II
As he came to that thought—visioned some distorted picture of himself, overgrown, hands in pockets in the village street, and all his friends going contemptuously past him—there came a sudden change in old friend wind that for a moment left him vacant, then somehow changed his thoughts anew. Old friend wind, that had been buffeting him strongly in keeping with his turbulent mood, dropped, and he was in silence; then came with a different note and bringing a scent he had not apprehended while it went rushing by. Nothing odd that he should be responsive to this change. The wind on Plowman's Ridge was old friend wind to him, and everybody who is friends with the wind knows it for the live thing that it is—the teller of strange secrets whispered in its breezes, the shouter of adventures thundered in its gales. Who lies awake can hear it call "Where are you? Oh, where are you?"—who climbs the hill to greet it, it welcomes "Welcome—ho!" Sometimes, to those who are friends with it, it comes lustily booming along in high excitement ("This way! This way! There's the very devil this way!"); sometimes softly and mysteriously tiptoeing along, finger on lip ("Listen! Listen! Listen! Hush—now here's a secret for you!").
In this guise it came to him now—dropped him down from the turbulence of spirit to which it had contributed, caught him up and led him away upon the cloudy paths of the scent it gave him. The fragrance it bore in this its whispering mood stirred, in that quick and certain manner that scents arouse, associations linked with such a fragrance. There was in the scent some hint of the perfume that was always about Dora; and immediately he was carried to thought of her....
She to see him idler! She to pass him by contemptuously! His mental vision presented her before him as clearly as if she were here beside him on the Ridge. He saw her perfect features, with their high, cold expression; the transparent fairness of her skin; that warm shade of colour on either cheek that, as though she saw him watch her, deepened with their strange attraction even as he visioned her. He visioned her clearly. He could have touched her had he stretched a hand. And he was caused—he knew no reason for it—a slight trembling and a slight quickening of his breath.
She to see him idler! ... In rebuke of such a thought he released his mind to wild and undisciplined flights that showed himself the champion of tremendous feats—of arms, of heroism, of physical prowess—performing them beneath the benison of her eyes, returning from them to receive her smiles....
For a considerable space he stood lost among these clouds. They had drifted upon him suddenly. He found them delectable. Then he began to find them strange and puzzling—scenes that were meaningless, sensations that could not be determined. It is to be remembered of him that, though he was now advanced to the period when the sap is up in youth and quickening in his veins, he did not pursue the life nor was he of the nature that encourages the amorous designs. A sluggish habit of mind and body is the soil to nurture these: he was alert and braced, eager and sound from foot to brain—a thing all fibre and fearless, whose only quest was what should give him the challenge of movement, of light, and ring back tough and true when he taxed it. No room was here, then, for the disturbances that sex throws up; and yet these very qualities that such disturbance could not undermine conspired to arouse him very mightily when he should turn him to enquire what this disturbance was, and discovering, should launch himself upon it.
He was near to the brink of that launching now. Dora with her rare beauty always had exercised upon him a feeling different from any he commonly knew; he never yet had troubled to suppose that it was caused by any emotion outside his normal life. She had astonished him by her grace of form and feature on that day when he had discovered her to be Snow-White-and-Rose-Red of the fairy book. Thereafter she had remained to him a delicately beautiful object—set apart from the ordinary fashion of persons he knew; not to be treated quite as he treated them; a very dainty thing, making him aware of the contrast that his own sturdy figure, strong limbs, brown face, and hard young hands presented. As a boy he had always been caused a manner of awe in her presence; as he grew older the awe went back to the sheer admiration that she had caused in him at their first meeting. Out of her company, in the long months that frequently separated her visits, he rarely thought of her; though sometimes—and he had no reason for it—he would find her pretty figure in his mind or in his dreams. When he reëncountered her, the admiration sprang afresh; he liked to watch her face, to stand unnoticed and expect, then see, her cold smile part her lips, or those strange shades of colour deepen and glow upon her cheeks; he liked in little unobserved ways to protect her as he had protected her that day in the muddy lane; it caused him a strange rapture to have her thank him for any service.
III
These were his relations to her through the years. He never had thought to analyse them nor question why he so regarded her—never till now. Now for the first time as he stood on Plowman's Ridge he mused among the misty tangle of the sensations that old friend wind had brought, lost and astray among the visions presented to his mind by estimate of how Dora would consider his idle plight—now for the first time he suddenly questioned himself what she was to him.
