We were sitting in the moonlight.
"Now," said Charmian, staring up at the luminous heaven, "let us talk."
"Willingly," I answered; "let us talk of stars."
"No—let us talk of ourselves."
"As you please."
"Very well, you begin."
"Well—I am a blacksmith."
"Yes, you told me so before."
"And I make horseshoes—"
"He is a blacksmith, and makes horseshoes!" said Charmian, nodding at the moon.
"And I live here, in this solitude, very contentedly; so that it is only reasonable to suppose that I shall continue to live here, and make horseshoes—though, really," I broke off, letting my eyes wander from my companion's upturned face back to the glowing sky, once more, "there is little I could tell you about so commonplace a person as myself that is likely to interest you."
"No," said Charmian, "evidently not!" Here my gaze came down to her face again so quickly that I fancied I detected the ghost of a smile upon her lips.
"Then," said I, "by all means let us talk of something else."
"Yes," she agreed; "let us talk of the woman Charmian—Charmian—Brown." A tress of hair had come loose, and hung low above her brow, and in its shadow her, eyes seemed more elusive, more mocking than ever, and, while our glances met, she put up a hand and began to wind this glossy tress round and round her finger.
"Well?" said she.
"Well," said I, "supposing you begin."
"But is she likely to interest you?"
"I think so—yes."
"Aren't you sure, then?"
"Quite sure—certainly."
"Then why don't you say so?"
"I thought you would take that for granted."
"A woman should take nothing for granted, sir."
"Then," said I, "supposing you begin."
"I've half a mind not to," she retorted, curling the tress of hair again, and then, suddenly: "What do you think of Charmian Brown?"
"I think of her as little as I can."
"Indeed, sir!"
"Indeed," said I.
"And why, pray?"
"Because," said I, knocking the ashes from my pipe, "because the more I think about her the more incomprehensible she becomes."
"Have you known many women?"
"Very few," I confessed, "but—"
"But?"
"I am not altogether unfamiliar with the sex—for I have known a great number—in books."
"Our blacksmith," said Charmian, addressing the moon again, "has known many women—in books! His knowledge is, therefore, profound!" and she laughed.
"May I ask why you laugh at me?"
"Oh!" said she, "don't you know that women in books and women out of books are no more the same than day and night, or summer and winter?"
"And yet there are thousands of women who exist for us in books only, Laura, Beatrice, Trojan Helen, Aspasia, the glorious Phryne, and hosts of others," I demurred.
"Yes; but they exist for us only as their historians permit them, as their biographers saw, or imagined them. Would Petrarch ever have permitted Laura to do an ungracious act, or anything which, to his masculine understanding, seemed unfeminine; and would Dante have mentioned it had Beatrice been guilty of one? A man can no more understand a woman from the reading of books than he can learn Latin or Greek from staring at the sky."
"Of that," said I, shaking my head, "of that I am not so sure."
"Then—personally—you know very little concerning women?" she inquired.
"I have always been too busy," said I. Here Charmian turned to look at me again.
"Too busy?" she repeated, as though she had not heard aright; "too busy?"
"Much too busy!" Now, when I said this, she laughed, and then she frowned, and then she laughed again.
"You would much rather make a—horseshoe than talk with a woman, perhaps?"
"Yes, I think I would."
"Oh!" said Charmian, frowning again, but this time she did not look at me.
"You see," I explained, turning my empty pipe over and over, rather aimlessly, "when I make a horseshoe I take a piece of iron and, having heated it, I bend and shape it, and with every hammer-stroke I see it growing into what I would have it—I am sure of it, from start to finish; now, with a woman it is—different."
"You mean that you cannot bend, and shape her, like your horseshoe?" still without looking towards me.
"I mean that—that I fear I should never be quite sure of a—woman, asI am of my horseshoe."
"Why, you see," said Charmian, beginning to braid the tress of hair, "a woman cannot, at any time, be said to resemble a horseshoe—very much, can she?"
"Surely," said I, "surely you know what I mean—?"
"There are Laura and Beatrice and Helen and Aspasia and Phryne, and hosts of others," said Charmian, nodding to the moon again. "Oh, yes—our blacksmith has read of so many women in books that he has no more idea of women out of books than I of Sanscrit."
And, in a little while, seeing I was silent, she condescended to glance towards me:
"Then I suppose, under the circumstances, you have never been—in love?"
"In love?" I repeated, and dropped my pipe.
"In love."
"The Lord forbid!"
"Why, pray?"
"Because Love is a disease—a madness, coming between a man and his life's work. Love!" said I, "it is a calamity!"
"Never having been in love himself, our blacksmith, very naturally, knows all about it!" said Charmian to the moon.
"I speak only of such things as I have read—" I began.
"More books!" she sighed.
"—words of men, much wiser than I—poets and philosophers, written—"
"When they were old and gray-headed," Charmian broke in; "when they were quite incapable of judging the matter—though many a grave philosopher loved; now didn't he?"
"To be sure," said I, rather hipped, "Dionysius Lambienus, I think, says somewhere that a woman with a big mouth is infinitely sweeter in the kissing—and—"
"Do you suppose he read that in a book?" she inquired, glancing at me sideways.
"Why, as to that," I answered, "a philosopher may love, but not for the mere sake of loving."
"For whose sake then, I wonder?"
