IN WHICH THE ANCIENT DISCOURSES ON LOVE
I am forging a bar for my cottage door: such a bar as might give check
to an army, or resist a battering-ram; a bar that shall defy all the
night-prowlers that ever prowled; a stout, solid bar, broad as my
wrist, and thick as my two fingers; that, looking upon it as it lies in
its sockets across the door, Charmian henceforth may sleep and have no
fear.
The Ancient sat perched on his stool in the corner, but for once we
spoke little, for I was very busy; also my mind was plunged in a
profound reverie.
And of whom should I be thinking but of Charmian, and of the dimple in
her shoulder?
"'Tis bewitched you be, Peter!" said the old man suddenly, prodding me
softly with his stick, "bewitched as ever was," and he chuckled.
"Bewitched!" said I, starting.
"Ah!—theer you stand wi' your 'ammer in your 'and—a-starin' an'
a-starin' at nobody, nor nothin'—leastways not as 'uman eye can see,
an' a-sighin', an' a-sighin'—"
"Did I indeed sigh, Ancient?"
"Ah—that ye did—like a cow, Peter, or a 'orse 'eavy an' tired like.
An' slow you be, an' dreamy—you as was so bright an' spry; theer's
some—fools, like Joel Amos, as might think as 'twere the work o'
ghostes, or demons, a-castin' their spells on ye, or that some vampire
'ad bit ye in the night, an' sucked your blood as ye lay asleep, but I
know different—you 'm just bewitched, Peter!" and he chuckled again.
"Who knows?—perhaps I am, but it will pass, whatever it is, it will
pass—"
"Don't ye be too sure o' that—theer's bewitchments an' bewitchments,
Peter."
Hereupon the smithy became full of the merry din of my hammer, and
while I worked the Ancient smoked his pipe and watched me, informing
me, between whiles, that the Jersey cow was "in calf," that the hops
seemed more than usually forward, and that he had waked that morning
with a "touch o' the rheumatics," but, otherwise, he was unusually
silent; moreover, each time that I happened to glance up, it was to
find him regarding me with a certain fixity of eye, which at another
time would have struck me as portentous.
"Ye be palish this marnin', Peter!" said he, dabbing at me suddenly
with his pipe-stem; "shouldn't wonder if you was to tell me as your
appetite was bad; come now—ye didn't eat much of a breakfus' this
marnin', did ye?"
"I don't think I did, Ancient."
"A course not!" said the—old man, with a nod of profound approval—"it
aren't to be expected. Let's see, it be all o' four months since I
found ye, bean't it?"
"Four months and a few odd days," I nodded, and fell to work upon my
glowing iron bar:
"Ye'll make a tidy smith one o' these days, Peter," said the old man
encouragingly, as I straightened my back and plunged the iron back into
the fire.
"Thank you, Ancient."
"Ay—you've larned to use a 'ammer purty well, considerin', though you
be wastin' your opportoonities shameful, Peter, shameful."
"Am I, Ancient?"
"Ay, that ye be—moon can't last much longer—she be on the wane
a'ready!"
"Moon?" said I, staring.
"Ah, moon!" nodded the old man; "theer's nowt like a moon, Peter, an'
if she be at the full so much the better."
"But what have the moon and I to do with each other, Ancient?"
"Old I be, Peter, a old, old man, but I were young once, an' I tell 'ee
the moon 'as a lot more to do wi' it than some folks think—why, Lord
love 'ee! theer wouldn't be near so many children a-playin' in the sun
if it wasn't for the moon!"
"Ancient," said I, "what might you be driving at?"
"Love, Peter!"
"Love!" said I, letting go the handle of the bellows.
"An' marriage, Peter."
"What in the world—put—such thoughts into your head?"
"You did, Peter."
"I?"
"Ah!—some men is born lovers, Peter, an' you be one. I never see such
eyes as yourn afore, so burnin' 'ot they be. Ah, Peter! some maid will
see the lovelight aflame in 'em some day, an' droop 'er 'ead an' blush
an' tremble—for she'll know, Peter, she'll know; maids was made to be
loved, Peter—"
"But, Ancient, I am not the kind of man women would be attracted by. I
love books and solitude, and am called a—pedant! and, besides, I am
not of a loving sort—"
"Some men, Peter, falls in love as easy as they falls out; it comes to
some soft an' quiet—like the dawn of a summer's day, Peter; but to
others it comes like a gert an' tur'ble storm—oh, that it do! Theer's
a fire ready to burn up inside o' ye at the touch o' some woman's 'and,
or the peep o' 'er eye—ah! a fire as'll burn, an' burn, an' never go
out again—not even if you should live to be as old as I be—an' you'll
be strong an' wild an' fierce wi' it—an' some day you'll find 'er,
Peter, an' she'll find you—"
"And," said I, staring away into the distance, "do you think that, by
any possible chance, she might love me, this woman?"