He was all unused to the sensations in which, by an effort recalling himself from his musings, he found himself suffused. They were all—that slight trembling and that slight quickening of his breath that possessed him—foreign to his nature, and he made a sharp movement as though they were tangible and visible things that he would shake from about him. Useless!—they had him wrapped.... Quicker his trembling, and his breath quicker. What was she to him? Up sprang the answer, answering with a triple voice that demanded his acknowledgment. Up sprang the answer, causing him a physical thrill as though indeed there burst at last from within him some essence that had been too long held and now was loosed like fire through his veins. With a triple voice, clamouring he should recognise it! What was she to him? Her face and figure stood in all their beauty before his mental eye—that was one voice and he trembled anew to hear it. What was she to him? Memory of a light speech of Rollo on the previous day came flaming to his mind: "And mother, I believe, has a plot with Mrs. Espart that I shall marry Dora then and settle down"—that was a second voice and stung him so that he knit his brow. What was she to him? Of them all—of all who would laugh and have him in scorn when he was taskless idler—bitterest, most intolerably goading, that she should hold him so—that was the third voice and drew from him a sharp intake of the breath as of one that has touched hot iron.
What was she to him? In triple voice he had the answer, demanding his acknowledgment, clamouring for his recognition. By a single word he signed the bond. None was by to listen, and yet he flushed; there was none to overhear, and yet he spoke scarcely above a whisper. He just breathed her name—"Dora!"
An intense stillness came about him. He stood enraptured, all his senses thrilled. Out of the stillness, echo of his whisper, seemed to come her name of Dora! Dora! Dora! floating about him as petals from the bloomy rose. He raised his face to their caress and was caught up in sudden ecstasy—believed he was with her, touching her; and saw and felt her stoop towards him, bringing her perfume to him as the may-tree stoops and sheds its fragrance when first at dawn the morning breathes in spring.
IV
So for a space he stood etherealised—awed and atremble; youth brought suddenly through the gates and into the courts of love where the strong air at every tremulous breath runs like wine to the brain, to the heart like some quick essence. For a space he stood so; then was aware that old friend wind was up again and drumming Ha! Ha! Ha! upon his ears as one that mocks.
What was she to him? The answer, now he had it, stirred to wilder tumult the feelings that had brought him turbulently breasting up the Ridge. He looked again towards "Post Offic," toylike below, and had no tender thought for it—bitter vexation instead, as of the captive who goes to fury at the chains that bind him.
That he should submit to be thus chained, thus apron-stringed! That Dora should laugh! That she should know him idler! Goading thoughts—maddening thoughts, and he flung himself, bruising himself, against them as the captive against his prison walls. That she should laugh! It should not be! It was not to be endured! He threw up his head in determination's action, his hands clenched, his body braced, resolve upon his angry brow.
Ha! Ha! Ha! drummed old friend wind—Ha! Ha! Ha!
He gave a half cry and turned and strode away along the Ridge, taking the direction that led him from home, and exerting himself under new impulse of the desire to rebuke his body and haply ease his mind.
A FRIEND UNCHANGED—AND A FRIEND GROWN
I
An hour at that pace brought him above Great Letham, clustered below. He paused irresolutely. From among the roofs, as it were, a crawling train emerged. He watched it worm its way along the eastward vale, then abruptly turned his back upon it as upon a thing more fortunate than he—not bound down here, as he was bound. Brooding upon the landscape, he suddenly became aware of a thin wisp of smoke that pointed up like a grey finger from the valley beneath him. It mounted in a steady, wand-like line from the belt of trees that marked Fir-Tree Pool, and its site and its appearance braced him to an alert attention. It had signalled him before. Only one person he had ever known lit a fire down there: only one hand in his experience contrived a flame which gave quite that steady, grey finger. He remembered Japhra showing him how to get the heart of a fire concentrated in a compact centre; he remembered Ima laughing at the sprawling heap, burning in desultory patches, that had come of his first attempt at imitation.
"If only it is Japhra!" he said aloud; and he struck down the Ridge-side for a straight line across country to where the smoke proposed that Japhra might be.
More than a year had passed since last the van had visited the district. Even Stingo, met sometimes over at Mr. Hannaford's, could give him no better news of it than that Japhra had not taken the road with Maddox's these two seasons. The disturbed state of mind that now vexed Percival could be soothed in no other way, he suddenly felt, than by the restful atmosphere that Japhra always communicated to him. Japhra would not laugh at him. Japhra would understand how he felt. Japhra would advise in that quiet way of his that made one see things as altogether different from the appearance they seemed to present. If only it were Japhra!
II
It was Japhra!
As Percival came quickly through the trees that enclosed the water he caught a glimpse of the yellow van. As he emerged he heard Japhra's voice: "Watch where he comes!" and he pulled up short and cried delightedly: "You knew! You were expecting me!"