"A man who esteems trifles for their own sake is a trifler, but one who values them, rather, for the deductions that may be drawn from them—he is a philosopher."
Charmian rose, and stood looking down at me very strangely.
"So!" said she, throwing back her head, "so, throned in lofty might, superior Mr. Smith thinks Love a trifle, does he?"
"My name is Vibart, as I think you know," said I, stung by her look or her tone, or both.
"Yes," she answered, seeming to look down at me from an immeasurable attitude, "but I prefer to know him, just now, as Superior Mr. Smith."
"As you will," said I, and rose also; but, even then, though she had to look up to me, I had the same inward conviction that her eyes were regarding me from a great height; wherefore I, attempted—quite unsuccessfully to light my pipe.
And after I had struck flint and steel vainly, perhaps a dozen times, Charmian took the box from me, and, igniting the tinder, held it for me while I lighted my tobacco.
"Thank you!" said I, as she returned the box, and then I saw that she was smiling. "Talking of Charmian Brown—" I began.
"But we are not."
"Then suppose you begin?"
"Do you really wish to hear about that—humble person?"
"Very much!"
"Then you must know, in the first place, that she is old, sir, dreadfully old!"
"But," said I, "she really cannot be more than twenty-three—or four at the most."
"She is just twenty-one!" returned Charmian, rather hastily, I thought.
"Quite a child!"
"No, indeed—it is experience that ages one—and by experience she is quite—two hundred!"
"The wonder is that she still lives."
"Indeed it is!"
"And, being of such a ripe age, it is probable that she, at any rate, has—been in love."
"Scores of times!"
"Oh!" said I, puffing very hard at my pipe
"Or fancied so," said Charmian.
"That," I replied, "that is a very different thing!"
"Do you think so?"
"Well—isn't it?"
"Perhaps."
"Very well, then, continue, I beg."
"Now, this woman," Charmian went on, beginning to curl the tress of hair again, "hating the world about her with its shams, its hypocrisy, and cruelty, ran away from it all, one day, with a villain."
"And why with a villain?"
"Because he was a villain!"
"That," said I, turning to look at her, "that I do not understand!"
"No, I didn't suppose you would," she answered.
"Hum!" said I, rubbing my chin. "And why did you run away from him?"
"Because he was a villain."
"That was very illogical!" said I.
"But very sensible, sir."
Here there fell a silence between us, and, as we walked, now and then her gown would brush my knee, or her shoulder touch mine, for the path was very narrow.
"And—did you—" I began suddenly, and stopped.
"Did I—what, sir?"
"Did you love him?" said I, staring straight in front of me.
"I—ran away from him."
"And—do you—love him?"
"I suppose," said Charmian, speaking very slowly, "I suppose you cannot understand a woman hating and loving a man, admiring and despising him, both at the same time?"
"No, I can't."
"Can you understand one glorying in the tempest that may destroy her, riding a fierce horse that may crush her, or being attracted by a will strong and masterful, before which all must yield or break?"
"I think I can."
"Then," said Charmian, "this man is strong and wild and very masterful, and so—I ran away with him."
"And do you—love him?"
We walked on some distance ere she answered:
"I—don't know."
"Not sure, then?"
"No."
After this we fell silent altogether, yet once, when I happened to glance at her, I saw that her eyes were very bright beneath the shadow of her drooping lashes, and that her lips were smiling; and I pondered very deeply as to why this should be.
Re-entering the cottage, I closed the door, and waited the while she lighted my candle.
And, having taken the candle from her hand, I bade her "Good night," but paused at the door of my chamber.
"You feel—quite safe here?"
"Quite safe!"
"Despite the color of my hair and eyes—you have no fear of—PeterSmith?"
"None!"
"Because—he is neither fierce nor wild nor masterful!"
"Because he is neither fierce nor wild," she echoed.
"Nor masterful!" said I.
"Nor masterful!" said Charmian, with averted head. So I opened the door, but, even then, must needs turn back again.
"Do you think I am so very—different—from him?"
"As different as day from night, as the lamb from the wolf," said she, without looking at me. "Good night, Peter!"
"Good night!" said I, and so, going into my room, I closed the door behind me.
"A lamb!" said I, tearing off my neckcloth, and sat, for some time listening to her footstep and the soft rustle of her petticoats going to and fro.
"A lamb!" said I again, and slowly drew off my coat. As I did so, a little cambric handkerchief fell to the floor, and I kicked it, forthwith, into a corner.
"A lamb!" said I, for the third time, but, at this moment, came a light tap upon the door.
"Yes?" said I, without moving.
"Oh, how is your injured thumb?"
"Thank you, it is as well as can be expected."
"Does it pain you very much?"
"It is not unbearable!" said I.
"Good night, Peter!" and I heard her move away. But presently she was back again.
"Oh, Peter?"
"Well?"
"Are you frowning?"
"I—I think I was—why?"
"When you frown, you are very like—him, and have the same square set of the mouth and chin, when you are angry—so don't, please don't frown, Peter—Good night!"
"Good night, Charmian!" said I, and stooping, I picked up the little handkerchief and thrust it under my pillow.
"Vibart!"
The word had been uttered close behind me, and very softly, yet I started at this sudden mention of my name and stood for a moment with my hammer poised above the anvil ere I turned and faced the speaker. He was a tall man with a stubbly growth of grizzled hair about his lank jaws, and he was leaning in at that window of the smithy which gave upon a certain grassy back lane.
