A broad, white road; on either hand some half-dozen cottages with roofs of thatch or red tile, backed by trees gnarled and ancient, among which rises the red conical roof of some oast-house. Such, in a word, is Sissinghurst.
Now, upon the left-hand side of the way, there stands a square, comfortable, whitewashed building, peaked of roof, bright as to windows, and with a mighty sign before the door, whereon you shall behold the picture of a bull: a bull rolling of eye, astonishingly curly of horn and stiff as to tail, and with a prodigious girth of neck and shoulder; such a snorting, fiery-eyed, curly-horned bull as was never seen off an inn-sign.
It was at this bull that I was staring with much apparent interest, though indeed, had that same curly-horned monstrosity been changed by some enchanter's wand into a green dragon or griffin, or swan with two necks, the chances are that I should have continued sublimely unconscious of the transformation.
Yet how should honest Silas Hoskins, ostler, and general factotum of "The Bull" inn, be aware of this fact, who, being thus early at work, and seeing me lost in contemplation, paused to address me in all good faith?
"A fine bull 'e be, eh, Peter? Look at them 'orns, an' that theer tail; it's seldom as you sees 'orns or a tail the like o' them, eh?"
"Very seldom!" I answered, and sighed.
"An' then—'is nose-'oles, Peter, jest cast your eye on them nose'oles, will ye; why, dang me! if I can't 'ear 'im a-snortin' when I looks at 'em! An' 'e were all painted by a chap—a little old chap wi' gray whiskers—no taller 'n your elber, Peter! Think o' that—a little chap no taller 'n your elber! I seen 'im do it wi' my two eyes—a-sittin' on a box. Drored t' bull in wi' a bit o' chalk, first; then 'e outs wi' a couple o' brushes; dab 'e goes, an' dab, dab again, an'—by Goles! theer was a pair o' eyes a-rollin' theirselves at me—just a pair o' eyes, Peter. Ah! 'e were a wonder were that little old chap wi' gray whiskers! The way 'e went at that theer bull, a-dabbin' at 'im 'ere, an' a-dabbin' at 'im theer till 'e come to 'is tail—'e done 'is tail last of all, Peter. 'Give un a good tail!' says I. 'Ah! that I will,' says 'e. 'An' a good stiff un!' says I. 'Ye jest keep your eye on it, an' watch!' says 'e. Talk about tails, Peter! 'E put in that theer tail so quick as nigh made my eyes water, an'—as for stiffness—well, look at it! I tell 'ee that chap could paint a bull wi' 'is eyes shut, ah, that 'e could! an' 'im such a very small man wi' gray whiskers. No, ye don't see many bulls like that un theer, I'm thinkin', Peter?"
"They would be very hard to find!" said I, and sighed again. Whereupon Silas sighed, for company's sake, and nodding, went off about his many duties, whistling cheerily.
So I presently turned about and crossed the road to the smithy. But upon the threshold I stopped all at once and drew softly back, for, despite the early hour, Prudence was there, upon her knees before the anvil, with George's great hand-hammer clasped to her bosom, sobbing over it, and, while she sobbed, she kissed its worn handle. And because such love was sacred and hallowed that dingy place, I took off my hat as I once more crossed the road.
Seeing "The Bull" was not yet astir, for the day was still young (as I say), I sat me down in the porch and sighed.
And after I had sat there for some while, with my chin sunk upon my breast, and plunged in bitter meditation, I became aware of the door opening, and next moment a tremulous hand was laid upon my head, and, looking round, I beheld the Ancient.
"Bless 'ee, Peter—bless 'ee, lad!—an' a old man's blessin' be no light thing—'specially such a old, old man as I be—an' it bean't often as I feels in a blessin' sperrit—but oh, Peter! 'twere me as found ye, weren't it?"
"Why, to be sure it was, Ancient, very nearly five months ago."
"An' I be allus ready wi' some noos for ye, bean't I?"
"Yes, indeed!"
"Well, I got more noos for 'ee, Peter—gert noos!"
"And what is it this time?"
"I be allus full up o' noos, bean't I?" he repeated.
"Yes, Ancient," said I, and sighed; "and what is your news?"
"Why, first of all, Peter, jest reach me my snuff-box, will 'ee?—'ere it be—in my back 'ind pocket—thankee! thankee!" Hereupon he knocked upon the lid with a bony knuckle. "I du be that full o' noos this marnin' that my innards be all of a quake, Peter, all of a quake!" he nodded, saying which, he sat down close beside me.
"Peter."
"Yes, Ancient?"
"Some day—when that theer old stapil be all rusted away, an' these old bones is a-restin' in the churchyard over to Cranbrook, Peter—you'll think, sometimes, o' the very old man as was always so full o' noos, won't 'ee, Peter?"
"Surely, Ancient, I shall never forget you," said I, and sighed.
"An' now, Peter," said the old man, extracting a pinch of snuff, "now for the noos—'bout Black Jarge, it be."
"What of him, Ancient?" The old man shook his head.
"It took eight on 'em to du it, Peter, an' now four on 'em's a-layin' in their beds, an' four on 'em's 'obblin' on crutches—an' all over a couple o' rabbits—though theer be some fules as says they was pa'tridges!"
"Why—what do you mean?"
"Why, ye see, Peter, Black Jarge be such a gert, strong man (I were much such another when I were young)—like a lion, in 'is wrath, 'e be—ah!—a bull bean't nothin' to Black Jarge! An' they keepers come an' found 'im under a tree, fast asleep—like David in the Cave of Adullam, Peter, wi' a couple o' rabbits as 'e'd snared. An' when they keepers tried to tak' 'im, 'e rose up, 'e did, an' throwed some on 'em this way an' some on 'em that way—'twere like Samson an' the Philistines; if only 'e'd 'appened to find the jaw-bone of a ass lyin' 'andy, 'e'd ha' killed 'em all an' got away, sure as sure. But it weren't to be, Peter, no; dead donkeys be scarce nowadays, an' as for asses' jaw-bones—"
"Do you mean that George is taken—a prisoner?"
The Ancient nodded, and inhaled his pinch of snuff with much evident relish.
"It be gert noos, bean't it, Peter?"
"What have they done with him? Where is he, Ancient?" But, before the old man could answer, Simon appeared.
"Ah, Peter!" said he, shaking his head, "the Gaffer's been tellin' ye 'ow they've took Jarge for poachin', I suppose—"
"Simon!" cried the Ancient, "shut thy mouth, lad—hold thy gab an' give thy poor old feyther a chance—I be tellin' 'im so fast as I can! As I was a-sayin', Peter—like a fur'us lion were Jarge wi' they keepers—eight on 'em, Peter—like dogs, a-growlin' an' growlin', an' leapin', and worryin' all round 'im—ah!—like a lion 'e were—"
"Waitin' for a chance to use 'is 'right, d'ye see, Peter!" added Simon.