Clearly they had known! Not surprise, but welcome all ready for him, was in Japhra's keen little eyes that glinted merrily, and on Ima's face, that was flushed beneath its dusky skin, her lips parted expectantly. Even old Pilgrim, the big white horse that drew the van, had its head up from its cropping and looked with stretched neck and seemed to know. Even tiny Toby, that was Dog Toby when the Punch and Judy show was out, was hung forward on his short legs like a pointer at mark, and now came bounding forward in a whirl of noisy joy.
Japhra was astride of a box, a piece of harness between his legs, a cobbler's needle in his right hand, and the short pipe still the same fixture in the corner of his mouth. Ima was on one knee, about to rise from the fire whose smoke had signalled.
"You knew! You were expecting me!" Percival cried again, and went eagerly to them as they rose to greet him, his hands outstretched.
"Father knew thee before I heard thy footsteps," Ima told him. "The fire crackled at my ears or I had known."
She seemed to be excusing herself, as though not to have heard were short of courtesy; and Japhra, who had Percival's hand, gave a twist of his face as if to bid him see fun, and teased her with: "Thou didst doubt, though, Ima, for look how I had to bid thee 'watch where he comes.'"
Percival thought she would toss her head and protest indignantly as when he used to tease her when they had trifled together. Instead, her eyes steadily upon his face, "Nay, for I knew it was he," she replied simply.
He no more than heard her. At a later period he found that the words had gone to the backwaters of his mind, where trifles lie up to float unexpectedly into the main stream. Years after he recalled distinctly her tone, her words, and the look in her eyes when she spoke them.
Now he laughed. "You two can hear the world go round, I believe." He turned to Japhra: "But how on earth you could tell—"
"Footsteps are voices, little master, when a man has lived in the stillness."
Percival laughed again—laughed for pure happiness to hear himself still given that familiar title, and for pure happiness to be again with Japhra's engaging ideas. "You're the same as ever, Japhra—the same ideas that other people don't have."
"Ah, but 'tis true," Japhra answered him. "Footsteps have tongues, and cleaner tongues than ever the mouth holds. Look how a man may oil his voice to mask his purpose—never his feet. Thine called to me, how eagerly they brought thee."
"Eagerly!—I should think they did! You're just the one I want. I've not seen you for a year—more. Eagerly—oh, eagerly!"
Japhra's bright eyes showed his delight. "And we were eager, too. We have spoken often of little master, eh, Ima? Not right to call him that now, though. Scarcely reckoned to see him so grown. Why, thou'rt a full man, little master—there slips the name again!"
He twinkled appreciatively at Percival's protest that to no other name would he answer, and he went on: "A full man. Ten stone in the chair, I would wager to it. What of the boxing?"
"Pretty good, Japhra. The gloves you gave me are worn, I can tell you."
"That's well. Never lose the boxing. It is the man's game. Ay, thou hast the boxer's build, ripe on thee now as I knew would be when I saw it in thee as a boy. The man's game—never lose it."
"I'm keener than ever on it," Percival told him. "I'm glad you think I've grown. I've got a punch in my left hand, I believe." His spirits were run high from his former despondency, and he hit with his left and sparkled to see Japhra nod approvingly and to hear him: "Ay, the look of a punch there."
"Yes, I've grown," he said. "You've not changed, Japhra—not a scrap."
Japhra nodded his head towards the fir trees. "Nor are the old limbs yonder. They stay so till the sap dries, then drop. Nary change. Only the young shoots change. What of Ima?"
She had turned away while they talked. She was back at the fire, and Percival turned towards where she stood, about to lift from its hook the cooking pot that hung from the tripod of iron rods. As he looked, she swung it with an easy action to the grass. The pot was heavy: she stooped from the waist, lifted and swung it to the grass with a graceful action that belonged to her supple form, and, as the steam came pouring up and was taken by a puff of breeze to her face, went back a step and looked down at her cooking from beneath her left forearm, bare to the elbow, raised to shield her eyes.
III
That was Percival's view of her. She had put up her hair, he noticed, since last he saw her. It was dressed low on the nape of her neck; evening's last gleam delighted in its glossy blackness against her olive skin. Beneath the arm across her face he saw the long lashes of her eyelids almost on her cheeks, as she stood looking downwards. Her mouth was long, the lips, blending in a dark red with her brown colouring, lying pleasantly together in the expression that partners the level eye and the comfortable mind. She was full as tall as Percival—very slim in the build and long in the waist that was moulded naturally from her hips to spread and cup her bosom, and therefore taller to the eye. She wore a blouse of dark red cloth; her skirt was of blue, hung short of her ankles, and pressing her thighs disclosed how alert and braced she stood. She wore no shoes nor stockings, and her feet, slender and long, appeared no more than to rest upon the short grass that framed them softly.