"You spoke, I think!" said I.
"I said, 'Vibart'!"
"Well?"
"Well?"
"And why should you say 'Vibart'?"
"And why should you start?" Beneath the broad, flapping hat his eyes glowed with a sudden intensity as he waited my answer.
"It is familiar," said I.
"Ha! familiar?" he repeated, and his features were suddenly contorted as with a strong convulsion, and his teeth gleamed between his pallid lips.
My hammer was yet in my grasp, and, as I met this baleful look, my fingers tightened instinctively about the shaft.
"Familiar?" said he again.
"Yes," I nodded; "like your face, for it would almost seem that I have seen you somewhere before, and I seldom forget faces."
"Nor do I!" said the man.
Now, while we thus fronted each other, there came the sound of approaching footsteps, and John Pringle, the Carrier, appeared, followed by the pessimistic Job.
"Marnin', Peter!—them 'orseshoes," began John, pausing just outside the smithy door, "you was to finish 'em 's arternoon; if so be as they bean't done, you bein' short'anded wi'out Jarge, why, I can wait." Now, during this speech, I was aware that both his and Job's eyes had wandered from my bandaged thumb to my bare throat, and become fixed there.
"Come in and sit down," said I, nodding to each, as I blew up the fire, "come in." For a moment they hesitated, then John stepped gingerly into the smithy, closely followed by Job, and, watching them beneath my brows as I stooped above the shaft of the bellows, I saw each of them furtively cross his fingers.
"Why do you do that, John Pringle?" said I.
"Do what, Peter?"
"Cross your fingers."
"Why, ye see, Peter," said John, glancing in turn at the floor, the rafters, the fire, and the anvil, but never at me, "ye see, it be just a kind o' way o' mine."
"But why does Job do the same?"
"An' why do 'ee look at a man so sharp an' sudden-like?" retorted Job sullenly; "dang me! if it aren't enough to send cold shivers up a chap's spine—I never see such a pair o' eyes afore—no—nor don't want to again."
"Nonsense!" said I; "my eyes can't hurt you."
"An' 'ow am I to know that, 'ow am I to be sure o' that; an' you wi' your throat all torn wi' devil's claws an' demon's clutches—it bean't nat'ral—Old Amos says so, an' I sez so."
"Pure folly!" said I, plucking the iron from the fire, and beginning to beat and shape it with my hammer, but presently, remembering the strange man who had spoken my name, I looked up, and then I saw that he was gone. "Where is he?" said I involuntarily.
"Where's who?" inquired John Pringle, glancing about uneasily.
"The fellow who was talking to me as you came up?"
"I didn't see no fellow!" said Job, looking at John and edging nearer the door.
"Nor me neither!" chimed in John Pringle, looking at Job.
"Why, he was leaning in at the window here, not a minute ago," said I, and, plunging the half-finished horseshoe back into the fire, I stepped out into the road, but the man was nowhere to be seen.
"Very strange!" said I.
"What might 'e 'ave been like, now?" inquired John.
"He was tall and thin, and wore a big flapping hat."
John Pringle coughed, scratched his chin, and coughed again.
"What is it, John?" I inquired.
"Why, then, you couldn't 'appen to notice—'im wearin' 'is 'at—you couldn't 'appen to notice if 'e 'ad ever a pair o' 'orns, Peter?"
"Horns!" I exclaimed.
"Or a—tail, Peter?"
"Or even a—'oof, now?" suggested Job.
"Come," said I, looking from one to the other, "what might you be driving at?"
"Why, ye see, Peter," answered John, coughing again, and scratching his chin harder than ever, "ye see, Peter, it aren't nat'ral for a 'uman bein' to go a-vanishin' away like this 'ere—if 'twere a man as you was a-talkin' to—"
"Which I doubts!" muttered Job.
"If 'twere a man, Peter, then I axes you—where is that man?"
Before I could answer this pointed question, old Joel Amos hobbled up, who paused on the threshold to address some one over his shoulder.
"Come on, James, 'ere 'e be—come for'ard, James, like a man."
Thus adjured, another individual appeared: a somewhat flaccid-looking individual, with colorless hair and eyes, one who seemed to exhale an air of apology, as it were, from the hobnailed boot upon the floor to the grimy forefinger that touched the strawlike hair in salutation.
"Marnin', Peter!" said Old Amos, "this yere is Dutton."
"How do you do?" said I, acknowledging the introduction, "and what can I do for Mr. Dutton?" The latter, instead of replying, took out a vivid belcher handkerchief, and apologetically mopped his face.
"Speak up, James Dutton," said Old Amos.
"Lord!" exclaimed Dutton, "Lord! I du be that 'ot!—you speak for I,Amos, du."
"Well," began Old Amos, not ill-pleased, "this 'ere Dutton wants to ax 'ee a question, 'e du, Peter."
"I shall be glad to answer it, if I can," I returned.
"You 'ear that?—well, ax your question, James Dutton," commanded the old man.
"W'y, ye see, Amos," began Dutton, positively reeking apology, "I du be that on-common 'ot—you ax un."
"W'y, then, Peter," began Amos, with great unction, "it's 'is pigs!"
"Pigs?" I exclaimed, staring.