ANCIENT. Wi' 'is eyes a-rollin' an' flamin', Peter, an' 'is mane all bristlin'—
SIMON. Cool as any cucumber, Peter—
ANCIENT. A-roarin' an' a-lashin' of 'is tail—
SIMON. And sparrin' for an openin', Peter, and when 'e sees one—downin' 'is man every time—
ANCIENT. Leapin' in the air, rollin' in the grass, wi' they keepers clingin' to 'im like leeches—ah! leeches—
SIMON. And every time they rushed, tap 'ud go 'is "left," and bang 'ud go 'is "right"—
ANCIENT. An' up 'e'd get, like Samson again, Peter, an' give 'isself a shake; bellerin'—like a bull o' Bashan—
SIMON. Ye see, they fou't so close together that the keepers was afear'd to use their guns—
ANCIENT (indignantly). Guns!—who's a-talkin' o' guns? Simon, my bye—you be allus a-maggin' an' a-maggin'; bridle thy tongue, lad, bridle thy tongue afore it runs away wi' ye.
SIMON (sheepishly). All right, Old Un—fire away!
But, at this juncture, Old Amos hove in view, followed by the Apologetic Dutton, with Job and sundry others, on their way to work, and, as they came, they talked together, with much solemn wagging of heads. Having reached the door of "The Bull," they paused and greeted us, and I thought Old Amos's habitual grin seemed a trifle more pronounced than usual.
"So poor Jarge 'as been an' gone an' done for 'isself at last, eh? Oh, my soul! think o' that, now!" sighed Old Amos.
"Allus knowed as 'e would!" added Job; "many's the time I've said as 'e would, an' you know it—all on you."
"It'll be the Barbadies, or Austrayley!" grinned Amos; "transportation, it'll be—Oh, my soul! think o' that now—an' 'im a Siss'n'urst man!"
"An' all along o' a couple o'—rabbits!" said the Ancient, emphasizing the last word with a loud rap on his snuff-box.
"Pa'tridges, Gaffer!—they was pa'tridges!" returned Old Amos.
"I allus said as Black Jarge'd come to a bad end," reiterated Job, "an' what's more—'e aren't got nobody to blame but 'isself!"
"An' all for a couple o'—rabbits!" sighed the Ancient, staring OldAmos full in the eye.
"Pa'tridges, Gaffer, they was pa'tridges—you, James Dutton—was they pa'tridges or was they not—speak up, James."
Hereupon the man Dutton, all perspiring apology, as usual, shuffled forward, and, mopping his reeking brow, delivered himself in this wise:
"W'ich I must say—meanin' no offence to nobody, an' if so be, apologizin'—w'ich I must say—me 'avin' seen 'em—they was—leastways," he added, as he met the Ancient's piercing eye, "leastways—they might 'ave been, w'ich—if they ain't—no matter!"
Having said which, he apologetically smeared his face all over with his shirt-sleeve, and subsided again.
"It do wring my 'eart—ah, that it do! to think o' pore Jarge a convic' at Bot'ny Bay!" said Old Amos, "a-workin', an' diggin', an' slavin' wi' irons on 'is legs an' arms, a-jinglin', an' a-janglin' when 'e walks."
"Well, but it's Justice, aren't it?" demanded Job—"a poacher's a thief, an' a thief's a convic'—or should be!"
"I've 'eerd," said Old Amos, shaking his head, "I've 'eerd as they ties they convic's up to posts, an' lashes an' lashes 'em wi' the cat-o'-nine-tails!"
"They generally mostly deserves it!" nodded Job.
"But 'tis 'ard to think o' pore Jarge tied up to one o' them floggin'-posts, wi' 'is back all raw an' bleedin!" pursued Old Amos; "crool 'ard it be, an' 'im such a fine, strappin' young chap."
"'E were allus a sight too fond o' pitchin' into folk, Jarge were!" said Job; "it be a mercy as my back weren't broke more nor once."
"Ah!" nodded the Ancient, "you must be amazin' strong in the back, Job! The way I've seed 'ee come a-rollin' an' awallerin' out o' that theer smithy's wonnerful, wonnerful. Lord! Job—'ow you did roll!"
"Well, 'e won't never do it no more," said Job, glowering; "what wi' poachin' 'is game, an' knockin' 'is keepers about, 't aren't likely as Squire Beverley'll let 'im off very easy—"
"Who?" said I, looking up, and speaking for the first time.
"Squire Beverley o' Burn'am 'All."
"Sir Peregrine Beverley?"
"Ay, for sure."
"And how far is it to Burnham Hall?"
"'Ow fur?" repeated Job, staring; "why, it lays 't other side o'Horsmonden—"
"It be a matter o' eight mile, Peter," said the Ancient.
"Nine, Peter!" cried old Amos—"nine mile, it be!"
"Though I won't swear, Peter," continued the Ancient, "I won't swear as it aren't—seven—call it six an' three quarters!" said he, with his eagle eye on Old Amos.
"Then I had better start now," said I, and rose.
"Why, Peter—wheer be goin'?"
"To Burnham Hall, Ancient."
"What—you?" exclaimed Job; "d'ye think Squire'll see you?"
"I think so; yes."
"Well, 'e won't—they'll never let the likes o' you or me beyond the gates."
"That remains to be seen," said I.
"So you 'm goin', are ye?"
"I certainly am."
"All right!" nodded Job, "if they sets the dogs on ye, or chucks you into the road—don't go blamin' it on to me, that's all!"
"What—be ye really a-goin', Peter?"
"I really am, Ancient."
"Then—by the Lord!—I'll go wi' ye."
"It's a long walk!"
"Nay—Simon shall drive us in the cart."
"That I will!" nodded the Innkeeper.
"Ay, lad," cried the Ancient, laying his hand upon my arm, "we'll up an' see Squire, you an' me—shall us, Peter? There be some fules," said he, looking round upon the staring company, "some fules as talks o' Bot'ny Bay, an' irons, an' whippin'-posts—all I says is—let 'em, Peter, let 'em! You an' me'll up an' see Squire, Peter, sha'n't us? Black Jarge aren't a convic' yet, let fules say what they will; we'll show 'em, Peter, we'll show 'em!" So saying, the old man led me into the kitchen of "The Bull," while Simon went to have the horses put to.