"What of Ima?"
"Ima?—Ima has grown, though," Percival said. "Why, she's simply sprung up!"
"Ay, grown," Japhra agreed. "Grown fair," he added, watching her.
Percival said, "Yes, she is pretty." The vision of Dora's high fairness came to his mind, challenged and rebuked his favour of another of her sex, and returned him swiftly to the stress that had brought him down here for comfort and that the first reëncounter with Japhra had caused to be overshadowed. His eyes lost their brightness. He remained looking dully at Ima, not seeing her; and presently started and flushed to realise that he was hearing a repeated question from Japhra.
"What ails, master?"
"Ails? I heard you the first time, Japhra. I was thinking. I'm troubled—sick. That's what ails."
His face flushed with the same cloudy redness that the beat of rising tears drives into the faces of children. On the Ridge he had put against his trouble the stiffness that was of the bone of Burdon character. Down here was sympathy—and he was very young; it sapped the stubbornness.
"That's what I'm here for," he said thickly. "To tell you, Japhra."
Japhra had a keen look to meet the misty countenance that was turned to him.
"Food first, then," he said, and gave a twinkle and a sniff at the savour from Ima's cooking that made Percival smile in response. "Naught like a meal to take the edge off trouble. There'd be few quarrels in the world if we all had full bellies always."
"Well, food first, then," Percival agreed, making an effort; and he raised his voice: "What's Ima got for us?"
She turned at the sound of her name and smiled towards him, and the smile caused beauty to alight upon her face as a dove with a flashing of soft wings comes to a bough. He saw it. Her beauty abode in her mild mouth and in her seemly eyes. Her parted lips discovered it to step upon her face; her raised eyes released it, starry as the stars that star the forest pool, to star her countenance.
IMA'S LESSONS
She had odd ways, Percival found—oddly attractive; sometimes oddly disconcerting. She did not at first contribute to the conversation while they ate. She was very quiet; and that, and the way in which, as he noticed, she kept her eyes upon him, was in itself odd. Dusk was veiling the camp as they took the stew she had prepared. They had the meal on the grass near the van, and Percival, not eating with great ease in the squatting pose, noticed how erect she sat, as though her back were invisibly supported—her plate on her lap, the soles of her bare feet together.
He deferred his trouble, as Japhra had proposed, till the meal should be done. He was interested to know where the van had been all these months; and when he questioned Japhra, "We have had the solitary desires, Ima and I," Japhra told him. "The solitary desires, master, whiles thou hast been growing. A sudden wearying of Maddox's and all the noisy ones. North to Yorkshire, we have been; west to Bristol's border; deeper west to Cornwall. The road has had the spell on us—calling from every bend and ever keeping a bend ahead, as the road will to those who are of it. Summers we have passed the circus on its tour and laid a night with old Stingo and then away, urgent to move quicker and lonelier. Trouble has worsened in the circus crowd."
"What, between Stingo's men and Boss Maddox's?"
"Ay," said Japhra. "Boss Maddox is the biggest showman in the west these days. He rents the pitches at all the fairs before the season begins; and the Stingo crowd, who must take what he gives, he puts in the worst places. His hand is heavy against them. One fine day the sticks will come out and there'll be heads broken, as happened on the road back in '60. I was in that and carry the mark of it on my pate to this hour. Pray I'll be there when this one falls."
"I'd like to be with you, Japhra."
Japhra showed his tight-lipped smile: "Well, a camp fight with the sticks out and the heads cracking is a proper game for a man, master. Thou'dst be a handy one at it, I warrant me."
Ima broke in with her first contribution to their talk. She said quickly: "Shame, Father. Not for such as he—fights and the rough ways."
But she was silent again and without reply when Percival sought to rally her for this opinion of him; and Japhra twinkled at him and said: "There's one would like to meet thee, though—sticks or fists"; and went on, when Percival inquired who: "Thy friend Pinsent. Thy name of Foxy for him has stuck to him and he has not forgiven thee. A fine fighter he has grown—boxed in some class rings for good purses in the winter months, and in the summer is a great attraction at the fairs. Boss Maddox is fond of him. Boss Maddox has fitted him with a booth of his own and he gets the crowds—deserves 'em, too. But 'Foxy' has stuck to him—and suits him. He hates it; and's not forgotten where he owes it."
Percival laughed. "Well, if he's done so well, I ought to be proud to have given him something to remember me by. He could wallop me to death, of course."
