It was with a feeling of great relief that I watched the fellow out of sight; nevertheless his very presence seemed to have left a blight upon all things, for he, viewing matters with the material eye of Common-sense, had, thereby, contaminated them—even the air seemed less pure and sweet than it had been heretofore, so that, glancing over my shoulder, I was glad to see that Charmian had re-entered the cottage.
"Here," said I to myself, "here is Common-sense in the shape of a half-witted peddling fellow, blundering into Arcadia, in the shape of a haunted cottage, a woman, and a man. Straightway our Pedler, being Common-sense, misjudges us—as, indeed, would every other common-sense individual the world over; for Arcadia, being of itself abstract and immaterial, is opposed to, and incapable of being understood by concrete common-sense, and always will be—and there's the rub! And yet," said I, "thanks to the Wanderer of the Roads, who built this cottage and hanged himself here, and thanks to a Highland Scot who performed wonderfully on the bagpipes, there is little chance of any common-sense vagrant venturing near Arcadia again—at least until the woman is gone, or the man is gone, or—"
Here, going to rub my chin (being somewhat at a loss), I found that I had been standing, all this while, the broom in one hand and the belt in the other, and now, hearing a laugh behind me, I turned, and saw Charmian was leaning in the open doorway watching me.
"And so you are the—the cove—with the white hands and the taking ways, are you, Peter?"
"Why—you were actually—listening then?"
"Why, of course I was."
"That," said I, "that was very—undignified!"
"But very—feminine, Peter!" Hereupon I threw the belt from me one way, and the broom the other, and sitting down upon the bench began to fill any pipe rather awkwardly, being conscious of Charmian's mocking scrutiny.
"Poor—poor Black George!" she sighed.
"What do you mean by that?" said I quickly.
"Really I can almost understand his being angry with you."
"Why?"
"You walked with her, and talked with her, Peter—like Caesar, 'you came, you saw, you conquered'!"
Here I dragged my tinder-box from my pocket so awkwardly as to bring the lining with it.
"And—even smiled at her, Peter—and you so rarely smile!"
Having struck flint and steel several times without success, I thrust the tinder-box back into my pocket and fixed my gaze upon the moon.
"Is she so very pretty, Peter?"
I stared up at the moon without answering.
"I wonder if you bother her with your Epictetus and—and dry-as-dust quotations?"
I bit my lips and stared up at the moon.
"Or perhaps she likes your musty books and philosophy?"
But presently, finding that I would not speak, Charmian began to sing, very sweet and low, as if to herself, yet, when I chanced to glance towards her, I found her mocking eyes still watching me. Now the words of her song were these:
"O, my luve's like a red, red rose,That's newly sprung in June;O, my luve's like the melodieThat's sweetly played in tune."
And so, at last, unable to bear it any longer, I rose and, taking my candle, went into my room and closed the door. But I had been there scarcely five minutes when Charmian knocked.
"Oh, Peter! I wish to speak to you—please." Obediently I opened the door.
"What is it, Charmian?"
"You dropped this from your pocket when you took out your tinder-box so clumsily!" said she, holding towards me a crumpled paper. And looking down at it, I saw that it was Black George's letter to Prudence.
Now, as I took it from her, I noticed that her hand trembled, while in her eyes I read fear and trouble; and seeing this, I was, for a moment, unwontedly glad, and then wondered at myself.
"You—did not read it—of course?" said I, well knowing that she had.
"Yes, Peter—it lay open, and—"
"Then," said I, speaking my thought aloud, "you know that she lovesGeorge."
"He means you harm," said she, speaking with her head averted, "and, if he killed you—"
"I should be spared a deal of sorrow, and—and mortification, and—other people would be no longer bothered by Epictetus and dry-as-dust quotations." She turned suddenly, and, crossing to the open doorway, stood leaning there. "But, indeed," I went on hurriedly, "there is no chance of such a thing happening—not the remotest. Black George's bark is a thousand times worse than his bite; this letter means nothing, and—er—nothing at all," I ended, somewhat lamely, for she had turned and was looking at me over her shoulder.
"If he has to 'wait and wait, and follow you and follow you'?" said she, in the same low tone.
"Those are merely the words of a half-mad pedler," said I.
"'And your blood will go soaking, and soaking into the grass'!"
"Our Pedler has a vivid imagination!" said I lightly. But she shook her head, and turned to look out upon the beauty of the night once more, while I watched her, chin in hand.
"I was angry with you to-night, Peter," said she at length, "because you ordered me to do something against my will—and I—did it; and so, I tried to torment you—you will forgive me for that, won't you?"
"There is nothing to forgive, nothing, and—good night, Charmian." Here she turned, and, coming to me, gave me her hand.
"Charmian Brown will always think of you as a—"
"Blacksmith!" said I.
"As a blacksmith!" she repeated, looking at me with a gleam in her eyes, "but oftener as a—"
"Pedant!" said I.
"As a pedant!" she repeated obediently, "but most of all as a—"
"Well?" said I.
"As a—man," she ended, speaking with bent head. And here again I was possessed of a sudden gladness that was out of all reason, as I immediately told myself.
"Your hand is very small," said I, finding nothing better to say, "smaller even than I thought."
"Is it?" and she smiled and glanced up at me beneath her lashes, for her head was still bent.
"And wonderfully smooth and soft!"
"Is it?" said she again, but this time she did not look up at me. Now another man might have stooped and kissed those slender, shapely fingers—but, as for me, I loosed them, rather suddenly, and, once more bidding her good night, re-entered my own chamber, and closed the door.
But to-night, lying upon my bed, I could not sleep, and fell to watching the luminous patch of sky framed in my open casement. I thought of Charmian, of her beauty, of her strange whims and fancies, her swift-changing moods and her contrariness, comparing her, in turn, to all those fair women I had ever read of or dreamed over in my books. Little by little, however, my thoughts drifted to Gabbing Dick and Black George, and, with my mind's eye, I could see him as he was (perhaps at this very moment), fierce-eyed and grim of mouth, sitting beneath some hedgerow, while, knife in hand, he trimmed and trimmed his two bludgeons, one of which was to batter the life out of me. From such disquieting reflections I would turn my mind to sweet-eyed Prudence, to the Ancient, the forge, and the thousand and one duties of the morrow. I bethought me, once more, of the storm, of the coming of Charmian, of the fierce struggle in the dark, of the Postilion, and of Charmian again. And yet, in despite of me, my thoughts would revert to George, and I would see myself even as the Pedler pictured me, out in some secluded corner of the woods, lying stiffly upon my back with glassy eyes staring up sightlessly through the whispering leaves above, while my blood soaked and soaked into the green, and with a blackbird singing gloriously upon my motionless breast.