A cheery place, at all times, is the kitchen of an English inn, a comfortable place to eat in, to talk in, or to doze in; a place with which your parlors and withdrawing-rooms, your salons (a la the three Louis) with their irritating rococo, their gilt and satin, and spindle-legged discomforts, are not (to my mind) worthy to compare.
And what inn kitchen, in all broad England, was ever brighter, neater, and more comfortable than this kitchen of "The Bull," where sweet Prue held supreme sway, with such grave dignity, and with her two white-capped maids to do her bidding and behests?—surely none. And surely in no inn, tavern, or hostelry soever, great or small, was there ever seen a daintier, prettier, sweeter hostess than this same Prue of ours.
And her presence was reflected everywhere, and, if ever the kitchen of an inn possessed a heart to lose, then, beyond all doubt, this kitchen had lost its heart to Prue long since; even the battered cutlasses crossed upon the wall, the ponderous jack above the hearth, with its legend: ANNO DOMINI 1643, took on a brighter sheen to greet her when she came, and as for the pots and pans, they fairly twinkled.
But today Prue's eyes were red, and her lips were all a-droop, the which, though her smile was brave and ready, the Ancient was quick to notice.
"Why, Prue, lass, you've been weepin'!"
"Yes, grandfer."
"Your pretty eyes be all swole—red they be; what's the trouble?"
"Oh! 'tis nothing, dear, 'tis just a maid's fulishness—never mind me, dear."
"Ah! but I love 'ee, Prue—come, kiss me—theer now, tell me all about it—all about it, Prue."
"Oh, grandfer!" said she, from the hollow of his shoulder, "'tis just—Jarge!" The old man grew very still, his mouth opened slowly, and closed with a snap.
"Did 'ee—did 'ee say—Jarge, Prue? Is it—breekin' your 'eart ye be for that theer poachin' Black Jarge? To think—as my Prue should come down to a poachin'—"
Prudence slipped from his encircling arm and stood up very straight and proud—there were tears thick upon her lashes, but she did not attempt to wipe them away.
"Grandfer," she said very gently, "you mustn't speak of Jarge to me like that—ye mustn't—ye mustn't because I—love him, and if—he ever—comes back I'll marry him if—if he will only ax me; and if he—never comes back, then—I think—I shall—die!" The Ancient took out his snuff-box, knocked it, opened it, glanced inside, and—shut it up again.
"Did 'ee tell me as you—love—Black Jarge, Prue?"
"Yes, grandfer, I always have and always shall!"
"Loves Black Jarge!" he repeated; "allus 'as—allus will! Oh, Lord! what 'ave I done?" Now, very slowly, a tear crept down his wrinkled cheek, at sight of which Prue gave a little cry, and, kneeling beside his chair, took him in her arms. "Oh, my lass!—my little Prue—'tis all my doin'. I thought—Oh, Prue, 'twere me as parted you! I thought—" The quivering voice broke off.
"'Tis all right, grandfer, never think of it—see there, I be smilin'!" and she kissed him many times.
"A danged fule I be!" said the old man, shaking his head.
"No, no, grandfer!"
"That's what I be, Prue—a danged fule! If I do go afore that theer old, rusty stapil, 'twill serve me right—a danged fule I be! Allus loved 'im—allus will, an' wishful to wed wi' 'im! Why, then," said the Ancient, swallowing two or three times, "so 'ee shall, my sweet—so 'ee shall, sure as sure, so come an' kiss me, an' forgive the old man as loves 'ee so."
"What do 'ee mean, grandfer?" said Prue between two kisses.
"A fine, strappin' chap be Jarge; arter all, Peter, you bean't a patch on Jarge for looks, be you?"
"No, indeed, Ancient!"
"Wishful to wed 'im, she is, an' so she shall. Lordy Lord! Kiss me again, Prue, for I be goin' to see Squire—ay, I be goin' to up an' speak wi' Squire for Jarge an' Peter be comin' too."
"Oh, Mr. Peter!" faltered Prudence, "be this true?" and in her eyes was the light of a sudden hope.
"Yes," I nodded.
"D'you think Squire'll see you—listen to you?" she cried breathlessly.
"I think he will, Prudence," said I.
"God bless you, Mr. Peter!" she murmured. "God bless you!"
But now came the sound of wheels and the voice of Simon, calling, wherefore I took my hat and followed the Ancient to the door, but there Prudence stopped me.
"Last time you met wi' Jarge he tried to kill you. Oh, I know, and now—you be goin' to—"
"Nonsense, Prue!" said I. But, as I spoke, she stooped and would have kissed my hand, but I raised her and kissed her upon the cheek, instead. "For good luck, Prue," said I, and so turned and left her.
In the porch sat Job, with Old Amos and the rest, still in solemn conclave over pipes and ale, who watched with gloomy brows as I swung myself up beside the Ancient in the cart.
"A fule's journey!" remarked Old Amos sententiously, with a wave of his pipe; "a fule's journey!"
The Ancient cast an observing eye up at the cloudless sky, and also nodded solemnly.
"Theer be some fules in this world, Peter, as mixes up rabbits wi' pa'tridges, and honest men—like Jarge—wi' thieves, an' lazy waggabones—like Job—but we'll show 'em, Peter, we'll show 'em—dang 'em! Drive on, Simon, my bye!"
So, with this Parthian shot, feathered with the one strong word the Ancient kept for such occasions, we drove away from the silenced group, who stared mutely after us until we were lost to view. But the last thing I saw was the light in Prue's sweet eyes as she watched us from the open lattice.
"Peter," said the Ancient, after we had gone a little way, "Peter, I do 'opes as you aren't been an' gone an' rose my Prue's 'opes only to dash 'em down again."
"I can but do my best, Ancient."
"Old Un," said Simon, "'tweren't Peter as rose 'er 'opes, 'twere you;Peter never said nowt about bringin' Jarge 'ome—"
"Simon," commanded the Ancient, "hold thy tongue, lad; I says again, if Peter's been an' rose Prue's 'opes only to dash 'em 't will be a bad day for Prue, you mark my words; Prue's a lass as don't love easy, an' don't forget easy."
"Why, true, Gaffer, true, God bless 'er!"
"She be one as 'ud pine—slow an' quiet, like a flower in the woods, or a leaf in autumn—ah! fade, she would, fade an' fade!"
"Well, she bean't a-goin' to do no fadin', please the Lord!"
"Not if me an' Peter an' you can 'elp it, Simon, my bye—but we 'm but poor worms, arter all, as the Bible says; an' if Peter 'as been an' rose 'er 'opes o' freein' Jarge, an' don't free Jarge—if Jarge should 'ave to go a convic' to Austrayley, or—or t' other place, why then—she'll fade, fade as ever was, an' be laid in the churchyard afore 'er poor old grandfeyther!"
