"You're a cool customer, you are—ah! an' a rum un' at that—I never see a rummer."
"Other people have thought the same," said I, examining the half-finished horseshoe ere I set it back in the fire.
"Sixty guineas!" said the Postilion gloomily.
"Come again!" said I.
"Seventy then!" said he, his gloom deepening.
"Once more!" said I.
"A 'undred—one 'undred guineas!" said he, removing his hat to mop at his brow.
"Any more?" I inquired.
"No!" returned the Postilion sulkily, putting on his hat, "I'm done!"
"Did he set the figure at a hundred guineas?" said I.
"'Im—oh! 'e's mad for 'er, 'e is—'e'd ruin 'isself, body and soul, for 'er, 'e would, but I ain't goin' to offer no more; no woman as ever breathed—no matter 'ow 'andsome an' up-standin'—is worth more 'n a 'undred guineas—it ain't as if she was a blood-mare—an' I'm done!"
"Then I wish you good-day!"
"But—just think—a 'undred guineas is a fortun'!"
"It is!" said I.
"Come, think it over," said the Postilion persuasively, "think it over, now!"
"Let me fully understand you then," said I; "you propose to pay me one hundred guineas on behalf of your master, known heretofore as Number One, for such information as shall enable him to discover the whereabouts of a certain person known as Her, Number Two—is that how the matter stands?"
"Ah! that's 'ow it stands," nodded the Postilion, "the money to be yours as soon as ever 'e lays 'ands on 'er—is it a go?"
"No!"
"No?"
"No!"
"W'y, you must be stark, starin' mad—that you must—unless you're sweet on 'er yourself—"
"You talk like a fool!" said I angrily.
"So you are sweet on 'er then?"
"Ass!" said I. "Fool!" And, dropping my hammer, I made towards him, but he darted nimbly to the door, where, seeing I did not pursue, he paused.
"I may be a hass," he nodded, "an' I may be a fool—but I don't go a-fallin' in love wi' ladies as is above me, an' out o' my reach, and don't chuck away a 'undred guineas for one as ain't likely to look my way—not me! Which I begs leave to say—hass yourself, an' likewise fool—bah!" With which expletive he set his thumb to his nose, spread out his fingers, wagged them and swaggered off.
Above me, and out of my reach! One not likely to look my way!
And, in due season, having finished the horseshoe, having set each tool in its appointed place in the racks, and raked out the clinkers from the fire, I took my hat and coat, and, closing the door behind me, set out for the Hollow.
It was evening—that time before the moon is up and when the earth is dark, as yet, and full of shadows. Now as I went, by some chance there recurred to me the words of an old song I had read somewhere, years ago, words written in the glorious, brutal, knightly days of Edward the First, of warlike memory; and the words ran thus:
"For her love I carke, and care,For her love I droop, and dare,For her love my bliss is bare.And I wax wan!"
"I wonder what poor, love-sick, long-dead-and-forgotten fool wrote that?" said I aloud.
"For her love, in sleep I slake,For her love, all night I wake,For her love, I mourning makeMore than any man!"
Some doughty squire-at-arms, or perhaps some wandering knight (probably of a dark, unlovely look), who rode the forest ways with his thoughts full of Her, and dreaming of Her loveliness. "Howbeit, he was, beyond all doubt, a fool and a great one!" said I, "for it is to be inferred, from these few words he has left us, that his love was hopeless. She was, perhaps, proud and of a high estate, one who was above him, and far beyond his reach—who was not likely even to look his way. Doubtless she was beautiful, and therefore haughty and disdainful, for disdainful pride is an attribute of beauty, and ever was and ever will be—and hence it came that our misfortunate squire, or knight-errant, was scorned for his pains, poor fool! Which yet was his own fault, after all, and, indeed, his just reward, for what has any squire-at-arms or lusty knight, with the world before him, and glory yet unachieved—to do with love? Love is a bauble—a toy, a pretty pastime for idle folk who have no thought above such—away with it!—Bah!" And, in my mind—that is to say, mentally—I set my thumb to my nose, and spread my fingers, and wagged them—even as the Postilion had done. And yet, despite this, the words of the old song recurred again and again, pathetically insistent, voicing themselves in my footsteps so that, to banish them, I presently stood still.
And in that very moment a gigantic figure came bursting through the hedge, clearing the ditch in a single bound—and Black George confronted me.
Haggard of face, with hair and beard matted and unkempt, his clothes all dusty and torn, he presented a very wild and terrible appearance; and beneath one arm he carried two bludgeons. The Pedler had spoken truly, then, and, as I met the giant's smouldering eye, I felt my mouth become suddenly parched and dry, and the palms of my hands grew moist and clammy.
For a moment neither of us spoke, only we looked at each other steadily in the eye; and I saw the hair of his beard bristle, and he raised one great hand to the collar of his shirt, and tore it open as if it were strangling him.
"George!" said I at last, and held out my hand
George never stirred.
"Won't you shake hands, George?"
His lips opened, but no words came.
"Had I known where to look for you, I should have sought you out days ago," I went on; "as it is I have been wishing to meet you, hoping to set matters right."
Once again his lips opened, but still no word came.
"You see, Prudence is breaking her heart over you."
A laugh burst from him, sudden, and harsh.
"You 'm a liar!" said he, and his voice quavered strangely.
"I speak gospel truth!" said I.
"I be nowt to Prue since the day you beat me at th' 'ammer-throwin'—an' ye know it."
"Prudence loves you, and always has," said I. "Go back to her, George, go back to her, and to your work—be the man I know you are; go back to her—she loves you. If you still doubt my word—here, read that!" and I held out his own letter, the letter on which Prudence had written those four words: "George, I love you."
He took it from me—crumpled it slowly in his hand and tossed it into the ditch.
"You 'm a liar!" said he again, "an' a—coward!"
