It is a wise and (to some extent) a true saying, that hard work is an antidote to sorrow, a panacea for all trouble; but when the labor is over and done, when the tools are set by, and the weary worker goes forth into the quiet evening—how then? For we cannot always work, and, sooner or later, comes the still hour when Memory rushes in upon us again, and Sorrow and Remorse sit, dark and gloomy, on either hand.
A week dragged by, a season of alternate hope and black despair, a restless fever of nights and days, for with each dawn came hope, that lived awhile beside me, only to fly away with the sun, and leave me to despair.
I hungered for the sound of Charmian's voice, for the quick, light fall of her foot, for the least touch of her hand. I became more and more possessed of a morbid fancy that she might be existing near by—could I but find her; that she had passed along the road only a little while before me, or, at this very moment, might be approaching, might be within sight, were I but quick enough.
Often at such times I would fling down my hammer or tongs, to George's surprise, and, hurrying to the door, stare up and down the road; or pause in my hammerstrokes, fiercely bidding George do the same, fancying I heard her voice calling to me from a distance. And George would watch me with a troubled brow but, with a rare delicacy, say no word.
Indeed, the thought of Charmian was with me everywhere, the ringing hammers mocked me with her praises, the bellows sang of her beauty, the trees whispered "Charmian! Charmian!" and Charmian was in the very air.
But when I had reluctantly bidden George "good night," and set out along lanes full of the fragrant dusk of evening; when, reaching the Hollow, I followed that leafy path beside the brook, which she and I had so often trodden together; when I sat in my gloomy, disordered cottage, with the deep silence unbroken save for the plaintive murmur of the brook—then, indeed, my loneliness was well-nigh more than I could bear.
There were dark hours when the cottage rang with strange sounds, when I would lie face down upon the floor, clutching my throbbing temples between my palms—fearful of myself, and dreading the oncoming horror of madness.
It was at this time, too, that I began to be haunted by the thing above the door—the rusty staple upon which a man had choked out his wretched life sixty and six years ago; a wanderer, a lonely man, perhaps acquainted with misery or haunted by remorse, one who had suffered much and long—even as I—but who had eventually escaped it all—even as I might do. Thus I would sit, chin in hand, staring up at this staple until the light failed, and sometimes, in the dead of night, I would steal softly there to touch it with my finger.
Looking back on all this, it seems that I came very near losing my reason, for I had then by no means recovered from Black George's fist, and indeed even now I am at times not wholly free from its effect.
My sleep, too, was often broken and troubled with wild dreams, so that bed became a place of horror, and, rising, I would sit before the empty hearth, a candle guttering at my elbow, and think of Charmian until I would fancy I heard the rustle of her garments behind me, and start up, trembling and breathless; at such times the tap of a blown leaf against the lattice would fill me with a fever of hope and expectation. Often and often her soft laugh stole to me in the gurgle of the brook, and she would call to me in the deep night silences in a voice very sweet, and faint, and far away. Then I would plunge out into the dark, and lift my hands to the stars that winked upon my agony, and journey on through a desolate world, to return with the dawn, weary and despondent.
It was after one of these wild night expeditions that I sat beneath a tree, watching the sunrise. And yet I think I must have dozed, for I was startled by a voice close above me, and, glancing up, I recognized the little Preacher. As our eyes met he immediately took the pipe from his lips, and made as though to cram it into his pocket.
"Though, indeed, it is empty!" he explained, as though I had spoken. "Old habits cling to one, young sir, and my pipe, here, has been the friend of my solitude these many years, and I cannot bear to turn my back upon it yet, so I carry it with me still, and sometimes, when at all thoughtful, I find it between my lips. But though the flesh, as you see, is very weak, I hope, in time, to forego even this," and he sighed, shaking his head in gentle deprecation of himself. "But you look pale—haggard," he went on; "you are ill, young sir!"
"No, no," said I, springing to my feet; "look at this arm, is it the arm of a sick man? No, no—I am well enough, but what of him we found in the ditch, you and I—the miserable creature who lay bubbling in the grass?"
"He has been very near death, sir—indeed his days are numbered, I think, yet he is better, for the time being, and last night declared his intention of leaving the shelter of my humble roof and setting forth upon his mission."
"His mission, sir?"
"He speaks of himself as one chosen by God to work His will, and asks but to live until this mission, whatever it is, be accomplished. A strange being!" said the little Preacher, puffing at his empty pipe again as we walked on side by side, "a dark, incomprehensible man, and a very, very wretched one—poor soul!"
"Wretched?" said I, "is not that our human lot? 'Man is born to sorrow as the sparks fly upward,' and Job was accounted wise in his generation."
"That was a cry from the depths of despond; but Job stood, at last, upon the heights, and felt once more God's blessed sun, and rejoiced—even as we should. But, as regards this stranger, he is one who would seem to have suffered some great wrong, the continued thought of which has unhinged his mind; his heart seems broken—dead. I have, sitting beside his delirious couch, heard him babble a terrible indictment against some man; I have also heard him pray, and his prayers have been all for vengeance."
"Poor fellow!" said I, "it were better we had left him to die in his ditch, for if death does not bring oblivion, it may bring a change of scene."
"Sir," said the Preacher, laying his hand upon my arm, "such bitterness in one so young is unnatural; you are in some trouble, I would that I might aid you, be your friend—know you better—"
"Oh, sir! that is easily done. I am a blacksmith, hardworking, sober, and useful to my fellows; they call me Peter Smith. A certain time since I was a useless dreamer; spending more money in a week than I now earn in a year, and getting very little for it. I was studious, egotistical, and pedantic, wasting my time upon impossible translations that nobody wanted—and they knew me as—Peter Vibart."
"Vibart!" exclaimed the Preacher, starting and looking up at me.
"Vibart!" I nodded.
"Related in any way to—Sir Maurice Vibart?"
"His cousin, sir." My companion appeared lost in thought, for he was puffing at his empty pipe again.
"Do you happen to know Sir Maurice?" I inquired.
"No," returned the Preacher; "no, sir, but I have heard mention of him, and lately, though just when, or where, I cannot for the life of me recall."
"Why, the name is familiar to a great many people," said I; "you see, he is rather a famous character, in his way."