As this life is a Broad Highway along which we must all of us pass whether we will or no; as it is a thoroughfare sometimes very hard and cruel in the going, and beset by many hardships, sometimes desolate and hatefully monotonous, so, also, must its aspect, sooner or later, change for the better, and, the stony track overpassed, the choking heat and dust left behind, we may reach some green, refreshing haven shady with trees, and full of the cool, sweet sound of running waters. Then who shall blame us if we pause unduly in this grateful shade, and, lying upon our backs a while, gaze up through the swaying green of trees to the infinite blue beyond, ere we journey on once more, as soon we must, to front whatsoever of good or evil lies waiting for us in the hazy distance.
To just such a place am I now come, in this, my history; the record of a period which I, afterwards, remembered as the happiest I had ever known, the memory of which must remain with me, green and fragrant everlastingly.
If, in the forthcoming pages, you shall find over-much of Charmian, I would say, in the first place, that it is by her, and upon her, that this narrative hangs; and, in the second place, that in this part of my story I find my greatest pleasure; though here, indeed, I am faced with a great difficulty, seeing that I must depict, as faithfully as may be, that most difficult, that most elusive of all created things, to wit—a woman.
Truly, I begin to fear lest my pen fail me altogether for the very reason that it is of Charmian that I would tell, and of Charmian I understand little more than nothing; for what rule has ever been devised whereby a woman's mind may be accurately gauged, and who of all those wise ones who have written hitherto—poets, romancers, or historians—has ever fathomed the why and wherefore of the Mind Feminine?
A fool indeed were I to attempt a thing impossible; I do but seek to show her to you as I saw her, and to describe her in so far as I learned to know her.
And yet, how may I begin? I might tell you that her nose was neither arched nor straight, but perfect, none the less; I might tell you of her brows, straight and low, of her eyes, long and heavy-lashed, of her chin, firm and round and dimpled; and yet, that would not be Charmian. For I could not paint you the scarlet witchery of her mouth with its sudden, bewildering changes, nor show you how sweetly the lower lip curved up to meet its mate. I might tell you that to look into her eyes was like gazing down into very deep water, but I could never give you their varying beauty, nor the way she had with her lashes; nor can I ever describe her rich, warm coloring, nor the lithe grace of her body.
Thus it is that I misdoubt my pen of its task, and fear that, when you shall have read these pages, you shall, at best, have caught but a very imperfect reflection of Charmian as she really is.
Wherefore, I will waste no more time or paper upon so unprofitable a task, but hurry on with my narrative, leaving you to find her out as best you may.
Charmian sighed, bit the end of her pen, and sighed again. She was deep in her housekeeping accounts, adding and subtracting and, between whiles, regarding the result with a rueful frown.
Her sleeves were rolled up over her round, white arms, and I inwardly wondered if the much vaunted Phryne's were ever more perfect in their modelling, or of a fairer texture. Had I possessed the genius of a Praxiteles I might have given to the world a masterpiece of beauty to replace his vanished Venus of Cnidus; but, as it happened, I was only a humble blacksmith, and she a fair woman who sighed, and nibbled her pen, and sighed again.
"What is it, Charmian?"
"Compound addition, Peter, and I hate figures. I detest, loathe, and abominate them—especially when they won't balance!"
"Then never mind them," said I.
"Never mind them, indeed—the idea, Sir! How can I help minding them when living costs so much and we so poor?"
"Are we?" said I.
"Why, of course we are."
"Yes—to be sure—I suppose we are," said I dreamily.
Lais was beautiful, Thais was alluring, and Berenice was famous for her beauty, but then, could either of them have shown such arms—so long, so graceful in their every movement, so subtly rounded in their lines, arms which, for all their seeming firmness, must (I thought) be wonderfully soft to the touch, and smooth as ivory, and which found a delicate sheen where the light kissed them?
"We have spent four shillings for meat this week, Peter!" saidCharmian, glancing up suddenly.
"Good!" said I.
"Nonsense, sir—four shillings is most extravagant!"
"Oh!—is it, Charmian?"
"Why, of course it is."
"Oh!" said I; "yes—perhaps it is."
"Perhaps!" said she, curling her lip at me, "perhaps, indeed!" Having said which, Charmian became absorbed in her accounts again, and I in Charmian.
In Homer we may read that the loveliness of Briseis caused Achilles much sorrow; Ovid tells us that Chione was beautiful enough to inflame two gods, and that Antiope's beauty drew down from heaven the mighty Jove himself; and yet, was either of them formed and shaped more splendidly than she who sat so near me, frowning at what she had written, and petulantly biting her pen?
"Impossible!" said I, so suddenly that Charmian started and dropped her pen, which I picked up, feeling very like a fool.
"What did you mean by 'impossible,' Peter?"
"I was—thinking merely."
"Then I wish you wouldn't think so suddenly next time."
"I beg your pardon."
"Nor be so very emphatic about it."
"No," said I, "er—no." Hereupon, deigning to receive her pen back again, she recommenced her figuring, while I began to fill my pipe.
"Two shillings for tea!"
"Excellent!" said I.
"I do wish," she sighed, raising her head to shake it reproachfully at me, "that you would be a little more sensible."
"I'll try."
"Tea at twelve shillings a pound is a luxury!"
"Undoubtedly!"
"And to pay two shillings for a luxury when we are so poor—is sinful!"
"Is it, Charmian?"
"Of course it is."
"Oh!" said I; "and yet, life without tea—more especially as you brew it—would be very stale, flat, and unprofitable, and—"
"Bacon and eggs—one shilling and fourpence!" she went on, consulting her accounts.
"Ah!" said I, not venturing on "good," this time.
"Butter—one shilling!"
"Hum!" said I cautiously, and with the air of turning this over in my mind.
"Vegetables—tenpence!"
"To be sure," said I, nodding my head, "tenpence, certainly."
"And bread, Peter" (this in a voice of tragedy) "—eightpence."
