Diogenes the sturdy pony trotted at such good pace that where the ways were rough the Tinker's light cart creaked and lurched until the tins wherewith it was festooned rattled and clinked and I, perched precariously on the tailboard, legs a-swing, was fain to hold on lest I be precipitated into the ditch, yet felt myself ridiculously happy notwithstanding.
Thus we bumped and jingled through shady lanes and pleasant byways, I for one, seldom speaking, content to watch tree and hedge flit by and the ever-changing prospect beyond, though often turning to glimpse Diana's shapely back where she sat on the driving seat beside the Tinker; and at such times often it would happen she would glance round also, and thus our glances would meet and as we gazed, slowly but surely the colour would deepen in her cheek, her long lashes would flicker and droop, and she would turn away and I full of wonder and an infinite joy, marvelling that I could ever have thought such eyes hard, bold and unfeminine. Thus, albeit perched so precariously on the swaying tailboard I was none the less marvellously content.
O Diogenes of the plodding hoofs! O creaking wheels, O tinkling pots and pans, had I but possessed the wisdom to understand your oft-repeated message, how much of doubt, of grief and pain I might have spared myself.
Suddenly Diana hailed and waved her hand, the Tinker checked Diogenes in full career, and with a jingling clank the cart pulled up as a man sprang lightly forth of the dry ditch wherein he had been sitting, a man of no great stature but clean-limbed and shapely, despite rough and dusty clothes,—a keen-eyed, short-nosed, square-jawed fellow whose mouth had a humorous twist.
"Why, Jessamy," said Diana, leaning down to give him her hand, "'t is good t' see you!"
"And so it is, lad!" nodded the Tinker. "How goeth the good work?"
"Fairish, Jeremy, fairish!" answered Jessamy, in a sweet voice peculiarly rich and mellow. "Old Nick's a toughish customer d'ye see, and a glutton for punishment; wind him, cross-buttock him or floor him wi' a leveller amidships, but he'll come up smiling next round, ready and willin' for more, an' fight back at you 'ard as ever, alas!"
Here I got down from the cart that I might better behold the speaker, who now turned to glance at me with a pair of the kindliest blue eyes I had ever seen.
"Jessamy," said Diana, "this is my—my friend Peregrine as do want you to teach him the game."
"The game," repeated Jessamy, shaking his head a little ruefully, "the game's all vanity and vexation o' spirit! Besides, your young friend don't look cut out for the ring—"
"Lord, Jess, he don't want to be a fighter! Peregrine only wants to know how—"
"Why, that's different," sighed the ex-pugilistic champion, "though I ain't got the heart nor yet the time to teach any one—"
"But I want you to, Jessamy," said Diana imperiously.
"Why, that's different again, Anna, and so I don't mind showing him a thing or two if time and opportoonity offer."
"Are ye for Tonbridge Fair, Jessamy?" enquired the Tinker.
"I am so, Jerry. I'm a-marching, comrade, wi' royals and studden-sails set, messmate, and all for the glory o' the Lord, brother."
"Then if you'm be minded for a lift, Jessamy, there be room for ye alongside Peregrine!" Up we mounted forthwith, the Tinker gave Diogenes his head, and we bumped and jingled on our way.
"Pray, Mr. Todd," I gasped, as we clutched and swayed together, "may I enquire if you have been a soldier or a sailor?"
"Both, brother," he answered, "I was a powder-boy aboard the oldBully-Sawyer—a powder-monkey and sat on my tub?"
"But why on a tub?"
"In case o' sparks from the guns—broadside agin' the wind—"
"What—have you been in action?"
"For sure, brother—"
"Ah!" I exclaimed eagerly. "Tell me about it."
"I can't, brother—all as I remember is sparks and flame—the roar of the guns—screams and cries—blood and—things as no eyes should see and bad to think on—and me squatting on my tub amidst it all—wanting my mother. Later on I turned soldier and didn't find that life a bed o' roses either; to-day I'm a soldier o' the Lord ready to fight, sing and preach to His glory, and ever ready to cheat Old Nick o' what don't belong to him—"
"What do you mean?"
"Souls, brother. I plucks brands from the burning with j'y and gather sheaves with gratitood. You've 'eard o' body-snatchers, I suppose?"
"I have."
"Well, I'm a soul-snatcher. I snatches 'em to the Lord whensoever and wheresoever I can, brother."
"But surely," I demurred, "the soul, which is an abstraction, a part of the Infinite and thus of God Himself, is therefore imperishable. Socrates taught this, Pantheism is based on this, the arguments of the Peripatetic Philosophers all trend to this belief, and Christ preached the Soul's immortality and life after death. Thus, if the Soul is immortal and cannot perish, how may it be saved?"
"By the Blood o' the Lamb, brother; otherwise ye shall be cast into outer darkness to weep and gnash."
"But why?"
"For sins, committed in the flesh and unrepented."
"Supposing a man sins daily for threescore years and ten and dies unrepentant, must he go down to hell and be tormented for ever and ever for so short a time of sinning?"
"He must, brother, alas!"
"Horrible!" I cried. "Horrible, and most unjust."
"Why, it do seem a bit 'ard to the likes o' we, brother, but then we only see as through a glass darkly. God is a just God, a jealous God and a God o' Vengeance; 't is in the Book—"
"Then this is not Christ's Heavenly Father, but Jehovah, the blood-spattered deity of the Jews, a God of battles, of sacrifices and death, a God pitiless and without mercy. But man's soul, being conceived of the Infinite Mind, may never utterly perish even though corrupt with sin or debased by ignorance, for even then that divine Spark which is the very life of the soul shall sooner or later grow to a flame, burning up the evil, lighting the gloom of ignorance until in course of time, years, ages, or aeons, the soul purified and perfected shall win back to the God whence it came!"
