A man was leaning in the shadow of a tree, looking down into the Hollow.
I could not see him very distinctly because, though evening had scarcely fallen, the shadows, where he stood, were very dense, but he was gazing down into the Hollow in the attitude of one who waits. For what?—for whom?
A sudden fit of shivering shook me from head to foot, and, while I yet shivered, I grew burning hot; the blood throbbed at my temples, the small hammer was drumming much faster now, and the cool night air seemed to be stifling me.
Very cautiously I began creeping nearer the passive figure, while the hammer beat so loud that it seemed he must hear it where he stood: a shortish, broad-shouldered figure, clad in a blue coat. He held his hat in his hand, and he leaned carelessly against the tree, and his easy assurance of air maddened me the more.
As he stood thus, looking always down into the Hollow, his neck gleamed at me above the collar of his coat, wherefore I stooped and, laying my irons in the grass, crept on, once more, and, as I went, I kept my eyes upon his neck.
A stick snapped sharp and loud beneath my tread, the lounging back stiffened and grew rigid, the face showed for an instant over the shoulder, and, with a spring, he had vanished into the bushes.
It was a vain hope to find a man in such a dense tangle of boughs and underbrush, yet I ran forward, nevertheless; but, though I sought eagerly upon all sides, he had made good his escape. So, after a while, I retraced my steps to where I had left my irons and brackets, and taking them up, turned aside to that precipitous path which, as I have already said, leads down into the Hollow.
Now, as I went, listening to the throb of the hammer in my head, whom should I meet but Charmian, coming gayly through the green, and singing as she came. At sight of me she stopped, and the song died upon her lip.
"Why—why, Peter—you look pale—dreadfully pale—"
"Thank you, I am very well!" said I.
"You have not been—fighting again?"
"Why should I have been fighting, Charmian?"
"Your eyes are wild—and fierce, Peter."
"Were you coming to—to—meet me, Charmian?"
"Yes, Peter." Now, watching beneath my brows, it almost seemed that her color had changed, and that her eyes, of set purpose, avoided mine. Could it be that she was equivocating?
"But I—am much before my usual time, to-night, Charmian."
"Then there will be no waiting for supper, and I am ravenous, Peter!"
And as she led the way along the path she began to sing again.
Being come to the cottage, I set down my bars and brackets, with a clang.
"These," said I, in answer to her look, "are the bars I promised to make for the door."
"Do you always keep your promises, Peter?"
"I hope so."
"Then," said she, coming to look at the great bars, with a fork in her hand, for she was in the middle of dishing up, "then, if you promise me always to come home by the road, and never through the coppice—you will do so, won't you?"
"Why should I?" I inquired, turning sharply to look at her.
"Because the coppice is so dark and lonely, and if—I say, if I should take it into my head to come and meet you sometimes, there would be no chance of my missing you." And so she looked at me and smiled, and, going back to her cooking, fell once more a-singing, the while I sat and watched her beneath my brows.
Surely, surely no woman whose heart was full of deceit could sing so blithely and happily, or look at one with such sweet candor in her eyes?
And yet the supper was a very ghost of a meal, for when I remembered the man who had watched and waited, the very food grew nauseous and seemed to choke me. "She's a Eve—a Eve!" rang a voice in my ear; "Eve tricked Adam, didn't she, and you ain't a better man nor Adam; she's a Eve—a Eve!"
"Peter, you eat nothing."
"Yes, indeed!" said I, staring unseeingly down at my plate, and striving to close my ears against the fiendish voice.
"And you are very pale!"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Peter—look at me."
I looked up obediently.
"Yes, you are frightfully pale—are you ill again—is it your head; Peter—what is it?" and, with a sudden, half-shy gesture, she stretched her hand to me across the table. And as I looked from the mute pity of her eyes to the mute pity of that would-be comforting hand, I had a great impulse to clasp it close in mine, to speak, and tell her all my base and unworthy suspicions, and, once more, to entreat her pardon and forgiveness. The words were upon my lips, but I checked them, madman that I was, and shook my head.
"It is nothing," I answered, "unless it be that I have not yet recovered from Black George's fist; it is nothing!" And so the meal drew to an end, and though, feeling my thoughts base, I sat with my head on my hand and my eyes upon the cloth, yet I knew she watched me, and more than once I heard her sigh. A man who acts on impulse may sometimes be laughed at for his mistakes, but he will frequently attain to higher things, and be much better loved by his fellows than the colder, more calculating logician who rarely makes a blunder; and Simon Peter was a man of impulse.
Supper being over and done, Charmian must needs take my coat, despite my protests, and fall to work upon its threadbare shabbiness, mending a great rent in the sleeve. And, watching her through the smoke of my pipe, noting the high mould of her features, the proud poise of her head, the slender elegance of her hands, I was struck sharply by her contrast to the rough, bare walls that were my home, and the toil-worn, unlovely garment beneath her fingers. As I looked, she seemed to be suddenly removed from me—far above and beyond my reach.
"That is the fourth time, Peter."
"What, Charmian?"
"That is the fourth time you have sighed since you lighted your pipe, and it is out, and you never noticed it!"
"Yes" said I, and laid the pipe upon the table and sighed again, before I could stop myself. Charmian raised her head, and looked at me with a laugh in her eyes.
"Oh, most philosophical, dreamy blacksmith! where be your thoughts?"
"I was thinking how old and worn and disreputable my coat looked."
"Indeed, sir," said Charmian, holding it up and regarding it with a little frown, "forsooth it is ancient, and hath seen better days."
"Like its wearer!" said I, and sighed again.
"Hark to this ancient man!" she laughed, "this hoary-headed blacksmith of ours, who sighs, and forever sighs; if it could possibly be that he had met any one sufficiently worthy—I should think that he had fallen—philosophically—in love; how think you, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance?"
"I remember," said I, "that, among other things, you once called me'Superior Mr. Smith.'" Charmian laughed and nodded her head at me.
