Twigs whipped my face, thorns and brambles dragged at my clothes, hidden obstacles lay in wait for my feet, for the wood grew denser as I advanced, but I pushed on, heedless alike of these and of what direction I took. But, as luck would have it, I presently blundered upon a path which, in a short time, brought me out very suddenly into what appeared to be a small tavern yard, for on either hand was a row of tumble-down stables and barns, while before me was a low, rambling structure which I judged was the tavern itself. I was yet standing looking about me when a man issued from the stables upon my right, bearing a hammer in one hand and a lanthorn in the other.
"Hallo!" said he, staring at me.
"Hallo!" said I, staring at him.
"You don't chance to 'ave a axle-bolt about you, I suppose?"
"No," said I.
"Humph!" he grunted, and, lowering his lanthorn, began searching among the cobblestones.
"Is this it?" I inquired, picking up a rusty screw-bolt at my feet.
"Ah!" said he, taking it from me with a nod, "know'd I dropped it 'ere some'eres. Ye see," he went on, "couldn't get another round 'ere to-night, and that cussed axle's got to be in place to-morra."
"Yes?" said I.
"Ah!" nodded the man; "chaise come in 'ere 'arf-an-hour ago wi' two gentlemen and a lady, in the Lord's own 'urry too. 'Mend this axle, me man,' says one on 'em—a top-sawyer be the looks on 'im—'mend this axle, and quick about it.' 'Can't be done, my lord,' says I. 'W'y not?' says 'e, showin' 'is teeth savage-like. 'Because it can't,' says I, 'not no'ow, me lord,' says I. Well, after cussin' 'isself well-nigh black in the face, 'e orders me to have it ready fust thing to-morra, and if you 'adn't found that there bolt for me it wouldn't have been ready fust thing to-morra, which would ha' been mighty bad for me, for this 'ere gentleman's a fire-and-fury out-and-outer, and no error."
"Can I have a bed here, do you think?" I inquired.
"Ah," said he, "I think you can."
"For how much, do you suppose?"
"To you—sixpence."
"Why, that seems reasonable," said I.
"It are," nodded the man, "and a fine feather bed too! But then, Lord, one good turn deserves another—"
"Meaning?"
"This 'ere bolt."
"Are you the landlord, then?"
"I be; and if you feel inclined for a mug o' good ale say the word."
"Most willingly," said I, "but what of the axle?"
"Plenty o' time for th' axle," nodded the landlord, and setting down his hammer upon a bench hard by, he led the way into the tap. The ale was very strong and good; indeed this lovely county of Kent is justly famous for such. Finding myself very hungry, the landlord forthwith produced a mighty round of beef, upon which we both fell to, and ate with a will. Which done, I pulled out my negro-head pipe, and the landlord fetching himself another, we sat awhile smoking. And presently, learning I was from London, he began plying me with all manner of questions concerning the great city, of which it seemed he could not hear enough, and I, to describe its wonders as well as I might. At length, bethinking him of his axle, he rose with a sigh. Upon my requesting to be shown my room, he lighted a candle, and led the way up a somewhat rickety stair, along a narrow passage, and throwing open a door at the end, I found myself in a fair-sized chamber with a decent white bed, which he introduced to my notice by the one word, "feathers." Hereupon he pinched off the snuff of the candle with an expression of ponderous thought.
"And so the Tower o' London ain't a tower?" he inquired at last.
"No," I answered; "it is composed of several towers surrounded by very strong, battlemented walls."
"Ah—to—be—sure," said he, "ah, to be sure! And me 'ave allus thought on it like it was a great big tower standin' in the midst o' the city, as 'igh as a mountain. Humph—not a tower—ha! disapp'inted I be. Humph! Good night, master. Disapp'inted I be—yes." And having nodded his head ponderously several times, he turned and went ponderously along the passage and down the stair.
At the end of my chamber was a long, low casement, and, drawn thither by the beauty of the night, I flung open the lattice and leaned out. I looked down upon a narrow, deeply-rutted lane, one of those winding, inconsequent byways which it seems out of all possibility can ever lead the traveler anywhere, and I was idly wondering what fool had troubled to build a tavern in such a remote, out-of-the-way spot, when my ears were saluted by the sound of voices. Now, immediately beneath my window there was a heavy porch, low and squat, from which jutted a beam with a broken sign-board, and it was from beneath this porch that the voices proceeded, the one loud and hectoring, the other gruff and sullen. I was about to turn away when a man stepped out into the moonlight. His face was hidden in the shadow of his hat-brim, but from his general air and appearance I judged him to be one of the gentlemen whose chaise had broken down. As I watched him he walked slowly round the angle of the house and disappeared. In a little while, I drew in my head from the casement, and, having removed my dusty boots, together with my knapsack and coat, blew out the candle, and composed myself to sleep.
Now it seemed to me that I was back upon the road, standing once more beside the great oak-tree. And, as I watched, a small, hunched figure crept from the jagged opening in the trunk, a figure with a jingling pack upon its back, at sight of which I turned and ran, filled with an indescribable terror. But, as I went, the Tinker's pack jingled loud behind me, and when I glanced back, I saw that he ran with head dangling in most hideous fashion, and that his right hand grasped a razor. On I sped faster and faster, but with the Tinker ever at my heels, until I had reached this tavern; the door crashed to, behind me, only just in time, and I knew, as I lay there, that he was standing outside, in the moonlight, staring up at my casement with his horrible, dead face.
Here I very mercifully awoke, and lay, for a while, blinking in the ghostly radiance of the moon, which was flooding in at the window directly upon me. Now whether it was owing to the vividness of my dream, I know not, but as I lay, there leapt up within me a sudden conviction that somebody was indeed standing outside in the lane, staring up at my window. So firmly was I convinced of this that, moved by a sudden impulse, I rose, and, cautiously approaching the window, peered out. And there, sure enough, his feet planted wide apart, his hands behind his back, stood a man staring up at my window. His head was thrown back so that I could see his face distinctly a fleshy face with small, close-set eyes and thick lips, behind which I caught the gleam of big, white teeth. This was no tinker, but as I looked, I recognized him as the slenderer of the two "Corinthians" with whom I had fallen out at "The Chequers." Hereupon I got me back to bed, drowsily wondering what should bring the fellow hanging about a dilapidated hedge-tavern at such an hour. But gradually my thoughts grew less coherent, my eyes closed, and in another moment I should have been asleep, when I suddenly came to my elbow, broad awake and listening, for I had heard two sounds, the soft creak of a window opened cautiously near by, and a stealthy footstep outside my door.