"Ah! pigs, Peter," nodded Old Amos, "Dutton's pigs; 'is sow farrowed last week—at three in the marnin'—nine of 'em!"
"Well?" said I, wondering more and more.
"Well, Peter, they was a fine 'earty lot, an' all a-doin' well—till last Monday."
"Indeed!" said I.
"Last Monday night, four on 'em sickened an' died!"
"Most unfortunate!" said I.
"An' the rest 'as never been the same since."
"Probably ate something that disagreed with them," said I, picking up my hammer and laying it down again. Old Amos smiled and shook his head.
"You know James Dutton's pigsty, don't ye, Peter?"
"I really can't say that I do."
"Yet you pass it every day on your way to the 'Oller—it lays just be'ind Simon's oast-'ouse, as James 'isself will tell 'ee."
"So it du," interpolated Dutton, with an apologetic nod, "which, leastways, if it don't, can't be no'ow!" having delivered himself of which, he buried his face in the belcher handkerchief.
"Now, one evenin', Peter," continued Old Amos, "one evenin' you leaned over the fence o' that theer pigsty an' stood a-lookin' at they pigs for, p'r'aps, ten minutes."
"Did I?"
"Ay, that ye did—James Dutton see ye, an' 'is wife, she see ye tu, andI see ye."
"Then," said I, "probably I did. Well?"
"Well," said the old man, looking round upon his hearers, and bringing out each word with the greatest unction, "that theer evenin' were last Monday evenin' as ever was—the very same hour as Dutton's pigs sickened an' died!" Hereupon John Pringle and Job rose simultaneously from where they had been sitting, and retreated precipitately to the door.
"Lord!" exclaimed John.
"I might ha' knowed it!" said Job, drawing a cross in the air with his finger.
"An' so James Dutton wants to ax ye to tak' it off, Peter," said OldAmos.
"To take what off?"
"Why, the spell, for sure." Hereupon I gave free play to my amusement, and laughed, and laughed, while the others watched me with varying expressions.
"And so you think that I bewitched Dutton's pigs, do you?" said I, at last, glancing from Old Amos to the perspiring Apology (who immediately began to mop at his face and neck again). "And why," I continued, seeing that nobody appeared willing to speak, "why should you think it of me?"
"W'y, Peter, ye bean't like ordinary folk; your eyes goes through an' through a man. An' then, Peter, I mind as you come a-walkin' into Siss'n'urst one night from Lord knows wheer, all covered wi' dust, an' wi' a pack on your back."
"You are wrong there, Amos," said I, "it was afternoon when I came, and the Ancient was with me."
"Ah! an' wheer did 'e find ye, Peter?—come, speak up an' tell us."
"In the Hollow," I answered.
"Ay, 'e found 'ee in the very spot wheer the Wanderer o' the Roads 'ung 'isself, sixty an' six years ago."
"There is nothing very strange in that!" said I.
"What's more, you come into the village an' beat Black Jarge throwin' th' 'ammer, an' 'im the strongest man in all the South Country!"
"I beat him because he did not do his best—so there is nothing strange in that either."
"An' then, you lives all alone in that theer ghashly 'Oller—an' you fights, an' struggles wi' devils an' demons, all in the wind an' rain an' tearin' tempest—an' what's most of all—you comes back—alive; an' what's more yet, wi' devil-marks upon ye an' your throat all tore wi' claws. Old Gaffer be over proud o' findin' ye, but old Gaffer be dodderin'—dodderin' 'e be, an' fulish wi' years; 'e'd ha' done much better to ha' left ye alone—I've heerd o' folk sellin' theirselves to the devil afore now, I've likewise heerd o' the 'Evil Eye' afore now—ah! an' knows one when I sees it."
"Nonsense!" said I sternly, "nonsense! This talk of ghosts and devils is sheer folly. I am a man, like the rest of you, and could not wish you ill—even if I would—come, let us all shake hands, and forget this folly!" and I extended my hand to Old Amos.
He glanced from it to my face, and immediately, lowering his eyes, shook his head.
"'Tis the 'Evil Eye'!" said he, and drew across upon the floor with his stick, "the 'Evil Eye'!"
"Nonsense!" said I again; "my eye is no more evil than yours or Job's. I never wished any man harm yet, nor wronged one, and I hope I never may. As for Mr. Dutton's pigs, if he take better care of them, and keep them out of the damp, they will probably thrive better than ever—come, shake hands!"
But, one by one, they edged their way to the door after Old Amos, until only John Pringle was left; he, for a moment, stood hesitating, then, suddenly reaching out, he seized my hand, and shook it twice.
"I'll call for they 'orseshoes in the marnin', Peter," said he, and vanished.
"Arter all," I heard him say, as he joined the others, "'tis summat to ha' shook 'ands wi' a chap as fights wi' demons!"
Over the uplands, to my left, the moon was peeping at me, very broad and yellow, as yet, casting long shadows athwart my way. The air was heavy with the perfume of honeysuckle abloom in the hedges—a warm, still air wherein a deep silence brooded, and in which leaf fluttered not and twig stirred not; but it was none of this I held in my thoughts as I strode along, whistling softly as I went. Yet, in a while, chancing to lift my eyes, I beheld the object of my reverie coming towards me through the shadows.
"Why—Charmian!" said I, uncovering my head.