"You had been describing to me some quite impossible, idealistic creature, alone worthy of your regard, sir."
"Do you still think me 'superior,' Charmian?"
"Do you still dream of your impalpable, bloodlessly-perfect ideals, sir?"
"No," I answered; "no, I think I have done with dreaming."
"And I have done with this, thy coat, for behold! it is finished," and rising, she folded it over the back of my chair.
Now, as she stood thus behind me, her hand fell and, for a moment, rested lightly upon my shoulder.
"Peter."
"Yes, Charmian."
"I wish, yes, I do wish that you were either much younger or very much older."
"Why?"
"Because you wouldn't be quite so—so cryptic—such a very abstruse problem. Sometimes I think I understand you better than you do yourself, and sometimes I am utterly lost; now, if you were younger I could read you easily for myself, and, if you were older, you would read yourself for me."
"I was never very young!" said I.
"No, you were always too repressed, Peter."
"Yes, perhaps I was."
"Repression is good up to a certain point, but beyond that it is dangerous," said she, with a portentous shake of the head. "Heigho! was it a week or a year ago that you avowed yourself happy, and couldn't tell why?"
"I was the greater fool!" said I.
"For not knowing why, Peter?"
"For thinking myself happy!"
"Peter, what is happiness?"
"An idea," said I, "possessed generally of fools!"
"And what is misery?"
"Misery is also an idea."
"Possessed only by the wise, Peter; surely he is wiser who chooses happiness?"
"Neither happiness nor misery comes from choice."
"But—if one seeks happiness, Peter?"
"One will assuredly find misery!" said I, and, sighing, rose, and taking my hammer from its place above my bookshelf, set to work upon my brackets, driving them deep into the heavy framework of the door. All at once I stopped, with my hammer poised, and, for no reason in the world, looked back at Charmian, over my shoulder; looked to find her watching me with eyes that were (if it could well be) puzzled, wistful, shy, and glad at one and the same time; eyes that veiled themselves swiftly before my look, yet that shot one last glance, between their lashes, in which were only joy and laughter.
"Yes?" said I, answering the look. But she only stooped her head and went on sewing; yet the color was bright in her cheeks.
And, having driven in the four brackets, or staples, and closed the door, I took up the bars and showed her how they were to lie crosswise across the door, resting in the brackets.
"We shall be safe now, Peter," said she; "those bars would resist—an elephant."
"I think they would," I nodded; "but there is yet something more." Going to my shelf of books I took thence the silver-mounted pistol she had brought with her, and balanced it in my hand. "To-morrow I will take this to Cranbrook, and buy bullets to fit it."
"Why, there are bullets there—in one of the old shoes, Peter."
"They are too large; this is an unusually small calibre, and yet it would be deadly enough at close range. I will load it for you, Charmian, and give it into your keeping, in case you should ever—grow afraid again, when I am not by; this is a lonely place—for a woman—at all times."
"Yes, Peter." She was busily employed upon a piece of embroidery, and began to sing softly to herself again as she worked,—that old song which worthy Mr. Pepys mentions having heard from the lips of mischievous-eyed Nell Gwynn:
"In Scarlet town, where I was born,There was a fair maid dwellin',Made every youth cry Well-a-way!Her name was Barbara Allen."
"Are you so happy, Charmian?"
"Oh, sir, indifferent well, I thank you.
"'All in the merry month of MayWhen green buds they were swellin',Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,For love of Barbara Allen.'
"Are you so—miserable, Peter?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because you sigh, and sigh, like—poor Jemmy Grove in the song."
"He was a fool!" said I.
"For sighing, Peter?"
"For dying."
"I suppose no philosopher could ever be so—foolish, Peter?"
"No," said I; "certainly not!"
"It is well to be a philosopher, isn't it, Peter?"
"Hum!" said I, and once more set about lighting my pipe. Anon I rose and, crossing to the open door, looked out upon the summer night, and sighed, and coming back, sat watching Charmian's busy fingers.
"Charmian," said I at last.
"Yes, Peter?"
"Do you—ever see any—any—men lurking about the Hollow—when I am away?" Her needle stopped suddenly, and she did not look up as she answered:
"No, Peter!"
"Never?—are you—sure, Charmian?" The needle began to fly to and fro again, but still she did not look up.
"No—of course not—how should I see any one? I scarcely go beyond theHollow, and—I'm busy all day."
"A Eve—a Eve!" said a voice in my ear. "Eve tricked Adam, didn't she?—a Eve!"
After this I sat for a long time without, moving, my mind harassed with doubts and a hideous, morbid dread. Why had she avoided my eye? Her own were pure and truthful, and could not lie! Why, why had they avoided mine? If only she had looked at me!
Presently I rose and began to pace up and down the room.
"You are very restless, Peter!"
"Yes," said I; "yes, I fear I am—you must pardon me—"
"Why not read?"
"Indeed I had not thought of my books."
"Then read me something aloud, Peter."
"I will read you the sorrow of Achilles for the loss of Briseis," said I, and, going into the corner, I raised my hand to my shelf of books—and stood there with hand upraised yet touching no book, for a sudden spasm seemed to have me in its clutches, and once again the trembling seized me, and the hammer had recommenced its beat, beating upon my brain.
And, in a while, I turned from my books, and, crossing to the door, leaned there with my back to her lest she should see my face just then.
"I—I don't think I—will read—to-night!" said I at last.
"Very well, Peter, let us talk."
"Or talk," said I; "I—I think I'll go to bed. Pray," I went on hurriedly, for I was conscious that she had raised her head and was looking at me in some surprise, "pray excuse me—I'm very tired." So, while she yet stared at me, I turned away, and, mumbling a good night, went into my chamber, and closing the door, leaned against it, for my mind was sick with dread, and sorrow, and a great anguish; for now I knew that Charmian had lied to me—my Virgil book had been moved from its usual place.
