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, 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 natral–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 be 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 sill 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 nay 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.
CHAPTER II
THE POSTILION
“Good Lord!” exclaimed the Postilion, and fell back a step.
“Well?” said I, meeting his astonished look as carelessly as I might.
“Lord love me!” said the Postilion.
“What now?” I inquired.
“I never see such a thing as this ‘ere,” said he, alternately glancing from me down to the outstretched figure at my feet, “if it’s bewitchments, or only enchantments, I don’t like it–strike me pink if I do!”
“What do you mean?”
“Eyes,” continued the Postilion slowly and heavily, and with his glance wandering still–“eyes, same–nose, identical–mouth, when not bloody, same–hair, same–figure, same–no, I don’t like it –it’s onnat’ral! tha’ ‘s what it is.”
“Come, come,” I broke in, somewhat testily, “don’t stand there staring like a fool–you see this gentleman is hurt.”
“Onnat’ral ‘s the word!” went on the Postilion, more as though speaking his thoughts aloud than addressing me, “it’s a onnat’ral night to begin with–seed a many bad uns in my time, but nothing to ekal this ‘ere, that I lost my way aren’t to be wondered at; then him, and her a-jumping out o’ the chaise and a-running off into the thick o’ the storm–that’s onnat’ral in the second place! and then, his face, and your face–that’s the most onnat’rallest part of it all–likewise, I never see one man in two suits o’ clothes afore, nor yet a-standing up, and a-laying down both at the same i-dentical minute–onnat’ral’s the word –and–I’m a-going.”
“Stop!” said I, as he began to move away.
“Not on no account!”
“Then I must make you,” said I, and doubled my fists.
The Postilion eyed me over from head to foot, and paused, irresolute.
“What might you be wanting with a peaceable, civil-spoke cove like me?” he inquired.
“Where is your chaise?”
“Up in the lane, som’eres over yonder,” answered he, with a vague jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.
“Then, if you will take this gentleman’s heels we can carry him well enough between us–it’s no great distance.”
“Easy!” said the Postilion, backing away again, “easy, now–what might be the matter with him, if I might make so bold–ain’t dead, is he?”
“Dead–no, fool!” I rejoined angrily.
“Voice like his, too!” muttered the Postilion, backing away still farther; “yes, onnat’ral’s the word–strike me dumb if it ain’t!”
“Come, will you do as I ask, or must I make you?”
“Why, I ain’t got no objection to taking the gent’s ‘eels, if that’s all you ask, though mind ye, if ever I see such damned onnat’ralness as this ‘ere in all my days, why–drownd me!”
So, after some delay, I found the overcoat and purse (which latter I thrust into the pocket ere wrapping the garment about him), and lifting my still unconscious antagonist between us, we started for the lane; which we eventually reached, with no little labor and difficulty. Here, more by good fortune than anything else, we presently stumbled upon a chaise and horses, drawn up in the gloom of sheltering trees, in which we deposited our limp burden as comfortably as might be, and where I made some shift to tie up the gash in his brow.
“It would be a fine thing,” said the Postilion moodily, as I, at length, closed the chaise door, “it would be a nice thing if ‘e was to go a-dying.”
“By the looks of him,” said I, “he will be swearing your head off in the next ten minutes or so.”
Without another word the Postilion set the lanthorn back in its socket, and swung himself into the saddle.
“Your best course would be to make for Tonbridge, bearing to the right when you strike the high road.”
The Postilion nodded, and, gathering up the reins, turned to stare at me once more, while I stood in the gleam of the lanthorn.
“Well?” I inquired.
“Eyes,” said he, rubbing his chin very hard, as one at a loss, “eyes, i-dentical–nose, same–mouth, when not bloody, same –‘air, same–everything, same–Lord love me!”
“Pembry would be nearer,” said I, “and the sooner he is between the sheets the better.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the Postilion with a slow nod, and drawing out the word unduly, “and talking o’ sheets and beds–what about my second passenger? I started wi’ two, and ‘ere’s only one–what about Number Two what about–‘er?”
“Her!” I repeated.
“‘Er as was with ‘im–Number One–‘er what was a-quarrelling wi’ Number One all the way from London ‘er as run away from Number One into the wood, yonder, what about Number Two–‘er?”
“Why, to be sure–I had forgotten her!”
“Forgotten?” repeated the Postilion, “Oh, Lord, yes!” and leaning over, he winked one eye, very deliberately; “forgotten ‘er–ah! –to be sure–of course!” and he winked again.
“What do you mean?” I demanded, nettled by the fellow’s manner.
“Mean?” said he, “I means as of all the damned onnat’ralness as come on a honest, well-meaning, civil-spoke cove–why, I’m that there cove, so ‘elp me!” Saying which, he cracked his whip, the horses plunged forward, and, almost immediately, as it seemed, horses, chaise, and Postilion had lurched into the black murk of the night and vanished.