"Why—Peter!"
"Did you come to meet me?"
"It must be nearly nine o'clock, sir."
"Yes, I had to finish some work."
"Did any one pass you on the road?"
"Not a soul."
"Peter, have you an enemy?"
"Not that I know of, unless it be myself. Epictetus says somewhere that—"
"Oh, Peter, how dreadfully quiet everything is!" said she, and shivered.
"Are you cold?"
"No—but it is so dreadfully—still."
Now in one place the lane, narrowing suddenly, led between high banks crowned with bushes, so that it was very dark there. As we entered this gloom Charmian suddenly drew closer to my side and slipped her hand beneath my arm and into my clasp, and the touch of her fingers was like ice.
"Your hand is very cold!" said I. But she only laughed, yet I felt her shiver as she pressed herself close against me.
And now it was she who talked and I who walked in silence, or answered at random, for I was conscious only of the clasp of her fingers and the soft pressure of hip and shoulder.
So we passed through this place of shadows, walking neither fast nor slow, and ever her cold fingers clasped my fingers, and her shoulder pressed my arm while she talked, and laughed, but of what, I know not, until we had left the dark place behind. Then she sighed deeply and turned, and drew her arm from mine, almost sharply, and stood looking back, with her two hands pressed upon her bosom.
"What is it?"
"Look!" she whispered, pointing, "there—where it is darkest—look!" Now, following the direction of her finger, I saw something that skulked amid the shadows—something that slunk away, and vanished as I watched.
"A man!" I exclaimed, and would have started in pursuit, but Charmian's hands were upon my arm, strong and compelling.
"Are you mad?" cried she angrily; "would you give him the opportunity I prevented? He was waiting there to—to shoot you, I think!"
And, after we had gone on some little way, I spoke.
"Was that why you—came to meet me?"
"Yes."
"And—kept so close beside me."
"Yes."
"Ah, yes, to be sure!" said I, and walked on in silence; and now I noticed that she kept as far from me as the path would allow.
"Are you thinking me very—unmaidenly again, sir?"
"No," I answered; "no."
"You see, I had no other way. Had I told you that there was a man hidden in the hedge you would have gone to look, and then—something dreadful would have happened."
"How came you to know he was there?"
"Why, after I had prepared supper I climbed that steep path which leads to the road and sat down upon the fallen tree that lies there, to watch for you, and, as I sat there, I saw a man come hurrying down the road."
"A very big man?"
"Yes, very tall he seemed, and, as I watched, he crept in behind the hedge. While I was wondering at this, I heard your step on the road, and you were whistling."
"And yet I seldom whistle."
"It was you—I knew your step."
"Did you, Charmian?"
"I do wish you would not interrupt, sir."
"I beg your pardon," said I humbly.
"And then I saw you coming, and the man saw you too, for he crouched suddenly; I could only see him dimly in the shadow of the hedge, but he looked murderous, and it seemed to me that if you reached his hiding-place before I did—something terrible would happen, and so—"
"You came to meet me."
"Yes."
"And walked close beside me, so that you were between me and the shadow in the hedge?"
"Yes."
"And I thought—" I began, and stopped.
"Well, Peter?" Here she turned, and gave me a swift glance beneath her lashes.
"—that it was because—you were—perhaps—rather glad to see me." Charmian did not speak; indeed she was so very silent that I would have given much to have seen her face just then, but the light was very dim, as I have said, moreover she had turned her shoulder towards me. "But I am grateful to you," I went on, "very grateful, and—it was very brave of you!"
"Thank you, sir," she answered in a very small voice, and I more than suspected that she was laughing at me.
"Not," I therefore continued, "that there was any real danger."
"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.
"I mean that, in all probability, the man you saw was Black George, a very good friend of mine, who, though he may imagine he has a grudge against me, is too much of a man to lie in wait to do me hurt."
"Then why should he hide in the hedge?"
"Because he committed the mistake of throwing the town Beadle over the churchyard wall, and is, consequently, in hiding, for the present."
"He has an ill-sounding name."
"And is the manliest, gentlest, truest, and worthiest fellow that ever wore the leather apron."
Seeing how perseveringly she kept the whole breadth of the path between us, I presently fell back and walked behind her; now her head was bent, and thus I could not but remark the little curls and tendrils of hair upon her neck, whose sole object seemed to be to make the white skin more white by contrast.
"Peter," said she suddenly, speaking over her shoulder, "of what are you thinking?"
"Of a certain steak pasty that was promised for my supper," I answered immediately, mendacious.
"Oh!"
"And what," I inquired, "what were you thinking?"
"I was thinking, Peter, that the—shadow in the hedge may not have beenBlack George, after all."
"This table wobbles!" said Charmian.
"It does," said I, "but then I notice that the block is misplaced again."
"Then why use a block?"
"A book is so clumsy—" I began.
"Or a book? Why not cut down the long legs to match the short one?"
"That is really an excellent idea."
"Then why didn't you before?"
"Because, to be frank with you, it never occurred to me."
"I suppose you are better as a blacksmith than a carpenter, aren't you, Peter?" And, seeing I could find no answer worthy of retort, she laughed, and, sitting down, watched me while I took my saw, forthwith, and shortened the three long legs as she had suggested. Having done which, to our common satisfaction, seeing the moon was rising, we went and sat down on the bench beside the cottage door.