For a full minute after I had ended Jessamy Todd was silent, staring from me to the cloudless sky and back again with a look of growing perplexity; at length he spoke:
"You've seen better days, brother, I'm thinking."
"No, indeed," I answered, "never so good as these."
"I'm likewise thinkin' as your speech and talk don't rightly match your rig-out, brother."
"Which, on the whole, is just as well," I answered.
"And you've read and learned a lot from books, brother."
"But you have read a better book, friend Todd, and much more of it."
"Ah, you mean this, brother?" said he, taking out a small, well-wornBible.
"I mean the Book of Life," I answered; "you have lived while I have only dreamed, so far."
"Why, to be sure, I've seen a good deal o' life and something o' death, one way or another. I've known friendship and loneliness, plenty and poverty, been hooted and cheered and had a prince shake my fist—"
"What for?"
"'T was arter I'd beat the Chelsea Snob, him as licked the Bristol Slasher; they thought the Snob would eat me but—ah, well these were days o' vanity, brother, and no grace about me—no, not a ha'porth."
"Please tell me of it."
"Well, I was fighting for Sir Jervas then, him they call 'TheFirebrand'—"
"Do you mean Sir Jervas Vereker?"
"Aye, I do—one o' the bang-up nobs, a tip o' the tippies, but the best sportsman and truest friend ever man fought for—"
"Good!" quoth I.
"D'ye happen to know him, brother?" enquired Jessamy, with another look of mild surprise.
"I begin to think I do not," I answered. "Pray, why is he called 'TheFirebrand'?"
"Because he's allus so precious cool, I reckon."
"Well, pray continue," I urged.
But at this moment we became aware of a confused uproar, a ribaldry of laughter and shouting. Round I started, to see we were approaching a small inn, with a sign bearing the legend "The Ring o' Bells," before which inn stood a number of vehicles and a rough crowd of merrymakers who danced and sang and flourished ale-pots. Beholding this unholy company, my alarm grew, for it seemed their vociferations were directed at us.
"Pull up, Tinker—pull up and drink wi' us!" roared one.
"Aye—a drink, a drink, come down an' drink!" cried another.
"And bring the gal along wi' ye!" cried a third.
Suddenly, seeing Jeremy heeded them no whit, a big, swaggering fellow stepped forward, a flashily dressed herculean figure in tops and cords, his high-collared, brass-buttoned coat moulding a mighty chest and spread of shoulder; which formidable person now advanced upon us flourishing a quart pot and with divers of the riotous company at his heels. No honest, sun-burned rustics these, but pallid, narrow-eyed folk whose half-furtive, half-hectoring air gave me a sense of evil streets, of dark alleys and dens where iniquity lurked, and my alarm and abhorrence waxed acute, finding vent in words:
"What vile wretches!"
"Not so, brother!" answered Jessamy, viewing them with his kindly eyes where they had halted across the road, barring our advance. "No, brother, these are all souls to be snatched to the Lord, one way or t' other, brands to be plucked from the—"
"Pull up, Tinker!" roared the big fellow threateningly. "You've got a lass there as I likes the looks on; pull up, d'ye hear! Look at the shape of 'er!" quoth he, pointing out Diana to his companions. "A tidy piece—eh, my bucks an' pippins?"
Here rose an answering chorus of laughing profanity and worse, amongst which I caught the words, "Pretty filly!" "A dainty tit!" "A kiss all round, Tom! Share an' share, Tom!" "Oho, Tinker, pull an' be damned t' ye!"
Instead of complying, Jeremy touched the pony to faster pace and with a jingling clash of tinware we bore down upon this lewd-tongued company which, howling obscenity, scattered promptly right and left—all except the big man Tom who, with a dexterous leap, caught the rein, jerking and wrenching at the bit with hand so cruelly strong that the poor animal reared up, snorting with fright and pain and the cart came to a lurching standstill.
"Didn't ye hear me tell ye to pull up?" demanded the man Tom, scowling. "When I says a thing, I means it. And now, first of all I wants a kiss from the gal an' then—"
"Stand off, ye vermin!" quoth Jeremy and, reaching down beneath the seat, whipped out a long-barrelled pistol and levelled it full into Tom's big, evil face, whereupon my trembling hand loosed the saucepan I had clutched as a weapon and I stared from the tense features of the two men to the calm, coldly contemptuous face of Diana. Then spake Jessamy Todd:
"All right, Jerry! Put up your barker; here's where I climb into the ring for a round wi' Old Nick," and taking off his frayed hat he sent it spinning through the air to the big man's feet, who promptly kicked it into the ditch.
"Open your trap an' I'll serve ye the same!" snarled the fellow.
"Good!" answered Jessamy cheerily, and alighting from the cart he walked slowly towards the speaker, viewing the big man over with kindly eyes, though his square chin jutted somewhat.
"Friends and brothers," quoth he, throwing out his arms, "I'm a man o' peace as cometh afore you wi' peace in his heart and the Word o' the Lord upon his tongue—" Now at this, some laughed, some cursed blasphemously, and one began a song so unspeakably vile that my ears tingled, and hot with shame I stole a glance at Diana, who sat watching Jessamy's good-tempered face, calmly serene and apparently utterly unconscious.
"And I love ye, friends and brothers," continued Jessamy, "because you be all tabernacles o' the Lord, 'spite o' your beastly ways, and formed in His image, for all your ugly mugs. Why therefore will ye desecrate the tabernacle and debase His image—"
The cheery, musical voice was drowned by shouts and obscene objurgations, while the big fellow, seeing the Tinker had laid by his pistol, clenched brawny fists, shot out brutal jaw and glared at Jessamy in murderous fashion, whereupon the excited crowd, swollen now considerably, hooted and clamoured, pushed and jostled all about us in a very threatening manner, so that my hand instinctively clenched itself on the saucepan again and I crept nearer to Diana.
