, "and

sharp's the word." Whereupon the Bagman whipped up his horse and, as

the tired animal struggled forward over the crest of the hill, I saw

the highwayman still watching us.

Very soon we came in view of "The White Hart," an inn I remembered to

have passed on the right hand side of the road, and scarce were we

driven up to the door than down jumped the Bagman, leaving me to follow

at my leisure, and running into the tap, forthwith began recounting his

loss to all and sundry, so that I soon found we were become the center

of a gaping crowd, much to my disgust. Indeed, I would have slipped

away, but each time I attempted to do so the Bagman would appeal to me

to corroborate some statement.

"Galloping Dick himself, or I'm a Dutchman!" he cried for the twentieth

time; "up he comes, bold as brass, bless you, and a horse-pistol in

each hand. 'Hold hard!' says I, and ups with my blunderbuss; you

remember as I ups with my blunderbuss?" he inquired, turning to me.

"Quite well," said I.

"Ah, but you should have seen the fellow's face, when he saw my

blunderbuss ready at my shoulder; green it was—green as grass, for if

ever there was death in a man's face, and sudden death at that, there

was sudden death in mine, when, all at once, my mare, my accursed mare,

jibbed—"

"Yes, yes?" cried half-a-dozen breathless voices, "what then?"

"Why, then, gentlemen," said the Bagman, shaking his head and frowning

round upon the ring of intent faces, "why then, gentlemen, being a

resolute, determined fellow, I did what any other man of spirit would

have done—I—"

"Dropped your blunderbuss," said I.

"Ay, to be sure I did—"

"And he pitched it into the ditch," said I.

"Ay," nodded the Bagman dubiously, while the others crowded nearer.

"And then he took your money, and called you 'Fool' and 'Fatface,' and

so it ended," said I. With which I pushed my way from the circle, and,

finding a quiet corner beside the chimney, sat down, and with my last

twopence paid for a tankard of ale.

CHAPTER VI

WHAT BEFELL ME AT "THE WHITE HART"

When a man has experienced some great and totally unexpected reverse of

fortune, has been swept from one plane of existence to another, that he

should fail at once to recognize the full magnitude of that change is

but natural, for his faculties must of necessity be numbed more or less

by its very suddenness.

Yesterday I had been reduced from affluence to poverty with an

unexpectedness that had dazed me for the time being, and, from the

poverty of an hour ago, I now found myself reduced to an utter

destitution, without the wherewithal to pay for the meanest night's

lodging. And, contrasting the careless ease of a few days since with

my present lamentable situation, I fell into a gloomy meditation; and

the longer I thought it over, the more dejected I became. To be sure,

I might apply to Sir Richard for assistance, but my pride revolted at

even the thought, more especially at such an early stage; moreover, I

had determined, beforehand, to walk my appointed road unaided from the

first.

From these depressing thoughts I was presently aroused by a loud, rough

voice at no great distance, to which, though I had been dimly conscious

of it for some time, I had before paid no attention. Now, however, I

raised my eyes from the spot upon the floor where they had rested

hitherto, and fixed them upon the speaker.

He was a square-shouldered, bullet-headed fellow, evidently held in

much respect by his companions, for he occupied the head of the table,

and I noticed that when ever he spoke the others held their peace, and

hung upon the words with an appearance of much respect.

"'Yes, sirs,' says I," he began, louder than before, and with a

flourish of his long-stemmed pipe, "'yes, sirs, Tom Cragg's my name an'

craggy's my natur,' says I. 'I be 'ard, sirs, dey-vilish 'ard an'

uncommon rocky! 'Ere's a face as likes good knocks,' I says, 'w'y,

when I fought Crib Burke o' Bristol 'e broke 'is 'and again' my jaw, so

'e did, an' I scarce knowed 'e'd 'it me till I see 'im 'oppin' wi' the

pain of it. Come, sirs,' says I, 'who'll give me a black eye; a

fiver's all I ask.' Well, up comes a young buck, ready an' willin'.

'Tom,' says 'e, 'I'll take two flaps at that figger-head o' yourn for

seven guineas, come, what d'ye say?' I says, 'done,' says I. So my

fine gentleman lays by 'is 'at an' cane, strips off 'is right-'and

glove, an' 'eavin' back lets fly at me. Bang comes 'is fist again' my

jaw, an' there's my gentleman a-dabbin' at 'is broken knuckles wi' 'is

'ankercher. 'Come, my lord,' says I, 'fair is fair, take your other

whack.' 'Damnation!' says 'e, 'take your money an' go to the devil!'

says 'e, 'I thought you was flesh an' blood an' not cast iron!'

'Craggy, my lord,' says I, gathering up the rhino, 'Cragg by name an'

craggy by natur', my lord,' says I."

Hereupon ensued a roar of laughter, with much slapping of thighs, and

stamping of feet, while the bullet-headed man solemnly emptied his

tankard, which was the signal for two or three of those nearest to vie

for its possession, during which Tom Cragg sucked dreamily at his pipe

and stared placidly up at the ceiling.

"Now, Tom," said a tall, bony individual, chiefly remarkable in

possessing but one eye, and that so extremely pale and watery as to

give one the idea that it was very much overworked, "now, Tom," said

he, setting down the refilled tankard at the great man's elbow with a

triumphant flourish, "tell us 'ow you shook 'ands wi' the Prince

Regent."

"Ah! tell us," chimed the rest.

"Well," said the bullet-headed man, stooping to blow the froth from his

ale, "it was arter I beat Jack Nolan of Brummagem. The Prince 'e come

a-runnin' to me 'e did, as I sat in my corner a-workin' at a loose

tusk. 'Tom,' 'e says, 'Tom, you be a wonder.' 'I done Jack Nolan up

proper I think, your 'Ighness,' says I. 'Tom,' says 'e, wi' tears in

'is eyes, 'you 'ave; an' if I 'ad my way,' says 'e, 'I'd make you Prime

Minister to-morrer!' 'e says. An' slapped me on the back 'e did, wi'

'is merry own 'and, an' likewise gave me this 'ere pin," saying which,

he pointed to a flaming diamond horseshoe which he wore stuck through

his neckerchief. The stones were extremely large and handsome, looking

very much out of place on the fellow's rough person, and seemed in some

part to bear out his story. Though, indeed, as regarded his

association with the Prince Regent, whose tastes were at all times

peculiar (to say the least), and whose love for "the fancy" was

notorious, I thought it, on the whole, very probable; for despite

Craggy's words, foolishly blatant though they sounded, there was about

him in his low, retreating brow, his small, deep-set eyes, his great

square jowl and heavy chin, a certain air there was no mistaking. I

also noticed that the upper half of one ear was unduly thick and

swollen, which is a mark (I believe) of the professional pugilist alone.

"Tom," cried the one-eyed man, "wot's all this we heerd of Ted Jarraway

of Swansea bein' knocked out in five rounds by this 'ere Lord Vibbot,

up in London?"

"Vibbot?" repeated Cragg, frowning into his tankard, "I 'aven't 'eard

of no Vibbot, neither lord, earl, nor dook."

"Come, Tom," coaxed the other, "everybody's heerd o' Buck Vibbot, 'im

they calls the 'Fightin' Barronite.'"

"If," said Cragg, rolling his bullet-head, "if you was to ask me who

put Ted Jarraway to sleep, I should answer you, Sir Maurice Vibart,

commonly called 'Buck' Vibart; an' it took ten rounds to do it, not

five."

As may be expected, at this mention of my cousin's name I pricked up my

ears.

"And what's all this 'bout him 'putting out' Tom Cragg, in three?" At

this there was a sudden silence and all eyes were turned towards the

speaker, a small, red-headed fellow, with a truculent eye. "Come," said

he, blowing out a cloud of tobacco smoke, "in three rounds! What d'ye

say to that now, come?"

Cragg had started up in his chair and now sat scowling at his

inquisitor open-mouthed; and in the hush I could hear the ticking of

the clock in the corner, and the crackle of the logs upon the hearth.

Then, all at once, Cragg's pipe shivered to fragments on the floor and

he leapt to his feet. In one stride, as it seemed, he reached the

speaker, who occupied the corner opposite mine, but, even as he raised

his fist, he checked himself before the pocket-pistol which the other

held levelled across the table.

"Come, come—none o' that," said the red-headed man, his eye more

truculent than ever, "I ain't a fightin' cove myself, and I don't want

no trouble—all I asks is, what about Buck Vibart putting out Tom

Cragg—in three rounds? That's a civil question, ain't it—what d'ye

say now—come?"

"I says," cried Tom Cragg, flourishing a great fist in the air, "I says

as 'e done it—on a foul!" And he smote the table a blow that set the

glasses ringing.

"Done it on a foul?" cried three or four voices.

"On a foul!" repeated Cragg.

"Think again," said the red-headed man, "'t were said as it was a werry

clean knock-out."

"An' I say it were done on a foul," reiterated Cragg, with another blow

of his fist, "an' wot's more, if Buck Vibart stood afore me—ah, in

this 'ere very room, I'd prove my words."

"Humph!" said the red-headed man, "they do say as he's wonderful quick

wi' his 'mauleys,' an' can hit—like a sledgehammer."

"Quick wi' 'is 'ands 'e may be, an' able to give a goodish thump, but

as for beatin' me—it's 'all me eye an' Betty Martin,' an' you can lay

to that, my lads. I could put 'im to sleep any time an' anywhere, an'

I'd like—ah! I'd like to see the chap as says contrairy!" And here

the pugilist scowled round upon his hearers (more especially the

red-headed man) so blackly that one or two of them shuffled uneasily,

and the latter individual appeared to become interested in the lock of

his pistol.

"I'd like," repeated Cragg, "ah! I'd like to see the cove as says

contrairy."

"No one ain't a-goin' to, Tom," said the one-eyed man soothingly, "not

a soul, Lord bless you!"

"I only wish they would," growled Cragg.

"Ain't there nobody to obleege the gentleman?" inquired the red-headed

man.

"I'd fight any man as ever was born—wish I may die!" snorted Cragg.

"You always was so fiery, Tom!" purred the one-eyed man, blinking his

pale orb.

"I were," cried the prizefighter, working himself into another rage,

"ah! an' I'm proud of it. I'd fight any man as ever wore

breeches—why, burn me! I'd give any man ten shillin' as could stand up

to me for ten minutes."

"Ten shillings!" said I to myself, "ten shillings, when one comes to

think of it, is a very handsome sum—more especially when one is

penniless and destitute!"

"Wish I may die!" roared Cragg, smiting his fist down on the table

again, "a guinea—a golden guinea to the man as could stand on 'is pins

an' fight me for five minutes—an' as for Buck Vibart—curse 'im, I say

as 'e won on a foul!"

"A guinea," said I to myself, "is a fortune!" And, setting down my

empty tankard, I crossed the room and touched Cragg upon the shoulder.

"I will fight you," said I, "for a guinea."

Now, as the fellow's eyes met mine, he rose up out of his chair and his

mouth opened slowly, but he spoke no word, backing from me until he was

stayed by the table, where he stood, staring at me. And once again

there fell a silence, in which I heard the tick of the clock in the

corner and the crackle of the logs upon the hearth.

"You?" said he, recovering himself with an effort, "you?" and, as he

spoke, I saw his left eyelid twitch suddenly.

"Exactly," I answered, "I think I can stand up to even you—for five

minutes." Now, as I spoke, he winked at me again. That it was meant

for me was certain, seeing that his back was towards the others, though

what he intended to convey I could form no idea, so I assumed as

confident an air as possible and waited. Hereupon the one-eyed man

broke into a sudden raucous laugh, in which the others joined.

"'Ark to 'im, lads," he cried, pointing to me with the stern of his

pipe, "'e be a fine un to stand up to Tom Cragg—I don't think."

"Tell 'un to go an' larn hisself to grow whiskers fust!" cried a second.

"Ay, to be sure, 'e aren't got so much as our old cat!" grinned a third.

"Stay!" cried the one-eyed man, peering up at me beneath his hand. "Is

they whiskers a-peepin' at me over 'is cravat or do my eyes deceive

me?" Which pleasantry called forth another roar of laughter at my

expense.

Now, very foolishly perhaps, this nonsense greatly exasperated me, for

I was, at that time, painfully conscious of my bare lips and chin. It

was, therefore, with an effort that I mastered my quickly rising

temper, and once more addressed myself to Cragg.

"I am willing," said I, "to accept your conditions and fight you—for a

guinea—or any other man here for that matter, except the humorous

gentleman with the watery eye, who can name his own price." The fellow

in question stared at me, glanced slowly round, and, sitting down,

buried his face in his tankard.

"Come, Tom Cragg," said I, "a while ago you seemed very anxious for a

man to fight; well—I'm your man," and with the words I stripped off my

coat and laid it across a chairback.

This apparent willingness on my part was but a cloak for my real

feelings, for I will not here disguise the fact that the prospect

before me was anything but agreeable; indeed my heart was thumping in a

most unpleasant manner, and my tongue and lips had become strangely

parched and dry, as I fronted Cragg.

Truly, he looked dangerous enough, with his beetling brow, his great

depth of chest, and massive shoulders; and the possibility of a black

eye or so, and general pounding from the fellow's knotted fists, was

daunting in the extreme. Still, the chance of earning a guinea, even

under such conditions, was not to be lightly thrown away; therefore I

folded my arms and waited with as much resolution as I could.

"Sir," said Cragg, speaking in a very altered tone, "sir, you seem

oncommon—eager for it."

"I shall be glad to get it over," said I.

"If," he went on slowly, "if I said anything against—you know who, I'm

sorry for it—me 'aving the greatest respec' for—you know who—you

understand me, I think." And herewith he winked, three separate and

distinct times.

"No, I don't understand you in the least," said I, "nor do I think it

at all necessary; all that I care about is the guinea in question."

"Come, Tom," cried one of the company, "knock 'is 'ead off to begin

with."

"Ay, set about 'm, Tom—cut your gab an' finish 'im," and here came the

clatter of chairs as the company rose.

"Can't be done," said Cragg, shaking his head, "leastways—not 'ere."

"I'm not particular," said I, "if you prefer, we might manage it very

well in the stable with a couple of lanthorns."

"The barn would be the very place," suggested the landlord, bustling

eagerly forward and wiping his hands on his apron, "the very

place—plenty of room and nice and soft to fall on. If you would only

put off your fightin' till to-morrow, we might cry it through the

villages; 'twould be a big draw. Ecod! we might make a purse o' twenty

pound—if you only would! Think it over—think it over."

"To-morrow I hope to be a good distance from here," said I; "come, the

sooner it is over the better, show us your barn." So the landlord

called for lanthorns and led the way to a large outbuilding at the back

of the inn, into which we all trooped.

"It seems to be a good place and very suitable," said I.

"You may well say that," returned the landlord; "it's many a fine bout

as has been brought off in 'ere; the time Jem Belcher beat 'The Young

Ruffian' the Prince o' Wales sat in a cheer over in that theer

corner—ah, that was a day, if you please!"

"If Tom Cragg is ready," said I, turning up the wristbands of my shirt,

"why, so am I." Here it was found to every one's surprise, and mine in

particular, that Tom Cragg was not in the barn. Surprise gave place to

noisy astonishment when, after much running to and fro, it was further

learned that he had vanished altogether. The inn itself, the stables,

and even the haylofts were ransacked without avail. Tom Cragg was gone

as completely as though he had melted into thin air, and with him all

my hopes of winning the guinea and a comfortable bed.

It was with all my old dejection upon me, therefore, that I returned to

the tap-room, and, refusing the officious aid of the One-Eyed Man, put

on my coat, readjusted my knapsack and crossed to the door. On the

threshold I paused, and looked back.

"If," said I, glancing round the ring of faces, "if there is any man

here who is at all willing to fight for a guinea, ten shillings, or

even five, I should be very glad of the chance to earn it." But,

seeing how each, wilfully avoiding my eye, held his peace, I sighed,

and turning my back upon them, set off along the darkening road.

CHAPTER VII

OF THE FURTHER PUZZLING BEHAVIOR OF TOM CRAGG, THE PUGILIST

Evening had fallen, and I walked along in no very happy frame of mind,

the more so, as the rising wind and flying wrack of clouds above

(through which a watery moon had peeped at fitful intervals) seemed to

presage a wild night. It needed but this to make my misery the more

complete, for, as far as I could tell, if I slept at all (and I was

already very weary), it must, of necessity, be beneath some hedge or

tree.

As I approached the brow of the hill, I suddenly remembered that I must

once more pass the gibbet, and began to strain my eyes for it.

Presently I spied it, sure enough, its grim, gaunt outline looming

through the murk, and instinctively I quickened my stride so as to pass

it as soon as might be.

I was almost abreast of it when a figure rose from beneath it and

slouched into the road to meet me. I stopped there and then, and

grasping my heavy staff waited its approach.

"Be that you, sir?" said a voice, and I recognized the voice of Tom

Cragg.

"What are you doing—and there of all places?"

"Oh—I ain't afeared of 'im," answered Cragg, jerking his thumb towards

the gibbet, "I ain't afeard o' none as ever drawed breath—dead or

livin'—except it be 'is 'Ighness the Prince Regent."

"And what do you want with me?"

"I 'opes as theer's no offence, my lord," said he, knuckling his

forehead, and speaking in a tone that was a strange mixture of would-be

comradeship and cringing servility. "Cragg is my name, an' craggy's my

natur', but I know when I'm beat. I knowed ye as soon as I laid my

'peepers' on ye, an' if I said as it were a foul, why, when a man's in

'is cups, d'ye see, 'e's apt to shoot rayther wide o' the gospel, d'ye

see, an' there was no offence, my lord, strike me blind! I know you,

an' you know me—Tom Cragg by name an' craggy by—"

"But I don't know you," said I, "and, for that matter, neither do you

know me."

"W'y, you ain't got no whiskers, my lord—leastways, not with you now,

but—"

"And what the devil has that got to do with it?" said I angrily.

"Disguises, p'raps!" said the fellow, with a sly leer, "arter that

theer kidnappin'—an' me 'avin' laid out Sir Jarsper Trent, in Wych

Street, accordin' to your orders, my lord, the Prince give me word to

'clear out'—cut an' run for it, till it blow'd over; an' I thought,

p'raps, knowin' as you an' 'im 'ad 'ad words, I thought as you 'ad 'cut

stick' too—"

"And I think—that you are manifestly drunk," said I, "if you still

wish to fight, for any sum—no matter how small—put up your hands; if

not, get out of my road." The craggy one stepped aside, somewhat

hastily, which done, he removed his hat and stood staring and

scratching his bullet-head as one in sore perplexity.

"I seen a many rum goes in my time," said he, "but I never see so rummy

a go as this 'ere—strike me dead!"

So I left him, and strode on down the hill. As I went, the moon shot

out a feeble ray, through some rift in the rolling clouds, and, looking

back, I saw him standing where I had left him beneath the gibbet, still

scratching his bullethead, and staring after me down the hill.

Now, though the whole attitude and behavior of the fellow was puzzling

to no small degree, my mind was too full of my own concerns to give

much thought to him—indeed, scarce was he out of my sight but I forgot

him altogether; for, what with my weariness, the long, dark road before

and behind me, and my empty pockets, I became a prey to great

dejection. So much so that I presently sank wearily beside the way,

and, resting my chin in my hands, sat there, miserably enough, watching

the night deepen about me.

"And yet," said I to myself, "if, as Epictetus says—'to despise a

thing is to possess it,' then am I rich, for I have always despised

money; and if, weary as I am, I can manage to condemn the luxury of a

feather bed, then tonight, lying in this grassy ditch beneath the

stars, I shall slumber as sweetly as ever I did between the snowy

sheets." Saying which, I rose and began to look about for some likely

nook in the hedge, where I might pass the night. I was thus engaged

when I heard the creak of wheels, and the pleasant rhythmic jingle of

harness on the dark hill above, and, in a little while, a great wagon

or wain, piled high with hay, hove into view, the driver of which

rolled loosely in his seat with every jolt of the wheels, so that it

was a wonder he did not roll off altogether. As he came level with me

I hailed him loudly, whereupon he started erect and brought his horses

to a stand:

"Hulloa!" he bellowed, in the loud, strident tone of one rudely

awakened, "w'at do 'ee want wi' I?"

"A lift," I answered, "will you give a tired fellow a lift on his way?"

"W'y—I dunno—be you a talkin' chap?"

"I don't think so," said I.

"Because, if you be a talkin' chap, I beant a-goin' to give 'ee a lift,

no'ow—not if I knows it; give a chap a lift, t' other day, I did—took

'im up t' other side o' Sevenoaks, an' 'e talked me up 'ill an' down

'ill, 'e did—dang me! if I could get a wink o' sleep all the way to

Tonbridge; so if you 'm a talkin' chap, you don't get no lift wi' I."

"I am generally a very silent chap," said I; "besides, I am too tired

and sleepy to talk, even if I wished—"

"Sleepy," yawned the man, "then up you get, my chap—I'm sleepy too—I

allus am, Lord love ye! theer's nowt like sleep—up wi' you, my chap."

Forthwith, up I clambered and, laying myself down among the fragrant

hay, stretched out my tired limbs, and sighed. Never shall I forget the

delicious sense of restfulness that stole over me as I lay there upon

my back, listening to the creak of the wheels, the deliberate

hoof-strokes of the horses, muffled in the thick dust of the road, and

the gentle snore of the driver who had promptly fallen asleep again.

On we went as if borne on air, so soft was my bed, now beneath the

far-flung branches of trees, sometimes so low that I could have touched

them with my hand, now, beneath a sky heavy with sombre masses of

flying cloud or bright with the soft radiance of the moon. On I went,

careless alike of destination, of time, and of future, content to lie

there upon the hay, and rest. And so, lulled by the gentle movement,

by the sound of wheels and harness, and the whisper of the soft wind

about me, I presently fell into a most blessed sleep.

CHAPTER VIII

WHICH CONCERNS ITSELF WITH A FARMER'S WHISKERS AND A WAISTCOAT

How long I slept I have no idea, but when I opened my eyes it was to

find the moon shining down on me from a cloudless heaven; the wind also

had died away; it seemed my early fears of a wild night were not to be

fulfilled, and for this I was sufficiently grateful. Now as I lay,

blinking up to the moon, I presently noticed that we had come to a

standstill and I listened expectantly for the jingle of harness and

creak of the wheels to recommence. "Strange!" said I to myself, after

having waited vainly some little time, and wondering what could cause

the delay, I sat up and looked about me. The first object my eyes

encountered was a haystack and, beyond that, another, with, a little to

one side, a row of barns, and again beyond these, a great, rambling

farmhouse. Evidently the wain had reached its destination, wherever

that might be, and the sleepy wagoner, forgetful of my presence, had

tumbled off to bed. The which I thought so excellent an example that I

lay down again, and, drawing the loose hay over me, closed my eyes, and

once more fell asleep.

My second awakening was gradual. I at first became conscious of a

sound, rising and falling with a certain monotonous regularity, that my

drowsy ears could make nothing of. Little by little, however, the

sound developed itself into a somewhat mournful melody or refrain,

chanted by a not unmusical voice. I yawned and, having stretched

myself, sat up to look and listen. And the words of the song were

these:

"When a man, who muffins cries,

Cries not, when his father dies,

'Tis a proof that he would rather

Have a muffin than his father."

The singer was a tall, strapping fellow with a good-tempered face,

whose ruddy health was set off by a handsome pair of black whiskers.

As I watched him, he laid aside the pitchfork he had been using, and

approached the wagon, but, chancing to look up, his eye met mine, and

he stopped:

"Hulloa!" he exclaimed, breaking short off in the middle of a note,

"hulloa!"

"Hallo!" said I.

"W'at be doin' up theer?"

"I was thinking," I returned, "that, under certain circumstances, I,

for one, could not blame the individual, mentioned in your song, for

his passionate attachment to muffins. At this precise moment a

muffin—or, say, five or six, would be highly acceptable, personally."

"Be you partial to muffins, then?"

"Yes, indeed," said I, "more especially seeing I have not broken my

fast since midday yesterday."

"Well, an' w'at be doin' in my hay?"

"I have been asleep," said I.

"Well, an' what business 'ave ye got a-sleepin' an' a-snorin' in my

hay?"

"I was tired," said I, "and 'Nature her custom holds, let shame say

what it will,' still—I do not think I snored."

"'Ow do I know that—or you, for that matter?" rejoined the farmer,

stroking his glossy whiskers, "hows'ever, if you be quite awake, come

on down out o' my hay." As he said this he eyed me with rather a

truculent air, likewise he clenched his fist. Thinking it wisest to

appear unconscious of this, I nodded affably, and letting myself down

from the hay, was next moment standing beside him.

"Supposin' I was to thump 'ee on the nose?" he inquired.

"What for?"

"For makin' so free wi' my hay."

"Why then," said I, "I should earnestly endeavor to thump you on yours."

The farmer looked me slowly over from head to foot, with a dawning

surprise.

"Thought you was a common tramper, I did," said he.

"Why, so I am," I answered, brushing the clinging hay from me.

"Trampers o' the road don't wear gentlemen's clothes—leastways, I

never see one as did." Here his eyes wandered over me again, from my

boots upward. Half-way up, they stopped, evidently arrested by my

waistcoat, a flowered satin of the very latest cut, for which I had

paid forty shillings in the Haymarket, scarcely a week before; and, as

I looked down at it, I would joyfully have given it, and every

waistcoat that was ever cut, to have had that forty shillings safe back

in my pocket again.

"That be a mighty fine weskit, sir!"

"Do you think so?" said I.

"Ah, that I do—w'at might be the cost of a weskit the like o' that,

now?"

"I paid forty shillings for it, in the Haymarket, in London, scarcely a

week ago," I answered. The fellow very slowly closed one eye at the

same time striking his nose three successive raps with his forefinger:

"Gammon!" said he.

"None the less, it's true," said I.

"Any man as would give forty shillin' for a garment as is no mortal

good agen the cold—not reachin' fur enough, even if it do be silk, an'

all worked wi' little flowers—is a dommed fool!—"

"Assuredly!" said I, with a nod.

"Howsomever," he continued, "it's a handsome weskit, there's no

denyin', an' well worth a woman's lookin' at—a proper man inside of

it."

"Not a doubt of it," said I.

"I mean," said he, scratching his ear, and staring hard at the handle

of the pitchfork, "a chap wi' a fine pair o' whiskers, say."

"Hum!" said I.

"Now, woman," he went on, shifting his gaze to the top button of his

left gaiter, "woman is uncommon fond o' a good pair o'

whiskers—leastways, so I've heerd."

"Indeed," said I, "few women can look upon such things unmoved, I

believe, and nothing can set off a pair of fine, black whiskers better

than a flowered satin waistcoat."

"That's so!" nodded the farmer.

"But, unfortunately," said I, passing my hand over my smooth lips and

chin, "I have no whiskers."

"No," returned the farmer, with a thoughtful shake of the head,

"leastways, none as I can observe."

"Now, you have," said I.

"So they do tell me," he answered modestly.

"And the natural inference is that you ought to have a flowered

waistcoat to go with them."

"Why, that's true, to be sure!" he nodded.

"The price of this one is—fifteen shillings," said I.

"That's a lot o' money, master," said he, shaking his head.

"It's a great deal less than forty," said I.

"An' ten is less than fifteen, an' ten shillin' is my price; what d'ye

say—come now."

"You drive a hard bargain," said I, "but the waistcoat is yours at your

own price." So saying, I slipped off knapsack and coat, and removing

the garment in question, having first felt through the pockets, handed

it to him, whereupon he slowly counted the ten shillings into my hand;

which done, he sat down upon the shaft of a cart near by, and,

spreading out the waistcoat on his knees, looked it over with

glistening eyes.

"Forty shillin' you paid for 'un, up to Lunnon," said he, "forty

shillin' it were, I think?"

"Forty shillings!" said I.

"Ecod, it's a sight o' money! But it's a grand weskit—ah, that it is!"

"So you believe me now, do you?" said I, pocketing the ten shillings.

"Well," he answered slowly, "I won't go so fur as that, but 'tis a

mighty fine weskit theer's no denyin', an' must ha' cost a sight o'

money—a powerful sight!" I picked up my knapsack and, slipping it on,

took my staff, and turned to depart. "Theer's a mug o' homebrewed, an'

a slice o' fine roast beef up at th' 'ouse, if you should be so

inclined—"

"Why, as to that," said I, over my shoulder, "I neither eat nor drink

with a man who doubts my word."

"Meanin' those forty shillin'?"

"Precisely!"

"Well," said he, twisting his whisker with a thoughtful air, "if you

could manage to mak' it twenty—or even twenty-five, I might mak' some

shift to believe it—though 'twould be a strain, but forty!—no, damme,

I can't swaller that!"

"Then, neither can I swallow your beef and ale," said I.

"Wheer be goin'?" he inquired, rising, and following as I made for the gate.

"To the end of the road," I answered.

"Then you be goin' pretty fur—that theer road leads to the sea."

"Why, then I'm going to the sea," said I.

"What to do?"

"I haven't the ghost of an idea," I returned.

"Can you work?"

"Yes," said I.

"Can ye thatch a rick?"

"No," said I.

"Shear a sheep?"

"No," said I.

"Guide a plough?"

"No," said I.

"Shoe a 'oss?"

"No," said I.

"Then ye can't work—Lord love me, wheer 'ave 'e been?"

"At a university," said I.

"Where, master?"

"At a place warranted to turn one out a highly educated incompetent," I

explained.

"Why, I don't hold wi' eddication nor book-larnin', myself, master.

Here I be wi' a good farm, an' money in the bank, an' can't write my

own name," said the farmer.

"And here am I, a 'first' in 'Litterae Humaniores,' selling my

waistcoat that I may eat," said I. Being come to the gate of the yard,

I paused. "There is one favor you might grant me," said I.

"As what, master?"

"Five minutes under the pump yonder, and a clean towel." The farmer

nodded, and crossing to one of the outhouses, presently returned with a

towel. And, resting the towel upon the pump-head, he seized the

handle, and sent a jet of clear, cool water over my head, and face, and

hands.

"You've got a tidy, sizeable arm," said he, as I dried myself

vigorously, "likewise a good strong back an' shoulders; theer's the

makin's of a man in you as might do summat—say in the plough or

smithin' way, but it's easy to see as you're a gentleman, more's the

pity, an' won't. Hows'ever, sir, if you've a mind to a cut o' good

beef, an' a mug o' fine ale—say the word."

"First," said I, "do you believe it was forty shillings yes or no?"

The farmer twisted his whisker, and stared very hard at the spout of

the pump.

"Tell 'ee what," said he at length, "mak' it thirty, an' I give ye my

Bible oath to do the best wi' it I can."

"Then I must needs seek my breakfast at the nearest inn," said I.

"An' that is the 'Old Cock,' a mile an' a half nearer Tonbridge."

"Then the sooner I start the better," said I, "for I'm mightily sharp

set."

"Why, as to that," said he, busy with his whisker again, "I might

stretch a pint or two an' call it—thirty-five, at a pinch—what d'ye

say?"

"Why, I say 'good morning,' and many of them!" And, opening the gate,

I started off down the road at a brisk pace. Now, as I went, it began

to rain.

CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH I STUMBLE UPON AN AFFAIR OF HONOR.

There are times (as I suppose) when the most aesthetic of souls will

forget the snow of lilies, and the down of a butterfly's wing, to revel

in the grosser joys of, say, a beefsteak. One cannot rhapsodize upon

the beauties of a sunset, or contemplate the pale witchery of the moon

with any real degree of poetic fervor, or any degree of comfort, while

hunger gnaws at one's vitals, for comfort is essential to your

aesthete, and, after all, soul goes hand in hand with stomach.

Thus, I swung along the road beneath the swaying green of trees, past

the fragrant, blooming hedges, paying small heed to the beauties of

wooded hill and grassy dale, my eyes constantly searching the road

before me for some sign of the "Old Cock" tavern. And presently, sure

enough, I espied it, an ugly, flat-fronted building, before which stood

a dilapidated horse trough and a battered sign. Despite its uninviting

exterior, I hurried forward, and mounting the three worn steps pushed

open the door. I now found myself in a room of somewhat uninviting

aspect, though upon the hearth a smouldering fire was being kicked into

a blaze by a sulky-faced fellow, to whom I addressed myself:

"Can I have some breakfast here?" said I.

"Why, it's all according, master," he answered, in a surly tone.

"According to what?" said I.

"According to what you want, master."

"Why, as to that—" I began.

"Because," he went on, administering a particularly vicious kick to the

fire, "if you was to ask me for a French hortolon—or even the 'ump of

a cam-el—being a very truthful man, I should say—no."

"But I want no such things," said I.

"And 'ow am I to know that—'ow am I to know as you ain't set your

'eart on the 'ump of a cam-el?"

"I tell you I want nothing of the sort," said I, "a chop would do—"

"Chop!" sighed the man, scowling threateningly at the fire, "chop!"

"Or steak," I hastened to add.

"Now it's a steak!" said the man, shaking his head ruefully, and

turning upon me a doleful eye, "a steak!" he repeated; "of course—it

would be; I s'pose you'd turn up your nose at 'am and eggs—it's only

to be expected."

"On the contrary," said I, "ham and eggs will suit me very well; why

couldn't you have mentioned them before?"

"Why, you never axed me as I remember," growled the fellow.

Slipping my knapsack from my shoulders, I sat down at a small table in

a corner while the man, with a final kick at the fire, went to give my

order. In a few minutes he reappeared with some billets of wood

beneath his arm, and followed by a merry-eyed, rosy-cheeked lass, who

proceeded, very deftly, to lay a snowy cloth and thereupon in due

season, a dish of savory ham and golden-yolked eggs.

"It's a lovely morning!" said I, lifting my eyes to her comely face.

"It is indeed, sir," said she, setting down the cruet with a turn of

her slender wrist.

"Which I make so bold as to deny," said the surly man, dropping the

wood on the hearth with a prodigious clatter, "'ow can any morning be

lovely when there ain't no love in it—no, not so much as would fill a

thimble? I say it ain't a lovely morning, not by no manner o' means,

and what I says I ain't ashamed on, being a nat'rally truthful man!"

With which words he sighed, kicked the fire again, and stumped out.

"Our friend would seem somewhat gloomy this morning," said I.

"He've been that way a fortnight now, come Satu'day," replied the slim

lass, nodding.

"Oh?" said I.

"Yes," she continued, checking a smile, and sighing instead; "it's very

sad, he've been crossed in love you see, sir."

"Poor fellow!" said I, "can't you try to console him?"

"Me, sir—oh no!"

"And why not? I should think you might console a man for a great deal."

"Why, you see, sir," said she, blushing and dimpling very prettily, "it

do so happen as I'm the one as crossed him."

"Ah!—I understand," said I.

"I'm to be married to a farmer—down the road yonder; leastways, I

haven't quite made up my mind yet."

"A fine, tall fellow?" I inquired.

"Yes—do 'ee know him, sir?"

"With a handsome pair of black whiskers?" said I.

"The very same, sir, and they do be handsome whiskers, though I do say

it."

"The finest I ever saw. I wish you every happiness," said I.

"Thankee sir, I'm sure," said she, and, dimpling more prettily than

ever, she tripped away, and left me to my repast.

And when I had assuaged my hunger, I took out the pipe of Adam, the

groom, the pipe shaped like a negro's head, and, calling for a paper of

tobacco, I filled and lighted the pipe, and sat staring dreamily out of

the window.

Happy is that man who, by reason of an abundant fortune, knows not the

meaning of the word hunger; but thrice happy is he who, when the hand

of famine pinches, may stay his craving with such a meal as this of

mine. Never before, and never since have I tasted just such eggs, and

such ham—so tender! so delicate! so full of flavor! It is a memory

that can never fade. Indeed, sometimes (even now), when I grow hungry,

(about dinner-time) I see once more the surly-faced man, the

rosy-cheeked waiting-maid, and the gloomy chamber of the "Old Cock"

tavern as I saw them upon that early May morning of the year of grace

18—.

So I sat, with a contented mind, smoking my pipe, and staring out at

the falling summer rain. And presently, chancing to turn my eyes up

the road, I beheld a chaise that galloped in a smother of mud. As I

watched its rapid approach, the postilion swung his horses towards the

inn, and a moment later had pulled up before the door. They had

evidently travelled fast and far, for the chaise was covered with dirt;

and the poor horses, in a lather of foam, hung their heads, while their

flanks heaved distressfully.

The chaise door was now thrown open, and three gentlemen alighted. The

first was a short, plethoric individual, bull-necked and loud of voice,

for I could hear him roundly cursing the post-boy for some fault; the

second was a tall, languid gentleman, who carried a flat, oblong box

beneath one arm, and who paused to fondle his whisker, and look up at

the inn with an exaggerated air of disgust; while the third stood

mutely by, his hands thrust into the pockets of his greatcoat, and

stared straight before him.