Talking thus, we presently reached a stile beyond which the footpath led away through swaying corn and by shady hopgarden, to Sissinghurst village. Here the Preacher stopped and gave me his hand, but I noticed he still puffed at his pipe.
"And you are now a blacksmith?"
"And mightily content so to be."
"You are a most strange young man!" said the Preacher, shaking his head.
"Many people have told me the same, sir," said I, and vaulted over the stile. Yet, turning back when I had gone some way, I saw him leaning where I had left him, and with his pipe still in his mouth.
As I approached the smithy, late though the hour was (and George made it a rule to have the fire going by six every morning), no sound of hammer reached me, and coming into the place, I found it empty. Then I remembered that to-day George was to drive over to Tonbridge, with Prudence and the Ancient, to invest in certain household necessities, for in a month's time they were to be married.
Hereupon I must needs contrast George's happy future with my dreary one, and fall bitterly to cursing myself; and, sitting on the Ancient's stool in the corner, I covered my face, and my thoughts were very black.
Now presently, as I sat thus, I became conscious of a very delicate perfume in the air, and also, that some one had entered quietly. My breath caught in my throat, but I did not at once look up, fearing to dispel the hope that tingled within me. So I remained with my face still covered until something touched me, and I saw that it was the gold-mounted handle of a whip, wherefore I raised my head suddenly and glanced up.
Then I beheld a radiant vision in polished riding-boots and speckless moleskins, in handsome flowered waistcoat and perfect-fitting coat, with snowy frills at throat and wrists; a tall, gallant figure, of a graceful, easy bearing, who stood, a picture of cool, gentlemanly insolence, tapping his boot lightly with his whip. But, as his eye met mine, the tapping whip grew suddenly still; his languid expression vanished, he came a quick step nearer and bent his face nearer my own—a dark face, handsome in its way, pale and aquiline, with a powerful jaw, and dominating eyes and mouth; a face (nay, a mask rather) that smiled and smiled, but never showed the man beneath.
Now, glancing up at his brow, I saw there a small, newly healed scar.
"Is it possible?" said he, speaking in that softly modulated voice I remembered to have heard once before. "Can it be possible that I address my worthy cousin? That shirt! that utterly impossible coat and belcher! And yet—the likeness is remarkable! Have I the—honor to address Mr. Peter Vibart—late of Oxford?"
"The same, sir," I answered, rising.
"Then, most worthy cousin, I salute you," and he removed his hat, bowing with an ironic grace. "Believe me, I have frequently desired to see that paragon of all the virtues whose dutiful respect our revered uncle rewarded with the proverbial shilling. Egad!" he went on, examining me through his glass with a great show of interest, "had you been any other than that same virtuous Cousin Peter whose graces and perfections were forever being thrown at my head, I could have sympathized with you, positively—if only on account of that most obnoxious coat and belcher, and the grime and sootiness of things in general. Poof!" he exclaimed, pressing his perfumed handkerchief to his nostrils, "faugh! how damnably sulphur-and-brimstony you do keep yourself, cousin—oh, gad!"
"You would certainly find it much clearer outside," said I, beginning to blow up the fire.
"But then, Cousin Peter, outside one must become a target for the yokel eye, and I detest being stared at by the uneducated, who, naturally, lack appreciation. On the whole, I prefer the smoke, though it chokes one most infernally. Where may one venture to sit here?" I tendered him the stool, but he shook his head, and, crossing to the anvil, flicked it daintily with his handkerchief and sat down, dangling his leg.
"'Pon my soul!" said he, eyeing me languidly through his glass again, "'pon my soul! you are damnably like me, you know, in features."
"Damnably!" I nodded.
He glanced at me sharply, and laughed.
"My man, a creature of the name of Parks," said he, swinging his spurred boot to and fro, "led me to suppose that I should meet a person here—a blacksmith fellow—"
"Your man Parks informed you correctly," I nodded; "what can I do for you?"
"The devil!" exclaimed Sir Maurice, shaking his head; "but no—you are, as I gather, somewhat eccentric, but even you would never take such a desperate step as to—to—"
"—become a blacksmith fellow?" I put in.
"Precisely!"
"Alas, Sir Maurice, I blush to say that rather than become an unprincipled adventurer living on my wits, or a mean-spirited hanger-on fawning upon acquaintances for a livelihood, or doing anything rather than soil my hands with honest toil, I became a blacksmith fellow some four or five months ago."
"Really it is most distressing to observe to what depths Virtue may drag a man!—you are a very monster of probity and rectitude!" exclaimed Sir Maurice; "indeed I am astonished! you manifested not only shocking bad judgment, but a most deplorable lack of thought (Virtue is damnably selfish as a rule)—really, it is quite disconcerting to find one's self first cousin to a blacksmith—"
"—fellow!" I added.
"Fellow!" nodded Sir Maurice. "Oh, the devil! to think of my worthy cousin reduced to the necessity of laboring with hammer and saw—"
"Not a saw," I put in.
"We will say, chisel, then—a Vibart with hammer and chisel—deuce take me! Most distressing! and, you will pardon my saying so, you do not seem to thrive on hammers and chisels; no one could say you looked blooming, or even flourishing like the young bay tree (which is, I fancy, an Eastern expression)."
"Sir," said I, "may I remind you that I have work to do?"
"A deuced interesting place though, this," he smiled, staring round imperturbably through his glass; "so—er—so devilish grimy and smutty and gritty—quite a number of horseshoes, too. D'ye know, cousin, I never before remarked what a number of holes there are in a horseshoe—but live and learn!" Here he paused to inhale a pinch of snuff, very daintily, from a jewelled box. "It is a strange thing," he pursued, as he dusted his fingers on his handkerchief, "a very strange thing that, being cousins, we have never met till now—especially as I have heard so very much about you."
"Pray," said I, "pray how should you hear about one so very insignificant as myself?"