"Set about 'im, Tom! Ah, break 'is nob, lad!" bellowed the swaying crowd. "Show 'im 'ow you laid out the 'North-country Collier,' Tom. Knock out 'is ivories—choke 'im wi' your famble!"
"Hark 'ee, friend Tom," said Jessamy, apparently quite unmoved by the growing hostility of the rabble, "I love ye, Tom! And I love ye, first because you're a child o' God, though to be sure ye don't look it, Tom!" Here Tom unbuttoned and tossed aside his tight-fitting coat. "And secondly," pursued Jessamy, "I love ye because somewhere inside o' ye you've got an immortal soul—of a kind, Tom, that the Lord holdeth precious and beyond rubies—though only the Lord knoweth why, Tom." Here the big man tightened his belt and proceeded to roll up his sleeves. "Therefore, Tom," continued Jessamy, watching these preparations with kindly interest, "therefore, 't is your soul as I'm after and the souls of all these pals o' yours—these poor lost lambs as look so uncommonly like wolves, Tom. Howbeit—"
Uttering a scornful oath, Tom snatched an ale mug from one near by and dashed its contents into Jessamy's face, whereupon rose a yell of fierce laughter and acclaim.
"And now, Tom lad," sighed Jessamy, his blue eyes mild as ever, while the liquid dripped from the great jut of his chin, "now, dear friend, let's you an' me pray together!" Then, lifting his face to the cloudless sky, Jessamy began thus, while Tom and his fellows stared mute with amazement or perhaps awed by something in that shapely, patient, yet grimly alert figure:
"O Lord who looketh into all hearts and in every heart can find something good among the evil—aye, Lord, even in this Tom's heart, since he is child o' Thine—grant that I, Thy humble instrument, may rouse the good within Thy Tom's heart one way or t' other, either by reason and gentleness or force and—"
I uttered a gasping, inarticulate cry of warning but in that instant Jessamy moved his head an inch or so and the heavy pewter tankard that should have brained him flew harmlessly by and rolled clattering a good twenty paces behind him.
"Ah, Peregrine," said Diana in sighing whisper, "O Peregrine—watch Jessamy—watch!" And as she spoke the big fellow rushed. On he came, head lowered, mighty fists whirling, to butt and smite, but Jessamy moved also, slightly, but enough, and as his terrible assailant blundered past, smote him lightly on the crown with open palm.
"Lord, Tom lad," he admonished in his clear, ringing tones, "that's a fool's way to set about harming your brother. Give over, Tom, give over and let's pray instead." Uttering a furious oath, Tom swung about and smote fiercely with right and left. But ducking the blows, Jessamy slipped nimbly aside, shaking his head in mild reproof.
"Come, come, Tom," said he; "can't ye see you're as harmless as a bleatin' lamb or cooin' dove? I've no wish to hurt ye, so let's ha' done and get on with our prayers—"
"Fight!" roared Tom, beside himself with fury. "Stand up an' fight, you—" and here followed a torrent of foulest invective and abuse.
"So be it!" said Jessamy. "Though I warned ye, and Lord knows I've been patient. But if ye will, ye will, so, being a man o' peace, I'll finish ye comfortable and quick—come on, my poor lad!"
Tom came; with a rush that it seemed nothing might withstand, he hurled himself upon that quiet figure, mighty shoulders hunched, huge body quivering, eager for the fray; ensued a quick, brief trample of feet, the swift play of merciless arms, of mighty fists that smote the air, and then I saw the upward flash of Jessamy's left, heard the impact of a dreadful blow, and as Tom's head and shoulders jerked violently up, I saw the flash of Jessamy's right and the great body of his assailant, rocked and shaken by these two unerring, terrible blows, shrank horribly upon itself, rolled a limp and twisted heap in the dust, and lay still, with Jessamy poised above him, his kindly features transfigured with a wild and terrible joy. For a long, breathless moment Jessamy stood thus above the great, huddled form of his insensible antagonist, and for that moment no one moved, it seemed, and never a word spoken; then Jessamy sighed, shook his head, clasped his hands and looking up to heaven, prayed thus, none daring to interrupt:
"Lord, seeing force and conflict was needful, let it not be in vain but forgive, I beseech Thee, my unholy joy therein. As Thy servant's fist smote this Thy son's flesh, so may Thy Truth smite his heart and he come to Thy grace thereby!"
This supplication ended, he turned to a pale-faced, gaping individual who stood near by, a slopping tankard grasped in nerveless hand.
"Friend," says Jessamy, "I'll trouble you for your ale." The man gave it eagerly:
"Lord, sir," said he, grinning ingratiatingly, "you did Tom up in proper style and no mistake." Stern-faced, Jessamy turned, and, stooping above his prostrate and still unconscious antagonist, dashed the ale into his bloody face, whereupon Tom groaned and stirred feebly.
"Ale be good stuff—sometimes, took externally, which is a Latin wordmeaning not in the stomach!" said Jessamy, and setting an arm beneathTom's battered head, lifted him to a sitting posture. "How are ye now,Tom?" he enquired.
"Bad, damned bad!" groaned Tom. "To hit a man—wi' a brick—ain't theChristian way to fight; it ain't Johnny Bull."
"Here's your brick, friend Tom," said Jessamy, showing his brawny fist.
"Why, then—who—who are ye?" stammered Tom.
"I'm Jessamy Todd, preacher, man o' peace—and your friend, if you'll ha' me, Tom."
"Jessamy—Jessamy Todd? You? O Lord, I'm bit! Jessamy Todd—why, then, no wonder."
And now the crowd caught up the name, speeding it from lip to lip.
"Jessamy Todd! It be Jessamy Todd!"
"Can ye walk, friend Tom?"
"I think so."
"Then up wi' you and along o' me into the 'Ring o' Bells'; I'll soon make ye comfortable, an' then you an' me will pray together, shall us, friend?"
"As ye will!" mumbled Tom. So, having aided his late antagonist to rise, Jessamy turned to nod and smile at us.