The three of them entered the room together, and, while the languid

gentleman paused to survey himself in the small, cracked mirror that

hung against the wall, the plethoric individual bustled to the fire,

and, loosening his coats and neckerchief, spread out his hands to the

blaze.

"A good half-hour before our time," said he, glancing towards the third

gentleman, who stood looking out of the window with his hands still

deep in his pockets; "we did the last ten miles well under the

hour—come, what do you say to a glass of brandy?"

At this, his languid companion turned from the mirror, and I noticed

that he, too, glanced at the silent figure by the window.

"By all means," said he, "though Sir Jasper would hardly seem in a

drinking humor," and, with the very slightest shrug of the shoulders,

he turned back to the mirror again.

"No, Mr. Chester, I am not—in a drinking humor," answered Sir Jasper,

without turning round, or taking his eyes from the window.

"Sir Jasper?" said I to myself, "now where, and in what connection,

have I heard such a name before?"

He was of a slight build, and seemingly younger than either of his

companions by some years, but what struck me particularly about him was

the extreme pallor of his face. I noticed also a peculiar habit he had

of moistening his lips at frequent intervals with the tip of his

tongue, and there was, besides, something in the way he stared at the

trees, the wet road, and the gray sky—a strange wide-eyed

intensity—that drew and held my attention.

"Devilish weather—devilish, on my life and soul!" exclaimed the short,

red-faced man, in a loud, peevish tone, tugging viciously at the

bell-rope, "hot one day, cold the next, now sun, now rain— Oh, damn

it! Now in France—ah, what a climate—heavenly—positively divine;

say what you will of a Frenchman, damn him by all means, but the

climate, the country, and the women—who would not worship 'em?"

"Exactly!" said the languid gentleman, examining a pimple upon his chin

with a high degree of interest, "always 'dored a Frenchwoman myself;

they're so—so ah—so deuced French, though mark you, Selby," he broke

off, as the rosy-cheeked maid appeared with the brandy and glasses,

"though mark you, there's much to be said for your English country

wenches, after all," saying which, he slipped his arm about the girl's

round waist. There was the sound of a kiss, a muffled shriek, and she

had run from the room, slamming the door behind her, whereupon the

languid gentleman went back to his pimple.

"Oh! as to that, Chester, I quarrel only with the climate. God made

England, and the devil sends the weather!"

"Selby," said Sir Jasper, in the same repressed tone that he had used

before and still without taking his eyes from the gray prospect of sky

and tree and winding road, "there is no fairer land, in all the world,

than this England of ours; it were a good thing to die—for England,

but that is a happiness reserved for comparatively few." And, with the

words, he sighed, a strange, fluttering sigh, and thrust his hands

deeper into his pockets.

"Die!" repeated the man Selby, in a loud, boisterous way. "Who talks

of death?"

"Deuced unpleasant subject!" said the other, with a shrug at the

cracked mirror. "Something so infernally cold and clammy about

it—like the weather."

"And yet it will be a glorious day later. The clouds are thinning

already," Sir Jasper went on; "strange, but I never realized, until

this morning, how green—and wonderful—everything is!"

The languid Mr. Chester forgot the mirror, and turned to stare at Sir

Jasper's back, with raised brows, while the man Selby shook his head,

and smiled unpleasantly. As he did so, his eye encountered me, where I

sat, quietly in my corner, smoking my negro-head pipe, and his thick

brows twitched sharply together in a frown.

"In an hour's time, gentlemen," pursued Sir Jasper, "we shall write

'finis' to a more or less interesting incident, and I beg of you, in

that hour, to remember my prophecy—that it would be a glorious day,

later."

Mr. Chester filled a glass, and crossing to the speaker, tendered it to

him without a word; as for Selby, he stood stolidly enough, his hands

thrust truculently beneath his coat-tails, frowning at me.

"Come," said Mr. Chester persuasively, "Just a bracer!" Sir Jasper

shook his head, but next moment reached out a white, unsteady hand, and

raised the brandy to his lips; yet as he drank, I saw the spirit slop

over, and trickle from his chin.

"Thanks, Chester," said he, returning the empty glass; "is it time we

started yet?"

"It's just half-past seven," answered Mr. Chester, consulting his

watch, "and I'm rather hazy as to the exact place."

"Deepdene Wood," said Sir Jasper dreamily.

"You know the place?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Then we may as well start, if you are ready?"

"Yes, it will be cool and fresh, outside."

"Settle the bill, Selby, we'll walk on slowly," said Mr. Chester, and,

with a last glance at the mirror, he slipped his arm within Sir

Jasper's, and they went out together.

Mr. Selby meanwhile rang for the bill, frowning at me all the time.

"What the devil are you staring at?" he demanded suddenly, in a loud,

bullying tone.

"If you are pleased to refer to me, sir," said I, "I would say that my

eyes were given for use, and that having used them upon you, I have

long since arrived at the conclusion that I don't like you."

"Ah?" said he, frowning fiercer than ever.

"Yes," said I, "though whether it is your person, your manner, or your

voice that displeases me most, I am unable to say."

"An impertinent young jackanapes!" said he; "damnation, I think I'll

pull your nose!"

"Why, you may try, and welcome, sir," said I; "though I should advise

you not, for should you make the attempt I should be compelled to throw

you out of the window."

At this moment the pretty maid appeared, and tendered him the bill with

a curtesy. He glanced at it, tossed some money upon the table, and

turned to stare at me again.

"If ever I meet you again—" he began.

"You'd probably know me," I put in.

"Without a doubt," he answered, putting on his hat and buttoning his

befrogged surtout; "and should you," he continued, drawing on his

gloves, "should you stare at me with those damned, impertinent fishes'

eyes of yours, I should, most certainly, pull your nose for you—on the

spot, sir."

"And I should as certainly throw you out of the window!" I nodded.

"An impertinent young jackanapes!" said he again, and went out, banging

the door behind him. Glancing from the window, I saw him catch up with

the other two, and all three walk on together down the road. Sir

Jasper was in the middle, and I noticed that his hands were still deep

in his pockets. Now, as I watched their forms getting smaller and

smaller in the distance, there grew upon me a feeling that he who

walked between would nevermore come walking back.

And, in a little, having knocked out my negro-head pipe upon my palm, I

called for and settled my score. As I rose, the pretty chambermaid

picked up my knapsack from the corner, and blushing, aided me to put it

on.

"My dear, thank you," said I, and kissed her. This time she neither

shrieked nor ran from the room; she merely blushed a trifle rosier.

"Do you think I have fishes' eyes, my dear?"

"La! no, sir—handsome they be, I'm sure, so bright an' black an' wi'

little lights a-dancing in them—there, sir, do ha' done, and go along

wi' you!"

"By the way," I said, pausing upon the worn steps, and looking back at

her, "by the way, how far is it to Deepdene Wood?"

CHAPTER X

WHICH RELATES THE END OF AN HONORABLE AFFAIR

Some half-mile along the road, upon the left hand, was a stile, and

beyond the stile, a path—a path that led away over field, and meadow,

and winding stream, to the blue verge of distant woods.

Now, midway between these woods and the place where I stood, there

moved three figures; and, far away though they were, I could still make

out that the middle one walked with his hands—those tremulous

betraying hands—thrust deep within his pockets.

And presently I climbed the stile, and set off along the path.

"Sir Jasper!" said I to myself. Somewhere in the background of my

consciousness I had a vague recollection of having heard mention of

such a name before, but exactly when and where I could not, for the

life of me, remember.

"Sir Jasper!" said I to myself again. "It is a very uncommon name, and

should be easy to recollect." I had often prided myself on possessing

a singularly retentive memory, more especially for names and faces,

but, upon the present occasion, the more I pondered the matter, the

more hazy I became. So I walked on through the sweet, wet grass,

racking my brain for a solution of the problem, but finding none.

When I again looked up, the three figures had vanished where the path

took a sharp bend round a clump of pollard oaks, and, determined not to

lose them, I hurried my steps; but when I, in turn, rounded the corner,

not a soul was in sight.

The path sloped up gently before me, with a thick hedge upon my right,

and, after crossing a brawling stream, lost itself in the small wood or

coppice, that crowned the ascent. Wondering, I hastened forward, and

then, happening to look through the hedge, which grew very thick and

high, I stopped all at once.

On the other side of the hedge was a strip of meadow bounded by the

brook I have mentioned; now across this stream was a small rustic

bridge, and on this bridge was a man. Midway between this man and

myself stood a group of four gentlemen, all talking very earnestly

together, to judge by their actions, while somewhat apart from these,

his head bent, his hands still thrust deep in his pockets, stood Sir

Jasper. And from him, for no apparent reason, my eyes wandered to the

man upon the bridge—a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, in a buff-colored

greatcoat, who whistled to himself, and stared down into the stream,

swinging his tasselled riding-boot to and fro. All at once, as if in

response to some signal, he rose, and unbuttoning his surtout, drew it

off and flung it across the handrail of the bridge.

Mr. Chester was on his knees before the oblong box, and I saw the glint

of the pistols as he handed them up. The distance had already been

paced and marked out, and now each man took his ground—Sir Jasper,

still in his greatcoat, his hat over his eyes, his neckerchief loose

and dangling, one hand in his pocket, the other grasping his weapon;

his antagonist, on the contrary, jaunty and debonnair, a dandy from the

crown of his hat to the soles of his shining boots.

Their arms were raised almost together. The man Selby glanced from one

to the other, a handkerchief fluttered, fell, and in that instant came

the report of a pistol. I saw Sir Jasper reel backward, steady

himself, and fire in return; then, while the blue smoke yet hung in the

still air, he staggered blindly, and fell.

Mr. Chester, and two or three more, ran forward and knelt beside him,

while his opponent shrugged his shoulders, and, taking off his hat,

pointed out the bullet hole to his white-faced second.

And in a little while they lifted Sir Jasper in their arms, but seeing

how his head hung, a sudden sickness came upon me, for I knew, indeed,

that he would go walking back nevermore. Yet his eyes were wide and

staring—staring up at the blue heaven with the same fixed intensity as

they had done at the inn.

Then I, too, looked up at the cloudless sky, and round upon the fair

earth; and, in that moment, I, for one, remembered his prophecy of an

hour ago. And, indeed, the day was glorious.

CHAPTER XI

WHICH RELATES A BRIEF PASSAGE-AT-ARMS AT "THE CHEQUERS" INN

In due season I came into Tonbridge town, and following the High

Street, presently observed a fine inn upon the right-hand side of the

way, which, as I remember, is called "The Chequers." And here were

divers loiterers, lounging round the door, or seated upon the benches;

but the eyes of all were turned the one way.

And presently, as I paused before the inn, to look up at its snow-white

plaster, and massive cross-beams, there issued from the stable yard one

in a striped waistcoat, with top-boots and a red face, who took a straw

from behind his ear, and began to chew it meditatively; to whom I now

addressed myself.

"Good afternoon!" said I.

"Arternoon!" he answered.

"A fine day!" said I.

"Is it?" said he.

"Why—to be sure it is," said I, somewhat taken aback by his manner;

"to be sure it is."

"Oh!" said he, and shifted the straw very dexterously from one corner

of his mouth to the other, by some unseen agency, and stared up the

road harder than ever.

"What are you looking at?" I inquired.

"'Ill," said he.

"And why do you look at the hill?"

"Mail," said he.

"Oh!" said I.

"Ah!" said he.

"Is it the London coach?"

"Ah!" said he.

"Does it stop here?"

"Ah!" said he.

"Do you ever say anything much beside 'ah'?" I inquired.

He stopped chewing the straw, and with his eyes on the distance, seemed

to turn this question over in his mind; having done which, he began to

chew again.

"Ah!" said he.

"Why, then you can, perhaps, tell me how many miles it is—"

"Five," said he.

"I was about to ask how far it was to—"

"The Wells!" said he.

"Why—yes, to be sure, but how did you know that?"

"It's use!" said he.

"What do you mean?"

"They all ask!" said he.

"Who do?"

"Tramps!" said he.

"Oh! so you take me for a tramp?"

"Ah!" said he.

"And you," said I, "put me in mind of a certain Semi-quavering Friar."

"Eh?" said he, frowning a little at the hill.

"You've never heard of Rabelais, or Panurge, of course," said I. The

Ostler took out his straw, eyed it thoughtfully, and put it back again.

"No," said he.

"More's the pity!" said I, and was about to turn away, when he drew the

nearest fist abruptly from his pocket, and extended it towards me.

"Look at that!" he commanded.

"Rather dirty," I commented, "but otherwise a good, useful member, I

make no doubt."

"It's a-goin'," said he, alternately drawing in and shooting out the

fist in question, "it's a-goin' to fill your eye up."

"Is it?" said I.

"Ah!" said he.

"But what for?"

"I aren't a Semmy, nor yet a Quaver, an' as for Friers," said he, very

deliberately, "why—Frier yourself, says I."

"Nevertheless," said I, "you are gifted with a certain terse directness

of speech that greatly reminds me of—"

"Joe!" he called out suddenly over his shoulder. "Mail, Joe!"

Lifting my eyes to the brow of the hill, I could see nothing save a

faint haze, which, however, gradually grew denser and thicker; and out

from this gathering cloud, soft, and faint with distance, stole the

silvery notes of a horn. Now I saw the coach itself, and, as I watched

it rapidly descending the hill, I longed to be upon it, with the sun

above, the smooth road below, and the wind rushing through my hair. On

it came at a gallop, rocking and swaying, a good fifteen miles an hour;

on it came, plunging into the green shade of trees, and out into the

sun again, with ever the gathering dust cloud behind; while clear and

high rang the cheery note of the horn. And now, from the cool shadows

of the inn yard, there rose a prodigious stamping of hoofs, rattling of

chains, and swearing of oaths, and out came four fresh horses, led by

two men, each of whom wore topboots, a striped waistcoat, and chewed

upon straws.

And now the coach swung round the bend, and came thundering down upon

"The Chequers," chains jingling, wheels rumbling, horn braying and,

with a stamp and ring of hoof, pulled up before the inn.

And then what a running to and fro! what a prodigious unbuckling and

buckling of straps, while the jovial-faced coachman fanned himself with

his hat; and swore jovially at the ostlers, and the ostlers swore back

at the coachman, and the guard, and the coach, and the horses,

individually and collectively; in the midst of which confusion, down

came the window with a bang, and out of the window came a flask, and a

hand, and an arm, and, last of all, a great, fat face, round, and

mottled, and roaring as it came:

"Oho—I say damn it! damn everybody's eyes and bones—brandy! O yoho,

house—I say brandy! Guard, landlord, ostlers—brandy, d'ye hear? I

say, what the devil! Am I to die for want of a drop of brandy? Oho!"

Now, little by little, I became conscious (how, I cannot define) that I

was the object of a close and persistent scrutiny—that I was being

watched and stared at by some one near by. Shifting my eyes,

therefore, from the mottled face at the coach window, I cast them

swiftly about until they presently met those of one of the four outside

passengers—a tall, roughly-clad man who leaned far out from the coach

roof, watching me intently; and his face was thin, and very pale, and

the eyes which stared into mine glowed beneath a jagged prominence of

brow.

At the time, though I wondered at the man's expression, and the fixity

of his gaze, I paid him no further heed, but turned my attention back

to Mottle-face, who had, by this time, bellowed himself purple.

Howbeit, in due time, the flask having been replenished and handed to

him, he dived back into the recesses of the coach, jerked up the

window, and vanished as suddenly as he had appeared.

But now the four fresh horses were in and harnessed, capering and

dancing with an ostler at the head of each; the Driver tossed off his

glass of rum and water, cast an eye up at the clouds, remarked: "Wind,

by Gemini!" settled his feet against the dashboard, and gathered up the

reins. And now, too, the Guard appeared, wiping his lips as he came,

who also cast an eye up at the heavens, remarked: "Dust, by Jingo!" and

swung himself up into the rumble.

"All right behind?" sang out the Driver, over his shoulder.

"All right!" sang back the guard.

"Then—let 'em go!" cried the Driver. Whereupon the ostlers jumped

nimbly back, the horses threw up their heads, and danced undecidedly

for a moment, the long whip cracked, hoofs clattered, sparks flew, and,

rumbling and creaking, off went the London Mail with such a flourish of

the horn as woke many a sleepy echo, near and far. As I turned away, I

noticed that there remained but three outside passengers; the

pale-faced man had evidently alighted, yet, although I glanced round

for him, he was nowhere to be seen.

Hereupon, being in no mind to undergo the operation of having my eye

filled up, and, moreover, finding myself thirsty, I stepped into the

"Tap." And there, sure enough, was the Outside Passenger staring

moodily out of the window, and with an untouched mug of ale at his

elbow. Opposite him sat an old man in a smock frock, who leaned upon a

holly-stick, talking to a very short, fat man behind the bar, who took

my twopence with a smile, smiled as he drew my ale, and, smiling,

watched me drink.

"Be you from Lunnon, sir?" inquired the old man, eyeing me beneath his

hoary brows as I set down my tankard.

"Yes," said I.

"Well, think o' that now—I've been a-goin' to Lunnon this five an'

forty year—started out twice, I did, but I never got no furder nor

Sevenoaks!"

"How was that?" I inquired.

"Why, theer's 'The White Hart' at Sevenoaks, an' they brews fine ale at

'The White Hart,' d'ye see, an' one glass begets another."

"And they sent ye back in the carrier's cart!" said the fat man,

smiling broader than ever.

"Ever see the Lord Mayor a-ridin' in 'is goold coach, sir?" pursued the

old man.

"Yes," said I.

"Ever speak to 'im?"

"Why, no."

"Ah well, I once knowed a man as spoke to the Lord Mayor o' Lunnon's

coachman—but 'e's dead, took the smallpox the year arterwards an'

died, 'e did."

At this juncture the door was thrown noisily open, and two gentlemen

entered. The first was a very tall man with black hair that curled

beneath his hat-brim, and so luxuriant a growth of whisker that it left

little of his florid countenance exposed. The second was more slightly

built, with a pale, hairless face, wherein were set two small, very

bright eyes, rather close together, separated by a high, thin nose with

nostrils that worked and quivered when he spoke, a face whose most

potent feature was the mouth, coarse and red, with a somewhat

protuberant under lip, yet supported by a square, determined chin

below—a sensual mouth with more than a suspicion of cruelty lurking in

its full curves, and the big teeth which gleamed white and serrated

when he laughed. Indeed, the whole aspect of the man filled me with an

instinctive disgust.

They were dressed in that mixture of ultra-fashionable and horsey

styles peculiar to the "Corinthian," or "Buck" of the period, and there

was in their air an overbearing yet lazy insolence towards all and

sundry that greatly annoyed me.

"Fifteen thousand a year, by gad!" exclaimed the taller of the two,

giving a supercilious sniff to the brandy he had just poured out.

"Yes, ha! ha!—and a damnably pretty filly into the bargain!"

"You always were so infernally lucky!" retorted the first.

"Call it rather the reward of virtue," answered his companion with a

laugh that showed his big, white teeth.

"And what of Beverley—poor dey-vil?" inquired the first.

"Beverley!" repeated the other; "had he possessed any spirit he would

have blown his brains out, like a gentleman; as it was, he preferred

merely to disappear," and herewith the speaker shrugged his shoulders,

and drank off his glass with infinite relish and gusto.

"And a—pretty filly, you say?"

"Oh, I believe you! Country bred, but devilish well-blooded—trust

Beverley for that."

"Egad, yes—Beverley had a true eye for beauty or breed, poor dey-vil!"

This expression of pity seemed to afford each of them much subtle

enjoyment. "Harking back to this—filly," said the big man, checking

his merriment, "how if she jibs, and cuts up rough, kicks over the

traces—devilish awkward, eh?"

His companion raised his foot and rested it carelessly, upon the settle

near by, and upon the heel of his slim riding-boot I saw a particularly

cruel-looking, long-necked spur.

"My dear Mostyn," said he, his nostrils working, "for such an emergency

there is nothing like a pair of good sharp 'persuaders,'" here he

tapped the spur lightly with the slender gold-mounted cane he carried;

"and I rather fancy I know just how and when to use 'em, Mostyn." And

once again I saw the gleam of his big, white teeth.

All this I heard as they lolled within a yard of me, manifesting a

lofty and contemptuous disregard for all save themselves, waited upon

most deferentially by the smiling fat fellow, and stared at by the aged

man with as much admiring awe as if they had each been nothing less

than a lord mayor of London at the very least. But now they leaned

their heads together and spoke in lowered tones, but something in the

leering eyes of the one, and the smiling lips of the other, told me

that it was not of horses that they spoke.

"... Bring her to reason, by gad!" said the slighter of the two,

setting down his empty glass with a bang, "oh, trust me to know their

pretty, skittish ways, trust me to manage 'em; I've never failed yet,

by gad!"

"Curse me, that's true enough!" said the other, and here they sank

their voices again.

My ale being finished, I took up my staff, a heavy, knotted affair, and

turned to go. Now, as I did so, my foot, by accident, came in contact

with the gold-mounted cane I have mentioned, and sent it clattering to

the floor. I was on the point of stooping for it, when a rough hand

gripped my shoulder from behind, twisting me savagely about, and I thus

found myself staring upon two rows of sharp, white teeth.

"Pick it up!" said he, motioning imperiously to the cane on the floor

between us.

"Heaven forbid, sir," said I; "'is thy servant a dog that he should do

this thing?'"

"I told you to pick it up," he repeated, thrusting his head towards me;

"are you going to do so, or must I make you?" and his nostrils worked

more than ever.

For answer I raised my foot and sent the cane spinning across the room.

Somebody laughed, and next moment my hat was knocked from my head.

Before he could strike again, however, I raised my staff, but suddenly

remembering its formidable weight, I altered the direction of the blow,

and thrust it strongly into the very middle of his gayly flowered

waistcoat. So strongly did I thrust, indeed, that he would have fallen

but for the timely assistance of his companion.

"Come, come," said I, holding him off on the end of my staff, "be calm

now, and let us reason together like logical beings. I knocked down

your cane by accident, and you, my hat by intent; very well then, be so

good as to return me my property, from the corner yonder, and we will

call 'quits.'"

"No, by gad!" gasped my antagonist, bending almost double, "wait—only

wait until I get—my wind—I'll choke—the infernal life out of

you—only wait, by gad!"

"Willingly," said I, "but whatever else you do, you will certainly

reach me my hat, otherwise, just so soon as you find yourself

sufficiently recovered, I shall endeavor to throw you after it."

Saying which, I laid aside my staff, and buttoned up my coat.

"Why," he began, "you infernally low, dusty, ditch-trotting

blackguard—" But his companion, who had been regarding me very

closely, twitched him by the sleeve, and whispered something in his

ear. Whatever it was it affected my antagonist strangely, for he grew

suddenly very red, and then very white, and abruptly turned his back

upon me.

"Are you sure, Mostyn?" said he in an undertone.

"Certain."

"Well, I'd fight him were he the devil himself! Pistols perhaps would

be—"

"Don't be a fool, Harry," cried the other, and seizing his arm, drew

him farther away, and, though they lowered their voices, I caught such

fragments as "What of George?" "changes since your time," "ruin your

chances at the start," "dead shot."

"Sir," said I, "my hat—in the corner yonder."

Almost to my surprise, the taller of the two crossed the room, followed

by his friend, to whom he still spoke in lowered tones, stooped, picked

up my hat, and, while the other stood scowling, approached, and handed

it to me with a bow.

"That my friend, Sir Harry Mortimer, lost his temper, is regretted both

by him and myself," said he, "but is readily explained by the fact that

he has been a long time from London, while I labored under a—a

disadvantage, sir—until your hat was off."

Now, as he spoke, his left eyelid flickered twice in rapid succession.

"I beg you won't mention it," said I, putting on my hat; "but, sir, why

do you wink at me?"

"No, no," cried he, laughing and shaking his head, "ha! ha!—deyvilish

good! By the way, they tell me George himself is in these

parts—incog. of course—"

"George?" said I, staring.

"Cursed rich, on my life and soul!" cried the tall gentleman, shaking

his head and laughing again. "Mum's the word, of course, and I swear a

shaven face becomes you most deyvilishly!"

"Perhaps you will be so obliging as to tell me what you mean?" said I,

frowning.

"Oh, by gad!" he cried, fairly hugging himself with delight. "Oh, the

devil! this is too rich—too infernally rich, on my life and soul it

is!"

Now all at once there recurred to me the memory of Tom Cragg, the

Pugilist; of how he too had winked at me, and of his incomprehensible

manner afterwards beneath the gibbet on River Hill.

"Sir," said I, "do you happen to know a pugilist, Tom Cragg by name?"

"Tom Cragg! well, I should think so; who doesn't, sir?"

"Because," I went on, "he too seems to labor under the delusion that he

is acquainted with me, and—"

"Acquainted!" repeated the tall gentleman, "acquainted! Oh, gad!" and

immediately hugged himself in another ecstasy.

"If," said I, "you will have the goodness to tell me for whom you

evidently mistake me—"

"Mistake you!" he gasped, throwing himself upon the settle and rocking

to and fro, "ha! ha!—mistake you!"

Seeing I did but waste my breath, I turned upon my heel, and made for

the door. As I went, my eye, by chance, lighted upon a cheese that

stood at the fat landlord's elbow, and upon which he cast amorous

glances from time to time.

"That seems a fine cheese!" said I.

"It is, sir, if I might make so bold, a noble cheese!" he rejoined, and

laid his hand upon it with a touch that was a caress.

"Then I will take three pennyworth of your noble cheese," said I.

"Cheese!" faintly echoed the gentleman upon the settle, "three

pennyworth. Oh, I shall die, positively I shall burst!"

"Also a loaf," said I. And when the landlord had cut the cheese with

great nicety—a generous portion—and had wrapped it into a parcel, I

put it, together with the loaf, into my knapsack, and giving him "Good

day!" strode to the door. As I reached it, the tall gentleman rose

from the settle, and bowed.

"Referring to George, sir—"

"George!" said I shortly; "to the devil with George!"

Now I could not help being struck by the effect of my words, for Sir

Harry let fall his cane, and stared open-mouthed, while his companion

regarded me with an expression between a frown and wide-eyed dismay.

"Now I wonder," said I to myself as I descended the steps, "I wonder

who George can be?"

Before the inn there stood a yellow-wheeled stanhope with a horse

which, from his manner of trembling all over for no conceivable reason,

and manifest desire to stand upon his hind legs, I conceived to be a

thorough-bred; and, hanging grimly to the bridle, now in the air, now

on terra firma, alternately coaxing and cursing, was my friend the

Semi-quavering Ostler. He caught sight of me just as a particularly

vicious jerk swung him off his legs.

"Damn your liver!" he cried to the horse, and then, to me: "If you'll

jest call Joe to 'old this 'ere black varmin for me, I'll—fill

yer—eye up."

"Thanks," said I, "but I much prefer to keep it as it is; really there

is no need to trouble Joe, and as for you, I wish you good morning!"

And when I had gone a little way, chancing to glance back over my

shoulder, I saw that the Outside Passenger stood upon the inn steps,

and was staring after me.

CHAPTER XII

THE ONE-LEGGED SOLDIER

Following the high road, I came, in a little, to where the ways

divided, the one leading straight before me, the other turning sharp to

the left, where (as I remember) is a very steep hill.

And at the parting of the ways was a finger-post with the words: "To

LONDON. To TONBRIDGE WELLS. To PEMBRY." Now as I stood beneath the

finger-post, debating which road I should take, I was aware of the

sound of wheels, and, glancing about, saw a carrier's cart approaching.

The driver was a fine, tall, ruddy-faced fellow, very spruce as to his

person, who held himself with shoulders squared and bolt upright, and

who shouted a cheery greeting to me.

"If so be you are for Pembry, or thereabouts, sir," said he, bringing

his horses to a standstill, "why, jump up, sir—that is, if you be so

minded."

"My course lies anywhere," said I.

"Then—if you be so minded—?"

"I am so minded," said I.

"Then, sir, jump up," said he.

"Thanks!" said I.

So I climbed upon the seat beside him, and then I saw that he had a

wooden leg, and straightway understood his smart bearing, and general

neat appearance.

"You have been a soldier?" said I.

"And my name's Tom, and I could tell you a sight about them Spanishers,

and Frenchies—that is, if—you be so minded?"

"I am so minded; fire away, Tom."

"Well," he began, fixing his eyes on the "wheeler's" ears, "they

Frenchies ain't so bad as is thought, though they do eat frogs, but

what I say is—if they be so minded, why frogs let it be!"

"To be sure!" said I.

"And after all they're well worth fighting, and that's more than you

can say for a many!"

"True," said I, "one generally has a certain respect for the man one

fights."

"Then there's Old Bony."

"Have you ever seen him?"

"I have, sir; I were captured outside the Lines of Torres Vedras, and I

saw Old Bony eating his breakfast off a drum-head wi' one hand and

a-writing a dispatch wi' the other—a little fat man not so high as my

shoulder, look you. There's some as says as Old Bony lives on new-born

babies, but I know different. Because why, says you? Because I've

seen with these 'ere 'peepers,' says I—bread it were, and cheese, and

garlic, and a uncommon lot at that."

"And where did you lose your leg, Tom?"

"Vittoria—I 'appened to be carrying my off'cer, Ensign Standish his

name, barely eighteen year old. Shot through the lung he were, and

a-trying to tell me to put him down and go, the fire being uncommonly

'ot there, you'll understand, sir, and as I say, he were trying to tell

me to drop him and run for it, and blowing blood-bubbles wi' every

word, when all at once I feels a sort of a shock, and there I was on my

back and him atop o' me; and when I went to get up—damme! there was my

leg gone below the knee, and no pleasant sight, neither."

"And afterward?"

"Arterwards," he repeated. "Why, that were the end o' my sojerin', ye

see; we lay in the same 'ospital 'im an' me, side by side, and he swore

as I'd saved his life—which I 'adn't, look you, and likewise swore as

he'd never forget it. And he never 'as either, for here am I wi' my

own horse and cart, Tom Price by name, carrier by trade, an' very much

at your service, sir, I'm sure."

Thus we climbed the hill of Pembry, by tree and hedge, and lonely

cottage, by rolling meadow, and twilit wood, Tom the Soldier and I.

Much he told me of lonely night watches, of death sudden and sharp, of

long, weary marches, and stricken fields, of the bloody doings of the

Spanish Guerrillas, of Mina, and his deviltries. And in my ears was the

roar of guns, and before my eyes the gleam and twinkle of bayonets. By

the side of Tom the Soldier I waited the thunderous charge of French

Dragoons, saw their stern, set faces, and the flash of their brandished

steel as they swept down upon our devoted square, swept down to break

in red confusion before our bristling bayonets; and the air was full of

the screams of smitten horses, and the deep-throated shouts and groans

of men. By the side of Tom the Soldier I stormed through many a

reeking breach, swept by fire, and slippery with blood; and all for

love of it, the munificent sum of eightpence per day, and that which we

call "Glory." Bravo, Tom the Soldier!

And presently I became aware that he had stopped his horses, and was

regarding me smilingly.

"Tom," said I, "you are a wonderful talker!"

"And you, sir," said he, "are a better listener, and, look you, a good

listener is mighty hard to come by. Howsomever, here's the end o' my

journey, more's the pity, but if you—"

"Tom," said I suddenly, "you never heard of Tom Cragg, did you?"

"Can't say as I have," he answered, stroking his chin thoughtfully,

"though there was a Dick Snagget in the 'Thirty-Ninth,' I remember."

"And you don't know who 'George' is, of course?" I continued musingly.

"Why, I've knowed a many Georges in my time," said he, "and then

there's George, Prince o' Wales, the Prince Regent, as they calls him

now."

"George, Prince of Wales!" said I, staring; "by heavens, Tom, I believe

you've hit it!" And, with the word, I sprang down from the cart.

"My cottage is near by, sir, and I should be proud for you to eat

supper wi' me—that is—if you be so minded?"

"Many thanks," said I, "but I am not so minded, and so, good-by, Tom!"

And, with the words, I wrung the soldier's honest hand in mine, and

went upon my way.

"George, Prince of Wales!" said I to myself; "could this be the

'George' they had meant? If so, then who and what had they supposed

me?" Hereupon, as I walked, I fell into a profound meditation, in

which I presently remembered how that Tom Cragg had also mentioned the

Prince, giving me to understand that his Highness had actually ordered

him (Tom Cragg) to leave London; and why? "Arter that theer

kidnappin', an' me 'avin' laid out Sir Jarsper Trent—accordin' to yer

order."

Sir Jasper Trent! I stopped stock still in the road. Sir Jasper Trent!

At last I remembered the name that had eluded me so persistently.

Remembered it? Nay, indeed, it was rather as if the Pugilist had

whispered the words into my ear, and I glanced round almost expecting

to see him.

"Arter that theer kidnappin', an' me 'avin' laid out Sir Jarsper

Trent—accordin' to yer orders!"

According to my orders, or rather, the orders of the man for whom he

(in common with the two gentlemen at "The Chequers") had mistaken me.

But who was that man? Of him I knew two facts—namely, that he was

much like me in person, and had formerly worn, or possibly still wore,

whiskers. And beyond these two facts I could get no farther, revolve

the matter how I might, so I presently shrugged my shoulders, and

banishing it from my thoughts for the time being, set forward at a good

pace.

CHAPTER XIII

IN WHICH I FIND AN ANSWER TO MY RIDDLE

The sun was already westering when I came to a pump beside the way; and

seizing the handle I worked it vigorously, then, placing my hollowed

hands beneath the gushing spout, drank and pumped, alternately, until I

had quenched my thirst. I now found myself prodigiously hungry, and

remembering the bread and cheese in my knapsack, looked about for an

inviting spot in which to eat.

On one side of the road was a thick hedge, and, beneath this hedge, a

deep, dry, grassy ditch; and here, after first slipping off my

knapsack, I sat down, took out the loaf and the cheese, and opening my

clasp-knife, prepared to fall to.

At this moment I was interrupted in a rather singular fashion, for

hearing a rustling close by, I looked up, and into a face that was

protruded through a gap in the hedge above me.

It needed but a glance at the battered hat with its jaunty brim, and

great silver buckle, and the haggard, devil-may-care face below, to

recognize the individual whom I had seen thrown out of the hedge tavern

the morning before.

It was a very thin face, as I have said, pale and hollow-eyed and

framed in black curly hair, whose very blackness did but accentuate the

extreme pallor of the skin, which was tight, and drawn above the cheek

bones and angle of the jaw. Yet, as I looked at this face, worn and

cadaverous though it was, in the glance of the hollow eyes, in the line

of the clean-cut mouth I saw that mysterious something which marks a

man, what we call for want of a better word, a gentleman.

"Good evening!" said he, and lifted the battered hat.

"Good evening!" I returned.

"Pardon me," said he, "but I was saluting the bread and cheese."

"Indeed!" said I.

"Indeed!" he rejoined, "it is the first edible I have been on speaking

terms with, so to speak, for rather more than three days, sir."

"You are probably hungry?" said I.

"It would be foolish to deny it, sir."

"Then, if you care to eat with me in the ditch here, you are heartily

welcome," said I.

"With all the pleasure in life!" said he, vaulting very nimbly through

the hedge; "you shall not ask me twice or the very deuce is in it!

Believe me, I—" Here he stopped, very suddenly, and stood looking at

me.

"Ah!" said he gently, and with a rising inflection, letting the

ejaculation escape in a long-drawn breath.

"Well?" I inquired. Now as I looked up at him, the whole aspect of the

man, from the toes of his broken boots to the crown of the battered

hat, seemed to undergo a change, as though a sudden, fierce anger had

leapt into life, and been controlled, but by a strong effort.

"On my life and soul, now!" said he, falling back a step, and eyeing me

with a vaguely unpleasant smile, "this is a most unexpected—a most

unlooked for pleasure; it is—I vow it is."

"You flatter me," said I.

"No, sir, no; to meet you again—some day—somewhere—alone—quite

alone, sir, is a pleasure I have frequently dwelt upon, but never hoped

to realize. As it is, sir, having, in my present condition, no chance

of procuring better weapons than my fists, allow me to suggest that

they are, none the less, entirely at your service; do me the infinite

kindness to stand up."

"Sir," I answered, cutting a slice from the loaf, "you are the third

person within the last forty-eight hours who has mistaken me for

another; it really gets quite wearisome."

"Mistaken you," he broke in, and his smile grew suddenly bitter, "do

you think it possible that I could ever mistake you?"

"I am sure of it!" said I. "Furthermore, pray do not disparage your

fists, sir. A bout at fisticuffs never did a man any harm that I ever

heard; a man's fists are good, honest weapons supplied by a beneficent

Providence—far better than your unnatural swords and murderous

hair-triggers; at least, so I think, being, I trust, something of a

philosopher. Still, in this instance, never having seen your face, or

heard your voice until yesterday, I shall continue to sit here, and eat

my bread and cheese, and if you are wise you will hasten to follow my

so excellent example while there is any left, for, I warn you, I am

mightily sharp set."