"Lord, Old Un!" exclaimed Simon, "who's a-talkin' o' fadin's an' churchyards? I don't like it—let's talk o' summ'at else."
"Simon," said the Ancient, shaking his head reprovingly, "ye be a good bye—ah! a steady, dootiful lad ye be, I don't deny it; but the Lord aren't give you no imagination, which, arter all, you should be main thankful for; a imagination's a troublesome thing—aren't it, Peter?"
"It is," said I, "a damnable thing!"
"Ay—many's the man as 'as been ruinated by 'is imagination—theer was one, Nicodemus Blyte were 'is name—"
"And a very miserable cove 'e sounds, too!" added Simon.
"But a very decent, civil-spoke, quiet young chap 'e were!" continued the Ancient, "only for 'is imagination; Lord! 'e were that full o' imagination 'e couldn't drink 'is ale like an ordinary chap—sip, 'e'd go, an' sip, sip, till 'twere all gone, an' then 'e'd forget as ever 'e'd 'ad any, an' go away wi'out paying for it—if some 'un didn't remind 'im—"
"'E were no fule, Old Un!" nodded Simon.
"An' that weren't all, neither, not by no manner o' means," the Ancient continued. "I've knowed that theer chap sit an' listen to a pretty lass by the hour together an' never say a word—not one!"
"Didn't git a chance to, p'r'aps?" said Simon.
"It weren't that, no, it were jest 'is imagination a-workin' an' workin' inside of 'im, an' fillin' 'im up. 'Ows'ever, at last, one day, 'e up an' axed 'er to marry 'im, an' she, bein' all took by surprise, said 'yes,' an' went an' married some'un else."
"Lord!" said Simon, "what did she go and marry another chap for?"
"Simon," returned the Ancient, "don't go askin' fulish questions. 'Ows'ever, she did, an' poor Nicodemus growed more imaginative than ever; arter that, 'e took to turnips."
"Turnips?" exclaimed Simon, staring.
"Turnips as ever was!" nodded the Ancient, "used to stand, for hours at a time, a-lookin' at 'is turnips an' shakin' 'is 'ead over 'em."
"But—what for?—a man must be a danged fule to go shakin' of 'is 'ead over a lot o' turnips!"
"Well, I don't know," rejoined the Ancient; "'is turnips was very good uns, as a rule, an' fetched top prices in the markets."
At this juncture there appeared a man in a cart, ahead of us, who flourished his whip and roared a greeting, a coarse-visaged, loud-voiced fellow, whose beefy face was adorned with a pair of enormous fiery whiskers that seemed forever striving to hide his ears, which last, being very large and red, stood boldly out at right angles to his head, refusing to be thus ambushed, and scorning all concealment.
"W'at—be that the Old Un—be you alive an' kickin' yet?"
"Ay, God be thanked, John!"
"And w'at be all this I 'ear about that theer Black Jarge—'e never were much good—but w'at be all this?"
"Lies, mostly, you may tak' your oath!" nodded the Ancient.
"But 'e've been took for poachin', ah! an' locked up at the 'All—"
"An' we 'm goin' to fetch un—we be goin' to see Squire—"
"W'at—you, Old Un? You see Squire—haw! haw!"
"Ah, me!—an' Peter, an' Simon, 'ere—why not?"
"Yousee 'is Worship Sir Peregrine Beverley, Baronet, an' Justice o' the Peace—you? Ecod! that's a good un—danged if it ain't! An' what might you be wishful to do when ye see 'im—which yewon't?"
"Fetch back Jarge, o' course."
"Old Un, you must be crazed in your head, arter Jarge killin' four keepers—Sir Peregrine's own keepers too—shootin' 'em stone dead, an' three more a-dyin'—"
"John," said the Ancient, shaking his head, "that's the worst o' bein' cursed wi' ears like yourn—"
"My ears is all right!" returned John, frowning.
"Oh, ah!" chuckled the old man, "your ears is all right, John—prize ears, ye might call 'em; I never seed a pair better grow'd—never, no!"
"A bit large, they may be," growled John, giving a furtive pull to the nearest ambush, "but—"
"Large as ever was, John!" nodded the Ancient—"oncommon large! an', consequent, they ketches a lot too much. I've kep' my eye on them ears o' yourn for thirty year an' more, John—if so be as they grows any bigger, you'll be 'earin' things afore they're spoke, an'—"
John gave a fierce tug to the ambush, muttered an oath, and, lashing up his horse, disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.
"'Twere nigh on four year ago since Black Jarge thrashed John, weren't it, Simon?"
"Ah!" nodded Simon, "John were in 'The Ring' then, Peter, an' a pretty tough chap 'e were, too, though a bit too fond o' swingin' wi' 'is 'right' to please me."
"'E were very sweet on Prue then, weren't 'e, Simon?"
"Ah!" nodded Simon again; "'e were allus 'anging round 'The Bull'—tillI warned 'im off—"
"An'—'e laughed at 'ee, Simon."
"Ah! 'e did that; an' I were going to 'ave a go at 'im myself; an' the chances are 'e'd 'ave beat me, seein' I 'adn't been inside of a ring for ten year, when—"
"Up comes Jarge," chuckled the Ancient. "'What's all this?' say Jarge. 'I be goin' to teach John 'ere to keep away from my Prue,' says Simon. 'No, no,' says Jarge, 'John's young, an' you bean't the man you was ten years ago—let me,' says Jarge. 'You?' says John, 'you get back to your bellers—you be purty big, but I've beat the 'eads off better men nor you!' 'Why, then, 'ave a try at mine,' says Jarge; an' wi' the word, bang! comes John's fist again' 'is jaw, an' they was at it. Oh, Peter! that were a fight! I've seed a few in my time, but nothin' like that 'ere."
"And when 'twere all over," added Simon, "Jarge went back to 'is 'ammer an' bellers, an' we picked John up, and I druv 'im 'ome in this 'ere very cart, an' nobody's cared to stand up to Jarge since."
"You have both seen Black George fight, then?" I inquired.
"Many's the time, Peter."
"And have you ever—seen him knocked down?"
"No," returned the Ancient, shaking his head, "I've seed 'im all blood from 'ead to foot, an' once a gert, big sailor-man knocked 'im sideways, arter which Jarge got fu'rus-like, an' put 'im to sleep—"
"No, Peter!" added Simon, "I don't think as there be a man in all England as could knock Black Jarge off 'is pins in a fair, stand-up fight."
"Hum!" said I.