Who does not recognize the solemn majesty of Night—that season of awesome stillness when tired mankind lies supine in that strange inertia so like death; when the soul, quitting the wearied body for a space, flies hence—but whither?
What wonder is it if, at such an hour as this, we are prone to magnify trifles, or that the most insignificant thing becomes an omen full of ghastly meaning and possibilities? The creak of a door in the silence, a rustle in the dark, become to us of infinitely greater moment than the crash of falling empires.
Thus, for a space, I lay, with ears on the stretch, and every nerve tingling, waiting for—I knew not what.
In a little, I became conscious of yet another sound, indescribably desolate: the low, repressed sound of a woman's sobbing.
Once more I rose, and looking down into the lane, found it deserted; the watcher had vanished. I also noticed that the casement next to mine had been opened wide, and it was from here, as it seemed, that the weeping proceeded.
After some little hesitation, I knocked softly upon the wall, at which the weeping was checked abruptly, save for an occasional sob, whereupon I presently rapped again. At this, after a moment or so, I saw a very small, white hand appear at the neighboring window, and next moment was looking into a lovely, flushed face framed in bright hair, with eyes woefully swelled by tears—but a glance showed me that she was young, and of a rare and gentle beauty. Before I could speak, she laid her finger upon her lip with a warning gesture.
"Help me—oh, help me!" she whispered hurriedly; "they have locked me in here, and I dare not go to bed, and—and—oh, what shall I do?"
"Locked you in?" I exclaimed.
"Oh, what shall I do?" she sobbed. "I tell you I am afraid of him—his hateful, wicked eyes!" Here a tremor seemed to shake her, and she covered her face with her hands. "To-night, when I found the key gone from the door, and remembered his look as he bade me 'Good night,' I thought I should have died. I waited here, close beside the window—listening, listening. Once I thought I heard a step outside my door, and opened the casement to throw myself out; he shall not find me here when he comes."
"No," said I, "he shall not find you here when he comes."
All this she had imparted to me in broken whispers, and with her face still hidden, but, at my words, she peeped at me through her fingers.
"You mean?"
"You must run away."
"But the door is locked."
"There remains the window."
"The window!" she repeated, trembling.
"You would find it easy enough with my help."
"Quick, then!" she exclaimed, and held out her hand.
"Wait," said I, and turned back into my room. Hereupon, having locked the door, I got into my boots, slipped on my coat and knapsack, and, last of all, threw my blackthorn staff out of the window (where I was sure of finding it) and climbed out after it.
The porch I have mentioned, upon which I now stood, sloped steeply down upon two sides, so that I had no little difficulty in maintaining my foothold; on the other hand, it was no great distance from the ground, and I thought that it would be easy enough of descent.
At this moment the lady reappeared at the lattice.
"What is it?" I whispered, struck by the terror in her face.
"Quick!" she cried, forgetting all prudence in her fear, "quick—they are coming—I hear some one upon the stair. Oh, you are too late!" and, sinking upon her knees, she covered her face with her hands. Without more ado I swung myself up, and clambered over the sill into the room beside her. I was looking round for something that might serve me for a weapon, when my eye encountered a tall oak press, a heavy, cumbersome affair, but, save the bed, the only furniture the room possessed. Setting my shoulder to it therefore, I began to urge it towards the door. But it was soon apparent that I could not get it there in time, for the creeping footstep was already close outside, and, next moment, a key was softly inserted in the lock.
"Quick! hide yourself!" I whispered, over my shoulder, and, stepping back from the door to give myself room, I clenched my fists. There was a faint creak as the key turned, the door was opened cautiously, and a man's dim figure loomed upon the threshold.
He had advanced two or three paces on tiptoe before he discovered my presence, for the room was in shadow, and I heard his breath catch, suddenly, and hiss between his teeth; then, without a word, he sprang at me. But as he came, I leapt aside, and my fist took him full and squarely beneath the ear. He pitched sideways, and, falling heavily, rolled over upon his back, and lay still.
As I leaned above him, however (for the blow had been a heavy one), he uttered a groaning oath, whereupon, pinning him forthwith by the collar, I dragged him out into the passage, and, whipping the key from the lock, transferred it to the inside and locked the door. Waiting for no more, I scrambled back through the casement, and reached up my hand to the lady.
"Come," said I, and (almost as quickly as it takes to set it down here) she was beside me upon the roof of the porch, clinging to my arm. Exactly how it was managed I am unable to say; all that I remember being the vision of a slender foot and ankle, and an excellently shaped leg.
Our farther descent to the ground proved much more difficult than I had supposed, but, though I could feel her trembling, my companion obeyed my whispered instructions, and yielded herself implicitly to my guidance, so that we were soon standing in the lane before the house, safe and sound except for a few rents to our garments.
"What is it?" she whispered, seeing me searching about in the grass.
"My staff," said I, "a faithful friend; I would not lose it."
"But they will be here in a minute—we shall be seen."
"I cannot lose my staff," said I.
"Oh, hurry! hurry!" she cried, wringing her hands. And, in a little while, having found my staff, we turned our backs upon the tavern and began to run up the lane, side by side. As we went, came the slam of a door behind us—a sudden clamor of voices, followed, a moment later, by the sharp report of a pistol, and, in that same fraction of time, I stumbled over some unseen obstacle, and my hat was whisked from my head.
"Are you hurt?" panted my companion.
"No," said I, "but it was a very excellent shot nevertheless!" For, as I picked up my hat, I saw a small round hole that pierced it through and through, midway between crown and brim.
The lane wound away between high hedges, which rendered our going very dark, for the moon was getting low, and difficult by reason of the deep wheel-ruts; but we hurried forward notwithstanding, urged on by the noise of the chase. We had traversed some half mile thus, when my ears warned me that our pursuers were gaining upon us, and I was inwardly congratulating myself that I had stopped to find my staff, and wondering how much execution such a weapon might reasonably be capable of, when I found that my companion was no longer at my side. As I paused, irresolute, her voice reached me from the shadow of the hedge.
"This way," she panted.
"Where?" said I.
"Here!" and, as she spoke, her hand slipped into mine, and so she led me through a small gate, into a broad, open meadow beyond. But to attempt crossing this would be little short of madness, for (as I pointed out) we could not go a yard without being seen.