"Come, come," said he, advancing upon me threateningly, "enough of this

foolery!"

"By all means," said I, "sit down, like a sensible fellow, and tell me

for whom you mistake me."

"Sir, with all the pleasure in life!" said he, clenching his fists, and

I saw his nostrils dilate suddenly. "I take you for the greatest

rogue, the most gentlemanly rascal but one, in all England!"

"Yes," said I, "and my name?"

"Sir Maurice Vibart!"

"Sir Maurice Vibart?" I sprang to my feet, staring at him in amazement.

"Sir Maurice Vibart is my cousin," said I.

And so we stood, for a long minute, immobile and silent, eyeing each

other above the bread and cheese.

CHAPTER XIV

FURTHER CONCERNING THE GENTLEMAN IN THE BATTERED HAT

"Sir," said my companion at last, lifting the battered hat, "I tender

you my apology, and I shall be delighted to eat with you in the ditch,

if you are in the same mind about it?"

"Then you believe me?"

"Indubitably, sir," he answered with a faint smile; "had you indeed

been Sir Maurice, either he or I, and most probably I, would be lying

flat in the road, by this."

So, without more ado, we sat down in the ditch together, side by side,

and began to eat. And now I noticed that when he thought my eye was

upon him, my companion ate with a due deliberation and nicety, and when

he thought it was off, with a voracity that was painful to witness.

And after we had eaten a while in silence, he turned to me with a sigh.

"This is very excellent cheese!" said he.

"The man from whom I bought it," said I, "called it a noble cheese, I

remember."

"I never tasted one of a finer flavor!" said my companion.

"Hunger is a fine sauce," said I, "and you are probably hungry?"

"Hungry!" he repeated, bolting a mouthful and knocking his hat over his

eyes with a slap on its dusty crown. "Egad, Mr. Vibart! so would you

be—so would any man be who has lived on anything he could beg, borrow,

or steal, with an occasional meal of turnips—in the digging of which I

am become astonishingly expert—and unripe blackberries, which latter I

have proved to be a very trying diet in many ways—hungry, oh, damme!"

And after a while, when there nothing remained of loaf or cheese save a

few scattered crumbs, my companion leaned back, and gave another sigh.

"Sir," said he, with an airy wave of the hand, "in me you behold a

highly promising young gentleman ruined by a most implacable

enemy—himself, sir. In the first place you must know my name is

Beverley—"

"Beverley?" I repeated.

"Beverley," he nodded, "Peregrine Beverley, very much at your

service—late of Beverley Place, Surrey, now of Nowhere-in-Particular."

"Beverley," said I again, "I have heard that name before."

"It is highly probable, Mr. Vibart; a fool of that name—fortunate or

unfortunate as you choose to classify him—lost houses, land, and money

in a single night's play. I am that fool, sir, though you have

doubtless heard particulars ere now?"

"Not a word!" said I. Mr. Beverley glanced at me with a faint mingling

of pity and surprise. "My life," I explained, "has been altogether a

studious one, with the not altogether unnatural result that I also am

bound for Nowhere-in-Particular with just eight shillings and sixpence

in my pocket."

"And mine, as I tell you," said he, "has been an altogether riotous

one. Thus each of us, though by widely separate roads—you by the

narrow and difficult path of Virtue, and I by the broad and easy road

of Folly—have managed to find our way into this Howling Destitution,

which we will call Nowhere-in-Particular. Then how does your path of

Virtue better my road of Evil?"

"The point to be considered," said I, "is not so much what we now are,

but rather, what we have done, and may ultimately be, and do."

"Well?" said he, turning to look at me.

"For my own achievements, hitherto," I continued, "I have won the High

Jump, and Throwing the Hammer, also translated the works of Quintilian,

with the Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter, and the Life, Lives, and

Memoirs of the Seigneur de Brantome, which last, as you are probably

aware, has never before been done into the English."

"Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Beverley, sitting up suddenly, with his ill-used

hat very much over one eye, "there we have it! Whoever heard of Old

Quin—What's-his-name, or cared, except, perhaps, a few bald-headed

bookworms and withered litterateurs? While you were dreaming of life,

and reading the lives of other fellows, I was living it. In my career,

episodically brief though it was, I have met and talked with all the

wits, and celebrated men, have drunk good wine, and worshipped

beautiful women, Mr. Vibart."

"And what has it all taught you?" said I.

"That there are an infernal number of rogues and rascals in the world,

for one thing—and that is worth knowing."

"Yes," said I.

"That, though money can buy anything, from the love of a woman to the

death of an enemy, it can only be spent once—and that is worth knowing

also."

"Yes," said I.

"And that I am a most preposterous ass!—and that last, look you, is

more valuable than all the others. Solomon, I think, says something

about a wise man being truly wise who knoweth himself a fool, doesn't

he?"

"Something of the sort."

"Then," said he, flinging his hat down upon the grass beside him, "what

argument can you advance in favor of your 'Narrow and Thorny'?"

"The sum of eight shillings and sixpence, a loaf of bread, and a slice

of noble cheese, now no more," said I.

"Egad!" said he, looking at me from the corners of his blue eyes, "the

argument is unanswerable, more especially the cheese part, against

which I'd say nothing, even if I could." Having remarked which, he lay

flat on his back again, staring up at the leaves, and the calm serenity

of the sky beyond, while I filled my negro-head pipe from my paper of

tobacco, and forthwith began to smoke.

And, presently, as I sat alternately watching the blue wreaths of my

pipe and the bedraggled figure extended beside me, he suddenly rolled

over on his arm, and so lay, watching me.

"On my soul!" he exclaimed at length, "it is positively marvellous."

"What is?" I inquired.

"The resemblance between you and your famous cousin."

"It would appear so," said I, shrugging my shoulders, "though,

personally, I was unaware of this fact up till now."

"Do I understand that you have never seen Sir Maurice Vibart, never

seen 'Buck' Vibart?"

"Never!" said I.

"Too much occupied—in keeping to the Narrow and Thorny, I suppose?

Your cousin's is the Broad and Flowery, with a vengeance."

"So I understand," said I.

"Nevertheless, the resemblance between you, both in face and figure, is

positively astounding! With the sole exception that he wears hair upon

his face, and is of a ruddy complexion, while you are pale, and smooth

smooth-cheeked as as a boy—"

"Or yourself!" said I.

"Ah—exactly!" he answered, and passed his fingers across his chin

tentatively, and fell again to staring lazily up into the sky. "Do you

happen to know anything about that most remarkable species of the

'genus homo' calling themselves 'Bucks,' or 'Corinthians'?" he

inquired, after a while.

"Very little," said I, "and that, only by hearsay."

"Well, up to six months ago, I was one of them, Mr. Vibart, until

Fortune, and I think now, wisely, decreed it otherwise." And herewith,

lying upon his back, looking up through the quivering green of leaves,

he told mad tales of a reckless Prince, of the placid Brummel, of the

"Dashing" Vibart, the brilliant Sheridan, of Fox, and Grattan, and many

others, whose names are now a byword one way or the other. He

recounted a story of wild prodigality, of drunken midnight orgies, of

days and nights over the cards, of wine, women, and horses. But,

lastly and very reverently, he spoke of a woman, of her love, and

faith, and deathless trust. "Of course," he ended, "I might have

starved very comfortably, and much quicker, in London, but when my time

comes, I prefer to do my dying beneath some green hedge, or in the

shelter of some friendly rick, with the cool, clean wind upon my face.

Besides— She loved the country."

"Then there are some women who can't be bought?" said I, looking at his

glistening eyes.

"Mr. Vibart," said he, "so far as I know, there are two—the Lady Helen

Dunstan and the 'Glorious' Sefton."

"The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne?" said I.

"And—the Lady Helen Dunstan," he repeated.

"Do you know the Lady Sophia Sefton?"

"I have had the honor of dancing with her frequently," he answered.

"And is she so beautiful as they say?"

"She is the handsomest woman in London, one of your black-browed,

deep-eyed goddesses, tall, and gracious, and most nobly shaped; though,

sir, for my own part, I prefer less fire and ice—and more gentle

beauty."

"As, for instance, the Lady Helen Dunstan?" said I.

"Exactly!" nodded Mr. Beverley.

"Referring to the Lady Sophia Sefton," I pursued, "she is a reigning

toast, I believe?"

"Gad, yes! her worshippers are legion, and chief among them his Royal

Highness, and your cousin, Sir Maurice, who has actually had the

temerity to enter the field as the Prince's avowed rival; no one but

'Buck' Vibart could be so madly rash!"

"A most fortunate lady!" said I.

"Mr. Vibart!" exclaimed my companion, cocking his battered hat and

regarding me with a smouldering eye, "Mr. Vibart, I object to your

tone; the noble Sefton's virtue is proud and high, and above even the

breath of suspicion."

"And yet my cousin would seem to be no laggard in love, and as to the

Prince—his glance is contamination to a woman."

"Sir," returned Mr. Beverley very earnestly, "disabuse your mind of all

unworthy suspicions, I beg; your cousin she laughs to scorn, and his

Royal Highness she had rebuffed as few women have, hitherto, dared do."

"It would almost seem," said I, after a pause, "that, from what I have

inadvertently learned, my cousin has some dirty work afoot, though

exactly what, I cannot imagine."

"My dear Mr. Vibart, your excellent cousin is forever up to something

or other, and has escaped the well-merited consequences, more than

once, owing to his friendship with, and the favor of his friend—"

"George?" said I.

"Exactly!" said my companion, raising himself on his elbow, and

nodding: "George."

"Have you ever heard mention of Tom Cragg, the Pugilist?" I inquired,

blowing a cloud of smoke into the warm air.

"I won ten thousand guineas when he knocked out Ted Jarraway of

Swansea," yawned my companion; "a good fighter, but a rogue—like all

the rest of 'em, and a creature of your excellent cousin's."

"I guessed as much," I nodded, and forthwith plunged into an account of

my meeting with the "craggy one," the which seemed to amuse Mr.

Beverley mightily, more especially when I related Cragg's mysterious

disappearance.

"Oh, gad!" cried Beverley, wiping his eyes on the tattered lapel of his

coat, "the resemblance served you luckily there; your cousin gave him

the thrashing of his life, and poor Tom evidently thought he was in for

another. That was the last you saw of him, I'll be bound."

"No, I met him afterwards beneath the gibbet on River Hill, where,

among other incomprehensible things, he gave me to understand that he

recognized me despite my disguise, assumed, as he supposed, on account

of his having kidnapped some one or other, and 'laid out' a certain Sir

Jasper Trent in Wych Street according to my orders, or rather, it would

seem, my cousin's orders, the author of which outrage Sir Jasper had

evidently found out—"

"The devil!" exclaimed Mr. Beverley, and sat up with a jerk.

"And furthermore," I went on, "he informed me that the Prince himself

had given him the word to leave London until the affair had blown over."

Now while I spoke, Mr. Beverley had been regarding me with a very

strange expression, his cheeks had gone even paler than before, his

eyes seemed to stare through, and beyond me, and his hands were

tight-clenched at his sides.

"Mr. Beverley," said I, "what ails you?"

For a moment he did not speak, then answered, with the same strange

look:

"Sir Jasper Trent—is my cousin, sir."

My negro-head pipe slipped suddenly, and fell into the grass, happily

without injury.

"Indeed!" said I.

"Can you not see what this means, sir?" he went on hurriedly. "Jasper

will fight."

"Indeed," said I again, "I fear so."

"Jasper was always a bit of a fish, and with no particular affection

for his graceless kinsman, but I am his only relative; and—and he

hardly knows one end of a pistol from the other, while your cousin is a

dead shot."

"My cousin!" I exclaimed; "then it was he—to be sure I saw only his

back."

"Sir Jasper is unmarried—has no relations but myself," my companion

repeated, with the same fixed intentness of look; "can you appreciate,

I wonder, what this would mean to me?"

"Rank, and fortune, and London," said I.

"No, no!" He sprang to his feet, and threw wide his ragged arms with a

swift, passionate gesture. "It means Life—and Helen. My God!" he

went on, speaking almost in a whisper, "I never knew how much I wanted

her—how much I had wilfully tossed aside—till now! I never realized

the full misery of it all—till now! I could have starved very well in

time, and managed it as quietly as most other ruined fools. But

now—to see the chance of beginning again, of coming back to

self-respect and—Helen, my God!" And, of a sudden, he cast himself

upon his face, and so lay, tearing up the grass by handfuls. Then,

almost as suddenly, he was upon his feet again, and had caught up his

hat. "Sir," said he somewhat shamefacedly, smoothing its ruffled nap

with fingers that still quivered, "pray forgive that little ebullition

of feeling; it is over—quite over, but your tidings affected me, and I

am not quite myself at times; as I have already said, turnips and

unripe blackberries are not altogether desirable as a diet."

"Indeed," said I, "you seemed strangely perturbed."

"Mr. Vibart," said he, staring very hard at the battered hat, and

turning it round and round, "Mr. Vibart, the devil is surprisingly

strong in some of us."

"True," said I.

"My cousin, Sir Jasper, is a bookish fellow, and, as I have said, a

fool where anything else is in question; if this meeting is allowed to

take place, I feel that he will most certainly be killed, and his death

would mean a new life—more than life to me."

"Yes," said I.

"And for a moment, Mr. Vibart, I was tempted to sit down in the ditch

again, and let things take their course. The devil, I repeat, is

remarkably strong in some of us."

"Then what is your present intention?"

"I am going to London to find Sir Maurice Vibart—to stop this duel."

"Impossible!" said I.

"But you see, sir, it so happens that I am possessed of certain

intelligence which might make Sir Maurice's existence in England

positively untenable."

"Nevertheless," said I, "it is impossible."

"That remains to be seen, Mr. Vibart," said he, and speaking, turned

upon his heel.

"One moment," said I, "was not your cousin, Sir Jasper, of the middle

height, slim-built and fair-haired, with a habit of plucking at his

lips when at all nervous or excited?"

"Exactly; you know him, sir?"

"No," I answered, "but I have seen him, very lately, and I say again to

stop this duel is an impossibility."

"Do you mean—" he began, and paused. Now, as his eyes met mine, the

battered hat escaped his fingers, and lay all unheeded. "Do you

mean—" he began again, and again stopped.

"Yes," said I, "I mean that you are too late. Sir Jasper was killed at

a place called Deepdene Wood, no longer since than to-day at half-past

seven in the morning. It was raining at the time, I remember, but the

day grew glorious later."

For a long moment Mr. Beverley stood silent with bent head, then,

apparently becoming aware of the hat at his feet, he sent it flying

with a sudden kick, and watched it describe a wide parabola ere it

disappeared into the ditch, some yards away. Which done, he walked

after it, and returned, brushing it very carefully with his ragged cuff.

"And—you are sure—quite sure, Mr. Vibart?" he inquired, smoothing the

broken brim with the greatest solicitude.

"I stood behind a hedge, and watched it done," said I.

"Then—my God!—I am Sir Peregrine Beverley! I am Sir Peregrine

Beverley of Burnham Hall, very much at your service. Jasper—dead! A

knight banneret of Kent, and Justice of the Peace! How utterly

preposterous it all sounds! But to-day I begin life anew, ah, yes, a

new life, a new life! To-day all things are possible again! The fool

has learned wisdom, and, I hope, become a man. But come," said he in a

more natural tone, "let us get back to our ditch, and, while you tell

me the particulars, if you don't object I should much like to try a

whiff at that pipe of yours."

So, while I recounted the affair as briefly as I might, he sat puffing

at my pipe, and staring away into the distance. But gradually his head

sank lower and lower, until his face was quite hidden from me, and for

a long moment after I had ended my narration, there was silence.

"Poor Jasper!" said he at last, without raising his head, "poor old

Jasper!"

"I congratulate you, Sir Peregrine," said I.

"And I used to pummel him so, when we were boys together at Eton—poor

old Jasper!" And, presently, he handed me my pipe, and rose. "Mr.

Vibart," said he, "it would seem that by no effort, or virtue of my

own, I am to win free of this howling desolation of

Nowhere-in-Particular, after all; believe me, I would gladly take you

with me. Had I not met with you it is—rather more than probable—that

I—should never have seen another dawn; so if—if ever I can be of—use

to you, pray honor me so far; you can always hear of me at Burnham

Hall, Pembry. Good-by, Mr. Vibart, I am going to her—in all my

rags—for I am a man again."

So I bade him good-by, and, sitting in the ditch, watched him stride

away to his new life. Presently, reaching the brow of the hill (there

are hills everywhere in the South country), I saw him turn to flourish

the battered hat ere he disappeared from my sight.

CHAPTER XV

IN WHICH I MEET WITH A PEDLER BY THE NAME OF "GABBING" DICK

"You won't be wantin' ever a broom, now?"

I sat up, sleepily, and rubbed my eyes. The sun was gone, and the blue

sky had changed to a deep purple, set here and there with a quivering

star. Yet the light was still strong enough to enable me to

distinguish the speaker—a short, thick-set man. Upon his shoulder he

carried a bundle of brooms, a pack was slung to his back, while round

his neck there dangled a heterogeneous collection of articles—ribbons,

laces, tawdry neck chains, and the like; indeed, so smothered was he in

his wares that, as he stood there, he had more the aspect of some

disordered fancy than of a human being.

"You won't be wantin' ever a broom, now?" he repeated, in a somewhat

melancholy tone.

"No," said I.

"Nor yet a mop?"

"Nor that either," said I.

"A belt, now," he suggested mournfully, "a fine leather belt wi' a

steel buckle made in Brummagem as ever was, and all for a shillin';

what d'ye say to a fine belt?"

"That I have no need of one, thank you."

"Ah, well!" said the man, spitting dejectedly at a patch of shadow, "I

thought as much; you aren't got the look of a buyer."

"Then why ask me?"

"Hinstinct!" said he, "it's jest hinstinct—it comes as nat'ral to me

as eatin', or walkin' these 'ere roads."

"Have you come far to-day?"

"Twenty mile, maybe," he answered, setting down his bundle of brooms.

"Are you tired?"

"'Course I'm tired."

"Then why not sit down and rest?"

"Because I'd 'ave to get up again, wouldn't I?"

"Are you hungry?

"'Ungry aren't the word for it."

"And how is trade?"

"Couldn't be worse!"

"I perceive you are a pessimist," said I.

"No," said he, "I'm a pedler—baptism'l name Richard, commonly known as

'Gabbin' Dick.'"

"At least yours is a fine healthy trade," said I.

"'Ow so?"

"A life of constant exercise, and fresh air; to-day for instance—"

"'Ot as a hoven!" said he.

"Yet there was a good, cool wind," said I.

"Ah! an' with dust enough to choke a man! And then there's the

loneliness o' these 'ere roads."

"Loneliness?" said I.

"That's the word; sometimes it gets so bad as I'm minded to do away wi'

myself—"

"Strange!" I began.

"Not a bit," said he; "when you've been a-walkin' an' a-walkin' all day

past 'edge and 'edge, and tree and tree, it's bad enough, but it's

worse when the sun's gone out, an' you foller the glimmer o' the road

on and on, past 'edges as ain't 'edges, and trees as ain't trees, but

things as touch you as you pass, and reach out arter you in the dark,

behind. Theer's one on 'em, back theer on the Cranbrook road, looks

like an oak-tree in the daytime—ah, an' a big 'un—it's nearly 'ad me

three times a'ready—once by the leg, once by the arm, and once by the

neck. I don't pass it arter dark no more, but it'll 'ave me yet—mark

my words—it'll 'ave me one o' these fine nights; and they'll find me

a-danglin' in the gray o' the dawn!"

"Do you mean that you are afraid?" I inquired.

"No, not afeared exactly; it's jest the loneliness—the lonely

quietness. Why, Lord! you aren't got no notion o' the tricks the trees

and 'edges gets up to a' nights—nobody 'as but us as tramps the roads.

Bill Nye knowed, same as I know, but Bill Nye's dead; cut 'is throat,

'e did, wi' one o' 'is own razors—under a 'edge."

"And what for?" I inquired, as the Pedler paused to spit lugubriously

into the road again.

"Nobody knowed but me. William Nye 'e were a tinker, and a rare, merry

'un 'e were—a little man always up to 'is jinkin' and jokin' and

laughin'. 'Dick,' 'e used to say (but Richard I were baptized, though

they calls me Dick for short), 'Dick,' 'e used to say, 'd'ye know that

theer big oak-tree—the big, 'oller oak as stands at the crossroads a

mile and a 'alf out o' Cranbrook? A man might do for 'isself very nice,

and quiet, tucked away inside of it, Dick,' says 'e; 'it's such a nice,

quiet place, so snug and dark, I wonder as nobody does. I never pass

by,' says 'e, 'but I takes a peep inside, jest to make sure as theer

aren't no legs a-danglin', nor nobody 'unched up dead in the dark.

It's such a nice, quiet place,' e used to say, shakin' 'is 'ead, and

smilin' sad-like, 'I wonder as nobody's never thought of it afore.'

Well, one day, sure enough, poor Bill Nye disappeared—nobody knowed

wheer. Bill, as I say, was a merry sort, always ready wi' a joke, and

that's apt to get a man friends, and they searched for 'im 'igh and

low, but neither 'ide nor 'air o' poor Bill did they find. At last,

one evenin' I 'appened to pass the big oak—the 'oller oak, and mindin'

Bill's words, thinks I—'ere's to see if 'tis empty as Bill said.

Goin' up to it I got down on my 'ands and knees, and, strikin' a light,

looked inside; and there, sure enough, was poor Bill Nye hunched up

inside of it wi' a razor in 'is 'and, and 'is 'ead nigh cut off—and

what wi' one thing and another, a very unpleasant sight he were."

"And why—why did he do it?" I asked.

"Because 'e 'ad to, o' course—it's jest the loneliness. They'll find

me some day, danglin'—I never could abide 'blood myself—danglin' to

the thing as looks like a oak tree in the daytime."

"What do you mean?" said I.

The Pedler sighed, shook his head, and shouldered his brooms.

"It's jest the loneliness!" said he, and, spitting over this shoulder,

trudged upon his way.

CHAPTER XVI

HOW I HEARD THE STEPS OF ONE WHO DOGGED ME IN THE SHADOWS

And, in a little while, I rose, and buckled on my knapsack. The

shadows were creeping on apace, but the sky was wonderfully clear,

while, low down upon the horizon, I saw the full-orbed moon, very broad

and big. It would be a brilliant night later, and this knowledge

rejoiced me not a little. Before me stretched a succession of

hills—that chain of hills which, I believe, is called the Weald, and

over which the dim road dipped, and wound, with, on either hand, a

rolling country, dark with wood, and coppice—full of mystery. The

wind had quite fallen, but from the hedges came sudden rustlings and

soft, unaccountable noises. Once, something small and dark scuttered

across the road before me, and once a bird, hidden near by, set up a

loud complaint, while, from the deeps of a neighboring wood, came the

mournful note of a night-jar.

And, as I walked, I bethought me of poor Bill Nye, the Tinker. I could

picture him tramping upon this very road, his jingling load upon his

back, and the "loneliness" upon and around him. A small man, he would

be, with a peaked face, little, round, twinkling eyes, grizzled hair,

and a long, blue chin. How I came to know all this I cannot tell, only

it seemed he must be so. On he went, his chin first upon one shoulder,

and now upon the other, shooting furtive glances at hedges which were

not hedges, and trees which were not trees. Somewhere there was a

"thing" that looked like a big oak tree in the daytime—a hollow oak.

On he went through the shadows, on and on. Presently he turned out of

the road, and there, sure enough, was the oak itself. Kneeling down,

he slipped off his burden and pushed it through a jagged hole at the

root. Then he glanced round him, a long, stealthy look, down at the

earth and up at the sky, and crept into the tree. In the dimness I

could see him fumble for the thing he wanted, pause to thumb its edge,

and, throwing up his chin, raise his hand—

"Folly!" said I aloud, and stopped suddenly in my stride.

The moon's rim was just topping the trees to my left, and its light,

feeble though it was as yet, served to show that I had reached a place

where four roads met.

Now, casting my eyes about me, they were attracted by a great tree that

grew near by, a tree of vast girth and bigness. And, as I looked, I

saw that it was an oak-tree, near the root of which there was a jagged,

black hole.

How long I stood staring at this, I cannot say, but, all at once, the

leaves of the tree were agitated as by a breath of wind, and rustled

with a sound indescribably desolate, and from the dark mass rose the

long-drawn, mournful cry of some night bird.

Heedless of my direction, I hurried away, yet, even when I had left it

far behind, I glanced back more than once ere its towering branches

were lost to my view.

So I walked on through the shadows, past trees that were not trees, and

hedges that were not hedges, but frightful phantoms, rather, lifting

menacing arms above my head, and reaching after me with clutching

fingers. Time and again, ashamed of such weakness, I cursed myself for

an imaginative fool, but kept well in the middle of the road, and

grasped my staff firmly, notwithstanding.

I had gone, perhaps, some mile or so in this way, alternately rating

and reasoning with myself, when I suddenly fancied I heard a step

behind me, and swung round upon my heel, with ready stick; but the road

stretched away empty as far as I could see. Having looked about me on

all sides, I presently went on again, yet, immediately, it seemed that

the steps began also, keeping time with my own, now slow, now fast, now

slow again; but, whenever I turned, the road behind was apparently as

empty and desolate as ever.

I can conceive of few things more nerve-racking than the knowledge that

we are being dogged by something which we can only guess at, and that

all our actions are watched by eyes which we cannot see. Thus, with

every step, I found the situation grow more intolerable, for though I

kept a close watch behind me and upon the black gloom of the hedges, I

could see nothing. At length, however, I came upon a gap in the hedge

where was a gate, and beyond this, vaguely outlined against a glimmer

of sky, I saw a dim figure.

Hereupon, running forward, I set my hand upon the gate, and leaping

over, found myself face to face with a man who carried a gun across his

arm. If I was startled at this sudden encounter he was no less so, and

thus we stood eyeing each other as well as we might in the half light.

"Well," I demanded, at last, "what do you mean by following me like

this?"

"I aren't follered ye," retorted the man.

"But I heard your steps behind me."

"Not mine, master. I've sat and waited 'ere 'arf a hour, or more, for

a poachin' cove—"

"But some one was following me."

"Well, it weren't I. A keeper I be, a-lookin' for a poachin' cove just

about your size, and it's precious lucky for you as you are a-wearin'

that there bell-crowned 'at!"

"Why so?"

"Because, if you 'adn't 'appened to be a-wearin' that there

bell-crowner, and I 'adn't 'appened to be of a argifyin' and inquirin'

turn o' mind, I should ha' filled you full o' buckshot."

"Oh?" said I.

"Yes," said he, nodding, while I experienced a series of cold chills up

my spine, "not a blessed doubt of it. Poachers," he went on, "don't

wear bell-crowned 'ats as a rule—I never seed one as did; and so,

while I was a-watchin' of you be'ind this 'ere 'edge, I argies the

matter in my mind. 'Robert,' I says to meself, 'Robert,' I sez, 'did

you ever 'appen to see a poachin' cove in a bell-crowner afore? No,

you never did,' sez I. 'But, on the other 'and, this 'ere cove is the

very spit o' the poachin' cove as I'm a-lookin' for. True!' sez I to

meself, 'but this 'ere cove is a-wearin' of a bell-crowner 'at, but the

poachin' cove never wore a bell-crowner—nor never will.' Still, I

must say I come very near pullin' trigger on ye—just to make sure. So

ye see it were precious lucky for you as you was a-wearin' o' that

there—"

"It certainly was," said I, turning away.

"—that there bell-crowner, and likewise as I'm a man of a nat'ral gift

for argiment, and of a inquirin'—"

"Without doubt," said I, vaulting over the gate into the road once more.

"—turn o' mind, because if I 'adn't 'a' been, and you 'adn't 'a' wore

that there bell-crowner—"

"The consequences are unpleasantly obvious!" said I, over my shoulder,

as I walked on down the road.

"—I should ha' shot ye—like a dog!" he shouted, hanging over the gate

to do so.

And, when I had gone on some distance, I took off that which the man

had called a "bell-crowner," and bestowed upon it a touch, and looked

at it as I had never done before; and there was gratitude in look and

touch, for tonight it had, indeed, stood my friend.

Slowly, slowly the moon, at whose advent the starry host "paled their

ineffectual fires," mounted into a cloudless heaven, higher and higher,

in queenly majesty, until the dark world was filled with her glory, and

the road before me became transformed into a silver track splashed here

and there with the inky shadow of hedge and trees, and leading away

into a land of "Faerie."

Indeed, to my mind, there is nothing more delightful than to walk upon

a country road, beneath a midsummer moon, when there is no sound to

break the stillness, save, perhaps, the murmur of wind in trees, or the

throbbing melody of some hidden brook. At such times the world of

every day—the world of Things Material, the hard, hard world of

Common-sense—seems to vanish quite, and we walk within the fair haven

of our dreams, where Imagination meets, and kisses us upon the brow.

And, at his touch, the Impossible straightway becomes the Possible; the

Abstract becomes the Concrete; our fondest hopes are realized; our most

cherished visions take form, and stand before us; surely, at such an

hour, the gods come down to walk with us awhile.

From this ecstasy I was suddenly aroused by hearing once more the sound

of a footstep upon the road behind me. So distinct and unmistakable

was it that I turned sharp about, and, though the road seemed as

deserted as ever, I walked back, looking into every patch of shadow,

and even thrust into the denser parts of the hedges with my staff; but

still I found no one. And yet I knew that I was being followed

persistently, step by step, but by whom, and for what reason?

A little farther on, upon one side of the way, was a small wood or

coppice, and now I made towards this, keeping well in the shadow of the

hedge. The trees were somewhat scattered, but the underbrush was very

dense, and amongst this I hid myself where I could watch the road, and

waited. Minute after minute elapsed, and, losing patience, I was about

to give up all hope of thus discovering my unknown pursuer, when a

stick snapped sharply near by, and, glancing round, I thought I saw a

head vanish behind the bole of an adjacent tree; wherefore I made

quickly towards that tree, but ere I reached it, a man stepped out. A

tall, loose-limbed fellow he was, clad in rough clothes (that somehow

had about them a vague suggestion of ships and the sea), and with a

moth-eaten, fur cap crushed down upon his head. His face gleamed pale,

and his eyes were deep-sunken, and very bright; also, I noticed that

one hand was hidden in the pocket of his coat. But most of all, I was

struck by the extreme pallor of his face, and the burning brilliancy of

his eyes.

And, with the glance that showed me all this, I recognized the Outside

Passenger.

CHAPTER XVII

HOW I TALKED WITH A MADMAN IN A WOOD BY MOONLIGHT

"Good evening, sir!" he said, in a strange, hurried sort of way, "the

moon, you will perceive, is very nearly at the full to-night." And his

voice, immediately, struck me as being at odds with his clothes.

"Why do you stand and peer at me?" said I sharply.

"Peer at you, sir?"

"Yes, from behind the tree, yonder." As I spoke, he craned his head

towards me, and I saw his pale lips twitch suddenly. "And why have you

dogged me; why have you followed me all the way from Tonbridge?"

"Why, sir, surely there is nothing so strange in that. I am a shadow."

"What do you mean by 'a shadow'?"

"Sir, I am a shadow cast by neither sun, nor moon, nor star, that moves

on unceasingly in dark as in light. Sir, it is my fate (in common with

my kind), to be ever upon the move—a stranger everywhere without

friends or kindred. I have been, during the past year, all over

England, east, and west, and north, and south; within the past week,

for instance, I have travelled from London to Epsom, from Epsom to

Brighton, from Brighton back again to London, and from London here.

And I peer at you, sir, because I wished to make certain what manner of

man you were before I spoke, and though the moon is bright, yet your

hat-brim left your face in shade."

"Well, are you satisfied?"

"So much so, sir, so very much so, that I should like to talk with you,

to—to ask you a question," he answered, passing his hand—a thin,

white hand—across his brow, and up over the fur cap that was so out of

keeping with the pale face below.

"A question?"

"If you will be so obliging as to listen, sir; let us sit awhile, for I

am very weary." And with the words he sank down upon the grass. After

a momentary hesitation, I followed his example, for my curiosity was

piqued by the fellow's strange manner; yet, when we were sitting

opposite each other, I saw that his hand was still hidden in the pocket

of his coat.

"Perhaps, sir," said he, in his nervous, hurried manner, "perhaps you

would be better able to answer my question were I first to tell you a

story—an ordinary, a very commonplace one, I fear, but with the virtue

that it is short, and soon told."

"My time is entirely my own," said I, leaning with my shoulders against

the tree behind me; "proceed with your story."

"First, then, my name is Strickland—John Strickland!"

Here he paused, and, though his head was bent, I saw him watching me

beneath his brows.

"Well?" said I.

"I am a supercargo."

Again he paused expectantly, but seeing I merely nodded, he continued:

"Upon one of my voyages, our vessel was wrecked, and, so far as I know,

all save myself and six others—four seamen and two passengers—were

drowned. The passengers I speak of were an old merchant—and his

daughter, a very beautiful girl; her name was—Angela, sir."

Once again he paused and again he eyed me narrowly.

"Well?" said I.

"Well, sir," he resumed, speaking in a low, repressed voice, "we seven,

after two miserable days in a drifting boat, reached an island where,

that same night, the old merchant died. Sir, the sailors were wild,

rough men; the island was a desolate one from whence there was

seemingly no chance of escape, it lying out of the usual track of

ships, and this girl was, as I have said, very beautiful. Under such

conditions her fate would have been unspeakable degradation, and

probably death; but, sir, I fought and bled for her, not once but many

times, and eventually I killed one of them with my sheath-knife, and I

remember, to this hour, how his blood gushed over my hands and arms,

and sickened me. After that they waited hourly to avenge his death,

and get me out of their way once and for all, but I had my long knife,

and they but such rude weapons as they could devise. Day after day,

and night after night, I watched for an opportunity to escape with the

boat, until at last, one day while they were all three gone inland, not

dreaming of any such attempt, for the sea was very dangerous and high,

with the girl's help I managed to launch the boat, and so stood out to

sea. And I remember those three sailors came running with great shouts

and cries, and flung themselves down upon the beach, and crawled upon

their knees, praying to be taken off along with us, and begging us not

to leave them to perish. After three days' buffeting at the mercy of

the seas, we were picked up by a brig bound for Portsmouth, and, six

months later, were in England. Sir, it is impossible for a man to have

lived beside a beautiful woman day by day, to have fought for and

suffered with her, not to love her also. Thus, seeing her friendless

and penniless, I wooed and won her to wife. We came to London, and for

a year our life was perfect, until, through stress of circumstances, I

was forced to take another position aboard ship. Well, sir, I bade

farewell to my wife, and we set sail. The voyage, which was to have

lasted but three months, was lengthened out through one misadventure

after another, so that it was a year before I saw my wife again, At

first I noticed little difference in her save that she was paler, but,

gradually, I came to see that she was unhappy. Often I have wakened in

the night to find her weeping silently.

"Oh, sir!" he broke out, "I do not think there is anything more

terrible than to witness in one we love a sorrow we are unable to

reach!" Here he paused, and I saw that the sweat stood out upon his

brow, and that his hand was tight clenched as he drew it across his

temples. "At last, sir," he went on, speaking once more in a low,

repressed tone, "returning home one day, I found her—gone."

"Gone?" said I.

"Gone, sir."

"And she left no trace—no letter?"

"No, she left no letter, sir, but I did find something—a something

that had rolled into a corner of the room."

"And what was that?"

"This, sir!" As he spoke, his burning eyes never leaving mine, he

thrust a hand into his bosom—his left hand, for his right was where it

had been all along, hidden in his pocket—and held out to me a gold

seal such as gentlemen wear at their fobs.

"Ah!" I exclaimed.

"Take it!" said the man, thrusting it towards me; "look at it!"

Obediently I took the trinket from him, and, examining it as well as I

might, saw that a letter was engraved upon it, one of those ornamental

initials surrounded by rococo scrolls and flourishes. "What letter does

it bear?" asked the man in a strangled voice.

"It looks very like the letter 'Y,'" I answered

"The letter 'Y'!" cried the man, and then, with a gesture sudden and

fierce, he snatched the seal from me, and, thrusting it back into his

bosom, laughed strangely.

"Why do you laugh?" said I.

"To be sure," said he harshly, "the light might be better, and

yet—well! well! my story is nearly done. I lived on in my lonely

house from day to day, and month to month, hoping and waiting for her

to come back to me. And one day she did come back to me—just about

this hour it was, sir, and on just such another evening; and that same

night—she died."

"Good God!" I exclaimed. "Poor fellow!" And, leaning forward, I laid

my hand upon his knee, but, at my touch, he drew back so quickly, and

with a look so evil, that I was startled.