"Ye see—'e be that 'ard, Peter!" nodded the Ancient. "Why, look!" he cried—"look 'ee theer!"
Now, looking where he pointed, I saw a man dart across the road some distance away; he was hidden almost immediately, for there were many trees thereabouts, but there was no mistaking that length of limb and breadth of shoulder.
"'Twere Black Jarge 'isself!" exclaimed Simon, whipping up his horses; but when we reached the place George was gone, and though we called and sought for some time, we saw him no more.
So, in a while, we turned and jogged back towards Sissinghurst.
"What be you a-shakin' your 'ead over, Old Un?" inquired Simon, after we had ridden some distance.
"I were wonderin' what that old fule Amos'll say when we drive back wi'out Jarge."
Being come to the parting of the ways, I descended from the cart, for my head was strangely heavy, and I felt much out of sorts, and, though the day was still young I had no mind for work. Therefore I bade adieu to Simon and the Ancient, and turned aside towards the Hollow, leaving them staring after me in wonderment.
It was with some little trepidation that I descended into the Hollow, and walked along beside the brook, for soon I should meet Charmian, and the memory of our parting, and the thought of this meeting, had been in my mind all day long.
She would not be expecting me yet, for I was much before my usual time, wherefore I walked on slowly beside the brook, deliberating on what I should say to her, until I came to that large stone where I had sat dreaming the night when she had stood in the moonlight, and first bidden me in to supper. And now, sinking upon this stone, I set my elbows upon my knees, and my chin in my hands, and, fixing my eyes upon the ever-moving waters of the brook, fell into a profound meditation.
From this I was suddenly aroused by the clink of iron and the snort of a horse.
Wondering, I lifted my eyes, but the bushes were very dense, and I could see nothing. But, in a little, borne upon the gentle wind, came the sound of a voice, low and soft and very sweet—whose rich tones there was no mistaking—followed, almost immediately, by another—deeper, gruffer—the voice of a man.
With a bound, I was upon my feet, and had, somehow, crossed the brook, but, even so, I was too late; there was the crack of a whip, followed by the muffled thud of a horse's hoofs, which died quickly away, and was lost in the stir of leaves.
I ground my teeth, and cursed that fate which seemed determined that I should not meet this man face to face—this man whose back I had seen but once—a broad-shouldered back clad in a blue coat.
I stood where I was, dumb and rigid, staring straight before me, and once again a tremor passed over me, that came and went, growing stronger and stronger, and, once again, in my head was the thud, thud, thud of the hammer.
"'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.'"
She was approaching by that leafy path that wound its way along beside the brook, and there came upon me a physical nausea, and ever the thud of the hammer grew more maddening.
"'All in the merry month of May,When green buds they were swellin',Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,For love of Barbara Allen.'"
Now, as she ended the verse, she came out into the open, and saw me, and, seeing me, looked deliberately over my head, and went on singing, while I—stood shivering:
"'So, slowly, slowly rase she upAnd slowly she came nigh him,And when she drew the curtain by—"Young man, I think you're dyin'!"'"
And suddenly the trees and bushes swung giddily round—the grass swayed beneath my feet—and Charmian was beside me with her arm about my shoulders; but I pushed her from me, and leaned against a tree near by, and hearkened to the hammer in my brain.
"Why—Peter!" said she. "Oh—Peter!"
"Please, Charmian," said I, speaking between the hammer-strokes, "do not—touch me again—it is—too soon after—"
"What do you mean—Peter? What do you mean?"
"He has—been with you—again—"
"What do you mean?" she cried.
"I know of—his visits—if he was—the same as—last time—in a—blue coat—no, don't, don't touch me."
But she had sprung upon me, and caught me by the arms, and shook me in a grip so strong that, giddy as I was, I reeled and staggered like a drunken man. And still her voice hissed: "What do you mean?" And her voice and hands and eyes were strangely compelling.
"I mean," I answered, in a low, even voice, like one in a trance, "that you are a Messalina, a Julia, a Joan of Naples, beautiful as they—and as wanton."
Now at the word she cried out, and struck me twice across the face, blows that burnt and stung.
"Beast!" she cried. "Liar! Oh, that I had the strength to grind you into the earth beneath my foot. Oh! you poor, blind, self-deluding fool!" and she laughed, and her laughter stung me most of all. "As I look at you," she went on, the laugh still curling her lip, "you stand there—what you are—a beaten hound. This is my last look, and I shall always remember you as I see you now—scarlet-cheeked, shamefaced—a beaten hound!" And, speaking, she shook her hand at me, and turned upon her heel; but with that word, and in that instant, the old, old demon leapt up within me, and, as he leapt, I clasped my arms about her, and caught her up, and crushed her close and high against my breast.
"Go?" said I. "Go—no—no, not yet!"
And now, as her eyes met mine, I felt her tremble, yet she strove to hide her fear, and heaped me with bitter scorn; but I only shook my head and smiled. And now she struggled to break my clasp, fiercely, desperately; her long hair burst its fastenings, and enveloped us both in its rippling splendor; she beat my face, she wound her fingers in my hair, but my lips smiled on, for the hammer in my brain had deadened all else.
And presently she lay still. I felt her body relax and grow suddenly pliable and soft, her head fell back across my arm, and, as she lay, I saw the tears of her helplessness ooze out beneath her drooping lashes; but still I smiled.
So, with her long hair trailing over me, I bore her to the cottage. Closing the door behind me with my foot, I crossed the room, and set her down upon the bed.
She lay very still, but her bosom heaved tumultuously, and the tears still crept from beneath her lashes; but in a while she opened her eyes and looked at me, and shivered, and crouched farther from me, among the pillows.
"Why did you lie to me, Charmian; why did you lie to me?" She did not answer, only she watched me as one might watch some relentless, oncoming peril.
"I asked you once if you ever saw men hereabouts—when I was away, do you remember? You told me, 'no,' and, while you spoke, I knew you lied, for I had seen him standing among the leaves, waiting and watching for you. I once asked you if you were ever lonely when I was away, and you answered 'no',—you were too busy—'seldom went beyond the Hollow'—do you remember? And yet—you had brought him here—here, into the cottage he had looked at my Virgil—over your shoulder—do you remember?"
"You played the spy!" she whispered with trembling lips, yet with eyes still fierce and scornful.