Is there anywhere in the world so damnable a place of torment as a bed? To lie awake through the slow, dragging hours, surrounded by a sombre quietude from whose stifling blackness thoughts, like demons, leap to catch us by the throat; or, like waves, come rolling in upon us, ceaselessly, remorselessly—burying us beneath their resistless flow, catching us up, whirling us dizzily aloft, dashing us down into depths infinite; now retreating, now advancing, from whose oncoming terror there is no escape, until we are once more buried beneath their stifling rush.
To lie awake, staring wide-eyed into a crowding darkness wherein move terrors unimagined; to bury our throbbing temples in pillows of fire; to roll and toss until the soul within us cries out in agony, and we reach out frantic hands into a void that mocks us by the contrast of its deep and awful quiet. At such times fair Reason runs affrighted to hide herself, and foaming Madness fills her throne; at such times our everyday sorrows, howsoever small and petty they be, grow and magnify themselves until they overflow the night, filling the universe above and around us; and of all the woes the human mind can bear—surely Suspicion gnaws deeper than them all!
So I lay beneath the incubus, my temples clasped tight between my burning palms to stay the maddening ring of the hammer in my brain. And suspicion grew into certainty, and with certainty came madness; imagination ran riot: she was a Messalina—a Julia—a Joan of Naples—a veritable Succuba—a thing polluted, degraded, and abominable; and, because of her beauty, I cursed all beautiful things, and because of her womanhood, I cursed all women. And ever the hammer beat upon my brain, and foul shapes danced before my eyes—shapes so insanely hideous and revolting that, of a sudden, I rose from my bed, groaning, and coming to the casement—leaned out.
Oh! the cool, sweet purity of the night! I heard the soft stir and rustle of leaves all about me, and down from heaven came a breath of wind, and in the wind a great raindrop that touched my burning brow like the finger of God. And, leaning there, with parted lips and closed eyes, gradually my madness left me, and the throbbing in my brain grew less.
How many poor mortals, since the world began, sleepless and anguish-torn—even as I—have looked up into that self-same sky and sorrowed for the dawn!
"For her love, in sleep I slake,For her love, all night I wake,For her love, I mourning makeMore than any man!"
Poor fool! to think that thou couldst mourn more than thy kind!
Thou'rt but a little handful of gray dust, ages since, thy name and estate long out of mind; where'er thou art, thou shouldst have got you wisdom by now, perchance.
Poor fool! that thou must love a woman—and worship with thy love, building for her an altar in thine heart. If altar crumble and heart burst, is she to blame who is but woman, or thou, who wouldst have made her all divine?
Well, thou'rt dead—a small handful of gray dust, long since—perchance thou hast got thee wisdom ere now—poor fool—O Fool Divine!
As thou art now, thy sleepless nights forgot—the carking sorrows of thy life all overpast, and done—so must I some time be, and, ages hence, shall smile at this, and reckon it no more than a broken toy—heigho!
And so I presently turned back to my tumbled bed, but it seemed to me that torment and terror still waited me there; moreover, I was filled with a great desire for action. This narrow chamber stifled me, while outside was the stir of leaves, the gentle breathing of the wind, the cool murmur of the brook, with night brooding over all, deep and soft and still.
Being now dressed, I stood awhile, deliberating how I might escape without disturbing her who slumbered in the outer room. So I came to the window, and thrusting my head and shoulders sidewise through the narrow lattice, slowly, and with much ado, wriggled myself out. Rising from my hands and knees, I stood up and threw wide my arms to the perfumed night, inhaling its sweetness in great, deep breaths, and so turned my steps towards the brook, drawn thither by its rippling melody; for a brook is a companionable thing, at all times, to a lonely man, and very full of wise counsel and friendly admonitions, if he but have ears to hear withal.
Thus, as I walked beside the brook, it spoke to me of many things, grave and gay, delivering itself of observations upon the folly of Humans, comparing us very unfavorably with the godlike dignity of trees, the immutability of mountains, and the profound philosophy of brooks. Indeed it waxed most eloquent upon this theme, caustic, if you will, but with a ripple, between whiles, like the deep-throated chuckle of the wise old philosopher it was.
"Go to!" chuckled the brook. "Oh, heavy-footed, heavy-sighing Human—go to! It is written that Man was given dominion over birds and beasts and fishes, and all things made, yet how doth Man, in all his pride, compare with even a little mountain? And, as to birds and beasts and fishes, they provide for themselves, day in and day out, while Man doth starve and famish! To what end is Man born but to work, beget his kind, and die? O Man! lift up thy dull-sighted eyes—behold the wonder of the world, and the infinite universe about thee; behold thyself, and see thy many failings and imperfections, and thy stupendous littleness—go to! Man was made for the world, and not the world for man! Man is a leaf in the forest—a grain of dust borne upon the wind, and, when the wind faileth, dust to dust returneth; out upon thee, with thy puny griefs and sorrows.
"O Man!—who hath dominion over all things save thine own heart, and who, in thy blind egotism, setteth thyself much above me, who am but a runlet of water. O Man! I tell thee, when thou art dusty bones, I shall still be here, singing to myself in the sun or talking to some other poor human fool, in the dark. Go to!" chuckled the brook, "the Wheel of Life turneth ever faster and faster; the woes of to-day shall be the woes of last year, or ever thou canst count them all—out upon thee—go to!"
On I went, chin on breast, heedless of all direction—now beneath the shade of trees, now crossing grassy glades or rolling meadow, or threading my way through long alleys of hop-vines; on and on, skirting hedges, by haycocks looming ghostly in the dark, by rustling cornfields, through wood and coppice, where branches touched me, as I passed, like ghostly fingers in the dark; on I went, lost to all things but my own thoughts. And my thoughts were not of Life nor Death nor the world nor the spaces beyond the world—but of my Virgil book with the broken cover, and of him who had looked at it—over her shoulder. And, raising my hands, I clasped them about my temples, and, leaning against a tree, stood there a great while. Yet, when the trembling fit had left me, I went on again, and with every footstep there rose a voice within me, crying: "Why? Why? Why?"