"Oh, I have heard of good Cousin Peter since I was an imp of a boy!" he smiled. "Cousin Peter was my chart whereby to steer through the shoals of boyish mischief into the haven of our Uncle George's good graces. Oh, I have heard over much of you, cousin, from dear, kind, well-meaning relatives and friends—damn 'em! They rang your praises in my ears, morning, noon, and night. And why?—simply that I might come to surpass you in virtue, learning, wit, and appearance, and so win our Uncle George's regard, and, incidentally, his legacy. But I was a young demon, romping with the grooms in the stable, while you were a young angel in nankeens, passing studious hours with your books. When I was a scapegrace at Harrow, you were winning golden opinions at Eton; when you were an 'honors' man at Oxford, I was 'rusticated' at Cambridge. Naturally enough, perhaps, I grew sick of the name of Peter (and, indeed, it smacks damnably of fish, don't you think?)—you, or your name, crossed me at every turn. If it wasn't for Cousin Peter, I was heir to ten thousand a year; but good Cousin Peter was so fond of Uncle George, and Uncle George was so fond of good Cousin Peter, that Maurice might go hang for a graceless dog and be damned to him!"
"You have my deepest sympathy and apologies!" said I.
"Still, I have sometimes been curious to meet worthy Cousin Peter, and it is rather surprising that I have never done so."
"On the contrary—" I began, but his laugh stopped me.
"Ah, to be sure!" he nodded, "our ways have lain widely separate hitherto—you, a scholar, treading the difficult path of learning; I—oh, egad! a terrible fellow! a mauvais sujet! a sad, sad dog! But after all, cousin, when one comes to look at you to-day, you might stand for a terrible example of Virtue run riot—a distressing spectacle of dutiful respect and good precedent cut off with a shilling. Really, it is horrifying to observe to what depths Virtue may plunge an otherwise well-balanced individual. Little dreamed those dear, kind, well-meaning relatives and friends—damn 'em! that while the wilful Maurice lived on, continually getting into hot water and out again, up to his eyes in debt, and pretty well esteemed, the virtuous pattern Peter would descend to a hammer and saw—I should say, chisel—in a very grimy place where he is, it seems, the presiding genius. Indeed, this first meeting of ours, under these circumstances, is somewhat dramatic, as it should be."
"And yet, we have met before," said I, "and the circumstances were then even more dramatic, perhaps,—we met in a tempest, sir."
"Ha!" he exclaimed, dwelling on the word, and speaking very slowly, "a tempest, cousin?"
"There was much wind and rain, and it was very dark."
"Dark, cousin?"
"But I saw your face very plainly as you lay on your back, sir, by the aid of a Postilion's lanthorn, and was greatly struck by our mutual resemblance." Sir Maurice raised his glass and looked at me, and, as he looked, smiled, but he could not hide the sudden, passionate quiver of his thin nostrils, or the gleam of the eyes beneath their languid lids. He rose slowly and paced to the door; when he came back again, he was laughing softly, but still he could not hide the quiver of his nostrils, or the gleam of the eyes beneath their languid lids.
"So—it was—you?" he murmured, with a pause between the words. "Oh, was ever anything so damnably contrary! To think that I should hunt her into your very arms! To think that of all men in the world it should be you to play the squire of dames!" And he laughed again, but, as he did so, the stout riding-whip snapped in his hands like a straw. He glanced down at the broken pieces, and from them to me. "You see, I am rather strong in the hands, cousin," said he, shaking his head, "but I was not—quite strong enough, last time we met, though, to be sure, as you say, it was very dark. Had I known it was worthy Cousin Peter's throat I grasped, I think I might have squeezed it just—a little—tighter."
"Sir," said I, shaking my head, "I really don't think you could have done it."
"Yes," he sighed, tossing his broken whip into a corner. "Yes, I think so—you see, I mistook you for merely an interfering country bumpkin—"
"Yes," I nodded, "while I, on the other hand, took you for a fine gentleman nobly intent on the ruin of an unfortunate, friendless girl, whose poverty would seem to make her an easy victim—"
"In which it appears you were as much mistaken as I, Cousin Peter."Here he glanced at me with a sudden keenness.
"Indeed?"
"Why, surely," said he, "surely you must know—" He paused to flick a speck of soot from his knee, and then continued: "Did she tell you nothing of—herself?"
"Very little beside her name."
"Ah! she told you her name, then?"
"Yes, she told me her name."
"Well, cousin?"
"Well, sir?" We had both risen, and now fronted each other across the anvil, Sir Maurice debonair and smiling, while I stood frowning and gloomy.
"Come," said I at last, "let us understand each other once for all. You tell me that you have always looked upon me as your rival for our uncle's good graces—I never was. You have deceived yourself into believing that because I was his ward that alone augmented my chances of becoming the heir; it never did. He saw me as seldom as possible, and, if he ever troubled his head about either of us, it would seem that he favored you. I tell you I never was your rival in the past, and never shall be in the future."
"Meaning, cousin?"
"Meaning, sir, in regard to either the legacy or the Lady Sophia Sefton. I was never fond enough of money, to marry for it. I have never seen this lady, nor do I propose to, thus, so far as I am concerned, you are free to win her and the fortune as soon as you will; I, as you see, prefer horseshoes."
"And what," said Sir Maurice, flicking a speck of soot from his cuff, and immediately looking at me again, "what of Charmian?"
"I don't know," I answered, "nor should I be likely to tell you, if I did; wherever she may be she is safe, I trust, and beyond your reach—"
"No," he broke in, "she will never be beyond my reach until she is dead—or I am—perhaps not even then, and I shall find her again, sooner or later, depend upon it—yes, you may depend upon that!"
"Cousin Maurice," said I, reaching out my hand to him, "wherever shemay be, she is alone and unprotected—pursue her no farther. Go back toLondon, marry your Lady Sefton, inherit your fortune, but leaveCharmian Brown in peace."
"And pray," said he, frowning suddenly, "whence this solicitude on her behalf? What is she to you—this Charmian Brown?"
"Nothing," I answered hurriedly, "nothing at all, God knows—nor ever can be—" Sir Maurice leaned suddenly forward, and, catching me by the shoulder, peered into my face.
"By Heaven!" he exclaimed, "the fellow—actually loves her!"
"Well?" said I, meeting his look, "why not? Yes, I love her." A very fury of rage seemed suddenly to possess him, the languid, smiling gentleman became a devil with vicious eyes and evil, snarling mouth, whose fingers sank into my flesh as he swung me back and forth in a powerful grip.
"You love her?—you?—you?" he panted.