"You know I did not; had I seen him I should have killed him, because—I loved you. I had set up an altar to you in my heart, where my soul might worship—poor fool that I was! I loved you with every breath I drew. I think I must have shown you something of this, from time to time, for you are very clever, and you may have laughed over it together—you and he. And lately I have seen my altar foully desecrated, shattered, and utterly destroyed, and, with it, your sweet womanhood dragged in the mire, and yet—I loved you still. Can you imagine, I wonder, the agony of it, the haunting horrors of imagination, the bitter days, the sleepless nights? To see you so beautiful, so glorious, and know you so base! Indeed, I think it came near driving me mad. It has sent me out into the night; I have held out my arms for the lightning to blast me; I have wished myself a thousand deaths. If Black George had but struck a little harder—or a little lighter; I am not the man I was before he thrashed me; my head grows confused and clouded at times—would to God I were dead! But now—you would go! Having killed my heart, broken my life, driven away all peace of mind—you would leave me! No, Charmian, I swear by God you shall not go—yet awhile. I have bought you very dear—bought you with my bitter agony, and by all the blasting torments I have suffered."
Now, as I ended, she sprang from the bed and faced me, but, meeting my look, she shrank a little, and drew her long hair about her like a mantle, then sought with trembling hands to hold me off.
"Peter—be sane. Oh, Peter! be merciful and let me go—give me time—let me explain."
"My books," said I, "have taught me that the more beautiful a woman's face the more guileful is her heart; and your face is wonderfully beautiful, and, as for your heart—you lied to me before."
"I—oh, Peter!—I am not the poor creature you think me."
"Were you the proudest lady in the land—you have deceived me and mocked me and lied to me!" So saying, I reached out, and seized her by each rounded arm, and slowly drew her closer. And now she strove no more against me, only in her face was bitter scorn, and an anger that cast out fear.
"I hate you—despise you!" she whispered. "I hate you more than any man was ever hated!"
Inch by inch I drew her to me, until she stood close, within the circle of my arms.
"And I think I love you more than any woman was ever loved!" said I; "for the glorious beauty of your strong, sweet body, for the temptation of your eyes, for the red lure of your lips!" And so I stooped and kissed her full upon the mouth. She lay soft and warm in my embrace, all unresisting, only she shivered beneath my kiss, and a great sob rent her bosom.
"And I also think," said I, "that, because of the perfidy of your heart, I hate you as much as you do me—as much as ever woman, dead or living, was hated by man and shall—forever!"
And, while I spoke, I loosed her and turned, and strode swiftly out and away from the cottage.
I hurried on, looking neither to right nor left, seeing only the face of Charmian, now fearful and appealing, now blazing with scorn. And coming to the brook, I sat down, and thought upon her marvellous beauty, of the firm roundness of the arms that my fingers had so lately pressed. Anon I started up again, and plunged, knee-deep, through the brook, and strode on and on, bursting my way through bramble and briar, heedless of their petty stings, till at last I was clear of them, being now among trees. And here, where the shadow was deepest, I came upon a lurking figure—a figure I recognized—a figure there was no mistaking, and which I should have known in a thousand.
A shortish, broad-shouldered man, clad in a blue coat, who stood with his back towards me, looking down into the Hollow, in the attitude of one who waits—for what? for whom?
He was cut off from me by a solitary bush, a bramble, that seemed to have strayed from its kind and lost itself, and, running upon my toes, I cleared this bush at a bound, and, before the fellow had realized my presence, I had pinned him by the collar.
"Damn you!—show your face!" I cried, and swung him round so fiercely that he staggered, and his hat fell off.
Then, as I saw, I clasped my head between my hands, and fell back—staring.
A grizzled man with an honest, open face, a middle-aged man whose homely features were lighted by a pair of kindly blue eyes, just now round with astonishment.
"Lord!—Mr. Peter!" he exclaimed.
"Adam!" I groaned. "Oh, God forgive me, it's Adam!"
"Lord! Mr. Peter," said he again, "you sure give me a turn, Sir! But what's the matter wi' you, sir? Come, Mr. Peter, never stare so wild like—come, sir, what is it?"
"Tell me—quick!" said I, catching his hand in mine, "you have been here many times before of late?"
"Why—yes, Mr. Peter, but—"
"Quick!" said I; "on one occasion she took you into the cottage yonder and showed you a book—you looked at it over her shoulder?"
"Yes, sir—but—"
"What sort of book was it?"
"A old book, sir, wi' the cover broke, and wi' your name writ down inside of it; 'twas that way as she found out who you was—"
"Oh, Adam!" I cried. "Oh, Adam! now may God help me!" And, dropping his hand, I turned and ran until I reached the cottage; but it was empty, Charmian was gone.
In a fever of haste I sought her along the brook, among the bushes and trees, even along the road. And, as I sought, night fell, and in the shadows was black despair.
I searched the Hollow from end to end, calling upon her name, but no sound reached me, save the hoot of an owl, and the far-off, dismal cry of a corncrake.
With some faint hope that she might have returned to the cottage, I hastened thither, but, finding it dark and desolate, I gave way to my despair.
O blind, self-deceiving fool! She had said that, and she was right—as usual. She had called me an egoist—I was an egoist, a pedant, a blind, self-deceiving fool who had wilfully destroyed all hopes of a happiness the very thought of which had so often set me trembling—and now—she had left me—was gone! The world—my world, was a void—its emptiness terrified me. How should I live without Charmian, the woman whose image was ever before my eyes, whose soft, low voice was ever in my ears?
And I had thought so much to please her! I who had set my thoughts to guard my tongue, lest by word or look I might offend her! And this was the end of it!
Sitting down at the table, I leaned my head there, pressing my forehead against the hard wood, and remained thus a great while.
At last, because it was very dark, I found and lighted a candle, and came and stood beside her bed. Very white and trim it looked, yet I was glad to see its smoothness rumpled where I had laid her down, and to see the depression in the pillow that her head had made. And, while I stood there, up to me stole a perfume very faint, like the breath of violets in a wood at evening time, wherefore I sank down upon my knees beside the bed.
And now the full knowledge of my madness rushed upon me in an overwhelming flood; but with misery was a great and mighty joy, for now I knew her worthy of all respect and honor and worship, for her intellect, for her proud virtue, and for her spotless purity. And thus, with joy came remorse, and with remorse—an abiding sorrow.
And gradually my arms crept about the pillow where her head had so often rested, wherefore I kissed it, and laid my head upon it and sighed, and so fell into a troubled sleep.
The chill of dawn was in the air when I awoke, and it was some few moments before, with a rush, I remembered why I was kneeling there beside Charmian's bed. Shivering, I rose and walked up and down to reduce the stiffness in my limbs.