"Excellent!" said I recklessly, whereat Charmian immediately frowned at me.
"Oh, Peter!" said she, with a sigh of resignation, "you possess absolutely no idea of proportion. Here we pay four shillings for meat, and only eightpence for bread; had we spent less on luxuries and more on necessaries we should have had money in hand instead of—let me see!" and she began adding up the various items before her with soft, quick little pats of her fingers on the table. Presently, having found the total, she leaned back in her chair and, summoning my attention with a tap of her pen, announced:
"We have spent nine shillings and tenpence, Peter!"
"Good, indeed!" said I.
"Leaving exactly—twopence over."
"A penny for you, and a penny for me."
"I fear I am a very bad housekeeper, Peter."
"On the contrary."
"You earn ten shillings a week."
"Well?"
"And here is exactly—twopence left—oh, Peter!"
"You are forgetting the tea and the beef, and—and the other luxuries," said I, struck by the droop of her mouth.
"But you work so very, very hard, and earn so little and that little—"
"I work that I may live, Charmian, and lo! I am alive."
"And dreadfully poor!"
"And ridiculously happy."
"I wonder why?" said she, beginning to draw designs on the page before her.
"Indeed, though I have asked myself that question frequently of late, I have as yet found no answer, unless it be my busy, care-free life, with the warm sun about me and the voice of the wind in the trees."
"Yes, perhaps that is it."
"And yet I don't know," I went on thoughtfully, "for now I come to think of it, my life has always been busy and care-free, and I have always loved the sun and the sound of wind in trees—yet, like Horace, have asked 'What is Happiness?' and looked for it in vain; and now, here—in this out-of-the-world spot, working as a village smith, it has come to me all unbidden and unsought—which is very strange!"
"Yes, Peter," said Charmian, still busy with her pen.
"Upon consideration I think my thanks are due to my uncle for dying and leaving me penniless."
"Do you mean that he disinherited you?"
"In a way, yes; he left me his whole fortune provided that I married a certain lady within the year."
"A certain lady?"
"The Lady Sophia Sefton, of Cambourne," said I.
Charmian's pen stopped in the very middle of a letter, and she bent down to examine what she had been writing.
"Oh!" said she very softly, "the Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne?"
"Yes," said I.
"And—your cousin—Sir Maurice—were the conditions the same in his case?"
"Precisely!"
"Oh!" said Charmian, just as softly as before, "and this lady—she will not—marry you?"
"No," I answered.
"Are you quite—sure?"
"Certain!—you see, I never intend to ask her."
Charmian suddenly raised her head and looked at me,
"Why not, Peter?"
"Because, should I ever marry—a remote contingency, and most improbable—I am sufficiently self-willed to prefer to exert my own choice in the matter; moreover, this lady is a celebrated toast, and it would be most repugnant to me that my wife's name should ever have been bandied from mouth to mouth, and hiccoughed out over slopping wineglasses—"
The pen slipped from Charmian's fingers to the floor, and before I could pick it up she had forestalled me, so that when she raised her head she was flushed with stooping.
"Have you ever seen this lady, Peter?"
"Never, but I have heard of her—who has not?"
"What have you heard?"
"That she galloped her horse up and down the steps of St. Paul'sCathedral, for one thing."
"What more?"
"That she is proud, and passionate, and sudden of temper—in a word, a virago!"
"Virago!" said Charmian, flinging up her head.
"Virago!" I nodded, "though she is handsome, I understand—in a strapping way—and I have it on very excellent authority that she is a black-browed goddess, a peach, and a veritable plum."
"'Strapping' is a hateful word, Peter!"
"But very descriptive."
"And—doesn't she interest you—a little, Peter?".
"Not in the least," said I.
"And, pray, why not?"
"Because I care very little for either peaches or plums."
"Or black-browed goddesses, Peter?"
"Not if she is big and strapping, and possesses a temper."
"I suppose—to such a philosopher as you—a woman or a goddess, black-browed or not, can scarcely compare with, or hope to rival an old book, can she, sir?"
"Why, that depends, Charmian."
"On what?"
"On the book!" said I.
Charmian rested her round elbows upon the table, and, setting her chin in her hands, stared squarely at me.
"Peter," said she.
"Yes, Charmian?"
"If ever you did meet this lady—I think—"
"Well?"
"I know—"
"What?"
"That you would fall a very easy victim!"
"I think not," said I.
"You would be her slave in—a month—three weeks—or much less—"
"Preposterous!" I exclaimed.
"If she set herself to make you!"
"That would be very immodest!" said I; "besides, no woman can make a man love her."
"Do your books teach you that, Peter?" Here, finding I did not answer, she laughed and nodded her head at me. "You would be head over ears in love before you knew it!"
"I think not," said I, smiling.
"You are the kind of man who would grow sick with love, and never know what ailed him."
"Any man in such a condition would be a pitiful ass!" said I.
Charmian only laughed at me again, and went back to her scribbling.
"Then, if this lady married you," said she suddenly, "you would be a gentleman of good position and standing?"
"Yes, I suppose so—and probably miserable."
"And rich, Peter?"
"I should have more than enough."
"Instead of being a village blacksmith—"
"With just enough, and absurdly happy and content," I added, "which is far more desirable—at least I think so."
"Do you mean to say that you would rather—exist here, and make horseshoes all your life, than—live, respected, and rich."
"And married to—"
"And married to the Lady Sophia?"
"Infinitely!" said I.
"Then your cousin, so far as you are concerned, is free to woo and win her and your uncle's fortune?"
"And I wish him well of his bargain!" I nodded. "As for me, I shall probably continue to live here, and make horseshoes—wifeless and content."
"Is marriage so hateful to you?"
"In the abstract—no; for in my mind there exists a woman whom I think I could love—very greatly; but, in the actual—yes, because there is no woman in all the world that is like this woman of my mind."
"Is she so flawlessly perfect—this imaginary woman?"
"She is one whom I would respect for her intellect."
"Yes."
"Whom I would honor for her proud virtue."
"Yes, Peter."
"Whom I would worship for her broad charity, her gentleness, and spotless purity."
"Yes, Peter."
"And love with all my strength, for her warm, sweet womanhood—in a word, she is the epitome of all that is true and womanly!"