Why should I, Peter Vibart, hale and well in body, healthy in mind—why should I fall thus into ague-spasms because of a woman—of whom I knew nothing, who had come I knew not whence, accompanied by one whose presence, under such conditions, meant infamy to any woman; why should I burn thus in a fever if she chose to meet another while I was abroad? Was she not free to follow her own devices; had I any claim upon her; by what right did I seek to compass her goings and comings, or interest myself in her doings? Why? Why? Why?
As I went, the woods gradually fell away, and I came out upon an open place. The ground rose sharply before me, but I climbed on and up and so, in time, stood upon a hill.
Now, standing upon this elevation, with the woods looming dimly below me, as if they were a dark tide hemming me in on all sides, I became conscious of a sudden great quietude in the air—a stillness that was like the hush of expectancy; not a sound came to me, not a whisper from the myriad leaves below.
But, as I stood there listening, very faint and far away, I heard a murmur that rose and died and rose again, that swelled and swelled into the roll of distant thunder. Down in the woods was a faint rustling, as if some giant were stirring among the leaves, and out of their depths breathed a puff of wind that fanned my cheek, and so was gone. But, in a while, it was back again, stronger, more insistent than before, till, sudden as it came, it died away again, and all was hushed and still, save only for the tremor down there among the leaves; but lightning flickered upon the horizon, the thunder rolled nearer and nearer, and the giant grew ever more restless.
Round about me, in the dark, were imps that laughed and whispered together, and mocked me amid the leaves:
"Who is the madman that stands upon a lonely hill at midnight, bareheaded, half clad, and hungers for the storm? Peter Vibart! Peter Vibart! Who is he that, having eyes, sees not, and having ears, hears not? Peter Vibart! Peter Vibart! Blow, Wind, and buffet him! Flame, O Lightning, that he may see! Roar, O Thunder, that he may hear and know!"
Upon the stillness came a rustling, loud and ever louder, drowning all else, for the giant was awake at last, and stretching himself; and now, up he sprang with a sudden bellow, and, gathering himself together, swept up towards me through the swaying treetops, pelting me with broken twigs and flying leaves, and filling the air with the tumult of his coming.
Oh, the wind!—the bellowing, giant wind! On he came, exulting, whistling through my hair, stopping my breath, roaring in my ears his savage, wild halloo! And, as if in answer, forth from the inky heaven burst a jagged, blinding flame, that zigzagged down among the tossing trees, and vanished with a roaring thunder-clap that seemed to stun all things to silence. But not for long, for in the darkness came the wind again—fiercer, wilder than before, shrieking a defiance. The thunder crashed above me, and the lightning quivered in the air about me, till my eyes ached with the swift transitions from pitch darkness to dazzling light—light in which distant objects started out clear and well defined, only to be lost again in a swirl of blackness. And now came rain—a sudden, hissing downpour, long threads of scintillating fire where the lightning caught it—rain that wetted me through and through.
The storm was at its height, and, as I listened, rain and wind and thunder became merged and blended into awful music—a symphony of Life and Death played by the hands of God; and I was an atom—a grain of dust, an insect, to be crushed by God's little finger. And yet needs must this insect still think upon its little self—for half drowned, deafened, blind, and half stunned though I was, still the voice within me cried: "Why? Why? Why?"
Why was I here instead of lying soft and sheltered, and sleeping the blessed sleep of tired humanity? Why was I here, with death about me—and why must I think, and think, and think of Her?
The whole breadth of heaven seemed torn asunder—blue flame crackled in the air; it ran hissing along the ground; then—blackness, and a thunderclap that shook the very hill beneath me, and I was down upon my knees, with the swish of the rain about me.
Little by little upon this silence stole the rustle of leaves, and in the leaves were the imps who mocked me:
"Who is he that doth love—in despite of himself, and shall do, all his days—be she good or evil, whatever she was, whatever she is? Who is the very Fool of Love? Peter Vibart! Peter Vibart!"
And so I bowed my face upon my hands, and remained thus a great while, heeding no more the tempest about me. For now indeed was my question answered, and my fear realized.
"I love her!—whatever she was—whatever she is—good or evil—I love her. O Fool!—O most miserable Fool!"
And presently I rose, and went on down the hill. Fast I strode, stumbling and slipping, plunging on heedlessly through bush and brake until at last, looking about me, I found myself on the outskirts of a little spinney or copse; and then I became conscious that the storm had passed, for the thunder had died down to a murmur, and the rain had ceased; only all about me were little soft sounds, as if the trees were weeping silently together.
Pushing on, I came into a sort of narrow lane, grassy underfoot and shut in on either hand by very tall hedges that loomed solid and black in the night; and, being spent and weary, I sat down beneath one of these and propped my chin in my hands.
How long I remained thus I cannot say, but I was at length aroused by a voice—a strangely sweet and gentle voice at no great distance, and the words it uttered were these:
"Oh! give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good, for His mercy endureth forever! O Lord! I beseech Thee look down in Thine infinite pity upon this, Thy world; for to-day is at hand, and Thy children must soon awake to life and toil and temptation. Oh! Thou who art the Lover of Men, let Thy Holy Spirit wait to meet with each one of us upon the threshold of the dawn, and lead us through this coming day. Like as a father pitieth his children, so dost Thou pity all the woeful and heavy-hearted. Look down upon all those who must so soon awake to their griefs, speak comfortably to them; remember those in pain who must so soon take up their weary burdens! Look down upon the hungry and the rich, the evil and the good, that, in this new day, finding each something of Thy mercy, they may give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good, for His mercy endureth forever."
So the voice ended, and there were silence and a profound stillness upon all things; wherefore, lifting my eyes unto the east, I saw that it was dawn.
Now, when the prayer was ended, I turned my back upon the lightening east and set off along the lane.