"And—are you a very good blacksmith?" she pursued, turning to regard me, chin in hand.
"I can swing a hammer or shoe a horse with any smith in Kent—exceptBlack George, and he is the best in all the South Country."
"And is that a very great achievement, Peter?"
"It is not a despicable one."
"Are you quite satisfied to be able to shoe horses well, sir?"
"It is far better to be a good blacksmith than a bad poet or an incompetent prime minister."
"Meaning that you would rather succeed in the little thing than fail in the great?"
"With your permission, I will smoke," said I.
"Surely," she went on, nodding her permission, "surely it is nobler to be a great failure rather than a mean success?"
"Success is very sweet, Charmian, even in the smallest thing; for instance," said I, pointing to the cottage door that stood open beside her, "when I built that door, and saw it swing on its hinges, I was as proud of it as though it had been—"
"A really good door," interpolated Charmian, "instead of a bad one!"
"A bad one, Charmian?"
"It is a very clumsy door, and has neither bolt nor lock."
"There are no thieves hereabouts, and, even if there were, they would not dare to set foot in the Hollow after dark."
"And then, unless one close it with great care, it sticks—very tight!"
"That, obviating the necessity of a latch, is rather to be commended," said I.
"Besides, it is a very ill-fitting door, Peter."
"I have seen worse."
"And will be very draughty in cold weather."
"A blanket hung across will remedy that."
"Still, it can hardly be called a very good door, can it, Peter?" HereI lighted my pipe without answering. "I suppose you make horseshoesmuch better than you make doors?" I puffed at my pipe in silence."You are not angry because I found fault with your door, are you,Peter?"
"Angry?" said I; "not in the least."
"I am sorry for that."
"Why sorry?"
"Are you never angry, Peter?"
"Seldom, I hope."
"I should like to see you so—just once." Finding nothing to say in answer to this, I smoked my negro-head pipe and stared at the moon, which was looking down at us through a maze of tree-trunks and branches.
"Referring to horseshoes," said Charmian at last, "are you content to be a blacksmith all your days?"
"Yes, I think I am."
"Were you never ambitious, then?"
"Ambition is like rain, breaking itself upon what it falls on—at least, so Bacon says, and—"
"Oh, bother Bacon! Were you never ambitious, Peter?"
"I was a great dreamer."
"A dreamer!" she exclaimed with fine scorn; "are dreamers ever ambitious?"
"Indeed, they are the most truly ambitious," I retorted; "their dreams are so vast, so infinite, so far beyond all puny human strength and capacity that they, perforce, must remain dreamers always. Epictetus himself—"
"I wish," sighed Charmian, "I do wish—"
"What do you wish?"
"That you were not—"
"That I was not?"
"Such a—pedant!"
"Pedant!" said I, somewhat disconcerted.
"And you have a way of echoing my words that is very irritating."
"I beg your pardon," said I, feeling much like a chidden schoolboy; "and I am sorry you should think me a pedant."
"And you are so dreadfully precise and serious," she continued.
"Am I, Charmian?"
"And so very solemn and austere, and so ponderous, and egotistical, and calm—yes, you are hatefully calm and placid, aren't you, Peter?"
And, after I had smoked thoughtfully awhile, I sighed.
"Yes, I fear I may seem so."
"Oh, I forgive you!"
"Thank you."
"Though you needn't be so annoyingly humble about it," said she, and frowned, and, even while she frowned, laughed and shook her head.
"And pray, why do you laugh?"
"Because—oh, Peter, you are such a—boy!"
"So you told me once before," said I, biting my pipe-stem viciously.
"Did I, Peter?"
"You also called me a—lamb, I remember—at least, you suggested it."
"Did I, Peter?" and she began to laugh again, but stopped all at once and rose to her feet.
"Peter!" said she, with a startled note in her voice, "don't you hear something?"
"Yes," said I.
"Some one is coming!"
"Yes."
"And—they are coming this way!"
"Yes."
"Oh—how can you sit there so quietly? Do you think—" she began, and stopped, staring into the shadows with wide eyes.
"I think," said I, knocking the ashes from my pipe, and laying it on the bench beside me, "that, all things considered, you were wiser to go into the cottage for a while."
"No—oh, I couldn't do that!"
"You would be safer, perhaps."
"I am not a coward. I shall remain here, of course."
"But I had rather you went inside."
"And I much prefer staying where I am."
"Then I must ask you to go inside, Charmian."
"No, indeed, my mind is made up."
"Then I insist, Charmian."
"Mr. Vibart!" she exclaimed, throwing up her head, "you forget yourself, I think. I permit no one to order my going and coming, and I obey no man's command."
"Then—I beg of you."
"And I refuse, sir—my mind is made up."
"And mine also!" said I, rising.
"Why, what—what are you going to do?" she cried, retreating as I advanced towards her.
"I am going to carry you into the cottage."
"You would not dare!"
"If you refuse to walk, how else can you get there?" said I.
Anger, amazement, indignation, all these I saw in her eyes as she faced me, but anger most of all.
"Oh—you would—not dare!" she said again, and with a stamp of her foot.
"Indeed, yes," I nodded. And now her glance wavered beneath mine, her head drooped, and, with a strange little sound that was neither a laugh nor a sob, and yet something of each, she turned upon her heel, ran into the cottage, and slammed the door behind her.