"Drive on, brothers," said he, "I must bide here awhile on the Lord's business, so drive on. I'll look for ye at the fair."
My stiffened fingers loosed the saucepan handle, for now all about us were faces that smiled and nodded cheerily, and as we jingled on our way again, the fickle crowd, their animosity quite forgotten, saluted us with ringing cheer.
A hoarse clamour upon the air, shouts, laughter, the bray of horns, throbbing of drums, clashing of cymbals and tinkling of bells: a pandemonium that deafened me, a blatant uproar that shocked and distressed me as I stood, amid the hurly-burly of the fair—in it, not of it—staring about me for some glimpse of Diana or the Tinker who had vanished amid the surging crowd hours ago, it seemed, and whom I had sought vainly ever since.
Thus I wandered, lost and none too happy, amid a jumble of carts and waggons, carriages and country wains, of booths and stalls and tents; amid a restless, seething crowd of people who pushed and strove more or less good-naturedly. Among all these unfamiliar sights and sounds I ranged disconsolate, awed by the vast concourse, deafened by the universal uproar, and not a little disgusted by the coarse humour and rough horse-play of this truly motley throng.
On I went, a lost soul, pushed and jostled; past rows of gaudy tents and shows, each with its platform before it, where men and women, in outlandish livery and spangled tights, danced and sang, cracked broad jokes, beat drums, blew horns, or strove to out-roar each other in crying up their respective wares and wonders. One in especial drew my notice,—a stout, bull-necked Stentor in mighty cocked hat, whose brassy voice boomed and bellowed high above the din, so that I paused to observe him in wondering disgust.
"In meat alone—in meat alone!" he roared. "Will eat 'is weight in meat alone! The famous and fab'lous Franko o' Florence, the fire-eatin', flame-swallerin', fat feller as weighs thirty-two stone if a hounce—seein's believin'—and all for a tanner—a tanner! Sixpence an' no more! Come and see Franko the fattest feller o' Florence as will eat fire, devour glass and swaller swords, and all for sixpence—for sixpence! See Franko as will dance ye a hornpipe, breakdown or double-shuffle wi' helegance and hease, bein' nippy, neat and nimble though weighin' thirty-two stone, seein's believin'—and all for a tanner—a tanner! Walk up, ladies and gents, an' don't be shy; walk up an' shake 'ands wi' Franko the fab'lous fat feller as can sing ye, dance ye, tell fortun's, forecast the future, cast 'orrer-scopes, strike na-tivities or stand on 'is 'ead—and all for sixpence—for sixpence!"
In this fashion, or much like it, he held forth tirelessly until, chancing to meet my wide-eyed gaze, he immediately singled me out for his remarks thus:
"Wot O, my Lord, wot O! You in the nobby 'at an' patched unmentionables—wot O! Walk up, Tom-noddy, my lord, walk up and spend a tanner; never mind your breeches, walk up an' see the stoopendious fat feller as could swaller ye, breeches, patches, 'at an' all, an' never blink a heyelid—a man as can swaller 'is wight in meat alone—in meat alone!
Walk up, my lord, an' see FrankoBreeches or no, my lord, breeches or no!"
This sorry and meaningless jingle set the immediate crowd in a roar. I became an object for ribald laughter and cheers; I was pushed and hustled, albeit good-naturedly enough, but none the less to my great annoyance, so that I made all haste to wriggle away and, espying a narrow lane between these canvas booths and tents, I slipped into it, took to my heels and turning a sharp corner in full career, came thus upon an ancient man who sat upon a box, puffing serenely at a long pipe and who, despite my so sudden appearance, merely glanced at me with a pair of keen, bright eyes and wished me "Good-day." Hereupon I stopped and, because I had very nearly upset him, took off my hat, bowed, and humbly craved his pardon; at this he gave me a second and keener glance and uncovering his white head, returned my salute with grave punctilio.
He was a slight, spare old man habited in shabby garments of a quaint, old-world fashion, but in his upright carriage was an impressive dignity, in his vigorous gestures, quick eyes and strongly marked, resolute features an air of command, a latent power very arresting.
"I fear I startled you, sir!" said I.
"I am not readily startled," he answered, "though indeed this very afternoon I was beset by gipsy rogues hereabouts and rescued from their clutches by a young Amazon of a remarkable beauty and a rare intelligence. Youth is ever impetuous, though I trust your so passionate speed does not argue depredations upon your neighbour's goods; you are not a runaway pickpocket, I hope?"
"Indeed, no, sir!" I answered, and briefly narrated the reason of my flight.
"Hum!" ejaculated the aged person and sat puffing his pipe and regarding me with such close scrutiny that I grew a little uneasy.
"I trust that you believe me, sir?" said I.
"Entirely, sir!" he answered with a quick, decisive nod. "For I perceive that you are a gentleman. Therefore, if you have the time and inclination, pray sit down and let us talk awhile."
"Willingly, sir," said I, seating myself upon the grass, "for it is at least quieter here, and I will confess the crowd with its tumultuous turmoil and sordid vulgarity offends me greatly."
"Indeed, sir!" said my companion. "And yet it is simply to listen to what you term offensive and vulgar turmoil that I am here. For, sir, yonder clamour, being inarticulate, may speak infinitely to such as hearken understandingly, being one of Nature's awful voices, a very symphony of Life. Heard separately, each sound is an offence, I admit, but blent thus together they become akin to the incessant surge of ocean, the roar of foaming cataracts, the voice of some rushing, mighty wind, and these are the elemental music of God."
"Indeed, sir," said I, "sitting here with you sufficiently remote from the crowd's too-familiar contact, I can begin to appreciate the wisdom of your remarks."