"Yes," I answered, flinging him off so that he staggered; "yes—yes! I—who fought for her once, and am willing—most willing, to do so again, now or at any other time, for, though I hold no hope of winning her—ever—yet I can serve her still, and protect her from the pollution of your presence," and I clenched my fists.
He stood poised as though about to spring at me, and I saw his knuckles gleam whiter than the laces above them, but, all at once, he laughed lightly, easily as ever.
"A very perfect, gentle knight!" he murmured, "sans peur et sans reproche—though somewhat grimy and in a leather apron. Chivalry kneeling amid hammers and horseshoes, worshiping Her with a reverence distant and lowly! How like you, worthy cousin, how very like you, and how affecting! But"—and here his nostrils quivered again—"but I tell you—she is mine—mine, and always has been, and no man living shall come between us—no, by God!"
"That," said I, "that remains to be seen!"
"Ha?"
"Though, indeed, I think she is safe from you while I live."
"But then, Cousin Peter, life is a very uncertain thing at best," he returned, glancing at me beneath his drooping lids.
"Yes," I nodded, "it is sometimes a blessing to remember that."
Sir Maurice strolled to the door, and, being there, paused, and looked back over his shoulder.
"I go to find Charmian," said he, "and I shall find her—sooner or later, and, when I do, should you take it upon yourself to—come between us again, or presume to interfere again, I shall—kill you, worthy cousin, without the least compunction. If you think this sufficient warning—act upon it, if not—" He shrugged his shoulders significantly. "Farewell, good and worthy Cousin Peter, farewell!—or shall we say—'au revoir'?"
"Peter," said George, one evening, turning to me with the troubled look I had seen so often on his face of late, "what be wrong wi' you, my chap? You be growing paler everyday. Oh, Peter! you be like a man as is dyin' by inches—if 'tis any o' my doin'—"
"Nonsense, George!" I broke in with sudden asperity, "I am well enough!"
"Yet I've seen your 'ands fall a-trembling sometimes, Peter—all at once. An' you missed your stroke yesterday—come square down on th' anvil—you can't ha' forgot?"
"I remember," I muttered; "I remember."
"An' twice again to-day. An' you be silent, Peter, an' don't seem to 'ear when spoke to, an' short in your temper—oh, you bean't the man you was. I've see it a-comin' on you more an' more. Oh, man, Peter!" he cried, turning his back upon me suddenly, "you as I'd let walk over me—you as I'd be cut in pieces for—if it be me as done it—"
"No, no, George—it wasn't you—of course not. If I am a little strange it is probably due to lack of sleep, nothing more."
"Ye see, Peter, I tried so 'ard to kill 'ee, an' you said yourself as I come nigh doin' it—"
"But then, you didn't quite manage it," I cried harshly—"would to God you had; as it is, I am alive, and there's an end of it."
"'Twere a woundy blow I give 'ee—that last one! I'll never forget the look o' your face as you went down. Oh, Peter! you've never been the same since—it be all my doin'—I know it, I know it," and, sinking upon the Ancient's stool in the corner, Black George covered his face.
"Never think of it, George," I said, laying my arm across his heaving shoulders; "that is all over and done with, dear fellow, and I would not have it otherwise, since it gained me your friendship. I am all right, well and strong; it is only sleep that I need, George, only sleep."
Upon the still evening air rose the sharp tap, tap of the Ancient's stick, whereat up started the smith, and, coming to the forge, began raking out the fire with great dust and clatter, as the old man hobbled up, saluting us cheerily as he came.
"Lord!" he exclaimed, pausing in the doorway to lean upon his stick and glance from one to the other of us with his quick, bright eyes. "Lord! theer bean't two other such fine, up-standin', likely-lookin' chaps in all the South Country as you two chaps be—no, nor such smiths! it du warm my old 'eart to look at 'ee. Puts me in mind o' what I were myself—ages an' ages ago. I weren't quite so tall as Jarge, p'r'aps, by about—say 'alf-a-inch, but then, I were wider—wider, ah! a sight wider in the shoulder, an' so strong as—four bulls! an' wi' eyes big an' sharp an' piercin'—like Peter's, only Peter's bean't quite so sharp, no, nor yet so piercin'—an' that minds me as I've got noos for 'ee, Peter."
"What news?" said I, turning.
"S'prisin' noos it be—ah! an' 'stonishin' tu. But first of all,Peter, I wants to ax 'ee a question."
"What is it, Ancient?"
"Why, it be this, Peter," said the old man, hobbling nearer, and peering up into my face, "ever since the time as I went an' found ye, I've thought as theer was summ'at strange about 'ee, what wi' your soft voice an' gentle ways; an' it came on me all at once—about three o' the clock 's arternoon, as you might be a dook—in disguise, Peter. Come now, be ye a dook or bean't ye—yes or no, Peter?" and he fixed me with his eye.
"No, Ancient," I answered, smiling; "I'm no duke."
"Ah well!—a earl, then?"
"Nor an earl."
"A barrynet, p'r'aps?"
"Not even a baronet."
"Ah!" said the old man, eyeing me doubtfully, "I've often thought as you might be one or t' other of 'em 'specially since 'bout three o' the clock 's arternoon."
"Why so?"
"Why, that's the p'int—that's the very noos as I've got to tell 'ee," chuckled the Ancient, as he seated himself in the corner. "You must know, then," he began, with an impressive rap on the lid of his snuffbox, "'bout three o'clock 's arternoon I were sittin' on the stile by Simon's five-acre field when along the road comes a lady, 'an'some an' proud-looking, an' as fine as fine could be, a-ridin' of a 'orse, an' wi' a servant ridin' another 'orse be'ind 'er. As she comes up she gives me a look out o' 'er eyes, soft they was, an' dark, an' up I gets to touch my 'at. All at once she smiles at me, an' 'er smile were as sweet an' gentle as 'er eyes; an' she pulls up 'er 'orse. 'W'y, you must be the Ancient!' says she. 'W'y, so Peter calls me, my leddy,' says I. 'An' 'ow is Peter?' she says, quick-like; ''ow is Peter?' says she. 'Fine an' 'earty,' says I; 'eats well an' sleeps sound,' says I; ''is arms is strong an' 'is legs is strong, an' 'e aren't afeared o' nobody—like a young lion be Peter,' says I. Now, while I'm a-sayin' this, she looks at me, soft an' thoughtful-like, an' takes out a little book an' begins to write in it, a-wrinklin' 'er pretty black brows over it an' a-shakin' 'er 'ead to 'erself. An' presently she tears out what she's been a-writin' an' gives it to me. 'Will you give this to Peter for me?' says she. 'That I will, my leddy!' says I. 'Thank 'ee!' says she, smilin' again, an' 'oldin' out 'er w'ite 'an' to me, which I kisses. 'Indeed!' says she,' I understand now why Peter is so fond of you. I think I could be very fond of 'ee tu!' says she. An' so she turns 'er 'orse, an' the servant 'e turns 'is an' off they go; an' 'ere, Peter—'ere be the letter." Saying which, the Ancient took a slip of paper from the cavernous interior of his hat and tendered it to me.