CHAPTER III
WHICH BEARS AMPLE TESTIMONY TO THE STRENGTH OF THE GENTLEMAN’S FISTS
Considering all that had befallen during the last half-hour or so, it was not very surprising, I think, that I should have forgotten the very existence of this woman Charmian, even though she had been chiefly instrumental in bringing it all about, and to have her recalled to my recollection thus suddenly (and, moreover, the possibility that I must meet with and talk to her) perturbed me greatly, and I remained, for some time, quite oblivious to wind and rain, all engrossed by the thought of this woman.
“A dark, fierce, Amazonian creature!” I told myself, who had (abhorrent thought) already attempted one man’s life to-night; furthermore, a tall woman, and strong (therefore unmaidenly), with eyes that gleamed wild in the shadow of her hair. And yet my dismay arose not so much from any of these as from the fact that she was a woman, and, consequently, beyond my ken.
Hitherto I had regarded the sex very much from a distance, and a little askance, as creatures naturally illogical, and given to unreasoning impulse; delicate, ethereal beings whose lives were made up of petty trifles and vanities, who were sent into this gross world to be admired, petted, occasionally worshipped, and frequently married.
Indeed, my education, in this direction, had been shockingly neglected thus far, not so much from lack of inclination (for who can deny the fascination of the Sex?) as for lack of time and opportunity; for when, as a young gentleman of means and great expectations, I should have been writing sonnets to the eyebrow of some “ladye fayre,” or surreptitiously wooing some farmer’s daughter, in common with my kind, I was hearkening to the plaint of some Greek or Roman lover, or chuckling over old Brantome.
Thus, women were to me practically an unknown quantity, as yet, and hence it was with no little trepidation that I now started out for the cottage, and this truly Amazonian Charmian, unless she had disappeared as suddenly as she had come (which I found myself devoutly hoping).
As I went, I became conscious that I was bleeding copiously above the brow, that my throat was much swollen, and that the thumb of my right hand pained exceedingly at the least touch; added to which was a dizziness of the head, and a general soreness of body, that testified to the strength of my opponent’s fists.
On I stumbled, my head bent low against the stinging rain, and with uncertain, clumsy feet, for reaction had come, and with it a deadly faintness. Twigs swung out of the darkness to lash at and catch me as I passed, invisible trees creaked and groaned above and around me, and once, as I paused to make more certain of my direction, a dim, vague mass plunged down athwart my path with a rending crash.
On I went (wearily enough, and with the faintness growing upon me, a sickness that would not be fought down), guiding my course by touch rather than sight, until, finding myself at fault, I stopped again, staring about me beneath my hand. Yet, feeling the faintness increase with inaction, I started forward, groping before me as I went; I had gone but a few paces, however, when I tripped over some obstacle, and fell heavily. It wanted but this to complete my misery, and I lay where I was, overcome by a deadly nausea.
Now presently, as I lay thus, spent and sick, I became aware of a soft glow, a brightness that seemingly played all around me, wherefore, lifting my heavy head, I beheld a ray of light that pierced the gloom, a long, gleaming vista jewelled by falling raindrops, whose brilliance was blurred, now and then, by the flitting shapes of wind-tossed branches. At sight of this my strength revived, and rising, I staggered on towards this welcome light, and thus I saw that it streamed from the window of my cottage. Even then, it seemed, I journeyed miles before I felt the latch beneath my fingers, and fumbling, opened the door, stumbled in, and closed it after me.
For a space I stood dazed by the sudden light, and then, little by little, noticed that the table and chairs had been righted, that the fire had been mended, and that candles burned brightly upon the mantel. All this I saw but dimly, for there was a mist before my eyes; yet I was conscious that the girl had leapt up on my entrance, and now stood fronting me across the table.
“You!” said she, in a low, repressed voice–“you?”
Now, as she spoke, I saw the glitter of steel in her hand.
“Keep back!” she said, in the same subdued tone, “keep back–I warn you!” But I only leaned there against the door, even as she had done; indeed, I doubt if I could have moved just then, had I tried. And, as I stood thus, hanging my head, and not answering her, she stamped her foot suddenly, and laughed a short, fierce laugh.
“So–he has hurt you?” she cried; “you are all blood–it is running down your face–the Country Bumpkin has hurt you! Oh, I am glad! glad! glad!” and she laughed again. “I might have run away,” she went on mockingly, “but you see–I was prepared for you,” and she held up the knife, “prepared for you–and now–you are pale, and hurt, and faint–yes, you are faint–the Country Bumpkin has done his work well. I shall not need this, after all–see!” And she flung the knife upon the table.
“Yes–it is better–there,” said I, “and I think–madam–is –mistaken.”
“Mistaken?” she cried, with a sudden catch in her voice, “what –what do you mean?”
“That I–am–the Bumpkin!” said I.
Now, as I spoke, a black mist enveloped all things, my knees loosened suddenly, and stumbling forward, I sank into a chair. “I am–very–tired!” I sighed, and so, as it seemed, fell asleep.