"No, no," she returned, her breath still laboring, "wait—wait till they are past." And so, hand in hand, we stood there in the shadow, screened very effectively from the lane by the thick hedge, while the rush of our pursuers' feet drew nearer and nearer; until we could hear a voice that panted out curses upon the dark lane, ourselves, and everything concerned; at sound of which my companion seemed to fall into a shivering fit, her clasp tightened upon my hand, and she drew closer to me. Thus we remained until voices and footsteps had grown faint with distance, but, even then, I could feel that she was trembling still. Suddenly she drew her fingers from mine, and covered her face with her hands.
"Oh, that man!" she exclaimed, in a whisper, "I didn't quite realize till now—what I have escaped. Oh, that beast!"
"Sir Harry Mortimer?" said I.
"You know him?" she cried.
"Heaven forbid!" I answered, "but I have seen him once before at 'The Chequers' inn at Tonbridge, and I never forget names or faces—especially such as his."
"How I hate him!" she whispered.
"An unpleasant animal, to be sure," said I. "But come, it were wiser to get as far from here as possible, they will doubtless be returning soon."
So we started off again, running in the shadow of the hedge. We had thus doubled back upon our pursuers, and, leaving the tavern upon our left, soon gained the kindly shadow of those woods through which I had passed in the early evening.
Borne to us upon the gentle wind was the haunting perfume of hidden flowers, and the sinking moon sent long shafts of silvery light to pierce the leafy gloom, and make the shadows more mysterious.
The path we followed was very narrow, so that sometimes my companion's knee touched mine, or her long, silken hair brushed my brow or cheek, as I stooped to lift some trailing branch that barred her way, or open a path for her through the leaves.
So we journeyed on through the mysteries of the woods together.
In certain old books you shall find strange mention of witches, warlocks, succubae, spirits, daemons, and a thousand other powers of darkness, whose pronounced vocation was the plague of poor humanity. Within these books you may read (if you will) divers wondrous accounts, together with many learned disquisitions upon the same, and most minute and particular descriptions of witch-marks and the like.
Aforetime, when a man committed some great offence against laws human or divine, he was said to be possessed of a daemon—that is to say, he became the medium and instrument through, and by which, the evil was wrought; thus, when in due season he came to be hanged, tortured, or burned, it was inflicted not so much as a punishment upon him, the man, as to exorcise, once and for all, the devil which possessed him.
In these material, common-sense days, we are wont to smile the superior smile at the dark superstitions and deplorable ignorance of our forefathers; yet life is much the same now as then, the devil goeth up and down in the world, spirits, daemons, and the thousand powers of darkness abide with us still, though to-day they go by different names, for there is no man in this smug, complacent age of ours, but carries within him a power of evil greater or less, according to his intellect. Scratch off the social veneer, lift but a corner of the very decent cloak of our civilization, and behold! there stands the Primal Man in all his old, wild savagery, and with the devil leering upon his shoulder. Indeed, to-day as surely as in the dim past, we are all possessed of a devil great or small, weaker or stronger as the case may be; a daemon which, though he sometimes seems to slumber, is yet watchful and ever ready to spring up and possess us, to the undoing of ourselves and others.
Thus, as I followed my companion through the wood, I was conscious of a Daemon that ran beside me, leaping and gambolling at my elbow, though I kept my eyes straight before me. Anon, his clutching fingers were upon my arm, and fain I would have shaken him off, but could not; while, as I watched the swing and grace of the lithe, feminine body before me, from the little foot to the crowning glory of her hair, she seemed a thousand times more beautiful than I had supposed. And I had saved her tonight—from what? There had been the fear of worse than death in her eyes when that step had sounded outside her chamber door. Hereupon, as I walked, I began to recall much that I had read in the old romances of the gratitude of rescued ladies.
"Truly," said I to myself, "in olden days a lady well knew how to reward her rescuer!"
"Woman is woman—the same to-day as then—try her, try her!" chuckled the Daemon. And now, as I looked more fully at this Daemon, he seemed no daemon at all, but rather, a jovial companion who nodded, and winked, and nudged me slyly with his elbow. "What are pretty faces for but to be admired?" said he in my ear; "what are slender waists for but to be pressed; and as for a kiss or two in a dark wood, with no one to spy—they like it, you dog, they like it!"
So we traversed the alleys of the wood, now in shadow, now in moonlight, the Lady, the Daemon, and I, and always the perfume of hidden flowers seemed sweeter and stronger, the gleam of her hair and the sway of her body the more alluring, and always the voice at my ear whispered: "Try her, you dog, try her."
At last, being come to a broad, grassy glade, the lady paused, and, standing in the full radiance of the dying moon, looked up at me with a smile on her red lips.
"They can never find us now!" she said.
"No, they can never find us now," I repeated, while the Daemon at my elbow chuckled again.
"And—oh, sir! I can never, never thank you," she began.
"Don't," said I, not looking at her; "don't thank me till—we are out of the wood."
"I think," she went on slowly, "that you—can guess from—from what you saved me, and can understand something of my gratitude, for I can never express it all."
"Indeed," said I, "indeed you overestimate my service."
"You risked your life for me, sir," said she, her eyes glistening, "surely my thanks are due to you for that? And I do thank you—from my heart!" And with a swift, impulsive gesture, she stretched out her hands to me. For a brief moment I hesitated, then seized them, and, drew her close. But, even as I stooped above her, she repulsed me desperately; her loosened hair brushed my eyes and lips—blinded, maddened me; my hat fell off, and all at once her struggles ceased.
"Sir Maurice Vibart!" she panted, and I saw a hopeless terror in her face. But the Daemon's jovial voice chuckled in my ear:
"Ho, Peter Vibart, act up to your cousin's reputation; who's to know the difference?" My arms tightened about her, then I loosed her suddenly, and, turning, smote my clenched fist against a tree; which done, I stooped and picked up my hat and blackthorn staff.
"Madam," said I, looking down upon my bleeding knuckles, "I am not Sir Maurice Vibart. It seems my fate to be mistaken for him wherever I go. My name is Peter, plain and unvarnished, and I am very humbly your servant." Now as I spoke, it seemed that the Daemon, no longer the jovial companion, was himself again, horns, hoof, and tail—nay, indeed, he seemed a thousand times more foul and hideous than before, as he mouthed and jibed at me in baffled fury; wherefore, I smiled and turned my back upon him.