"Yet you speak a little disdainfully, I think, sir! But what is there more proper to the contemplation of a philosopher than a concourse of human beings? How compelling its interest, how infinite its variety! The good rub shoulders with the evil, the merry with the sad, the murderer with his victim, each formed alike yet each different—"
All at once as I listened, my attention was distracted by a face that projected itself suddenly through the canvas of an adjacent tent, an evil, stealthy face with narrowed eyes that watched us furtively a while and was suddenly gone; my companion espied it also, it seemed, for he sighed a little impatiently. "Tush, young sir!" said he. "Will you allow the face of a peeping rogue to alienate your mind from a conversation that promises to become interesting?"
"But sir," said I, rising somewhat hurriedly, "this place is suggestively lonely; I think we were wiser to retire—"
"Go if you will, young sir," broke in my strange companion a little grimly, "hasten away by all means, but I remain here."
"As you will, sir," I answered and sat down again, though careful to keep my eyes in the one direction.
"Sir," continued the aged person, "I have seen much of men and cities,I have journeyed in the desolate places of the world, but—"
Uttering a warning cry, I sprang to my feet as three men appeared, desperate-seeming fellows who approached us with a very evident intention: but suddenly, as I watched them in sweating panic, I heard a sharp click behind me, and immediately they halted all three, their ferocious looks smitten to surprised dismay—and glancing over my shoulder I beheld the aged person still puffing serenely at his pipe but with his slender right hand grasping a small, silver-mounted pistol levelled at our would-be aggressors across his knee. And there was something very terrible, I thought, in his imperturbable serenity.
"Rogues! Rascals!" sighed he. "To rob is sinful, to disturb the excogitations of philosophers is blasphemous. I found it necessary to shoot one of your sort recently—and why not again?"
At this the three began to whine while the ancient person hearkened and puffed his pipe, viewing them with eyes of scorn.
"Oh, begone!" said he. "See you do not trouble me again, lest I prove better citizen next time and rid the country of you once and for all." Scarcely had the words left his lips than the cowed ruffians made off so hastily that they might have vanished into thin air.
"And now, sir," said my companion, carefully uncocking the pistol ere he pocketed it, "let us continue our so agreeable conversation. A crowd of humans, sir, to my mind is a mystery deep as ocean, sublime as the starry firmament, for who shall divine the thoughts, hopes, passions and desires animating its many various and component entities? Moreover, though composed of many different souls, it may yet possess but one in common, to be swayed to mirth and anger, lifted to a reverent ecstasy or fired to bloody vengeance and merciless destruction. What is there can give any just conception of a mystery so complex?"
"Surely nothing, sir," said I.
"Nay, young sir, therein I venture to think you are wrong, for we possess a divine joy, a soul medium, a very gift of God and we call it,—music, sir. To such as have ears, music is the speech of Gods, of the Infinite, soaring far above mere words, revealing the unconceived, speaking forth the unthinkable."
"And what, sir, is the unthinkable?" I questioned.
"That which flashes upon a man's consciousness without the labour of thought, an intimate cognizance of—What the devil is it now, Atkinson?" he broke off so suddenly that I started and, glancing up, beheld an extremely neat, grave, sedate personage who removed his hat to bow, and advancing deferentially, stooped sleek head to murmur discreetly in my aged companion's ear.
"Tell 'em I'm engaged; bid 'em be hanged—no, say I'll come!" The grave personage bowed again and moved sedately off.
"Young sir," sighed my companion, rising, "I have found you particularly interesting, your arguments well-founded, your views on music particularly arresting. It grieves me, therefore, to depart, but duty calls. Pray oblige me with your arm, for I am a little lame. A bullet, sir!" he volunteered as he limped beside me. "A shattered knee-cap to remind me of my vivid youth, an awkward limp to keep in my mind the lovely cause—aha, she was all clinging tenderness and plump as a partridge then. I was her Eugenio and she my Sacharissa—a withered crone to-day, sir, and, alas, most inelegantly slim, I hear—bones, a temper, an eagle's beak and nut-cracker chin! Aye, me—what changes time doth ring—eheu! fugaces!"
"And what of—him, sir, your opponent?" I ventured to ask.
"Was necessitated to buy himself a new hat, seeing I'd peppered the one he wore, young sir."
Now at this moment, my gaze chancing to be turned earthwards, I espied a pair of elegant though very dirty boots that strode us-wards, jingling their spurs in oddly familiar manner; therefore I glanced up, beholding in turn white buckskin breeches, flowered waistcoat, bottle-green coat with twinkling silver buttons, the frill of an ample shirt-front and above, the square, dimpled chin, shapely nose and resolute blue eyes of my uncle George who, flourishing off his hat, advanced towards us, his handsome face beaming in cheery welcome.
"Well met, my Lord!" he exclaimed, grasping the ancient person's hand."You've heard the fight's off?"
"Is it, George? I grieve!"
"Yes, it seems Jerningham's man Croxton—The 'Thunderbolt'—fell foul of a harmless-looking customer on his way here, and who should it be but Jessamy himself. So they fought there instead of here, and The 'Thunderbolt's' bolt is shot, sir—and that's the dooce of it—the whole thing's a bite!"
"Bite indeed, George!" agreed his lordship, shaking white head until his shabby hat toppled. "Though, to be sure, my money is on Jessamy. But indeed the affair slipped my memory—old age, George! However, Fortune was so kind as to send me this young gentleman, a youth of remarkably sound ideas, Sir George; his conception of the ethics of music, for instance—"
My uncle George glanced at me, stared, uttered an unintelligible sound and fell back, gaping.
"How are you, Uncle George!" said I, and removing my shapeless hat, I bowed.
"Ha?" exclaimed his lordship. "You would seem to be acquainted with each other! Pray, George, have the goodness to introduce us."
"My lord, this—this is my nephew, Peregrine—young dog—"
"What, poor Jack's boy?"
"The same, sir. Peregrine, his lordship, the Earl of Wyvelstoke. Nephew Peregrine took it into his head to see the world, sir—and this is how he does it!"