"That is to say—as you understand such things, sir, and all your knowledge of woman, and her virtues and failings, you have learned from your books, therefore, misrepresented by history, and distorted by romance, it is utterly false and unreal. And, of course, this imaginary creature of yours is ethereal, bloodless, sexless, unnatural, and quite impossible!"
Now, when she spoke thus, I laid down my pipe and stared, but, before I could get my breath, she began again, with curling lip and lashes that drooped disdainfully.
"I quite understand that there can be no woman worthy of Mr. Peter Vibart—she whom he would honor with marriage must be specially created for him! Ah! but some day a woman—a real, live woman—will come into his life, and the touch of her hand, the glance of her eyes, the warmth of her breath, will dispel this poor, flaccid, misty creature of his imagination, who will fade and fade, and vanish into nothingness. And when the real woman has shown him how utterly false and impossible this dream woman was—then, Mr. Peter Vibart, I hope she will laugh at you—as I do, and turn her back upon you—as I do, and leave you—for the very superior, very pedantic pedant that you are—and scorn you—as I do, most of all because you are merely a—creature!" With the word, she flung up her head and stamped her foot at me, and turning, swept out through the open door into the moonlight.
"Creature?" said I, and so sat staring at the table, and the walls, and the floor, and the rafters in a blank amazement.
But in a while, my amazement growing, I went and stood in the doorway, looking at Charmian, but saying nothing.
And, as I watched, she began to sing softly to herself, and, putting up her hand, drew the comb from her hair so that it fell down, rippling about her neck and shoulders. And, singing softly thus, she shook her hair about her, so that I saw it curled far below her waist; stooped her head, and, parting it upon her neck, drew it over either shoulder, whence it flowed far down over her bosom in two glorious waves, for the moon, peeping through the rift in the leaves above, sent down her beams to wake small fires in it, that came and went, and winked with her breathing.
"Charmian, you have glorious hair!" said I, speaking on the impulse—a thing I rarely do.
But Charmian only combed her tresses, and went on singing to herself.
"Charmian," said I again, "what did you mean when you called me a—creature?"
Charmian went on singing.
"You called me a 'pedant' once before; to be told that I am superior, also, is most disquieting. I fear my manner must be very unfortunate to afford you such an opinion of me."
Charmian went on singing.
"Naturally I am much perturbed, and doubly anxious to know what you wish me to understand by the epithet 'creature'?"
Charmian went on singing. Wherefore, seeing she did not intend to answer me, I presently re-entered the cottage.
Now it is ever my custom, when at all troubled or put out in any way, to seek consolation in my books, hence, I now took up my Homer, and, trimming the candles, sat down at the table.
In a little while Charmian came in, still humming the air of her song, and not troubling even to glance in my direction.
Some days before, at her request, I had brought her linen and lace and ribands from Cranbrook, and these she now took out, together with needle and cotton, and, sitting down at the opposite side of the table, began to sew.
She was still humming, and this of itself distracted my mind from the lines before me; moreover, my eye was fascinated by the gleam of her flying needle, and I began to debate within myself what she was making. It (whatever it might be) was ruffled, and edged with lace, and caught here and there with little bows of blue riband, and, from these, and divers other evidences, I had concluded it to be a garment of some sort, and was casting about in my mind to account for these bows of riband, when, glancing up suddenly, she caught my eye; whereupon, for no reason in the world, I felt suddenly guilty, to hide which I began to search through my pockets for my pipe.
"On the mantelshelf!" said she.
"What is?"
"Your pipe!"
"Thank you!" said I, and reached it down.
"What are you reading?" she inquired; "is it of Helen or Aspasia orPhryne?"
"Neither—it is the parting of Hector and Andromache," I answered.
"Is it very interesting?"
"Yes."
"Then why do your eyes wander so often from the page?"
"I know many of the lines by heart," said I. And having lighted my pipe, I took up the book, and once more began to read. Yet I was conscious, all the time, of Charmian's flashing needle, also she had begun to hum again.
And, after I had endeavored to read, and Charmian had hummed for perhaps five minutes, I lowered my book, and, sighing, glanced at her.
"I am trying to read, Charmian."
"So I see."
"And your humming confuses me."
"It is very quiet outside, Peter."
"But I cannot read by moonlight, Charmian."
"Then—don't read, Peter." Here she nibbled her thread with white teeth, and held up what she had been sewing to view the effect of a bow of riband, with her head very much on one side. And I inwardly wondered that she should spend so much care upon such frippery—all senseless bows and laces.
"To hum is a very disturbing habit!" said I.
"To smoke an evil-smelling pipe is worse—much worse, Peter!"
"I beg your pardon!" said I, and laid the offending object back upon the mantel.
"Are you angry, Peter?"
"Not in the least; I am only sorry that my smoking annoyed you—had I known before—"
"It didn't annoy me in the least!"
"But from what you said I understood—"
"No, Peter, you did not understand; you never understand, and I don't think you ever will understand anything but your Helens and Phrynes—and your Latin and Greek philosophies, and that is what makes you so very annoying, and so—so quaintly original!"
"But you certainly found fault with my pipe."
"Naturally!—didn't you find fault with my humming?"
"Really," said I, "really, I fail to see—"
"Of course you do!" sighed Charmian. Whereupon there fell a silence between us, during which she sewed industriously, and I went forth with brave Hector to face the mighty Achilles. But my eye had traversed barely twenty lines when:
"Peter?"
"Yes?"
"Do you remember my giving you a locket?"
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
"Oh! I have it still—somewhere."
"Somewhere, sir?" she repeated, glancing at me with raised brows.
"Somewhere safe," said I, fixing my eyes upon my book.
"It had a riband attached, hadn't it?"
"Yes."
"A pink riband, if I remember—yes, pink."
"No—it was blue!" said I unguardedly.
"Are you sure, Peter?" And here, glancing up, I save that she was watching me beneath her lashes.
"Yes," I answered; "that is—I think so."
"Then you are not sure?"
"Yes, I am," said I; "it was a blue riband," and I turned over a page very ostentatiously.
"Oh!" said Charmian, and there was another pause, during which I construed probably fifty lines or so.
"Peter?"
"Well?"
"Where did you say it was now—my locket?"
"I didn't say it was anywhere."
"No, you said it was 'somewhere'—in a rather vague sort of way, Peter."
"Well, perhaps I did," said I, frowning at my book.