The fire was out and I had no mind to light it, for I was in no mood to break my fast, though the necessary things stood ready, as her orderly hands had set them, and the plates and cups and saucers twinkled at me from the little cupboard I had made to hold them; a cupboard whose construction she had overlooked with a critical eye. And I must needs remember how she had insisted on being permitted to drive in three nails with her own hand—I could put my finger on those very nails; how she had tapped at those nails for fear of missing them; how beautiful she had looked in her coarse apron, and with her sleeves rolled up over her round white arms—how womanly and sweet; yet I had dared to think—had dared to call her—a Messalina! Oh, that my tongue had withered or ever I had coupled one so pure and noble with a creature so base and common!
So thinking, I sighed and went out into the dawn; as I closed the door behind me its hollow slam struck me sharply, and I called to mind how she had called it a bad and ill-fitting door. And indeed so it was.
With dejected step and hanging head I made my way towards Sissinghurst (for, since I was up, I might as well work, and there was much to be done), and, as I went, I heard a distant clock chime four.
Now, when I reached the village the sun was beginning to rise, and thus, lifting up my eyes, I beheld one standing before "The Bull," a very tall man, much bigger and greater than most; a wild figure in the dawn, with matted hair and beard, and clad in tattered clothes; yet hair and beard gleamed a red gold where the light touched them, and there was but one man I knew so tall and so mighty as this. Wherefore I hurried towards him, all unnoticed, for his eyes were raised to a certain latticed casement of the inn.
And, being come up, I reached out and touched this man upon the arm.
"George!" said I, and held out my hand. He turned swiftly, but, seeing me, started back a pace, staring.
"George!" said I again. "Oh, George!" But George only backed still farther, passing his hand once or twice across his eyes.
"Peter?" said he at last, speaking hardly above a whisper; "but you 'm dead, Peter, dead—I killed—'ee."
"No," I answered, "you didn't kill me, George indeed, I wish you had—you came pretty near it, but you didn't quite manage it. And, George—I'm very desolate—won't you shake hands with a very desolate man?—if you can, believing that I have always been your friend, and a true and loyal one, then, give me your hand; if not—if you think me still the despicable traitor you once did, then, let us go into the field yonder, and if you can manage to knock me on the head for good and all this time—why, so much the better. Come, what do you say?"
Without a word Black George turned and led the way to a narrow lane a little distance beyond "The Bull," and from the lane into a meadow. Being come thither, I took off my coat and neckerchief, but this time I cast no look upon the world about me, though indeed it was fair enough. But Black George stood half turned from me, with his fists clenched and his broad shoulders heaving oddly.
"Peter," said he, in his slow, heavy way, "never clench ye fists to me—don't—I can't abide it. But oh, man, Peter! 'ow may I clasp 'ands wi' a chap as I've tried to kill—I can't do it, Peter—but don't—don't clench ye fists again me no more. I were jealous of 'ee from the first—ye see, you beat me at th' 'ammer-throwin'—an' she took your part again me; an' then, you be so takin' in your ways, an' I be so big an' clumsy—so very slow an' 'eavy. Theer bean't no choice betwixt us for a maid like Prue—she allus was different from the likes o' me, an' any lass wi' half an eye could see as you be a gentleman, ah! an' a good un. An' so Peter, an' so—I be goin' away—a sojer—p'r'aps I shan't love the dear lass quite so much arter a bit—p'r'aps it won't be quite so sharp-like, arter a bit, but what's to be—is to be. I've larned wisdom, an' you an' she was made for each other an' meant for each other from the first; so—don't go to clench ye fists again me no more, Peter."
"Never again, George!" said I.
"Unless," he continued, as though struck by a bright idea, "unless you 'm minded to 'ave a whack at me; if so be—why, tak' it, Peter, an' welcome. Ye see, I tried so 'ard to kill 'ee—so cruel 'ard, Peter, an' I thought I 'ad. I thought 'twere for that as they took me, an' so I broke my way out o' the lock-up, to come an' say 'good-by' to Prue's winder, an' then I were goin' back to give myself up an' let 'em hang me if they wanted to."
"Were you, George?"
"Yes." Here George turned to look at me, and, looking, dropped his eyes and fumbled with his hands, while up under his tanned skin there crept a painful, burning crimson. "Peter!" said he.
"Yes, George?"
"I got summ'at more to tell 'ee—summ'at as I never meant to tell to a soul; when you was down—lyin' at my feet—"
"Yes, George?"
"I—I kicked 'ee—once!"
"Did you, George?"
"Ay—I—I were mad—mad wi' rage an' blood lust, an'—oh, man, Peter!—I kicked 'ee. Theer," said he, straightening his shoulders, "leastways I can look 'ee in the eye now that be off my mind. An' now, if so be you 'm wishful to tak' ye whack at me—why, let it be a good un, Peter."
"No, I shall never raise my hand to you again, George."
"'Tis likely you be thinkin' me a poor sort o' man, arter what—what I just told 'ee—a coward?"
"I think you more of a man than ever," said I.
"Why, then, Peter—if ye do think that, here's my hand—if ye'll tak' it, an' I—bid ye—good-by!"
"I'll take your hand—and gladly, George, but not to wish you good-by—it shall be, rather, to bid you welcome home again."
"No," he cried. "No—I couldn't—I couldn't abide to see you an'—Prue—married, Peter—no, I couldn't abide it."
"And you never will, George. Prue loves a stronger, a better man than I. And she has wept over him, George, and prayed over him, such tears and prayers as surely might win the blackest soul to heaven, and has said that she would marry that man—ah! even if he came back with fetter-marks upon him—even then she would marry him—if he would only ask her."
"Oh, Peter!" cried George, seizing my shoulders in a mighty grip and looking into my eyes with tears in his own, "oh, man, Peter—you as knocked me down an' as I love for it—be this true?"
"It is God's truth!" said I, "and look!—there is a sign to prove I am no liar—look!" and I pointed towards "The Bull."
George turned, and I felt his fingers tighten suddenly, for there, at the open doorway of the inn, with the early glory of the morning all about her, stood Prue. As we watched, she began to cross the road towards the smithy, with laggard step and drooping head.
"Do you know where she is going, George? I can tell you—she is going to your smithy—to pray for you—do you hear, to pray for you? Come!" and I seized his arm.
"No, Peter, no—I durstn't—I couldn't." But he suffered me to lead him forward, nevertheless. Once he stopped and glanced round, but the village was asleep about us. And so we presently came to the open doorway of the forge.
And behold! Prue was kneeling before the anvil with her face hidden in her arms, and her slender body swaying slightly. But all at once, as if she felt him near her, she raised her head and saw him, and sprang to her feet with a glad cry. And, as she stood, George went to her, and knelt at her feet, and raising the hem of her gown, stooped and kissed it.
"Oh, my sweet maid!" said he. "Oh, my sweet Prue!—I bean't worthy—I bean't—" But she caught the great shaggy head to her bosom and stifled it there.