The cottage, as I have said, was entirely hidden from the chance observer by reason of the foliage: ash, alder, and bramble flourished luxuriantly, growing very thick and high, with here and there a great tree; but, upon one side, there was a little grassy glade, or clearing rather, some ten yards square, and it was towards this that my eyes were directed as I reseated myself upon the settle beside the door, and waited the coming of the unknown.
Though the shadows were too deep for my eyes to serve me, yet I could follow the newcomer's approach quite easily by the sound he made; indeed, I was particularly struck by the prodigious rustling of leaves. Whoever it was must be big and bulky, I thought, and clad, probably, in a long, trailing garment.
All at once I knew I was observed, for the sounds ceased, and I heard nothing save the distant bark of a dog and the ripple of the brook near by.
I remained there for, maybe, a full minute, very still, only my fists clenched themselves as I sat listening and waiting—and that minute was an hour.
"You won't be wantin' ever a broom, now?"
The relief was so sudden and intense that I had much ado to keep from laughing outright.
"You won't be wantin' ever a broom, now?" inquired the voice again.
"No," I answered, "nor yet a fine leather belt with a steel buckle made in Brummagem as ever was."
"Oh, it's you, is it?" said the Pedler, and forthwith Gabbing Dick stepped out of the shadows, brooms on shoulder and bulging pack upon his back, at sight of which the leafy tumult of his approach was immediately accounted for. "So it's you, is it?" he repeated, setting down his brooms and spitting lugubriously at the nearest patch of shadow.
"Yes," I answered, "but what brings you here?"
"I be goin' to sleep 'ere, my chap."
"Oh!—you don't mind the ghost, then?"
"Oh, Lord, no! Theer be only two things as I can't abide—trees as ain't trees is one on em, an' women's t' other."
"Women?"
"Come, didn't I 'once tell you I were married?"
"You did."
"Very well then! Trees as ain't trees is bad enough, Lord knows!—but women's worse—ah!" said the Pedler, shaking his head, "a sight worse! Ye see, trees ain't got tongues—leastways not as I ever heerd tell on, an' a tree never told a lie—or ate a apple, did it?"
"What do you mean by 'ate an apple'?"
"I means as a tree can't tell a lie, or eat a apple, but a woman can tell a lie—which she does—frequent, an' as for apples—"
"But—" I began.
"Eve ate a apple, didn't she?"
"The Scriptures say so," I nodded.
"An' told a lie arterwards, didn't she?"
"So we are given to understand."
"Very well then!" said the Pedler, "there y' are!" and he turned to spit into the shadow again. "Wot's more," he continued, "'twere a woman as done me out o' my birthright."
"How so?"
"Why, 'twere Eve as got us druv out o' the Gardin o' Eden, weren't it? If it 'adn't been for Eve I might ha' been livin' on milk an' 'oney, ah! an' playin' wi' butterflies, 'stead o' bein' married, an' peddlin' these 'ere brooms. Don't talk to me o' women, my chap; I can't abide 'em—bah! if theer's any trouble afoot you may take your Bible oath as theer's a woman about some'eres—theer allus is!"
"Do you think so?"
"I knows so; ain't I a-'earin' an' a-seein' such all day, an' every day—theer's Black Jarge, for one."
"What about him?"
"What about 'im!" repeated the Pedler; "w'y, ain't 'is life been ruined, broke, wore away by one o' them Eves?—very well then!"
"What do you mean—how has his life been ruined?"
"Oh! the usual way of it; Jarge loves a gell—gell loves Jarge—sugar ain't sweeter—very well then! Along comes another cove—a strange cove—a cove wi' nice white 'ands an' soft, takin' ways—'e talks wi' 'er walks wi' 'er—smiles at 'er—an' pore Jarge ain't nowheeres—pore Jarge's cake is dough—ah! an' doughy dough at that!"
"How do you come to know all this?"
"'Ow should I come to know it but from the man 'isself? 'Dick,' says 'e" (baptismal name Richard, but Dick for short), "'Dick,' says 'e, 'd'ye see this 'ere stick?' an' 'e shows me a good, stout cudgel cut out o' th' 'edge, an' very neatly trimmed it were too. 'Ah! I sees it, Jarge,' says I. 'An' d'ye see this un?' says 'e, 'oldin' up another as like the first as one pea to its fellow. 'Ah! I sees that un too, Jarge,' says I. 'Well,' says Jarge, 'one's for 'im an' one's for me—'e can take 'is chice,' 'e says, 'an' when we do meet, it's a-goin' to be one or t' other of us,' 'e says, an' wot's more—'e looked it! 'If I 'ave to wait, an' wait, an' foller 'im, an' foller 'im,' says Jarge, 'I'll catch 'im alone, one o' these fine nights, an' it'll be man to man.'"
"And when did he tell you all this?"
"'S marnin' as ever was."
"Where did you see him?"
"Oh, no!" said the Pedler, shaking his head, "not by no manner o' means. I'm married, but I ain't that kind of a cove!"
"What do you mean?"
"The runners is arter 'im—lookin' for 'im 'igh an' low, an'—though married, I ain't one to give a man away. I ain't a friendly cove myself, never was, an' never shall be—never 'ad a friend all my days, an' don't want one—but I likes Black Jarge—I pities, an' I despises 'im."
