CONCERNING BLACK GEORGE'S LETTER
It was with a feeling of great relief that I watched the fellow out of
sight; nevertheless his very presence seemed to have left a blight upon
all things, for he, viewing matters with the material eye of
Common-sense, had, thereby, contaminated them—even the air seemed less
pure and sweet than it had been heretofore, so that, glancing over my
shoulder, I was glad to see that Charmian had re-entered the cottage.
"Here," said I to myself, "here is Common-sense in the shape of a
half-witted peddling fellow, blundering into Arcadia, in the shape of a
haunted cottage, a woman, and a man. Straightway our Pedler, being
Common-sense, misjudges us—as, indeed, would every other common-sense
individual the world over; for Arcadia, being of itself abstract and
immaterial, is opposed to, and incapable of being understood by
concrete common-sense, and always will be—and there's the rub! And
yet," said I, "thanks to the Wanderer of the Roads, who built this
cottage and hanged himself here, and thanks to a Highland Scot who
performed wonderfully on the bagpipes, there is little chance of any
common-sense vagrant venturing near Arcadia again—at least until the
woman is gone, or the man is gone, or—"
Here, going to rub my chin (being somewhat at a loss), I found that I
had been standing, all this while, the broom in one hand and the belt
in the other, and now, hearing a laugh behind me, I turned, and saw
Charmian was leaning in the open doorway watching me.
"And so you are the—the cove—with the white hands and the taking
ways, are you, Peter?"
"Why—you were actually—listening then?"
"Why, of course I was."
"That," said I, "that was very—undignified!"
"But very—feminine, Peter!" Hereupon I threw the belt from me one
way, and the broom the other, and sitting down upon the bench began to
fill any pipe rather awkwardly, being conscious of Charmian's mocking
scrutiny.
"Poor—poor Black George!" she sighed.
"What do you mean by that?" said I quickly.
"Really I can almost understand his being angry with you."
"Why?"
"You walked with her, and talked with her, Peter—like Caesar, 'you
came, you saw, you conquered'!"
Here I dragged my tinder-box from my pocket so awkwardly as to bring
the lining with it.
"And—even smiled at her, Peter—and you so rarely smile!"
Having struck flint and steel several times without success, I thrust
the tinder-box back into my pocket and fixed my gaze upon the moon.
"Is she so very pretty, Peter?"
I stared up at the moon without answering.
"I wonder if you bother her with your Epictetus and—and dry-as-dust
quotations?"
I bit my lips and stared up at the moon.
"Or perhaps she likes your musty books and philosophy?"
But presently, finding that I would not speak, Charmian began to sing,
very sweet and low, as if to herself, yet, when I chanced to glance
towards her, I found her mocking eyes still watching me. Now the words
of her song were these:
"O, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
O, my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune."
And so, at last, unable to bear it any longer, I rose and, taking my
candle, went into my room and closed the door. But I had been there
scarcely five minutes when Charmian knocked.
"Oh, Peter! I wish to speak to you—please." Obediently I opened the
door.
"What is it, Charmian?"
"You dropped this from your pocket when you took out your tinder-box so
clumsily!" said she, holding towards me a crumpled paper. And looking
down at it, I saw that it was Black George's letter to Prudence.
Now, as I took it from her, I noticed that her hand trembled, while in
her eyes I read fear and trouble; and seeing this, I was, for a moment,
unwontedly glad, and then wondered at myself.
"You—did not read it—of course?" said I, well knowing that she had.
"Yes, Peter—it lay open, and—"
"Then," said I, speaking my thought aloud, "you know that she loves
George."
"He means you harm," said she, speaking with her head averted, "and, if
he killed you—"
"I should be spared a deal of sorrow, and—and mortification,
and—other people would be no longer bothered by Epictetus and
dry-as-dust quotations." She turned suddenly, and, crossing to the
open doorway, stood leaning there. "But, indeed," I went on hurriedly,
"there is no chance of such a thing happening—not the remotest. Black
George's bark is a thousand times worse than his bite; this letter
means nothing, and—er—nothing at all," I ended, somewhat lamely, for
she had turned and was looking at me over her shoulder.
"If he has to 'wait and wait, and follow you and follow you'?" said
she, in the same low tone.
"Those are merely the words of a half-mad pedler," said I.
"'And your blood will go soaking, and soaking into the grass'!"
"Our Pedler has a vivid imagination!" said I lightly. But she shook
her head, and turned to look out upon the beauty of the night once
more, while I watched her, chin in hand.
"I was angry with you to-night, Peter," said she at length, "because
you ordered me to do something against my will—and I—did it; and so,
I tried to torment you—you will forgive me for that, won't you?"
"There is nothing to forgive, nothing, and—good night, Charmian." Here
she turned, and, coming to me, gave me her hand.
"Charmian Brown will always think of you as a—"
"Blacksmith!" said I.
"As a blacksmith!" she repeated, looking at me with a gleam in her
eyes, "but oftener as a—"
"Pedant!" said I.
"As a pedant!" she repeated obediently, "but most of all as a—"
"Well?" said I.
"As a—man," she ended, speaking with bent head. And here again I was
possessed of a sudden gladness that was out of all reason, as I
immediately told myself.
"Your hand is very small," said I, finding nothing better to say,
"smaller even than I thought."
"Is it?" and she smiled and glanced up at me beneath her lashes, for
her head was still bent.
"And wonderfully smooth and soft!"
"Is it?" said she again, but this time she did not look up at me. Now
another man might have stooped and kissed those slender, shapely
fingers—but, as for me, I loosed them, rather suddenly, and, once more
bidding her good night, re-entered my own chamber, and closed the door.
But to-night, lying upon my bed, I could not sleep, and fell to
watching the luminous patch of sky framed in my open casement. I
thought of Charmian, of her beauty, of her strange whims and fancies,
her swift-changing moods and her contrariness, comparing her, in turn,
to all those fair women I had ever read of or dreamed over in my books.
Little by little, however, my thoughts drifted to Gabbing Dick and
Black George, and, with my mind's eye, I could see him as he was
(perhaps at this very moment), fierce-eyed and grim of mouth, sitting
beneath some hedgerow, while, knife in hand, he trimmed and trimmed his
two bludgeons, one of which was to batter the life out of me. From
such disquieting reflections I would turn my mind to sweet-eyed
Prudence, to the Ancient, the forge, and the thousand and one duties of
the morrow. I bethought me, once more, of the storm, of the coming of
Charmian, of the fierce struggle in the dark, of the Postilion, and of
Charmian again. And yet, in despite of me, my thoughts would revert to
George, and I would see myself even as the Pedler pictured me, out in
some secluded corner of the woods, lying stiffly upon my back with
glassy eyes staring up sightlessly through the whispering leaves above,
while my blood soaked and soaked into the green, and with a blackbird
singing gloriously upon my motionless breast.