"It is not very valuable, but I prized it for association's sake,Peter."
"Ah!—yes, to be sure," said I, feigning to be wholly absorbed.
"I was wondering if you ever—wear it, Peter?"
"Wear it!" I exclaimed, and glancing furtively down at myself, I was relieved to see that there were no signs of a betraying blue riband; "wear it!" said I again, "why should I wear it?"
"Why, indeed, Peter, unless it was because it was there to wear." Suddenly she uttered an exclamation of annoyance, and, taking up a candle, began looking about the floor.
"What have you lost?"
"My needle! I think it must have fallen under the table, and needles are precious in this wilderness; won't you please help me to find it?"
"With pleasure!" said I, getting down upon my hands and knees, and together we began to hunt for the lost needle.
Now, in our search, it chanced that we drew near together, and once her hand touched mine, and once her soft hair brushed my cheek, and there stole over me a perfume like the breath of violets, the fragrance that I always associated with her, faint and sweet and alluring—so much so, that I drew back from further chance of contact, and kept my eyes directed to the floor.
And, after I had sought vainly for some time, I raised my head and looked at Charmian, to find her regarding me with a very strange expression.
"What is it?" I inquired. "Have you found the needle?" Charmian sat back on her heels, and laughed softly.
"Oh, yes, I've found the needle, Peter, that is—I never lost it."
"Why, then—what—what did you mean—?"
For answer, she raised her hand and pointed to my breast. Then, glancing hurriedly down, I saw that the locket had slipped forward through the bosom of my shirt, and hung in plain view. I made an instinctive movement to hide it, but, hearing her laugh, looked at her instead.
"So this was why you asked me to stoop to find your needle?"
"Yes, Peter."
"Then you—knew?"
"Of course I knew."
"Hum!" said I. A distant clock chimed eleven, and Charmian began to fold away her work, seeing which, I rose, and took up my candle. "And—pray—"
"Well?"
"And, pray," said I, staring hard at the flame of my candle, "how did you happen to—find out—?"
"Very simply—I saw the riband round your neck days ago. Good night,Peter!"
"Oh," said I. "Good night!"
"My lady sweet, arise!My lady sweet, ariseWith everything that pretty is,My lady sweet, arise;Arise, arise."
It was morning, and Charmian was singing. The pure, rich notes floated in at my open lattice, and I heard the clatter of her pail as she went to fetch water from the brook. Wherefore I presently stepped out into the sunshine, my coat and neckcloth across my arm, to plunge my head and face into the brook, and carry back the heavy bucket for her, as was my custom.
Being come to the brook I found the brimming bucket, sure enough, but no Charmian. I was looking about wonderingly, when she began to sing again, and, guided by this, I espied her kneeling beside the stream.
The water ran deep and very still, just here, overhung by ash and alder and willow, whose slender, curving branches formed a leafy bower wherein she half knelt, half sat, bending over to regard herself in the placid water. For a long moment she remained thus, studying her reflection intently in this crystal mirror, and little by little her song died away. Then she put up her hands and began to rearrange her hair with swift, dexterous fingers, apostrophizing her watery image the while, in this wise:
"My dear, you are growing positively apple-cheeked—I vow you are! your enemies might almost call you strapping—alack! And then your complexion, my dear, your adorable complexion!" she went on, with a rueful shake of her head, "you are as brown as a gipsy—not that you need go breaking your heart over it—for, between you and me, my dear, I think it rather improves you; the pity of it is that you have no one to appreciate you properly—to render to your charms the homage they deserve, no one—not a soul, my dear; your hermit, bless you! can see, or think, of nothing that exists out of a book—which, between you and me and the bucket yonder, is perhaps just as well—and yet—heigho! To be so lovely and so forlorn! indeed, I could shed tears for you if it would not make your eyelids swell and your classic nose turn red."
Here she sighed again, and, taking a tendril of hair between her fingers, transformed it, very cleverly, into a small curl.
"Yes, your tan certainly becomes you, my dear," she went on, nodding to her reflection; "not that he will ever notice—dear heart, no! were you suddenly to turn as black as a Hottentot—before his very eyes—he would go on serenely smoking his pipe, and talk to you of Epictetus—heighho!" Sighing thus, she broke off a spray of leaves and proceeded to twine them in among the lustrous coils of her hair, bending over her reflection meanwhile, and turning her head this way and that, to note the effect.
"Yes," said she at last, nodding at her image with a satisfied air, "that touch of green sets off your gipsy complexion admirably, my dear—I could positively kiss you—I vow I could, and I am hard to please. St. Anthony himself, meeting you alone in the desert, would, at least, have run away from you, and that would have been some tribute to your charms, but our philosopher will just glance at you with his slow, grave smile, and tell you, in his solemn, affable way—that it is a very fine morning—heigho!"
Here (somewhat late in the day, perhaps) perceiving that I was playing eavesdropper, I moved cautiously away, and taking up the pail, returned to the cottage. I now filled the kettle and set it upon the fire, and proceeded to spread the cloth (a luxurious institution of Charmian's, on which she insisted) and to lay out the breakfast things. In the midst of which, however, chancing to fall into a reverie, I became oblivious of all things till roused by a step behind me, and, turning, beheld Charmian standing with the glory of the sun about her—like the Spirit of Summer herself, broad of hip and shoulder, yet slender, and long of limb, all warmth and life, and long, soft curves from throat to ankle—perfect with vigorous youth from the leaves that crowned her beauty to the foot that showed beneath her gown.
And, as I gazed upon her, silent and wondering, lo! though her mouth was solemn yet there was laughter in her eyes as she spoke.
"Well, sir—have you no greeting for me?"
"It—is a—very fine morning!" said I. And now the merriment overflowed her eyes, and she laughed, yet blushed a little, too, and lowered her eyes from mine, and said, still laughing:
"Oh, Peter—the teapot—do mind the teapot!"
"Teapot?" I repeated, and then I saw that I still held it in my hand.
"Pray, sir—what might you be going to do with the teapot in one hand, and that fork in the other?"
"I was going to make the tea, I remember," said I.
"Is that why you were standing there staring at the kettle while it boiled over?"