But, as I went, I heard one hailing me, and glancing round, saw that in the hedge was a wicket-gate, and over this gate a man was leaning. A little, thin man with the face of an ascetic, or mediaeval saint, a face of a high and noble beauty, upon whose scholarly brow sat a calm serenity, yet beneath which glowed the full, bright eye of the man of action.
"Good morning, friend!" said he; "welcome to my solitude. I wish you joy of this new day of ours; it is cloudy yet, but there is a rift down on the horizon—it will be a fair day, I think."
"On the contrary, sir," said I, "to me there are all the evidences of the bad weather continuing. I think it will be a bad day, with rain and probably thunder and lightning! Good morning, sir!"
"Stay!" cried he as I turned away, and, with the word, set his hand upon the gate, and, vaulting nimbly over, came towards me, with a broad-brimmed straw hat in one hand and a long-stemmed wooden pipe in the other.
"Sir," said he, "my cottage is close by; you look worn and jaded. Will you not step in and rest awhile?"
"Thank you, sir; but I must be upon my way."
"And whither lies your way?"
"To Sissinghurst, sir."
"You have a long walk before you, and, with your permission, I will accompany you a little way."
"With pleasure, sir!" I answered, "though I fear you will find me a moody companion, and a somewhat silent one; but then, I shall be the better listener, so light your pipe, sir, and, while you smoke, talk."
"My pipe!" said he, glancing down at it; "ah! yes—I was about to compose my Sunday evening's sermon."
"You are a clergyman, sir?"
"No, no—a preacher—or say rather—a teacher, and a very humble one, who, striving himself after Truth, seeks to lend such aid to others as he may."
"Truth!" said I; "what is Truth?"
"Truth, sir, is that which can never pass away; the Truth of Life isGood Works, which abide everlastingly."
"Sir," said I, "you smoke a pipe, I perceive, and should, therefore, be a good preacher; for smoking begets thought—"
"And yet, sir, is not to act greater than to think?"
"Why, Thought far outstrips puny Action!" said I—"it reaches deeper, soars higher; in our actions we are pigmies, but in our thoughts we may be gods, and embrace a universe."
"But," sighed the Preacher, "while we think, our fellows perish in ignorance and want!"
"Hum!" said I.
"Thought," pursued the Preacher, "may become a vice, as it did with the old-time monks and hermits, who, shutting themselves away from their kind, wasted their lives upon their knees, thinking noble thoughts and dreaming of holy things, but—leaving the world very carefully to the devil. And, as to smoking, I am seriously considering giving it up." Here he took the pipe from his lips and thrust it behind his back.
"Why?"
"It has become, unfortunately, too human! It is a strange thing, sir," he went on, smiling and shaking his head, "that this, my one indulgence, should breed me more discredit than all the cardinal sins, and become a stumbling-block to others. Only last Sunday I happened to overhear two white-headed old fellows talking. 'A fine sermon, Giles?' said the one. 'Ah! good enough,' replied the other, 'but it might ha' been better—ye see—'e smokes!' So I am seriously thinking of giving it up, for it would appear that if a preacher prove himself as human as his flock, they immediately lose faith in him, and become deaf to his teaching."
"Very true, sir!" I nodded. "It has always been human to admire and respect that only which is in any way different to ourselves; in archaic times those whose teachings were above men's comprehension, or who were remarkable for any singularity of action were immediately deified. Pythagoras recognized this truth when he shrouded himself in mystery and delivered his lectures from behind a curtain, though to be sure he has come to be regarded as something of a charlatan in consequence."
"Pray, sir," said the Preacher, absent-mindedly puffing at his pipe again, "may I ask what you are?"
"A blacksmith, sir."
"And where did you read of Pythagoras and the like?"
"At Oxford, sir."
"How comes it then that I find you in the dawn, wet with rain, buffeted by wind, and—most of all—a shoer of horses?"
But, instead of answering, I pointed to a twisted figure that lay beneath the opposite hedge.
"A man!" exclaimed the Preacher, "and asleep, I think."
"No," said I, "not in that contorted attitude."
"Indeed, you are right," said the Preacher; "the man is ill—poor fellow!" And, hurrying forward, he fell on his knees beside the prostrate figure.
He was a tall man, roughly clad, and he lay upon his back, rigid and motionless, while upon his blue lips were flecks and bubbles of foam.
"Epilepsy!" said I. The Preacher nodded and busied himself with loosening the sodden neckcloth, the while I unclasped the icy fingers to relieve the tension of the muscles.
The man's hair was long and matted, as was also his beard, and his face all drawn and pale, and very deeply lined. Now, as I looked at him, I had a vague idea that I had somewhere, at some time, seen him before.
"Sir," said the Preacher, looking up, "will you help me to carry him to my cottage? It is not very far."
So we presently took the man's wasted form between us and bore it, easily enough, to where stood a small cottage bowered in roses and honeysuckle. And, having deposited our unconscious burden upon the Preacher's humble bed, I turned to depart.
"Sir," said the Preacher, holding out his hand, "it is seldom one meets with a blacksmith who has read the Pythagorean Philosophy—at Oxford, and I should like to see you again. I am a lonely man save for my books; come and sup with me some evening, and let us talk—"
"And smoke?" said I. The little Preacher sighed. "I will come," said I; "thank you! and good-by!" Now, even as I spoke, chancing to cast my eyes upon the pale, still face on the bed, I felt more certain than ever that I had somewhere seen it before.
As I walked through the fresh, green world there ensued within me the following dispute, as it were, between myself and two voices; and the first voice I will call Pro, and the other Contra.
MYSELF. May the devil take that "Gabbing Dick"!
PRO. He probably will.
MYSELF. Had he not told me of what he saw—of the man who looked at myVirgil—over her shoulder—
PRO. Or had you not listened.
MYSELF. Ah, yes!—but then, I did listen, and that he spoke the truth is beyond all doubt; the misplaced Virgil proves that. However, it is certain, yes, very certain, that I can remain no longer in the Hollow.