"There's few of his weight he could not hand the goods to," Japhra agreed. He looked estimatingly at Percival and added: "One that could keep the straight left in his face a dozen rounds'd serve it up to him, though. Foxy has no bowels for punishment. I have watched him."
And again Ima broke in. "Ah, why dost talk so?" she addressed her father. "He is nothing for such ways—fights and the fighting sort."
This time Percival would not let her opinion of him escape without challenge. "Why, Ima!" he turned to her, "that's the second time you've said that. Seems to me you think I ought to be wrapped in cotton-wool."
His voice was bantering, but had a note of impatience. The events of the day had not made him in humour to take lightly any estimate of himself that seemed to reflect on his manliness.
She noticed it. Her voice when she answered him had a caressing sound as though she realised she had vexed him and would beg excuse. "Nay, only that thou art not for the rough ways—such as thou," she said; and, mollified, he laughed and told her: "Well, you never used to think so, anyway. You've changed, you know, Ima, changed a lot since I last saw you."
"And should have changed," Japhra announced. "Scholar with lesson books, she has been these winter months."
Percival thought that very quaint. "Scholar, Ima; have you?" he asked her, and saw the blood run up beneath her dusky skin. "I can't imagine you at lessons!"
"Nor those who taught me," she replied; and paused and added very gravely, speaking in her gentle voice, "Yet have I learnt—and still shall learn."
Percival asked: "Learnt what?"
Odd her ways—oddly attractive, oddly disconcerting; speaking steadily and more as if it were to herself and not to listeners that she spoke. "Learnt to sit on a chair," she told him, "and to sit at a table nicely; to wear shoes on my feet, and stockings; to go to church and sing to God in heaven; to talk properly as house folk talk; to sleep in a bed; to wear a hat and stiff clothes; to abide within doors when the rain falls and when the stars alight in the sky—these have I learnt."
Percival was tempted to laugh, but her gravity forbade him. "How terrible it sounds—for you! But why, Ima, why?"
She did not answer the question. She smiled gently at him and went on with the same air of speaking to herself: "Lessons from books, also. Figures and the making of sums; geography—as capes and bays and what men make and where; of a new fashion of how to hold the pen stiffly in writing; of nice ways in speaking—chiefly that I should say 'you' when I would say 'thou'—that is hardest to me; but I shall learn."
Something almost pleading was in her voice as she repeated, "I shall learn;" and Percival turned for relief of his puzzlement to Japhra: "Why, whatever's it all for, Japhra?"
Japhra gave his tight-lipped smile. "Woman's reasons—who shall discover such?" But Ima made a motion of protest, and he went on: "Nay, the chance fell, and truly I was glad she should have woman's company—and gentle company. In Norfolk where we pitched the winter gone by was a doctor I had known when we were young—he and I. He shipped twice aboard a cattle boat with me, having the restlessness on him in those days. Now I found him stout and proper, but not forgetful of an indifferent matter between us. He brought his lady to the van, and she conceived a fancy for Ima, holding her a fair, wild thing that should be tamed. Therefore took Ima to her house and to her board, and taught her as she hath instructed thee. Thus was the manner of it; as to the wherefore—why, woman's reasons, as I have said," and he smiled again.
Ima got abruptly to her feet. The meal was ended, and she began to collect the plates. Her action plainly rebuked the further questions with which Percival was playfully turning to her. He offered instead to help her with her washing of the dishes, but she told him: "Nay, maid's work this. Abide thou with father, and talk men's talk." In the action of moving away she turned to Japhra and added her earlier plea: "So it is not of boxing and the rough ways."
JAPHRA'S LESSONS
I
Japhra took up Ima's words when she had left them. "Nay, but the boxing is my business," Japhra said, filling his pipe. "I'm for the boxing again this summer. Money's short and old Pilgrim yonder has full earned his rest and must have another take up his shafts. Another horse is to be bought, wherefore a sparring booth again for me."
Percival asked: "When are you going?"
"To-morrow. I pick up the circus by Dorchester. My lads are waiting me. Ginger Cronk, I have—thou mind'st Ginger?—and Snowball White, a useful one. Stingo seeketh another for me. A good lad, I must have, if the money's to be made, for Foxy Pinsent hath a brave show that will draw the company—two coloured lads and four more with himself."
Percival was silent. "I wish I could go with you," he said presently: "And you're going to-morrow, you say?—to-morrow?"
"At daybreak, master."
"Ah!" Percival gave a hard exclamation as though feelings that were pent up in him escaped him. "Now I had found you again, I hoped I was going to see you often for a bit. My luck's right out," and he gave a little laugh.