"Come," said I, extending my hand to the trembling girl, "let us get out of these dismal woods." For a space she hesitated, looking up at me beneath her lashes, then reached out, and laid her fingers in mine; and, as we turned away, I knew that the Daemon had cast himself upon the ground, and was tearing at the grass in a paroxysm of rage and bafflement.
"It is strange," said I, after we had gone some little distance, "very strange that you should only have discovered this resemblance here, and now, for surely you saw my face plainly enough at the inn."
"No; you see, I hardly looked at you."
"And, now that you do look at me, am I so very much like Sir Maurice?"
"Not now," she answered, shaking her head, "for though you are of his height, and though your features are much the same as his, your expression is different. But—a moment ago—when your hat fell off—"
"Yes?" said I.
"Your expression—your face looked—"
"Demoniac?" I suggested.
"Yes," she answered.
"Yes?" said I.
So we went upon our way, nor paused until we had left the Daemon and the dark woods behind us. Then I looked from the beauty of the sweet, pure earth to the beauty of her who stood beside me, and I saw that her glance rested upon the broken knuckles of my right hand. Meeting my eyes, her own drooped, and a flush crept into her cheeks, and, though of course she could not have seen the Daemon, yet I think that she understood.
The moon was fast sinking below the treetops to our left, what time we reached a road, or rather cart-track that wound away up a hill. Faint and far a church clock slowly chimed the hour of three, the solemn notes coming sweet and silvery with distance.
"What chimes are those?" I inquired.
"Cranbrook Church."
"Is it far to Cranbrook?"
"One mile this way, but two by the road yonder."
"You seem very well acquainted with these parts," said I.
"I have lived here all my life; those are the Cambourne Woods over there—"
"Cambourne Woods!" said I.
"Part of the Sefton estates," she continued; "Cambourne village lies to the right, beyond."
"The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne!" said I thoughtfully.
"My dearest friend," nodded my companion.
"They say she is very handsome," said I.
"Then they speak truth, sir."
"She has been described to me," I went on, "as a Peach, a Goddess, and a Plum; which should you consider the most proper term?" My companion shot an arch glance at me from the corners of her eyes, and I saw a dimple come and go, beside the curve of her mouth.
"Goddess, to be sure," said she; "peaches have such rough skins, and plums are apt to be sticky."
"And goddesses," I added, "were all very well upon Olympus, but, in this matter-of-fact age, must be sadly out of place. Speaking for myself—"
"Have you ever seen this particular Goddess?" inquired my companion.
"Never."
"Then wait until you have, sir."
The moon was down now, yet the summer sky was wonderfully luminous and in the east I almost fancied I could detect the first faint gleam of day. And after we had traversed some distance in silence, my companion suddenly spoke, but without looking at me.
"You have never once asked who I am," she said, almost reproachfully I thought, "nor how I came to be shut up in such a place—with such a man."
"Why, as to that," I answered, "I make it a general rule to avoid awkward subjects when I can, and never to ask questions that it will be difficult to answer."
"I should find not the least difficulty in answering either," said she.
"Besides," I continued, "it is no affair of mine, after all."
"Oh!" said she, turning away from me; and then, very slowly: "No, I suppose not."
"Certainly not," I added; "how should it be?"
"How indeed!" said she, over her shoulder. And then I saw that she was angry, and wondered.
"And yet," I went on, after a lapse of silence, "I think I could have answered both questions the moment I saw you at your casement."
"Oh!" said she—this time in a tone of surprise, and her anger all gone again, for I saw that she was smiling; and again I wondered.
"Yes," I nodded.
"Then," said she, seeing I was silent, "whom do you suppose me?"
"You are, to the best of my belief, the Lady Helen Dunstan." My companion stood still, and regarded me for a moment in wide-eyed astonishment.
"And how, air, pray, did you learn all this?" she demanded, with the dimple once more peeping at me slyly from the corner of her pretty mouth.
"By the very simple method of adding two and two together," I answered; "moreover, no longer ago than yesterday I broke bread with a certain Mr. Beverley—"
I heard her breath come in a sudden gasp, and next moment she was peering up into my face while her hands beat upon my breast with soft, quick little taps.
"Beverley!" she whispered. "Beverley!—no, no—why, they told me—SirHarry told me that Peregrine lay dying—at Tonbridge."
"Then Sir Harry Mortimer lied to you," said I, "for no longer ago than yesterday afternoon I sat in a ditch eating bread and cheese with a Mr. Peregrine Beverley."
"Oh!—are you sure—are you sure?"
"Quite sure. And, as we ate, he told me many things, and among them of a life of wasted opportunities—of foolish riot, and prodigal extravagance, and of its logical consequence—want."
"My poor Perry!" she murmured.
"He spoke also of his love for a very beautiful and good woman, and its hopelessness."
"My dear, dear Perry!" said she again.
"And yet," said I, "all this is admittedly his own fault, and, as I think Heraclitus says: 'Suffering is the inevitable consequence of Sin, or Folly.'"
"And he is well?" she asked; "quite—quite well?"
"He is," said I.
"Thank God!" she whispered. "Tell me," she went on, "is he so very, very poor—is he much altered? I have not seen him for a whole, long year."
"Why, a year is apt to change a man," I answered. "Adversity is a hard school, but, sometimes, a very good one."
"Were he changed, no matter how—were he a beggar upon the roads, I should love him—always!" said she, speaking in that soft, caressing voice which only the best of women possess.
"Yes, I had guessed as much," said I, and found myself sighing.
"A year is a long, long time, and we were to have been married this month, but my father quarrelled with him and forbade him the house, so poor Perry went back to London. Then we heard he was ruined, and I almost died with grief—you see, his very poverty only made me love him the more. Yesterday—that man—"
"Sir Harry Mortimer?" said I.
"Yes (he was a friend of whom I had often heard Perry speak); and he told me that my Perry lay at Tonbridge, dying, and begging to see me before the end. He offered to escort me to him, assuring me that I could reach home again long before dusk. My father, who I knew would never permit me to go, was absent, and so—I ran away. Sir Harry had a carriage waiting, but, almost as soon as the door was closed upon us, and we had started, I began to be afraid of him and—and—"
"Sir Harry, as I said before, is an unpleasant animal," I nodded.
"Thank Heaven," she pursued, "we had not gone very far before the chaise broke down! And—the rest you know."