"Ay, for sure," said the Ancient, "for sure she will; why don't 'ee up
an ax 'er? Wi' a fine round moon over-'ead, an' a pretty maid at your
elber, it's easy enough to tell 'er you love 'er, aren't it?"
"Indeed, yes," said I, beginning to rub my chin, "very easy!" and I
sighed.
"An' when you looks into a pair o' sweet eyes, an' sees the shine o'
the moon in 'em—why, it aren't so very fur to 'er lips, are it, Peter?
"No," said I, rubbing my chin harder than ever; "no—and there's the
danger of it."
"Wheer's t' danger, Peter?"
"Everywhere!" I answered; "in her eyes, in her thick, soft hair, the
warmth of her breath, the touch of her hand, the least contact of her
garments—her very step!"
"I knowed it!" cried the Ancient joyfully, peering at me under his
brows; "I knowed it!"
"Knew what?"
"You be in love—good lad! good lad!" and he flourished his pipe in the
air.
"In love!" I exclaimed; "in love—I?"
"Sure as sure!"
"But love, according to Aristotle, is—"
"Love, Peter, is what makes a man forget 'is breakfus', an' 'is work,
an' 'is—"
"But I work very hard—besides—"
"Love is what makes a man so brave as a lion, Peter, an' fall
a-tremblin' like a coward when She stands a-lookin' up at 'im; love
makes the green earth greener, an' the long road short—ah! almost too
short, sometimes, the love of a woman comes betwixt a man an' all evils
an' dangers—why don't 'ee up an' ax 'er, Peter?"
"She'd laugh at me, Ancient."
"Not she."
"That soft, low laugh of hers."
"Well, what o' that?"
"Besides, she hardly knows me!"
The Ancient took out his snuff-box and gave two loud double knocks upon
the lid.
"A woman knows a man sooner than a man knows a woman—ah, a sight
sooner! Why, Lord bless ye, Peter, she 'as 'im all reckoned up long
afore 'e knows for sure if 'er eyes be black 'uns or brown 'uns—that
she 'as." Here he extracted a pinch of snuff. "As for Prudence—she
loves 'ee wi' all 'er 'eart an' soul!"
"Prudence?" said I, staring.
"Ah! Prudence—I be 'er grandfeyther, an' I know."
"Prudence!" said I again.
"She 'm a 'andsome lass, an' so pretty as a picter—you said so
yourself, an' what's more, she 'm a sensible lass, an' 'll make ye as
fine a wife as ever was if only—"
"If only she loved me, Ancient."
"To be sure, Peter."
"But, you see, she doesn't."
"Eh—what? What, Peter?"
"Prudence doesn't love me!"
"Doesn't—"
"Not by any means."
"Peter—ye're jokin'."
"No, Ancient."
"But I—I be all took aback—mazed I be—not love ye, an' me wi' my
'eart set on it—are ye sure?"
"Certain."
"'Ow d'ye know?"
"She told me so."
"But—why—why shouldn't she love ye?"
"Why should she?"
"But I—I'd set my 'eart on it, Peter."
"It is very unfortunate!" said I, and began blowing up the fire.
"Peter."
"Yes, Ancient?"
"Do 'ee love she?"
"No, Ancient." The old man rose, and, hobbling forward, tapped me upon
the breast with the handle of his stick. "Then who was you a-talkin'
of, a while back—'bout 'er eyes, an' 'er 'air, an' 'er dress, an'
bein' afraid o' them?"
"To be exact, I don't know, Ancient."
"Oh, Peter!" exclaimed the old man, shaking his head, "I wonders at ye;
arter me a-thinkin' an' a-thinkin', an' a-plannin' an' a-plannin' all
these months—arter me a-sendin' Black Jarge about 'is business—"
"Ancient, what do you mean?"
"Why, didn't I out an' tell un as you was sweet on Prue—"
"Did you tell him that?" I cried.
"Ay, to be sure I did; an' what's more, I says to un often an' often,
when you wasn't by: 'Jarge,' I'd say, 'Prue's a lovely maid, an'
Peter's a fine young chap, an' they 'm beginnin' to find each other
out, they be all'us a-talkin' to each other an' a-lookin' at each
other, mornin', noon an' night!' I says; 'like as not we'll 'ave 'em
marryin' each other afore very long!' an' Jarge 'ud just wrinkle up 'is
brows, an' walk away, an' never say a word. But now—it be tur'ble
'ard to be disapp'inted like this, Peter—arter I'd set my 'eart on
it—an' me such a old man such a very ancient man. Oh, Peter! you be
full o' disapp'intments, an' all manner o' contrariness; sometimes I
a'most wishes as I'd never took the trouble to find ye at all!"
And, with this Parthian shot, the old man sighed, and turned his back
upon me, and tottered out of the forge.