With my head in a whirl, I crossed to the door, and leaned there awhile, staring sightlessly out into the summer evening; for it seemed that in this little slip of paper lay that which meant life or death to me; so, for a long minute I leaned there, fearing to learn my fate. Then I opened the little folded square of paper, and, holding it before my eyes, read:
"Charmian Brown presents" (This scratched out.) "While you busied yourself forging horseshoes your cousin, Sir Maurice, sought and found me. I do not love him, but— CHARMIAN.
"Farewell" (This also scored out.)
Again I stared before me with unseeing eyes, but my hands no longer trembled, nor did I fear any more; the prisoner had received his sentence, and suspense was at an end.
And, all at once, I laughed, and tore the paper across, and laughed and laughed, till George and the Ancient came to stare at me.
"Don't 'ee!" cried the old man; "don't 'ee, Peter—you be like a corp' laughin'; don't 'ee!" But the laugh still shook me while I tore and tore at the paper, and so let the pieces drop and flutter from my fingers.
"There!" said I, "there goes a fool's dream! See how it scatters—a little here, a little there; but, so long as this world lasts, these pieces shall never come together again." So saying, I set off along the road, looking neither to right nor left. But, when I had gone some distance, I found that George walked beside me, and he was very silent as he walked, and I saw the trouble was back in his eyes again.
"George," said I, stopping, "why do you follow me?"
"I don't follow 'ee, Peter," he answered; "I be only wishful to walk wi' you a ways."
"I'm in no mood for company, George."
"Well, I bean't company, Peter—your friend, I be," he said doggedly, and without looking at me.
"Yes," said I; "yes, my good and trusty friend."
"Peter," he cried suddenly, laying his hand upon my shoulder, "don't go back to that theer ghashly 'Oller to-night—"
"It is the only place in the world for me—to-night, George." And so we went on again, side by side, through the evening, and spoke no more until we had come to the parting of the ways.
Down in the Hollow the shadows lay black and heavy, and I saw George shiver as he looked.
"Good-by!" said I, clasping his hand; "good-by, George!"
"Why do 'ee say good-by?"
"Because I am going away."
"Goin' away, Peter—but wheer?"
"God knows!" I answered, "but, wherever it be, I shall carry with me the memory of your kind, true heart—and you, I think, will remember me. It is a blessed thing, George, to know that, howso far we go, a friend's kind thoughts journey on with us, untiring to the end."
"Oh, Peter, man! don't go for to leave me—"
"To part is our human lot, George, and as well now as later—good-by!"
"No, no!" he cried, throwing his arm about me, "not down theer—it be so deadly an' lonely down theer in the darkness. Come back wi' me—just for to-night." But I broke from his detaining hand, and plunged on down into the shadows. And, presently, turning my head, I saw him yet standing where I had left him, looming gigantic upon the sky behind, and with his head sunk upon his breast.
Being come at last to the cottage, I paused, and from that place of shadows lifted my gaze to the luminous heaven, where were a myriad eyes that seemed to watch me with a new meaning, to-night; wherefore I entered the cottage hastily, and, closing the door, barred it behind me. Then I turned to peer up at that which showed above the door—the rusty staple upon which a man had choked his life out sixty and six years ago. And I began, very slowly, to loosen the belcher neckerchief about my throat.
"Peter!" cried a voice—"Peter!" and a hand was beating upon the door.
She came in swiftly, closing the door behind her, found and lighted a candle, and, setting it upon the table between us, put back the hood of her cloak, and looked at me, while I stood mute before her, abashed by the accusation of her eyes.
"Coward!" she said, and, with the word, snatched the neckerchief from my grasp, and, casting it upon the floor, set her foot upon it. "Coward!" said she again.
"Yes," I muttered; "yes, I was lost—in a great darkness, and full of a horror of coming nights and days, and so—I would have run away from it all—like a coward—"
"Oh, hateful—hateful!" she cried, and covered her face as from some horror.
"Indeed, you cannot despise me more than I do myself," said I, "now, or ever; I am a failure in all things, except, perhaps, the making of horseshoes—and this world has no place for failures—and as for horseshoes—"
"Fool," she whispered. "Oh, fool that I dreamed so wise! Oh, coward that seemed so brave and strong! Oh, man that was so gloriously young and unspoiled!—that it should end here—that it should come to this." And, though she kept her face hidden, I knew that she was weeping. "A woman's love transforms the man till she sees him, not as he is, but as her heart would have him be; the dross becomes pure gold, and she believes and believes until—one day her heart breaks—"
"Charmian!—what—what do you mean?"
"Oh, are you still so blind? Must I tell you?" she cried, lifting her head proudly. "Why did I live beside you here in the wilderness? Why did I work for you—contrive for you—and seek to make this desolation a home for you? Often my heart cried out its secret to you—but you never heard; often it trembled in my voice, looked at you from my eyes—but you never guessed—Oh, blind! blind! And you drove me from you with shameful words—but—oh!—I came back to you. And now—I know you for but common clay, after all, and—even yet—" She stopped, suddenly, and once more hid her face from me in her hands.
"And—even yet, Charmian?" I whispered.
Very still she stood, with her face bowed upon her hands, but she could not hide from me the swift rise and fall of her bosom.
"Speak—oh, Charmian, speak!"