CHAPTER IV
WHICH, AMONG OTHER MATTERS, HAS TO DO WITH BRUISES AND BANDAGES
She was on her knees beside me, bathing my battered face, talking all the while in a soft voice that I thought wonderfully sweet to hear.
“Poor boy!” she was saying, over and over again, “poor boy!” And after she had said it, perhaps a dozen times, I opened my eyes and looked at her.
“Madam, I am twenty-five!” said I. Hereupon, sponge in hand, she drew back and looked at me.
A wonderful face–low-browed, deep-eyed, full-lipped. The eyes were dark and swiftly changeful, and there was a subtle witchery in the slanting shadow of their lashes.
“Twenty-five!” she repeated, “can it really be?”
“Why not, madam?”
“So very young?”
“Why–” I began, greatly taken aback. “Indeed, I–that is–“
But here she laughed and then she sighed, and sighing, shook her head.
“Poor boy!” said she, “poor boy!” And, when I would have retorted, she stopped me with the sponge.
“Your mouth is cut,” said she, after a while, “and there is a great gash in your brow.”
“But the water feels delicious!” said I.
“And your throat is all scratched and swollen!”
“But your hands are very gentle and soothing!”
“I don’t hurt you, then?”
“On the contrary, the–the pain is very trifling, thank you.”
“Yet you fainted a little while ago.”
“Then it was very foolish of me.”
“Poor–” she hesitated, and looking up at her through the trickling water, I saw that she was smiling.
“–fellow!” said she. And her lips were very sweet, and her eyes very soft and tender–for an Amazon.
And, when she had washed the blood from my face, she went to fetch clean water from where I kept it in a bucket in the corner.
Now, at my elbow, upon the table, lay the knife, a heavy, clumsy contrivance I had bought to use in my carpentry, and I now, mechanically, picked it up. As I did so the light gleamed evilly upon its long blade.
“Put it down!” she commanded; “put it away–it is a hateful thing!”
“For a woman’s hand,” I added, “so hideously unfeminine!”
“Some men are so hatefully–hideously–masculine!” she retorted, her lip curling. “I expected–him–and you are terribly like him.”
“As to that,” said I, “I may have the same colored eyes and hair, and be something of the same build–“
“Yes,” she nodded, “it was your build, and the color of your eyes and hair that–startled me.”
“But, after all,” said I, “the similarity is only skin-deep, and goes no farther.”
“No,” she answered, kneeling beside me again; “no, you are–only twenty-five!” And, as she said this, her eyes were hidden by her lashes.
“Twenty-five is–twenty-five!” said I, more sharply than before.
“Why do you smile?”
“The water is all dripping from your nose and chin!–stoop lower over the basin.”
“And yet,” said I, as well as I could on account of the trickling water, for she was bathing my face again, “and yet, you must be years younger than I.”
“But then, some women always feel older than a man–more especially if he is hurt.”
“Thank you,” said I, “thank you; with the exception of a scratch, or so, I am very well!” But, as I moved, I caught my thumb clumsily against the table-edge, and winced with the sudden pain of it.
“What is it–your hand?”
“My thumb.”
“Let me see?” Obediently I stretched out my hand to her.
“Is it broken?”
“Dislocated, I think.”
“It is greatly swollen!”
“Yes,” said I, and taking firm hold of it with my left hand, I gave it a sudden pull which started the sweat upon my temples, but sent it back into joint.
“Poor–“
“Well?” said I, as she hesitated.
“–man!” said she, and touched the swollen hand very tenderly with her fingers.
“You do not fear me any longer?”
“No.”
“In spite of my eyes and hair?”
“In spite of your eyes and hair–you see, a woman knows instinctively whom she must fear and whom not to fear.”
“Well?”
“And you are one I do not fear, and, I think, never should.”
“Hum!” said I, rubbing my chin, “I am only twenty-five!”
“Twenty-five is–twenty-five!” said she demurely.
“And yet, I am very like–him–you said so yourself!”
“Him!” she exclaimed, starting. “I had forgotten all about him. Where is he–what has become of him?” and she glanced apprehensively towards the door.
“Half way to Tonbridge–or should be by now.”
“Tonbridge!” said she, in a tone of amazement, and turned to look at me again.
“Tonbridge!” I repeated.
“But he is not the man to–to run away,” said she doubtfully –“even from you.”
“No, indeed!” said I, shaking my head, “he certainly did not run away, but circumstances–and a stone, were too much–even for him.”
“A stone?”
“Upon which he–happened to fall, and strike his head–very fortunately for me.”
“Was he–much hurt?”
“Stunned only,” I answered.
She was still kneeling beside my chair, but now she sat back, and turned to stare into the fire. And, as she sat, I noticed how full and round and white her arms were, for her sleeves were rolled high, and that the hand, which yet held the sponge, was