"Hands off!" said he, and so sat staring at me with his smouldering

eyes.

"Are you mad?" said I, and sprang to my feet.

"Not yet," he answered, and once again he passed his hand up, and over

his face and brow; "no, not yet, sir." Here he rose, and stood facing

me, and I noticed that one hand was still hidden in his pocket, and,

thereafter, while I listened to him, I kept my eyes directed thither.

"That night—before she—died, sir," he continued, "she told me the

name of the man who had destroyed her, and killed my soul; and I have

been searching for him ever since—east, and west, and north, and

south. Now, sir, here is my question: If I should ever meet that man

face to face, as I now see you, should I not be justified in—killing

him?"

For a moment I stood with bent head, yet conscious all the while of the

burning eyes that scanned my face, then:

"Yes," said I.

The man stood utterly still, his mouth opened as if he would have

spoken, but no word came. All at once he turned about, and walked

unsteadily five or six paces. Now, as I looked, I saw him suddenly

draw his hand from his pocket, then, as he wheeled, I knew, and hurled

myself face downward as the pistol flashed.

"Madman!" I cried, and next moment was on my feet; but, with a sound

that was neither a groan nor a scream, and yet something of both, he

leapt into the thickest part of the underbrush, and made off. And

standing there, dazed by the suddenness of it all, I heard the snapping

of twigs grow fainter and fainter as he crashed through in headlong

flight.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE HEDGE-TAVERN

Twigs whipped my face, thorns and brambles dragged at my clothes,

hidden obstacles lay in wait for my feet, for the wood grew denser as I

advanced, but I pushed on, heedless alike of these and of what

direction I took. But, as luck would have it, I presently blundered

upon a path which, in a short time, brought me out very suddenly into

what appeared to be a small tavern yard, for on either hand was a row

of tumble-down stables and barns, while before me was a low, rambling

structure which I judged was the tavern itself. I was yet standing

looking about me when a man issued from the stables upon my right,

bearing a hammer in one hand and a lanthorn in the other.

"Hallo!" said he, staring at me.

"Hallo!" said I, staring at him.

"You don't chance to 'ave a axle-bolt about you, I suppose?"

"No," said I.

"Humph!" he grunted, and, lowering his lanthorn, began searching among

the cobblestones.

"Is this it?" I inquired, picking up a rusty screw-bolt at my feet.

"Ah!" said he, taking it from me with a nod, "know'd I dropped it 'ere

some'eres. Ye see," he went on, "couldn't get another round 'ere

to-night, and that cussed axle's got to be in place to-morra."

"Yes?" said I.

"Ah!" nodded the man; "chaise come in 'ere 'arf-an-hour ago wi' two

gentlemen and a lady, in the Lord's own 'urry too. 'Mend this axle, me

man,' says one on 'em—a top-sawyer be the looks on 'im—'mend this

axle, and quick about it.' 'Can't be done, my lord,' says I. 'W'y

not?' says 'e, showin' 'is teeth savage-like. 'Because it can't,' says

I, 'not no'ow, me lord,' says I. Well, after cussin' 'isself well-nigh

black in the face, 'e orders me to have it ready fust thing to-morra,

and if you 'adn't found that there bolt for me it wouldn't have been

ready fust thing to-morra, which would ha' been mighty bad for me, for

this 'ere gentleman's a fire-and-fury out-and-outer, and no error."

"Can I have a bed here, do you think?" I inquired.

"Ah," said he, "I think you can."

"For how much, do you suppose?"

"To you—sixpence."

"Why, that seems reasonable," said I.

"It are," nodded the man, "and a fine feather bed too! But then, Lord,

one good turn deserves another—"

"Meaning?"

"This 'ere bolt."

"Are you the landlord, then?"

"I be; and if you feel inclined for a mug o' good ale say the word."

"Most willingly," said I, "but what of the axle?"

"Plenty o' time for th' axle," nodded the landlord, and setting down

his hammer upon a bench hard by, he led the way into the tap. The ale

was very strong and good; indeed this lovely county of Kent is justly

famous for such. Finding myself very hungry, the landlord forthwith

produced a mighty round of beef, upon which we both fell to, and ate

with a will. Which done, I pulled out my negro-head pipe, and the

landlord fetching himself another, we sat awhile smoking. And

presently, learning I was from London, he began plying me with all

manner of questions concerning the great city, of which it seemed he

could not hear enough, and I, to describe its wonders as well as I

might. At length, bethinking him of his axle, he rose with a sigh.

Upon my requesting to be shown my room, he lighted a candle, and led

the way up a somewhat rickety stair, along a narrow passage, and

throwing open a door at the end, I found myself in a fair-sized chamber

with a decent white bed, which he introduced to my notice by the one

word, "feathers." Hereupon he pinched off the snuff of the candle with

an expression of ponderous thought.

"And so the Tower o' London ain't a tower?" he inquired at last.

"No," I answered; "it is composed of several towers surrounded by very

strong, battlemented walls."

"Ah—to—be—sure," said he, "ah, to be sure! And me 'ave allus

thought on it like it was a great big tower standin' in the midst o'

the city, as 'igh as a mountain. Humph—not a tower—ha! disapp'inted

I be. Humph! Good night, master. Disapp'inted I be—yes." And having

nodded his head ponderously several times, he turned and went

ponderously along the passage and down the stair.

At the end of my chamber was a long, low casement, and, drawn thither

by the beauty of the night, I flung open the lattice and leaned out. I

looked down upon a narrow, deeply-rutted lane, one of those winding,

inconsequent byways which it seems out of all possibility can ever lead

the traveler anywhere, and I was idly wondering what fool had troubled

to build a tavern in such a remote, out-of-the-way spot, when my ears

were saluted by the sound of voices. Now, immediately beneath my

window there was a heavy porch, low and squat, from which jutted a beam

with a broken sign-board, and it was from beneath this porch that the

voices proceeded, the one loud and hectoring, the other gruff and

sullen. I was about to turn away when a man stepped out into the

moonlight. His face was hidden in the shadow of his hat-brim, but from

his general air and appearance I judged him to be one of the gentlemen

whose chaise had broken down. As I watched him he walked slowly round

the angle of the house and disappeared. In a little while, I drew in

my head from the casement, and, having removed my dusty boots, together

with my knapsack and coat, blew out the candle, and composed myself to

sleep.

Now it seemed to me that I was back upon the road, standing once more

beside the great oak-tree. And, as I watched, a small, hunched figure

crept from the jagged opening in the trunk, a figure with a jingling

pack upon its back, at sight of which I turned and ran, filled with an

indescribable terror. But, as I went, the Tinker's pack jingled loud

behind me, and when I glanced back, I saw that he ran with head

dangling in most hideous fashion, and that his right hand grasped a

razor. On I sped faster and faster, but with the Tinker ever at my

heels, until I had reached this tavern; the door crashed to, behind me,

only just in time, and I knew, as I lay there, that he was standing

outside, in the moonlight, staring up at my casement with his horrible,

dead face.

Here I very mercifully awoke, and lay, for a while, blinking in the

ghostly radiance of the moon, which was flooding in at the window

directly upon me. Now whether it was owing to the vividness of my

dream, I know not, but as I lay, there leapt up within me a sudden

conviction that somebody was indeed standing outside in the lane,

staring up at my window. So firmly was I convinced of this that, moved

by a sudden impulse, I rose, and, cautiously approaching the window,

peered out. And there, sure enough, his feet planted wide apart, his

hands behind his back, stood a man staring up at my window. His head

was thrown back so that I could see his face distinctly a fleshy face

with small, close-set eyes and thick lips, behind which I caught the

gleam of big, white teeth. This was no tinker, but as I looked, I

recognized him as the slenderer of the two "Corinthians" with whom I

had fallen out at "The Chequers." Hereupon I got me back to bed,

drowsily wondering what should bring the fellow hanging about a

dilapidated hedge-tavern at such an hour. But gradually my thoughts

grew less coherent, my eyes closed, and in another moment I should have

been asleep, when I suddenly came to my elbow, broad awake and

listening, for I had heard two sounds, the soft creak of a window

opened cautiously near by, and a stealthy footstep outside my door.

CHAPTER XIX

IN WHICH I BECOME A SQUIRE OF DAMES

Who does not recognize the solemn majesty of Night—that season of

awesome stillness when tired mankind lies supine in that strange

inertia so like death; when the soul, quitting the wearied body for a

space, flies hence—but whither?

What wonder is it if, at such an hour as this, we are prone to magnify

trifles, or that the most insignificant thing becomes an omen full of

ghastly meaning and possibilities? The creak of a door in the silence,

a rustle in the dark, become to us of infinitely greater moment than

the crash of falling empires.

Thus, for a space, I lay, with ears on the stretch, and every nerve

tingling, waiting for—I knew not what.

In a little, I became conscious of yet another sound, indescribably

desolate: the low, repressed sound of a woman's sobbing.

Once more I rose, and looking down into the lane, found it deserted;

the watcher had vanished. I also noticed that the casement next to

mine had been opened wide, and it was from here, as it seemed, that the

weeping proceeded.

After some little hesitation, I knocked softly upon the wall, at which

the weeping was checked abruptly, save for an occasional sob, whereupon

I presently rapped again. At this, after a moment or so, I saw a very

small, white hand appear at the neighboring window, and next moment was

looking into a lovely, flushed face framed in bright hair, with eyes

woefully swelled by tears—but a glance showed me that she was young,

and of a rare and gentle beauty. Before I could speak, she laid her

finger upon her lip with a warning gesture.

"Help me—oh, help me!" she whispered hurriedly; "they have locked me

in here, and I dare not go to bed, and—and—oh, what shall I do?"

"Locked you in?" I exclaimed.

"Oh, what shall I do?" she sobbed. "I tell you I am afraid of him—his

hateful, wicked eyes!" Here a tremor seemed to shake her, and she

covered her face with her hands. "To-night, when I found the key gone

from the door, and remembered his look as he bade me 'Good night,' I

thought I should have died. I waited here, close beside the

window—listening, listening. Once I thought I heard a step outside my

door, and opened the casement to throw myself out; he shall not find me

here when he comes."

"No," said I, "he shall not find you here when he comes."

All this she had imparted to me in broken whispers, and with her face

still hidden, but, at my words, she peeped at me through her fingers.

"You mean?"

"You must run away."

"But the door is locked."

"There remains the window."

"The window!" she repeated, trembling.

"You would find it easy enough with my help."

"Quick, then!" she exclaimed, and held out her hand.

"Wait," said I, and turned back into my room. Hereupon, having locked

the door, I got into my boots, slipped on my coat and knapsack, and,

last of all, threw my blackthorn staff out of the window (where I was

sure of finding it) and climbed out after it.

The porch I have mentioned, upon which I now stood, sloped steeply down

upon two sides, so that I had no little difficulty in maintaining my

foothold; on the other hand, it was no great distance from the ground,

and I thought that it would be easy enough of descent.

At this moment the lady reappeared at the lattice.

"What is it?" I whispered, struck by the terror in her face.

"Quick!" she cried, forgetting all prudence in her fear, "quick—they

are coming—I hear some one upon the stair. Oh, you are too late!"

and, sinking upon her knees, she covered her face with her hands.

Without more ado I swung myself up, and clambered over the sill into

the room beside her. I was looking round for something that might

serve me for a weapon, when my eye encountered a tall oak press, a

heavy, cumbersome affair, but, save the bed, the only furniture the

room possessed. Setting my shoulder to it therefore, I began to urge

it towards the door. But it was soon apparent that I could not get it

there in time, for the creeping footstep was already close outside,

and, next moment, a key was softly inserted in the lock.

"Quick! hide yourself!" I whispered, over my shoulder, and, stepping

back from the door to give myself room, I clenched my fists. There was

a faint creak as the key turned, the door was opened cautiously, and a

man's dim figure loomed upon the threshold.

He had advanced two or three paces on tiptoe before he discovered my

presence, for the room was in shadow, and I heard his breath catch,

suddenly, and hiss between his teeth; then, without a word, he sprang

at me. But as he came, I leapt aside, and my fist took him full and

squarely beneath the ear. He pitched sideways, and, falling heavily,

rolled over upon his back, and lay still.

As I leaned above him, however (for the blow had been a heavy one), he

uttered a groaning oath, whereupon, pinning him forthwith by the

collar, I dragged him out into the passage, and, whipping the key from

the lock, transferred it to the inside and locked the door. Waiting

for no more, I scrambled back through the casement, and reached up my

hand to the lady.

"Come," said I, and (almost as quickly as it takes to set it down here)

she was beside me upon the roof of the porch, clinging to my arm.

Exactly how it was managed I am unable to say; all that I remember

being the vision of a slender foot and ankle, and an excellently shaped

leg.

Our farther descent to the ground proved much more difficult than I had

supposed, but, though I could feel her trembling, my companion obeyed

my whispered instructions, and yielded herself implicitly to my

guidance, so that we were soon standing in the lane before the house,

safe and sound except for a few rents to our garments.

"What is it?" she whispered, seeing me searching about in the grass.

"My staff," said I, "a faithful friend; I would not lose it."

"But they will be here in a minute—we shall be seen."

"I cannot lose my staff," said I.

"Oh, hurry! hurry!" she cried, wringing her hands. And, in a little

while, having found my staff, we turned our backs upon the tavern and

began to run up the lane, side by side. As we went, came the slam of a

door behind us—a sudden clamor of voices, followed, a moment later, by

the sharp report of a pistol, and, in that same fraction of time, I

stumbled over some unseen obstacle, and my hat was whisked from my head.

"Are you hurt?" panted my companion.

"No," said I, "but it was a very excellent shot nevertheless!" For, as

I picked up my hat, I saw a small round hole that pierced it through

and through, midway between crown and brim.

The lane wound away between high hedges, which rendered our going very

dark, for the moon was getting low, and difficult by reason of the deep

wheel-ruts; but we hurried forward notwithstanding, urged on by the

noise of the chase. We had traversed some half mile thus, when my ears

warned me that our pursuers were gaining upon us, and I was inwardly

congratulating myself that I had stopped to find my staff, and

wondering how much execution such a weapon might reasonably be capable

of, when I found that my companion was no longer at my side. As I

paused, irresolute, her voice reached me from the shadow of the hedge.

"This way," she panted.

"Where?" said I.

"Here!" and, as she spoke, her hand slipped into mine, and so she led

me through a small gate, into a broad, open meadow beyond. But to

attempt crossing this would be little short of madness, for (as I

pointed out) we could not go a yard without being seen.

"No, no," she returned, her breath still laboring, "wait—wait till

they are past." And so, hand in hand, we stood there in the shadow,

screened very effectively from the lane by the thick hedge, while the

rush of our pursuers' feet drew nearer and nearer; until we could hear

a voice that panted out curses upon the dark lane, ourselves, and

everything concerned; at sound of which my companion seemed to fall

into a shivering fit, her clasp tightened upon my hand, and she drew

closer to me. Thus we remained until voices and footsteps had grown

faint with distance, but, even then, I could feel that she was

trembling still. Suddenly she drew her fingers from mine, and covered

her face with her hands.

"Oh, that man!" she exclaimed, in a whisper, "I didn't quite realize

till now—what I have escaped. Oh, that beast!"

"Sir Harry Mortimer?" said I.

"You know him?" she cried.

"Heaven forbid!" I answered, "but I have seen him once before at 'The

Chequers' inn at Tonbridge, and I never forget names or

faces—especially such as his."

"How I hate him!" she whispered.

"An unpleasant animal, to be sure," said I. "But come, it were wiser

to get as far from here as possible, they will doubtless be returning

soon."

So we started off again, running in the shadow of the hedge. We had

thus doubled back upon our pursuers, and, leaving the tavern upon our

left, soon gained the kindly shadow of those woods through which I had

passed in the early evening.

Borne to us upon the gentle wind was the haunting perfume of hidden

flowers, and the sinking moon sent long shafts of silvery light to

pierce the leafy gloom, and make the shadows more mysterious.

The path we followed was very narrow, so that sometimes my companion's

knee touched mine, or her long, silken hair brushed my brow or cheek,

as I stooped to lift some trailing branch that barred her way, or open

a path for her through the leaves.

So we journeyed on through the mysteries of the woods together.

CHAPTER XX

CONCERNING DAEMONS IN GENERAL AND ONE IN PARTICULAR

In certain old books you shall find strange mention of witches,

warlocks, succubae, spirits, daemons, and a thousand other powers of

darkness, whose pronounced vocation was the plague of poor humanity.

Within these books you may read (if you will) divers wondrous accounts,

together with many learned disquisitions upon the same, and most minute

and particular descriptions of witch-marks and the like.

Aforetime, when a man committed some great offence against laws human

or divine, he was said to be possessed of a daemon—that is to say, he

became the medium and instrument through, and by which, the evil was

wrought; thus, when in due season he came to be hanged, tortured, or

burned, it was inflicted not so much as a punishment upon him, the man,

as to exorcise, once and for all, the devil which possessed him.

In these material, common-sense days, we are wont to smile the superior

smile at the dark superstitions and deplorable ignorance of our

forefathers; yet life is much the same now as then, the devil goeth up

and down in the world, spirits, daemons, and the thousand powers of

darkness abide with us still, though to-day they go by different names,

for there is no man in this smug, complacent age of ours, but carries

within him a power of evil greater or less, according to his intellect.

Scratch off the social veneer, lift but a corner of the very decent

cloak of our civilization, and behold! there stands the Primal Man in

all his old, wild savagery, and with the devil leering upon his

shoulder. Indeed, to-day as surely as in the dim past, we are all

possessed of a devil great or small, weaker or stronger as the case may

be; a daemon which, though he sometimes seems to slumber, is yet

watchful and ever ready to spring up and possess us, to the undoing of

ourselves and others.

Thus, as I followed my companion through the wood, I was conscious of a

Daemon that ran beside me, leaping and gambolling at my elbow, though I

kept my eyes straight before me. Anon, his clutching fingers were upon

my arm, and fain I would have shaken him off, but could not; while, as

I watched the swing and grace of the lithe, feminine body before me,

from the little foot to the crowning glory of her hair, she seemed a

thousand times more beautiful than I had supposed. And I had saved her

tonight—from what? There had been the fear of worse than death in her

eyes when that step had sounded outside her chamber door. Hereupon, as

I walked, I began to recall much that I had read in the old romances of

the gratitude of rescued ladies.

"Truly," said I to myself, "in olden days a lady well knew how to

reward her rescuer!"

"Woman is woman—the same to-day as then—try her, try her!" chuckled

the Daemon. And now, as I looked more fully at this Daemon, he seemed

no daemon at all, but rather, a jovial companion who nodded, and

winked, and nudged me slyly with his elbow. "What are pretty faces for

but to be admired?" said he in my ear; "what are slender waists for but

to be pressed; and as for a kiss or two in a dark wood, with no one to

spy—they like it, you dog, they like it!"

So we traversed the alleys of the wood, now in shadow, now in

moonlight, the Lady, the Daemon, and I, and always the perfume of

hidden flowers seemed sweeter and stronger, the gleam of her hair and

the sway of her body the more alluring, and always the voice at my ear

whispered: "Try her, you dog, try her."

At last, being come to a broad, grassy glade, the lady paused, and,

standing in the full radiance of the dying moon, looked up at me with a

smile on her red lips.

"They can never find us now!" she said.

"No, they can never find us now," I repeated, while the Daemon at my

elbow chuckled again.

"And—oh, sir! I can never, never thank you," she began.

"Don't," said I, not looking at her; "don't thank me till—we are out

of the wood."

"I think," she went on slowly, "that you—can guess from—from what you

saved me, and can understand something of my gratitude, for I can never

express it all."

"Indeed," said I, "indeed you overestimate my service."

"You risked your life for me, sir," said she, her eyes glistening,

"surely my thanks are due to you for that? And I do thank you—from my

heart!" And with a swift, impulsive gesture, she stretched out her

hands to me. For a brief moment I hesitated, then seized them, and,

drew her close. But, even as I stooped above her, she repulsed me

desperately; her loosened hair brushed my eyes and lips—blinded,

maddened me; my hat fell off, and all at once her struggles ceased.

"Sir Maurice Vibart!" she panted, and I saw a hopeless terror in her

face. But the Daemon's jovial voice chuckled in my ear:

"Ho, Peter Vibart, act up to your cousin's reputation; who's to know

the difference?" My arms tightened about her, then I loosed her

suddenly, and, turning, smote my clenched fist against a tree; which

done, I stooped and picked up my hat and blackthorn staff.

"Madam," said I, looking down upon my bleeding knuckles, "I am not Sir

Maurice Vibart. It seems my fate to be mistaken for him wherever I go.

My name is Peter, plain and unvarnished, and I am very humbly your

servant." Now as I spoke, it seemed that the Daemon, no longer the

jovial companion, was himself again, horns, hoof, and tail—nay,

indeed, he seemed a thousand times more foul and hideous than before,

as he mouthed and jibed at me in baffled fury; wherefore, I smiled and

turned my back upon him.

"Come," said I, extending my hand to the trembling girl, "let us get

out of these dismal woods." For a space she hesitated, looking up at

me beneath her lashes, then reached out, and laid her fingers in mine;

and, as we turned away, I knew that the Daemon had cast himself upon

the ground, and was tearing at the grass in a paroxysm of rage and

bafflement.

"It is strange," said I, after we had gone some little distance, "very

strange that you should only have discovered this resemblance here, and

now, for surely you saw my face plainly enough at the inn."

"No; you see, I hardly looked at you."

"And, now that you do look at me, am I so very much like Sir Maurice?"

"Not now," she answered, shaking her head, "for though you are of his

height, and though your features are much the same as his, your

expression is different. But—a moment ago—when your hat fell off—"

"Yes?" said I.

"Your expression—your face looked—"

"Demoniac?" I suggested.

"Yes," she answered.

"Yes?" said I.

So we went upon our way, nor paused until we had left the Daemon and

the dark woods behind us. Then I looked from the beauty of the sweet,

pure earth to the beauty of her who stood beside me, and I saw that her

glance rested upon the broken knuckles of my right hand. Meeting my

eyes, her own drooped, and a flush crept into her cheeks, and, though

of course she could not have seen the Daemon, yet I think that she

understood.

CHAPTER XXI

"JOURNEYS END IN LOVERS' MEETINGS"

The moon was fast sinking below the treetops to our left, what time we

reached a road, or rather cart-track that wound away up a hill. Faint

and far a church clock slowly chimed the hour of three, the solemn

notes coming sweet and silvery with distance.

"What chimes are those?" I inquired.

"Cranbrook Church."

"Is it far to Cranbrook?"

"One mile this way, but two by the road yonder."

"You seem very well acquainted with these parts," said I.

"I have lived here all my life; those are the Cambourne Woods over

there—"

"Cambourne Woods!" said I.

"Part of the Sefton estates," she continued; "Cambourne village lies to

the right, beyond."

"The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne!" said I thoughtfully.

"My dearest friend," nodded my companion.

"They say she is very handsome," said I.

"Then they speak truth, sir."

"She has been described to me," I went on, "as a Peach, a Goddess, and

a Plum; which should you consider the most proper term?" My companion

shot an arch glance at me from the corners of her eyes, and I saw a

dimple come and go, beside the curve of her mouth.

"Goddess, to be sure," said she; "peaches have such rough skins, and

plums are apt to be sticky."

"And goddesses," I added, "were all very well upon Olympus, but, in

this matter-of-fact age, must be sadly out of place. Speaking for

myself—"

"Have you ever seen this particular Goddess?" inquired my companion.

"Never."

"Then wait until you have, sir."

The moon was down now, yet the summer sky was wonderfully luminous and

in the east I almost fancied I could detect the first faint gleam of

day. And after we had traversed some distance in silence, my companion

suddenly spoke, but without looking at me.

"You have never once asked who I am," she said, almost reproachfully I

thought, "nor how I came to be shut up in such a place—with such a

man."

"Why, as to that," I answered, "I make it a general rule to avoid

awkward subjects when I can, and never to ask questions that it will be

difficult to answer."

"I should find not the least difficulty in answering either," said she.

"Besides," I continued, "it is no affair of mine, after all."

"Oh!" said she, turning away from me; and then, very slowly: "No, I

suppose not."

"Certainly not," I added; "how should it be?"

"How indeed!" said she, over her shoulder. And then I saw that she was

angry, and wondered.

"And yet," I went on, after a lapse of silence, "I think I could have

answered both questions the moment I saw you at your casement."

"Oh!" said she—this time in a tone of surprise, and her anger all gone

again, for I saw that she was smiling; and again I wondered.

"Yes," I nodded.

"Then," said she, seeing I was silent, "whom do you suppose me?"

"You are, to the best of my belief, the Lady Helen Dunstan." My

companion stood still, and regarded me for a moment in wide-eyed

astonishment.

"And how, sir, pray, did you learn all this?" she demanded, with the

dimple once more peeping at me slyly from the corner of her pretty

mouth.

"By the very simple method of adding two and two together," I answered;

"moreover, no longer ago than yesterday I broke bread with a certain

Mr. Beverley—"

I heard her breath come in a sudden gasp, and next moment she was

peering up into my face while her hands beat upon my breast with soft,

quick little taps.

"Beverley!" she whispered. "Beverley!—no, no—why, they told me—Sir

Harry told me that Peregrine lay dying—at Tonbridge."

"Then Sir Harry Mortimer lied to you," said I, "for no longer ago than

yesterday afternoon I sat in a ditch eating bread and cheese with a Mr.

Peregrine Beverley."

"Oh!—are you sure—are you sure?"

"Quite sure. And, as we ate, he told me many things, and among them of

a life of wasted opportunities—of foolish riot, and prodigal

extravagance, and of its logical consequence—want."

"My poor Perry!" she murmured.

"He spoke also of his love for a very beautiful and good woman, and its

hopelessness."

"My dear, dear Perry!" said she again.

"And yet," said I, "all this is admittedly his own fault, and, as I

think Heraclitus says: 'Suffering is the inevitable consequence of Sin,

or Folly.'"

"And he is well?" she asked; "quite—quite well?"

"He is," said I.

"Thank God!" she whispered. "Tell me," she went on, "is he so very,

very poor—is he much altered? I have not seen him for a whole, long

year."

"Why, a year is apt to change a man," I answered. "Adversity is a hard

school, but, sometimes, a very good one."

"Were he changed, no matter how—were he a beggar upon the roads, I

should love him—always!" said she, speaking in that soft, caressing

voice which only the best of women possess.

"Yes, I had guessed as much," said I, and found myself sighing.

"A year is a long, long time, and we were to have been married this

month, but my father quarrelled with him and forbade him the house, so

poor Perry went back to London. Then we heard he was ruined, and I

almost died with grief—you see, his very poverty only made me love him

the more. Yesterday—that man—"

"Sir Harry Mortimer?" said I.

"Yes (he was a friend of whom I had often heard Perry speak); and he

told me that my Perry lay at Tonbridge, dying, and begging to see me

before the end. He offered to escort me to him, assuring me that I

could reach home again long before dusk. My father, who I knew would

never permit me to go, was absent, and so—I ran away. Sir Harry had a

carriage waiting, but, almost as soon as the door was closed upon us,

and we had started, I began to be afraid of him and—and—"

"Sir Harry, as I said before, is an unpleasant animal," I nodded.

"Thank Heaven," she pursued, "we had not gone very far before the

chaise broke down! And—the rest you know."

The footpath we had been following now led over a stile into a narrow

lane or byway. Very soon we came to a high stone wall wherein was set

a small wicket. Through this she led me, and we entered a broad park

where was an avenue of fine old trees, beyond which I saw the gables of

a house, for the stars had long since paled to the dawn, and there was

a glory in the east.

"Your father will be rejoiced to have you safe back again," said I.

"Yes," she nodded, "but he will be very angry." And, hereupon, she

stopped and began to pull, and twist, and pat her shining hair with

dexterous white fingers, talking thus the while:

"My mother died at my birth, and since then father has worshipped her

memory, and his face always grows wonderfully gentle when he looks upon

her portrait. They say I'm greatly like her—though she was a famous

beauty in her day. And, indeed, I think there must be some truth in

it, for, no matter how I may put him out, my father can never be very

angry when my hair is dressed so."

With the word, she turned, and truly, I thought the face peeping out

from its clustered curls even more lovely and bewitching than before.

"I very much doubt if any man could," said I.

As we approached the house, I saw that the smooth gravel was much cut

up as though by the coming and going of many wheels and horses, and

also that one of the windows still shone with a bright light, and it

was towards this window that my companion led me. In a while, having

climbed the terrace steps, I noticed that this was one of those French

windows opening to the ground. Now, looking through into the room

beyond, I beheld an old man who sat bowed down at a table, with his

white head pillowed upon his arms, sitting so very still that he might

have been asleep but for the fierce grip of his twitching hands. Now,

upon the table, at no great distance from him, between the guttering

candles, lay a hat—a very ill-used, battered-looking object—which I

thought I recognized; wherefore, looking about, I presently espied its

owner leaning against the mantel. He was powdered with dust from head

to foot, and his worn garments looked more ragged than ever; and, as he

stood there, in the droop of his head and the listless set of his

shoulders, there was an air of the most utter dejection and

hopelessness, while upon his thin cheek I saw the glisten of a great,

solitary tear. But, as I looked, the window was burst suddenly open:

"Perry!"

Love, surprise, joy, pity—all were summed up in that one short

word—yet deeper than all was love. And, at that cry, the white head

was raised, raised in time to see a vision of loveliness caught up in

two ragged arms.

"Father!"

And now the three heads—the white, the golden, and the black—were

drawn down together, drawn, and held close in an embrace that was

indeed reunion.

Then, seeing my presence was become wholly unnecessary, I turned away,

and was soon once more deep among the trees. Yet, as I went, I

suddenly heard voices that called upon my name, but I kept on, and, in

due season, came out upon the broad highway.

And, in a little, as I went, very full of thought, the sun rose up. So

I walked along through a world all glorious with morning.

CHAPTER XXII

IN WHICH I MEET WITH A LITERARY TINKER

Even in that drowsy, semi-conscious state, that most delightful

borderland which lies midway between sleeping and waking, I knew it

could not be the woodpecker who, as I judged from sundry manifest

signs, lodged in the tree above me. No woodpecker that ever pecked

could originate such sounds as these—two quick, light strokes,

followed by another, and heavier, thus: Tap, tap—TAP; a pause, and

then, tap, tap—TAP again, and so on.

Whatever doubts I may have yet harbored on the subject, however, were

presently dispelled by a fragrance sweeter, to the nostrils of a hungry

man, than the breath of flowers, the spices of the East, or all the

vaunted perfumes of Arabia—in a word, the odor of frying bacon.

Hereupon, I suddenly realized how exceedingly keen was my appetite, and

sighed, bethinking me that I must first find a tavern before I could

satisfy my craving, when a voice reached me from no great distance, a

full, rich, sonorous voice, singing a song. And the words of the song

were these:

"A tinker I am, O a tinker am I,

A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll die;

If the King in his crown would change places wi' me

I'd laugh so I would, and I'd say unto he:

'A tinker I am, O a tinker am I.

A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll die.'"

It was a quaint air, with a shake at the end of the first two and last

two lines, which, altogether, I thought very pleasing. I advanced,

guided by the voice, until I came out into a grassy lane. Seated upon

an artfully-contrived folding stool, was a man. He was a very small

man despite his great voice, who held a kettle between his knees, and a

light hammer in his hand, while a little to one side of him there

blazed a crackling fire of twigs upon which a hissing frying-pan was

balanced. But what chiefly drew and held my attention was the man's

face; narrow and peaked, with little, round, twinkling eyes set deep in

his head, close black hair, grizzled at the temples, and a long, blue

chin.

And presently, as I stood staring at him, he finished his song, and

chancing to raise his eyes stared back at me.

"Good morning!" said he at last, with a bright nod.

"So then you didn't cut your throat in the Hollow Oak, after all?" said

I.

"Nor likely to either, master," he answered, shaking his head. "Lord

love your eyes and limbs, no!"

"But," said I, "some day or so ago I met a man—"

"Ah!" nodded the Tinker, "to be sure you did."

"A pedler of brooms, and ribands—"

"'Gabbing' Dick!" nodded the Tinker.

"Who told me very seriously—"

"That I'd been found in the big holler oak wi' my throat cut," nodded

the Tinker.

"But what did he mean by it?"

"Why, y' see," explained the Tinker, leaning over to turn a frizzling

bacon-rasher very dexterously with the blade of a jack-knife, "y' see,

'Gabbing' Dick is oncommon fond of murders, hangings, sooicides, and

such like—it's just a way he's got."

"A very unpleasant way!" said I.

"But very harmless when all's done and said," added the Tinker.

"You mean?"

"A leetle weak up here," explained the Tinker, tapping his forehead

with the handle of the jack-knife. "His father was murdered the day

afore he were born, d'ye see, which druv his poor mother out of her

mind, which conditions is apt to make a man a leetle strange."

"Poor fellow!" said I, while the Tinker began his tap-tapping again.

"Are you hungry?" he inquired suddenly, glancing up at me with his

hammer poised.

"Very hungry!" said I. Hereupon he set down his hammer, and, turning

to a pack at his side, proceeded to extract therefrom a loaf of bread,

a small tin of butter, and a piece of bacon, from which last he cut

sundry slices with the jack-knife. He now lifted the hissing rashers

from the pan to a tin plate, which he set upon the grass at my feet,

together with the bread and the butter; and, having produced a somewhat

battered knife and fork, handed them to me with another bright nod.

"You are very kind!" said I.

"Why, I'm a man as is fond o' company, y' see—especially of one who

can think, and talk, and you have the face of both. I am—as you might

say—a literary cove, being fond o' books, nov-els, and such like."

And in a little while, the bacon being done to his liking, we sat down

together, and began to eat.

"That was a strange song of yours," said I, after a while.

"Did you like it?" he inquired, with a quick tilt of his head.

"Both words and tune," I answered.

"I made the words myself," said the Tinker.

"And do you mean it?"

"Mean what?" asked the Tinker.

"That you would rather be a tinker than a king?"

"Why, to be sure I would," he rejoined. "Bein' a literary cove I know

summat o' history, and a king's life weren't all lavender—not by no

manner o' means, nor yet a bed o' roses."

"Yet there's much to be said for a king."

"Very little, I think," said the Tinker.

"A king has great advantages."

"Which he generally abuses," said the Tinker.

"There have been some great and noble kings."

"But a great many more bad 'uns!" said the Tinker. "And then, look how

often they got theirselves pisoned, or stabbed, or 'ad their 'eads

chopped off! No—if you axes me, I prefer to tinker a kettle under a

hedge."

"Then you are contented?"

"Not quite," he answered, his face falling; "me being a literary cove

(as I think I've mentioned afore), it has always been my wish to be a

scholar."

"Far better be a tinker," said I.

"Young fellow," said the Tinker, shaking his head reprovingly, "you're

off the mark there—knowledge is power; why, Lord love my eyes and

limbs! what's finer than to be able to read in the Greek and Latin?"

"To possess the capacity of earning an honest livelihood," said I.

"Why, I tell you," continued the Tinker, unheeding my remark, "I'd give

this here left hand o' mine to be able to read the very words of such

men as Plato, Aristotle, Epictetus, Xenophon, and all the rest of 'em."

"There are numerous translations," said I.

"Ah, to be sure!" sighed the Tinker, "but then, they are translations."

"There are good translations as well as bad," said I.

"Maybe," returned the Tinker, "maybe, but a translation's only a echo,

after all, however good it be." As he spoke, he dived into his pack

and brought forth a book, which he handed to me. It was a smallish

volume in battered leathern covers, and had evidently seen much long

and hard service. Opening it at the title-page, I read:

Epictetus

his

ENCHIRIDION

with

Simplicius

his

COMMENT.

Made English from the Greek

By

George Stanhope, late Fellow

Of King's College in Camb.

LONDON

Printed for Richard Sare at Gray's Inn Gate in Holborn And Joseph

Hindmarsh against the Exchange in Cornhill.

1649.

"You've read Epictetus, perhaps?" inquired the Tinker.

"I have."

"Not in the Greek, of course."

"Yes," said I, smiling, "though by dint of much labor."

The Tinker stopped chewing to stare at me wide-eyed, then swallowed his

mouthful at one gulp.

"Lord love me!" he exclaimed, "and you so young, too!"

"No," said I; "I'm twenty-five."

"And Latin, now—don't tell me you can read the Latin."

"But I can't make a kettle, or even mend one, for that matter," said I.

"But you are a scholar, and it's a fine thing to be a scholar!"

"And I tell you again, it is better to be a tinker," said I.

"How so?"

"It is a healthier life, in the first place," said I.

"That, I can believe," nodded the Tinker.

"It is a happier life, in the second place."

"That, I doubt," returned the Tinker.

"And, in the third place, it pays much better."

"That, I don't believe," said the Tinker.