"I am so weak—so weak!" she whispered; "I hate myself."
"Charmian!" I cried "—oh, Charmian!" and seized her hands, and, despite her resistance, drew her into my arms, and, clasping her close, forced her to look at me. "And even yet?—what more—what more—tell me." But, lying back across my arm, she held me off with both hands.
"Don't!" she cried; "don't—you shame me—let me go."
"God knows I am all unworthy, Charmian, and so low in my abasement that to touch you is presumption, but oh, woman whom I have loved from the first, and shall, to the end, have you stooped in your infinite mercy, to lift me from these depths—is it a new life you offer me—was it for this you came to-night?"
"Let me go—oh, Peter!—let me go."
"Why—why did you come?"
"Loose me!"
"Why did you come?"
"To meet—Sir Maurice Vibart."
"To meet Sir Maurice?" I repeated dully—"Sir Maurice?" And in that moment she broke from me, and stood with her head thrown back, and her eyes very bright, as though defying me. But I remained where I was, my arms hanging.
"He was to meet me here—at nine o'clock."
"Oh, Charmian," I whispered, "are all women so cruel as you, I wonder?" And, turning my back upon her, I leaned above the mantel, staring down at the long-dead ashes on the hearth.
But, standing there, I heard a footstep outside, and swung round with clenched fists, yet Charmian was quicker, and, as the door opened and Sir Maurice entered, she was between us.
He stood upon the threshold, dazzled a little by the light, but smiling, graceful, debonair, and point-device as ever. Indeed, his very presence seemed to make the mean room the meaner by contrast, and, as he bent to kiss her hand, I became acutely conscious of my own rough person, my worn and shabby clothes, and of my hands, coarsened and grimed by labor; wherefore my frown grew the blacker and I clenched my fists the tighter.
"I lost my way, Charmian," he began, "but, though late, I am none the less welcome, I trust? Ah?—you frown, Cousin Peter? Quite a ghoulish spot this, at night—you probably find it most congenial, good cousin Timon of Athens—indeed, cousin, you are very like Timon of Athens—" And he laughed so that I, finding my pipe upon the mantelshelf, began to turn it aimlessly round and round in my twitching fingers.
"You have already met, then?" inquired Charmian, glancing from one to the other of us.
"We had that mutual pleasure nearly a week ago," nodded Sir Maurice, "when we agreed to—disagree, as we always have done, and shall do—with the result that we find each other agreeably disagreeable."
"I had hoped that you might be friends."
"My dear Charmian—I wonder at you!" he sighed, "so unreasonable. Would you have us contravene the established order of things? It was preordained that Cousin Peter should scowl at me (precisely as he is doing), and that I should shrug my shoulders, thus, at Cousin Peter—a little hate with, say, a dash of contempt, give a zest to that dish of conglomerate vapidity which we call Life, and make it almost palatable.
"But I am not here on Cousin Peter's account," he went on, drawing a step nearer to her, "at this moment I heartily wish him—among his hammers and chisels—I have come for you, Charmian, because I love you. I have sought you patiently until I found you—and I will never forego you so long as life lasts—but you know all this."
"Yes, I know all this."
"I have been very patient, Charmian, submitting to your whims and fancies—but, through it all; I knew, and in your woman's heart—you knew, that you must yield at last—that the chase must end—some day; well—let it be to-night—my chaise is waiting—"
"When I ran away from you, in the storm, Sir Maurice, I told you, once and for all, that I hated you. Have you forgotten?—hated you!—always and ever! and tried to—kill you—"
"Oh, Charmian! I have known such hate transfigured into love, before now—such love as is only worth the winning. And you are mine—you always were—from the first moment that our eyes met. Come, my chaise is waiting; in a few hours we can be in London, or Dover—"
"No—never!"
"Never is a long time, Charmian—but I am at your service—what is your will?"
"I shall remain—here."
"Here? In the wilderness?"
"With my—husband."
"Your—husband?"
"I am going to marry your cousin—Peter Vibart."
The pipe slipped from my fingers and shivered to pieces on the floor, and in that same fraction of time Sir Maurice had turned and leapt towards me; but as he came I struck him twice, with left and right, and he staggered backwards to the wall. He stood for a moment, with his head stooped upon his hands. When he looked up his face was dead white, and with a smear of blood upon it that seemed to accentuate its pallor; but his voice came smooth and unruffled as ever.
"The Mind Feminine is given to change," said he softly, "and—I shall return—yes, I shall come back. Smile, madam! Triumph, cousin! But I shall come between you yet—I tell you, I'll come between you—living or dead!"
And so he turned, and was gone—into the shadows.
But as for me, I sat down, and, leaning my chin in my hand, stared down at the broken fragments of my pipe.
"Peter?"
"You are safe now," said I, without looking up, "he is gone—but, oh,Charmian! was there no other way—?"
She was down beside me on her knees, had taken my hand, rough and grimy as it was, and pressed it to her lips, and so had drawn it about her neck, holding it there, and with her face hidden in my breast.
"Oh—strong man that is so weak!" she whispered. "Oh—grave philosopher that is so foolish! Oh—lonely boy that is so helpless! Oh, Peter Vibart—my Peter!"
"Charmian," said I, trembling, "what does it mean?"
"It means, Peter—"
"Yes?"
"That—the—Humble Person—"
"Yes?"
"Will—marry you—whenever you will—if—"
"Yes?"
"If you will—only—ask her."
Now, as the little Preacher closed his book, the sun rose up, filling the world about us with his glory.
And looking into the eyes of my wife, it seemed that a veil was lifted, for a moment, there, and I read that which her lips might never tell; and there, also, were joy and shame and a deep happiness.
"See," said the little Preacher, smiling upon us, "it is day and a very glorious one; already a thousand little choristers of God's great cathedral have begun to chant your marriage hymn. Go forth together, Man and Wife, upon this great wide road that we call Life; go forth together, made strong in Faith, and brave with Hope, and the memory of Him who walked these ways before you; who joyed and sorrowed and suffered and endured all things—even as we must. Go forth together, and may His blessing abide with you, and the 'peace that passeth understanding.'"
And so we turned together, side by side, and left him standing amid his roses.