"I—forgot all about the kettle," said I. So Charmian took the teapot from me, and set about brewing the tea, singing merrily the while. Anon she began to fry the bacon, giving each individual slice its due amount of care and attention; but, her eyes chancing to meet mine, the song died upon her lip, her lashes flickered and fell, while up from throat to brow there crept a slow, hot wave of crimson. And in that moment I turned away and strode down to the brook.
Now it happened that I came to that same spot where she had leaned and, flinging myself down, I fell to studying my reflection in the water, even as she had done.
Heretofore, though I had paid scant heed to my appearance, I had been content (in a certain impersonal sort of way), had dressed in the fashion, and taken advantage of such adornments as were in favor, as much from habit as from any set design; but now, lying beside the brook with my chin propped in my hands, I began to study myself critically, feature by feature, as I had never dreamed of doing before.
Mirrored in the clear waters I beheld a face lean and brown, and with lank, black hair; eyes, dark and of a strange brilliance, looked at me from beneath a steep prominence of brow; I saw a somewhat high-bridged nose with thin, nervous nostrils, a long, cleft chin, and a disdainful mouth.
Truly, a saturnine face, cold and dark and unlovely, and thus—even as I gazed—the mouth grew still more disdainful, and the heavy brow lowered blacker and more forbidding. And yet, in that same moment, I found myself sighing, while I strove to lend some order to the wildness of my hair.
"Fool!" said I, and plunged my head beneath the water, and held it there so long that I came up puffing and blowing; whereupon I caught up the towel and fell to rubbing myself vigorously, so that presently, looking down into the water again, I saw that my hair was wilder than ever—all rubbed into long elf-locks. Straightway I lifted my hands, and would have smoothed it somewhat, but checked the impulse.
"Let be," said I to myself, turning away, "let be. I am as I am, and shall be henceforth in very truth a village blacksmith—and content so to be—absolutely content."
At sight of me Charmian burst out laughing, the which, though I had expected it, angered me nevertheless.
"Why, Peter!" she exclaimed, "you look like—"
"A very low fellow!" said I, "say a village blacksmith who has been at his ablutions."
"If you only had rings in your ears, and a scarf round your head, you would be the image of a Spanish brigand—or like the man Mina whose exploits The Gazette is full of—a Spanish general, I think."
"A guerrilla leader," said I, taking my place at the table, "and a singularly cold-blooded villain—indeed I think it probable that we much resemble one another; is it any wonder that I am shunned by my kind—avoided by the ignorant and regarded askance by the rest?"
"Why, Peter!" said Charmian, regarding me with grave eyes, "what do you mean?"
"I mean that the country folk hereabout go out of their way to avoid crossing my path—not that, I suppose, they ever heard of Mina, but because of my looks."
"Your looks?"
"They think me possessed of the 'Evil Eye' or some such folly—may I cut you a piece of bread?"
"Oh, Peter!"
"Already, by divers honest-hearted rustics, I am credited with having cast a deadly spell upon certain unfortunate pigs, with having fought hand to hand with the hosts of the nethermost pit, and with having sold my soul to the devil—may I trouble you to pass the butter?"
"Oh, Peter, how foolish of them!"
"And how excusable! considering their ignorance and superstition," said I. "Mine, I am well aware, is not a face to win me the heart of man, woman, or child; they (especially women and children) share, in common with dogs and horses, that divine attribute which, for want of a better name, we call 'instinct,' whereby they love or hate for the mere tone of a voice, the glance of an eye, the motion of a hand, and, the love or hate once given, the prejudice for, or against, is seldom wholly overcome."
"Indeed," said Charmian, "I believe in first impressions."
"Being a woman," said I.
"Being a woman!" she nodded; "and the instinct of dog and child and woman has often proved true in the end."
"Surely instinct is always true?" said I—"I'd thank you for another cup of tea—yet, strangely enough, dogs generally make friends with me very readily, and the few children to whom I've spoken have neither screamed nor run away from me. Still, as I said before, I am aware that my looks are scarcely calculated to gain the love of man, woman, or child; not that it matters greatly, seeing that I am likely to hold very little converse with either."
"There is one woman, Peter, to whom you have talked by the hour together—"
"And who is doubtless weary enough of it all—more especially ofEpictetus and Trojan Helen."
"Two lumps of sugar, Peter?"
"Thank you! Women are very like flowers—" I began.
"That is a very profound remark, sir!—more especially coming from one who has studied and knows womankind so deeply."
"—and it is a pity that they should be allowed to 'waste their sweetness on the desert air.'"
"And philosophical blacksmiths, Peter?"
"More so if they be poor blacksmiths."
"I said 'philosophical,' Peter."
"You probably find your situation horribly lonely here?" I went on after a pause.
"Yes; it's nice and lonely, Peter."
"And, undoubtedly, this cottage is very poor and mean, and—er—humble?" Charmian smiled and shook her head.
"But then, Charmian Brown is a very humble person, sir."
"And you haven't even the luxury of a mirror to dress your hair by!"
"Is it so very clumsily dressed, sir?"
"No, no," said I hastily, "indeed I was thinking—"
"Well, Peter?"
"That it was very—beautiful!"
"Why, you told me that last night—come, what do you think of it this morning?"
"With those leaves in it—it is—even more so!"
Charmian laughed, and, rising, swept me a stately curtesy.
"After all, sir, we find there be exceptions to every rule!"
"You mean?"
"Even blacksmiths!"
And in a while, having finished my breakfast, I rose, and, taking my hat, bade Charmian "Good morning," and so came to the door. But on the threshold I turned and looked back at her. She had risen, and stood leaning with one hand on the table; now in the other she held the breadknife, and her eyes were upon mine.
And lo! wonder of wonders! once again, but this time sudden and swift—up from the round, full column of her throat, up over cheek and brow there rushed that vivid tide of color; her eyes grew suddenly deep and soft, and then were hidden 'neath her lashes—and, in that same moment, the knife slipped from her grasp, and falling, point downwards, stood quivering in the floor between us—an ugly thing that gleamed evilly.
Was this an omen—a sign vouchsafed of that which, dark and terrible, was, even then, marching to meet us upon this Broad Highway? O Blind, and more than blind!
Almost before it had ceased to quiver I stooped, and, plucking it from the floor, gave it into her hand. Now, as I did so, her fingers touched mine, and, moved by a sudden mad impulse, I stooped and pressed my lips upon them—kissed them quick and fierce, and so turned, and hurried upon my way.