"Nevertheless," said I, "speaking for myself, I have, in the course of

my twenty-five years, earned but ten shillings, and that—but by the

sale of my waistcoat."

"Lord love me!" exclaimed the Tinker, staring.

"A man," I pursued, "may be a far better scholar than I—may be full of

the wisdom of the Ancients, and the teachings of all the great thinkers

and philosophers, and yet starve to death—indeed frequently does; but

who ever heard of a starving Tinker?"

"But a scholar may write great books," said the Tinker.

"A scholar rarely writes a great book," said I, shaking my head,

"probably for the good and sufficient reason that great books never

_are_ written."

"Young fellow," said the Tinker, staring, "what do you mean by that?"

"I mean that truly great books only happen, and very rarely."

"But a scholar may happen to write a great book," said the Tinker.

"To be sure—he may; a book that nobody will risk publishing, and if

so—a book that nobody will trouble to read, nowadays."

"Why so?"

"Because this is an eminently unliterary age, incapable of thought, and

therefore seeking to be amused. Whereas the writing of books was once

a painful art, it has of late become a trick very easy of

accomplishment, requiring no regard for probability, and little

thought, so long as it is packed sufficiently full of impossible

incidents through which a ridiculous heroine and a more absurd hero

duly sigh their appointed way to the last chapter. Whereas books were

once a power, they are, of late, degenerated into things of amusement

with which to kill an idle hour, and be promptly forgotten the next."

"Yet the great books remain," said the Tinker.

"Yes," said I; "but who troubles their head over Homer or Virgil these

days—who cares to open Steele's 'Tatler,' or Addison's 'Spectator,'

while there is the latest novel to be had, or 'Bell's Life' to be found

on any coffee-house table?"

"And why," said the Tinker, looking at me over a piece of bacon

skewered upon the point of his jack-knife, "why don't you write a book?"

"I probably shall some day," I answered.

"And supposing," said the Tinker, eyeing the piece of bacon

thoughtfully, "supposing nobody ever reads it?"

"The worse for them!" said I.

Thus we talked of books, and the making of books (something of which I

have already set down in another place) until our meal was at an end.

"You are a rather strange young man, I think," said the Tinker, as,

having duly wiped knife, and fork, and plate upon a handful of grass, I

handed them back.

"Yet you are a stranger tinker."

"How so?"

"Why, who ever heard of a tinker who wrote verses, and worked with a

copy of Epictetus at his elbow?"

"Which I don't deny as I'm a great thinker," nodded the Tinker; "to be

sure, I think a powerful lot."

"A dangerous habit," said I, shaking my head, "and a most unwise one!"

"Eh?" cried the Tinker, staring.

"Your serious, thinking man," I explained, "is seldom happy—as a rule

has few friends, being generally regarded askance, and is always

misunderstood by his fellows. All the world's great thinkers, from

Christ down, were generally misunderstood, looked at askance, and had

very few friends."

"But these were all great men," said the Tinker.

"We think so now, but in their day they were very much despised, and

who was more hated, by the very people He sought to aid, than Christ?"

"By the evil-doers, yes," nodded the Tinker.

"On the contrary," said I, "his worst enemies were men of learning,

good citizens, and patterns of morality, who looked upon him as a

dangerous zealot, threatening the destruction of the old order of

things; hence they killed him—as an agitator. Things are much the same

to-day. History tells us that Christ, or the spirit of Christ, has

entered into many men who have striven to enlighten and better the

conditions of their kind, and they have generally met with violent

deaths, for Humanity is very gross and blind."

The Tinker slowly wiped his clasp-knife upon the leg of his breeches,

closed it, and slipped it into his pocket.

"Nevertheless," said he at last, "I am convinced that you are a very

strange young man."

"Be that as it may," said I, "the bacon was delicious. I have never

enjoyed a meal so much—except once at an inn called 'The Old Cock.'"

"I know it," nodded the Tinker; "a very poor house."

"But the ham and eggs are beyond praise," said I; "still, my meal here

under the trees with you will long remain a pleasant memory."

"Good-by, then," said the Tinker. "Good-by, young man, and I wish you

happiness."

"What is happiness?" said I. The Tinker removed his hat, and, having

scratched his head, put it on again.

"Happiness," said he, "happiness is the state of being content with

one's self, the world, and everything in general."

"Then," said I, "I fear I can never be happy."

"And why not?"

"Because, supposing I ever became contented with the world, and

everything in general, which is highly improbable, I shall never, never

be contented with myself."

CHAPTER XXIII

CONCERNING HAPPINESS, A PLOUGHMAN, AND SILVER BUTTONS

Now as I went, pondering on true happiness, and the nature of it, I

beheld a man ploughing in a field hard by, and, as he ploughed, he

whistled lustily. And drawing near to the field, I sat down upon a

gate and watched, for there are few sights and sounds I am fonder of

than the gleam of the ploughshare and the sighing whisper it makes as

it turns the fragrant loam.

"A truly noble occupation!" said I to myself, "dignified by the

ages—ay—old, well nigh, as the green earth itself; no man need be

ashamed to guide a plough."

And indeed a fine sight it made, the straining horses, the stalwart

figure of the Ploughman, with the blue sky, the long, brown furrows,

and, away and beyond, the tender green of leaves; while the jingle of

the harness, the clear, merry, whistled notes, and the song of a

skylark, high above our heads, all blended into a chorus it was good to

hear.

As he came up to where I sat upon the gate, the Ploughman stopped, and,

wiping the glistening moisture from his brow, nodded good-humoredly.

"A fine morning!" said I.

"So it be, sir, now you come to mention it, it do be a fine day surely."

"You, at least seem happy," said I.

"Happy?" he exclaimed, staring.

"Yes," said I.

"Well, I bean't."

"And why not?" The Ploughman scratched his ear, and carried his glance

from my face up to the sky, and down again.

"I dunno," he answered, "but I bean't."

"Yet you whistle gayly enough."

"Why, a man must do summat."

"Then, you seem strong and healthy."

"Yes, I do be fine an' hearty."

"And sleep well?"

"Like a blessed log."

"And eat well?"

"Eat!" he exclaimed, with a mighty laugh. "Lord! I should think

so—why, I'm always eatin' or thinkin' of it. Oh, I'm a fine eater, I

am—an' I bean't no chicken at drinkin', neither."

"Then you ought to be happy."

"Ah!—but I bean't!" he repeated, shaking his head.

"Have you any troubles?"

"None as I can think on."

"You earn good money every week?"

"Ten shillin'."

"You are not married?"

"Not me."

"Then," said I, "you must be happy." The Ploughman pulled at his ear

again, looked slowly all round the field, and, finally, shook his head.

"Well," said he, "I bean't."

"But why not?" His eye roved slowly up from my boots to the buttons on

my coat.

"Them be fine buttons!" said he.

"Do you think so?"

"Look like silver!"

"They are silver," said I.

"Lord!" he exclaimed, "you wouldn't part wi' they buttons, I suppose?"

"That depends!"

"On what?"

"On how much you would give for them." The Ploughman thrust a hand

into a deep pocket, and brought up five shillings.

"I were a-goin' to buy a pair o' boots, on my way 'ome," he explained,

"but I'd rayther 'ave they buttons, if five shillin' 'll buy 'em."

"The boots would be more serviceable," said I.

"Maybe, sir, but then, everybody wears boots, but there bean't many as

can show buttons the like o' them—so if you're willin'—"

"Lend me your knife," said I. And, forthwith, I sawed off the eight

silver buttons and dropped them into his palm, whereupon he handed me

the money with great alacrity.

"And now," said I, "tell me why you are not happy."

"Well," returned the Ploughman, back at his ear again, "ye see it bein'

as you ask so sudden-like, I can't 'zack'ly say, but if you was to pass

by in a day or two, why, maybe I could tell ye."

So, pocketing the buttons, he whooped cheerily to his horses, and

plodded off, whistling more merrily than ever.

CHAPTER XXIV

WHICH INTRODUCES THE READER TO THE ANCIENT

The sun was high when I came to a place where the ways divided, and,

while I stood hesitating which road to take, I heard the cool plash and

murmur of a brook at no great distance. Wherefore, being hot and

thirsty, I scrambled through the hedge, and, coming to the brook, threw

myself face down beside it, and, catching up the sweet pure water in my

hands, drank my fill; which done, I bathed my feet, and hands, and

face, and became much heartened and refreshed thereby. Now because I

have ever loved the noise of running waters, in a little while, I rose

and walked on beside the stream, listening to its blithesome melody.

So, by devious ways, for the brook wound prodigiously, I came at length

to a sudden declivity down which the water plunged in a miniature

cascade, sparkling in the sun, and gleaming with a thousand rainbow

hues. On I went, climbing down as best I might, until I found myself

in a sort of green basin, very cool after the heat and glare of the

roads, for the high, tree-clad sides afforded much shade. On I went,

past fragrant thickets and bending willows, with soft lush grass

underfoot and leafy arches overhead, and the brook singing and

chattering at my side; albeit a brook of changeful mood, now laughing

and dimpling in some fugitive ray of sunshine, now sighing and

whispering in the shadows, but ever moving upon its appointed way, and

never quite silent. So I walked on beside the brook, watching the fish

that showed like darting shadows on the bottom, until, chancing to

raise my eyes, I stopped. And there, screened by leaves, shut in among

the green, stood a small cottage, or hut. My second glance showed it

to be tenantless, for the thatch was partly gone, the windows were

broken, and the door had long since fallen from its hinges. Yet,

despite its forlornness and desolation, despite the dilapidation of

broken door and fallen chimney, there was something in the air of the

place that drew me strangely. It was somewhat roughly put together,

but still very strong, and seemed, save for the roof, weatherfast.

"A man might do worse than live here," thought I, "with the birds for

neighbors, and the brook to sing him to sleep at night. Indeed, a man

might live very happily in such a place."

I was still looking at the hut, with this in my mind, when I was

startled by hearing a thin, quavering voice behind me:

"Be you 'm a-lookin' at t' cottage, master?"

Turning sharp round, I beheld a very ancient man in a smock frock, who

carried a basket on one arm, and leaned upon a stick.

"Yes," I answered; "I was wondering how it came to be built in such an

out-of-the-world spot."

"Why, 't were built by a wanderin' man o' the roads."

"It's very lonely!" said I.

"Ye may well say so, sir—haunted it be, tu."

"Haunted?" said I.

"Haunted as ever was!" answered the old man, with a sprightly nod

strangely contrasting with his wrinkled face and tremulous limbs. "No

one ventur's nigh the place arter dark, an' few enough in the daytime,

for that matter."

"On account of the ghost?"

"Ah!" nodded the Ancient, "moans 'e du, an' likewise groans. Theer's

some as says 'e twitters tu, an' shakes chains."

"Then nobody has lived here of late?"

"Bless 'ee no—nor wouldn't, no, not if ye paid 'em tu. Nobody's come

a-nigh the place, you may say, since 't were built by the wanderin'

man. Lived 'ere all alone, 'e did—killed 'isself 'ere likewise."

"Killed himself!" said I.

"Ah—! 'ung 'isself—be'ind th' door yonder, sixty an' six year ago

come August, an' 't were me as found 'im. Ye see," said the old man,

setting down his basket, and seating himself with great nicety on the

moss-grown doorstep, "ye see, 't were a tur'ble storm that night—rain,

and wind, wi' every now an' then a gert, cracklin' flame o' lightnin'.

I mind I'd been up to th' farm a-courtin' o' Nancy Brent—she 'm dead

now, poor lass, years an' years ago, but she were a fine, buxom maid in

those days, d'ye see. Well, I were comin' 'ome, and what wi' one thing

an' another, I lost my way. An' presently, as I were stumblin' along

in the dark, comes another crackle o' lightnin', an' lookin' up, what

should I see but this 'ere cottage. 'T were newer-lookin' then, wi' a

door an' winders, but the door was shut an' the winders was dark—so

theer I stood in the rain, not likin' to disturb the stranger, for 'e

were a gert, fierce, unfriendly kind o' chap, an' uncommon fond o'

bein' left alone. Hows'ever, arter a while, up I goes to th' door, an'

knocks (for I were a gert, strong, strappin', well-lookin' figure o' a

man myself, in those days, d'ye see, an' could give a good buffet an'

tak one tu), so up I goes to th' door, an' knocks wi' my fist clenched,

all ready (an' a tidy, sizable fist it were in those days) but Lord!

nobody answered, so, at last, I lifted the latch." Here the Ancient

paused to draw a snuff-box from his pocket, with great deliberation,

noting my awakened interest with a twinkling eye.

"Well?" I inquired.

"Well," he continued slowly, "I lifted th' latch, an' give a push to

the door, but it would only open a little way—an inch, p'r'aps, an'

stuck." Here he tapped, and opened his snuff-box.

"Well?" I inquired again.

"Well," he went on, "I give it a gert, big push wi' my shoulder (I were

a fine, strong chap in those days), an', just as it flew open, comes

another flash o' lightnin', an' the fust thing I seen was—a boot."

"A boot!" I exclaimed.

"A boot as ever was," nodded the Ancient, and took a pinch of snuff

with great apparent gusto.

"Go on," said I, "go on."

"Oh!—it's a fine story, a fine story!" he chuckled. "Theer bean't

many men o' my age as 'as fund a 'ung man in a thunderstorm! Well, as

I tell ye, I seen a boot, likewise a leg, an' theer were this 'ere

wanderin' man o' the roads a-danglin' be'ind th' door from a

stapil—look ye!" he exclaimed, rising with some little difficulty, and

hobbling into the hut, "theer be th' very stapil, so it be!" and he

pointed up to a rusty iron staple that had been driven deep into the

beam above the door.

"And why," said I, "why did he hang himself?"

"Seein' e' 'ad no friends, and never told nobody—nobody never knowed,"

answered the old man, shaking his head, "but on that theer stapil 'e

'ung 'isself, an' on that theer stapil I fund 'im, on a stormy night

sixty and six year ago come August."

"You have a wonderful memory!" said I.

"Ay, to be sure; a wunnerful mem'ry, a wunnerful mem'ry!"

"Sixty and six years is an age," said I.

"So it be," nodded the Ancient. "I were a fine young chap in those

days, tall I were, an' straight as a arrer, I be a bit different now."

"Why, you are getting old," said I.

"So 's t' stapil yonder, but t' stapil looks nigh as good as ever."

"Iron generally wears better than flesh and blood," said I; "it's only

natural."

"Ay, but 'e can't last forever," said the Ancient, frowning, and

shaking his head at the rusty staple. "I've watched un, month in an'

month out, all these years, an' seen un growin' rustier an' rustier.

I'll last 'ee out yet,' I've said to un—'e knows it—'e 've heerd me

many an' many a time. 'I'll last 'ee out yet!' I've said, an' so I

will, to—'e can't last forever an' I be a vig'rus man—a mortal

vig'rus man—bean't I?"

"Wonderfully!" said I.

"An' so strong as a bull?"

"To be sure."

"An' t' stapil can't last much longer—eh, maister?—so old an' rusty as

'e be?"

"One would hardly think so."

"Not so long as a tur'ble vig'rus man, like I be?" he inquired, with a

certain wistful appeal in his eyes.

"No," I answered impulsively.

"I knowed it—I knowed it," he chuckled, feebly brandishing his stick,

"such a poor old stapil as 'tis, all eat up wi' rust. Every time I come

'ere a-gatherin' watercress, I come in an' give un a look, an' watch un

rustin' away, an' rustin' away; I'll see un go fust, arter all, so I

will!" and, with another nod at the staple, he turned, and hobbled out

into the sunshine.

And seeing how, despite his brave showing, he labored to carry the

heavy basket, I presently took it from him, disregarding his protests,

and set off by his side; yet, as we went, I turned once to look back at

the deserted hut.

"You 'm thinkin' 'tis a tur'ble bad place at night?" said the old man.

"On the contrary," I answered, "I was thinking it might suit a homeless

man like me very well indeed."

"D'ye mean—to live there?" exclaimed the Ancient.

"Yes," said I.

"Then you bean't afraid o' the ghost?"

"No," I answered.

"P'r'aps you be one o' they fules as think theer bean't no ghosts?"

"As to that," I answered, "I don't know, but I don't think I should be

much afraid, and it is a great blessing to have some spot on this

unfriendly world that we can call 'home'—even though it be but a hut,

and haunted."

In a little while the path we followed led up a somewhat steep ascent

which, though not so precipitous as the place where I had entered the

hollow, was a difficult climb, notwithstanding; seeing which, I put out

a hand to aid my aged companion. But he repulsed me almost sharply:

"Let be," he panted, "let be, nobody's never 'elped me up this 'ere

path, an' nobody never shall!" So up we went, the Ancient and I, side

by side, and very slowly, until, the summit being reached, he seated

himself, spent and breathless, upon a fallen tree, which had doubtless

served this purpose many times before, and mopped at his wrinkled brow

with a trembling hand.

"Ye see," he cried, as soon as he had recovered his breath

sufficiently, "ye see, I be wunnerful spry an' active—could dance ye a

hornpipe any day, if I was so minded."

"On my word," said I, "I believe you could! But where are you going

now?"

"To Siss'n'urst!"

"How far is that?"

"'Bout a mile acrost t' fields, you can see the pint o' Joel Amos's

oast-'ouse above the trees yonder."

"Is there a good inn at Sissinghurst?"

"Ay, theer's 'The Bull,' comfortable, an' draws fine ale!"

"Then I will go to Sissinghurst."

"Ay, ay," nodded the old man, "if it be good ale an' a comfortable inn

you want you need seek no further nor Siss'n'urst; ninety an' one years

I've lived there, an' I know."

"Ninety-one years!" I repeated.

"As ever was!" returned the Ancient, with another nod. "I be the

oldest man in these parts 'cept David Relf, an' 'e died last year."

"Why then, if he's dead, you must be the oldest," said I.

"No," said the Ancient, shaking his head,—"ye see it be this way:

David were my brother, an' uncommon proud 'e were o' bein' the oldest

man in these parts, an' now that 'e be dead an' gone it du seem a poor

thing—ah! a very poor thing!—to tak' 'vantage of a dead man, an' him

my own brother!" Saying which, the Ancient rose, and we went on

together, side by side, towards Sissinghurst village.

CHAPTER XXV

OF BLACK GEORGE, THE SMITH, AND HOW WE THREW THE HAMMER

"The Bull" is a plain, square, whitewashed building, with a sloping

roof, and before the door an open portico, wherein are set two seats on

which one may sit of a sunny afternoon with a mug of ale at one's elbow

and watch the winding road, the thatched cottages bowered in roses, or

the quiver of distant trees where the red, conical roof of some

oast-house makes a vivid note of color amid the green. Or one may

close one's eyes and hark to the chirp of the swallows under the eaves,

the distant lowing of cows, or the clink of hammers from the smithy

across the way.

And presently, as we sat there drowsing in the sun, to us came one from

the "tap," a bullet-headed fellow, small of eye, and nose, but great of

jaw, albeit he was become somewhat fat and fleshy—who, having nodded

to me, sat him down beside the Ancient, and addressed him as follows:

"Black Jarge be 'took' again, Gaffer!"

"Ah! I knowed 'twould come soon or late, Simon," said the Ancient,

shaking his head, "I knowed as 'e'd never last the month out."

"Seemed goin' on all quiet and reg'lar, though," said the bullet-headed

man, whom I discovered to be the landlord of "The Bull"—"seemed nice

and quiet, and nothin' out o' the way, when, 'bout an hour ago it were,

'e ups and heaves Sam out into the road."

"Ah!" said the old man, nodding his head again, "to be sure, I've

noticed, Simon, as 'tis generally about the twentieth o' the month as

Jarge gets 'took.'"

"'E 've got a wonderful 'ead, 'ave the Gaffer!" said Simon, turning to

me.

"Yes," said I, "but who is Black George; how comes he to be 'taken,'

and by what?"

"Gaffer," said the Innkeeper, "you tell un."

"Why, then," began the Ancient, nothing loth, "Black Jarge be a gert,

big, strong man—the biggest, gertest, and strongest in the South

Country, d'ye see (a'most as fine a man as I were in my time), and, off

and on, gets took wi' tearin's and rages, at which times 'e don't mind

who 'e 'its—"

"No—nor wheer!" added the Innkeeper.

"Oh, 'e be a bad man, be Black Jarge when 'e's took, for 'e 'ave a

knack, d'ye see, of takin' 'old o' the one nighest to un, and a-heavin'

of un over 'is 'ead."

"Extremely unpleasant!" said I.

"Just what he done this marnin' wi' Sam," nodded the Innkeeper—"hove

un out into the road, 'e did."

"And what did Sam do?" I inquired.

"Oh! Sam were mighty glad to get off so easy."

"Sam must be a very remarkable fellow—undoubtedly a philosopher," said

I.

"'E be nowt to look at!" said the Ancient.

Now at this moment there came a sudden deep bellow, a hoarse, bull-like

roar from somewhere near by, and, looking round in some perplexity,

through the wide doorway of the smithy opposite, I saw a man come

tumbling, all arms and legs, who, having described a somersault, fell,

rolled over once or twice, and sitting up in the middle of the road,

stared about him in a dazed sort of fashion.

"That's Job!" nodded the Ancient.

"Poor fellow!" said I, and rose to go to his assistance.

"Oh, that weren't nothin'," said the Ancient, laying, a restraining

hand upon my arm, "nothin' at all. Job bean't 'urt; why, I've seen 'em

fall further nor that afore now, but y' see Job be pretty heavy

handlin'—even for Black Jarge."

And, in a little while, Job arose from where he sat in the dust, and

limping up, sat himself down on the opposite bench, very black of brow

and fierce of eye. And, after he had sat there silent for maybe five

minutes, I said that I hoped he wasn't hurt.

"'Urt?" he repeated, with a blank stare. "'Ow should I be 'urt?"

"Why, you seemed to fall rather heavily," said I.

At this Job regarded me with a look half resentful, half reproachful,

and immediately turned his back upon me; from which, and sundry winks

and nods and shakes of the head from the others, it seemed that my

remark had been ill-judged. And after we had sat silent for maybe

another five minutes, the Ancient appeared to notice Job's presence for

the first time.

"Why, you bean't workin' 's arternoon then, Job?" he inquired solemnly.

"Noa!"

"Goin' to tak' a 'olleyday, p'r'aps?"

"Ah! I'm done wi' smithin'—leastways, for Black Jarge."

"And him wi' all that raft o' work in, Job? Pretty fix 'e'll be in wi'

no one to strike for 'im!" said Simon.

"Sarves un right tu!" retorted Job, furtively rubbing his left knee.

"But what'll 'e do wi'out a 'elper?" persisted Simon.

"Lord knows!" returned the Ancient; "unless Job thinks better of it."

"Not me," said that individual, feeling his right elbow with tender

solicitude. "I'm done wi' Black Jarge, I am. 'E nigh broke my back

for me once afore, but this is the last time; I never swing a sledge

for Black Jarge again—danged if I du!"

"And 'im to mend th' owd church screen up to Cranbrook Church," sighed

the Ancient; "a wunnerful screen, a wunnerful screen! older nor me—ah!

a sight older—hunneds and hunneds o' years older—they wouldn't let

nobody touch it but Black Jarge."

"'E be the best smith in the South Country!" nodded Simon.

"Ay, an' a bad man to work for as ever was!" growled Job. "I'll work

for 'e no more; my mind's made up, an' when my mind's made up theer

bean't no movin' me—like a rock I be!"

"'Twould ha' been a fine thing for a Siss'n'urst man to ha' mended t'

owd screen!" said the Ancient.

"'Twould that!" nodded Simon, "a shame it is as it should go to others."

Hereupon, having finished my ale, I rose.

"Be you'm a-goin', young maister?" inquired the Ancient.

"Why, that depends," said I. "I understand that this man, Black

George, needs a helper, so I have decided to go and offer my services."

"You!" exclaimed Job, staring in open-mouthed amazement, as did also

the other two.

"Why not?" I rejoined. "Black George needs a helper, and I need money."

"My chap," said Job warningly, "don't ye do it. You be a tidy, sizable

chap, but Black Jarge ud mak' no more o' you than I should of a

babby—don't ye do it."

"Better not," said Simon.

"On the contrary," I returned, "better run a little bodily risk and

satisfy one's hunger, rather than lie safe but famishing beneath some

hedge or rick—what do you think, Ancient?"

The old man leaned forward and peered up at me sharply beneath his

hanging brows.

"Well?" said I.

"You'm right!" he nodded, "and a man wi' eyes the like o' yourn bean't

one as 'tis easy to turn aside, even though it do be Black Jarge as

tries."

"Then," said Job, as I took up my staff, "if your back's broke, my

chap—why, don't go for to blame me, that's all! You be a sight too

cocksure—ah, that you be!"

"I'm thinkin' Black Jarge would find this chap a bit different to Job,"

remarked the Ancient. "What do 'ee think, Simon?"

"Looks as if 'e might take a good blow, ah! and give one, for that

matter," returned the Innkeeper, studying me with half-closed eyes, and

his head to one side, as I have seen artists look at pictures. "He be

pretty wide in the shoulders, and full in the chest, and, by the look

of him, quick on 'is pins."

"You've been a fightin' man, Simon, and you ought to know—but he've

got summat better still."

"And what might that be, Gaffer?" inquired the Innkeeper.

"A good, straight, bright eye, Simon, wi' a look in it as says, 'I

will!'"

"Ah! but what o' Jarge?" cried Job. "Black Jarge don't mind a man's

eyes, 'cept to black frequent; 'e don't mind nothin', nor nobody."

"Job," said the Ancient, tapping his snuff-box, "theer's some things as

is better nor gert, big muscles, and gert, strong fists—if you wasn't

a danged fule you'd know what I mean. Young man," he went on, turning

to me, "you puts me in mind o' what I were at your age though, to be

sure, I were taller 'n you by about five or six inches, maybe more—but

don't go for to be too cock-sure for all that. Black Jarge aren't to

be sneezed at."

"And, if you must 'it un," added the Innkeeper, "why, go for the

chin—theer aren't a better place to 'it a man than on the chin, if so

be you can thump it right—and 'ard enough. I mind 't was so I put out

Tom Brock o' Bedford—a sweet, pretty blow it were too, though I do say

it."

"Thank you!" said I; "should it come to fighting, which Heaven forfend,

I shall certainly remember your advice." Saying which, I turned away,

and crossed the road to the open door of the smithy, very conscious of

the three pairs of eyes that watched me as I went.

Upon the threshold of the forge I paused to look about me, and there,

sure enough, was the smith. Indeed a fine, big fellow he was, with

great shoulders, and a mighty chest, and arms whose bulging muscles

showed to advantage in the red glow of the fire. In his left hand he

grasped a pair of tongs wherein was set a glowing iron scroll, upon

which he beat with the hammer in his right. I stood watching until,

having beaten out the glow from the iron, he plunged the scroll back

into the fire, and fell to blowing with the bellows. But now, as I

looked more closely at him, I almost doubted if this could be Black

George, after all, for this man's hair was of a bright gold, and curled

in tight rings upon his brow, while, instead of the black, scowling

visage I had expected, I beheld a ruddy, open, well-featured face out

of which looked a pair of eyes of a blue you may sometimes see in a

summer sky at evening. And yet again, his massive size would seem to

proclaim him the famous Black George, and no other. It was with

something of doubt in my mind, nevertheless, that I presently stepped

into the smithy and accosted him.

"Are you Black George?" I inquired. At the sound of my voice, he let

go the handle of the bellows, and turned; as I watched, I saw his brows

draw suddenly together, while the golden hairs of his beard seemed to

curl upward.

"Suppose I be?"

"Then I wish to speak with you."

"Be that what you'm come for?"

"Yes."

"Be you come far?"

"Yes."

"That's a pity."

"Why?"

"'Cause you'll 'ave a good way to go back again."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for one thing, I means as I don't like your looks, my chap."

"And why don't you like my looks?"

"Lord!" exclaimed the smith, "'ow should I know—but I don't—of that

I'm sartin sure."

"Which reminds me," said I, "of a certain unpopular gentleman of the

name of Fell, or Pell, or Snell."

"Eh?" said the smith, staring.

"There is a verse, I remember, which runs, I think, in this wise:

"'I do not love thee, Doctor Fell, or Pell, or Snell,

For reasons which I cannot tell;

But this I know, and know full well,

I do not love thee, Doctor Fell, or Pell, or Snell.'"

"So you'm a poet, eh?"

"No," said I, shaking my head.

"Then I'm sorry for it; a man don't meet wi' poets every day," saying

which, he drew the scroll from the fire, and laid it, glowing, upon the

anvil. "You was wishful to speak wi' me, I think?" he inquired.

"Yes," I answered.

"Ah!" nodded the smith, "to be sure," and, forthwith, began to sing

most lustily, marking the time very cleverly with his ponderous

hand-hammer.

"If," I began, a little put out at this, "if you will listen to what I

have to say" But he only hammered away harder than ever, and roared

his song the louder; and, though it sounded ill enough at the time, it

was a song I came to know well later, the words of which are these:

"Strike! ding! ding!

Strike! ding! ding!

The iron glows,

And loveth good blows

As fire doth bellows.

Strike! ding! ding!"

Now seeing he was determined to give me no chance to speak, I presently

seated myself close by, and fell to singing likewise. Oddly enough, the

only thing I could recall, on the moment, was the Tinker's song, and

that but very imperfectly; yet it served my purpose well enough. Thus

we fell to it with a will, the different notes clashing, and filling

the air with a most vile discord, and the words all jumbled up

together, something in this wise:

"Strike! ding! ding!

A tinker I am, O

Strike! ding! ding!

A tinker am I

The iron it glows,

A tinker I'll live

And loveth good blows,

And a tinker I'll die.

As fire doth bellows.

If the King in his crown

Strike! ding! ding!

Would change places with me

Strike! ding! ding!" And so forth.

The louder he roared, the louder roared I, until the place fairly rang

with the din, in so much that, chancing to look through the open

doorway, I saw the Ancient, with Simon, Job, and several others, on the

opposite side of the way, staring, open-mouthed, as well they might.

But still the smith and I continued to howl at each other with unabated

vigor until he stopped, all at once, and threw down his hammer with a

clang.

"Dang me if I like that voice o' yourn!" he exclaimed.

"Why, to be sure, I don't sing very often," I answered.

"Which, I mean to say, is a very good thing; ah! a very good thing!"

"Nor do I pretend to sing—"

"Then why do 'ee try now?"

"For company's sake."

"Well, I don't like it; I've 'ad enough of it."

"Then," said I, "suppose you listen to what I have to say?"

"Not by no manner o' means."

"Then what do you propose to do?"

"Why," said the smith, rising and stretching himself, "since you ax me,

I'm a-goin' to pitch you out o' yon door."

"You may try, of course," said I, measuring the distance between us

with my eye, "but if you do, seeing you are so much the bigger and

stronger man, I shall certainly fetch you a knock with this staff of

mine which I think you will remember for many a day."

So saying, I rose and stepped out into the middle of the floor. Black

George eyed me slowly up from the soles of my boots to the crown of my

hat and down again, picked up his hammer in an undecided fashion,

looked it over as if he had never seen such a thing before, tossed it

into a corner, and, seating himself on the anvil, folded his arms. All

at once a merry twinkle leapt into the blue depths of his eyes, and I

saw the swift gleam of a smile.

"What do 'ee want—man?" said he.

Now hereupon, with a sudden gesture, I pitched my staff out through the

open doorway into the road, and folded my arms across my chest, even as

he.

"Why did 'ee do that?" he inquired, staring.

"Because I don't think I shall need it, after all."

"But suppose I was to come for 'ee now?"

"But you won't."

"You be a strange sort o' chap!" said he, shaking his head.

"So they tell me."

"And what does the likes o' you want wi' the likes o' me?"

"Work!"

"Know anythin' about smithin'?"

"Not a thing."

"Then why do 'ee come 'ere?"

"To learn."

"More fool you!" said the smith.

"Why?"

"Because smithin' is 'ard work, and dirty work, and hot work, and work

as is badly paid nowadays."

"Then why are you a smith?"

"My feyther was a smith afore me."

"And is that your only reason?"

"My only reason."

"Then you are the greater fool."

"You think so, do ye?"

"Certainly."

"Supposin'," said Black George, stroking his golden beard reflectively,

"supposin' I was to get up and break your neck for that."

"Then you would, at least, save me from the folly of becoming a smith."

"I don't," said Black George, shaking his head, "no, I do not like you."

"I am sorry for that."

"Because," he went on, "you've got the gift o' the gab, and a gabbing

man is worse than a gabbing woman."

"You can gab your share, if it comes to that," said I.

"Can I?"

"You can."

"My chap," he growled, holding up a warning hand, "go easy now, go

easy; don't get me took again."

"Not if I can help it," I returned.

"I be a quiet soul till I gets took—a very quiet soul—lambs bean't

quieter, but I won't answer for that neck o' yourn if I do get took—so

look out!"

"I understand you have an important piece of work on hand," said I,

changing the subject.

"Th' owd church screen, yes."

"And are in need of a helper?"

"Ah! to be sure—but you aren't got the look o' a workin' cove. I never

see a workin' cove wi' 'ands the like o' yourn, so white as a woman's

they be."

"I have worked hard enough in my time, nevertheless," said I.

"What might you 'ave done, now?"

"I have translated Petronius Arbiter, also Quintilian, with a literal

rendering into the English of the Memoires of the Sieur de Brantome."

"Oh," exclaimed the smith, "that sounds a lot! anything more?"

"Yes," I answered; "I won the High Jump, and Throwing the Hammer."

"Throwin' th' 'ammer!" repeated Black George musingly; "was it anything

like that theer?" And he pointed to a sledge near, by.

"Something," I answered.

"And you want work?"

"I do."

"Tell 'ee what, my fellow, if you can throw that theer 'ammer further

nor me, then I'll say, 'Done,' and you can name your own wages, but if

I beat you, and I'm fair sure I can, then you must stand up to me for

ten minutes, and I'll give 'ee a good trouncin' to ease my mind—what

d'ye say?"

After a momentary hesitation, I nodded my head.

"Done!" said I.

"More fool you!" grinned the smith, and, catching up his sledge-hammer,

he strode out into the road.

Before "The Bull" a small crowd had gathered, all newly come from field

or farmyard, for most of them carried rake or pitchfork, having

doubtless been drawn thither by the hellish outcry of Black George and

myself. Now I noticed that while they listened to the Ancient, who was

holding forth, snuff-box in hand, yet every eye was turned towards the

smithy, and in every eye was expectation. At our appearance, however,

I thought they seemed, one and all, vastly surprised and taken aback,

for heads were shaken, and glances wandered from the smith and myself

to the Ancient, and back again.

"Well, I'll be danged!" exclaimed Job.

"I knowed it! I knowed it!" cried the Ancient, rubbing his hands and

chuckling.

"Knowed what, Gaffer?" inquired Black George, as we came up.

"Why, I knowed as this young chap would come out a-walkin' 'pon his own

two legs, and not like Job, a-rollin' and a-wallerin' in the dust o'

th' road—like a hog."

"Why, y' see, Gaffer," began the smith, almost apologetically it seemed

to me, "it do come sort o' nat'ral to heave the likes o' Job about a

bit—Job's made for it, y' might say, but this chap 's different."

"So 'e be, Jarge—so 'e be!" nodded the Ancient.

"Though, mark me, Gaffer, I aren't nohow in love wi' this chap

neither—'e gabs too much to suit me, by a long sight!"

"'E do that!" chimed in Job, edging nearer; "what I sez is, if 'e do

get 'is back broke, 'e aren't got nobody to blame but 'isself—so

cocksure as 'e be."

"Job," said the Ancient, "hold thee tongue."

"I sez 'e's a cocksure cove," repeated Job doggedly, "an' a cocksure

cove 'e be; what do 'ee think, Jarge?"

"Job," returned the smith, "I don't chuck a man into t' road and talk

wi' 'im both in the same day."

In this conversation I bore no part, busying myself in drawing out a

wide circle in the dust, a proceeding watched by the others with much

interest, and not a few wondering comments.

"What be goin' to du wi' 'ammer, Jarge?" inquired the Ancient.

"Why," explained the smith, "this chap thinks 'e can throw it further

nor me." At this there was a general laugh. "If so be 'e can,"

pursued Black George, "then 'e comes to work for me at 'is own price,

but if I beat 'im, then 'e must stand up to me wi' 'is fists for ten

minutes."

"Ten minutes!" cried a voice; "'e won't last five—see if 'e do."

"Feel sorry for un," said a second, "'e do be so pale as a sheet

a'ready."

"So would you be if you was in 'is shoes!" chimed in a third; whereat

there was a general laugh.

Indeed, as, I looked round the ring of grinning, unresponsive faces, it

was plain to see that all sympathy was against the stranger, as is the

way of bird, beast, fish, but especially man, the world over—and I

experienced a sudden sense of loneliness which was, I think, only

natural. Yet, as I put up my hand to loose the strap of my knapsack, I

encountered another already there, and, turning, beheld Simon the

Innkeeper.