"Why do you despise him?"
"Because 'e carries on so, all about a Eve—w'y, theer ain't a woman breathin' as is worth a man's troublin' 'is 'ead over, no, nor never will be—yet 'ere's Black Jarge ready—ah! an' more than willin' to get 'isself 'ung, an' all for a wench—a Eve—"
"Get himself hanged?" I repeated.
"Ah 'ung! w'y, ain't 'e a-waitin' an' a-waitin' to get at this cove—this cove wi' the nice white 'ands an' the takin' ways, ain't 'e a-watchin' an' a-watchin' to meet 'im some lonely night—and when 'e do meet 'im—" The Pedler sighed.
"Well?"
"W'y, there'll be blood shed—blood!—quarts on it—buckets on it! Black Jarge'll batter this 'ere cove's 'ead soft, so sure as I were baptized Richard 'e'll lift this cove up in 'is great, strong arms, an' 'e'll throw this cove down, an' 'e'll gore 'im, an' stamp 'im down under 'is feet, an' this cove's blood'll go soakin' an' a-soakin' into the grass, some'eres beneath some 'edge, or in some quiet corner o' the woods—and the birds'll perch on this cove's breast, an' flutter their wings in this cove's face, 'cause they'll know as this cove can never do nobody no 'urt no more; ah! there'll be blood—gallons of it!"
"I hope not!" said I.
"Ye do, do ye?"
"Most fervently!"
"An' 'cause why?"
"Because I happen to be that cove," I answered.
"Oh!" said the Pedler, eyeing me more narrowly; "you are, are ye?"
"I am!"
"Yet you ain't got w'ite 'ands."
"They were white once," said I.
"An' I don't see as your ways is soft—nor yet takin'!"
"None the less, I am that cove!"
"Oh!" repeated the Pedler, and, having turned this intelligence over in his mind, spat thoughtfully into the shadow again. "You won't be wantin' ever a broom, I think you said?"
"No," said I.
"Very well then!" he nodded, and, lifting his brooms, made towards the cottage door!
"Where are you going?"
"To sleep in this 'ere empty 'ut."
"But it isn't empty!"
"So much the better," nodded the Pedler, "good night!" and, with the words, he laid his hand upon the door, but, as he did so, it opened, and Charmian appeared. The Pedler fell back three or four paces, staring with round eyes.
"By Goles!" he exclaimed. "So you are married then?"
Now, when he said this I felt suddenly hot all over, even to the very tips of my ears, and, for the life of me, I could not have looked at Charmian.
"Why—why—" I began, but her smooth, soft voice came to my rescue.
"No—he is not married," said she, "far from it."
"Not?" said the Pedler, "so much the better; marriage ain't love, no, nor love ain't marriage—I'm a married cove myself, so I know what I'm a-sayin'; if folk do talk, an' shake their 'eads over ye—w'y, let 'em, only don't—don't go a-spilin' things by gettin' 'churched.' You're a woman, but you're a fine un—a dasher, by Goles, nice an' straight-backed, an' round, an' plump—if I was this 'ere cove, now, I know what—"
"Here," said I hastily, "here—sell me a broom!"
The Pedler drew a broom from his bundle and passed it to me.
"One shillin' and sixpence!" said he, which sum I duly paid over. "Don't," he continued, pocketing the money, and turning to Charmian, "don't go spilin' things by lettin' this young cove go a-marryin' an' a-churchin' ye—nobody never got married as didn't repent it some time or other, an' wot's more, when Marriage comes in at the door, Love flies out up the chimbley—an' there y'are! Now, if you loves this young cove, w'y, very good! if this 'ere young cove loves you—which ain't to be wondered at—so much the better, but don't—don't go a-marryin' each other, an'—as for the children—"
"Come—I'll take a belt—give me a belt!" said I, more hastily than before.
"A belt?" said the Pedler.
"A belt, yes."
"Wi' a fine steel buckle made in—"
"Yes—yes!" said I.
"Two shillin' an' sixpence!" said the Pedler.
"When I saw you last time, you offered much the same belt for a shilling," I demurred.
"Ah!" nodded the Pedler, "but belts is riz—'arf-a-crown's the price—take it or leave it."
"It's getting late," said I, slipping the money into his hand, "andI'll wish you good night!"
"You're in a 'urry about it, ain't you?"
"Yes."
"Ah—to be sure!" nodded the fellow, looking from me to Charmian with an evil leer, "early to bed an'—"
"Come—get off!" said I angrily.
"Wot—are ye goin' to turn me away—at this time o' night!"
"It is not so far to Sissinghurst!" said I:
"But, Lord! I wouldn't disturb ye—an' there's two rooms, ain't there?"
"There are plenty of comfortable beds to be had at 'The Bull.'"
"So you won't gi'e me a night's shelter, eh?"
"No," I answered, greatly annoyed by the fellow's persistence.
"An' you don't want to buy nothin' for the young woman—a necklace—or, say—a pair o' garters?" But here, meeting my eye, he shouldered his brooms hastily and moved off. And, after he had gone some dozen yards or so, he paused and turned.
"Very well then!" he shouted, "I 'opes as you gets your 'ead knocked off—ah!—an' gets it knocked off soon!" Having said which, he spat up into the air towards me, and trudged off.