The footpath we had been following now led over a stile into a narrow lane or byway. Very soon we came to a high stone wall wherein was set a small wicket. Through this she led me, and we entered a broad park where was an avenue of fine old trees, beyond which I saw the gables of a house, for the stars had long since paled to the dawn, and there was a glory in the east.
"Your father will be rejoiced to have you safe back again," said I.
"Yes," she nodded, "but he will be very angry." And, hereupon, she stopped and began to pull, and twist, and pat her shining hair with dexterous white fingers, talking thus the while:
"My mother died at my birth, and since then father has worshipped her memory, and his face always grows wonderfully gentle when he looks upon her portrait. They say I'm greatly like her—though she was a famous beauty in her day. And, indeed, I think there must be some truth in it, for, no matter how I may put him out, my father can never be very angry when my hair is dressed so."
With the word, she turned, and truly, I thought the face peeping out from its clustered curls even more lovely and bewitching than before.
"I very much doubt if any man could," said I.
As we approached the house, I saw that the smooth gravel was much cut up as though by the coming and going of many wheels and horses, and also that one of the windows still shone with a bright light, and it was towards this window that my companion led me. In a while, having climbed the terrace steps, I noticed that this was one of those French windows opening to the ground. Now, looking through into the room beyond, I beheld an old man who sat bowed down at a table, with his white head pillowed upon his arms, sitting so very still that he might have been asleep but for the fierce grip of his twitching hands. Now, upon the table, at no great distance from him, between the guttering candles, lay a hat—a very ill-used, battered-looking object—which I thought I recognized; wherefore, looking about, I presently espied its owner leaning against the mantel. He was powdered with dust from head to foot, and his worn garments looked more ragged than ever; and, as he stood there, in the droop of his head and the listless set of his shoulders, there was an air of the most utter dejection and hopelessness, while upon his thin cheek I saw the glisten of a great, solitary tear. But, as I looked, the window was burst suddenly open:
"Perry!"
Love, surprise, joy, pity—all were summed up in that one short word—yet deeper than all was love. And, at that cry, the white head was raised, raised in time to see a vision of loveliness caught up in two ragged arms.
"Father!"
And now the three heads—the white, the golden, and the black—were drawn down together, drawn, and held close in an embrace that was indeed reunion.
Then, seeing my presence was become wholly unnecessary, I turned away, and was soon once more deep among the trees. Yet, as I went, I suddenly heard voices that called upon my name, but I kept on, and, in due season, came out upon the broad highway.
And, in a little, as I went, very full of thought, the sun rose up. SoI walked along through a world all glorious with morning.
Even in that drowsy, semi-conscious state, that most delightful borderland which lies midway between sleeping and waking, I knew it could not be the woodpecker who, as I judged from sundry manifest signs, lodged in the tree above me. No woodpecker that ever pecked could originate such sounds as these—two quick, light strokes, followed by another, and heavier, thus: Tap, tap—TAP; a pause, and then, tap, tap—TAP again, and so on.
Whatever doubts I may have yet harbored on the subject, however, were presently dispelled by a fragrance sweeter, to the nostrils of a hungry man, than the breath of flowers, the spices of the East, or all the vaunted perfumes of Arabia—in a word, the odor of frying bacon.
Hereupon, I suddenly realized how exceedingly keen was my appetite, and sighed, bethinking me that I must first find a tavern before I could satisfy my craving, when a voice reached me from no great distance, a full, rich, sonorous voice, singing a song. And the words of the song were these:
"A tinker I am, O a tinker am I,A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll die;If the King in his crown would change places wi' meI'd laugh so I would, and I'd say unto he:'A tinker I am, O a tinker am I.A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll die.'"
It was a quaint air, with a shake at the end of the first two and last two lines, which, altogether, I thought very pleasing. I advanced, guided by the voice, until I came out into a grassy lane. Seated upon an artfully-contrived folding stool, was a man. He was a very small man despite his great voice, who held a kettle between his knees, and a light hammer in his hand, while a little to one side of him there blazed a crackling fire of twigs upon which a hissing frying-pan was balanced. But what chiefly drew and held my attention was the man's face; narrow and peaked, with little, round, twinkling eyes set deep in his head, close black hair, grizzled at the temples, and a long, blue chin.
And presently, as I stood staring at him, he finished his song, and chancing to raise his eyes stared back at me.
"Good morning!" said he at last, with a bright nod.
"So then you didn't cut your throat in the Hollow Oak, after all?" saidI.
"Nor likely to either, master," he answered, shaking his head. "Lord love your eyes and limbs, no!"
"But," said I, "some day or so ago I met a man—"
"Ah!" nodded the Tinker, "to be sure you did."
"A pedler of brooms, and ribands—"
"'Gabbing' Dick!" nodded the Tinker.
"Who told me very seriously—"
"That I'd been found in the big holler oak wi' my throat cut," nodded the Tinker.
"But what did he mean by it?"
"Why, y' see," explained the Tinker, leaning over to turn a frizzling bacon-rasher very dexterously with the blade of a jack-knife, "y' see, 'Gabbing' Dick is oncommon fond of murders, hangings, sooicides, and such like—it's just a way he's got."
"A very unpleasant way!" said I.
"But very harmless when all's done and said," added the Tinker.
"You mean?"
"A leetle weak up here," explained the Tinker, tapping his forehead with the handle of the jack-knife. "His father was murdered the day afore he were born, d'ye see, which druv his poor mother out of her mind, which conditions is apt to make a man a leetle strange."
"Poor fellow!" said I, while the Tinker began his tap-tapping again.
"Are you hungry?" he inquired suddenly, glancing up at me with his hammer poised.
"Very hungry!" said I. Hereupon he set down his hammer, and, turning to a pack at his side, proceeded to extract therefrom a loaf of bread, a small tin of butter, and a piece of bacon, from which last he cut sundry slices with the jack-knife. He now lifted the hissing rashers from the pan to a tin plate, which he set upon the grass at my feet, together with the bread and the butter; and, having produced a somewhat battered knife and fork, handed them to me with another bright nod.
"You are very kind!" said I.
"Why, I'm a man as is fond o' company, y' see—especially of one who can think, and talk, and you have the face of both. I am—as you might say—a literary cove, being fond o' books, nov-els, and such like." And in a little while, the bacon being done to his liking, we sat down together, and began to eat.
"That was a strange song of yours," said I, after a while.
"Did you like it?" he inquired, with a quick tilt of his head.
"Both words and tune," I answered.