"If it do come to fightin'," he whispered close in my ear, "if it do

come to fightin', and I'm fair sure it will, keep away as much as you

can; you look quick on your pins. Moreover, whatever you do, watch 'is

right, and when you do see a chance to strike, go for 'is chin—a

little to one side—and strike danged 'ard!"

"Many thanks for your friendly advice," said I, with a grateful nod

and, slipping off my coat, would have handed it to him but that the

Ancient hobbled up, and, taking it from me, folded it ostentatiously

across his arm.

"Mark my words, Simon," said he, "this young chap is as like what I

were at his age as one pea is to another—I says so, and I means so."

"Come," said Black George, at this juncture, "I've work waitin' to be

done, and my forge fire will be out."

"I'm quite ready," said I, stepping forward. It was now arranged that,

standing alternately within the circle, we should each have three

throws—whoever should make the two best throws to win. Hereupon, the

smith took his place within the circle, hammer in hand.

"Wait," said I, "the advantage usually lies with the last thrower, it

would be fairer to you were we to toss for it."

"No," answered Black George, motioning the onlookers to stand back,

"I've got th' 'ammer, and I'll throw first."

Now, as probably every one knows, it is one thing to swing a

sledge-hammer in the ordinary way but quite another to throw it any

distance, for there is required, beside the bodily strength, a certain

amount of knowledge, without which a man is necessarily handicapped.

Thus, despite my opponent's great strength of arm, I was fairly

sanguine of the result.

Black George took a fresh grip upon the hammer-shaft, twirled it

lightly above his head, swung it once, twice, thrice—and let it go.

With a shout, Job and two or three others ran down the road to mark

where it had fallen, and presently returned, pacing out the distance.

"Fifty-nine!" they announced.

"Can 'ee beat that?" inquired Black George complacently.

"I think I can," I answered as, taking up the hammer, I, in turn,

stepped into the ring. Gripping the shaft firmly, I whirled it aloft,

and began to swing it swifter and swifter, gaining greater impetus

every moment, till, like a flash, it flew from my grasp. Panting, I

watched it rise, rise, rise, and then plunge down to earth in a smother

of dust.

"'E've beat it!" cried the Ancient, flourishing his stick excitedly.

"Lord love me, 'e've beat it!"

"Ay, 'e've beat it, sure-ly," said a man who carried a rake that was

forever getting in everybody's way.

"An' by a goodish bit to!" shouted another.

"Ah! but Jarge aren't got 'is arm in yet," retorted a third; "Jarge can

do better nor that by a long sight!"

But now all voices were hushed as Job paced up.

"Eighty-two!" he announced. Black George looked hard at me, but,

without speaking, stepped sulkily into the ring, moistened his palms,

looked at me again, and seizing the hammer, began to whirl it as he had

seen me. Round and round it went, faster and faster, till, with a

sudden lurch, he hurled it up and away. Indeed it was a mighty throw!

Straight and strong it flew, describing a wide parabola ere it thudded

into the road.

The excitement now waxed high, and many started off to measure the

distance for themselves, shouting one to another as they went. As for

the smith, he stood beside me, whistling, and I saw that the twinkle

was back in his eyes again.

"One hunner and twenty!" cried half-a-dozen voices.

"And a half," corrected Job, thrusting the hammer into my hand, and

grinning.

"Can 'ee beat that?" inquired Black George again.

"Ay, can 'ee beat that?" echoed the crowd.

"It was a marvellous throw!" said I, shaking my head. And indeed, in

my heart I knew I could never hope to equal, much less beat, such a

mighty cast. I therefore decided on strategy, and, with this in mind,

proceeded, in a leisurely fashion, once more to mark out the circle,

which was obliterated in places, to flatten the surface underfoot, to

roll up my sleeves, and tighten my belt; in fine, I observed all such

precautions as a man might be expected to take before some supreme

effort.

At length, having done everything I could think of to impress this idea

upon the onlookers, I took up the hammer.

"Means to do it this time!" cried the man with the rake; knocking off

Job's hat in his excitement, as, with a tremendous swing, I made my

second throw. There was a moment's breathless silence as the hammer

hurtled through the air, then, like an echo to its fall, came a shout

of laughter, for the distance was palpably far short of the giant

smith's last. A moment later Job came pacing up, and announced:

"Eighty-seven!" Hereupon arose a very babel of voices:

"You've got un beat a'ready, Jarge!"

"Well, I knowed it from the start!"

"Let un alone," cried Simon, "'e've got another chance yet."

"Much good it'll do 'im!"

"Ah! might as well give in now, and take 'is thrashin' and ha' done wi'

it."

That my ruse had succeeded with the crowd was evident; they—to a

man—believed I had done my best, and already regarded me as hopelessly

beaten. My chance of winning depended upon whether the smith, deluded

into a like belief, should content himself with just beating my last

throw, for, should he again exert his mighty strength to the uttermost,

I felt that my case was indeed hopeless.

It was with a beating heart, therefore, that I watched him take his

place for the last throw. His face wore a confident smile, but

nevertheless he took up the hammer with such a businesslike air that my

heart sank, and, feeling a touch upon my arm, I was glad to turn away.

"I be goin' to fetch a sponge and water," said Simon.

"A sponge and water!"

"Ah! Likewise some vinegar—theer's nothin' like vinegar—and

remember—the chin, a little to one side preferred."

"So then you think I shall be beaten?"

"Why, I don't say that, but it's best to be prepared, aren't it now?"

And, with a friendly nod, the Innkeeper turned away. In that same

minute there arose another shout from the crowd as they greeted Black

George's last throw, and Job, striding up, announced:

"Ninety-eight!"

Then, while the air still echoed with their plaudits, I stepped into

the ring, and, catching up the hammer, swung it high above my head,

and, at the full length of my arms, began to wheel it. The iron spun

faster and faster till, setting my teeth, with the whole force of every

fibre, every nerve, and muscle of my body, I let it fly.

The blood was throbbing at my temples and my breath coming fast as I

watched its curving flight. And now all voices were hushed so that the

ring of the iron could be plainly heard as it struck the hard road, and

all eyes watched Job, as he began pacing towards us. As he drew nearer

I could hear him counting to himself, thus:

"Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five,

ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one

hundred and one, one hundred and two—one hundred and two!"

Next moment, as it seemed to me, an inarticulate Ancient was

desperately trying to force me into my coat, wrong side first, and

Simon was shaking my hand.

"You tricked me!" cried a voice, and turning, I found Black George

confronting me, with clenched fists.

"And how did I trick you?"

"I could ha' chucked farther nor that."

"Then why didn't you?"

"Because I thought you was beat. I say you tricked me."

"And I tell you the match was a fair one from start to finish!"

"Put up your hands!" said the smith, advancing in a threatening manner.

"No," said I, "a bargain is a bargain," and turning my back upon him, I

fell to watching the man with the rake, who, not content with Job's

word, was busily pacing out the distance for himself.

"Put up your hands!" repeated Black George hoarsely.

"For the last time, no," said I over my shoulder. "Strike me if you

will," I went on, seeing him raise his fist, "I shall not defend

myself, but I tell you this, Black George, the first blow you strike

will brand you coward, and no honest man."

"Coward, is it?" cried he, and, with the word, had seized me in a grip

that crushed my flesh, and nigh swung me off my feet; "coward is it?"

he repeated.

"Yes," said I, "none but a coward would attack an unresisting man."

So, for a full minute we stood thus, staring into each other's eyes,

and once again I saw the hairs of his golden beard curl up, and

outwards.

What would have been the end I cannot say, but there came upon the

stillness the sound of flying footsteps, the crowd was burst asunder,

and a girl stood before us, a tall, handsome girl with raven hair, and

great, flashing black eyes.

"Oh!—you, Jarge, think shame on yourself—think shame on yourself,

Black Jarge. Look!" she cried, pointing a finger at him, "look at the

great, strong man—as is a coward!"

I felt the smith's grip relax, his arms dropped to his sides, while a

deep, red glow crept up his cheeks till it was lost in the clustering

curls of gleaming, yellow hair.

"Why, Prue—" he began, in a strangely altered voice, and stopped. The

fire was gone from his eyes as they rested upon her, and he made a

movement as though he would have reached out his hand to her, but

checked himself.

"Why, Prue—" he said again, but choked suddenly, and, turning away,

strode back towards his forge without another word. On he went,

looking neither to right nor left, and I thought there was something

infinitely woebegone and pitiful in the droop of his head.

Now as I looked from his forlorn figure to the beautiful, flushed face

of the girl, I saw her eyes grow wonderfully soft and sweet, and brim

over with tears. And, when Black George had betaken himself back to

his smithy, she also turned, and, crossing swiftly to the inn, vanished

through its open doorway.

"She 've a fine sperrit, 'ave that darter o' yourn, Simon, a fine

sperrit. Oh! a fine sperrit as ever was!" chuckled the Ancient.

"Prue aren't afeard o' Black Jarge—never was," returned Simon; "she

can manage un—allus could; you'll mind she could allus tame Black

Jarge wi' a look, Gaffer."

"Ah! she 'm a gran'darter to be proud on, be Prue," nodded the Ancient,

"an' proud I be tu!"

"What," said I, "is she your daughter, Simon?"

"Ay, for sure."

"And your granddaughter, Ancient?"

"Ay, that she be, that she be."

"Why, then, Simon must be your son."

"Son as ever was!" nodded the old man, "and a goodish son 'e be tu—oh,

I've seen worse."

"And now," added Simon, "come in, and you shall taste as fine a jug of

ale as there be in all Kent."

"Wait," said the old man, laying his hand upon my arm, "I've took to

you, young chap, took to you amazin'; what might your name be?"

"Peter," I answered.

"A good name, a fine name," nodded the old man.

"Peter—Simon," said he, glancing from one to the other of us.

"Simon—Peter; minds me o' the disciple of our blessed Lord, it du; a

fine name be Peter."

So Peter I became to him thenceforth, and to the whole village.

CHAPTER XXVI

WHEREIN I LEARN MORE CONCERNING THE GHOST OF THE RUINED HUT

And after the Ancient and Simon and I had, very creditably, emptied the

jug between us, I rose to depart.

"Peter," said the Ancient, "wheer be goin'?"

"Home!" said I.

"And wheer be that?"

"The cottage in the Hollow," said I.

"What—th' 'aunted cottage?" he cried, staring.

"Yes," I nodded; "from what I saw of it, I think, with a little

repairing, it might suit me very well."

"But the ghost?" cried the old man; "have ye forgot the ghost?"

"Why, I never heard of a ghost really harming any one yet," I answered.

"Peter," said Simon, quietly, "I wouldn't be too sure o' that. I

wouldn't go a-nigh the place, myself; once is enough for me."

"Simon," said I, "what do you mean by 'once'?"

Now when I asked him this, Simon breathed hard, and shuffled uneasily

in his chair.

"I mean, Peter, as I've heerd un," he replied slowly.

"Heard him!" I repeated incredulously; "you? Are you sure?"

"Sure as death, Peter. I've heerd un a-shriekin' and a-groanin' to

'isself, same as Gaffer 'as, and lots of others. Why, Lord bless 'ee!

theer be scarce a man in these parts but 'as 'eerd um one time or

another."

"Ay—I've 'eerd un, and seen un tu!" croaked the Ancient excitedly. "A

gert, tall think 'e be, wi' a 'orn on 'is 'ead, and likewise a tail;

some might ha' thought 't was the Wanderin' Man o' the Roads as I found

'angin' on t' stapil—some on 'em du, but I knowed better—I knowed 't

were Old Nick 'isself, all flame, and brimstone, an' wi' a babby under

'is arm!"

"A baby?" I repeated.

"A babby as ever was," nodded the Ancient.

"And you say you have heard it too, Simon?" said I.

"Ay," nodded the Innkeeper; "I went down into th' 'Oller one

evenin'—'bout six months ago, wi' Black Jarge, for we 'ad a mind to

knock th' owd place to pieces, and get rid o' the ghost that way.

Well, Jarge ups wi' 'is 'ammer, and down comes the rotten old door wi'

a crash. Jarge 'ad strung up 'is 'ammer for another blow when, all at

once, theer comes a scream." Here Simon shivered involuntarily, and

glanced uneasily over his shoulder, and round the room.

"A scream?" said I.

"Ah!" nodded Simon, "but 'twere worse nor that." Here he paused again,

and looking closer at him, I was surprised to see that his broad,

strong hands were shaking, and that his brow glistened with moisture.

"What was it like?" I inquired, struck by this apparent weakness in one

so hardy and full of health.

"'Twere a scream wi' a bubble in it," he answered, speaking with an

effort, "'twere like somebody shriekin' out wi' 'is throat choked up

wi' blood. Jarge and me didn't wait for no more; we run. And as we

run, it follered, groanin' arter us till we was out upon the road, and

then it shrieked at us from the bushes. Ecod! it do make me cold to

talk of it, even now. Jarge left 'is best sledge be'ind 'im, and I my

crowbar, and we never went back for them, nor never shall, no." Here

Simon paused to mop the grizzled hair at his temples. "I tell 'ee,

Peter, that place aren't fit for no man at night. If so be you'm

lookin' for a bed, my chap, theer's one you can 'ave at 'The Bull,'

ready and willin'."

"An' gratus!" added the Ancient, tapping his snuffbox.

"Thank you," said I, "both of you, for the offer, but I have a strange

fancy to hear, and, if possible, see this ghost for myself."

"Don't 'ee du it," admonished the Ancient, "so dark an' lonesome as it

be, don't 'ee du it, Peter."

"Why, Ancient," said I, "it isn't that I doubt your word, but my mind

is set on the adventure. So, if Simon will let me have threepenny

worth of candles, and some bread and meat—no matter what—I'll be off,

for I should like to get there before dusk."

Nodding gloomily, Simon rose and went out, whereupon the Ancient leaned

over and laid a yellow, clawlike hand upon my arm.

"Peter," said he, "Peter, I've took to you amazin'; just a few inches

taller—say a couple—an' you'd be the very spit o' what I were at your

age—the very spit."

"Thank you, Ancient!" said I, laying my hand on his.

"Now, Peter, 'twould be a hijious thing—a very hijious thing if, when

I come a-gatherin' watercress in the marnin', I should find you

a-danglin' on t' stapil, cold and stiff—like t' other, or lyin' a corp

wi' your throat cut; 'twould be a hijious—hijious thing, Peter, but

oh! 'twould mak' a fine story in the tellin'."

In a little while Simon returned with the candles, a tinder-box, and a

parcel of bread and meat, for which he gloomily but persistently

refused payment. Last of all he produced a small, brass-bound pistol,

which he insisted on my taking.

"Not as it'll be much use again' a ghost," said he, with a gloomy shake

of the head, "but a pistol's a comfortable thing to 'ave in a lonely

place—'specially if that place be very dark." Which last, if

something illogical, may be none the less true.

So, having shaken each by the hand, I bade them good night, and set off

along the darkening road.

CHAPTER XXVII

WHICH TELLS HOW AND IN WHAT MANNER I SAW THE GHOST

Now, as I went, my mind was greatly exercised as to a feasible

explanation of what I had just heard. That a man so old as the Ancient

should "see things" I could readily believe, by reason of his years,

for great age is often subject to such hallucinations, but with Simon,

a man in the prime of his life, it was a different matter altogether.

That he had been absolutely sincere in his story I had read in his

dilating eye and the involuntary shiver that had passed over him while

he spoke. Here indeed, though I scouted all idea of supernatural

agency, there lay a mystery that piqued my curiosity not a little.

Ghosts!—pshaw! What being, endowed with a reasoning mind, could allow

himself to think, let alone believe in such folly?

Ghosts—fiddle-de-dee, Sir!

Yet here, and all at once, like an enemy from the dark, old stories

leaped at and seized me by the throat: old tales of spectres grim and

bloody, of goblins, and haunted houses from whose dim desolation

strange sounds would come; tales long since heard, and forgot—till now.

Ghosts! Why, the road was full of them; they crowded upon my heels,

they peered over my shoulders; I felt them brush my elbows, and heard

them gibbering at me from the shadows.

And the sun was setting already!

Ghosts! And why not? "There are more things in heaven and earth than

are dreamed of in your philosophy."

Involuntarily I hastened my steps, but the sun had set ere I reached

the Hollow. Yes, the sun had set, and the great basin below me was

already brimful of shadows which, as I watched, seemed to assume

shapes—vast, nebulous, and constantly changing—down there amid the

purple gloom of the trees. Indeed, it looked an unholy place in the

half light, a pit framed for murders, and the safe hiding of tell-tale

corpses, the very haunt of horrid goblins and spectres, grim and

ghastly.

So evilly did the place impress me that it needed an effort of will ere

I could bring myself to descend the precipitous slope. Bats flitted to

and fro across my path, now and then, emitting their sharp, needlelike

note, while, from somewhere in the dimness beyond, an owl hooted.

By the time I reached the cottage, it had fallen quite dark, here in

the Hollow, though the light still lingered in the world above. So I

took out my tinder-box, and one of the candles, which, after several

failures, I succeeded in lighting, and, stepping into the cottage,

began to look about me.

The place was small, as I think I have before said, and comprised two

rooms shut off from each other by a strong partition with a door

midway. Lifting the candle, I glanced at the staple on which the

builder of the cottage had choked out his life so many years ago, and,

calling to mind the Ancient's fierce desire to outlast it, I even

reached up my hand and gave it a shake. But, despite the rust of

years, the iron felt as strong and rigid as ever, so that it seemed the

old man's innocent wish must go unsatisfied after all. The second room

appeared much the same size as the first, and like it in all respects,

till, looking upwards, I noticed a square trap door in a corner, while

underneath, against the wall, hung a rough ladder. This I proceeded to

lift down, and mounting, cautiously lifted the trap. Holding the candle

above my head to survey this chamber, or rather garret, the first

object my eye encountered was a small tin pannikin, and beyond that a

stone jar, or demijohn. Upon closer inspection I found this last to be

nearly full of water quite sweet and fresh to the taste, which, of

itself, was sufficient evidence that some one had been here very

lately. I now observed a bundle of hay in one corner, which had clearly

served for a bed, beside which were a cracked mug, a tin plate, a pair

of shoes, and an object I took to be part of a flute or wind instrument

of some kind. But what particularly excited my interest were the

shoes, which had evidently seen long and hard service, for they were

much worn, and had been roughly patched here and there. Very big they

were, and somewhat clumsy, thick-soled, and square of toe, and with a

pair of enormous silver buckles.

These evidences led me to believe that whoever had been here before was

likely to return, and, not doubting that this must be he who had played

the part of ghost so well, I determined to be ready for him.

So, leaving all things as I found them, I descended, and, having closed

the trap, hung up the ladder as I had found it.

In the first of the rooms there was a rough fireplace built into one

corner, and as the air struck somewhat damp and chill, I went out and

gathered a quantity of twigs and dry wood, and had soon built a

cheerful, crackling fire. I now set about collecting armfuls of dry

leaves, which I piled against the wall for a bed. By the time this was

completed to my satisfaction, the moon was peeping above the treetops,

filling the Hollow with far-flung shadows.

I now lay down upon my leafy couch, and fell to watching the fire and

listening to the small, soft song of the brook outside. In the

opposite wall was a window, the glass of which was long since gone,

through which I could see a square of sky, and the glittering belt of

Orion. My eyes wandered from this to the glow of the fire many times,

but gradually my head grew heavier and heavier, until, at length, the

stars became confused with the winking sparks upon the hearth, and the

last that I remember was that the crackle of the fire sounded strangely

like the voice of the Ancient croaking:

"A hijious thing, Peter, a hijious thing!"

I must have slept for an hour, or nearer two (for the room was dark,

save for a few glowing embers on the hearth, and the faint light of the

stars at the window), when I suddenly sat bolt upright, with every

tingling nerve straining as if to catch something which had, but that

very moment, eluded me. I was yet wondering what this could be, when,

from somewhere close outside the cottage, there rose a sudden

cry—hideous and appalling—a long-drawn-out, bubbling scream (no other

words can describe it), that died slowly down to a wail only to rise

again higher and higher, till it seemed to pierce my very brain. Then

all at once it was gone, and silence rushed in upon me—a silence

fraught with fear and horror unimaginable.

I lay rigid, the blood in my veins jumping with every throb of my heart

till it seemed to shake me from head to foot. And then the cry began

again, deep and hoarse at first, but rising, rising until the air

thrilled with a scream such as no earthly lips could utter.

Now the light at the window grew stronger and stronger, and, all at

once, a feeble shaft of moonlight crept across the floor. I was

watching this most welcome beam when it was again obscured by a

something, indefinable at first, but which I gradually made out to be

very like a human head peering in at me; but, if this was so, it seemed

a head hideously misshapen—and there, sure enough, rising from the

brow, was a long, pointed horn.

As I lay motionless, staring at this thing, my hand, by some most

fortunate chance, encountered the pistol in my pocket; and, from the

very depths of my soul, I poured benedictions upon the honest head of

Simon the Innkeeper, for its very contact seemed to restore my benumbed

faculties. With a single bound I was upon my feet, and had the weapon

levelled at the window.

"Speak!" said I, "speak, or I'll shoot." There was a moment of

tingling suspense, and then:

"Oh, man, dinna do that!" said a voice.

"Then come in and show yourself!"

Herewith the head incontinently disappeared, there was the sound of a

heavy step, and a tall figure loomed in the doorway.

"Wait!" said I, as, fumbling about, I presently found tinder-box and

candle, having lighted which I turned and beheld a man—an exceedingly

tall man—clad in the full habit of a Scottish Highlander. By his side

hung a long, straight, basket-hilted sword, beneath one arm he carried

a bagpipe, while upon his head was—not a horn—but a Scot's bonnet

with a long eagle's feather.

"Oh, man," said he, eyeing me with a somewhat wry smile, "I'm juist

thinkin' ye're no' afeared o' bogles, whateffer!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE HIGHLAND PIPER

"Who are you?" said I, in no very gentle tone.

"Donal's my name, sir, an' if ye had an e'e for the tartan, ye'd ken I

was a Stuart."

"And what do you want here, Donald Stuart?"

"The verra question she'd be askin' ye'sel'—wha' gars ye tae come

gowkin' an' spierin' aboot here at sic an hour?"

"It is my intention to live here, for the future," said I.

"Hoot toot! ye'll be no meanin' it?"

"But I do mean it," said I.

"Eh, man! but ye maun ken the place is no canny, what wi' pixies, an'

warlocks, an' kelpies, forbye—"

"Indeed, they told me it was haunted, but I determined to see for

myself."

"Weel?"

"Well, I am glad to find it haunted by nothing worse than a wandering

Scots piper."

The Highlander smiled his wry smile, and taking out a snuff-box,

inhaled a pinch, regarding me the while.

"Ye're the first as ever stayed—after they'd heard the first bit

squeakie, tae find out if 't were a real bogle or no."

"But how in the world did you make such awful sounds?"

"I'm thinkin' it's the bit squeakie ye'll be meanin'?" he inquired.

"Yes; how did you do it?"

"Oh, it's juist the pipes!" he answered, patting them affectionately,

"will I show ye the noo?"

"Pray do," said I. Hereupon he set the mouthpiece to his lips,

inflated the bag, stopped the vents with his fingers, and immediately

the air vibrated with the bubbling scream I have already attempted to

describe.

"Oh, man!" he exclaimed, laying the still groaning instrument gently

aside, "oh, man! is it no juist won'erful?"

"But what has been your object in terrifying people out of their wits

in this manner?"

"Sir, it's a' on account o' the snuff."

"Snuff!" I repeated.

"Juist that!" he nodded.

"Snuff," said I again; "what do you mean?"

The Piper smiled again—a slow smile, that seemingly dawned only to

vanish again; it was, indeed, if I may so express it, a grave and

solemn smile, and his nearest approach to mirth, for not once in the

days which followed did I ever see him give vent to a laugh. I here

also take the opportunity to say that I have greatly modified his

speech in the writing, for it was so broad that I had much ado to grasp

his meaning at times.

The Piper smiled, then, and, unwinding the plaid from his shoulder,

spread it upon the floor, and sat down.

"Ye maun ken," he began, "that I hae muckle love for the snuff, an'

snuff is unco expenseeve in these parts."

"Well?" said I.

"Ye maun ken, in the second place, that ma brither Alan canna' abide

the snuff."

"Your brother Alan!" said I wondering.

"Ma brither Alan," he nodded gravely.

"But what of him, what has he to do with—"

"Man, bide a wee. I'm comin' tae that."

"Go on, then," said I, "I'm listening."

"Weel, I'd hae ye tae ken I'm a braw, bonnie piper, an' ma brither

Alan, he's a bonnie piper too—no sic a fair graund piper as me, bein'

somewhat uncertain wi' his 'warblers,' ye ken, but a bonnie piper,

whateffer. Aweel, mebbe a year syne, I fell in love wi' a lassie,

which wad ha' been a' richt if ma brither Alan hadna' fallen in love

wi' her too, so that she, puir lassie, didna' ken which tae tak'.

'Donal,' says Alan, 'can ye no love anither lassie; she can no marry

the twa o' us, that's sure!' 'Then, Alan,' says I, 'we'll juist play

for her.' Which I think ye'll own was a graund idee, only the lassie

couldna' juist mak' up her mind which o' us piped the best. So the end

of it was we agreed, ma brither Alan an' I, to pipe oor way through

England for a year, an' the man wha came back wi' the maist siller

should wed the lassie."

"And a very fair proposal," said I, "but—"

"Wheest, man! juist here's where we come to the snuff, for, look ye,

every time I bought a paper o' snuff I minded me that ma brither Alan,

not takkin' it himself, was so much siller tae the gude—an'—oh, man!

it used tae grieve me sair—till, one day, I lighted on this bit

hoosie."

"Well?" said I.

"What, d'ye no see it?"

"No, indeed," I answered.

"Eh, man! ma brither Alan doesna' buy the snuff, but he must hae a roof

tae shelter him an' a bed tae lie in o' nights, an' pay for it too, ye

ken, fourpence, or a bawbee, or a shillin', as the case may be, whiles

here I hae baith for the takkin'. An', oh, man! many's the nicht I've

slept the sweeter for thinkin' o' that saxpence or shillin' that Alan's

apartin' wi' for a bed little better than mine. So, wishfu' tae keep

this bit hoosie tae mysel'—seein' 't was haunted as they ca' it—I

juist kep' up the illusion on account o' trampers, wanderin' gypsies,

an' sic-like dirty tykes. Eh! but 'twas fair graund tae see 'em

rinnin' awa' as if the de'il were after them, spierin' back o'er their

shoulders, an' a' by reason of a bit squeakie o' the pipes, here. An'

so, sir, ye hae it."

I now proceeded to build and relight the fire, during which the Scot

drew a packet of bread and cheese from his sporran, together with a

flask which, having uncorked, he held out to me with the one word,

"Whuskey!"

"Thank you, Donald, but I rarely drink anything stronger than ale,"

said I.

"Aweel!" said he, "if ye winna', ye winna', an' there's but a wee

drappie left, tae be sure." Whereupon, after—two or three generous

gulps, he addressed himself to his bread and cheese, and I, following

his example, took out the edibles Simon had provided.

"An' ye're minded tae bide here, ye tell me?" he inquired after a while.

"Yes," I nodded, "but that need not interfere with you—two can live

here as easily as one, and, now that I have had a good look at you, I

think we might get along very well together."

"Sir," said he solemnly, "my race is royal—I am a Stuart—here's a

Stuart's hand," and he reached out his hand to me across the hearth

with a gesture that was full of a reposeful dignity. Indeed, I never

remember to have seen Donald anything but dignified.

"How do you find life in these parts?" I inquired.

"Indeefferent, sir—vera indeefferent! Tae be sure, at fairs an'

sic-like I've often had as much as ten shillin' in 'ma bonnet at a

time; but it's juist the kilties that draw em; they hae no real love

for the pipes, whateffer! A rantin' reel pleases 'em well eneugh, but

eh! they hae no hankerin' for the gude music."

"That is a question open to argument, Donald," said I; "can any one

play real music on a bagpipe, think you?"

"Sir," returned the Scot, setting down the empty flask and frowning

darkly at the fire, "the pipes is the king of a' instruments, 'tis the

sweetest, the truest, the oldest, whateffer!"

"True, it is very old," said I thoughtfully; "it was known, I believe,

to the Greeks, and we find mention of it in the Latin as 'tibia

utricularia;' Suetonius tells us that Nero promised to appear publicly

as a bagpiper. Then, too, Chaucer's Miller played a bagpipe, and

Shakespeare frequently mentions the 'drone of a Lincolnshire Bagpipe.'

Yes, it is certainly a very old, and, I think, a very barbarous

instrument."

"Hoot toot! the man talks like a muckle fule," said Donald, nodding to

the fire.

"For instance," I continued, "there can be no comparison between a

bagpipe and a—fiddle, say."

"A fiddle!" exclaimed Donald in accents of withering scorn, and still

addressing the fire. "Ye can juist tell him tae gang tae the de'il wi'

his fiddle."

"Music is, I take it, the expression of one's mood or thought, a dream

translated into sound," said I thoughtfully, "therefore—"

"Hae ye ever heard the pipes?"

"Why, yes, but long ago."

"Then," said Donald, "ye shall juist hear 'em again." So saying, he

wiped his mouth, took up his instrument, and began slowly inflating it.

Then, all at once, from drones and chanter there rushed forth such a

flood of melody as seemed to sweep me away upon its tide.

First I seemed to hear a roar of wind through desolate glens, a moan of

trees, and a rush of sounding waters; yet softly, softly there rises

above the flood of sound a little rippling melody which comes, and

goes, and comes again, growing ever sweeter with repetition. And now

the roar of wind is changed to the swing of marching feet, the tread of

a mighty host whose step is strong and free; and lo! they are singing,

as they march, and the song is bold and wild, wild, wild. Again and

again, beneath the song, beneath the rhythm of marching feet, the

melody rises, very sweet but infinitely sad, like a silver pipe or an

angel's voice tremulous with tears. Once again the theme changes, and

it is battle, and death, sudden, and sharp; there is the rush and shock

of charging ranks, and the surge and tumult of conflict, above whose

thunder, loud and clear and shrill, like some battle-cry, the melody

swells, one moment triumphant, and the next lost again.

But the thunder rolls away, distant and more distant—the day is lost,

and won; but, sudden and clear, the melody rings out once more, fuller

now, richer, and complete; the silver pipe has become a golden trumpet.

And yet, what sorrow, what anguish unspeakable rings through it, the

weeping and wailing of a nation! So the melody sinks slowly, to die

away in one long-drawn, minor note, and Donald is looking across at me

with his grave smile, and I will admit both his face and figure are

sadly blurred.

"Donald," said I, after a little, "Donald, I will never speak against

the pipes again; they are indeed the king of all instruments—played as

you play them."

"Ou ay, I'm a bonnie piper, I'll no deny it!" he answered. "I'm glad

ye like it, for, Sassenach though ye be, it proves ye hae the music.

'Tis a bit pibroch I made tae Wullie Wallace—him as the damned

Sassenach murdered—black be their fa'. Aweel! 'twas done afore your

time or mine—so—gude-nict tae ye, Southeron!" Saying which, he rose,

saluted me stiffly, and stalked majestically to bed.

CHAPTER XXIX

HOW BLACK GEORGE AND I SHOOK HANDS

The world was full of sunshine, the blithe song of birds, and the

sweet, pure breath of waking flowers as I rose next morning, and,

coming to the stream, threw myself down beside it and plunged my hands

and arms and head into the limpid water whose contact seemed to fill me

with a wondrous gladness in keeping with the world about me.

In a little while I rose, with the water dripping from me, and having

made shift to dry myself upon my neckcloth, nothing else being

available, returned to the cottage.

Above my head I could hear a gentle sound rising and falling with a

rhythmic measure, that told me Donald still slept; so, clapping on my

hat and coat, I started out to my first day's work at the forge,

breakfastless, for the good and sufficient reason that there was none

to be had, but full of the glad pure beauty of the morning. And I

bethought me of the old Psalmist's deathless words:

"Though sorrow endure for a night, yet joy cometh in the morning"

(brave, true words which shall go ringing down the ages to bear hope

and consolation to many a wearied, troubled soul); for now, as I

climbed the steep path where bats had hovered last night, and turned to

look back at the pit which had seemed a place of horror—behold! it was

become a very paradise of quivering green, spangled with myriad jewels

where the dew yet clung.

Indeed, if any man would experience the full ecstasy of being

alive—the joi de vivre as the French have it—let him go out into the

early morning, when the sun is young, and look about him with a seeing

eye.

So, in a little while, with the golden song of a blackbird in my ears,

I turned village-wards, very hungry, yet, nevertheless, content.

Long before I reached the smithy I could hear the ring of Black

George's hammer, though the village was not yet astir, and it was with

some trepidation as to my reception that I approached the open doorway.

There he stood, busy at his anvil, goodly to look upon in his

bare-armed might, and with the sun shining in his yellow hair, a

veritable son of Anak. He might have been some hero, or demigod come

back from that dim age when angels wooed the daughters of men, rather

than a village blacksmith, and a very sulky one at that; for though he

must have been aware of my presence, he never glanced up or gave the

slightest sign of welcome, or the reverse.

Now, as I watched, I noticed a certain slowness—a heaviness in all his

movements—together with a listless, slipshod air which, I judged, was

very foreign to him; moreover, as he worked, I thought he hung his head

lower than was quite necessary.

"George!" George went on hammering. "George!" said I again. He raised

the hammer for another stroke, hesitated, then lifted his head with a

jerk, and immediately I knew why he had avoided my eye.

"What do 'ee want wi' me?"

"I have come for two reasons," said I; "one is to begin work—"

"Then ye'd best go away again," he broke in; "ye'll get no work here."

"And the second," I went on, "is to offer you my hand. Will you take

it, George, and let bygones be bygones?"

"No," he burst out vehemently. "No, I tell 'ee. Ye think to come 'ere

an' crow o'er me, because ye beat me, by a trick, and because ye

heerd—her—" His voice broke, and, dropping his hammer, he turned his

back upon me. "Called me 'coward'! she did," he went on after a little

while. "You heerd her—they all heerd her! I've been a danged fule!"

he said, more as if speaking his thoughts aloud than addressing me,

"but a man can't help lovin' a lass—like Prue, and when 'e loves 'e

can't 'elp hopin'. I've hoped these three years an' more, and last

night—she called me—coward." Something bright and glistening

splashed down upon the anvil, and there ensued a silence broken only by

the piping of the birds and the stirring of the leaves outside.

"A fule I be!" said Black George at last, shaking his head, "no kind o'

man for the likes o' her; too big I be—and rough. And yet—if she'd

only given me the chance!"

Again there fell a silence wherein, mingled with the bird-chorus, came

the tap, tapping of a stick upon the hard road, and the sound of

approaching footsteps; whereupon George seized the handle of the

bellows and fell to blowing the fire vigorously; yet once I saw him

draw the back of his hand across his eyes with a quick, furtive

gesture. A moment after, the Ancient appeared, a quaint, befrocked

figure, framed in the yawning doorway and backed by the glory of the

morning. He stood awhile to lean upon his stick and peer about, his

old eyes still dazzled by the sunlight he had just left, owing to which

he failed to see me where I sat in the shadow of the forge.

"Marnin', Jarge!" said he, with his quick, bright nod. The smith's

scowl was blacker and his deep voice gruffer than usual as he returned

the greeting; but the old man seemed to heed it not at all, but, taking

his snuff-box from the lining of his tall, broad-brimmed hat (its usual

abiding place), he opened it, with his most important air.

"Jarge," said he, "I'm thinkin' ye'd better tak' Job back to strike for

ye again if you'm goin' to mend t' owd screen."

"What d'ye mean?" growled Black George.

"Because," continued the old man, gathering a pinch of snuff with great

deliberation, "because, Jarge, the young feller as beat ye at the

throwin'—'im as was to 'ave worked for ye at 'is own price—be dead."

"What!" cried Black George, starting.

"Dead!" nodded the old man, "a corp' 'e be—eh! such a fine, promisin'

young chap, an' now—a corp'." Here the Ancient nodded solemnly again,

three times, and inhaled his pinch of snuff with great apparent zest

and enjoyment.

"Why—" began the amazed George, "what—" and broke off to stare,

open-mouthed.

"Last night, as ever was," continued the old man, "'e went down to th'

'aunted cottage—'t weren't no manner o' use tryin' to turn 'im, no,

not if I'd gone down to 'im on my marrer-bones—'e were that set on it;

so off he goes, 'bout sundown, to sleep in th' 'aunted cottage—I

knows, Jarge, 'cause I follered un, an' seen for myself; so now I'm

a-goin' down to find 'is corp'—"

He had reached thus far, when his eye, accustomed to the shadows,

chancing to meet mine, he uttered a gasp, and stood staring at me with

dropped jaw.