Silently we went together, homewards, through the dewy morning, with a soft, green carpet underfoot, and leafy arches overhead, where trees bent to whisper benedictions, and shook down jewels from their dewy leaves upon us as we passed; by merry brooks that laughed and chattered, and gurgled of love and happiness, while over all rose the swelling chorus of the birds. Surely never had they piped so gladly in this glad world before—not even for the gentle Spenser, though he says:
"There was none of them that feignedTo sing, for each of them him pained;To find out merry, crafty notesThey ne spared not their throats."
And being come, at length, to the Hollow, Charmian must needs pause beside the pool among the willows, to view herself in the pellucid water. And in this mirror our eyes met, and lo! of a sudden, her lashes drooped, and she turned her head aside.
"Don't, Peter!" she whispered; "don't look at me so."
"How may I help it when you are so beautiful?"
And, because of my eyes, she would have fled from me, but I caught her in my arms, and there, amid the leaves, despite the jealous babble of the brook, for the second time in my life, her lips met mine. And, gazing yet into her eyes, I told her how, in this shady bower, I had once watched her weaving leaves into her hair, and heard her talk to her reflection—and so—had stolen away, for fear of her beauty.
"Fear, Peter?"
"We were so far out of the world, and—I longed to kiss you."
"And didn't, Peter."
"And didn't, Charmian, because we were so very far from the world, and because you were so very much alone, and—"
"And because, Peter, because you are a gentle man and strong, as the old locket says. And do you remember," she went on hurriedly, laying her cool, restraining fingers on my eager lips, "how I found you wearing that locket, and how you blundered and stammered over it, and pretended to read your Homer?"
"And how you sang, to prevent me?"
"And how gravely you reproved me?"
"And how you called me a 'creature'?"
"And how you deserved it, sir—and grew more helpless and ill at ease than ever, and how—just to flatter my vanity—you told me I had 'glorious hair'?"
"And so you have," said I, kissing a curl at her temple; "when you unbind it, my Charmian, it will cover you like a mantle."
Now when I said this, for some reason she glanced up at me, sudden and shy, and blushed and slipped from my arms, and fled up the path like a nymph.
So we presently entered the cottage, flushed and panting, and laughing for sheer happiness. And now she rolled up her sleeves, and set about preparing breakfast, laughing my assistance to scorn, but growing mightily indignant when I would kiss her, yet blushing and yielding, nevertheless. And while she bustled to and fro (keeping well out of reach of my arm), she began to sing in her soft voice to herself:
"'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.'"
"Oh, Charmian! how wonderful you are!"
"'All in the merry month of May,When green buds they were swellin'—'"
"Surely no woman ever had such beautiful arms! so round and soft and white, Charmian." She turned upon me with a fork held up admonishingly, but, meeting my look, her eyes wavered, and up from throat to brow rushed a wave of burning crimson.
"Oh, Peter!—you make me—almost—afraid of you," she whispered, and hid her face against my shoulder.
"Are you content to have married such a very poor man—to be the wife of a village blacksmith?"
"Why, Peter—in all the world there never was such another blacksmith as mine, and—and—there!—the kettle is boiling over—"
"Let it!" said I.
"And the bacon—the bacon will burn—let me go, and—oh, Peter!"
So, in due time, we sat down to our solitary wedding breakfast; and there were no eyes to speculate upon the bride's beauty, to note her changing color, or the glory of her eyes; and no healths were proposed or toasts drunk, nor any speeches spoken—except, perhaps by my good friend—the brook outside, who, of course, understood the situation, and babbled tolerantly of us to the listening trees, like the grim old philosopher he was.
In this solitude we were surely closer together and belonged more fully to each other, for all her looks and thoughts were mine, as mine were hers.
And, as we ate, sometimes talking and sometimes laughing (though rarely; one seldom laughs in the wilderness), our hands would stray to meet each other across the table, and eye would answer eye, while, in the silence, the brook would lift its voice to chuckle throaty chuckles and outlandish witticisms, such as could only be expected from an old reprobate who had grown so in years, and had seen so very much of life. At such times Charmian's cheeks would flush and her lashes droop—as though (indeed) she were versed in the language of brooks.
So the golden hours slipped by, the sun crept westward, and evening stole upon us.
"This is a very rough place for you," said I, and sighed.
We were sitting on the bench before the door, and Charmian had laid her folded hands upon my shoulder, and her chin upon her hands. And now she echoed my sigh, but answered without stirring:
"It is the dearest place in all the world."
"And very lonely!" I pursued.
"I shall be busy all day long, Peter, and you always reach home as evening falls, and then—then—oh! I sha'n't be lonely."
"But I am such a gloomy fellow at the best of times, and very clumsy,Charmian, and something of a failure."
"And—my husband."
"Peter!—Peter!—oh, Peter!" I started, and rose to my feet.
"Peter!—oh, Peter!" called the voice again, seemingly from the road, and now I thought it sounded familiar.
Charmian stole her arms about my neck.
"I think it is Simon," said I uneasily; "what can have brought him?And he will never venture down into the Hollow on account of the ghost;I must go and see what he wants."
"Yes, Peter," she murmured, but the clasp of her arms tightened.
"What is it?" said I, looking into her troubled eyes. "Charmian, you are trembling!—what is it?"
"I don't know—but oh, Peter! I feel as if a shadow—a black and awful shadow were creeping upon us hiding—us from each other. I am very foolish, aren't I? and this our wedding-day!"
"Peter! Pe-ter!"
"Come with me, Charmian; let us go together."
"No, I must wait—it is woman's destiny—to wait—but I am brave again; go—see what is wanted."
I found Simon, sure enough, in the lane, seated in his cart, and his face looked squarer and grimmer even than usual.
"Oh, Peter!" said he, gripping my hand, "it be come at last—Gaffer be goin'."
"Going, Simon?"
"Dyin', Peter. Fell downstairs 's marnin'. Doctor says 'e can't last the day out—sinkin' fast, 'e be, an' 'e be axin' for 'ee, Peter. 'Wheer be Peter?' says 'e over an' over again; 'wheer be the Peter as I found of a sunshiny arternoon, down in th' 'aunted 'Oller?' You weren't at work 's marnin', Peter, so I be come to fetch 'ee—you'll come back wi' me to bid 'good-by' to the old man?"