CONTRA. Well, there is excellent accommodation at "The Bull."
PRO. And, pray, why leave the Hollow?
MYSELF. Because she is a woman—
PRO. And you love her!
MYSELF. To my sorrow.
PRO. Well, but woman was made for man, Peter, and man for woman—!
MYSELF (sternly). Enough of that—I must go!
PRO. Being full of bitter jealousy.
MYSELF. No!
PRO. Being a mad, jealous fool—
MYSELF. As you will.
PRO. —who has condemned her unheard—with no chance of justification.
MYSELF. To-morrow, at the very latest, I shall seek some other habitation.
PRO. Has she the look of guilt?
MYSELF. No; but then women are deceitful by nature, and very skilful in disguising their faults—at least so I have read in my books—
PRO (contemptuously). Books! Books! Books!
MYSELF (shortly). No matter; I have decided.
PRO. Do you remember how willingly she worked for you with those slender, capable hands of hers—?
MYSELF. Why remind me of this?
Pro. You must needs miss her presence sorely; her footstep, that was always so quick and light—
MYSELF. Truly wonderful in one so nobly formed!
PRO. —and the way she had of singing softly to herself.
MYSELF. A beautiful voice—
PRO. With a caress in it! And then, her habit of looking at you over her shoulder.
MYSELF. Ah, yes!—her lashes a little drooping, her brows a little wrinkled, her lips a little parted.
CONTRA. A comfortable inn is "The Bull."
MYSELF (hastily). Yes, yes—certainly.
PRO. Ah!—her lips—the scarlet witchery of her lips! Do you remember how sweetly the lower one curved upward to its fellow? A mutinous mouth, with its sudden, bewildering changes! You never quite knew which to watch oftenest—her eyes or her lips—
CONTRA (hoarsely). Excellent cooking at "The Bull"!
PRO. And how she would berate you and scoff at your Master Epictetus, and dry-as-dust philosophers!
MYSELF. I have sometimes wondered at her pronounced antipathy toEpictetus.
PRO. And she called you a "creature."
MYSELF. The meaning of which I never quite fathomed.
PRO. And, frequently, a "pedant."
MYSELF. I think not more than four times.
PRO. On such occasions, you will remember, she had a petulant way of twitching her shoulder towards you and frowning, and, occasionally, stamping her foot; and, deep within you, you loved it all, you know you did.
CONTRA. But that is all over, and you are going to "The Bull."
MYSELF (hurriedly). To be sure—"The Bull."
PRO. And, lastly, you cannot have forgotten—you never will forget—the soft tumult of the tender bosom that pillowed your battered head—the pity of her hands—those great, scalding tears, the sudden, swift caress of her lips, and the thrill in her voice when she said—
MYSELF (hastily). Stop! that is all forgotten.
PRO. You lie! You have dreamed of it ever since, working at your anvil, or lying upon your bed, with your eyes upon the stars; you have loved her from the beginning of things!
MYSELF. And I did not know it; I was very blind. The wonder is that she did not discover my love for her long ago, for, not knowing it was there, how should I try to hide it?
CONTRA. O Blind, and more than blind! Why should you suppose she hasn't?
MYSELF (stopping short). What? Can it be possible that she has?
CONTRA. Didn't she once say that she could read you like a book?
MYSELF. She did.
CONTRA. And have you not often surprised a smile upon her lips, and wondered?
MYSELF. Many times.
CONTRA. Have you not beheld a thin-veiled mockery in her look? Why, poor fool, has she not mocked you from the first? You dream of her lips. Were not their smiles but coquetry and derision?
MYSELF. But why should she deride me?
CONTRA. For your youth and—innocence.
MYSELF. My youth! my innocence!
CONTRA. Being a fool ingrain, didn't you boast that you had known but few women?
MYSELF. I did, but—
CONTRA. Didn't she call you boy! boy! boy!—and laugh at you?
MYSELF. Well—even so—
CONTRA (with bitter scorn). O Boy! O Innocent of the innocent! Go to, for a bookish fool! Learn that lovely ladies yield themselves but to those who are masterful in their wooing, who have wooed often, and triumphed as often. O Innocent of the innocent! Forget the maudlin sentiment of thy books and old romances—thy pure Sir Galahads, thy "vary parfait gentil knightes," thy meek and lowly lovers serving their ladies on bended knee; open thine eyes, learn that women to-day love only the strong hand, the bold eye, the ready tongue; kneel to her, and she will scorn and contemn you. What woman, think you, would prefer the solemn, stern-eyed purity of a Sir Galahad (though he be the king of men) to the quick-witted gayety of a debonair Lothario (though he be but the shadow of a man)? Out upon thee, pale-faced student! Thy tongue hath not the trick, nor thy mind the nimbleness for the winning of a fair and lovely lady. Thou'rt well enough in want of a better, but, when Lothario comes, must she not run to meet him with arms outstretched?
"To-morrow," said I, clenching my fists, "to-morrow I will go away!"
Being now come to the Hollow, I turned aside to the brook, at that place where was the pool in which I was wont to perform my morning ablutions; and, kneeling down, I gazed at myself in the dark, still water; and I saw that the night had, indeed, set its mark upon me.
"To-morrow," said I again, nodding to the wild face below, "to-morrow I will go far hence."
Now while I yet gazed at myself, I heard a sudden gasp behind me and, turning, beheld Charmian.
"Peter! is it you?" she whispered, drawing back from me.
"Who else, Charmian? Did I startle you?"
"Yes—oh, Peter!"
"Are you afraid of me?"
"You are like one who has walked with—death!"
I rose to my feet, and stood looking down at her. "Are you afraid of me, Charmian?"
"No, Peter."
"I am glad of that," said I, "because I want to ask you—to marry me,Charmian."
"Peter!"
"Yes?"
"I wish you wouldn't."
"Wouldn't what, Charmian?"
"Stir your tea round and round and round—it is really most—exasperating!"