Japhra lit his pipe. "So we come back to thy trouble," he said.
His voice and a motion that he made invited confidence. Percival watched through the dusk the glow from his pipe, now lighting his face, now leaving it in shadow. He had longed to tell Japhra; he found it hard.
After a moment: "Hard to tell!" he jerked.
"How to bear? That is the measure of a grief."
"Impossible to bear!"
"Tell, then."
"There's little to be told. That's it! That's the sting of it—so little, so much. A man must do something with his life, Japhra!"
"Ay, that must he, else life will use him, breaking him."
"Why, that's just it! That's what will happen to me! I'm a man—they think I'm not; there, that's the pith of it!" He was easier now and in the way of words that would express his feelings. He went on: "Look, Japhra, it's like this—" and told how he was growing up idler, how Aunt Maggie answered all his protestations for work for his hands to do by bidding him only wait—and he ended as he had begun: "A man must do something with his life!"
He stopped,—aware, and somehow, as he looked through the dusk at Japhra, a little ashamed, that his feelings had run his voice to a note of petulance. He stopped, but a space of silence came where he had looked for answer. Evening by now was full about the camp. Night that evening heralded pressed on her feet, and was already to be seen against the light in the windows of the van where Ima had lit the lamp. From the pool was the intermittent whirring of a warbler; somewhere a distant cuckoo called its engaging note that drowsy birds should not make bedtime yet. In the pines a song-thrush had its psalm to make; at intervals it paused and the air took a night-jar's whirr and catch and whirr again. Old Pilgrim cropped the grass.
II
Percival said: "What are you thinking of, Japhra?"
"Of life."
"What of life?"
"How hot it runs."
"Meaning me—I'm in a vile temper, I daresay you think."
"How hot it runs, master—how cold it comes and how little the profit of it."
Percival said heavily: "What is the use of it, then?"
Japhra bent forward to him and Percival saw the little man's tight-lipped, firm-lined countenance with the tranquil strength of mind that abode in the steady aspect of the bright eyes, deep beneath their strong brows.
"The use?" Japhra said. "Nay, that is the wrong way of estimate. For thee in thy mood, for all men when life presses them, inquire rather what is the hurt of it. How shall so small a thing as life, a thing so profitless, that soon becomes so cold, returneth to earth and is nothing remembered nor required—how shall so small a thing offend thee and make shipwreck of thy content? Thus shouldst thou judge of it."
"Some men are not soon forgotten, Japhra."
"Ay, master, and what men? They that have seen how small a thing is life and have recked nothing of it."
"How have they done great things, then?—fought battles, written books?"
"Why, master, how wrote Bunyan in chains or Milton in blindness?"
"They didn't mind."
"Even so. Profitless they knew life to be, and cared not how it tasked them."
"But, Japhra, that's—that's all upside down. Are there two things in a man, then—life and—?"
Japhra said: "So we come to it—and to thee. Truly there are two things: life which is here in the green leaf, and gone in the dry; and the spirit which goeth God knows where—into the sea that ever moves, the wind that ever blows, the sap that ever rises—who shall say? But knoweth not death and haply endureth forever if it were mighty enough—as Milton, as Bunyan. Look at me, master, for that is the plain fact of it and the balsam for all thy hurts."
He stopped and drew slowly at his pipe with little puffs that floated to Percival like grey thistledown dropping through the night.
"Go on," Percival said. "Go on, Japhra."
"Why, there thou hast it," Japhra told him. "Lay hold on thy spirit—let that be thy charge; and of what cometh against thee take no heed save to rebuke it as a boxer rebuketh the cunning of him that is matched against him. So was the way of Crusoe, of old Bunyan's Pilgrim, and of the Bible men, and that is why I call them the books for a fighting man. Here's my way of it, master—there's force in the world that moves the tides and blows the winds and maketh the green things grow. Out of that force I unriddle it we come, and back to it return. In some the spirit is utterly swallowed up in life, and at death crawleth back suffocated and befouled and only fit to come again in some rank growth—so much a lesser thing than when it came springing to a human breast that the force of the world whence it came is by so much lessened and can give birth to a flower less and a toadstool more."
"And then there's the other way about," said Percival, attracted by this argument.
"Ay, truly the other way about, master. The way of the mighty men in whom the spirit rebuketh life and increaseth, and at death goeth shouting back—so quickening the force of the world that, just as the cup spilleth when much is added, so there be mighty storms when great men die—thunders and rushing winds, great lightnings and vast seas."
Percival drew a long breath. "Why, it's a fine idea, Japhra—fine."