Yet, as I went, I found that the knife had cut my chin, and that I was bleeding.
O Blind, and more than blind! Surely this was a warning, an omen to heed—to shiver over, despite the warm sun!
But, seeing the blood, I laughed, and strode villagewards, blithe of heart and light of foot.
O Blind, and more than blind!
"Which I says—Lord love me!"
I plunged the iron back into the fire, and, turning my head, espied a figure standing in the doorway; and, though the leather hat and short, round jacket had been superseded by a smart groom's livery, I recognized the Postilion.
"So 'elp me, Bob, if this ain't a piece o' luck!" he exclaimed, and, with the words, he removed his hat and fell to combing his short, thick hair with the handle of his whip.
"I'm glad you think so," said I.
"You can drownd me if it ain't!" said he.
"And, pray, how is the gentleman who—happened to fall and hurt himself, if you remember—in the storm?"
"'Appened to fall an' 'urt 'isself?" repeated the Postilion, winking knowingly, "'urt 'isself,' says you 'Walker!' says I, 'Walker!'" with which he laid his forefinger against the side of his nose and winked again.
"What might you be pleased to mean?"
"I means as a gent 'appenin' to fall in the dark may p'r'aps cut 'is 'ead open—but 'e don't give 'isself two black eyes, a bloody nose, a split lip, an' three broken ribs, all at once—it ain't nat'ral, w'ich if you says contrairy, I remarks—'Walker!' Lord!" continued the Postilion, seeing I did not speak, "Lord! it must 'a' been a pretty warm go while it lasted—you put 'im to sleep sound enough; it took me over a hour to Tonbridge, an' 'e never moved till 'e'd been put to bed at 'The Chequers' an' a doctor sent for. Ah! an' a nice time I 'ad of it, what wi' chamber-maids a-runnin' up an' down stairs to see the 'poor gentleman,' an' everybody a-starin' at me, an' a-shakin' their 'eads, an' all a-axin' questions, one atop o' the other, till the doctor come. 'Ow did this 'appen, me man?' says 'e. 'A haccident!' says I. 'A haccident?' says the doctor, wi' a look in 'is eye as I didn't just like. 'Ah!' says I, 'fell on 'is 'ead—out o' the chaise,' says I, 'struck a stone, or summ'at,' says I. 'Did 'e fall of 'is own accord?' says the doctor. 'Ah, for sure!' says I. 'Humph!' says the doctor, 'what wi' 'is eyes, an' 'is nose, an' 'is lip, looks to me as if some one 'ad 'elped 'im.' 'Then you must be a dam' fool!' says a voice, an' there's my gentleman—Number One, you know, a-sittin' up in bed an' doin' 'is 'ardest to frown. 'Sir?' says the doctor. 'Sir! to you,' says my gentleman, 'this honest fellow tells the truth. I did fall out o' the accursed chaise—an' be damned to you!' says 'e. 'Don't excite yourself,' says the doctor; 'in your present condition it would be dangerous.' 'Then be so good as to go to the devil!' says my gentleman. 'I will!' says the doctor, an' off 'e goes. 'Hi, there, you,' says my gentleman, callin' to me as soon as we were alone, 'this accursed business 'as played the devil with me, an' I need a servant. 'Ow much do you want to stay wi' me?' 'Twenty-five shillin' a week,' says I, doin' myself proud while I 'ad the chance. 'I'll give ye thirty,' says 'e; 'wot's ye name?' 'Jacob Trimble, sir,' says I. 'An' a most accursed name it is!—I'll call you Parks,' says 'e, 'an' when I ring let no one answer but yourself. You can go, Parks—an', Parks—get me another doctor.' Well," pursued the Postilion, seating himself near by, "we'd been there a couple o' weeks, an' though 'e was better, an' 'is face near well again, 'e still kept to 'is room, when, one day, a smart phaeton an' blood 'osses drives up, an' out steps a fine gentleman—one o' them pale, sleepy sort. I was a-standin' in the yard, brushin' my master's coat—a bottle-green wi' silver buttons, each button 'avin' what they calls a monneygram stamped onto it. 'Ha, me man!' says the sleepy gent, steppin' up to me, 'a fine coat—doocid fashionable cut, curse me!—your master's?' 'Yes, sir,' says I, brushin' away. 'Silver buttons too!' says the gent, 'let me see—ah yes!—a V, yes, to be sure—'ave the goodness to step to your master an' say as a gentleman begs to see 'im.' 'Can't be done, sir,' says I; 'me master ain't seein' nobody, bein' in indifferent 'ealth.' 'Nonsense!' says the gentleman, yawnin' an' slippin' a guinea into me 'and. 'Just run, like a good feller, an' tell 'im as I bear a message from George!' 'From 'oo?' says I. 'From George,' says the gent, smilin' an' yawnin'—'just say from George.' So, to come to the end of it, up I goes, an' finds me master walkin' up an' down an' a-swearin' to 'isself as usual. 'A gentleman to see you, sir,' says I. 'Why, devil burn your miserable carcass!' say 'e, 'didn't I tell you as I'd see nobody?' 'Ay, but this 'ere gent's a-sayin' 'e 'as a message from George, sir.' My master raised both clenched fists above 'is 'ead an' swore—ah! better than I'd heard for many a long day. 'Ows'ever, downstairs 'e goes, cursin' on every stair. In a time 'e comes back. 'Parks,' says 'e, 'do you remember that—that place where we got lost—in the storm, Parks?' 'Ah, sir,' says I. 'Well, go there at once,' says 'e,' an','—well—'e give me certain orders—jumps into the phaeton wi' the sleepy gentleman, an' they drive off together—an' accordin' to orders—'ere I am."
"A very interesting story!" said I. "And so you are a groom now?"
"Ah!—an' you are a blacksmith, eh?"
"Yes."
"Well, if it don't beat everything as ever I heard—I'm a stiff 'un, that's all!"
"What do you mean?"
"I means my droppin' in on you, like this 'ere, just as if you wasn't the one man in all England as I was 'opeful to drop in on."
"And you find me very busy!" said I.
"Lord love me!" said the Postilion, combing his hair so very hard that it wrinkled his brow. "I comes up from Tonbridge this 'ere very afternoon, an', 'avin' drunk a pint over at 'The Bull' yonder, an' axed questions as none o' they chawbacons could give a answer to, I 'ears the chink o' your 'ammer, an' comin' over 'ere, chance like, I finds—you; I'll be gormed if it ain't a'most onnat'ral!"