"I beg your pardon!" said I humbly.
"And you eat nothing; and that is also exasperating!"
"I am not hungry."
"And I was so careful with the bacon—see it is fried—beautifully—yes, you are very exasperating, Peter!"
Here, finding I was absent-mindedly stirring my tea round and round again, I gulped it down out of the way, whereupon Charmian took my cup and refilled it; having done which, she set her elbows upon the table, and, propping her chin in her hands, looked at me.
"You climbed out through your window last night, Peter?"
"Yes."
"It must have been a—dreadfully tight squeeze!"
"Yes."
"And why did you go by the window?"
"I did not wish to disturb you."
"That was very thoughtful of you—only, you see, I was up and dressed; the roar of the thunder woke me. It was a dreadful storm, Peter!"
"Yes."
"The lightning was awful!"
"Yes."
"And you were out in it?"
"Yes."
"Oh, you poor, poor Peter! How cold you must have been!"
"On the contrary," I began, "I—"
"And wet, Peter—miserably wet and clammy!"
"I did not notice it," I murmured.
"Being a philosopher, Peter, and too much engrossed in your thoughts?"
"I was certainly thinking."
"Of yourself!"
"Yes—"
"You are a great egoist, aren't you, Peter?"
"Am I, Charmian?"
"Who but an egoist could stand with his mind so full of himself and his own concerns as to be oblivious to thunder and lightning, and not know that he is miserably clammy and wet?"
"I thought of others besides myself."
"But only in connection with yourself; everything you have ever read or seen you apply to yourself, to make that self more worthy in Mr. Vibart's eyes. Is this worthy of Peter Vibart? Can Peter Vibart do this, that, or the other, and still retain the respect of Peter Vibart? Then why, being in all things so very correct and precise, why is Peter Vibart given to prowling abroad at midnight, quite oblivious to thunder, lightning, wet and clamminess? I answer: Because Peter Vibart is too much engrossed by—Peter Vibart. There! that sounds rather cryptic and very full of Peter Vibart; but that is as it should be," and she laughed.
"And what does it mean, Charmian?"
"Good sir, the sibyl hath spoken! Find her meaning for yourself."
"You have called me, on various occasions, a 'creature,' a 'pedant'—very frequently a 'pedant,' and now, it seems I am an 'egoist,' and all because—"
"Because you think too much, Peter; you never open your lips without having first thought out just what you are going to say; you never do anything without having laboriously mapped it all out beforehand, that you may not outrage Peter Vibart's tranquillity by any impulsive act or speech. Oh! you are always thinking and thinking—and that is even worse than stirring, and stirring at your tea, as you are doing now." I took the spoon hastily from my cup, and laid it as far out of reach as possible. "If ever you should write the book you once spoke of, it would be just the very sort of book that I should—hate."
"Why, Charmian?"
"Because it would be a book of artfully turned phrases; a book in which all the characters, especially women, would think and speak and act by rote and rule—as according to Mr. Peter Vibart; it would be a scholarly book, of elaborate finish and care of detail, with no irregularities of style or anything else to break the monotonous harmony of the whole—indeed, sir, it would be a most unreadable book!"
"Do you think so, Charmian?" said I, once more taking up the teaspoon.
"Why, of course!" she answered, with raised brows; "it would probably be full of Greek and Latin quotations! And you would polish and rewrite it until you had polished every vestige of life and spontaneity out of it, as you do out of yourself, with your thinking and thinking."
"But I never quote you Greek or Latin; that is surely something, and, as for thinking, would you have me a thoughtless fool or an impulsive ass?"
"Anything rather than a calculating, introspective philosopher, seeing only the mote in the sunbeam, and nothing of the glory." Here she gently disengaged the teaspoon from my fingers and laid it in her own saucer, having done which she sighed, and looked at me with her head to one side. "Were they all like you, Peter, I wonder—those old philosophers, grim and stern, and terribly repressed, with burning eyes, Peter, and with very long chins? Epictetus was, of course!"
"And you dislike Epictetus, Charmian?"
"I detest him! He was just the kind of person, Peter, who, being unable to sleep, would have wandered out into a terrible thunderstorm, in the middle of the night, and, being cold and wet and clammy, Peter, would have drawn moral lessons, and made epigrams upon the thunder and lightning. Epictetus, I am quite sure, was a—person!"
"He was one of the wisest, gentlest, and most lovable of all theStoics!" said I.
"Can a philosopher possibly be lovable, Peter?" Here I very absent-mindedly took up a fork, but, finding her eye upon me, laid it down again.
"You are very nervous, Peter, and very pale and worn and haggard, and all because you habitually—overthink yourself; and indeed, there is something very far wrong with a man who perseveringly stirs an empty cup—with a fork!" And, with a laugh, she took my cup and, having once more refilled it, set it before me.
"And yet, Peter—I don't think—no, I don't think I would have you very much changed, after all."
"You mean that you would rather I remained the pedantic, egotistical creature—"
"I mean, Peter, that, being a woman, I naturally love novelty, and you are very novel—and very interesting."
"Thank you!" said I, frowning.
"And more contradictory than any woman!"
"Hum!" said I.
"You are so strong and simple—so wise and brave—and so very weak and foolish and timid!"
"Timid?" said I.
"Timid!" nodded she.
"I am a vast fool!" I acknowledged.
"And I never knew a man anything like you before, Peter!"
"And you have known many, I understand?"
"Very many."
"Yes—you told me so once before, I believe."
"Twice, Peter; and each time you became very silent and gloomy! Now you, on the other hand," she continued, "have known very few women?"
"And my life has been calm and unruffled in consequence!"
"You had your books, Peter, and your horseshoes."
"My books and horseshoes, yes."
"And were content?"
"Quite content."
"Until, one day—a woman—came to you."
"Until, one day—I met a woman."
"And then—?"
"And then—I asked her to marry me, Charmian." Here there ensued a pause, during which Charmian began to pleat a fold in the tablecloth.