"I made the words myself," said the Tinker.
"And do you mean it?"
"Mean what?" asked the Tinker.
"That you would rather be a tinker than a king?"
"Why, to be sure I would," he rejoined. "Bein' a literary cove I know summat o' history, and a king's life weren't all lavender—not by no manner o' means, nor yet a bed o' roses."
"Yet there's much to be said for a king."
"Very little, I think," said the Tinker.
"A king has great advantages."
"Which he generally abuses," said the Tinker.
"There have been some great and noble kings."
"But a great many more bad 'uns!" said the Tinker. "And then, look how often they got theirselves pisoned, or stabbed, or 'ad their 'eads chopped off! No—if you axes me, I prefer to tinker a kettle under a hedge."
"Then you are contented?"
"Not quite," he answered, his face falling; "me being a literary cove (as I think I've mentioned afore), it has always been my wish to be a scholar."
"Far better be a tinker," said I.
"Young fellow," said the Tinker, shaking his head reprovingly, "you're off the mark there—knowledge is power; why, Lord love my eyes and limbs! what's finer than to be able to read in the Greek and Latin?"
"To possess the capacity of earning an honest livelihood," said I.
"Why, I tell you," continued the Tinker, unheeding my remark, "I'd give this here left hand o' mine to be able to read the very words of such men as Plato, Aristotle, Epictetus, Xenophon, and all the rest of 'em."
"There are numerous translations," said I.
"Ah, to be sure!" sighed the Tinker, "but then, they are translations."
"There are good translations as well as bad," said I.
"Maybe," returned the Tinker, "maybe, but a translation's only a echo, after all, however good it be." As he spoke, he dived into his pack and brought forth a book, which he handed to me. It was a smallish volume in battered leathern covers, and had evidently seen much long and hard service. Opening it at the title-page, I read:
EpictetushisENCHIRIDIONwithSimpliciushisCOMMENT.Made English from the GreekByGeorge Stanhope, late FellowOf King's College in Camb.LONDONPrinted for Richard Sare at Gray's Inn Gate in Holborn And JosephHindmarsh against the Exchange in Cornhill.1649.
"You've read Epictetus, perhaps?" inquired the Tinker.
"I have."
"Not in the Greek, of course."
"Yes," said I, smiling, "though by dint of much labor."
The Tinker stopped chewing to stare at me wide-eyed, then swallowed his mouthful at one gulp.
"Lord love me!" he exclaimed, "and you so young, too!"
"No," said I; "I'm twenty-five."
"And Latin, now—don't tell me you can read the Latin."
"But I can't make a kettle, or even mend one, for that matter," said I.
"But you are a scholar, and it's a fine thing to be a scholar!"
"And I tell you again, it is better to be a tinker," said I.
"How so?"
"It is a healthier life, in the first place," said I.
"That, I can believe," nodded the Tinker.
"It is a happier life, in the second place."
"That, I doubt," returned the Tinker.
"And, in the third place, it pays much better."
"That, I don't believe," said the Tinker.
"Nevertheless," said I, "speaking for myself, I have, in the course of my twenty-five years, earned but ten shillings, and that—but by the sale of my waistcoat."
"Lord love me!" exclaimed the Tinker, staring.
"A man," I pursued, "may be a far better scholar than I—may be full of the wisdom of the Ancients, and the teachings of all the great thinkers and philosophers, and yet starve to death—indeed frequently does; but who ever heard of a starving Tinker?"
"But a scholar may write great books," said the Tinker.
"A scholar rarely writes a great book," said I, shaking my head, "probably for the good and sufficient reason that great books neverarewritten."
"Young fellow," said the Tinker, staring, "what do you mean by that?"
"I mean that truly great books only happen, and very rarely."
"But a scholar may happen to write a great book," said the Tinker.
"To be sure—he may; a book that nobody will risk publishing, and if so—a book that nobody will trouble to read, nowadays."
"Why so?"
"Because this is an eminently unliterary age, incapable of thought, and therefore seeking to be amused. Whereas the writing of books was once a painful art, it has of late become a trick very easy of accomplishment, requiring no regard for probability, and little thought, so long as it is packed sufficiently full of impossible incidents through which a ridiculous heroine and a more absurd hero duly sigh their appointed way to the last chapter. Whereas books were once a power, they are, of late, degenerated into things of amusement with which to kill an idle hour, and be promptly forgotten the next."
"Yet the great books remain," said the Tinker.
"Yes," said I; "but who troubles their head over Homer or Virgil these days—who cares to open Steele's 'Tatler,' or Addison's 'Spectator,' while there is the latest novel to be had, or 'Bell's Life' to be found on any coffee-house table?"
"And why," said the Tinker, looking at me over a piece of bacon skewered upon the point of his jack-knife, "why don't you write a book?"
"I probably shall some day," I answered.
"And supposing," said the Tinker, eyeing the piece of bacon thoughtfully, "supposing nobody ever reads it?"
"The worse for them!" said I.
Thus we talked of books, and the making of books (something of which I have already set down in another place) until our meal was at an end.
"You are a rather strange young man, I think," said the Tinker, as, having duly wiped knife, and fork, and plate upon a handful of grass, I handed them back.
"Yet you are a stranger tinker."
"How so?"
"Why, who ever heard of a tinker who wrote verses, and worked with a copy of Epictetus at his elbow?"
"Which I don't deny as I'm a great thinker," nodded the Tinker; "to be sure, I think a powerful lot."
"A dangerous habit," said I, shaking my head, "and a most unwise one!"
"Eh?" cried the Tinker, staring.
"Your serious, thinking man," I explained, "is seldom happy—as a rule has few friends, being generally regarded askance, and is always misunderstood by his fellows. All the world's great thinkers, from Christ down, were generally misunderstood, looked at askance, and had very few friends."
"But these were all great men," said the Tinker.
"We think so now, but in their day they were very much despised, and who was more hated, by the very people He sought to aid, than Christ?"
"By the evil-doers, yes," nodded the Tinker.
"On the contrary," said I, "his worst enemies were men of learning, good citizens, and patterns of morality, who looked upon him as a dangerous zealot, threatening the destruction of the old order of things; hence they killed him—as an agitator. Things are much the same to-day. History tells us that Christ, or the spirit of Christ, has entered into many men who have striven to enlighten and better the conditions of their kind, and they have generally met with violent deaths, for Humanity is very gross and blind."