"And you," said I, "you are a fool, a blind, gross, selfish fool, who, in degrading yourself—in skulking about the woods and lanes—is bringing black shame and sorrow to as sweet a maid as ever—"
"It don't need you to tell me what she be an' what she bean't," said Black George, in a low, repressed voice. "I knowed 'er long afore you ever set eyes on 'er—grew up wi' 'er, I did, an' I bean't deaf nor blind. Ye see, I loved 'er—all my life—that's why one o' us two's a-goin' to lie out 'ere all night—ah! an' all to-morrow, likewise, if summun don't chance to find us," saying which, he forced a cudgel into my hand.
"What do you mean, George?"
"I means as if you don't do for me, then I be a-goin' to do for 'ee."
"But why?" I cried; "in God's name—why?"
"I be slow, p'r'aps, an' thick p'raps, but I bean't a fule—come, man—if she be worth winnin' she be worth fightin' for."
"But I tell you she loves Black George, and no other—she never had any thought of me, or I of her—this is madness—and worse!" and I tossed the cudgel aside.
"An' I tell 'ee," broke in the smith, his repression giving way before a fury as fierce as it was sudden, "I tell 'ee—you be a liar, an' a coward—I know, I know—I've heerd an' I've seen—your lyin', coward's tongue sha'n't save 'ee—oh, ecod! wi' your white face an' tremblin' 'ands—you be a shame to the woman as loves ye, an' the woman as bore ye!—stand up, I say, or by God! I'll do for 'ee!" and he raised his weapon.
Without another word I picked up the cudgel, and, pointing to a gate a little farther along the road, I led the way into the meadow beyond. On the other side of this meadow ran the lane I have mentioned before, and beyond the lane was the Hollow, and glancing thitherward, I bethought me that supper would be ready, and Charmian waiting for me, just about now, and I sighed, I remember, as I drew off my coat, and laid it, together with my hat, under the hedge.
The moon was beginning to rise, casting the magic of her pale loveliness upon the world, and, as I rolled up my sleeves, I glanced round about me with an eye that strove to take in the beauty of all things—of hedge and tree and winding road, the gloom of wood, the sheen of water, and the far, soft sweep of hill and dale. Over all these my glance lingered yearningly, for it seemed to me that this look might be my last. And now, as I stooped and gripped my weapon, I remembered how I had, that morning, kissed her fingers, and I was strangely comforted and glad.
The night air, which had been warm heretofore, struck chilly now, and, as I stood up fronting Black George, I shivered, seeing which he laughed, short and fierce, and, with the laugh, came at me, striking downwards at my head as he came, and tough wood met tough wood with a shock that jarred me from wrist to shoulder.
To hit him upon the arm, and disable him, was my one thought and object. I therefore watched for an opening, parrying his swift strokes and avoiding his rushes as well as I might. Time and again our weapons crashed together, now above my head, now to right, or left, sometimes rattling in quick succession, sometimes with pauses between strokes, pauses filled in with the sound of heavy breathing and the ceaseless thud of feet upon the sward. I was already bruised in half-a-dozen places, my right hand and arm felt numb, and with a shooting pain in the shoulder, that grew more acute with every movement; my breath also was beginning to labor. Yet still Black George pressed on, untiring, relentless, showering blow on blow, while my arm grew ever weaker and weaker, and the pain in my shoulder throbbed more intensely.
How long had we fought? five minutes—ten—half-an-hour—an hour? I could see the sweat gleaming upon his cheek, his eyes were wild, his mouth gaped open, and he drew his breath in great sobbing pants. But, as I looked, his cudgel broke through my tired guard, and, taking me full upon the brow, drove me reeling back; my weapon slipped from my grasp, and, blinded with blood, I staggered to and fro, like a drunken man, and presently slipped to the grass. And how sweet it was to lie thus, with my cheek upon kind mother earth, to stretch my aching body, and with my weary limbs at rest. But Black George stood above me, panting, and, as his eyes met mine, he laughed—a strange-sounding, broken laugh, and whirled up his cudgel—to beat out my brains—even as the Pedler had foretold—to-morrow the blackbird would sing upon my motionless breast, and, looking into Black George's eyes—I smiled.
"Get up!" he panted, and lowered the cudgel. "Get up—or, by God—I'll do—for 'ee!"
Sighing, I rose, and took the cudgel he held out to me, wiping the blood from my eyes as I did so.
And now, as I faced him once more, all things vanished from my ken save the man before me—he filled the universe, and, even as he leaped upon me, I leaped upon him, and struck with all my strength; there was a jarring, splintering shock, and Black George was beaten down upon his knees, but as, dropping my weapon, I stepped forward, he rose, and stood panting, and staring at the broken cudgel in his hand.
"George!" said I.
"You 'm a-bleedin', Peter!"
"For that matter, so are you."
"Blood-lettin' be—good for a man—sometimes eases un."
"It does," I panted; "perhaps you are—willing to hear reason—now?"
"We be—even so fur—but fists be better nor—sticks any day—an' I—be goin'—to try ye—wi' fists!"
"Have we not bled each other sufficiently?"
"No," cried George, between set teeth, "theer be more nor blood-lettin' 'twixt you an' me—I said as 'ow one on us would lie out 'ere all night—an' so 'e shall—by God!—come on—fists be best arter all!"
This was the heyday of boxing, and, while at Oxford, I had earned some small fame at the sport. But it was one thing to spar with a man my own weight in a padded ring, with limited rounds governed by a code of rules, and quite another to fight a man like Black George, in a lonely meadow, by light of moon. Moreover, he was well acquainted with the science, as I could see from the way he "shaped," the only difference between us being that whereas he fought with feet planted square and wide apart, I balanced myself upon my toes, which is (I think) to be commended as being quicker, and more calculated to lessen the impact of a blow.
Brief though the respite had been, it had served me to recover my breath, and, though my head yet rung from the cudgel-stroke, and the blood still flowed freely, getting, every now and then, into my eyes, my brain was clear as we fronted each other for what we both knew must be the decisive bout.