"And why?"
"'Cos you was the very i-dentical chap as I come up from Tonbridge to find."
"Were you sent to find me?"
"Easy a bit—you're a blacksmith, a'n't you?"
"I told you so before."
"Wot's more, you looks a blacksmith in that there leather apron, an' wi' your face all smutty. To be sure, you're powerful like 'im—Number One as was—my master as now is—"
"Did he send you to find me?"
"Some folks might take you for a gentleman, meetin' you off'and like, but I knows different."
"As how?"
"Well, I never 'eard of a gentleman turnin' 'isself into a blacksmith, afore, for one thing—"
"Still, one might," I ventured.
"No," answered the Postilion, with a decisive shake of the head, "it's ag'in' natur'; when a gentleman gets down in the world, an' 'as to do summ'at for a livin', 'e generally shoots 'isself—ah! an' I've knowed 'em do it too! An' then I've noticed as you don't swear, nor yet curse—not even a damn."
"Seldom," said I; "but what of that?"
"I've seed a deal o' the quality in my time, one way or another—many's the fine gentleman as I've druv, or groomed for, an' never a one on 'em as didn't curse me—ah!" said the Postilion, sighing and shaking his head, "'owtheydidcurse me!—'specially one—a young lord—oncommon fond o' me 'e were too, in 'is way, to the day 'is 'oss fell an' rolled on 'im. 'Jacob,' says 'e, short like, for 'e were agoin' fast. 'Jacob!' says 'e, 'damn your infernally ugly mug!' says 'e; 'you bet me as that cursed brute would do for me.' 'I did, my lord,' says I, an' I remember as the tears was a-runnin' down all our faces as we carried 'im along on the five-barred gate, that bein' 'andiest. 'Well, devil take your soul, you was right, Jacob, an' be damned to you!' says 'e; 'you'll find a tenner in my coat pocket 'ere, you've won it, for I sha'n't last the day out, Jacob.' An' 'e didn't either, for 'e died afore we got 'im 'ome, an' left me a 'undred pound in 'is will. Ah! gentlemen as is gents is all the same. Lord love you! there never was one on 'em but damned my legs, or my liver, or the chaise, or the 'osses, or the road, or the inns, or all on 'em together. If you was to strip me as naked as the palm o' your 'and, an' to strip a lord, or a earl, or a gentleman as naked as the palm o' your 'and, an' was to place us side by side—where'd be the difference? We're both men, both flesh and blood, a'n't we?—then where 'd be the difference? 'Oo's to tell which is the lord an' which is the postilion?"
"Who indeed?" said I, setting down my hammer. "Jack is often as good as his master—and a great deal better."
"Why, nobody!" nodded the Postilion, "not a soul till we opened our mouths; an' then 'twould be easy enough, for my lord, or earl, or gentleman, bein' naked, an' not likin' it (which would only be nat'ral), would fall a-swearin' 'eavens 'ard, damning everybody an' cursin' everything, an' never stop to think, while I—not bein' born to it—should stand there a-shiverin' an' tryin' a curse or two myself, maybe—but Lord! mine wouldn't amount to nothin' at all, me not bein' nat'rally gifted, nor yet born to it—an' this brings me round to 'er!"
"Her?"
"Ah—'er! Number Two—'er as quarrelled wi' Number One all the way from London—'er as run away from Number One—wot about—'er?" Here he fell to combing his hair again with his whip-handle, while his quick, bright eyes dodged from my face to the glowing forge and back again, and his clean-shaven lips pursed themselves in a soundless whistle. And, as I watched him, it seemed to me that this was the question that had been in his mind all along.
"Seeing she did manage to run away from him—Number One—she is probably very well," I answered.
"Ah—to be sure! very well, you say?—ah, to be sure!" said the Postilion, apparently lost in contemplation of the bellows; "an'—where might she be, now?"
"That I am unable to tell you," said I, and began to blow up the fire while the Postilion watched me, sucking the handle of his whip reflectively.
"You work oncommon 'ard—drownd me if you don't!"
"Pretty hard!" I nodded.
"An' gets well paid for it, p'r'aps?"
"Not so well as I could wish," said I.
"Not so well as 'e could wish," nodded the Postilion, apparently addressing the sledge-hammer, for his gaze was fixed upon it. "Of course not—the 'arder a man works the wuss 'e gets paid—'ow much did you say you got a week?"
"I named no sum," I replied.
"Well—'ow much might you be gettin' a week?"
"Ten shillings."
"Gets ten shillin' a week!" he nodded to the sledgehammer, "that ain't much for a chap like 'im—kick me, if it is!"
"Yet I make it do very well!"
The Postilion became again absorbed in contemplation of the bellows; indeed he studied them so intently, viewing them with his head now on one side, now on the other, that I fell to watching him, under my brows, and so, presently, caught him furtively watching me. Hereupon he drew his whip from his mouth and spoke.
"Supposing—" said he, and stopped.
"Well?" I inquired, and, leaning upon my hammer, I looked him square in the eye.
"Supposing—wot are you a-staring at, my feller?"
"You have said 'supposing' twice—well?"
"Well," said he, fixing his eye upon the bellows again, "supposing you was to make a guinea over an' above your wages this week?"
"I should be very much surprised," said I.
"You would?"
"I certainly should."
"Then—why not surprise yourself?"
"You must speak more plainly," said I.
"Well then," said the Postilion, still with his gaze abstracted, "supposin' I was to place a guinea down on that there anvil o' yours—would that 'elp you to remember where Number Two—'er—might be?"
"No!"
"It wouldn't?"
"No!"
"A guinea's a lot o' money!"
"It is," I nodded.
"An' you say it wouldn't?"
"It would not!" said I.
"Then say—oh! say two pun' ten an' 'ave done with it."
"No!" said I, shaking my head.
"What—not—d'ye say 'no' to two pun' ten?"
"I do."
"Well, let's say three pound."
I shook my head and, drawing the iron from the fire, began to hammer at it.
"Well then," shouted the Postilion, for I was making as much din as possible, "say four—five—ten—fifteen—twenty-five—fifty!" Here I ceased hammering.
"Tell me when you've done!" said I.