"Admirable!" exclaimed his lordship. "Indeed, Mr. Vereker, should you protract your stay in these parts, I shall hope to repeat the pleasure of this afternoon and hear more of your musical concepts. Good-bye t' ye, George!"
And limping to a light carriage that stood adjacent, the slender, shabby figure climbed in with the aid of the assiduous Atkinson, and drove away.
"Well, upon my soul, Peregrine," exclaimed my uncle, removing his hat to ruffle his brown curls, "a precious pickle you look, b'gad! Where in the world—what under heaven—your breeches, Perry—that unspeakable—if only Julia could see you now. Oh, the dooce!"
Such were his more or less coherent expressions as his astonished gaze took in the various items of my appearance. Then all at once he laughed and down came his great hands upon my shoulders. "B'gad, Perry, I love ye for 'em, lad; dooce take me if I don't!" he exclaimed. "Those breeches now—where did you find 'em?"
"Sir, they were bestowed by one Galloping Jerry, a highwayman."
My words produced all the effect I had anticipated; the hat fell from his lax grasp and lay unheeded, while my uncle stared at me in speechless surprise. "These garments, sir," I continued, lowering my voice mysteriously, "are merely a disguise, for it seems there was a possibility of my being apprehended as Galloping Jerry's accomplice. Allow me to return your hat, sir."
My uncle George clutched it and made a kind of gurgling sound in his throat.
"However," I continued, "I am anxious to exchange these things for others less conspicuously hideous and should esteem it a kindness if you would advance the necessary money for it, for sir, I am penniless."
"Ha—your highwayman cove robbed you, of course!"
"He did, Uncle, but had the extraordinary magnanimity to restore all he'd taken. My money, sir, went in the—the purchase of a gipsy maiden—"
"Hey—gipsy—a woman—d'ye mean—you—"
"A young gipsy girl, Uncle."
"Good God!" he ejaculated faintly and, sinking upon the shaft of the empty cart behind him, he fanned himself feebly with his hat. "Peregrine," said he, shaking grave head at me, "your aunt Julia is right—a wonderful woman! Poetry is your line, after all—books—romances, lad—imagination—"
"You think I am romancing, sir?"
"Aye, though I call it 'gammoning.'"
"Sir, you affront me!"
"No offence, Perry," said he kindly. "You just can't help it—comes natural to you—like a gamecock fights. What other marvels have you seen?"
"A tinker, Uncle."
"Hum! Anything else?"
"I saw Jessamy Todd fight the big fellow at the 'Ring o' Bells' this morning and—"
"What?" cried my uncle, on his feet in a moment. "You saw Jessamy fight? Oh, begad, Perry—why couldn't you say so before?"
"You believe this, then, sir?"
"I do. Tell me all about it. I've heard rumours—they say it was a clean knockout—"
"The big man was indeed rendered quite unconscious, Uncle—"
"And you saw? Out with it, Perry lad!"
"But sir," I enquired, a little disdainfully, "why all this stir about a vulgar brawl?"
"Vulgar brawl, begad—"
"Well, a brutal bout at fisticuffs with a ruffian—"
"Heavens and earth, boy," exclaimed my uncle, in growing indignation, "don't ye know you were privileged to see one of the very greatest fighters of any time, school or—oh, b'gad—"
"You mean Jessamy Todd, sir?"
"Of course I do. And what's more—Tom Croxton, The 'Thunderbolt'—the man who forced Jessamy to fight—was a plant—"
"Now pray, Uncle George, how may a great, hulking ruffian even faintly resemble any such thing?"
At this my uncle gasped, stared, shook his head, jingled his spurs and finally spoke:
"In Heaven's name, don't pretend you're so infernal green, Perry! The 'Thunderbolt' is a fighting man from Lambeth, a tough customer who's won a fight or so lately and thought he could beat anything on two pins. So we were bringing him down here, hoping to match him with Jessamy, or, failing him, some other good man. But the fool, not knowing Jessamy, get's himself thrashed, and the whole thing's a flam."
"Jessamy has given up the game, Uncle."
"I know, but he loves it still. And you saw the fight! Tell me of it—no, wait—the others must hear." So saying, my uncle George hooked his powerful arm in mine and led me whither he would. By devious ways we went, to avoid the crowd; dodging behind empty caravans and waggons, skirting booths and tents until we came on one greater than all the rest, a huge canvas structure into which he brought me forthwith. The place was empty except for some scant few persons grouped about a stage whereon two fellows, naked to the waist, their fists swathed in what I believe are termed 'muffles', dodged and ducked, feinted or smote each other with great spirit and gusto until one of them, reeling from a flush hit, sat down with sudden violence and remained in this posture to blink and get his breath.
"Dooce—take me—Tom!" exclaimed this individual, in breathless reproach. "Your—infernal mug's—hard as—iron!"
"Craggy, my lord!" answered the other hoarsely. "Cragg by name an'Craggy by natur', my lord!"
Thither my uncle George led me, his spurs jingling, whereupon the spectators turned to salute him and stare at me, among whom I recognised my uncle Jervas.
"What, George," enquired one, "ha' you found Jessamy?"
"No!" answered my uncle, slapping me on the shoulder. "But the next best thing, Devenham—"
"And a demned queer-looking thing it is, George!" added the recumbent gentleman, viewing me with a pair of blue eyes, one of which exhibited signs of recent punishment.
"None the less, Jerny," answered uncle George, "it is my nephew. Gentlemen, I have the honour to present Mr. Peregrine Vereker! Nephew, in the floored Corinthian with the damaged ogle, you will remark Richard, Marquis of Jerningham; on my right, Viscount Devenham; on my left, Sir Peregrine Beverley; before you Major Dashwood, Mr. Wemyss and your affectionate uncle Jervas. And now, gentlemen all, my nephew will tell you that he comes fresh from witnessing the defeat of Jerningham's unfortunate champion The 'Thunderbolt' at the hands of the unconquerable Jessamy Todd!"