"That was rather—unwise of you, wasn't it?" said she at last.
"How unwise?"
"Because—she might—have taken you at your word, Peter."
"Do you mean that—that you won't, Charmian?"
"Oh dear, no! I have arrived at no decision yet—how could I? You must give me time to consider." Here she paused in her pleating to regard it critically, with her head on one side. "To be sure," said she, with a little nod, "to be sure, you need some one to—to look after you—that is very evident!"
"Yes."
"To cook—and wash for you."
"Yes."
"To mend your clothes for you."
"Yes."
"And you think me—sufficiently competent?"
"Oh, Charmian, I—yes."
"Thank you!" said she, very solemnly, and, though her lashes had drooped, I felt the mockery of her eyes; wherefore I took a sudden great gulp of tea, and came near choking, while Charmian began to pleat another fold in the tablecloth.
"And so Mr. Vibart would stoop to wed so humble a person as Charmian Brown? Mr. Peter Vibart would, actually, marry a woman of whose past he knows nothing?"
"Yes," said I.
"That, again, would be rather—unwise, wouldn't it?"
"Why?"
"Considering Mr. Vibart's very lofty ideals in regard to women."
"What do you mean?"
"Didn't you once say that your wife's name must be above suspicion—like Caesar's—or something of the kind?"
"Did I?—yes, perhaps I did—well?"
"Well, this woman—this Humble Person has no name at all, and no shred of reputation left her. She has compromised herself beyond all redemption in the eyes of the world."
"But then," said I, "this world and I have always mutually despised each other."
"She ran away, this woman—eloped with the most notorious, the most accomplished rake in London."
"Well?"
"Oh!—is not that enough?"
"Enough for what, Charmian?" I saw her busy fingers falter and tremble, but her voice was steady when she answered:
"Enough to make any—wise man think twice before asking this HumblePerson to—to marry him."
"I might think twenty times, and it would be all one!"
"You—mean—?"
"That if Charmian Brown will stoop to marry a village blacksmith, Peter Vibart will find happiness again; a happiness that is not of the sunshine—nor the wind in the trees—Lord, what a fool I was!" Her fingers had stopped altogether now, but she neither spoke nor raised her head.
"Charmian," said I, leaning nearer across the table, "speak."
"Oh, Peter!" said she, with a sudden break in her voice, and stooped her head lower. Yet in a little she looked up at me, and her eyes were very sweet and shining.
Now, as our glances met thus, up from throat to brow there crept that hot, slow wave of color, and in her face and in her eyes I seemed to read joy, and fear, and shame, and radiant joy again. But now she bent her head once more, and strove to pleat another fold, and could not; while I grew suddenly afraid of her and of myself, and longed to hurl aside the table that divided us; and thrust my hands deep into my pockets, and, finding there my tobacco-pipe, brought it out and fell to turning it aimlessly over and over. I would have spoken, only I knew that my voice would tremble, and so I sat mum-chance, staring at my pipe with unseeing eyes, and with my brain in a ferment. And presently came her voice, cool and sweet and sane:
"Your tobacco, Peter," and she held the box towards me across the table.
"Ah, thank you!" said I, and began to fill my pipe, while she watched me with her chin propped in her hands.
"Peter!"
"Yes, Charmian?"
"I wonder why so grave a person as Mr. Peter Vibart should seek to marry so impossible a creature as—the Humble Person?"
"I think," I answered, "I think, if there is any special reason, it is because of—your mouth."
"My mouth?"
"Or your eyes—or the way you have with your lashes."
Charmian laughed, and forthwith drooped them at me, and laughed again, and shook her head.
"But surely, Peter, surely there are thousands, millions of women with mouths and eyes like—the Humble Person's?"
"It is possible," said I, "but none who have the same way with their lashes."
"What do you mean?"
"I can't tell; I don't know."
"Don't you, Peter?"
"No—it is just a way."
"And so it is that you want to marry this very Humble Person?"
"I think I have wanted to from the very first, but did not know it—being a blind fool!"
"And—did it need a night walk in a thunderstorm to teach you?"
"No—that is, yes—perhaps it did."
"And—are you quite, quite sure?"
"Quite—quite sure!" said I, and, as I spoke, I laid my pipe upon the table and rose; and, because my hands were trembling, I clenched my fists. But, as I approached her, she started up and put out a hand to hold me off, and then I saw that her hands were trembling also. And standing thus, she spoke, very softly:
"Peter."
"Yes, Charmian?"
"Do you remember describing to me the—the perfect woman who should be your—wife?"
"Yes."
"How that you must be able to respect her for her intellect?"
"Yes."
"Honor her for her virtue?"
"Yes, Charmian."
"And worship her—for her—spotless purity?"
"I dreamed a paragon—perfect and impossible; I was a fool!" said I.
"Impossible! Oh, Peter! what—what do you mean?"
"She was only an impalpable shade quite impossible of realization—a bloodless thing, as you said, and quite unnatural—a sickly figment of the imagination. I was a fool!"
"And you are—too wise now, to expect—such virtues—in any woman?"
"Yes," said I; "no—oh, Charmian! I only know that you have taken this phantom's place—that you fill all my thoughts—sleeping, and waking—"
"No! No!" she cried, and struggled in my arms, so that I caught her hands, and held them close, and kissed them many times.
"Oh, Charmian! Charmian!—don't you know—can't you see—it is you I want—you, and only you forever; whatever you were—whatever you are—I love you—love you, and always must! Marry me, Charmian!—marry me! and you shall be dearer than my life—more to me than my soul—" But, as I spoke, her hands were snatched away, her eyes blazed into mine, and her lips were all bitter scorn, and at the sight, fear came upon me.
"Marry you!" she panted; "marry you?—no and no and no!" And so she stamped her foot, and sobbed, and turning, fled from me, out of the cottage.
And now to fear came wonder, and with wonder was despair.
Truly, was ever man so great a fool!