"Look at a case of it," Japhra said. "My Bible in the van there hath one. I have it by heart. Look when Christ died. Never a man than He cared less how life tasked Him; and at His death—when there went shouting back the spirit that He had increased beyond the increase of any man—look thou what came: 'And behold the veil of the Temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth quaked; and the rocks rent and the graves were opened.' And again: 'And it was about the sixth hour; and there was darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour; and the sun was darkened.'"
He stopped; and Percival breathed long and deep again: "Fine, Japhra—fine. I never thought of it like that. Fine—I think I see."
"Surely thou dost, master; or any man that giveth thought to it. Take it to thine own case—that is my word to thee. Reck nothing how life assaileth—hold on only to thy spirit. Thou wouldst be doing something and art irked by the bonds that hold thee—never fear but that in its time the thing will come. I have seen men—I know the fashion of them. Thou art of the mould and mind to which adventures come. See to it thou art ready for them when they arrive—trained as the boxer is against the big fight."
Percival said heavily: "What's the prize, Japhra?" Now that the application of this engaging view was pressed to his own case he had a dark vision of what it required of him. "What's the prize?"
"Why, content! Look, little master, here's happiness, here's content—and content is all the world's gold and all its dreams. Whatever cometh against thee, whether through the flesh or through the mind, get thou the mastery of it. How? Every man according to his craft. The philosophers, the reckoners—theirs to judge bad against good and find content that way. That was old Crusoe's manner of it. Thou art the fighting type—the Ring for thee."
Percival got abruptly to his feet. At the same moment Ima opened the door of the van and stood above them—held, as it were, upon the light that streamed from the interior.
"The Ring for thee," Japhra repeated, "there to meet and conquer all thy vexations. Make a boxer of thy spirit. Step back through the ropes then and take up the champion belt marking thee thine own man, thine own master: a proud and jewelled thing to wear—content."
Ima's voice broke in upon them. "The champion belt?" she said. "What, is it still boxing, thy talk?"
Japhra turned his face up to her and the lamplight showed the twinkling with which he met the reproach in her voice. "Why, it is my trade," he said, "and thine. In two days thou'lt be taking the money at the door of my booth."
"Not his trade, though," she answered.
Percival said: "Japhra, would I be a likely one for your booth, do you think?"
He was holding out his hand in the action of farewell. Japhra got up and took it and held it. "Why, if I get as proper a build as thine for my third lad I will put a polish to it that would vex Foxy Pinsent himself. Keep up the boxing, master. Art thou going?"
Percival said abruptly, "Yes, I'm going." He released the hand and went away a step. "I'm going. I've a longish way home and things to do before bedtime. You'll be gone at daybreak?"
"At dawn, little master."
"On the Dorchester road?"
"Ay, to Dorchester."
"All the luck with you, Japhra. I'm better for seeing you." He spoke jerkily as though his throat were full and speech difficult. He stopped abruptly, and half turned away; then, recollecting Ima, went back to the van and stretched up his hand to where she stood: "Good night, Ima."
She stooped down to him. The action brought her face into the darkness and he noticed how her wide eyes, as she stooped, seemed actually to light it. "Farewell!" she said.
It was perhaps that he had so obviously only attended to her as an afterthought that her throat, for all the sound her word had, might have been as full as his. Some thought of the kind—that he had been churlish to her—crossed him. He said more kindly: "I say, though! your hand is cold, Ima."
She withdrew her fingers, giving him no reply. But as he turned away and went a step, "What of thy way home?" she cried, and cried it on a sudden note as though it went against her will.
"By the Ridge," he told her. "By Plowman's Ridge and then along."
She answered him: "Yes, I am cold. I will warm me to the Ridge with thee—if thou wilt suffer me."
In the mood that was on him he had preferred to be alone. But under the same apprehension of having been churlish to her, "Why, that's jolly of you," he said.
III
She went within the van a few moments; and while he waited he had a last exchange with Japhra: "You've helped me, Japhra. But I shall disappoint you if I'm tried too hard. Content—I'll make a fight for it. But I shall not endure it very well if I am still to be idler." He gave a hard little laugh. "When it's a fight for mastery of myself I shall disappoint you, I believe."
Japhra told him: "I have seen men, master, and know the fashion of them. Thou wilt not disappoint me."
"You can't say that of any one—for certain."
"I say it of thee. Though thou failest a score times thine is the mould that comes again—for that I shall look. Listen to me, little master—that name clings: I cannot shake it from me. Listen to me. Thy type runneth hot through life till at last it cometh to the big fight. Send me news of that." He struck a match to relight his pipe and cupped the flame against his face. "Send only 'The Big Fight, Japhra,'" he said.