"Aha!" cried the Marquis, springing lightly to his feet and muffling naked torso in gaudy dressing-gown; and next moment he and the others were thronged about me vociferous for knowledge.
For a moment I stood looking round upon the ring of clean-cut, eager faces, tongue-tied and somewhat non-plussed; but seeing with what unaffected and hearty good will they greeted me, nor heeded my disfiguring attire, I made my bow and plunged into a full and particular relation of Jessamy Todd's encounter with the man Tom. As my narrative progressed, the interest of my audience waxed, and I was gratified and stimulated by a ripple of excitement and hushed exclamations which, as I ended, swelled to a ringing cheer for Jessamy Todd. Thereafter my hand was shaken heartily by one and all, with many laudations on my descriptive powers, in the midst of which my uncle Jervas touched me on the shoulder and, bowing my adieux, I took my departure and thus presently found myself in the open air walking, rather sheepishly, between my two relatives.
Once beyond eyeshot of the curious, my uncle Jervas paused and fell back a step, the better to behold me, peering through his glass at each individual article of my attire and murmuring such ejaculations as:
"Astounding! Astonishing! Amazing!"
"Tells me he had 'em of a highwayman, Jervas!" volunteered uncleGeorge.
"A most distressing vision!" sighed my uncle Jervas. "A positive walking disgust! And yet—hum!"
"And a very creditable pair o' black eyes, Jervas."
"True, George! Our youth has been observing life at close quarters, it seems."
"B'gad—he has so, brother!" chuckled uncle George.
"Tells me he's spent all his money on women!"
My uncle Jervas very nearly dropped his eyeglass.
"Now—'pon my everlasting—" his voice failed and he gazed at me quite dumbfounded for once.
"Think o' Julia!" said uncle George, with a kind of groan. "Think of—'Ode to a Throstle'—poor Julia—sweet soul!" My two uncles turned from my indignant form to regard each other; then, all at once, the grim lips of my uncle Jervas twitched, quivered to a flash of white teeth, but his laughter was drowned by uncle George's cachinnations where he stood on one leg, slapping at the other brawny thigh until the dust flew.
"Sirs," said I, folding my arms and glancing from one to other disdainfully, "your mirth is as unwarranted as unseemly! The money in question was expended in the service of—of one who—whose need was instant and great. I have the honour to bid you good-bye!"
But, as I turned, my uncle Jervas laid his hand on my arm, a white, elegant hand strangely out of place on my rough and weather-beaten coat-sleeve.
"Pray accept our sincerest apologies, Peregrine," said he. Now at this I glanced up in wondering surprise, for in the touch of this slim hand, in voice and look, I had an indefinable sense of comradeship that thrilled me with sudden pride.
"My dear Uncle," I exclaimed, grasping his hand, "pray trust me always to remember that I am a Vereker also."
"B'gad, and there ye have it, Jervas; couldn't ha' put it better yourself!"
"And pray, sirs, how is my dear and best of aunts?"
At this question my uncle Jervas pursed his lips in a soundless whistle and smoothed snowy shirt-frill with caressing fingers.
"Perry," said uncle George, removing his hat to ruffle his curls, "you've heard of bears robbed of cubs, of the Hyr—what's-a-name tiger—"
"Hyrcanian, George!" murmured uncle Jervas.
"Well, they're playful pets in comparison. How is your aunt? B'gad,Perry, my lad, that's precisely the dooce of it, d'ye see!"
"She—she is very well, I hope?" faltered I.
"Assuredly!" answered my uncle Jervas. "But being the—ah—truly feminine creature she is, your remarkable aunt, with more or less reason, has leapt to the conclusion that we are the cause of what she terms your 'desertion', and is a little incensed against us—"
"Incensed, d'ye call it, Jervas?" exclaimed uncle George. "A little incensed is it—oh, b'gad!"
"And declines to see or hold communications with us—"
"And when she does, she—she don't!" added uncle George. "Last time I ventured to call, she looked over me, and under me, and round me, and through me but never—at me. Dooced trying y' know, Perry!"
"And most disappointing!" said I. "My dream that you—one of you might comfort her—"
"Was a damned piece of impertinence!" murmured my uncle Jervas, his aesthetically pallid cheek tinged with unusual colour. "Your aunt knows her own mind and has grieved, raged, wept, languished and advertised for you in her thorough fashion—"
"Offers five hundred pounds for your recovery, lad!" added uncleGeorge.
"Which," continued uncle Jervas, "is a fair sum of money, the natural consequence being that the poor, sweet soul has been plagued by all manner of people, day and night, eagerly endeavouring to restore waifs and strays of both sexes and all ages, so much so that your uncle and I were compelled to call in and suppress such notices as had appeared—here is one!" From his pocket uncle Jervas took a handbill which he unfolded and passed to me; whereon I read this:
Here followed a most minute and painfully accurate description of my garments and person; and below, these words:
WHEREAS: my loved nephew, PEREGRINE VEREKER, acting upon the PERNICIOUS & EVIL COUNSEL of certain CRUEL and HEARTLESS advisers, fled from home and his only TRUE FRIEND on the night of the 10th. inst: the above L500 will be paid to such person or persons who shall return him safe and unharmed or give such information as shall lead to his happy recovery and restoration to the loving care of JULIA CONROY.
"Great heaven!" I exclaimed, crumpling the document angrily. "It reads as if I were some pet animal!"
"Precisely!" murmured my uncle Jervas. "As you seemed likely to become, nephew. None the less, the document evinces something of your aunt's desire for your return, and it is easy to imagine her gratitude when I shall restore you to her arms—"
"Hold hard, Jervas!" exclaimed my uncle George, clutching my left arm."'Twas I found him!"