"Yes, I'll come, Simon," I answered; "wait here for me."
Charmian was waiting for me in the cottage, and, as she looked up at me, I saw the trouble was back in her eyes again.
"You must—go leave me?" she inquired.
"For a little while."
"Yes—I—I felt it," she said, with a pitiful little smile.
"The Ancient is dying," said I. Now, as I spoke, my eyes encountered the staple above the door, wherefore, mounting upon a chair, I seized and shook it. And lo! the rusty iron snapped off in my fingers—like glass, and I slipped it into my pocket.
"Oh, Peter!—don't go—don't leave me!" cried Charmian suddenly, and I saw that her face was very pale, and that she trembled.
"Charmian!" said I, and sprang to her side. "Oh, my love!—what is it?"
"It is—as though the shadow hung over us—darker and more threatening, Peter; as if our happiness were at an end; I seem to hear Maurice's threat—to come between us—living or—dead. I am afraid!" she whispered, clinging to me, "I am afraid!" But, all at once, she was calm again, and full of self-reproaches, calling herself "weak," and "foolish," and "hysterical"—"though, indeed, I was never hysterical before!"—and telling me that I must go—that it was my duty to go to the "gentle, dying old man"—urging me to the door, almost eagerly, till, being out of the cottage, she must needs fall a-trembling once more, and wind her arms about my neck, with a great sob.
"But oh!—you will come back soon—very soon, Peter? And we know that nothing can ever come between us again—never again—my husband." And, with that blessed word, she drew me down to her lips, and, turning, fled into the cottage.
I went on slowly up the path to meet Simon, and, as I went, my heart was heavy, and my mind full of a strange foreboding. But I never thought of the omen of the knife that had once fallen and quivered in the floor between us.
"'Twere 'is snuff-box as done it!" said Simon, staring very hard at his horse's ears, as we jogged along the road. "'E were a-goin' upstairs for it, an' slipped, 'e did. 'Simon,' says he, as I lifted of 'im in my arms, 'Simon,' says 'e, quiet like, 'I be done for at last, lad—this poor old feyther o' yourn'll never go a-climbin' up these stairs no more,' says 'e—'never—no—more.'"
After this Simon fell silent, and I likewise, until we reached the village. Before "The Bull" was a group who talked with hushed voices and grave faces; even Old Amos grinned no more.
The old man lay in his great four-post bed, propped up with pillows, and with Prue beside him, to smooth his silver hair with tender fingers, and Black George towering in the shade of the bed-curtains, like a grieving giant.
"'Ere I be, Peter," said the old man, beckoning me feebly with his hand, "'ere I be—at the partin' o' the ways, an' wi' summ'at gone wrong wi' my innards! When a man gets so old as I be, 'is innards be like glass, Peter, like glass—an' apt to fly all to pieces if 'e goes a-slippin' an' a-slidin' downstairs, like me."
"Are you in pain?" I asked, clasping his shrivelled hand.
"Jest a twinge, now an' then, Peter—but—Lord! that bean't nothin' to a man the likes o' me—Peter—"
"You always were so hale and hearty," I nodded, giving him the usual opening he had waited for.
"Ay, so strong as a bull, that I were! like a lion in my youth—BlackJarge were nought to me—a cart 'orse I were."
"Yes," said I, "yes," and stooped my head lower over the feeble old hand.
"But arter all, Peter, bulls pass away, an' lions, an' cart 'orses lose their teeth, an' gets wore out, for 'all flesh is grass'—but iron's iron, bean't it, Peter—rusts it do, but 'tis iron all the same, an' lasts a man out—even such a 'earty chap as I were?"
"Sometimes," said I, without looking up.
"An' I be very old an' tired, Peter; my 'eart be all wore out wi' beatin' an' beatin' all these years—'tis a wonder as it didn't stop afore now—but a—a—stapil, Peter, don't 'ave no 'eart to go a-beatin' an' a-wearin' of itself away?"
"No, Ancient."
"So 'ere be I, a-standin' in the Valley o' the Shadow, an' waitin' for God's Angel to take my 'and for to show me the way. 'Tis a darksome road, Peter, but I bean't afeared, an' there be a light beyond Jordan-water. No, I aren't afeared to meet the God as made me, for 'the Lord is merciful—and very kind,' an' I don't s'pose as 'E'll be very 'ard on a old, old man as did 'is best, an' wi' a 'eart all tired an' wore away wi' beatin'—I be ready, Peter only—"
"Yes, Ancient?"
"Oh, Peter!—it be that theer old stapil—as'll go on rustin' away an' rustin' away arter the old man as watched it so is laid in the earth, an' forgot about—"
"No," said I, without looking up, but slipping my hand into my pocket; "no, Ancient—"
"Peter—Oh, Peter!—do 'ee mean—?"
"I mean that, although it had no heart, the staple was tired and worn out—just as you are, and so I brought it to you," and I slipped the rusty bit of iron into the old man's trembling palm.
"O Lord—!" he began in a fervent voice, "O dear Lord!—I got it, Lord—th' owd stapil—I be ready to come to Thee, an' j'yful—j'yful! an' for this mercy, an' benefit received—blessed be Thy name. Amen!"
He lay very quiet for a while, with the broken staple clasped to his breast, and his eyes closed.
"Peter," said he suddenly, "you won't 'ave no one to bring you noos no more—why, Peter! be 'ee cryin'—for me? 'Tis true 't were me as found ye, but I didn't think as you'd go to cry tears for me—I be goin' to tak' t' owd stapil wi' me, Peter, all along the road—an', Peter—"
"Yes, Ancient?"
"Be you quite sure as you aren't a dook?"
"Quite sure."
"Nor a earl?"
"No, Ancient."
"Not even a—barrynet?"
"No, Ancient."
"Ah, well!—you be a man, Peter, an' 'tis summ'at to ha' found a man—that it be."
And now he feebly beckoned us all nearer.
"Children," said he, "I be a old an' ancient man I be goin' on—across the river to wait for you—my blessin' on ye. It be a dark, dark road, but I've got t' owd stapil, an' there—be a light beyond—the river."
So, the Ancient sighed, and crossed the dark River into the Land ofLight Eternal.