The flame of his match built up the dusky night in walls of immense blackness. In their heart Percival saw the kindly face with its tight lines and keen eyes. "I shall know the winner," Japhra said; and the cup of light within his hands shadowed and lit again his face as he nodded.
The Big Fight was drawing towards Percival. Aunt Maggie had the very date of it, and the articles reckoned and ready. When it rushed suddenly upon him and he was in its stress and agony, he remembered the lighted face, the confident nod and the message that was to be sent.
WITH IMA ON PLOWMAN'S RIDGE
I
Ima had put on shoes and stockings when she reappeared from the van and joined Percival to accompany him to the Ridge. The two were come almost to the Down's skirt before they exchanged words. "I have things to do before bedtime," Percival had told Japhra; and as he walked he was too occupied by the thoughts of what he purposed—hunted by them as the tumult of his concerns had hunted him earlier in the day—to give attention to Ima who had come with him when he had preferred to be alone. She was perhaps aware of that. She followed the half of a pace behind the short, impatient steps that partnered—and signified—his mood, her eyes watching what of his face she could see and ever and again turning swiftly ahead, as though she feared he might catch her at it and feared that might offend him; so a dog that knows itself unwanted may be seen, wistful at its master's heels—with little wags of a timid tail and with beseeching glances; eager to communicate some succour to this angry mood; afraid to hazard what may further vex.
Yet he was pleasant when presently he spoke to her.
They stepped from a dense lane about whose mouth and overhead the arching brambles trailed as though to curtain a sanctuary from trespass by outer dust and breeze and light. Before them the Down ran smooth and grey to where, beneath the moon, it took a silver rim along the line of Plowman's Ridge. A harsher scent was here than briar and wild rose breathed within the lane and jealously entwined to hold there; the breeze came with a swifter touch to the face; the light challenged the eyes that the gloom had rested.
Together their effects aroused Percival's senses from his thoughts to his companion.
"Warmer now, Ima?" he asked.
"Warmer now, little master," and she smiled and added: "unseemly to call thee that, now thou hast grown so."
He moved with her to a gate that faced the Down. "Let's rest a bit," he said. "Why, we've both grown, Ima, since the last time I saw you. You've grown. You've put up your hair—properly grown up. I shall have to treat you with terrible respect."
She did not respond to his light tone. Her eyes that looked quietly at him had a grave air. "I am a gipsy girl to thee," she said. "I am not for thy respect—such as me. For ladies that." And before he could answer her she went on: "What of that little lady thou hast told me of—Snow-White-and-Rose-Red as thou didst name her to me?"
He did not notice a changed tone—to be described as stiff—in her voice. It did not occur to him that in the matter of his respect she made comparison between herself and her whom she named with his fond name for her; he was only surprised and only grateful to have that name spoken to him.
"Why, she's grown," he said. "Fancy you remembering her, Ima!"
Eagerness was in his voice. "I am cold again," she told him, and drew away. "Let us go up the Down."
He did not follow her movement or her words, but pursued his own "—remembering that I called her that, anyway," he said.
If it had been her purpose to dismiss the subject, at least she earned herself his full attention by the swiftness with which she turned upon him and by the swiftness of her reply. "It is thee I remember," she answered him. "Not her—or any such. Thou wast my friend when we played boy and girl together. All thou hast done with me, all thou hast told me, point me the way to thee as remembered marks along the road point to a camping-place—no more, and of themselves nothing."
She had his attention; but he attributed the quickness of her speech and her odd thought and simile only to the general oddness of her ways. "Well, you needn't go back to those days in future," he told her. "We're friends now just as much as then."
She shook her head and smiled. "Nay, after this day I must needs go farther back," she said, her voice smooth again. "Thou dost not understand—playmate days I seek. I lie in my bed on the fine nights with the van door wide, and watch the stars and play I walk among them—from star to star and round about among the stars, high to the van's roof and low to where the trees and hills stretch up to them: thou with me as when first I knew thee—in that wise I seek thee; not thus"—she broke off and changed the note of her voice. "What talk is this?" she smiled. "Childish fancies—they are not for thee," and she moved away and he followed her up the Down.
"Ima, they're pretty fancies, though," he said. "And, you know, you'll lose them all if you aren't careful—if you go making yourself stiff and proper with those extraordinary lessons of yours. What are they for, those lessons? They'll spoil you, Ima. They'll make you quite different. All that kind of thing is for—for the others—for what you'd call fine ladies."
"Even so," she said; and pronounced the words as if—though to his mind they explained nothing—everything was explained by them; and said no more until the crest of Plowman's Ridge was reached.