"But consider, my dear George," sighed my uncle Jervas, laying elegant hand upon my right shoulder, "I bear the brunt of her blame, as usual—"
"But damme, Jervas—"
"But pray reflect further, dear George; I am, alas, slightly your senior and, as such, claim the right—"
"But my dear uncles," I interrupted at this juncture, "pray remark that I have no intention of returning home for some time."
"Oh, indeed, nephew?" sighed my uncle Jervas, his slim hand tightening a little. "May one venture to ask why?"
"I know!" sighed uncle George. "Women, Jervas—feminine spells, poor lad!"
"For one thing," I answered patiently, "because I have decided to become a tinker for a while."
"Hum!" murmured my uncle Jervas. "A useful trade, but scarcely one I should have chosen for you—still—"
"And there he is, at last!" exclaimed uncle George suddenly, and beckoned with imperious hand; thus, glancing whither he looked, I espied Jessamy Todd and, with a sudden twist, I broke away and ran to meet her who walked at Jessamy's side.
"O Diana!" I exclaimed, "I have been looking for you all afternoon.Come!" And taking her hand, I led her up to my astonished uncles.
"Sirs," said I, "it is my privilege to introduce my friend Diana, whomI hope to marry as soon as possible."
For a long moment after I had spoken, Diana stood, shapely head aloft, fronting their amazed scrutiny in proud and sullen defiance; when at last she spoke, her voice sounded all untroubled and serene.
"I know," said she, nodding, "I know what's in your minds—you'm thinking as I ain't fit for him! Well, my fine gentlemen, he shouldn't marry me, even if he loved me—which he don't, or I loved him—which I don't and never shall!" Then without so much as a glance in my direction, she turned and sped away.
But I was not to be left thus, for, escaping uncle George's restraining clutch, I followed her; glancing back, I saw my uncle Jervas, white, impressive hand on Jessamy's shoulder, speaking very earnestly to him and with his keen gaze fixed on myself.
It was amid the jostling traffic of the booths that I found her; she was standing before a stall devoted to the sale of gauds and finery, but espying me she made off and I, intent on pursuit, was wriggling my way through the crowd when rose a sudden cry of "Thieves! Robbery! Stop thief!" Rough hands seized me and, checked thus rudely in full career, I was swung around to confront a small, fierce-eyed fellow who cursed and swore, hopped and flourished his fists under my nose in very threatening and unpleasant manner.
"V'ere is it, ye young wagabone?" he demanded in shrill accents. "V'ere is it? As fine a lady's lookin'-glass as ever vas, a genuine hantique framed in solid silver an' worth its weight in gold. V'at ha' ye done wi' it, you desp'rit, thievin' young willin', you?"
Now it was upon my lips to indignantly deny so vile an accusation, but the words were arrested by a sudden, horrid thought, a dreadful suspicion, for in this moment I remembered Diana had passed this way very recently and, calling to mind the unfortunate predilection for appropriating the goods of others which she had termed "prigging," I knew a sudden shame on her account and therewith a sick fear lest she be caught with the damning evidence of guilt upon her.
Thus, despite the fierce hands that grasped me and the bony knuckles that obtruded themselves painfully into the nape of my neck, I stood mute, profoundly unheedful of the little man's excited capering, whirling fists and threats of condign punishment.
By reason of the little man's excited antics and high-pitched threats and wailings, we were very soon the centre of a pushing, inquisitive throng; faces peered at me, fists were shaken and voices reviled me, in especial one, that of an evil-faced man whose narrow eyes seemed vaguely familiar. Every moment the hostile demonstrations of the crowd grew more threatening until suddenly, and to my inexpressible comfort, above the angry clamour arose a voice peculiarly rich and musical.
"Give way, friends, give way—yon lad's a friend o' mine—give way!" The ring about me was split apart by the forward thrust of a sinewy shoulder, and Jessamy appeared with Diana close beside him. "Why, what's the trouble, brother?" he enquired.
"Thievin'—robbery, that's what!" cried the little man, capering higher than ever. "Stole me silver-framed mirror, 'e 'as, the young wagabone—a genuine hantique worth its weight in hemeralds—stole me mirror and don't deny it, neither—!"
"Who says he stole it?" demanded Jessamy. "Did any o' ye see him commit the fact?" At this the small man blinked, and the two that held me stared upon each other a little at a loss.
"Who says my friend stole your vallybles—come!" demanded Jessamy.
"Why, we all says so!" cried the little man. "An' he can't deny it—and no more 'e don't, neither!"
"However," said Jessamy, "my friend ain't stole your mirror, friend."
"Then 'oo 'as?" demanded the little man, capering again.
"Why—him, for sure!" said Diana suddenly, pointing at the narrow-eyed fellow who, blenching before her fierce look, turned to flee. "It's Hooky Sam!" she cried, and in that moment leapt upon him. Ensued a moment's scuffling and Diana sprang away, the stolen mirror in her hand. "Here's your trinket!" she cried, tossing it to its gaping owner. "Next time it's stole, don't go blaming the wrong one."
Hereupon my captors loosed me and turned to seize the real culprit but, profiting by the momentary confusion, he ducked and squirmed, wriggled and dived under and between such arms and hands as made to stay him and, breaking free, took to his heels, and the crowd, losing all interest in us, betook itself to the chase, shouting and hallooing in joyous pursuit.
"And now, friend," said Jessamy, addressing the small man, who danced and capered no more but stood somewhat crestfallen, "'twould be well done, I think, to ask my young friend's pardon." The which he did and I little heeding, all my looks being for Diana, who stared back at me; and meeting her clear-eyed scrutiny, I felt my cheeks flushing guiltily and turned to grip Jessamy's hand and to thank him for his trust and friendship.
"But why," demanded Diana, "why did you let 'em think it was you?"
Now here, having no answer ready, I adopted her own method.
"Just because!" said I.