"Peter!" he stammered at last. "Peter—be that you, Peter?"

"To be sure it is," said I.

"Bean't ye—dead, then?"

"I never felt more full of life."

"But ye slep' in th' 'aunted cottage last night."

"Yes."

"But—but—the ghost, Peter?"

"Is a wandering Scotsman."

"Why then I can't go down and find ye corp' arter all?"

"I fear not, Ancient."

The old man slowly closed his snuff-box, shaking his head as he did so.

"Ah, well! I won't blame ye, Peter," said he magnanimously, "it bean't

your fault, lad, no—but what's come to the ghost!"

"The ghost," I answered, "is nothing more dreadful than a wandering

Scotsman!"

"Scotsman!" exclaimed the Ancient sharply. "Scotsman!"

"Yes, Ancient."

"You'm mazed, Peter—ah! mazed ye be! What, aren't I heerd un moanin'

an' groanin' to 'isself—ah! an' twitterin' to?"

"As to that," said I, "those shrieks and howls he made with his

bagpipe, very easy for a skilled player such as he."

Some one was drawing water from a well across the road, for I heard the

rattle of the bucket, and the creak of the winch, in the pause which

now ensued, during which the Ancient, propped upon his stick, surveyed

me with an expression that was not exactly anger, nor contempt, nor

sorrow, and yet something of all three. At length he sighed, and shook

his head at me mournfully.

"Peter," said he, "Peter, I didn't think as you'd try to tak' 'vantage

of a old man wi' a tale the like o' that such a very, very old man,

Peter—such a old, old man!"

"But I assure you, it's the truth," said I earnestly.

"Peter, I seen Scotchmen afore now," said he, with a reproachful look,

"ah! that I 'ave, many's the time, an' Scotchmen don't go about wi'

tails, nor yet wi' 'orns on their 'eads—leastways I've never seen one

as did. An', Peter, I know what a bagpipe is; I've heerd 'em often an'

often—squeak they do, yes, but a squeak bean't a scream, Peter, nor

yet a groan—no." Having delivered himself of which, the Ancient shook

his head at me again, and, turning his back, hobbled away.

When I turned to look at George, it was to find him regarding me with a

very strange expression.

"Sir," said he ponderously, "did you sleep in th' 'aunted cottage last

night?"

"Yes, though, as I have tried to explain, and unsuccessfully it seems,

it is haunted by nothing more alarming than a Scots Piper."

"Sir," said George, in the same slow, heavy way, "I—couldn't go a-nigh

the place myself—'specially arter dark—I'd be—ah! I'd be afeard to!

I did go once, and then not alone, and I ran away. Sir, you'm a better

man nor me; you done what I durstn't do. Sir, if so be as you 'm in the

same mind about it—I should like to—to shake your hand."

So there, across the anvil which was to link our lives together

thenceforth, Black George and I clasped hands, looking into each

other's eyes.

"George," said I at last, "I've had no breakfast."

"Nor I!" said George.

"And I'm mightily hungry!"

"So am I," said George.

"Then come, and let us eat," and I turned to the door.

"Why, so we will—but not at—'The Bull'—she be theer. Come to my

cottage—it be close by—that is, if you care to, sir?"

"With all my heart!" said I, "and my name is Peter."

"What do you say to 'am and eggs—Peter?"

"Ham and eggs will be most excellent!" said I.

CHAPTER XXX

IN WHICH I FORSWEAR MYSELF AND AM ACCUSED OF POSSESSING THE "EVIL EYE"

Smithing is a sturdy, albeit a very black art; yet its black is a good,

honest black, very easily washed off, which is more than can be said

for many other trades, arts, and professions.

Yes, a fine, free, manly art is smithing, and those who labor at the

forge would seem, necessarily, to reflect these virtues.

Since old Tubal Cain first taught man how to work in brass and iron,

who ever heard of a sneaking, mean-spirited, cowardly blacksmith? To

find such an one were as hard a matter as to discover the Fourth

Dimension, methinks, or the carcass of a dead donkey.

Your true blacksmith is usually a strong man, something bowed of

shoulder, perhaps; a man slow of speech, bold of eye, kindly of

thought, and, lastly—simple-hearted.

Riches, Genius, Power—all are fair things; yet Riches is never

satisfied, Power is ever upon the wing, and when was Genius ever happy?

But, as for this divine gift of Simpleness of Heart, who shall say it

is not the best of all?

Black George himself was no exception to his kind; what wonder was it,

then, that, as the days lengthened into weeks, my liking for him

ripened into friendship?

To us, sometimes lonely, voyagers upon this Broad Highway of life,

journeying on, perchance through desolate places, yet hoping and

dreaming ever of a glorious beyond, how sweet and how blessed a thing

it is to meet some fellow wayfarer, and find in him a friend, honest,

and loyal, and brave, to walk with us in the sun, whose voice may

comfort us in the shadow, whose hand is stretched out to us in the

difficult places to aid us, or be aided. Indeed, I say again, it is a

blessed thing, for though the way is sometimes very long, such meetings

and friendships be very few and far between.

So, as I say, there came such friendship between Black George and

myself, and I found him a man, strong, simple and lovable, and as such

I honor him to this day.

The Ancient, on the contrary, seemed to have set me in his "black

books;" he would no longer sit with me over a tankard outside "The

Bull" of an evening, nor look in at the forge, with a cheery nod and

word, as had been his wont; he seemed rather to shun my society, and,

if I did meet him by chance, would treat me with the frigid dignity of

a Grand Seigneur. Indeed, the haughtiest duke that ever rolled in his

chariot is far less proud than your plain English rustic, and far less

difficult to propitiate. Thus, though I had once had the temerity to

question him as to his altered treatment of me, the once had sufficed.

He was sitting, I remember, on the bench before "The Bull," his hands

crossed upon his stick and his chin resting upon his hands.

"Peter," he had answered, regarding me with a terrible eye, "Peter, I

be disapp'inted in ye!" Hereupon rising, he had rapped loudly upon his

snuff-box and hobbled stiffly away. And that ended the matter, so far

as I was concerned, though, to be sure, Simon had interceded in my

behalf with no better success; and thus I was still left wondering.

One day, however, as George and I were hard at work, I became aware of

some one standing in the doorway behind me, but at first paid no heed

(for it was become the custom for folk to come to look at the man who

lived all alone in the haunted cottage), so, as I say, I worked on

heedlessly.

"Peter?" said a voice at last and, turning, I beheld the old man

leaning upon his stick and regarding me beneath his lowered brows.

"Why, Ancient!" I exclaimed, and held out my hand. But he checked me

with a gesture, and fumblingly took out his snuff-box.

"Peter," said he, fixing me with his eye, "were it a Scotchman or were

it not?"

"Why, to be sure it was," I answered, "a Scotch piper, as I told you,

and—"

"Peter," said the Ancient, tapping his snuff-box, "it weren't no ghost,

then—ay or no."

"No," said I, "nothing but a—"

"Peter!" said the Ancient, nodding solemnly, "Peter, I 'ates ye!" and,

turning sharp about, he tottered away upon his stick.

"So—that's it!" said I, staring after the old man's retreating figure.

"Why, ye see," said George, somewhat diffidently, "ye see, Peter,

Gaffer be so old!—and all 'is friends be dead, and he've come to look

on this 'ere ghost as belongin' to 'im a'most. Loves to sit an' tell

about it, 'e do; it be all 'e've got left to live for, as ye might say,

and now you've been and gone and said as theer bean't no ghost arter

all, d'ye see?"

"Ah, yes, I see," I nodded, "I see. But you don't still, believe in

this ghost, do you, George?"

"N-o-o-o—not 'xactly," answered George, hesitating upon the word,

"can't say as I believe 'xactly, and yet, Lord! 'ow should I know?"

"Then you do still believe in the ghost?"

"Why, y' see, Peter, we do know as a man 'ung 'isself theer, 'cause

Gaffer found un—likewise I've heerd it scream—but as for believin' in

it, since you say contrarywise—why, 'ow should I know?"

"But why should I deny it, George; why should I tell you all of a

Scotsman?"

"Why, y' see, Peter," said George, in his heavy way, "you be such a

strange sort o' chap!"

"George," said I, "let us get back to work."

Yet, in a little while, I set aside the hammer, and turned to the door.

"Peter, wheer be goin'?"

"To try and make my peace with the Ancient," I answered, and forthwith

crossed the road to "The Bull." But with my foot on the step I paused,

arrested by the sound of voices and laughter within the tap, and,

loudest of all, was the voice of the pseudo blacksmith, Job.

"If I were only a bit younger!" the Ancient was saying. Now, peeping

in through the casement, a glance at his dejected attitude, and the

blatant bearing of the others, explained to me the situation then and

there.

"Ah! but you ain't," retorted old Amos, "you 'm a old, old man an'

gettin' older wi' every tick o' the clock, you be, an' gettin'

mazed-like wi' years."

"Haw! haw!" laughed Job and the five or six others.

"Oh, you—Job! if my b'y Simon was 'ere 'e'd pitch 'ee out into the

road, so 'e would—same as Black Jarge done," quavered the Ancient.

"P'r'aps, Gaffer, p'r'aps!" returned Job, "but I sez again, I believe

what Peter sez, an' I don't believe there never was no ghost at all."

"Ay, lad, but I tell 'ee theer was—I seed un!" cried the old man

eagerly, "seed un wi' these two eyes, many's the time. You, Joel

Amos—you've 'eerd un a-moanin' an' a-groanin'—you believe as I seed

un, don't 'ee now come?"

"He! he!" chuckled Old Amos, "I don't know if I du, Gaffer—ye see you

'm gettin' that old—"

"But I did—I did—oh, you chaps, I tell 'ee I did!"

"You 'm gettin' old, Gaffer," repeated Amos, dwelling upon the theme

with great unction, "very, very old—"

"But so strong as a bull, I be!" added the Ancient, trying manfully to

steady the quaver in his voice.

"Haw! haw!" laughed Job and the others, while Old Amos chuckled shrilly

again.

"But I tell 'ee I did see un, I—I see'd un plain as plain," quavered

the Ancient, in sudden distress. "Old Nick it were, wi' 'orns, an' a

tail."

"Why, Peter told us 'twere only a Scottish man wi' a bagpipe," returned

Job.

"Ay, for sure," nodded Old Amos, "so 'e did."

"A lie, it be—a lie, a lie!" cried the Ancient, "'twere Old Nick, I

see un—plain as I see you."

"Why, ye see, you 'm gettin' dre'fful old an' 'elpless, Gaffer,"

chuckled Old Amos again, "an' your eyes plays tricks wi' you."

"Ah, to be sure they do!" added Job; whereupon Old Amos chuckled so

much that he was taken by a violent fit of coughing.

"Oh! you chaps, you as I've seen grow up from babbies—aren't theer one

o' ye to tak' the old man's word an' believe as I seen un?" The

cracked old voice sounded more broken than usual, and I saw a tear

crawling slowly down the Ancient's furrowed cheek. Nobody answered, and

there fell a silence broken only by the shuffle and scrape of heavy

boots and the setting down of tankards.

"Why, ye see, Gaffer," said Job at last, "theer's been a lot o' talk o'

this 'ere ghost, an' some 'as even said as they 'eerd it, but, come to

think on it, nobody's never laid eyes on it but you, so—"

"There you are wrong, my fellow," said I, stepping into the room. "I

also have seen it."

"You?" exclaimed Job, while half-a-dozen pairs of eyes stared at me in

slow wonderment.

"Certainly I have."

"But you said as it were a Scotchman, wi' a bagpipe, I heerd ye—we all

did."

"And believed it—like fools!"

"Peter!" cried the Ancient, rising up out of his chair, "Peter, do 'ee

mean it?"

"To be sure I do."

"Do 'ee mean it were a ghost, Peter, do 'ee?"

"Why, of course it was," I nodded, "a ghost, or the devil himself,

hoof, horns, tail, and all—to say nothing of the fire and brimstone."

"Peter," said the Ancient, straightening his bent old back proudly,

"oh, Peter!—tell 'em I'm a man o' truth, an' no liar—tell 'em, Peter."

"They know that," said I; "they know it without my telling them,

Ancient."

"But," said Job, staring at me aghast, "do 'ee mean to say as you live

in a place as is 'aunted by the—devil 'isself?"

"Oh, Lord bless 'ee!" cried the old man, laying his hand upon my arm,

"Peter don't mind Old Nick no more 'n I do—Peter aren't afeard of 'im.

'Cause why? 'Cause 'e 'ave a clean 'eart, 'ave Peter. You don't mind

Old Nick, do 'ee, lad?

"Not in the least," said I, whereupon those nearest instinctively

shrank farther from me, while Old Amos rose and shuffled towards the

door.

"I've heerd o' folk sellin' theirselves to the devil afore now." said

he.

"You be a danged fule, Joel Amos!" exclaimed the Ancient angrily.

"Fule or no—I never see a chap wi' such a tur'ble dark-lookin' face

afore, an' wi' such eyes—so black, an' sharp, an' piercin' as needles,

they be—ah! goes through a man like two gimblets, they do!" Now, as

he spoke, Old Amos stretched out one arm towards me with his first and

second fingers crossed: which fingers he now opened wide apart, making

what I believe is called "the horns," and an infallible safeguard

against this particular form of evil.

"It's the 'Evil Eye,'" said he in a half whisper, "the 'Evil Eye'!"

and, turning about, betook himself away.

One by one the others followed, and, as they passed me, each man

averted his eyes and I saw that each had his fingers crossed.

So it came to pass that I was, thenceforward, regarded askance, if not

openly avoided, by the whole village, with the exception of Simon and

the Ancient, as one in league with the devil, and possessed of the

"Evil Eye."

CHAPTER XXXI

IN WHICH DONALD BIDS ME FAREWELL

Halcyon days! my masters, happy, care-free, halcyon days! To waken to

the glory of a summer's morning, and shaking off dull sleep, like a

mantle, to stride out into a world all green and gold, breathing a

fragrant air laden with sweet, earthy smells. To plunge within the

clear, cool waters of the brook whose magic seemed to fill one's blood

with added life and lust of living. Anon, with Gargantuan appetite, to

sit and eat until even Donald would fall a-marvelling; and so, through

shady coppice and sunny meadow, betimes to work.

Halcyon days! my masters, happy, care-free, halcyon days! with the

ringing hammers, the dancing sparks mounting upon the smoke, the sweat,

the toil, yet all lightened with laugh and song and good-fellowship.

And then, the labor done, the fire dead—Black George to his lonely

cottage, and I to "The Bull"—there to sit between Simon and the

Ancient, waited upon by the dexterous hands of sweet-eyed Prudence.

What mighty rounds of juicy beef, washed down by draughts of good brown

ale! What pies and puddings, prepared by those same slender, dexterous

hands! And later, pipe in mouth, what grave discussions upon men and

things—peace and war—the dead and the living—the rise and fall of

nations—and Simon's new litter of pigs! At last, the "Good nights"

being said—homeward through the twilit lanes, often pausing to look

upon the shadowy woods, to watch some star, or hearken to the mournful

note of a night-jar, soft with distance.

What wonder if, at this time, my earlier dreams and ambitions faded

from my ken; what wonder that Petronius Arbiter, and the jolly Sieur de

Brantome lay neglected in my dusty knapsack.

Go to! Petronius, go to! How "stale, flat, and unprofitable" were all

thy vaunted pleasures, compared with mine. Alas! for thy noble

intellect draggled in the mire to pander to an Imperial Swine, and for

all thy power and wise statecraft which yet could not save thee from

untimely death.

And thou, Brantome! old gossip, with all thy scandalous stories of

ladies, always and ever "tres belle, et fort honnete," couldst not find

time among them all to note the glories of the world wherein they

lived, and moved, and had their "fort honnete" being?

But let it not be thought my leisure hours were passed in idle dreaming

and luxurious ease; on the contrary, I had, with much ado, rethatched

the broken roof of my cottage as well as I might, mended the chimney,

fitted glass to the casements and a new door upon its hinges. This

last was somewhat clumsily contrived, I grant you, and of a vasty

strength quite unnecessary, yet a very excellent door I considered it,

nevertheless.

Having thus rendered my cottage weather-proof, I next turned my

attention to furnishing it. To which end I, in turn, and with infinite

labor, constructed a bedstead, two elbow-chairs, and a table; all to

the profound disgust of Donald, who could by no means abide the rasp of

my saw, so that, reaching for his pipes, he would fill the air with

eldrich shrieks and groans, or drown me in a torrent of martial melody.

It was about this time—that is to say, my second bedstead was nearing

completion, and I was seriously considering the building of a press

with cupboards to hold my crockery, also a shelf for my books—when,

chancing to return home somewhat earlier than usual, I was surprised to

see Donald sitting upon the bench I had set up beside the door,

polishing the buckles of that identical pair of square-toed shoes that

had once so piqued my curiosity.

As I approached he rose, and came to meet me with the brogues in his

hand.

"Man, Peter," said he, "I maun juist be gangin'."

"Going!" I repeated; "going where?"

"Back tae Glenure—the year is a'most up, ye ken, an' I wadna' hae ma

brither Alan afore me wi' the lassie, forbye he's an unco braw an'

sonsy man, ye ken, an' a lassie's mind is aye a kittle thing."

"True," I answered, "what little I know of woman would lead me to

suppose so; and yet—Heaven knows! I shall be sorry to lose you,

Donald."

"Ay—I ken that fine, an' ye'll be unco lonesome wi'out me an' the

pipes, I'm thinkin'."

"Very!"

"Eh, Peter, man! if it wasna' for the lassie, I'd no hae the heart tae

leave ye. Ye'll no be forgettin' the 'Wullie Wallace Lament'?"

"Never!" said I.

"Oh, man, Peter! it's in my mind ye'll no hear sic pipin' again, forbye

there's nae man—Hielander nor Lowlander—has juist the trick o' the

'warblers' like me, an' it's no vera like we shall e'er meet again i'

this warld, man, Peter. But I'll aye think o' ye—away there in

Glenure, when I play the 'Wullie Wallace' bit tune—I'll aye think o'

ye, Peter, man."

After this we stood awhile, staring past each other into the deepening

shadows.

"Peter," said he at last, "it's no a vera genteel present tae be makin'

ye, I doot," and he held up the battered shoes. "They're unco worn,

an' wi' a clout here an' there, ye'll notice, but the buckles are guid

siller, an' I hae naething else to gi'e ye. Ay, man! but it's many a

weary mile I've marched in these at the head o' the Ninety-Second, an'

it's mony a stark fecht they've been through—Vittoria, Salamanca,

Talavera, tae Quatre Bras an' Waterloo; tak' 'em, Peter, tak' 'em—tae

mind ye sometimes o' Donal' Stuart. An' now—gi'e us a grup o' ye

hand. Gude keep ye, Peter, man!"

So saying, he thrust the brogues upon me, caught and squeezed my hand,

and turning sharp about, strode away through the shadows, his kilt

swaying, and tartans streaming gallantly.

And, presently, I went and sat me down upon the bench beside the door,

with the war-worn shoes upon my knee. Suddenly, as I sat there, faint

and fainter with distance, and unutterably sad, came the slow, sweet

music of Donald's pipes playing the "Wallace Lament." Softly the

melody rose and fell, until it died away in one long-drawn, wailing

note.

Now, as it ended, I rose, and uncovered my head, for I knew this was

Donald's last farewell.

Much more I might have told of this strange yet lovable man who was by

turns the scarred soldier, full of stirring tales of camp and

battlefield; the mischievous child delighting in tricks and rogueries

of all sorts; and the stately Hieland gentleman. Many wild legends he

told me of his native glens, with strange tales of the "second

sight"—but here, perforce, must be no place for such. So here then I

leave Donald and hurry on with my narrative.

CHAPTER XXXII

IN WHICH THIS FIRST BOOK BEGINS TO DRAW TO A CLOSE

"Strike! ding! ding!

Strike! ding! ding!

The iron glows,

And loveth good blows

As fire doth bellows.

Strike! ding! ding!"

Out beyond the smithy door a solitary star twinkles low down in the

night sky, like some great jewel; but we have no time for star-gazing,

Black George and I, for to-night we are at work on the old church

screen, which must be finished to-morrow.

And so the bellows roar hoarsely, the hammers clang, and the sparks

fly, while the sooty face of Black George, now in shadow, now illumed

by the fire, seems like the face of some Fire-god or Salamander. In

the corner, perched securely out of reach of stray sparks, sits the

Ancient, snuff-box in hand as usual.

To my mind, a forge is at its best by night, for, in the red, fiery

glow, the blackened walls, the shining anvil, and the smith himself,

bare-armed and bare of chest, are all magically transfigured, while, in

the hush of night, the drone of the bellows sounds more impressive, the

stroke of the hammers more sonorous and musical, and the flying sparks

mark plainly their individual courses, ere they vanish.

I stand, feet well apart, and swing the great "sledge" to whose

diapason George's hand-hammer beats a tinkling melody, coming in after

each stroke with a ring and clash exact and true, as is, and has been,

the way of masters of the smithing craft all the world over from time

immemorial.

"George," said I, during a momentary lull, leaning my hands upon the

long hammer-shaft, "you don't sing."

"No, Peter."

"And why not?"

"I think, Peter."

"But surely you can both think and sing, George?"

"Not always, Peter."

"What's your trouble, George?"

"No trouble, Peter," said he, above the roar of the bellows.

"Then sing, George."

"Ay, Jarge, sing," nodded the Ancient; "'tis a poor 'eart as never

rejices, an' that's in the Scripters—so sing, Jarge."

George did not answer, but, with a turn of his mighty wrist, drew the

glowing iron from the fire. And once more the sparks fly, the air is

full of the clink of hammers, and the deep-throated Song of the Anvil,

in which even the Ancient joins, in a voice somewhat quavery, and

generally a note or two behind, but with great gusto and goodwill

notwithstanding:

"Strike! ding! ding!

Strike! ding! ding!"

in the middle of which I was aware of one entering to us, and

presently, turning round, espied Prudence with a great basket on her

arm. Hereupon hammers were thrown aside, and we straightened our

backs, for in that basket was our supper.

Very fair and sweet Prudence looked, lithe and vigorous, and straight

as a young poplar, with her shining black hair curling into little

tight rings about her ears, and with great, shy eyes, and red, red

mouth. Surely a man might seek very far ere he found such another maid

as this brown-cheeked, black-eyed village beauty.

"Good evening, Mr. Peter!" said she, dropping me a curtesy with a grace

that could not have been surpassed by any duchess in the land; but, as

for poor George, she did not even notice him, neither did he raise his

curly head nor glance toward her.

"You come just when you are most needed, Prudence," said I, relieving

her of the heavy basket, "for here be two hungry men."

"Three!" broke in the Ancient; "so 'ungry as a lion, _I_ be!"

"Three hungry men, Prudence, who have been hearkening for your step

this half-hour and more."

Quoth Prudence shyly: "For the sake of my basket?"

"Ay, for sure!" croaked the Ancient; "so ravenous as a tiger I be!"

"No," said I, shaking my head, "basket or no basket, you are equally

welcome, Prudence—how say you, George?" But George only mumbled in

his beard. The Ancient and I now set to work putting up an

extemporized table, but as for George, he stood staring down moodily

into the yet glowing embers of the forge.

Having put up the table, I crossed to where Prudence was busy unpacking

her basket.

"Prudence," said I, "are you still at odds with George?" Prudence

nodded.

"But," said I, "he is such a splendid fellow! His outburst the other

day was quite natural, under the circumstances; surely you can forgive

him, Prudence."

"There be more nor that betwixt us, Mr. Peter," sighed Prue, "'Tis his

drinkin'; six months ago he promised me never to touch another

drop—an' he broke his word wi' me."

"But surely good ale, in moderation, will harm no man—nay, on the

contrary—"

"But Jarge bean't like other men, Mr. Peter!"

"No; he is much bigger, and stronger!" said I, "and I never saw a

handsomer fellow."

"Yes," nodded the girl, "so strong as a giant, an' so weak as a little

child!"

"Indeed, Prudence," said I, leaning nearer to her in my earnestness, "I

think you are a little unjust to him. So far as I know him, George is

anything but weak-minded, or liable to be led into anything—"

Hearing the Ancient chuckle gleefully, I glanced up to find him nodding

and winking to Black George, who stood with folded arms and bent head,

watching us from beneath his brows, and, as his eyes met mine, I

thought they gleamed strangely in the firelight.

"Come, Prue," said the Ancient, bustling forward, "table's ready—let's

sit down an' eat—faintin' an' famishin' away, I be!"

So we presently sat down, all three of us, while Prudence carved and

supplied our wants, as only Prudence could.

And after a while, our hunger being appeased, I took out my pipe, as

did the Ancient and George theirs likewise, and together we filled

them, slowly and carefully, as pipes should be filled, while Prudence

folded a long, paper spill wherewith to light them, the which she

proceeded to do, beginning at her grandfather's churchwarden. Now,

while she was lighting mine, Black George suddenly rose, and, crossing

to the forge, took thence a glowing coal with the tongs, thus doing the

office for himself. All at once I saw Prue's hand was trembling, and

the spill was dropped or ever my tobacco was well alight; then she

turned swiftly away, and began replacing the plates and knives and

forks in her basket.

"Be you'm a-goin', Prue?" inquired the Ancient mumblingly, for his pipe

was in full blast.

"Yes, gran'fer."

"Then tell Simon as I'll be along in 'arf an hour or so, will 'ee,

lass?"

"Yes, gran'fer!" Always with her back to us.

"Then kiss ye old grandfeyther as loves 'ee, an' means for to see 'ee

well bestowed, an' wed, one o' these fine days!" Prudence stooped and

pressed her fresh, red lips to his wrinkled old cheek and, catching up

her basket, turned to the door, yet not so quickly but that I had

caught the gleam of tears beneath her lashes. Black George half rose

from his seat, and stretched out his hand towards her burden, then sat

down again as, with a hasty "Good night," she vanished through the

yawning doorway. And, sitting there, we listened to her quick, light

footstep cross the road to "The Bull."

"She'll make some man a fine wife, some day!" exclaimed the Ancient,

blowing out a cloud of smoke, "ay, she'll mak' some man as fine a wife

as ever was, some day."

"You speak my very thought, Ancient," said I, "she will indeed; what do

you think, George?" But George's answer was to choke suddenly, and,

thereafter, to fall a-coughing.

"Smoke go t' wrong way, Jarge?" inquired the Ancient, fixing him with

his bright eye.

"Ay," nodded George.

"Ha!" said the old man, and we smoked for a time in silence.

"So 'andsome as a picter she be!" said the Ancient suddenly.

"She is fairer than any picture," said I impulsively, "and what is

better still, her nature is as sweet and beautiful as her face!"

"'Ow do 'ee know that?" said George, turning sharply upon me.

"My eyes and ears tell me so, as yours surely must have done long ago,"

I answered.

"Ye do think as she be a purty lass, then, Peter?" inquired the Ancient.

"I think," said I, "that she is the prettiest lass I ever saw; don't

you think so, George?" But again George's only answer was to choke.

"Smoke again, Jarge?" inquired the Ancient.

"Ay," said George, as before.

"'Tis a fine thing to be young," said the Ancient, after a somewhat

lengthy pause, and with a wave of his long pipe-stem, "a very fine

thing!"

"It is," said I, "though we generally realize it all too late."

As for George, he went on smoking.

"When you are young," pursued the Ancient, "you eats well, an' enjys

it, you sleeps well an' enjys it; your legs is strong, your arms is

strong, an' you bean't afeard o' nothin' nor nobody. Oh! life's a very

fine thing when you're young; but youth's tur'ble quick agoin'—the

years roll slow at first, but gets quicker 'n quicker, till, one day,

you wakes to find you 'm an old man; an' when you'm old, the way gets

very 'ard, an' toilsome, an' lonely."

"But there is always memory," said I.

"You 'm right theer, Peter, so theer be—so theer be—why, I be a old,

old man, wi' more years than 'airs on my 'ead, an' yet it seems but

yesterday as I were a-holdin' on to my mother's skirt, an' wonderin'

'ow the moon got lighted. Life be very short, Peter, an' while we 'ave

it 'tis well to get all the 'appiness out of it we can."

"The wisest men of all ages preached the same," said I, "only they all

disagreed as to how happiness was to be gained."

"More fules they!" said the Ancient.

"Eh?" I exclaimed, sitting up.

"More fules they!" repeated the old man with a solemn nod.

"Why, then, do you know how true happiness may be found?'

"To be sure I du, Peter."

"How?"

"By marriage, Peter, an' 'ard work!—an' they allus goes together."

"Marriage!" said I.

"Marriage as ever was, Peter."

"There I don't agree with you," said I.

"That," retorted the Ancient, stabbing at me with his pipe-stem,

"that's because you never was married, Peter."

"Marriage!" said I; "marriage brings care, and great responsibility,

and trouble for one's self means trouble for others."

"What o' that?" exclaimed the Ancient. "'Tis care and 'sponsibility as

mak' the man, an' if you marry a good wife she'll share the burden wi'

ye, an' ye'll find what seemed your troubles is a blessin' arter all.

When sorrer comes, 'tis a sweet thing—oh! a very sweet thing—to 'ave

a woman to comfort ye an' 'old your 'and in the dark hour—an' theer's

no sympathy so tender as a woman's, Peter. Then, when ye be old, like

me, an' full o' years 'tis a fine thing to 'ave a son o' your own—like

Simon—an' a granddarter—like my Prue—'tis worth 'aving lived for,

Peter, ay, well worth it. It's a man's dooty to marry, Peter, 'is

dooty to 'isself an' the world. Don't the Bible say summat about it

not bein' good for a man to live alone? Every man as is a man should

marry—the sooner the better."

"But," said I, "to every happy marriage there are scores of miserable

ones."

"'Cause why, Peter? 'Cause people is in too much o' a hurry to marry,

as a rule. If a man marries a lass arter knowin' 'er a week—'ow is 'e

goin' to know if she'll suit 'im all 'is days? Nohow, Peter, it aren't

nat'ral—woman tak's a lot o' knowin'. 'Marry in 'aste, an' repent in

leisure!' That aren't in the Bible, but it ought to be."

"And your own marriage was a truly happy one, Ancient?"

"Ah! that it were, Peter, 'appy as ever was—but then, ye see, there

was a Providence in it. I were a fine young chap in them days, summat

o' your figure only bigger—ah! a sight bigger—an' I were sweet on

several lassies, an' won't say as they wer'n't sweet on me—three on

'em most especially so. One was a tall, bouncin' wench wi' blue eyes,

an' golden 'air—like sunshine it were, but it wer'n't meant as I

should buckle up wi' 'er."

"Why not?"

"'Cause, it so 'appened as she married summun else."

"And the second?"

"The second were a fine, pretty maid tu, but I couldn't marry she."

"Why?"

"'Cause, Peter, she went an' took an' died afore I could ax 'er."

"And the third, you married."

"No, Peter, though it come to the same thing in the end—she married I.

Ye see, though I were allus at 'er beck an' call, I could never pluck

the courage to up an' ax 'er right out. So things went on for a year

or so, maybe, till one day—she were makin' apple dumplings,

Peter—'Martin,' says she, lookin' at me sideways out of 'er black

eyes—just like Prue's they were—'Martin,' says she, 'you 'm uncommon

fond o' apple-dumplings?' 'For sure,' says I, which I were, Peter.

'Martin,' says she, 'shouldn't 'ee like to eat of 'em whenever you

wanted to, at your very own table, in a cottage o' your own?' 'Ah! if

you'd mak' 'em!' says I, sharp like. 'I would if you'd ax me, Martin,'

says she. An' so we was married, Peter, an' as you see, theer was a

Providence in it, for, if the first one 'adn't married some 'un else,

an' the second 'adn't died, I might ha' married one o' they, an'

repented it all my days, for I were young then, an' fulish, Peter,

fulish." So saying, the Ancient rose, sighing, and knocked the ashes

from his pipe.

"Talkin' 'bout Prue," said he, taking up his hat and removing his

snuff-box therefrom ere he set it upon his head, "talkin' 'bout Prue,"

he repeated, with a pinch of snuff at his nostrils.

"Well?" The word seemed shot out of George involuntarily.

"Talkin' 'bout Prue," said the Ancient again, glancing at each of us in

turn, "theer was some folks as used to think she were sweet on Jarge

theer, but I, bein' 'er lawful gran'feyther knowed different—didn't I,

Jarge?"

"Ay," nodded the smith.

"Many's the time I've said to you a-sittin' in this very corner,

'Jarge,' I've said, 'mark my words, Jarge—if ever my Prue does marry

some'un—which she will—that there some 'un won't be you.' Them be my

very words, bean't they, Jarge?"

"Your very words, Gaffer," nodded George.

"Well then," continued the old man, "'ere's what I was a-comin'

to—Prue 's been an' fell in love wi' some 'un at last."

Black George's pipe shivered to fragments on the floor, and as he

leaned forward I saw that his great hands were tightly clenched.

"Gaffer," said he, in a strangled voice, "what do 'ee mean?"

"I means what I says, Jarge."

"How do 'ee know?"

"Bean't I the lass's gran'feyther?"

"Be ye sure, Gaffer—quite sure?"

"Ay—sartin sure—twice this week, an' once the week afore she forgot

to put any salt in the soup—an' that speaks wollums, Jarge, wollums!"

Here, having replaced his snuff-box, the Ancient put on his hat,

nodded, and bobbled away. As for Black George, he sat there, staring

blindly before him long after the tapping of the Ancient's stick had

died away, nor did he heed me when I spoke, wherefore I laid my hand

upon his shoulder.

"Come, George," said I, "another hour, and the screen will be

finished." He started, and, drawing from my hand, looked up at me very

strangely.

"No, Peter," he mumbled, "I aren't a-goin' to work no more tonight,"

and as he spoke he rose to his feet.

"What—are you going?" said I, as he crossed to the door.

"Ay, I'm a-goin'." Now, as he went towards his cottage, I saw him

reel, and stagger, like a drunken man.

CHAPTER XXXIII

IN WHICH WE DRAW YET NEARER TO THE END OF THIS FIRST BOOK

It is not my intention to chronicle all those minor happenings that

befell me, now or afterward, lest this history prove wearisome to the

reader (on the which head I begin to entertain grave doubts already).

Suffice it then that as the days grew into weeks, and the weeks into

months, by perseverance I became reasonably expert at my trade, so

that, some two months after my meeting with Black George, I could shoe

a horse with any smith in the country.

But, more than this, the people with whom I associated day by

day—honest, loyal, and simple-hearted as they were, contented with

their lot, and receiving all things so unquestioningly and thankfully,

filled my life, and brought a great calm to a mind that had, hitherto,

been somewhat self-centred and troubled by pessimistic doubts and

fantastic dreams culled from musty pages.

What book is there to compare with the great Book of Life—whose pages

are forever a-turning, wherein are marvels and wonders undreamed;

things to weep over, and some few to laugh at, if one but has eyes in

one's head to see withal?

To walk through the whispering cornfields, or the long, green alleys of

the hop-gardens with Simon, who combines innkeeping with farming, to

hear him tell of fruit and flower, of bird and beast, is better than to

read the Georgics of Virgil.

To sit in the sunshine and watch the Ancient, pipe in mouth, to hearken

to his animadversions upon Life, and Death, and Humanity, is better

than the cynical wit of Rochefoucauld, or a page out of honest old

Montaigne.

To see the proud poise of sweet Prue's averted head, and the tender

look in her eyes when George is near, and the surge of the mighty chest

and the tremble of the strong man's hand at the sound of her light

footfall, is more enthralling than any written romance, old or new.

In regard to these latter, I began, at this time, to contrive schemes

and to plot plots for bringing them together—to bridge over the

difficulty which separated them, for, being happy, I would fain see

them happy also. Now, how I succeeded in this self-imposed task, the

reader (if he trouble to read far enough) shall see for himself.

"George," said I, on a certain Saturday morning, as I washed the grime

from my face and hands, "are you going to the Fair this afternoon?"

"No, Peter, I aren't."

"But Prudence is going," said I, drying myself vigorously upon the

towel.

"And how," inquired the smith, bending in turn above the bucket in

which we performed our ablutions, "and how might you know that, Peter?"

"Because she told me so."

"Told you so, did she?" said George, and immediately plunged his head

into the bucket.

"She did," I answered.

"And supposin'," said George, coming up very red in the face, and with

the water streaming from his sodden curls, "supposin' she is goin' to

the Fair, what's that to me? I don't care wheer she comes, no, nor

wheer she goes, neither!" and he shook the water from him as a dog

might.

"Are you quite sure, George?"

"Ah! sartin sure. I've been sure of it now ever since she called me—"

"Pooh, nonsense, man! she didn't mean it—women—especially young

ones—often say things they do not mean—at least, so I am given to

understand."