The smith stood with his mighty shoulders stooped something forward, his left arm drawn back, his right flung across his chest, and, so long as we fought, I watched that great fist and knotted forearm, for, though he struck oftener with his left, it was in that passive right that I thought my danger really lay.
It is not my intention to chronicle this fight blow by blow; enough, and more than enough, has already been said in that regard; suffice it then, that as the fight progressed I found that I was far the quicker, as I had hoped, and that the majority of his blows I either blocked or avoided easily enough.
Time after time his fist shot over my shoulder, or over my head, and time after time I countered heavily—now on his body, now on his face; once he staggered, and once I caught a momentary glimpse of his features convulsed with pain; he was smeared with blood from the waist up, but still he came on.
I fought desperately now, savagely, taking advantage of every opening, for though I struck him four times to his once, yet his blows had four times the weight of mine; my forearms were bruised to either elbow, and my breath came in gasps; and always I watched that deadly "right." And presently it came, with arm and shoulder and body behind it—quick as a flash, and resistless as a cannonball; but I was ready, and, as I leaped, I struck, and struck him clean and true upon the angle of the jaw; and, spinning round, Black George fell, and lay with his arms wide stretched, and face buried in the grass.
Slowly, slowly he got upon his knees, and thence to his feet, and so stood panting, hideous with blood and sweat, bruised and cut and disfigured, staring at me, as one in amaze.
Now, as I looked, my heart went out to him, and I reached forth my right hand.
"George!" I panted. "Oh, George!"
But Black George only looked at me, and shook his head, and groaned.
"Oh, Peter!" said he, "you be a man, Peter! I've fou't—ah! many 's the time, an' no man ever knocked me down afore. Oh, Peter! I—I could love 'ee for it if I didn't hate the very sight of 'ee—come on, an' let's get it over an' done wi'."
So once again fists were clenched and jaws set—once again came the trampling of feet, the hiss of breath, and the thudding shock of blows given and taken.
A sudden, jarring impact—the taste of sulphur on my tongue—a gathering darkness before my eyes, and, knowing this was the end, I strove desperately to close with him; but I was dazed, blind—my arms fell paralyzed, and, in that moment, the Smith's right fist drove forward. A jagged flame shot up to heaven—the earth seemed to rush up towards me—a roaring blackness engulfed me, and then—silence.
Some one was calling to me, a long way off.
Some one was leaning down from a great height to call to me in the depths; and the voice was wonderfully sweet, but faint, faint, because the height was so very high, and the depths so very great.
And still the voice called and called, and I felt sorry that I could not answer, because, as I say, the voice was troubled, and wonderfully sweet.
And, little by little, it seemed that it grew nearer, this voice; was it descending to me in these depths of blackness, or was I being lifted up to the heights where, I knew, blackness could not be? Ay, indeed, I was being lifted, for I could feel a hand upon my brow—a smooth, cool hand that touched my cheek, and brushed the hair from my forehead; a strong, gentle hand it was, with soft fingers, and it was lifting me up and up from the loathly depths which seemed more black and more horrible the farther I drew from them.
And so I heard the voice nearer, and ever nearer, until I could distinguish words, and the voice had tears in it, and the words were very tender.
"Peter—speak!—speak to me, Peter!"
"Charmian?" said I, within myself; "why, truly, whose hand but hers could have lifted me out of that gulf of death, back to light and life?" Yet I did not speak aloud, for I had no mind to, yet a while.
"Ah! speak to me—speak to me, Peter! How can you lie there so still and pale?"
And now her arms were about me, strong and protecting, and my head was drawn down upon her bosom.
"Oh, Peter!—my Peter!"
Nay, but was this Charmian, the cold, proud Charmian? Truly I had never heard that thrill in her voice before—could this indeed be Charmian? And lying thus, with my head on this sweet pillow, I could hear her heart whispering to me, and it seemed that it was striving to tell me something—striving, striving to tell me something, could I but understand—ah! could I but understand!
"I waited for you so long—so long, Peter—and the supper is all spoiled—a rabbit, Peter—you liked rabbit, and—and oh, God! I want you—don't you hear me, Peter—I want you—want you!" and now her cheek was pressed to mine, and her lips were upon my hair, and upon my brow—her lips! Was this indeed Charmian, and was I Peter Vibart? Ah, if I could but know what it was her heart was trying to tell me, so quickly and passionately!
And while I lay listening, listening, something hot splashed down upon my cheek, and then another, and another; her bosom heaved tumultuously, and instinctively, raising my arms, I clasped them about her.
"Don't!" I said, and my voice was a whisper; "don't, Charmian!"
For a moment her clasp tightened about me, she was all tenderness and clinging warmth; then I heard a sudden gasp, her arms loosened and fell away, and so I presently raised my head, and, supporting myself upon my hand, looked at her. And then I saw that her cheeks were burning.
"Peter."
"Yes, Charmian?"
"Did you—" She paused, plucking nervously at the grass, and looking away from me.
"Well, Charmian?"
"Did you—hear—" Again she broke off, and still her head was averted.
"I heard your voice calling to me from a great way off, and so—I came,Charmian."
"Were you conscious when—when I—found you?"
"No," I answered; "I was lying in a very deep, black, pit." Here she looked at me again.
"I—I thought you—were—dead, Peter."
"My soul was out of my body—until you recalled it."
"You were lying upon your back, by the hedge here, and—oh, Peter! your face was white and shining in the moonlight—and there was—blood upon it, and you looked like one that is—dead!" and she shivered.
"And you have brought me back to life," said I, rising; but, being upon my feet, I staggered giddily, to hide which, I laughed, and leaned against a tree. "Indeed," said I, "I am very much alive still, and monstrously hungry—you spoke of a rabbit, I think—"
"A rabbit!" said Charmian in a whisper, and as I met her eye I would have given much to have recalled that thoughtless speech.
"I—I think you did mention a rabbit," said I, floundering deeper.
"So, then—you deceived me, you lay there and deceived me—with your eyes shut, and your ears open, taking advantage of my pity—"
"No, no—indeed, no—I thought myself still dreaming; it—it all seemed so unreal, so—so beyond all belief and possibility and—" I stopped, aghast at my crass folly, for, with a cry, she sprang to her feet, and hid her face in her hands, while I stood dumbfounded, like the fool I was. When she looked up, her eyes seemed to, scorch me.
"And I thought Mr. Vibart a man of honor—like a knight of his old-time romances, high and chivalrous—oh! I thought him a—gentleman!"
"Instead of which," said I, speaking (as it were), despite myself, "instead of which, you find me only a blacksmith—a low, despicable fellow eager to take advantage of your unprotected womanhood." She did not speak, standing tall and straight, her head thrown back; wherefore, reading her scorn of me in her eyes, seeing the proud contempt of her mouth, a very demon seemed suddenly to possess me, for certainly the laugh that rang from my lip, proceeded from no volition of mine.
"And yet, madam," my voice went on, "this despicable blacksmith fellow refused one hundred guineas for you to-day."
"Peter!" she cried, and shrank away from me as if I had threatened to strike her.
"Ah!—you start at that—your proud lip trembles—do not fear, madam—the sum did not tempt him—though a large one."
"Peter!" she cried again, and now there was a note of appeal in her voice.
"Indeed, madam, even so degraded a fellow as this blacksmith could not very well sell that which he does not possess—could he? And so the hundred guineas go a-begging, and you are still—unsold!" Long before I had done she had covered her face again, and, coming near, I saw the tears running out between her fingers and sparkling as they fell. And once again the devil within me laughed loud and harsh. But, while it still echoed, I had flung myself down at her feet.
"Charmian," I cried, "forgive me—you will, you must!" and, kneeling before her, I strove to catch her gown, and kiss its hem, but she drew it close about her, and, turning, fled from me through the shadows.
Heedless of all else but that she was leaving me, I stumbled to my feet and followed. The trees seemed to beset me as I ran, and bushes to reach out arms to stay me, but I burst from them, running wildly, blunderingly, for she was going—Charmian was leaving me. And so, spent and panting, I reached the cottage, and met Charmian at the door. She was clad in the long cloak she had worn when she came, and the hood was drawn close about her face.
I stood panting in the doorway, barring her exit.
"Let me pass, Peter."
"By God—no!" I cried, and, entering, closed the door, and leaned my back against it.
And, after we had stood thus awhile, each looking upon the other, I reached out my hands to her, and my hands were torn and bloody.
"Don't go, Charmian," I mumbled, "don't go! Oh, Charmian—I'm hurt—I didn't want you to know, but you mustn't leave me—I am not—well; it is my head, I think. I met Black George, and he was too strong for me. I'm deaf, Charmian, and half blinded—oh, don't leave me—I'm afraid, Charmian!" Her figure grew more blurred and indistinct, and I sank down upon my knees; but in the dimness I reached out and found her hands, and clasped them, and bowed my aching head upon them, and remained thus a great while, as it seemed to me.
And presently, through the mist, her voice reached me.
"Oh, Peter! I will not leave you—lean on me there—there!" And, little by little, those strong, gentle hands drew me up once more to light and life. And so she got me to a chair, and brought cool water, and washed the blood and sweat from me, as she had once before, only now my hurts were deeper, for my head grew beyond my strength to support, and hung upon my breast, and my brain throbbed with fire, and the mist was ever before my eyes.
"Are you in much pain, Peter?"
"My head—only my head, Charmian—there is a bell ringing there, no—it is a hammer, beating." And indeed I remembered little for a while, save the touch of her hands and the soothing murmur of her voice, until I found she was kneeling beside me, feeding me with broth from a spoon. Wherefore I presently took the basin from her and emptied it at a gulp, and, finding myself greatly revived thereby, made some shift to eat of the supper she set before me.
So she presently came and sat beside me and ate also, watching me at each morsel.
"Your poor hands!" said she, and, looking down at them, I saw that my knuckles were torn and broken, and the fingers much swelled. "And yet," said Charmian, "except for the cut in your head, you are quite unmarked, Peter."
"He fought mostly for the body," I answered, "and I managed to keep my face out of the way; but he caught me twice—once upon the chin, lightly, and once up behind the ear, heavily; had his fist landed fairly I don't think even you could have brought me back from those loathly depths, Charmian."
And in a while, supper being done, she brought my pipe, and filled it, and held the light for me. But my head throbbed woefully and for once the tobacco was flavorless; so I sighed, and laid the pipe by.
"Why, Peter!" said Charmian, regarding me with an anxious frown, "can't you smoke?"
"Not just now, Charmian," said I, and leaning my head in my hands, fell into a sort of coma, till, feeling her touch upon my shoulder, I started, and looked up.
"You must go to bed, Peter."
"No," said I.
"Yes, Peter."
"Very well, Charmian, yes—I will go to bed," and I rose.
"Do you feel better now, Peter?"
"Thank you, yes—much better."
"Then why do you hold on to the chair?"
"I am still a little giddy—but it will pass." And "Charmian—you forgive—"
"Yes—yes, don't—don't look at me like that, Peter—and—oh, good night!—foolish boy!"
"I am—twenty-five, Charmian!" But as she turned away I saw that there were tears in her eyes.
Dressed as I was, I lay down upon my bed, and, burying my head in the pillow, groaned, for my pain was very sore; indeed I was to feel the effects of George's fist for many a day to come, and it seems to me now that much of the morbid imaginings, the nightly horrors, and black despair, that I endured in the time which immediately followed, was chiefly owing to that terrible blow upon the head.
He bestrode a powerful black charger, and his armor glittered through the green. And, as he rode beneath the leafy arches of the wood, he lifted up his voice, and sang, and the song was mournful, and of a plaintive seeming, and rang loud behind his visor-bars; therefore, as I sat beside the freshet, I hearkened to his song:
"For her love I carke, and care,For her love I droop, and dare,For her love my bliss is bare.And I wax wan!"
Forth he rode from the shadowy woodland, pacing very solemn and slow; and thrice he struck his iron hand upon his iron breast.
"For her love, in sleep I slake,For her love, all night I wake,For her love, I mourning makeMore than any man!"
Now, being come to where I sat beside the brook, he checked his horse, and gazed full long upon me, and his eyes shone from the gloom of his helmet.
"Messire," quoth be; "how like you my song?"
"But little, sir—to be plain with you, not a whit," I answered.
"And, beseech you—wherefore?"
"Because it is folly—away with it, for, if your head be full of such, how shall you achieve any lasting good—Glory, Learning, Power?" But, sighing, he shook his head; quoth he:
"O Blind One!—Glory is but a name, Learning but a yearning emptiness, and whither leadeth Ambition? Man is a mote dancing in a sun-ray—the world, a speck hanging in space. All things vanish and pass utterly away save only True-love, and that abideth everlastingly; 'tis sweeter than Life, and stronger than Death, and reacheth up beyond the stars; and thus it is I pray you tell me—where is she?"
"She?"
"She whom ye love?"
"I love no woman," said I.
"Liar!" cried he, in a terrible voice, and the voice was the voice ofBlack George.
"And who are you that says so?" I demanded, and stood upon my feet.
"Look—behold and know thyself, O Blind and more than blind!" And, leaning down, he raised his visor so that the moonlight fell upon his face, and the face I looked upon was my own; and, while I gazed, he lifted up his voice, and cried:
"Ye Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye—who is he that rideth in the green, dreaming ever of her beauty, and sighing forth his love everlastingly, Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye?"
And out of the gloom of the wood, from every rustling leaf and opening bud, came a little voice that rose and blended in a soft, hushed chorus, crying:
"Peter Vibart—Peter Vibart!"
"Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye—who is he that walketh to and fro in the world, and having eyes, seeth not, and ears, heareth not—a very Fool of Love?"
Once again the voices cried in answer:
"Peter Vibart!—Peter Vibart!"
"Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye—who is he that shall love with a love mightier than most—who shall suffer greatly for love and because of it—who shall think of it by day, and dream of it o' nights—who is he that must die to find love and the fulness of life?—O Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye!"
And again from out the green came the soft, hushed chorus:
"Peter Vibart—Peter Vibart!"
But, even as I laughed, came one from the wood, with a horse and armor. And the armor he girded on me, and the horse I mounted. And there, in the moonlit glade, we fought, and strove together, my Other Self and I. And, sudden and strong he smote me, so that I fell down from my horse, and lay there dead, with my blood soaking and soaking into the grass. And, as I watched, there came a blackbird that perched upon my breast, carolling gloriously. Yet, little by little, this bird changed, and lo! in its place was a new Peter Vibart standing upon the old; and the New trampled the Old down into the grass, and—it was gone. Then, with his eyes on the stars, the new Peter Vibart fell a-singing, and the words I sang were these:
"For her love I carke, and care,For her love I droop, and dare,For her love my bliss is bare.And I wax wan!"
And thus there came into my heart that which had been all unknown—undreamed of hitherto, yet which, once there, could never pass away.
"O Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye—who is he that counteth True-love sweeter than Life—greater than Wisdom—stronger than Death? O Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye!"
And the hushed voices chorused softly.
"Peter Vibart—Peter Vibart!" And, while I listened, one by one the voices ceased, till there but one remained—calling, calling, but ever soft and far away, and when I would have gone toward this voice—lo! there stood a knife quivering in the ground before me, that grew and grew until its haft touched heaven, yet still the voice called upon my name very softly:
"Peter!—Peter!—oh, Peter, I want you!—oh, Peter!—wake! wake!" I sat up in bed, and, as I listened, grew suddenly sick, and a fit of trembling shook me violently, for the whisper was still in my ears, and in the whisper was an agony of fear and dread indescribable.
"Peter!—oh, Peter, I am afraid!—wake! wake!"
A cold sweat broke out upon me and I glared helplessly, towards the door.
"Quick, Peter!—come to me—oh, God!"
I strove to move, but still I could not. And now, in the darkness, hands were shaking me wildly, and Charmian's voice was speaking in my ear.
"The door!" it whispered, "the door!"
Then I arose, and was in the outer room, with Charmian close beside me in the dark, and my eyes were upon the door. And then I beheld a strange thing, for a thin line of white light traversed the floor from end to end. Now, as I watched this narrow line, I saw that it was gradually widening and widening; very slowly, and with infinite caution, the door was being opened from without. In this remote place, in this still, dead hour of the night, full of the ghostly hush that ever precedes the dawn—there was something devilish—something very like murder in its stealthy motion. I heard Charmian's breath catch, and, in the dark, her hand came and crept into mine and her fingers were cold as death.
And now a great anger came upon me, and I took a quick step forward, but Charmian restrained me.
"No, Peter!" she breathed; "not yet—wait!" and wound her arms round mine.
In a corner near by stood that same trusty staff that had been the companion of my wanderings, and now I reached, and took it up, balancing it in my hand. And all the time I watched that line of light upon the floor widening and widening, growing ever broader and more broad. The minutes dragged slowly by, while the line grew into a streak, and the streak into a lane, and upon the lane came a blot that slowly resolved itself into the shadow of a hand upon the latch. Slowly, slowly, to the hand came a wrist, and to the wrist an arm—another minute, and this maddening suspense would be over. Despite Charmian's restraining clasp, I crept a long pace nearer the softly moving door.
The sharp angle of the elbow was growing obtuse as the shadowy arm straightened itself. Thirty seconds more! I began to count, and, gripping my staff, braced myself for what might be, when—with a sudden cry, Charmian sprang forward, and, hurling herself against the door, shut it with a crash.
"Quick, Peter!" she panted. I was beside her almost as she spoke, and had my hand upon the latch.
"I must see who this was," said I.
"You are mad!" she cried.
"Let me open the door, Charmian."
"No, no—I say no!"
"Whoever it was must not escape—open the door!"
"Never! never—I tell you—death is outside—there's murder in the very air; I feel it—and—dear God—the door has no bolt."
"They are gone now—whoever they were," said I reassuringly; "the danger is over—if danger it could be called."
"Danger!" cried Charmian. "I tell you—it was death."
"Yet, after all, it may have been only some homeless wanderer."
"Then why that deadly, silent caution?"
"True!" said I, becoming thoughtful.
"Bring the table, Peter, and set it across the door."
"Surely the table is too light to—"
"But it will give sufficient warning—not that I shall sleep again to-night. Oh, Peter! had I not been dreaming, and happened to wake—had I not chanced to look towards the door, it would have opened—wide, and then—oh, horrible!"
"You were dreaming?"
"A hateful, hateful dream, and awoke in terror, and, being afraid, glanced towards the door, and saw it opening—and now—bring the table, Peter."
Now, groping about, my hand encountered one of the candles, and taking out my tinder-box, all unthinking, I lighted it. Charmian was leaning against the door, clad in a flowing white garment—a garment that was wonderfully stitched—all dainty frills and laces, with here and there a bow of blue riband, disposed, it would seem, by the hand of chance, and yet most wonderfully. And up from this foam of laces her shoulders rose, white, and soft, and dimpled, sweeping up in noble lines to the smooth round column of her throat. But as I stared at all this loveliness she gave a sudden gasp, and stooped her head, and crossed her hands upon her bosom, while up over the snow of shoulder, over neck and cheek and brow ebbed that warm, crimson tide; and I could only gaze and gaze—till, with a movement swift and light, she crossed to that betraying candle and, stooping, blew out the light.
Then I set the table across the door, having done which I stood looking towards where she yet stood.
"Charmian," said I.
"Yes, Peter."
"To-morrow—"
"Yes, Peter?"
"I will make a bar to hold the door."
"Yes, Peter."
"Two bars would be better, perhaps?"
"Yes, Peter."
"You would feel safe, then—safer than ever?"
"Safer than ever, Peter."
I am forging a bar for my cottage door: such a bar as might give check to an army, or resist a battering-ram; a bar that shall defy all the night-prowlers that ever prowled; a stout, solid bar, broad as my wrist, and thick as my two fingers; that, looking upon it as it lies in its sockets across the door, Charmian henceforth may sleep and have no fear.
The Ancient sat perched on his stool in the corner, but for once we spoke little, for I was very busy; also my mind was plunged in a profound reverie.
And of whom should I be thinking but of Charmian, and of the dimple in her shoulder?
"'Tis bewitched you be, Peter!" said the old man suddenly, prodding me softly with his stick, "bewitched as ever was," and he chuckled.
"Bewitched!" said I, starting.
"Ah!—theer you stand wi' your 'ammer in your 'and—a-starin' an' a-starin' at nobody, nor nothin'—leastways not as 'uman eye can see, an' a-sighin', an' a-sighin'—"
"Did I indeed sigh, Ancient?"
"Ah—that ye did—like a cow, Peter, or a 'orse 'eavy an' tired like. An' slow you be, an' dreamy—you as was so bright an' spry; theer's some—fools, like Joel Amos, as might think as 'twere the work o' ghostes, or demons, a-castin' their spells on ye, or that some vampire 'ad bit ye in the night, an' sucked your blood as ye lay asleep, but I know different—you 'm just bewitched, Peter!" and he chuckled again.
"Who knows?—perhaps I am, but it will pass, whatever it is, it will pass—"
"Don't ye be too sure o' that—theer's bewitchments an' bewitchments,Peter."
Hereupon the smithy became full of the merry din of my hammer, and while I worked the Ancient smoked his pipe and watched me, informing me, between whiles, that the Jersey cow was "in calf," that the hops seemed more than usually forward, and that he had waked that morning with a "touch o' the rheumatics," but, otherwise, he was unusually silent; moreover, each time that I happened to glance up, it was to find him regarding me with a certain fixity of eye, which at another time would have struck me as portentous.
"Ye be palish this marnin', Peter!" said he, dabbing at me suddenly with his pipe-stem; "shouldn't wonder if you was to tell me as your appetite was bad; come now—ye didn't eat much of a breakfus' this marnin', did ye?"
"I don't think I did, Ancient."
"A course not!" said the—old man, with a nod of profound approval—"it aren't to be expected. Let's see, it be all o' four months since I found ye, bean't it?"
"Four months and a few odd days," I nodded, and fell to work upon my glowing iron bar:
"Ye'll make a tidy smith one o' these days, Peter," said the old man encouragingly, as I straightened my back and plunged the iron back into the fire.
"Thank you, Ancient."
"Ay—you've larned to use a 'ammer purty well, considerin', though you be wastin' your opportoonities shameful, Peter, shameful."
"Am I, Ancient?"
"Ay, that ye be—moon can't last much longer—she be on the wane a'ready!"
"Moon?" said I, staring.
"Ah, moon!" nodded the old man; "theer's nowt like a moon, Peter, an' if she be at the full so much the better."
"But what have the moon and I to do with each other, Ancient?"
"Old I be, Peter, a old, old man, but I were young once, an' I tell 'ee the moon 'as a lot more to do wi' it than some folks think—why, Lord love 'ee! theer wouldn't be near so many children a-playin' in the sun if it wasn't for the moon!"
"Ancient," said I, "what might you be driving at?"
"Love, Peter!"
"Love!" said I, letting go the handle of the bellows.
"An' marriage, Peter."
"What in the world—put—such thoughts into your head?"
"You did, Peter."
"Ah!—some men is born lovers, Peter, an' you be one. I never see such eyes as yourn afore, so burnin' 'ot they be. Ah, Peter! some maid will see the lovelight aflame in 'em some day, an' droop 'er 'ead an' blush an' tremble—for she'll know, Peter, she'll know; maids was made to be loved, Peter—"
"But, Ancient, I am not the kind of man women would be attracted by. I love books and solitude, and am called a—pedant! and, besides, I am not of a loving sort—"
"Some men, Peter, falls in love as easy as they falls out; it comes to some soft an' quiet—like the dawn of a summer's day, Peter; but to others it comes like a gert an' tur'ble storm—oh, that it do! Theer's a fire ready to burn up inside o' ye at the touch o' some woman's 'and, or the peep o' 'er eye—ah! a fire as'll burn, an' burn, an' never go out again—not even if you should live to be as old as I be—an' you'll be strong an' wild an' fierce wi' it—an' some day you'll find 'er, Peter, an' she'll find you—"
"And," said I, staring away into the distance, "do you think that, by any possible chance, she might love me, this woman?"
"Ay, for sure," said the Ancient, "for sure she will; why don't 'ee up an ax 'er? Wi' a fine round moon over-'ead, an' a pretty maid at your elber, it's easy enough to tell 'er you love 'er, aren't it?"
"Indeed, yes," said I, beginning to rub my chin, "very easy!" and I sighed.
"An' when you looks into a pair o' sweet eyes, an' sees the shine o' the moon in 'em—why, it aren't so very fur to 'er lips, are it, Peter?
"No," said I, rubbing my chin harder than ever; "no—and there's the danger of it."
"Wheer's t' danger, Peter?"
"Everywhere!" I answered; "in her eyes, in her thick, soft hair, the warmth of her breath, the touch of her hand, the least contact of her garments—her very step!"
"I knowed it!" cried the Ancient joyfully, peering at me under his brows; "I knowed it!"
"Knew what?"
"You be in love—good lad! good lad!" and he flourished his pipe in the air.
"In love!" I exclaimed; "in love—I?"
"Sure as sure!"
"But love, according to Aristotle, is—"
"Love, Peter, is what makes a man forget 'is breakfus', an' 'is work, an' 'is—"
"But I work very hard—besides—"
"Love is what makes a man so brave as a lion, Peter, an' fall a-tremblin' like a coward when She stands a-lookin' up at 'im; love makes the green earth greener, an' the long road short—ah! almost too short, sometimes, the love of a woman comes betwixt a man an' all evils an' dangers—why don't 'ee up an' ax 'er, Peter?"
"She'd laugh at me, Ancient."
"Not she."
"That soft, low laugh of hers."
"Well, what o' that?"
"Besides, she hardly knows me!"
The Ancient took out his snuff-box and gave two loud double knocks upon the lid.
"A woman knows a man sooner than a man knows a woman—ah, a sight sooner! Why, Lord bless ye, Peter, she 'as 'im all reckoned up long afore 'e knows for sure if 'er eyes be black 'uns or brown 'uns—that she 'as." Here he extracted a pinch of snuff. "As for Prudence—she loves 'ee wi' all 'er 'eart an' soul!"
"Prudence?" said I, staring.
"Ah! Prudence—I be 'er grandfeyther, an' I know."
"Prudence!" said I again.
"She 'm a 'andsome lass, an' so pretty as a picter—you said so yourself, an' what's more, she 'm a sensible lass, an' 'll make ye as fine a wife as ever was if only—"
"If only she loved me, Ancient."
"To be sure, Peter."
"But, you see, she doesn't."
"Eh—what? What, Peter?"
"Prudence doesn't love me!"
"Doesn't—"
"Not by any means."
"Peter—ye're jokin'."
"No, Ancient."
"But I—I be all took aback—mazed I be—not love ye, an' me wi' my 'eart set on it—are ye sure?"
"Certain."
"'Ow d'ye know?"
"She told me so."
"But—why—why shouldn't she love ye?"
"Why should she?"
"But I—I'd set my 'eart on it, Peter."
"It is very unfortunate!" said I, and began blowing up the fire.
"Peter."
"Yes, Ancient?"
"Do 'ee love she?"
"No, Ancient." The old man rose, and, hobbling forward, tapped me upon the breast with the handle of his stick. "Then who was you a-talkin' of, a while back—'bout 'er eyes, an' 'er 'air, an' 'er dress, an' bein' afraid o' them?"
"To be exact, I don't know, Ancient."
"Oh, Peter!" exclaimed the old man, shaking his head, "I wonders at ye; arter me a-thinkin' an' a-thinkin', an' a-plannin' an' a-plannin' all these months—arter me a-sendin' Black Jarge about 'is business—"
"Ancient, what do you mean?"
"Why, didn't I out an' tell un as you was sweet on Prue—"
"Did you tell him that?" I cried.
"Ay, to be sure I did; an' what's more, I says to un often an' often, when you wasn't by: 'Jarge,' I'd say, 'Prue's a lovely maid, an' Peter's a fine young chap, an' they 'm beginnin' to find each other out, they be all'us a-talkin' to each other an' a-lookin' at each other, mornin', noon an' night!' I says; 'like as not we'll 'ave 'em marryin' each other afore very long!' an' Jarge 'ud just wrinkle up 'is brows, an' walk away, an' never say a word. But now—it be tur'ble 'ard to be disapp'inted like this, Peter arter I'd set my 'eart on it—an' me such a old man such a very ancient man. Oh, Peter! you be full o' disapp'intments, an' all manner o' contrariness; sometimes I a'most wishes as I'd never took the trouble to find ye at all!"
And, with this Parthian shot, the old man sighed, and turned his back upon me, and tottered out of the forge.
Having finished my bars, with four strong brackets to hold them, I put away my tools, and donned hat and coat.
It was yet early, and there was, besides, much work waiting to be done, but I felt unwontedly tired and out of sorts, wherefore, with my bars and brackets beneath my arm, I set out for the Hollow.
From the hedges, on either side of me, came the sweet perfume of the honeysuckle, and beyond the hedges the fields stood high with ripening corn—a yellow, heavy-headed host, nodding and swaying lazily. I stood awhile to listen to its whisper as the gentle wind swept over it, and to look down the long green alleys of the hop-gardens beyond; and at the end of one of these straight arched vistas there shone a solitary, great star.
And presently, lifting my eyes to the sky, already deepening to evening, and remembering how I had looked round me ere I faced Black George, I breathed a sigh of thankfulness that I was yet alive with strength to walk within a world so beautiful.
Now, as I stood thus, I heard a voice hailing me, and, glancing about, espied one, some distance up the road, who sat beneath the hedge, whom, upon approaching, I recognized as Gabbing Dick, the Pedler.
He nodded and grinned as I came up, but in both there was a vague unpleasantness, as also in the manner in which he eyed me slowly up and down.
"You've stood a-lookin' up into the sky for a good ten minutes!" said he.
"And what if I have?"
"Nothin," said the Pedler, "nothin' at all—though if the moon 'ad been up, a cove might ha' thought as you was dreamin' of some Eve or other; love-sick folk always stares at the moon—leastways, so they tell me. Any one as stares at the moon when 'e might be doin' summ'at better is a fool, as great a fool as any man as stares at a Eve, for a Eve never brought any man nothin' but trouble and sorrer, and never will, no'ow? Don't frown, young cove, nor shake your 'ead, for it's true; wot's caused more sorrer an' blood than them Eves? Blood?—ah! rivers of it! Oceans of good blood's been spilt all along o' women, from the Eve as tricked old Adam to the Eve as tricks the like o' me, or say—yourself." Here he regarded me with so evil a leer that I turned my back in disgust.
"Don't go, young cove; I ain't done yet, and I got summ'at to tell ye."
"Then tell it!" said I, stopping again, struck by the fellow's manner, "and tell it quickly."
"I'm a-comin' to it as fast as I can, ain't I? Very well then! You're a fine, up-standin' young cove, and may 'ave white 'ands (which I don't see myself, but no matter) and may likewise be chock-full o' taking ways (which, though not noticin', I won't go for to deny)—but a Eve's a Eve, and always will be—you'll mind as I warned you again' 'em last time I see ye?—very well then!"
"Well?" said I impatiently.
"Well," nodded the Pedler, and his eyes twinkled malevolently. "I says it again—I warns you again. You're a nice, civil-spoke young cove, and quiet (though I don't like the cock o' your eye), and, mind, I don't bear you no ill-will—though you did turn me from your door on a cold, dark night—"
"It was neither a cold nor a dark night!" said I.
"Well, it might ha' been, mightn't it?—very well then! Still, I don't," said the Pedler, spitting dejectedly into the ditch, "I don't bear you no 'ard feelin's for it, no'ow—me always makin' it a pint to forgive them as woefully oppresses me, likewise them as despitefully uses me—it might ha' been cold, and dark, wi' ice and snow, and I might ha' froze to death—but we won't say no more about it."
"You've said pretty well, I think," said I; "supposing you tell me what you have to tell me—otherwise—good night!"
"Very well then!" said the Pedler, "let's talk o' summ'at else; still livin' in the 'Oller, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Ah, well! I come through there today," said he, grinning, and again his eyes grew malevolent.
"Indeed?"
"Ah!—indeed! I come through this 'ere very arternoon, and uncommon pretty everythin' was lookin', wi' the grass so green, and the trees so—so—"
"Shady."
"Shady's the word!" nodded the Pedler, glancing up at me through his narrowed eyelids, and chuckling. "A paradise you might call it—ah! a paradise or a—garden of Eden, wi' Eve and the serpent and all!" and he broke out into a cackling laugh. And, in the look and the laugh, indeed about his whole figure, there was something so repellent, so evil, that I was minded to kick and trample him down into the ditch, yet the leering triumph in his eyes held me.
"Yes?" said I.
"Ye see, bein' by, I 'appened to pass the cottage—and very pretty that looked too, and nice and neat inside!"
"Yes?" said I.
"And, bein' so near, I 'appened to glance in at the winder, and there, sure enough, I see—'er—as you might say, Eve in the gardin. And a fine figure of a Eve she be, and 'andsome wi' it—'t ain't often as you see a maid the likes o' 'er, so proud and 'aughty like."
"Well?"
"Well, just as I 'appened to look in at the winder, she 'appened to be standin' wi' an open book in 'er 'and—a old, leather book wi' a broken cover."
"Yes?" said I.
"And she was a-laughin'—and a pretty, soft, Eve's laugh it were, too."
"Yes?" said I.
"And—'ewere a-lookin' at the book-over 'er shoulder!" The irons slipped from my grasp, and fell with a harsh clang.
"Ketches ye, does it?" said the Pedler. I did not speak, but, meeting my eye, he scrambled hastily to his feet, and, catching up his pack, retreated some little way down the road.
"Ketches ye, does it, my cove?" he repeated; "turn me away from your door on a cold, dark night, would ye (not as I bears you any ill-will for it, bein' of a forgivin' natur')? But I says to you, I says—look out!—a fine 'andsome lass she be, wi' 'er soft eyes and red lips, and long, white arms—the eyes and lips and arms of a Eve; and Eve tricked Adam, didn't she?—and you ain't a better man nor Adam, are ye?—very well then!" saying which, he spat once more into the ditch, and, shouldering his pack, strode away.
And, after some while, I took up my iron bars, and trudged on towards the cottage. As I went, I repeated to myself, over and over again, the word "Liar." Yet my step was very slow and heavy, and my feet dragged in the dust; and, somewhere in my head, a small hammer had begun to beat, soft and slow and regular, but beating, beating upon my brain.
Now the upper cover of my Virgil book was broken!