And in her face was a radiance—a happiness beyond words, and the man's strong arms clung close about her.
So I turned, and left them in paradise together.
I found the Ancient sunning himself in the porch before the inn, as he waited for his breakfast.
"Peter," said he, "I be tur'ble cold sometimes. It comes a-creepin' on me all at once, even if I be sittin' before a roarin' fire or a-baskin' in this good, warm sun—a cold as reaches down into my poor old 'eart—grave-chills, I calls 'em, Peter—ah! grave-chills. Ketches me by the 'eart they do; ye see I be that old, Peter, that old an' wore out."
"But you're a wonderful man for your age!" said I, clasping the shrivelled hand in mine, "and very lusty and strong—"
"So strong as a bull I be, Peter!" he nodded readily, "but then, even a bull gets old an' wore out, an' these grave-chills ketches me oftener an' oftener. 'Tis like as if the Angel o' Death reached out an' touched me—just touched me wi' 'is finger, soft-like, as much as to say: ''Ere be a poor, old, wore-out creeter as I shall be wantin' soon.' Well, I be ready; 'tis only the young or the fule as fears to die. Threescore years an' ten, says the Bible, an' I be years an' years older than that. Oh! I shan't be afeared to answer when I'm called, Peter. ''Ere I be, Lord!' I'll say. ''Ere I be, thy poor old servant'—but oh, Peter! if I could be sure o' that theer old rusty stapil bein' took first, why then I'd go j'yful—j'yful, but—why theer be that old fule Amos—Lord! what a dodderin' old fule 'e be, an' theer be Job, an' Dutton—they be comin' to plague me, Peter, I can feel it in my bones. Jest reach me my snuff-box out o' my 'ind pocket, an' you shall see me smite they Amalekites 'ip an' thigh."
"Gaffer," began Old Amos, saluting us with his usual grin, as he came up, "we be wishful to ax 'ee a question—we be wishful to know wheer be Black Jarge, which you 'avin' gone to fetch 'im, an' bring 'im 'ome again—them was your words."
"Ah!" nodded Job, "them was your very words, 'bring 'im 'ome again,' says you—"
"But you didn't bring 'im 'ome," continued Old Amos, "leastways, not in the cart wi' you. Dutton 'ere—James Dutton see you come drivin' 'ome, but 'e didn't see no Jarge along wi' you—no, not so much as you could shake a stick at, as you might say. Speak up, James Dutton—you was a-leanin' over your front gate as Gaffer come drivin' 'ome, wasn't you, an' you see Gaffer plain as plain, didn't you?"
"W'ich, me wishin' no offense, an' no one objectin'—I did," began the Apology, perspiring profusely as usual, "but I takes the liberty to say as it were a spade, an' not a gate—leastways—"
"But you didn't see no signs o' Jarge, did ye?" demanded Old Amos, "as ye might say, neither 'ide nor 'air of 'im—speak up, James Dutton."
"W'ich, since you axes me, I makes so bold as to answer—an' very glad I'm sure—no; though as to 'ide an' 'air, I aren't wishin' to swear to, me not bein' near enough—w'ich could only be expected, an' very much obliged, I'm sure."
"Ye see, Gaffer," pursued Amos, "if you didn't bring Jarge back wi' you—w'ich you said you would—the question we axes is—wheer be Jarge?"
"Ah!—wheer?" nodded Job gloomily. Here the Ancient was evidently at a loss, to cover which, he took a vast pinch of snuff.
"'Ow be we to know as 'e bean't pinin' away in a dungeon cell wi' irons on 'is legs, an' strapped in a straitjacket an—"
Old Amos stopped, open-mouthed and staring, for out from the gloom of the smithy issued Black George himself, with Prue upon his arm. The Ancient stared also, but, dissembling his vast surprise, he dealt the lid of his snuffbox two loud, triumphant knocks.
"Peter," said he, rising stiffly, "Peter, lad, I were beginnin' to think as Jarge were never comin' in to breakfus' at all. I've waited and waited till I be so ravenous as a lion an' tiger—but 'ere 'e be at last, Peter, 'ere 'e be, so let's go in an' eat summ'at." Saying which, he turned his back upon his discomfited tormentors, and led me into the kitchen of the inn.
And there were the white-capped maids setting forth such a breakfast as only such a kitchen could produce. And, presently, there was Prue herself, with George hanging back, something shamefaced, till the Ancient had hobbled forward to give him welcome. And there was honest Simon, all wonderment and hearty greeting. And (last, but by no means least) there were the battered cutlasses, the brass jack, and the glittering pots and pans—glittering and gleaming and twinkling a greeting likewise, and with all their might.
Ah! but they little guessed why Prue's eyes were so shy and sweet, or why the color came and went in her pretty cheeks; little they guessed why this golden-haired giant trod so lightly, and held his tall head so very high—little they dreamed of the situation as yet; had they done so, surely they must, one and all, have fallen upon that curly, golden head and buried it beneath their gleaming, glittering, twinkling jealousy.
And what a meal was that! with those deft, whitecapped maids to wait upon our wants, and with Prudence hovering here and there to see that all were duly served, and refusing to sit down until George's great arm—a very gentle arm for one so strong and big—drew her down beside him.
Yes, truly, what a meal that was, and how the Ancient chuckled, and dug me with one bony elbow and George with the other, and chuckled again till he choked, and choked till he gasped, and gasped till he had us all upon our feet, then demanded indignantly why we couldn't let him "enj'y hisself in peace."
And now, when the meal was nearly over, he suddenly took it into his head that Prue didn't love George as she should and as he deserved to be, and nothing would content him but that she must kiss him then and there.
"An' not on the forr'ud, mind—nor on the cheek, but on the place asGod made for it—the mouth, my lass!"
And now, who so shy and blushing as Prue, and who so nervous, for her sake, as Black George, very evidently clasping her hand under the table, and bidding her never to mind—as he was content, and never to put herself out over such as him. Whereupon Mistress Prue must needs turn, and taking his head between her hands, kissed him—not once, or twice, but three times, and upon "the place God made for it—the mouth."
O gleaming Cutlasses! O great Brass Jack and glittering Pots and Pans! can ye any longer gleam and glitter and twinkle in doubt? Alas! I trow not. Therefore it is only natural and to be expected that beneath your outward polish lurk black and bitter feelings against this curly-headed giant, and a bloodthirsty desire for vengeance. If so, then one and all of you have, at least, the good feeling not to show it, a behavior worthy of gentlemen—what do I say?—of gentlemen?—fie! rather let it be said—of pots and pans.