The Tinker slowly wiped his clasp-knife upon the leg of his breeches, closed it, and slipped it into his pocket.
"Nevertheless," said he at last, "I am convinced that you are a very strange young man."
"Be that as it may," said I, "the bacon was delicious. I have never enjoyed a meal so much—except once at an inn called 'The Old Cock.'"
"I know it," nodded the Tinker; "a very poor house."
"But the ham and eggs are beyond praise," said I; "still, my meal here under the trees with you will long remain a pleasant memory."
"Good-by, then," said the Tinker. "Good-by, young man, and I wish you happiness."
"What is happiness?" said I. The Tinker removed his hat, and, having scratched his head, put it on again.
"Happiness," said he, "happiness is the state of being content with one's self, the world, and everything in general."
"Then," said I, "I fear I can never be happy."
"And why not?"
"Because, supposing I ever became contented with the world, and everything in general, which is highly improbable, I shall never, never be contented with myself."
Now as I went, pondering on true happiness, and the nature of it, I beheld a man ploughing in a field hard by, and, as he ploughed, he whistled lustily. And drawing near to the field, I sat down upon a gate and watched, for there are few sights and sounds I am fonder of than the gleam of the ploughshare and the sighing whisper it makes as it turns the fragrant loam.
"A truly noble occupation!" said I to myself, "dignified by the ages—ay—old, well nigh, as the green earth itself; no man need be ashamed to guide a plough."
And indeed a fine sight it made, the straining horses, the stalwart figure of the Ploughman, with the blue sky, the long, brown furrows, and, away and beyond, the tender green of leaves; while the jingle of the harness, the clear, merry, whistled notes, and the song of a skylark, high above our heads, all blended into a chorus it was good to hear.
As he came up to where I sat upon the gate, the Ploughman stopped, and, wiping the glistening moisture from his brow, nodded good-humoredly.
"A fine morning!" said I.
"So it be, sir, now you come to mention it, it do be a fine day surely."
"You, at least seem happy," said I.
"Happy?" he exclaimed, staring.
"Yes," said I.
"Well, I bean't."
"And why not?" The Ploughman scratched his ear, and carried his glance from my face up to the sky, and down again.
"I dunno," he answered, "but I bean't."
"Yet you whistle gayly enough."
"Why, a man must do summat."
"Then, you seem strong and healthy."
"Yes, I do be fine an' hearty."
"And sleep well?"
"Like a blessed log."
"And eat well?"
"Eat!" he exclaimed, with a mighty laugh. "Lord! I should think so—why, I'm always eatin' or thinkin' of it. Oh, I'm a fine eater, I am—an' I bean't no chicken at drinkin', neither."
"Then you ought to be happy."
"Ah!—but I bean't!" he repeated, shaking his head.
"Have you any troubles?"
"None as I can think on."
"You earn good money every week?"
"Ten shillin'."
"You are not married?"
"Not me."
"Then," said I, "you must be happy." The Ploughman pulled at his ear again, looked slowly all round the field, and, finally, shook his head.
"Well," said he, "I bean't."
"But why not?" His eye roved slowly up from my boots to the buttons on my coat.
"Them be fine buttons!" said he.
"Do you think so?"
"Look like silver!"
"They are silver," said I.
"Lord!" he exclaimed, "you wouldn't part wi' they buttons, I suppose?"
"That depends!"
"On what?"
"On how much you would give for them." The Ploughman thrust a hand into a deep pocket, and brought up five shillings.
"I were a-goin' to buy a pair o' boots, on my way 'ome," he explained, "but I'd rayther 'ave they buttons, if five shillin' 'll buy 'em."
"The boots would be more serviceable," said I.
"Maybe, sir, but then, everybody wears boots, but there bean't many as can show buttons the like o' them—so if you're willin'—"
"Lend me your knife," said I. And, forthwith, I sawed off the eight silver buttons and dropped them into his palm, whereupon he handed me the money with great alacrity.
"And now," said I, "tell me why you are not happy."
"Well," returned the Ploughman, back at his ear again, "ye see it bein' as you ask so sudden-like, I can't 'zack'ly say, but if you was to pass by in a day or two, why, maybe I could tell ye."
So, pocketing the buttons, he whooped cheerily to his horses, and plodded off, whistling more merrily than ever.
The sun was high when I came to a place where the ways divided, and, while I stood hesitating which road to take, I heard the cool plash and murmur of a brook at no great distance. Wherefore, being hot and thirsty, I scrambled through the hedge, and, coming to the brook, threw myself face down beside it, and, catching up the sweet pure water in my hands, drank my fill; which done, I bathed my feet, and hands, and face, and became much heartened and refreshed thereby. Now because I have ever loved the noise of running waters, in a little while, I rose and walked on beside the stream, listening to its blithesome melody. So, by devious ways, for the brook wound prodigiously, I came at length to a sudden declivity down which the water plunged in a miniature cascade, sparkling in the sun, and gleaming with a thousand rainbow hues. On I went, climbing down as best I might, until I found myself in a sort of green basin, very cool after the heat and glare of the roads, for the high, tree-clad sides afforded much shade. On I went, past fragrant thickets and bending willows, with soft lush grass underfoot and leafy arches overhead, and the brook singing and chattering at my side; albeit a brook of changeful mood, now laughing and dimpling in some fugitive ray of sunshine, now sighing and whispering in the shadows, but ever moving upon its appointed way, and never quite silent. So I walked on beside the brook, watching the fish that showed like darting shadows on the bottom, until, chancing to raise my eyes, I stopped. And there, screened by leaves, shut in among the green, stood a small cottage, or hut. My second glance showed it to be tenantless, for the thatch was partly gone, the windows were broken, and the door had long since fallen from its hinges. Yet, despite its forlornness and desolation, despite the dilapidation of broken door and fallen chimney, there was something in the air of the place that drew me strangely. It was somewhat roughly put together, but still very strong, and seemed, save for the roof, weatherfast.
"A man might do worse than live here," thought I, "with the birds for neighbors, and the brook to sing him to sleep at night. Indeed, a man might live very happily in such a place."
I was still looking at the hut, with this in my mind, when I was startled by hearing a thin, quavering voice behind me:
"Be you 'm a-lookin' at t' cottage, master?"
Turning sharp round, I beheld a very ancient man in a smock frock, who carried a basket on one arm, and leaned upon a stick.
"Yes," I answered; "I was wondering how it came to be built in such an out-of-the-world spot."