"Ay, but she did mean it," said George, frowning and nodding his head;

"but it ain't that, Peter, no, it aren't that, it's the knowin' as she

spoke truth when she called me 'coward,' and despisin' me for it in 'er

heart, that's wheer it is, Peter."

"Nevertheless, I'm sure she never meant it, George."

"Then let 'er come and tell me so."

"I don't think she'll do that," said I.

"No more do I, Peter." Saying which, he fell to work with the towel

even as I had done.

"George," said I after a silence.

"Well, Peter?"

"Has it ever struck you that Prudence is an uncommonly handsome girl?"

"To be sure it 'as, Peter—I were blind else."

"And that other men may see this too?"

"Well, Peter?"

"And some one—even tell her so?" His answer was a long time coming,

but come it did at last:

"Well, Peter?"

"And—ask her to marry him, George?" This time he was silent so long

that I had tied my neckerchief and drawn on my coat ere he spoke, very

heavily and slowly, and without looking at me.

"Why, then, Peter, let 'im. I've told 'ee afore, I don't care wheer

she comes nor wheer she goes, she bean't nothin' to me no more, nor I

to she. If so be some man 'as a mind to ax 'er for 'isself, all open

an' aboveboard, I say again—let 'im. And now, let's talk o' summat

else."

"Willingly. There's to be boxing, and single-stick, and wrestling at

the Fair, I understand."

"Ay."

"And, they tell me, there is a famous wrestler coming all the way from

Cornwall to wrestle the best man for ten guineas."

"Ay, so there be."

"Well?"

"Well, Peter?"

"They were talking about it at 'The Bull' last night—"

"'The Bull'—to be sure—you was at 'The Bull' last night—well?"

"They were saying that you were a mighty wrestler, George, that you

were the only man in these parts who could stand up to this Cornishman."

"Ay, I can wrastle a bit, Peter," he replied, speaking in the same

heavy, listless manner; "what then?"

"Why then, George, get into your coat, and let's be off."

"Wheer to?"

"The Fair." Black George shook his head.

"What, you won't?"

"No, Peter."

"And why not?"

"Because I aren't got the mind to—because I aren't never goin' to

wrastle no more, Peter—so theer's an end on 't." Yet, in the doorway

I paused and looked back.

"George."

"Peter?"

"Won't you come—for friendship's sake?"

Black George picked up his coat, looked at it, and put it down again.

"No, Peter!"

CHAPTER XXXIV

WHICH DESCRIBES SUNDRY HAPPENINGS AT THE FAIR, AND ENDS THIS FIRST BOOK

"I say, young cove, where are you a-pushing of?"

The speaker was a very tall individual whose sharp-pointed elbow had,

more than once, obtruded itself into my ribs. He was extremely thin

and bony, with a long, drooping nose set very much to one side, and was

possessed of a remarkable pair of eyes—that is to say, one eyelid hung

continually lower than the other, thus lending to his otherwise

sinister face an air of droll and unexpected waggery that was quite

startling to behold.

All about us were jostling throngs of men and women in snowy smock

frocks, and holiday gowns, who pushed, or were pushed, laughed, or

frowned, according to their several natures; while above the merry

hubbub rose the blare of trumpets, the braying of horns, and the crash,

and rattle of drums—in a word, I was in the middle of an English

Country Fair.

"Now then, young cove," repeated the man I have alluded to, "where are

you a-pushing of? Don't do it again, or mind your eye!" And, saying

this, he glared balefully at me with one eye and leered jocosely with

the other, and into my ribs came his elbow again.

"You seem to be able to do something in that way yourself," I retorted.

"Oh—do I?"

"Yes," said I; "suppose you take your elbow out of my waistcoat."

"'Elber,'" repeated the man, "what d'ye mean by 'elber'?"

"This," said I, catching his arm in no very gentle grip.

"If it's a fight you're wantin'—" began the man.

"It isn't!" said I.

"Then leggo my arm!"

"Then keep your elbow to yourself."

"'Cod! I never see such a hot-headed cove!"

"Nor I a more bad-tempered one."

This altercation had taken place as we swayed to and fro in the crowd,

from which we now slowly won free, owing chiefly to the dexterous use

of the man's bony elbows, until we presently found ourselves in a

veritable jungle of carts and wagons of all kinds and sorts, where we

stopped, facing each other.

"I'm inclined to think, young cove, as you'd be short-tempered if you

been shied at by your feller-man from your youth up," said the man.

"What do you mean by 'shied at'?"

"What I sez!—some perfessions is easy, and some is 'ard—like mine."

"And what is yours?"

"I'm a perfessional Sambo."

"A what?"

"Well—a 'Nigger-head' then,—blacks my face—sticks my 'ead through a

'ole, and lets 'em shy at me—three shies a penny—them as 'its me gets

a cigar—a big 'un—them as don't—don't!"

"Yours is a very unpleasant profession," said I.

"A man must live!"

"But," said I, "supposing you get hit?"

"Them as 'its me gets a cigar!"

"Doesn't it hurt you?"

"Oh! you gets used to it—though, to be sure, they don't 'it me very

often, or it would be a loss; cigars is expensive—leastways they costs

money."

"But surely a wooden image would serve your turn just as well."

"A wooden image!" exclaimed the man disgustedly. "James!—you must be

a fool, you must! Who wants to throw at a wooden image—you can't 'urt

a wooden image, can you—if you throwed 'eavens 'ard at a wooden image

that there wooden image wouldn't flinch, would it? When a man throws

at anything 'e likes to 'it it—that's 'uman—and when 'e 'its it 'e

likes to see it flinch—that's 'uman too, and when it flinches, why—'e

rubs 'is 'ands, and takes another shot—and that's the 'umanest of all.

So you see, young cove, you're a fool with your wooden image."

Now, as he ended, I stooped, very suddenly, and caught hold of his

wrist—and then I saw that he held my purse in his hand. It was a

large hand with bony knuckles, and very long fingers, upon one of which

was a battered ring. He attempted, at first, to free himself of my

grip, but, finding this useless, stood glowering at me with one eye and

leering with the other.

"Ha!" said I.

"Hallo!" said he.

"A purse!" said I.

"Why, so it is," he nodded; "leastways, it looks uncommonly like one,

don't it?"

"What's more, it looks like mine!"

"Does it?"

"I could swear to it anywhere."

"Could you?"

"I could."

"Then p'r'aps you'd better take it, young cove, and very welcome, I'm

sure."

"So you've been picking my pocket!" said I.

"Never picked a pocket in my life—should scorn to."

I put away my recovered property, and straightway shifted my grip to

the fellow's collar.

"Now," said I, "come on."

"Why, what are you a-doing of?"

"What does one generally do with a pickpocket?"

But I had hardly uttered the words when, with a sudden cunning twist,

he broke my hold, and, my foot catching in a guy-rope, I tripped, and

fell heavily, and ere I could rise he had made good his escape. I got

to my feet, somewhat shaken by the fall, yet congratulating myself on

the recovery of my purse, and, threading my way among the tents, was

soon back among the crowd. Here were circuses and shows of all kinds,

where one might behold divers strange beasts, the usual Fat Women and

Skeleton Men (who ever heard of the order being reversed?); and before

the shows were fellows variously attired, but each being purplish of

visage, and each possessing the lungs of a Stentor—more especially

one, a round-bellied, bottle-nosed fellow in a white hat, who

alternately roared and beat upon a drum—a red-haired man he was, with

a fiery eye, which eye, chancing to single me out in the crowd, fixed

itself pertinaciously upon me, thenceforth, so that he seemed to

address himself exclusively to me, thus:

"O my stars! [young man]." (Bang goes the drum.) "The wonderful wild,

'airy, and savage man from Bonhoola, as eats snakes alive, and dresses

hisself in sheeny serpents! O my eye! step up! [young man]." (Bang!)

"Likewise the ass-tonishin' and beautiful Lady Paulinolotti, as will

swaller swords, sabres, bay'nets, also chewin' up glass, and bottles

quicker than you can wink [young man]." (Bang!) "Not to mention

Catamaplasus, the Fire Fiend, what burns hisself with red-hot irons,

and likes it, drinks liquid fire with gusto—playfully spittin' forth

the same, together with flame and sulphurous smoke, and all for

sixpence [young man]." (Bang!) "O my stars! step up [young man] and

all for a tanner." (Bang!)

Presently, his eye being off me for the moment, I edged my way out of

the throng and so came to where a man stood mounted upon a cart.

Beside him was a fellow in a clown's habit who blew loudly three times

upon a trumpet, which done, the man took off his hat and began to

harangue the crowd, something in this wise:

"I come before you, ladies and gentlemen, not for vulgar gain—or, as I

might say—kudos, which is Eyetalian for the same—not to put my hands

into your pockets and rifle 'em of your honestly earned money; no, I

come before you for the good of each one of you, for the easing of

suffering mankind—as I might say—the ha-melioration of stricken

humanity. In a word, I am here to introduce to you what I call my

Elixir Anthropos—Anthropos, ladies and gentlemen, is an old and very

ancient Egyptian word meaning man—or woman, for that matter," etc.

During this exordium I had noticed a venerable man in a fine blue

surtout and a wide-brimmed hat, who sat upon the shaft of a cart and

puffed slowly at a great pipe. And as he puffed, he listened intently

to the quack-salver's address, and from time to time his eyes would

twinkle and his lips curve in an ironic smile. The cart, upon the

shaft of which he sat, stood close to a very small, dirty, and

disreputable-looking tent, towards which the old gentleman's back was

turned. Now, as I watched, I saw the point of a knife gleam through

the dirty canvas, which, vanishing, gave place to a hand protruded

through the slit thus made—a very large hand with bony knuckles, and

long fingers, upon one of which was a battered ring. For an instant

the hand hovered undecidedly, then darted forward—the long skirts of

the old gentleman's coat hardly stirred, yet, even as I watched, I saw

the hand vanish with a fat purse in its clutches.

Skirting the tent, I came round to the opening, and stooping, peered

cautiously inside. There, sure enough, was my pickpocket gazing

intently into the open purse, and chuckling as he gazed. Then he

slipped it into his pocket, and out he came—where I immediately pinned

him by the neckerchief.

And, after a while, finding he could not again break my hold, he lay

still, beneath me, panting, and, as he lay, his one eye glared more

balefully and his other leered more waggishly than ever, as I,

thrusting my hand into his pocket, took thence the purse, and

transferred it to my own.

"Halves, mate!" he panted, "halves, and we'll cry 'quits.'"

"By no means," said I, rising to my feet, but keeping my grip upon him.

"Then what's your game?"

"I intend to hand you over as a pickpocket."

"That means 'Transportation'!" said he, wiping the blood from his face,

for the struggle, though short, had been sharp enough.

"Well?" said I.

"It'll go 'ard with the babby."

"Baby!" I exclaimed.

"Ah!—or the hinfant, if you like it better—one as I found in a shawl,

a-laying on the steps o' my van one night, sleeping like a

alderman—and it were snowing too."

"Yet you are a thief!"

"We calls it 'faking.'"

"And ought to be given up to the authorities."

"And who's to look arter the babby?"

"Are you married?"

"No,"

"Where is the baby?"

"In my van."

"And where is that?"

"Yonder!" and he pointed to a gayly-painted caravan that stood near by.

"'e's asleep now, but if you'd like to take a peep at 'im—"

"I should," said I. Whereupon the fellow led me to his van, and,

following him up the steps, I entered a place which, though confined,

was wonderfully neat and clean, with curtains at the open windows, a

rug upon the floor, and an ornamental brass lamp pendent from the

roof. At the far end was a bed, or rather, berth, curtained with

chintz, and upon this bed, his chubby face pillowed upon a dimpled

fist, lay a very small man indeed. And, looking up from him to the

very large, bony man, bending over him, I surprised a look upon the

hardened face—a tenderness that seemed very much out of place.

"Nice and fat, ain't 'e?" said the man, touching the baby's applelike

cheek with a grimy finger.

"Yes."

"Ah—and so 'e should be, James! But 'you should see 'im eat, a

alderman's nothing to Lewis—I calls 'im Lewis, for 'twere at Lewisham

I found 'im, on a Christmas Eve—snowing it was, but, by James! it

didn't bother 'im—not a bit."

"And why did you keep him?—there was the parish."

"Parish!" repeated the man bitterly. "I were brought up by the parish

myself—and a nice job they made o' me!"

"Don't you find him a great trouble?"

"Trouble!" exclaimed the man. "Lewis ain't no trouble—not a

bit—never was, and he's great company when I'm on the move from one

town to another—larning to talk a'ready."

"Now," said I, when we had descended from the van, "I propose to return

this purse to the owner, if he is to be found; if not, I shall hand it

to the proper authorities."

"Walker!" exclaimed the man.

"You shall yourself witness the restitution," said I, unheeding his

remark, "after which—"

"Well!" said he, glancing back toward his caravan, and moistening his

lips as I tightened my grip upon his arm, "what about me?"

"You can go—for Lewis's sake—if you will give me your word to live

honestly henceforth."

"You have it, sir—I swear it—on the Bible if you like."

"Then let us seek the owner of this purse." So, coming in a while to

where the quack doctor was still holding forth—there, yet seated upon

the shaft of the cart, puffing at his great pipe, was the venerable

man. At sight of him the pickpocket stopped and caught my arm.

"Come, master," said he, "come, you never mean to give up all that good

money—there's fifty guineas, and more, in that purse!"

"All the more reason to return it," said I.

"No, don't—don't go a-wasting good money like that—it's like throwing

it away!" But shaking off the fellow's importunate hand, I approached,

and saluted the venerable man.

"Sir," said I, "you have had your pocket picked."

He turned and regarded me with a pair of deep-set, very bright eyes,

and blew a whiff of smoke slowly into the air.

"Sir," he replied, "I found that out five minutes ago."

"The fact seems to trouble you very little," said I.

"There, sir, being young, and judging exteriorly, you are wrong. There

is recounted somewhere in the classics an altogether incredible story

of a Spartan youth and a fox: the boy, with the animal hid beneath his

cloak, preserved an unruffled demeanor despite the animal's tearing

teeth, until he fell down and died. In the same way, young sir, no man

can lose fifty-odd guineas from his pocket and remain unaffected by the

loss."

"Then, sir," said I, "I am happy to be able to return your purse to

you." He took it, opened it, glanced over its contents, looked at me,

took out two guineas, looked at me again, put the money back, closed

the purse, and, dropping it into his pocket, bowed his acknowledgment.

Having done which, he made room for me to sit beside him.

"Sir," said he, chuckling, "hark to that lovely rascal in the cart,

yonder—hark to him; Galen was an ass and Hippocrates a dunce beside

this fellow—hark to him."

"There's nothing like pills!" the Quack-salver was saying at the top of

his voice; "place one upon the tip o' the tongue—in this fashion—take

a drink o' water, beer, or wine, as the case may be, give a couple o'

swallers, and there you are. Oh, there's nothing in the world like

pills, and there's nothing like my Elixir Anthropos for coughs, colds,

and the rheumatics, for sore throats, sore eyes, sore backs—good for

the croup, measles, and chicken-pox—a certain cure for dropsy, scurvy,

and the king's evil; there's no disease or ailment, discovered or

invented, as my pills won't soothe, heal, ha-meliorate, and charm away,

and all I charge is one shilling a box. Hand 'em round, Jonas."

Whereupon the fellow in the clown's dress, stepping down from the cart,

began handing out the boxes of pills and taking in the shillings as

fast as he conveniently could.

"A thriving trade!" said my venerable companion; "it always has been,

and always will, for Humanity is a many-headed fool, and loves to be

'bamboozled.' These honest folk are probably paying for bread pellets

compounded with a little soap, yet will go home, swallow them in all

good faith, and think themselves a great deal better for them."

"And therefore," said I, "probably derive as much benefit from them as

from any drug yet discovered."

"Young man," said my companion, giving me a sharp glance, "what do you

mean?"

"Plainly, sir, that a man who believes himself cured of a disease is

surely on the high road to recovery."

"But a belief in the efficacy of that rascal's bread pellets cannot

make them anything but bread pellets."

"No," said I, "but it may effect great things with the disease."

"Young man, don't tell me that you are a believer in Faith Healing, and

such-like tomfoolery; disease is a great and terrible reality, and must

be met and overcome by a real means."

"On the contrary, sir, may it not be rather the outcome of a

preconceived idea—of a belief that has been held universally for many

ages and generations of men? I do not deny disease—who could? but

suffering and disease have been looked upon from the earliest days as

punishments wrought out upon a man for his sins. Now, may not the

haunting fear of this retributive justice be greatly responsible for

suffering and disease of all kinds, since the mind unquestionably

reacts upon the body?"

"Probably, sir, probably, but since disease is with us, how would you

propose to remedy it?"

"By disbelieving in it; by regarding it as something abnormal and

utterly foreign to the divine order of things."

"Pooh!" exclaimed my venerable companion. "Bah!—quite, quite

impracticable!"

"They say the same of 'The Sermon on the Mount,' sir," I retorted.

"Can a man, wasting away in a decline, discredit the fact that he is

dying with every breath he draws?"

"Had you, or I, or any man, the Christ-power to teach him a disbelief

in his sickness, then would he be hale and well. The Great Physician

healed all diseases thus, without the aid of drugs, seeking only to

implant in the mind of each sufferer the knowledge that he was whole

and sound—that is to say, a total disbelief in his malady. How many

times do we read the words: 'Thy faith hath made thee whole'? All He

demanded of them was faith—or, as I say, a disbelief in their disease."

"Then the cures of Christ were not miracles?"

"No more so than any great and noble work is a miracle."

"And do you," inquired my companion, removing his pipe from his lips,

and staring at me very hard, "do you believe that Jesus Christ was the

Son of God?"

"Yes," said I, "in the same way that you and I are, and the

Quack-salver yonder."

"But was He divine?"

"Surely a mighty thinker—a great teacher whose hand points the higher

way, whose words inspire Humanity to nobler ends and aims, is, of

necessity, divine."

"You are a very bold young man, and talk, I think, a little wildly."

"Heterodoxy has been styled so before, sir."

"And a very young, young man."

"That, sir, will be amended by time." Here, puffing at his pipe, and

finding it gone out, he looked at me in surprise.

"Remarkable!" said he.

"What is, sir?"

"While I listened to you I have actually let my pipe go out—a thing

which rarely happens with me." As he spoke he thrust one hand into his

pocket, when he glance slowly all round, and back once more to me.

"Remarkable!" said he again.

"What now, sir?"

"My purse has gone again!"

"What!—gone!" I ejaculated.

"Vanished!" said he, and, to prove his words, turned inside out first

one pocket and then the other.

"Come with me," said I, springing up, "there is yet a chance that we

may possibly recover it." Forthwith I led him to where had stood a

certain gayly-painted caravan, but it was gone—vanished as utterly as

my companion's purse.

"Most annoying!" said he, shaking his venerable head, "really most

exasperating—I particularly wished to secure a sample of that fellow's

pills—the collection of quack remedies is a fad of mine—as it is—"

"My purse is entirely at your disposal, sir," said I, "though, to be

sure, a very—" But there I stopped, staring, in my turn, blankly at

him.

"Ha?" he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling.

"Yes," I nodded, "the rascal made off with my purse also; we are

companions in misfortune."

"Then as such, young sir, come and dine with me, my habitation is but a

little way off."

"Thank you, sir, but I am half expecting to meet with certain good

friends of mine, though I am none the less honored by your offer."

"So be it, young sir; then permit me to wish you a very, 'Good day!'"

and, touching the brim of his hat with the long stem of his pipe, the

Venerable Man turned and left me.

Howbeit, though I looked diligently on all hands, I saw nothing of

Simon or the Ancient; thus evening was falling as, bending my steps

homeward, I came to a part of the Fair where drinking-booths had been

set up, and where they were preparing to roast an ox whole, as is the

immemorial custom. Drinking was going on, with its usual accompaniment

of boisterous merriment and rough horseplay—the vulgarity of which

ever annoys me. Two or three times I was rudely jostled as I made my

way along, so that my temper was already something the worse, when,

turning aside to avoid all this, I came full upon two fellows,

well-to-do farmers, by their look, who held a struggling girl between

them—to each of whom I reached out a hand, and, gripping them firmly

by their collars, brought their two heads together with a sounding

crack—and then I saw that the girl was Prudence. Next moment we were

running, hand in hand, with the two fellows roaring in pursuit. But

Prudence was wonderfully fleet and light of foot, wherefore, doubling

and turning among carts, tents, and booths, we had soon outstripped our

pursuers, and rid ourselves of them altogether. In spite of which

Prudence still ran on till, catching her foot in some obstacle, she

tripped, and would have fallen but for my arm.

And looking down into her flushed face, glowing through the sweet

disorder of her glossy curls, I could not but think how lovely she was.

But, as I watched, the color fled from her cheeks, her eyes dilated,

and she started away from me.

Now, turning hastily, I saw that we were standing close by a certain

small, dirty, and disreputable-looking tent, the canvas of which had

been slit with a knife—and my movement had been quick enough to enable

me to see a face vanish through the canvas. And, fleeting though the

glimpse had been, yet, in the lowering brow, the baleful glare of the

eye, and the set of the great jaw, I had seen Death.

And, after we had walked on a while together, looking at Prue, I

noticed that she trembled.

"Oh, Mr. Peter," she whispered, glancing back over her shoulder, "did

ye see?"

"Yes, Prudence, I saw." And, speaking, I also glanced back towards the

villainous little tent, and though the face appeared no more, I was

aware, nevertheless, of a sudden misgiving that was almost like a

foreboding of evil to come; for in those features, disfigured though

they were with black rage and passion, I had recognized the face of

Black George.

A WORD TO THE READER

Remembering the very excellent advice of my friend the Tinker as to the

writing of a good "nov-el," I am perturbed, and not a little

discouraged, upon looking over these pages, to find that I have, as

yet, described no desperate hand-to-hand encounters, no hairbreadth

escapes (unless a bullet through one's hat may be justly so regarded),

and, above all—not one word of LOVE!

You, sir, who have expectantly borne with me thus far, may be tempted

to close the book in a huff, and, hurling it from you, with a

deep-voiced anathema, clap on your hat, and sally forth into the

sunshine.

Or you, madam, breathing a sigh o'er hopes deferred, may take up

needle, and silk, and turn you, once again, to that embroidery which

has engaged your dainty fingers this twelvemonth and more, yet which,

like Penelope's web, would seem no nearer completion.

Ah well, sir! exercise, especially walking, is highly beneficial to the

liver, they tell me—and nothing, madam, believe me (unless it be

playing the harp), can show off a pretty hand, or the delicate curves

of a shapely wrist and arm to such advantage as that selfsame

embroidery. But since needlework (like books and all sublunary things)

is apt to grow monotonous, you may, perchance, for lack of better

occupation, be driven to address yourself, once more, to this, my

Narrative.

And since you, sir, no matter how far you walk, must, of necessity,

return to your chair and chimney-corner, it is possible that, having

dined adequately, and lighted your pipe (and being therefore in a more

charitable and temperate frame of mind), you may lift my volume from

the dusty corner where it has lain all this while, and (though probably

with sundry grunts and snorts, indicative that the thing is done under

protest, as it were) reopen these pages.

In the which hope, dear madam, and you, noble sir, I here commence

this, my Second Book—which, as you see, is headed thus:

THE WOMAN

BOOK TWO

THE WOMAN

CHAPTER I

OF STORM, AND TEMPEST, AND OF THE COMING OF CHARMIAN

I was at sea in an open boat. Out of the pitch-black heaven there

rushed a mighty wind, and the pitch-black seas above me rose high, and

ever higher, flecked with hissing white; wherefore I cast me face

downwards in my little boat, that I might not behold the horror of the

waters; and above their ceaseless, surging thunder there rose a

long-drawn cry:

"Charmian!"

I stood upon a desolate moor, and the pitiless rain lashed me, and the

fierce wind buffeted me; and, out of the gloom where frowning earth and

heaven met—there rose a long-drawn cry:

"Charmian."

I started up in bed, broad awake, and listening; yet the tumult was all

about me still—the hiss and beat of rain, and the sound of a rushing,

mighty wind—a wind that seemed to fill the earth—a wind that screamed

about me, that howled above me, and filled the woods, near and far,

with a deep booming, pierced, now and then, by the splintering crash of

snapping bough or falling tree. And yet, somewhere in this frightful

pandemonium of sound, blended in with it, yet not of it, it seemed to

me that the cry still faintly echoed:

"Charmian."

So appalling was all this to my newly-awakened senses, that I remained,

for a time, staring into the darkness as one dazed. Presently, however,

I rose, and, donning some clothes, mended the fire which still

smouldered upon the hearth, and, having filled and lighted my pipe, sat

down to listen to the awful voices of the storm.

What brain could conceive—what pen describe that elemental chorus,

like the mighty voice of persecuted Humanity, past and present, crying

the woes and ills, the sorrows and torments, endured of all the ages?

To-night, surely, the souls of the unnumbered dead rode within the

storm, and this was the voice of their lamentation.

From the red mire of battlefields are they come, from the flame and

ravishment of fair cities, from dim and reeking dungeons, from the

rack, the stake, and the gibbet, to pierce the heavens once more with

the voice of their agony.

Since the world was made, how many have lived and suffered, and died,

unlettered and unsung—snatched by a tyrant's whim from life to death,

in the glory of the sun, in the gloom of night, in blood and flame, and

torment? Indeed, their name is "Legion."

But there is a great and awful Book, whose leaves are countless, yet

every leaf of which is smirched with blood and fouled with nameless

sins, a record, howsoever brief and inadequate, of human suffering,

wherein as "through a glass, darkly," we may behold horrors unimagined;

where Murder stalks, and rampant Lust; where Treachery creeps with

curving back, smiling mouth, and sudden, deadly hand; where Tyranny,

fierce-eyed, and iron-lipped, grinds the nations beneath a bloody heel.

Truly, man hath no enemy like man. And Christ is there, and Socrates,

and Savonarola—and there, too, is a cross of agony, a bowl of hemlock,

and a consuming fire.

Oh, noble martyrs! by whose blood and agony the world is become a purer

and better place for us, and those who shall come after us—Oh

glorious, innumerable host! thy poor, maimed bodies were dust ages

since, but thy souls live on in paradise, and thy memory abides, and

shall abide in the earth, forever.

Ye purblind, ye pessimists, existing with no hope of a resurrection,

bethink you of these matters; go, open the great and awful Book, and

read and behold these things for yourselves—for what student of

history is there but must be persuaded of man's immortality—that,

though this poor flesh be mangled, torn asunder, burned to ashes, yet

the soul, rising beyond the tyrant's reach, soars triumphant above

death and this sorry world, to the refuge of "the everlasting arms;"

for God is a just God!

Now, in a while, becoming conscious that my pipe was smoked out and

cold, I reached up my hand to my tobacco-box upon the mantelshelf. Yet

I did not reach it down, for, even as my fingers closed upon it, above

the wailing of the storm, above the hiss and patter of driven rain,

there rose a long-drawn cry:

"Charmian!"

So, remembering the voice I had seemed to hear calling in my dream, I

sat there with my hand stretched up to my tobacco-box, and my face

screwed round to the casement behind me, that, as I watched, shook and

rattled beneath each wind-gust, as if some hand strove to pluck it open.

How long I remained thus, with my hand stretched up to my tobacco-box,

and my eyes upon this window, I am unable to say, but, all at once, the

door of the cottage burst open with a crash, and immediately the quiet

room was full of rioting wind and tempest; such a wind as stopped my

breath, and sent up a swirl of smoke and sparks from the fire. And,

borne upon this wind, like some spirit of the storm, was a woman with

flying draperies and long, streaming hair, who turned, and, with knee

and shoulder, forced to the door, and so leaned there, panting.

Tall she was, and nobly shaped, for her wet gown clung, disclosing the

sinuous lines of her waist and the bold, full curves of hip and thigh.

Her dress, too, had been wrenched and torn at the neck, and, through

the shadow of her fallen hair, I caught the ivory gleam of her

shoulder, and the heave and tumult of her bosom.

Here I reached down my tobacco-box and mechanically began to fill my

pipe, watching her the while.

Suddenly she started, and seemed to listen. Then, with a swift,

stealthy movement, she slipped from before the door, and I noticed that

she hid one hand behind her.

"Charmian!"

The woman crouched back against the wall, with her eyes towards the

door, and always her right hand was hidden in the folds of her

petticoat. So we remained, she watching the door, and I, her.

"Charmian!"

The voice was very near now, and, almost immediately after, there came

a loud "view hallo," and a heavy fist pounded upon the door.

"Oh, Charmian, you're there—yes, yes—inside—I know you are. I swore

you should never escape me, and you sha'n't—by God!" A hand fumbled

upon the latch, the door swung open, and a man entered. As he did so I

leapt forward, and caught the woman's wrist. There was a blinding

flash, a loud report, and a bullet buried itself somewhere in the

rafters overhead. With a strange, repressed cry, she turned upon me so

fiercely that I fell back before her.

The newcomer, meantime, had closed the door, latching it very

carefully, and now, standing before it, folded his arms, staring at her

with bent head. He was a very tall man, with a rain-sodden,

bell-crowned hat crushed low upon his brows, and wrapped in a long,

many-caged overcoat, the skirts of which were woefully mired and torn.

All at once he laughed, very softly and musically.

"So, you would have killed me, would you, Charmian—shot me—like a

dog?" His tone was soft as his laugh and equally musical, and yet

neither was good to hear. "So you thought you had lost me, did you,

when you gave me the slip, a while ago? Lose me? Escape me? Why, I

tell you, I would search for you day and night—hunt the world over

until I found you, Charmian—until I found you," said he, nodding his

head and speaking almost in a whisper. "I would, by God!"

The woman neither moved nor uttered a word, only her breath came thick

and fast, and her eyes gleamed in the shadow of her hair.

They stood facing each other, like two adversaries, each measuring the

other's strength, without appearing to be conscious of my presence;

indeed, the man had not so much as looked toward me even when I had

struck up the pistol.

Now, with every minute I was becoming more curious to see this man's

face, hidden as it was in the shadow of his dripping hat brim. Yet the

fire had burned low.

"You always were a spitfire, weren't you, Charmian?" he went on in the

same gentle voice; "hot, and fierce, and proud—the flame beneath the

ice—I knew that, and loved you the better for it; and so I determined

to win you, Charmian—to win you whether you would or no. And—you are

so strong—so tall, and glorious, and strong, Charmian!"

His voice had sunk to a murmur again, and he drew a slow step nearer to

her.

"How wonderful you are, Charmian! I always loved your shoulders and

that round, white throat. Loved? Worshipped them, worshipped them!

And to-night—" He paused, and I felt, rather than saw, that he was

smiling. "And to-night you would have killed me, Charmian—shot

me—like a dog! But I would not have it different. You have flouted,

coquetted, scorned, and mocked me—for three years, Charmian, and

to-night you would have killed me—and I—would not have it otherwise,

for surely you can see that this of itself must make your final

surrender—even sweeter."

With a gesture utterly at variance with his voice, so sudden, fierce,

and passionate was it, he sprang toward her with outstretched arms.

But, quick as he, she eluded him, and, before he could reach her, I

stepped between them.

"Sir," said I, "a word with you."

"Out of my way, bumpkin!" he retorted, and, brushing one aside, made

after her. I caught him by the skirts of his long, loose coat, but,

with a dexterous twist, he had left it in my grasp. Yet the check,

momentary though it was, enabled her to slip through the door of that

room which had once been Donald's, and, before he could reach it, I

stood upon the threshold. He regarded me for a moment beneath his hat

brim, and seemed undecided how to act.

"My good fellow," said he at last, "I will buy your cottage of you—for

to-night—name your price."

I shook my head. Hereupon he drew a thick purse from his pocket, and

tossed it, chinking, to my feet.

"There are two hundred guineas, bumpkin, maybe more—pick them up,

and—go," and turning, he flung open the door.

Obediently I stooped, and, taking up the purse, rolled it in the coat

which I still held, and tossed both out of the cottage.

"Sir," said I, "be so very obliging as to follow your property."

"Ah!" he murmured, "very pretty, on my soul!" And, in that same

moment, his knuckles caught me fairly between the eyes, and he was upon

me swift, and fierce, and lithe as a panther.

I remember the glint of his eyes and the flash of his bared teeth, now

to one side of me, now to the other, as we swayed to and fro,

overturning the chairs, and crashing into unseen obstacles. In that

dim and narrow place small chance was there for feint or parry; it was

blind, brutal work, fierce, and grim, and silent. Once he staggered

and fell heavily, carrying the table crashing with him, and I saw him

wipe blood from his face as he rose; and once I was beaten to my knees,

but was up before he could reach me again, though the fire upon the

hearth spun giddily round and round, and the floor heaved oddly beneath

my feet.

Then, suddenly, hands were upon my throat, and I could feel the hot

pant of his breath in my face, breath that hissed and whistled between

clenched teeth. Desperately I strove to break his hold, to tear his

hands asunder, and could not; only the fingers tightened and tightened.

Up and down the room we staggered, grim and voiceless—out through the

open door—out into the whirling blackness of the storm. And there,

amid the tempest, lashed by driving rain and deafened by the roaring

rush of wind, we fought—as our savage forefathers may have done,

breast to breast, and knee to knee—stubborn and wild, and

merciless—the old, old struggle for supremacy and life.

I beat him with my fists, but his head was down between his arms; I

tore at his wrists, but he gripped my throat the tighter; and now we

were down, rolling upon the sodden grass, and now we were up, stumbling

and slipping, but ever the gripping fingers sank the deeper, choking

the strength and life out of me. My eyes stared up into a heaven

streaked with blood and fire, there was the taste of sulphur in my

mouth, my arms grew weak and nerveless, and the roar of wind seemed a

thousand times more loud. Then—something clutched and dragged us by

the feet, we tottered, swayed helplessly, and plunged down together.

But, as we fell, the deadly, gripping fingers slackened for a moment,

and in that moment I had broken free, and, rolling clear, stumbled up

to my feet. Yet even then I was still encumbered, and, stooping down,

found the skirts of the overcoat twisted tightly about my foot and

ankle. Now, as I loosed it, I inwardly blessed that tattered garment,

for it seemed that to it I owed my life.

So I stood, panting, and waited for the end. I remember a blind

groping in the dark, a wild hurly-burly of random blows, a sudden sharp

pain in my right hand—a groan, and I was standing with the swish of

the rain about me, and the moaning of the wind in the woods beyond.

How long I remained thus I cannot tell, for I was as one in a dream,

but the cool rain upon my face refreshed me, and the strong, clean wind

in my nostrils was wonderfully grateful. Presently, raising my arm

stiffly, I brushed the wet hair from my eyes, and stared round me into

the pitchy darkness, in quest of my opponent.

"Where are you?" said I at last, and this was the first word uttered

during the struggle; "where are you?"

Receiving no answer, I advanced cautiously (for it was, as I have said,

black dark), and so, presently, touched something yielding with my foot.

"Come—get up!" said I, stooping to lay a hand upon him, "get up, I

say." But he never moved; he was lying upon his face, and, as I raised

his head, my fingers encountered a smooth, round stone, buried in the

grass, and the touch of that stone thrilled me from head to foot with

sudden dread. Hastily I tore open waistcoat and shirt, and pressed my

hand above his heart. In that one moment I lived an age of harrowing

suspense, then breathed a sigh of relief, and, rising, took him beneath

the arms and began to half drag, half carry him towards the cottage.

I had proceeded thus but some dozen yards or so when, during a

momentary lull in the storm, I thought I heard a faint "Hallo," and

looking about, saw a twinkling light that hovered to and fro, coming

and going, yet growing brighter each moment. Setting down my burden,

therefore, I hollowed my hands about my mouth, and shouted.

"This way!" I called; "this way!"

"Be that you, sir?" cried a man's voice at no great distance.

"This way!" I called again, "this way!" The words seemed to reassure

the fellow, for the light advanced once more, and as he came up, I made

him out to be a postilion by his dress, and the light he carried was

the lanthorn of a chaise.

"Why—sir!" he began, looking me up and down, by the light of his

lanthorn, "strike me lucky if I'd ha' knowed ye! you looks as if—oh,

Lord!"

"What is it?" said I, wiping the rain from my eyes again. The

Postilion's answer was to lower his lanthorn towards the face of him

who lay on the ground between us, and point. Now, looking where he

pointed, I started suddenly backwards, and shivered, with a strange

stirring of the flesh.

For I saw a pale face with a streak of blood upon the cheek—there was

blood upon my own; a face framed in lank hair, thick and black—as was

my own; a pale, aquiline face, with a prominent nose, and long, cleft

chin—even as my own. So, as I stood looking down upon this face, my

breath caught, and my flesh crept, for indeed, I might have been

looking into a mirror—the face was the face of myself.