"Why, 't were built by a wanderin' man o' the roads."
"It's very lonely!" said I.
"Ye may well say so, sir—haunted it be, tu."
"Haunted?" said I.
"Haunted as ever was!" answered the old man, with a sprightly nod strangely contrasting with his wrinkled face and tremulous limbs. "No one ventur's nigh the place arter dark, an' few enough in the daytime, for that matter."
"On account of the ghost?"
"Ah!" nodded the Ancient, "moans 'e du, an' likewise groans. Theer's some as says 'e twitters tu, an' shakes chains."
"Then nobody has lived here of late?"
"Bless 'ee no—nor wouldn't, no, not if ye paid 'em tu. Nobody's come a-nigh the place, you may say, since 't were built by the wanderin' man. Lived 'ere all alone, 'e did—killed 'isself 'ere likewise."
"Killed himself!" said I.
"Ah—! 'ung 'isself—be'ind th' door yonder, sixty an' six year ago come August, an' 't were me as found 'im. Ye see," said the old man, setting down his basket, and seating himself with great nicety on the moss-grown doorstep, "ye see, 't were a tur'ble storm that night—rain, and wind, wi' every now an' then a gert, cracklin' flame o' lightnin'. I mind I'd been up to th' farm a-courtin' o' Nancy Brent—she 'm dead now, poor lass, years an' years ago, but she were a fine, buxom maid in those days, d'ye see. Well, I were comin' 'ome, and what wi' one thing an' another, I lost my way. An' presently, as I were stumblin' along in the dark, comes another crackle o' lightnin', an' lookin' up, what should I see but this 'ere cottage. 'T were newer-lookin' then, wi' a door an' winders, but the door was shut an' the winders was dark—so theer I stood in the rain, not likin' to disturb the stranger, for 'e were a gert, fierce, unfriendly kind o' chap, an' uncommon fond o' bein' left alone. Hows'ever, arter a while, up I goes to th' door, an' knocks (for I were a gert, strong, strappin', well-lookin' figure o' a man myself, in those days, d'ye see, an' could give a good buffet an' tak one tu), so up I goes to th' door, an' knocks wi' my fist clenched, all ready (an' a tidy, sizable fist it were in those days) but Lord! nobody answered, so, at last, I lifted the latch." Here the Ancient paused to draw a snuff-box from his pocket, with great deliberation, noting my awakened interest with a twinkling eye.
"Well?" I inquired.
"Well," he continued slowly, "I lifted th' latch, an' give a push to the door, but it would only open a little way—an inch, p'r'aps, an' stuck." Here he tapped, and opened his snuff-box.
"Well?" I inquired again.
"Well," he went on, "I give it a gert, big push wi' my shoulder (I were a fine, strong chap in those days), an', just as it flew open, comes another flash o' lightnin', an' the fust thing I seen was—a boot."
"A boot!" I exclaimed.
"A boot as ever was," nodded the Ancient, and took a pinch of snuff with great apparent gusto.
"Go on," said I, "go on."
"Oh!—it's a fine story, a fine story!" he chuckled. "Theer bean't many men o' my age as 'as fund a 'ung man in a thunderstorm! Well, as I tell ye, I seen a boot, likewise a leg, an' theer were this 'ere wanderin' man o' the roads a-danglin' be'ind th' door from a stapil—look ye!" he exclaimed, rising with some little difficulty, and hobbling into the hut, "theer be th' very stapil, so it be!" and he pointed up to a rusty iron staple that had been driven deep into the beam above the door.
"And why," said I, "why did he hang himself?"
"Seein' e' 'ad no friends, and never told nobody—nobody never knowed," answered the old man, shaking his head, "but on that theer stapil 'e 'ung 'isself, an' on that theer stapil I fund 'im, on a stormy night sixty and six year ago come August."
"You have a wonderful memory!" said I.
"Ay, to be sure; a wunnerful mem'ry, a wunnerful mem'ry!"
"Sixty and six years is an age," said I.
"So it be," nodded the Ancient. "I were a fine young chap in those days, tall I were, an' straight as a arrer, I be a bit different now."
"Why, you are getting old," said I.
"So 's t' stapil yonder, but t' stapil looks nigh as good as ever."
"Iron generally wears better than flesh and blood," said I; "it's only natural."
"Ay, but 'e can't last forever," said the Ancient, frowning, and shaking his head at the rusty staple. "I've watched un, month in an' month out, all these years, an' seen un growin' rustier an' rustier. I'll last 'ee out yet,' I've said to un—'e knows it—'e 've heerd me many an' many a time. 'I'll last 'ee out yet!' I've said, an' so I will, to—'e can't last forever an' I be a vig'rus man—a mortal vig'rus man—bean't I?"
"Wonderfully!" said I.
"An' so strong as a bull?"
"To be sure."
"An' t' stapil can't last much longer—eh, maister?—so old an' rusty as 'e be?"
"One would hardly think so."
"Not so long as a tur'ble vig'rus man, like I be?" he inquired, with a certain wistful appeal in his eyes.
"No," I answered impulsively.
"I knowed it—I knowed it," he chuckled, feebly brandishing his stick, "such a poor old stapil as 'tis, all eat up wi' rust. Every time I come 'ere a-gatherin' watercress, I come in an' give un a look, an' watch un rustin' away, an' rustin' away; I'll see un go fust, arter all, so I will!" and, with another nod at the staple, he turned, and hobbled out into the sunshine.
And seeing how, despite his brave showing, he labored to carry the heavy basket, I presently took it from him, disregarding his protests, and set off by his side; yet, as we went, I turned once to look back at the deserted hut.
"You 'm thinkin' 'tis a tur'ble bad place at night?" said the old man.
"On the contrary," I answered, "I was thinking it might suit a homeless man like me very well indeed."
"D'ye mean—to live there?" exclaimed the Ancient.
"Yes," said I.
"Then you bean't afraid o' the ghost?"
"No," I answered.
"P'r'aps you be one o' they fules as think theer bean't no ghosts?"
"As to that," I answered, "I don't know, but I don't think I should be much afraid, and it is a great blessing to have some spot on this unfriendly world that we can call 'home'—even though it be but a hut, and haunted."
In a little while the path we followed led up a somewhat steep ascent which, though not so precipitous as the place where I had entered the hollow, was a difficult climb, notwithstanding; seeing which, I put out a hand to aid my aged companion. But he repulsed me almost sharply: