Title: The Wayfarers
Author: Snaith, J. C.
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Wayfarers" ***


[Frontispiece: "'It is most strange, madam ... that you should not be
certain of the name of your husband.'" (Chapter XIII.)]



THE WAYFARERS


BY

J. C. SNAITH


Author of "Mistress Dorothy Marvin," "Fierceheart, the Soldier," "Lady
Barbarity," etc



WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED

LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO

1902



CONTENTS

CHAP.

     I  THE DEVIL TO PAY
    II  LADY CYNTHIA CAREW
   III  INTRODUCES A MERITORIOUS HEBREW
    IV  WE START UPON OUR PILGRIMAGE
     V  I VINDICATE THE NATIONAL CHARACTER.
    VI  CONTAINS A FEW TRITE UTTERANCES ON THE GENTLE PASSION
   VII  AN INSTRUCTIVE CHAPTER; IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT IF A LITTLE
        LEARNING IS DANGEROUS, MUCH MAY BE CALAMITOUS
  VIII  WE GET US TO CHURCH
    IX  WE GO UPON OUR WEDDING TOUR
     X  WE ARE BESET BY A HEAVY MISFORTUNE
    XI  I COME A PRISONER TO A FAMILIAR HOUSE, AND FIND STRANGE COMPANY
   XII  I DISCOVER A GREAT AUTHOR WHERE I LEAST EXPECT TO FIND ONE
  XIII  I FIND OUT CYNTHIA: CYNTHIA FINDS OUT ME
   XIV  AMANTIUM IRÆ
    XV  AMORIS INTEGRATIO: WE ARE CLAPT IN THE STOCKS
   XVI  WE ARE SO SORELY TRIED THAT WE FAIN HAVE RECOURSE TO OUR WITS
  XVII  WE MAKE ACQUAINTANCE WITH A PERSON OF DISTINCTION
 XVIII  CONTAINS A PANEGYRIC ON THE GENTLE PASSION
   XIX  WE APPEAR IN A NEW CHARACTER
    XX  DISADVANTAGES OF A CHAISE AND A PAIR OF HORSES
   XXI  WE REAP THE FRUITS OF OUR AUDACITY
  XXII  THE LAST



THE WAYFARERS



CHAPTER I

THE DEVIL TO PAY

When I opened my eyes it was one o'clock in the day.  The cards lay on
the table in a heap, and on the carpet in a greater one, the dead
bottles in their midst.  The candles were burnt out; their holders were
foul with smoke and grease.  As I sat up on the couch on which I had
thrown myself at nine o clock in the morning in the desperation of
fatigue, and stretched the sleep out of my limbs and rubbed it out of
my brain the afternoon strove through the drawn blinds palely.  The
half-light gave such a sombre and appropriate touch to the profligate
scene that it would have moved a moralist to a disquisition of five
pages.  But whatever my errors, that accusation was never urged against
me, even by my friends.  You may continue in your reading, therefore,
in no immediate peril.  The ashes were long since grey in the grate;
there was an intolerable reek of wine-dregs and stale tobacco in the
air; and the condition of the furniture, stained and broken and tumbled
in all directions contributed the final disorder to the room.  Indeed
the only article in it, allowing no exception to myself, that had
emerged from the orgy of the night without an impediment to its dignity
was the picture of my grandfather, that pious, learned nobleman,
hanging above the mantelpiece.  A chip off a corner of his frame might
be urged even against him; but what was that in comparison with the
philosophical severity with which he gazed upon the scene?  In the
grave eyes, the grim mouth, the great nose of his family, he retained
the contemplative grandeur which had enabled him to give to the world
in ten ponderous tomes a Commentary on the _Analects of Confucius_.
The space they had occupied on my book-shelf, between the _Newgate
Calendar_ and the _History of Jonathan Wild the Great_, was now
unfilled, since these memorials of the great mind of my ancestor had
lain three weeks with the Jews.

By the time my wits had returned I was able to recall the fact that the
previous night, whose evidences I now regarded, was the last I should
enjoy.  It was the extravagant ending to a raffish comedy.  Finis was
already written in my history.  As I sat yawning on my couch I was a
thing of the past; I had ceased to be; to-morrow at this hour I should
be forgotten by the world.  I had had my chin off the bridle for ten
years, and had used that period to whirl my heels without regard to the
consequences.  I had played high, drunk deep, paid my court to Venus,
gained the notoriety of the intrigue and the duel--in fact, I had taken
every degree in rakishness with the highest honours.  I had spent or
lost every penny of my patrimony, and fourteen thousand pounds besides;
I could no longer hold my creditors at bay; various processes were out
against me; the Jews had my body, as surely as the devil had my soul.
But it was more particularly a stroke of ill-fortune that had hastened
on the evil day.  The single hair whereon the sword over my head had
been suspended must have been severed sooner or later, even had it not
suddenly snapped at four of the clock of the previous afternoon.  At
that hour I had killed a cornet of the Blues within a hundred yards of
the Cocoa Tree, in the presence of my greatest enemy.  Lord knows it
was in fair fight, marred it is true by a little heat on the side of
both; but the only witness of the deed, and he an accidental one, was
Humphrey Waring, my rival and my enemy.  He of all men was best able to
turn such a misadventure on my part to account.  The moment poor
Burdock sank sobbing to death in Waring's arms, and he cried with his
grim laugh, "You will need to run pretty swift, my lord, to prove your
_alibi_," I knew that fate had reserved for the last the cruellest
trick of all she had it in her power to play.

Possessed by the knowledge that I must inevitably perish in a rope, or
less fortunately in a debtor's jail, for the instant the hand of the
law was laid on my coat, the state of my affairs would never permit it
to be removed.  I went home and hastily summoned a few choice spirits
to my lodgings in Jermyn Street that evening; and I spent the last
night of my freedom in that society, expecting at every cast of the
cards and every clink of the bottle to hear the boots of the "traps"
from Bow Street upon the stairs.  Yet all night long they never came,
and here it was one o'clock in the afternoon, and I still in the
enjoyment of my liberty.  And now, as I sat in the sanity of daylight,
refreshed by an excellent sleep, I felt myself still to be my own man.
Therefore I called to François my valet to draw up the window-blinds,
and to have the goodness to bring me a bottle of wine.

This blackguard of an Irishman bore in baptism the name of Terence, but
I called him François, because one holds that to be as indubitably the
name of a valet as Dick of an ostler, and Thomas of a clergyman.
Besides, I have such an hereditary instinct for polite letters, that I
would as lief have called him after his own honoured patronymic as by
that of our excellent Flaccus himself.  François waded through the
kings and queens and aces on the carpet, let the daylight in, and then
withdrew to fetch a clean glass and a bottle of Tokay.

"The last bottle, me lord," says he.

"We drain the last bottle on the last day," says I.  "Can aught be more
fitting?  _Finis coronal opus_!"

As this was the last time I should take the cup of pleasure to my lips,
I made the utmost of it; sipped it carefully, turned it over on my
tongue, held the glass up to the light, meditated on my past a little,
on my present case, and what lay before me.  I suppose it was a
particular generous quality of the wine that kindled a new warmth in my
spirit.  Why, I asked myself, should I sit here, tamely waiting on my
fate?  Why should I be content to have my person contaminated with the
dirty hands that would hale it to an ignominious death, or a thing less
bearable?  Why should I not cheat the Jews and my evil fortune in this
last hour?  Nothing could be easier than to leave the law in the lurch.

This course was so consonant to the desperation of my temper and
affairs, that I had no sooner entered on the second glass of this last
bottle, than I was fully convinced of its propriety.  It was surely
more fitting that a gentleman should select the hour and the manner of
his exit from the world, than submit like a common ruffian to the
dictation of the law in these important matters.  To die by the hand of
oneself is not the highest sort of death, it is true; but I am one who
would advance, although the ancient and best writers are against me in
this matter, that there are occasions when a man may best serve his
dignity by renouncing that which has ceased to be a cherished object to
him.  In this, at least, I have Cato the younger with me.

Indeed I had already taken this resolve rather than submit my pride to
those inconveniences that so depress the spirit, when a third glass of
wine put me in mind of a thing the most importunate of any.  There was
a certain lady.  Nothing can be more ludicrous than to consider of a
ruined gamester broken by Fortune on her wheel, pausing in his last
extremity for such a reason.  But there it was.  I could have wished to
see the tears of defiance once again on her cheeks.  In spite of the
world, in spite of her family, of my evil history, of my cunning,
plausible enemy, she had given me her proud little heart.  She was the
one person I might have turned to in this black hour, who would not
have requited me with a sneer or a cold glance.  Her stern old father
had no sooner discovered how her affections stood committed towards me,
and had learned the colour of my reputation, than he had whisked her
away from town to his seat in the remote west country, and had vowed
upon his soul to have me ducked in a ditch if I so much as showed my
nose in those parts.

These thoughts of dear, insolent little Cynthia had induced reflections
that I could well have done without.  It was plain that this last cast
of the cards had left the game in the hands of Mr. Humphrey Waring.  He
had long had the ear of the old duke, Cynthia's father, and no man knew
better how to push the advantages my misfortunes had given him over me.
He would marry the greatest heiress in the west country, hate him as
she might, whilst Jack Tiverton, the worthless rogue on whom she doted,
or, if it please you better, the Right Honourable Anthony Gervas John
Plowden-Pleydell, fifth Earl of Tiverton, that ill-fated nobleman,
rotted in durance, or writhed in a rope at Tyburn, or spilt his brains
on the carpet of his lodgings.  But for all that I had a mind to
attempt a little more mischief before I perished.  Why not go to poor
little town-bred Cynthia, immured in the country like a bird in a cage,
and throw her obstinate old father and her cunning suitor into such a
fright as they would not be likely to forget?  Indeed, why not?

However, when I came to reflect on this scheme more carefully, I found
that I had hardly zest enough for it.  My ruin was too complete.
Besides, it might cost Cynthia dear.  I should have been well pleased
to look on my pretty young miss once again and watch the tears course
down her cheeks in the stress of our farewell, for I would have you
know that I am a man of sentiment when in the humour.  But it would be
a hollow business and little of a kindness to the child to have her
weep for such a broken profligate.  I should purchase the discomfort of
my enemies at too high a price.

Yet I must come to a decision speedily.  Every instant I expected to
hear the law upon the stairs.  Should I spare it any further trouble
there and then, or make an attempt to break out of town and lead it a
dance across the country?  The drawback in the first course was its
somewhat arbitrary nature.  It was so final and so certain that chance
would have no opportunity.  The drawback to the second was that I had
not a guinea in the world.  That morning I had staked my last and lost
it.  However, as I weighed the pros and cons with a whimsical
deliberation I was taken with a fortunate expedient.  Chance had been
the ruling passion of my life.  It had brought me to this pass.  Why
should I not employ it to solve this problem?  I summoned M. François.

"Take two pistols," I said, "into the next chamber, but load one only.
Cock them both, however, but use particular care that nothing shall
suggest which is charged and which is not.  Then bring them here and
lay them side by side upon this table, still remembering not to betray
the fatal one."

M. François bowed, and solemnly carried away the weapons from the
sideboard.  I awaited his return with an emotion akin to pleasure.  I
had tasted most of the delights that chance could afford me; but even
I, who had staked houses, lands, servants, furniture, and every guinea
of my fortune, had not yet gambled with my life.  Thus, when I came to
play the greatest stake that is in the power of any man to play, it was
but fitting that I should enjoy some little exhilaration in that act.

M. François returned in rather more than two minutes with the pistols,
and set them on the table on the top of the cards.  They were both
cocked, and it was impossible to distinguish one from the other.  M.
Francis coughed in his well-bred manner, and then sighed deeply.

"I beg your pardon, my lord," he said, at the verge of tears, "and I am
sure your lordship will overlook the liberty on an occasion--on an
occasion that is not likely to occur again.  But may I say, my lord,
with what deep regret I take farewell of your lordship?  I am sure
there could not have been a better, kinder master."

"François, I subscribe heartily to that," says I, "and I am sure there
could not have been a bigger blackguard of a servant.  And may I say,
François, that I never took a deeper pleasure in anything than in
parting with you; and I may even add that if a minute hence I am called
elsewhere, I go with the less irresolution, because I am firm in the
opinion that wherever it may be, I cannot be worse served than I have
been at your hands."

"Your lordship is more than kind," says François humbly.

"No thanks, I beg," says I.  "But, François, if chance, who hath served
me nearly as ill as you have and for a rather longer period, sees fit
to arrange that I shall perish by my own hand, I do not doubt that you
will desire some small memento, some small souvenir of so fortunate an
occasion."

"Your lordship is more than kind," says François, more humbly than
before.

"You overwhelm me, François," says I.  "If there is any little
knick-knack your fancy turns to, you have only to mention it.  The Jews
will but claim it otherwise, and I would almost as lief it fell into
your hands as into theirs."

"As your lordship so emboldens me," says M. François, "I should most
greatly cherish the picture of your grandfather, that wise good
nobleman, that hangs above the mantelpiece, for I am sure I could
devise no more fitting memorial of his grandson."

"François," says I, "would I did not know you for a rogue, for the
chastity of your taste does you so much honour it honours me.  But
would you bereave me of the last badge of my respectability?  Friends,
fortune, estate, the consideration of the world, all are gone, and you
would now deny me the solace of my heritage.  Yet I commend your wisdom
even here, since if you rob others as you have robbed myself, you will
presently be able to purchase half the kingdom of Ireland, and set up
among the landed gentry.  You will then, I doubt not, find an ancestor
or two come not amiss.  And if of my grandfather's pattern so much the
better, for their virtue will purchase you more credit than any of your
own.  But I would recommend myself that you took a few ancestors over
with the property.  They would cost less in a lump.  Besides, they tell
me they are cheaper in Ireland than anywhere else, except France, where
they are even more common than matrimony."

M.  François was gathering himself to make a proper reply to this
harangue, when suddenly we both heard the long-expected footfalls on
the stairs.

"Secure that door," said I.  "I will not be taken until chance hath
arbitrated on my destination."

Saying this, without the hesitation of an instant I picked up one of
the pistols lying side by side among the cards.  François slipped to
the door and turned the key.  Then he went to the mantelpiece, took
down the picture, and placed it under his arm.

"Farewell, my lord," he said, "I leave you with inexpressible regret."

He ran to the window, cast it open, and with the most astonishing skill
and agility, squeezed himself through the opening, my grandfather and
all; and the roof being well within his reach, he first laid the
picture on the tiles, then drew himself up after it, and showed the
cleanest pair of heels to the law as ever I saw.  And I was so taken
with the ready wit and contrivance of the rogue, that although I had
the cocked pistol pressed to my temple, I could not pull the trigger
for the life of me.  For I stood all a-shake with very laughter, so
that the cold muzzle of the weapon tapped now against my forehead, now
against my nose, now against my cheekbone, till I vow it was a miracle
the hammer did not descend.  But in the middle of all this the door was
tried and shaken, followed by a fierce tap on the panel, and then came
the clear tones of a woman.

"Open--open the door.  Jack, it is I!"

At the sound of that voice the pistol fell from my hands altogether.
Striking the carpet with a thud, it exploded under my feet and knocked
a great hole in the wainscot.  For an instant the room was full of
smoke, gunpowder, and a mighty noise; but the moment I recovered my
courage I unfastened the door and confronted the cause of it--Cynthia
Carew!  She too was the victim of a not unnatural bewilderment, and as
pale as linen.

"Ods sputterkins!" she cried.  "What a taking you have put me in!  I am
all of a twitter.  Whose brains have you spilt?  Not your own, I'll
warrant me, for you never had any.  Give me a kiss now, and get me some
ratafia to compose me, and we'll let it pass."

"Cynthia," I gasped, but giving her the first of these requisites, "how
came you here, in heaven's name?

"Ratafia!" she cried, "ratafia, or I perish."

"There's never a drop in the place," says I.  "No, nor cherry-brandy,
nor aromatic vinegar neither."

"Another kiss then," says Cynthia, pressing her white cheek against me,
and casting her arms about my neck.

I led her within and set her down on the couch.  She bore all the
evidences of having made a long journey.  So far from being dressed in
the modishness that was wont to charm St. James's Park, she was covered
by a long, dun-coloured cloak, wore a country hat, if I'm a judge of
'em, in which the feathers were crumpled; her shoes were muddy, and she
carried a strange look of fear and uneasiness that I had never seen
about her before.  I procured a clean glass and filled it with wine
from the last bottle and made her drain it, for she looked so pale and
overborne.

"Now," says I, "how came you here? and what brings you?"

"Oh, Jack," says she, "I am run away."  She suddenly broke forth into a
flood of tears.

"The devil you are!" says I.

"Yes," says she, sobbing as though her heart would break, "and I'm not
sorry neither."

"You wouldn't confess it an you were," says I.

"No, I wouldn't," she sobbed.

I must admit that the sight of the sweet chit was the one thing in all
the world that had the power to please me at that hour, yet there was
not a thing that could have happened to leave me in so sore a case.
Here had my prettiness come and thrown herself on my protection--on the
protection of a man utterly ruined, whom the law was already dogging
for his liberty, if not his life.  In sooth I must send her back again.
It was no sort of a reception, especially when one fell to consider the
heroical fashion of her coming to me.  But what else was one to do?  I
was at my last gasp, without so much as a guinea, or a roof for my
head, since to stay in that house was to court arrest, nor had I a
friend in the world to whom I would dare to recommend her.

"Cynthia," says I, "I dote upon the sight of you; I am filled with joy
to see you sitting there, but--but----"

How could I tell the child!

"But--but?"  She sobbed no more.  Mopping her tears, she crumpled the
sopping handkerchief in her little fist, sat perfectly upright in her
seat, and stared so straight at me that I felt the blood hum in my ears.

"But--but!" says I again--devil take me if I could tell her.

"But--but?" says she on her part; and it was wonderful to see her blue
eyes come open and her proud lips spring together like the snap of a
watch-case.

"Well, Cynthia, dear, it is simply this," says I, going headlong into
it.  "You find me a ruined gamester, without a friend or a guinea in
the world, who even at this moment is being hunted for his debts, and,
if I dared say it to you, something worse.  Now there is but one way
out of it.  You cannot stay here; there is not a friend to whom I may
confide you; child, you must go back to your father."

Instead of growing red, the colour that shone I am sure in my face, she
grew as pale as snow, and her eyes sparkled with a grim beauty that
discomposed me more than it charmed me.  She rose from the couch,
lifted her chin out of her white throat, and kicked the kings and
queens and knaves on the carpet in all directions.

"Never," she cried.  "I will not go back to my father.  I said I would
not marry this Mr. Waring; whereon my lord said he would lock me in my
room until I was of another mind.  And he did lock me in it; and I
broke out of it; and I will not go back, no, not if I must subsist on
crusts picked from the kennel, and the clothes rot off my body, and I
sleep o' nights in a dry ditch or the porch of a church."

"Faith!" says I, "that's well spoke, monstrous well spoke."

"I hate this Mr. Waring," says the little fury.  "May I be crost in
love, if I do not."

"And if I do not too," says I, "may my heart smoke in purgatory.  But
come tell me, is it for himself you hate him, or is it for love of me?"

"A plague take all catechisms," says she.  "But I will tell you for
another kiss."

I think two persons in love could never have been in a worse plight
than Cynthia and I.  There seemed no course open to us, other than to
flee together, we knew not whither.  Before even this could be
considered, however, we had to find the means.

"What money have you left in your poke?" I asked her.

"Twelvepence exactly and a halfpenny over."

I whistled long and shrill.  "Which is twelve-pence exactly and a
halfpenny more than there is in mine.  At nine o'clock this morning I
staked my all, including three periwigs, nine pairs of silk breeches,
stockings, five cambric brocaded waistcoats, silver-buckled shoes,
sword, duelling pistols, house and furniture, the Odes of Horace, and
my man-cook--staked 'em on the queen of hearts and lost 'em.  Think on
it, my pretty--lost 'em on the queen of hearts."

"I care not for that," says Cynthia.  "I will not go back, and so you
must make the best of me."

"But, child, what can I do when I'm taken?"

"You must not be taken."

"In that case," says I, "the only chance we have is to get away from
here at once, furnished with the clothes we stand in, and the sum of
twelve-pence halfpenny."



CHAPTER II

LADY CYNTHIA CAREW

Having come to this odd resolve, it behoved us to lose no time.  But
whither we should go, neither of us knew.  North, south, east, or west,
one latitude was as good as another.  We should be equally served in
each.  As for the means at our disposal, we had the sum of twelve-pence
halfpenny sterling.  I am sure that much the same thoughts were
uppermost in the minds of us both, for the moment I looked at little
Cynthia sitting on the couch with a tight mouth and ratter quizzical
eyes, I broke forth into a shout of laughter, which she returned so
promptly that it became a question as to whom the honour of the first
peal belonged.

In the midst of this pleasantry I walked to the door of the room and
locked it again.  I had no mind to be taken unawares by the enemy; and
provided I was not, François' example had shown that a way of escape
was always open.

"Now, my dear," says I, "we have no time to lose; let us be putting our
few affairs in order.  Look round this despoiled chamber, and tell me
if you observe any article in it that could be turned into money at a
pawnshop, or is likely otherwise to serve us on our journey.  I am
sorry to say that every object of _vertu_ that I ever possessed upon
which we might at a pinch have raised a seven-shilling piece has
already been called upon to perform that office.  There is one
exception even to these, it is true, but that cannot help us now, and I
rejoice to think so.  For five minutes before your arrival I gave away
to a connoisseur, a dilettante, a lover of the beautiful, Sir Godfrey
Kneller's picture of my famous grandfather.  I think I could never have
held up my head again had I given up that eminent nobleman to the
ignoble usages I have suggested.  I foresaw this calamity; let me take
the credit therefore of its aversion."

"You gave it away without receiving a farthing for it!" cries Cynthia
aghast.  "Oh, what a folly, Jack!  Had we it now we could make thirty
shillings of it at any dealer's."

"I know, I know!" says I triumphantly, "I grant that; therefore do you
not more clearly see how finely I have acted by my grandfather?"

"Burn me if I do," says Cynthia.  "Jack, what a fool thou art!  For I
see never a thing of value left in the place; or stay, we might put
that pair of old iron pistols in a case and raise a loaf of bread on
them.  I suppose that on the floor is the one with which you tried to
take your life, and as the one other's cocked, I suppose that's loaded
too."

"Tried to take my life," says I.  "Cynthia, what words are these?"

"A truce to dissimulation, if you please," says Cynthia tartly, "for
feather-headed fellow that you are, yet do no better at it than any of
the other arts and sciences at which you have tried and failed."

I turned to the table and began sorting a handful of cards to cover my
confusion.  A clever woman is the devil!  Cynthia, to add a sting to
her speech, picked up the discharged pistol from the carpet,
ostentatiously searched for its case, and put it in.  She then took up
the other.

"Is this loaded, or is it not?" she asked.

"No, it's not loaded," says I.  "Pull down the trigger and put it in
too."

"Then, if it's not loaded, why was it cocked?"  The question was
decidedly disconcerting.  I was by no means willing to go into the
details of that matter, and therefore hesitated to find a reason.

"You don't know whether it's loaded or not," says Cynthia, sternly.

"Most certainly I do.  Have I not said that it is not loaded?"

"And have I not said," says the impudent Cynthia, "that you don't know
whether it's loaded or not?"

"But, my dear child," says I, "have I not positively said that the
thing's not loaded?"

"Oh yes, I admit that," says the provoking creature.  "But you must
admit too, sir, that I have more faith in my own judgment than I have
in yours.  I say again that you don't know whether that pistol is
loaded or whether it is not."

"I'll lay you two to one in hundreds that I do," says I hotly.

"Would not a case of iron pistols against the sum of twelvepence
halfpenny be more appropriate in the circumstances?" says Cynthia.

"I believe you are right there," says I.

Cynthia then presented the pistol at the wall and a strange thing
happened.  The room was filled with a reverberating crash, and when the
smoke that arose had lifted a little it was discovered that a large
mirror had been shivered into a thousand pieces.

"There," says Cynthia triumphantly.

As for me, I stood aghast for a moment, perfectly at a loss to explain
the pistol's strange behaviour.  Then I suddenly broke out into a fit
of uncontrollable laughter; the admirable François had loaded them both.

It was then the turn of Cynthia to stand aghast.

"I hope your misfortunes have not deprived you of your reason," says
she, more tartly than ever; and added, "I knew all along that you
didn't know whether it was loaded or not."

"Come, come!" says I, keenly anxious, you may be sure, to change the
topic.  "We have already tarried here over-long.  I will tell you the
whole story in a more convenient place and season.  If we don't go at
once, I am afraid we shall not go at all."

"True," says Cynthia, seating herself again on the couch with the most
deliberate and provoking coolness.

"What new whimsey is this?" says I, utterly nonplussed.

"I think, my Lord Tiverton," says Cynthia, with remarkable gravity,
"that you have overlooked an important particular."

"Which?  What?" says I.

"Nay, my lord," says she, "I am the last person in the world to remind
you."

That might be true enough so far as it went, but the pretty roguish
chit composed her features and her person into such an affectation of
solemnity, and there was such a saucy twinkle in her eyes too, that all
the words in the English tongue could not have spoken more plainly than
she did without uttering any.  It is, I suppose, one of the highest
gifts of her sex, though to be sure, would it were exercised more!

"Dammy," says I, "you mean--er--er; you mean that I must ask you to
marry me."

Instead of replying at once, she bent down and picked up half-a-dozen
cards from the floor, arranged them in the shape of a fan, and held
them in front of her eyes.

"La," says she, "your lordship is too kind.  Pray ascribe my blushes to
my country breeding."

"Pah!" says I, "we have not the time for play-acting now.  The moment
is very ill-chosen."

"Oh, I grant you that," says she, "but as you will allow that it was
none of my choosing, why should I forego the peculiar privileges that
my sex have ever derived from this position?  No, as I'm a woman, I
will have this thing carried through in the most proper and approved
manner.  Ods lud, sir! what notions have you got!  I will be coy if I
choose, or haughty, or easy, or gracious, or mocking, or disdainful,
just as my mood is and as I've a mind to be.  Now then, my lord, down
on to your noble knees, and pour forth your foolish speeches that are
meant to be so grand, which you must forget in the middle, whereon you
will descend out of a rather turgid poetry into a bald and somewhat
blasphemous prose.  For I will have your lordship to know that I will
be wooed as a woman, else I will not be wooed at all.  Down, down on to
your knees, my lord, and up, up with your apostrophes."

"What a consummate folly is this," says I, "when at any moment we may
be ta'en."

But the pretty little fool sat as demure as a mouse, not relaxing a lip
or twitching an eyebrow, i' faith as adorable a picture of a person as
any I've seen off a painted canvas.  There was that tantalizing air
about her which at once invited, yet forbade; that aroused that which
it denied.  I vow nothing could have been more taking than the sight of
little Cynthia sitting there as straight as any arrow that ever Cupid
shot, her knees and heels together, and her hands spread out with the
palms turned down, and her dainty toes peeping from underneath her
petticoat.  Indeed, so was I worked on by her graces and airs that I
was like to forget the grim pass in which we were involved.  Nay, I
gradually began to solicit her in a formal manner; a piece of behaviour
that contributed as much to her whimsical pleasure as it did to my
embarrassment.  And when in accents of undying regard, I came to ask
for her hand in exchange for my heart and fortune, she was so charmed
with the natural fervour with which I did it, that she stopped me
imperiously, in the middle of much passion, and says: "I would have
your lordship go over again that splendid passage that you have just
uttered, that hath the fine swearing and the great humility in it.  I
never heard anything choicer; Mr. Betterton never surpassed it."

And when I had humoured her as much as she wished and that was not
until I was thirsty and hot, and she was somewhat weary of keeping the
strict attitude that she thought best suited to receive my addresses
in, says she: "I declare, sir, you have pleased me vastly.  You are as
good a suitor as any of them all.  Mr. Waring never wooed me half so
well.  As for Mr. Stokes, and Colonel Regan, and Sir John Dufty, and my
lord Viscount Brighouse, you compare very well with them too.  You have
not the fine brawny pease-and-bacon appearance of Sir John, it is true,
nor is your voice so rich and noble as the Colonel's, begorra, nor is
your nose so well curved as Mr. Stoke's, nor have you a pretty little
lisp like my lord Viscount, but in the sum-total of your attributes you
do very fairly well.  And therefore as your lordship's fortune is so
considerable, and you have already gained the approbation of my father,
I think the only course open to me--Oh, Jack, listen!  What in the name
of heaven is that?"

"You may well ask," says I.  "One, two, three, four, five probably or
more, according to their boots on the stairs, gentlemen from Bow Street
come to wait upon us."

"Oh, what shall we do!" says poor Cynthia, clapping her hands.

"Keep very calm, child, and carefully heed what I say.  They will not
molest you; I am their game.  But I doubt gravely whether I shall fall
to them at present.  My way lies through that window and along the
tiles, and whilst they follow, you will simply go downstairs and walk
out at the front door.  Go as swiftly as you can down to Piccadilly to
the gates of Hyde Park.  And if I am not already come there before you,
wait till I arrive.  It is to be considered, of course, that I may have
more difficulty than I apprehend in slipping these fellows."

Here the door was roughly taken and the next instant so heavy a blow
was delivered against it as partly drove in one of the panels.  I had
just time to run into the adjoining chamber for a hat and a
riding-cloak, to plant a kiss between brave little Cynthia's brows, and
abjure her not to be afraid, when the door was driven in, and three or
four ugly wretches came tumbling one upon another pell-mell into the
room.



CHAPTER III

INTRODUCES A MERITORIOUS HEBREW

I had hardly time to open the window ere they were recovered of their
entry and on their feet.  Seeing what I was about to attempt they made
a rush, but I did not bear youth and vigour in my limbs for nothing.
With a quickness that I'll warrant would have done no discredit to a
cat, I had poised myself on the precarious sill, and had twisted myself
into a favourable position for reaching the roof.  It was easily in
reach, as this chamber very happily was at the top of the house.  I had
barely taken a firm hold on the iron gutter that ran along the edge of
the tiles, before I had drawn up one knee, and was in the act of
dragging up the other as fast as I could, when it was seized by a hand
from the room below.  Luckily for me, I had a firm enough hold of the
roof to get some little purchase for my imprisoned leg, whereby I was
enabled to deal my adversary a pretty smart kick in the teeth, which
sent him cursing back into the room.  Thereupon I scrambled
willy-nilly, hands and knees, on to the tiles.  Not one moment too
soon, however.  My pursuers evidently numbered fleet and active fellows
among them.  Their blood was up too.  For scarcely had I gone ten yards
along the edge of the tiles, moving on all-fours for safety, ere
another fellow was also in possession of the roof.  This was not at all
to my liking, and a good deal outside my calculations, since I had not
expected that these clumsy Bow Street runners would attempt to follow
me in this fashion.

My pursuer gave a view-halloa and followed me so fast that I realized
at once that at this game Jack was like to be as good as his master.
Perchance the fellow was better schooled in this mode of procedure than
I, for he was clattering behind me, preparing to grab my heels before I
could take my bearings.  I did not know where I was, and had not the
least idea as to how I should get away.  But one thing was plain.  I
had embarked on so bold a course that the moment there was a limit to
my daring all would be lost.  Therefore, hearing the Bow Street
gentleman wheezing and grunting a yard or two behind me, I stopped and
rose to my feet, and turned round so suddenly as considerably to
endanger my own safety and to take him entirely unawares.  And I sent
my fist such a crack in his eye, that only a miracle saved him from
toppling over the parapet into the middle of Jermyn Street, twenty feet
beneath.

While Mr. Catchpole sprawled and wallowed with his arms and legs
outstretched striving to save himself from falling over the brink, and
howling to his mates, whose heads were just showing above the gutter,
to come to his assistance, I took the occasion to alter my tactics.
Instead of crawling along the edge, I began climbing up in a vertical
direction.  And my pursuer being but a runner from Bow Street after
all, had been considerably cooled in his zeal, and accordingly allowed
me rather more of elbow room, whilst his companions, of whom two more
had now come upon the top, observing the nature of his accident, were
in no such hurry as he had been to come by one themselves.

I mounted painfully enough as high as the chimney pots, not without
some damage to the skin of my hands and knees, and a good deal of
slipping and sliding.  A game of hide-and-seek followed.  Reaching the
opposite slope of the roofs, which concealed me and put me farthest
away from the enemy, I crept as swiftly as I could from chimney-stack
to chimney-stack with ever a keen eye for a means of getting down again
into the street.  Some yards ahead I saw that the straight line of the
tiles was broken by a dormer window.  I made to this for here was the
very chance that I desired.  Alas! when I reached it I found it secured
from within.  I had no time in which to break a pane of glass in the
hope that I might put my hand through and discover the fastenings.  A
couple of the traps had already found out in which direction I had
gone, and were even now standing on the apex, and beckoning to the
others.  I moved away to another dormer window a few yards further on.
It too was fast, but looking ahead I saw, greatly to my relief, that a
third was standing open.  My satisfaction had a short life, however.
For scarcely had I made two yards towards it ere I observed a thing
that in my haste I had overlooked.  The line of the houses ended
abruptly; the open window belonged to another row.  Between ran an
alley or a narrow street, wide enough to make me pause in my career.
Hard pressed as I was, I must confess that I had no fancy to attempt a
leap so precarious.  I turned to go back, but the enemy had followed so
smartly on my heels that I saw in a glance that there was no chance of
retreating by the way I had come.  My only hope lay in a forward
direction; I could not possibly retire.  Nor must I hesitate an instant
either.  The closer I came to this gulf in the houses the more
desperate it looked, but my resolve was already taken.  A drowning man
clutches at a straw.

Impeded as I was with a cumbersome riding-coat, I could not hope to
make the leap successfully.  Hastily pulling it off, therefore, I
folded it up in some rude fashion, for I could not afford to lose it,
and pitched it over a space between the houses.  It landed in safety
well over the immediate brink.  The traps, apprehending the nature of
the feat I was about to attempt, were coming along the roof with
wonderful expedition.  Indeed, they are almost within an arm's-length
of me when I started on the run to make the leap.  With teeth set, and
it must be confessed some little sickness of anticipation in my spirit,
I ran as hard as I could, and hurled myself into the air with a
despairing energy.  That I covered the gulf and landed with my knees on
the coat I had cast across, I have always ascribed to that benevolent
Providence that hath such a jealous regard for the worthless.  And in
sooth when I had actually arrived there it was one of the greatest
wonders in the world that I did not fall back again in the recoil, or
did not begin to roll sideways and so tumble over the lower edge.  But
somehow I recovered my balance before either of these calamities
happened.  Then I felt that I might breathe again.

There was precious little to fear that the men from Bow Street would be
bold enough to follow me.  For when I came to contemplate, now as you
may believe with no little satisfaction, the magnitude of the hazard
intervening between us, it cost me a shudder in despite of my
complacency.  And as in their case it was not a life and death matter
on which line of the roofs they happened to stand, and they had no
thoughts of adorable little Cynthia to spur them on to these great
risks, I think they may be pardoned for giving back before that which I
with so many sweats and misgivings had accomplished.  Nor do I lay any
unction to myself, since I am sure that had I stood in their shoes, or
had I played for a lesser stake, I would have had none of such risks
either.  Nay, I am not altogether clear in my mind that had I not been
heated by the fine excitements of the hue and cry I should have been
wrought up to do it as it was.  There can be little doubt, I think,
that the chase makes a much nobler and more adventurous creature of the
fox than ever consists with his vulgar and common character.

Seeing my pursuers had halted on the opposite brink, and were
presenting such a helpless and bewildered appearance as plainly showed
they had no stomach for a similar deed, I was able to resume my riding
coat at my ease, and even to engage in a few words of conversation as I
did so.  Says I:

"Certainly, gentlemen, I think you are well advised in not seeking to
come over.  'Pon my soul I would not have come over myself had you not
pressed me so hard!  Here is a guinea to drink my health, and now I
will wish you good afternoon!"

Such is the power of habit that I fumbled in several pockets in search
of a gold piece to toss them, ere I recollected the bankrupt condition
in which I stood.  Perforce I had to be content with a bow and a
lifting of the hat, whereupon I went my way along the roof while they
were left at the end of their wits to discover a means by which they
might circumvent me.

I had not an instant of time to lose, however, if I was to make good my
escape.  There were doubtless persons in the street below who had had a
keen eye for these proceedings.  No sooner would they see in which
direction the cat was to jump than they would act accordingly.
Therefore it behoved me to be as bold and as quick as ever.  The open
dormer window offered the readiest mode of egress.  I made to it at
once, and peering within saw that the chamber, a bedroom, was very
happily empty.  I had no difficulty in squeezing my body through the
narrow opening and so came into the room.  Having done this, I securely
fastened the window to present a further obstacle to my enemies.  The
great thing that lay before me now was to make my way downstairs as
cautiously as I could, and to slip out of the house without attracting
the attention of its occupants, or of those of my foes who might be
lurking about in the street.  But much address was required to perform
all this successfully, as you will readily understand.

First I opened the door of the bed-chamber with noiseless care, and
then groped my way through the gloom and strangeness of the place to
the stairs.  And mighty rickety and full of noises they were when I
found them.  They began so sheer and abruptly, and so close to the
bed-room door, that in spite of my caution, I was on them long ere I
thought I was, and as a consequence nearly pitched headlong down their
whole length.  Mercifully I recovered my balance in the nick of time,
but not before, as it seemed to my nervous ears, I had set up an
intolerable clatter that appeared to echo and re-echo through every
room of the house.  Step by step, I crept down the stairs, and paused
to listen on every one.  It was so dark that I had to be very tenacious
of the walls.  But fortune was still on my side.  There seemed not a
soul in all the house, nor could I hear a sound.  Yet every step I
descended the place grew darker and darker; there was not so much as a
glimmer of light from a door or a window to be discerned; while the
walls were so close about me that when I stretched out my hands I could
feel them on either side.  Presently I ceased to descend, whereon much
shuffling of my feet ensued, and I concluded that this was some kind of
a landing.  More shuffling and gingerly manoeuvring followed, and then
the stairs began again, and the place grew darker than ever.  The
darkness became so great that I could not see my hand before my face;
and as I had not the means about me to procure a light, nor would have
dared to employ them had they been in my possession, I began to marvel
where in the world I was coming to.

At last the stairs ended altogether, and on pushing carefully forward,
my nose suddenly came against an unexpected obstacle.  Running my hands
over it, I judged it to be a door.  I put my ear to the wood, but
listen as I might I could hear no sound.  Whither it led or what lay
behind it I had not the vaguest notion, nor was there a speck of light
by which I might make a guess.  But when the handle of the door came
into my fist, I decided not to flinch the situation whatever it might
present.  A bold course had been my salvation hitherto; come what might
I would continue in it.  Therefore, I cautiously turned the handle, and
opened the door an inch at a time, I daresay I had got it about five
inches apart when it was rudely grasped from the other side, and flung
wide open in my face.  A Jew stood before me, as true a child of Israel
as ever I set eyes on.  He cast up his hands and gurgled in his anger
and surprise.

"Why, what the deffil!" says he at last.

"How do you do, sir," says I, cordially holding out my hand.  "Proud to
meet you, sir, infernally proud to meet you."

Although I had hoped that my air and tone were the very pattern of
affability, I doubt if this Hebrew thought them so; or even if he did,
he hardly seemed to think they became me in the circumstances as
handsomely as I had hoped they would.  For he gurgled and cackled, his
tawny countenance grew redder and redder, his hands trembled, and he
contorted his body into a truly fantastic shape.  Meantime I gazed past
him to see whence he had emerged, in the hope that I might get some
clue as to what would be the best line of conduct to adopt.  To my
infinite pleasure I saw that I had come upon the threshold of a
pawnbroker's shop, since a truly miscellaneous collection of articles
lay scattered about it, whilst the character and nation of my
inquisitor alone warranted the theory.  Yet in an instant was my
satisfaction turned to anger, for there, staring into my very eyes with
all the meditative grandeur he had of yore, was that learned nobleman,
my grandfather.  It was well for M. François that he was not at that
moment within my reach.

"What do you do here?" says the Jew, having discovered his tongue at
last.  "Do you think I do not know?  You haf come to rob my house.
Benjamin, bring your blunderbush.  In broad daylight, too.  O heaven,
what effrontery!"

"My dear Mr. Moses," says I winningly, "what words are these?
Effrontery--rob your house; to conceive that I, the best friend your
tribe ever had or for that matter ever will have, should be thus
accosted by you!  I am here as a client, sir; and to conceive that you
of all men should deny a client when he takes these monstrous pains to
come to you in privacy!"

Mr. Moses was a good deal reassured by my address.  But after all his
race are a good deal too tenacious to be put off so lightly.  He
demanded to know in what manner I had come there and he did it so
boisterously too, and in a fashion so calculated to attract the
attention of persons in the street that I judged it wisest to make a
clean breast of how matters stood with me.

"Well, Mr. Moses," says I, "if you must know I am that great benefactor
of your tribe, Lord Tiverton.  My lodgings are about six doors up the
street, and they have been visited this afternoon by the dirtiest set
of minions from Bow Street as ever I saw.  And so hard was I put to it
to clear them that I took to the housetops, whereupon, seeing your
dormer window open, I gave them the slip by climbing into it, and here
I am.  And mark you, my dear Mr. Moses, I would not so honour the
dormer windows of all and sundry, no, rabbit me an I would.  For I am
mighty particular as to whose hands I would accept an obligation from.
But if a friend cannot take a benefaction from a friend, then who in
all the world is one to take it from?  As Flaccus himself has said."

Mr. Moses, you may be sure, was mollified indeed.

"I am sure I beg your lordship's pardon," says he.  "A thousand times
most humbly I am sure I do.  Benjamin, put by your blunderbush; and
withdraw the curtains across the window, sirrah, for I have seen the
traps walking up and down the street, and peering here and there and
everywhere this last ten minutes; yes, that I have.  Is there any
particular in which I can serve your lordship?"

"Yes, by thunder, that you can!" says I.  "I must get away from here
unknown as quickly as you might count ten.  The traps are still about
in the street you say?"

"See, my lord, there is one going past the window now."

As he spoke I took the precaution of drawing farther back into the
shadow of the stairs, for it was even as he said.  The next instant Mr.
Moses pushed the door to in my face, and as he did so, wheeled round to
confront (as I guessed) two or three of the traps who were coming into
the shop.

"A sheeny, by the Lord!" I heard one say, in a voice so coarse that it
set my teeth on edge.

"What is your pleasure, good gentlemans?" says Mr. Moses in a tone of
incredible politeness.  "If I, a poor old clo'es-dealer as I am, can be
of service to you, I cannot tell you how happy you will make me."

"Well, ole Father Abraham," says the foremost man, "we're on the 'eels
of a hearl, d'ye see.  We've been a-chasing of him on the 'ouse-tops,
we have so, and he's just a-been a-squeedgin' of himself through your
dormer window, and he's left us in the lurch, d'ye see.  He's in your
bed-room, you can wager, and we're a-going up to rout him out."

"Is he so?" says Mr. Moses.  "God-a-mercy! is it possible?  Benjamin,
get your blunderbush, and go and bring him down."

I was so charmed with the comedy that was being played, that at some
little risk I had opened just a small crevice in the door, in order
that I might peer through upon the actors.  Benjamin, a youth about as
tall as the counter, but wonderfully keen and sharp of feature, put
himself in possession of an antiquated fire-arm, probably the most
obsolete weapon ever handed down from early times.

"Be damned to Benjamin," says the man from Bow Street, "and be damned
to his blunderbush; we're a-going up to look ourselves."

"And wherefore, gentlemans," says Moses in a tone like silk, it was so
soft, "should Benjamin and his blunderbush be damned?  Benjamin is a
good boy, and his blunderbush is a good weapon.  If this earl is in my
chamber, depend upon it one or the other shall bring him down."

"No; we'll go up ourselves, ole Shylock," says the other, "for this
hearl is so full of hell, that as likely as not he'd beat Benjamin to
death with his own blunderbush, crikey-likey! he would so."

"Nay, that he would not," says Mr. Moses, "for Benjamin would blow the
heart out of him, if he but advanced one step upon him."

Mr. Moses was evidently a master of fence, and determined as my enemies
might show themselves, they could make nothing of his subtle, cringing
ways.  They might have excellent reasons for overhauling the house, and
going upstairs, as indeed they had, yet they had not the wit to enforce
them.  For every additional argument he had a new excuse to advance,
which at least if it contributed nothing whatever to the case in point,
yet served to obscure the issue and to distract and confound those
concerned in it.  It was truly remarkable how he managed to lure and
cheat them with the most specious words that could mean nothing
whatever; and yet at the same time, and therein lay his art, they
listened to him and never once seemed to doubt his sincerity.  And it
seemed too that this cunning Hebrew had something of a trump card to
play, and this he had reserved for the last.

"An earl did ye say, sirs?" says he, with a vast air of reflection.
"It could not have been by any chance the Earl of Tiverton?"

"Yes, by thunder," they cried together, "the man himself."

"Well now, I call that whimsical," says he, "seeing as how I see his
lordship running at the top of his legs past this window not five
minutes before you came here."

"You did that," says one of my enemies, "then why in thunder couldn't
you say so before, instead o' keepin' us argle-hargling here, you piece
o' pork, you hedge-pig!"

With a stream of oaths and vituperation they tumbled out into the
street, whilst Mr. Moses, with his hands outspread and a cringing,
shrugging, smiling yet deprecating aspect, looked the picture of a
highly ingenuous bewilderment.  No sooner had they passed away in the
hot pursuit of some phantom of myself, than Mr. Moses opened the door
he had pushed so lately upon me, and informed me that the immediate
danger was overpast.  He waved away the thanks I offered him, with a
great deal of politeness, assuring me that he was more than repaid by
the happiness he took for having been of some slight service to so fine
a specimen of the nobility as myself.

"But if there is any leetle thing in the way of pizness," says he, "I
am the man, your lordship."

"Yes, Mr. Moses, I have been thinking of it," says I, and indeed I had.
"Now you see I am very tolerably attired."  I unbuttoned my riding-coat
and threw it open to display as elegant a costume as ever I had from
Tracy.  "Unhappily I have not a guinea in the world"--let me do Mr.
Moses the justice of recording that in the face of this announcement he
retained his countenance wonderfully well.--"But I will barter
breeches, coat, waistcoat, ruffles, stockings, buckled shoes, for a
plain drab shoddy suit, some common hose, and a pair of hob-nailed
boots.  By this exchange I think we shall both be gratified; you on
your side by receiving things of about twelve times the value of what
you give away; and I on mine by obtaining a tolerable disguise to my
condition when I start on my itinerary, for I hardly think I should
recognize myself in such a uniform, whilst as for my mamma, dear
sainted buckram lady! if at the end of all the journeying that is
before me I come before the gates of Heaven in it, she will hold a
bottle of vinegar before her fine-cut nose, and say _c'est un faux
pas!_ and get me denied the _entrée_.  She will ecod! for I would have
you to know, my dear Mr. Moses, I am of a devilish stiff-backed family.
Look at my grandfather.  What a majestical old gentleman it is, even as
in his declining years he takes his ease in his pop-shop, with
christening mugs and dirty candlesticks about him on the one hand, and
saving your presence, Mr. Moses, a Jew dealer on the other.  But there,
my good fellow, we will not talk about it."

Mr. Moses, seeing his advantage in this proposal--indeed he was so
excellent a fellow that had he not done so, I do not doubt he would
still have tried to accommodate me--fully entered into this idea, and
did his best to fish this chaste wardrobe out of the varied contents of
his shop.  Indeed such hidden stores did it contain, that after the
contents of divers boxes, and cupboards, and back parlours, and
mysterious receptacles had been examined, the necessary articles were
forthcoming, and I was shown into one of the chambers leading from the
shop, in order to effect this change in my attire.

It would have made you laugh to see the figure I cut--my snuff-coloured
coat and pantaloons, fitting in most places where they touched, gave me
such a rustical appearance that an ostler or a tapster became a
gentleman by the comparison.  The hose was rather better, however, but
the boots were not only the thickest and clumsiest as ever I saw, but
were much too big into the bargain.  A hat was also found for me that
matched very well indeed with this startling change in my condition;
and a thick, coarse brown cover-all in lieu of the smart riding-coat I
had set out with.  Mr. Moses certainly had as good a bargain as he
could have wished, but certainly not a better one than his merits
deserved; whilst I had come by the most effectual disguise to my
station, and one well calculated to mislead Sheriff's officers and Bow
Street runners, for in all my extended experience of the tribe they
have ever been clumsy fellows, blind of eye and thick of understanding,
incapable of seeing beyond the noses on their faces.  With mutual
respect and pleasure, therefore, and many pious hopes for the welfare
of my grandfather, whom I was moved to say could not have been left in
more worthy hands, I took my leave of Mr. Moses.  And seeing he was a
Jew, I must say that he was the best conditioned Jew as ever I met.

I took my way very cautiously on leaving the shop of my friend the
Hebrew.  At first I kept well in the shadow of the houses and peered
carefully about.  My enemies, however, appeared to be still away on the
false scent.  The twilight of the autumn afternoon was gathering in as
I pursued my way towards little Cynthia.  She was to have met me at the
gates of Hyde Park nearly an hour ago.  As I turned into Piccadilly
without meeting with a sign of my enemies, for no reason whatever I was
suddenly stabbed with the pain of a most bitter speculation.  Suppose
my little Cynthia was not there to meet me after all!  Suppose I had
tarried so long that, fearing I was taken, she had gone from the
rendezvous!  Suppose something unforeseen and mysterious had befallen
her, as such accidents occasionally do!  In a flash I realized how
dear, how inexpressibly dear she was to me.  If aught bereft me of her
now, she, the one friend I had, the one creature who believed in me,
worthless ruined fellow as I was, the one person who would dare to
stand at my side and face the sneers and the scorn of the world, life
would indeed have no savour left in it.  I should neither have the
heart nor the desire to continue in that which would become a burden
and a mockery.  And in sooth so did this terrible thought take hold of
me, that a kind of fatality came upon me.  I began to have a sense of
foreboding, as they say one may have in a dream; I felt the blood grow
slow and thin in my limbs; I was taken with a cold shivering; and my
spirit flagged so low that I would have wagered a kingdom at that
moment that some dire circumstance had happened to my love, and even
more particularly to me.

In the very height of this fever of insane fears, I came to the end of
Piccadilly, and there in the increasing gloom of the evening were the
gates of Hyde Park.  And there too, like a sentinel on guard, so proud
and strict she was of outline, was my little Cynthia.  She stood there
all unconscious of the fact that the simple sight of her was enough in
itself to reconcile a ruined man to his empty life.



CHAPTER IV

WE START UPON OUR PILGRIMAGE

All the way I had come I had heightened my disguise by mouching along
with my hat low down over my eyes, the collar of my coat turned up to
my ears, and my hands stuck deep in my pockets.  And so effectual was
this mode, that though Cynthia was awaiting me in fear and impatience,
I had walked right up to her and taken her by the arm ere she knew I
was so near.

"Oh, Jack," she sobbed, "I--I am so glad.  S--something s--seemed to
tell me that you would never return.  I was certain you were ta'en, and
that I should never see you again, except between the iron bars of a
prison."

I kissed her.

"Foolish child," says I, with dignified forgetfulness, "to entertain
such silly fears.  Alas, you women, that you should give way to
weaknesses of this sort!  What would you say of us men now, if we were
so easily afflicted?"

It was fine the way in which I wielded my advantage, and clearly showed
to the shrinking little creature how ill the poor weak female character
compared with the hardy, resolute male.  But as this instance goes to
show, I do not really think that the masculine character is so much
sterner than the feminine; for is not its pre-eminence largely a matter
of assumption?  A man scorns and conceals the weaknesses a woman
flaunts and cherishes.

The twilight was deepening rapidly and giving way to an evening of
heavy clouds and rainy wind, when arm-in-arm we started to walk we knew
not where.  We started to walk into the night and the country places,
away from our enemies, and from those who would sever or deter us.  We
had not the faintest idea as to the place we were bound for.  One spot
was as good as another.  Involuntarily we turned into the park,
although we knew not why we should.  But I suppose we felt that every
step we took into this mysterious nowhere of our destination, we were
leaving the law behind, and that together, friendless and resourceless,
but ever hand-in-hand, we were beginning our lives anew.

We moved away at a brisk round pace, possessed with the thought of
putting a long distance between us and our foes.  And in the pleasure
of having come together again we walked lightly and easily for long
enough, not heeding the way, nor the wind, nor the threat of the
rainclouds and the dark evening.  We rejoiced in the exquisite sense of
our comradeship, and in the thought that every step we took together
was a contribution to our freedom.  We came out of the park again, and
went on and on, past the houses of Kensington, and then past straggling
and remoter places, the names of which I did not know.

In a surprisingly little while, as it seemed to us, sunk in the
obsession of our companionship, we were groping in the unlit darkness
of the country lanes, with the lights of the town we had left fading
away behind us.  But we must have been walking considerably more than
two hours, and at a smart pace, to judge by the distance we had made.
It was then that I pressed Cynthia's hand and says:

"Are you not tired, little one?"

"Nay," says she, "my feet are slipping by so light, I do not know that
I am walking.  I could journey on all night in this way."

I was vastly gratified by this brave speech.  But for myself, although
I too had no weariness, and to be sure I could not have confessed to it
if I had, I was yet being bitten very severely by the pangs of hunger.
All day I had taken nothing beyond a glass or two of wine.  Therefore I
now felt a pressing need.

"At least," says I, "I hope you are hungry?"

"Well, since you mention it," says she, "I think I am."

"That is well," says I, "for I am most abominably so.  I believe I
never was so hungry in my life before; and I am sure I never had
scantier means of appeasing it.  Only conceive of twelvepence halfpenny
to the two of us for our board and lodging."

It now became our business to find an inn of the meaner sort, in which
we might invest this munificent sum.  But as we had long since left the
bricks and mortar of the town behind, a house for our entertainment was
not so easily come by.

We walked on and on, but still no welcome inn appeared; and presently
the lamps of the great city itself had vanished, till we were left in
the utter darkness of the country lanes.  There was no evidence of a
human habitation anywhere about, and we knew not where we were.

By this time both of us were tired as well as most bitterly hungry.
Poor little Cynthia hung so heavily on my arm, that I knew fatigue had
mastered her.  Yet so brave she was, that despite all the pains and
difficulties she endured, she would not admit that she was weary.
Indeed, when I asked her to confess it, says she: "Nay, not I," as
stoutly as she would have done three hours before.  Yet when we came to
a bank of earth beside the way, and I bade her rest upon it for a
little while she could raise no very great objection.

I suppose two persons could never have taken their repose with more
singular feelings than did we upon that bank of earth.  Whither we were
going that night, and what was to become of us we did not know.  There
was the sum of twelvepence halfpenny between us and destitution, but
even this could not avail us in such a solitary darkness, in the
absence of a house and human aid.  Happily the night was wonderfully
mild, and we in our coats and stout boots were warmly clad.  Otherwise
we might have perished where we sat.  The pains of fatigue, allied to
the pangs of hunger, had bereft us of both the energy and the
inclination to proceed.  We must have tarried on that bank considerably
beyond an hour, mutually consoling one another.  For my part little
Cynthia's courage almost reconciled me to these present circumstances,
but you may be sure I was bitterly distressed for her.  I had admitted
her into my care, foolishly no doubt, and because there was scarcely an
alternative; and this was the sort of provision I had to offer.  Come
what may, something must be done.  The child could never be left to
suffer thus.  I must find food and a sanctuary of some sort for her.

However, even as I pondered on our case, hunger and weariness did their
worst.

For some time I had known by Cynthia's failing answers and the
heaviness with which she leant against me, that she was becoming more
and more completely overborne.  And I'll swear so monstrous brave she
was that never a word of complaint passed her lips, nor yet a tear
escaped her.  And then her little head nestled up to my coat-sleeve,
and the next moment she sighed and was dead asleep upon it.  In spite
of her resolution, the excitements, the distresses and the pains of
that long day had overpowered her.  Yet I dare not have her pass the
night in this exposure on a moist bank of earth, with the night-wind
playing on her face, and the clouds that had banked themselves over the
moon for ever increasing and threatening to descend upon us in a
drenching rain.  Therefore, dire as my own case was, I roused myself to
a desperate attempt to discover a meal and a lodging for the night.

I had not the heart to try to arouse the poor child, as you may
suppose; wherefore, disturbing her as little as I could, I gathered her
in my arms, for after all her fine spirit she was but a feather of a
thing, and carried her before me along the lane.  It was an effort of
despair, for the never-ending darkness revealed no glimpse of what I
sought.  Every now and then the wind brought a spatter of the expected
rain; but this, when it came upon my lips, carried a kind of
refreshment in it.  I doggedly set my teeth and marched along with my
warm burden, and I think the weight of responsibility that was in my
arms, added to the one upon my heart, fostered a grim determination in
me to succeed in my search at any cost.  The lanes seemed interminable,
and every one the same.  All my limbs were one strange, numb ache; I
had become so faint with hunger that I moved in a kind of delirium; and
in the end every step I took became so mechanical a thing as to be an
effort of the will without the co-operation of the senses.

Heaven knows what the hour was when one of these lanes I had been
eternally taking all night long ended in a partly-unhinged gate.  My
first instinct was to snatch an instant's rest upon it; but this I
dared not do.  I could never have set my paralysed limbs in motion
again had I done so.  Indeed it was but the presence of poor little
Cynthia in my arms that prevented my sinking to the earth as I stood.
But looking beyond the gate I could indistinctly define various dull
masses that I believed to be the outline of haystacks or farm
buildings.  Brushing through the rickety gate with an accession of new
strength that the idea had lent me, I had not proceeded many yards in
the stubble-field beyond ere I knew that at last I had come to a
farmstead.  There was not a glimmer of light to be seen anywhere, nor
could I make out in the total darkness which was the house itself.
Approaching nearer it grew plain that these were farm buildings.
Considering, however, my exhausted condition, the lateness of the hour,
and the probability that the house was some distance off, I decided to
make the best of what lay before me.  No sooner had I taken this
resolve, than the moon, as if in recognition of it, showed itself
suddenly for the first time that night from out of its wrack of rain
clouds.  By its aid and the smell issuing from within I was made aware
that I stood before the entrance to a cow-hovel.

There was no door to it, therefore I was able to carry Cynthia straight
in.  The cows in their various stalls paid us hardly any attention as I
groped my way past them.  The place was of a somewhat considerable
extent, and coming to the end of it, I discovered a space in the far
corner where the clean straw was stored.  Dispersing a bundle of it
with my feet, I deposited my poor little one very gently into the warm
bed thereby made.  Careful as I had been not to disturb her, the change
in her position had its effect.  She gave the same sigh with which she
had gone to sleep, and says:

"Jack, Jack, where are you?  I do believe I've been to sleep."

"Then go to sleep again, my prettiness," says I.

"But what is this?" says she.  "This is surely not the bank of moist
earth in the lane I went to sleep on.  Where are we then?  What place
is this so warm and snug?"  A rustle.  "Straw!"  A sniff.  "A cow-shed!
Oh dear, I am----!  Oh, could we----! and, oh, Jack, dear, how did we
get here?"

The sound of Cynthia's voice and the knowledge that there was a roof
for her head and a couch for her body at last, however mean they might
be, did much to lift me out of my own sorry predicament.  Faint and
numb as I still was, my brain seemed to have its capacity restored.
And at least I could gauge by my own sufferings those which Cynthia
strove so valiantly to conceal.

"Are you not hungry, little one?" says I.

"Are you?" says she.

"Most damnably so," says I.

"Then I am too."

Now I would have you mark that hunger is a great wit.  Cynthia sniffed
a second time.  "Cows," says she.  "Oh, what good fortune!"

"But my dearest prettiness," says I, "hungry as we are I do not exactly
see how these cows can help us.  Although to be sure I will undertake
to knock one down and skin it, and make the fire and such like menial
offices, if you will cut it up and cook it."

"Goose that you are," says Cynthia.  "You almost deserve to perish of
your emptiness.  What about the milk?"

"Odslife!" cries I, "to think that I should not have thought of that.
Ye gods and little fishes, I must go find a pot, or a pail, or a pan to
hold it in!"

The happy prospect of such sustenance endowed us both with new vigour.
Without more ado I began groping about in this moonlit hovel to
discover these utensils.  But it was no such easy matter.  Look where I
might, inside the place and outside of it, amongst the straw and
fodder, or among the cows themselves, there was devil a pail that I
could see.  Yet so insistent was our case that we could not be put off
by any small detail of this sort.  We were both of us thoroughly awake
by now and fully bent on assuaging our distresses.  And Cynthia in
particular showed her good resources.

"Jack," says she, "give me your hat.  It is bigger than mine."

"To be sure," says I.  "I had not thought of that.  But I will go and
do the milking.  I do not choose that you undertake these menial
offices, my pretty, like a common dairymaid."

"I am afraid you can have no choice in the matter," says Cynthia, now
thoroughly awakened and full of importance at the prospect.  "You speak
as though it were indeed the simplest thing in the world to milk a cow.
'Pon my word, sir, I would vastly like to see you at that exercise.  It
requires a mighty long apprenticeship, I would have you to know; and
luckily I have had it during the time I have lived in Devonshire.  Were
it to be left to you, I am thinking we should come by precious little
else than your good intentions."

I bent my head in silence under this merited reproof.  Our resolve was
a brave one, for in the darkness and strangeness of the place it was
not easy to carry it out.  However, Cynthia, armed with my hat, if you
please, was not the person to stick at trifles.  She groped her way
among the cows in a most valiant manner, and presently, having the good
fortune to find one with a calf by its side, her task was made lighter
than it might have been otherwise.  I encumbered her with my
assistance.  The assistance in question consisted in holding the hat,
while she performed the more delicate operation.  And I could not help
remarking that for a town miss, who in Saint James's Park or Bloomsbury
had quite enough of airs, affectation and incapacity to pass as a
person of the finest _ton_, she showed a degree of aptitude quite
foreign to her quality.

"It is rarely done," says I, as the hat grew weightier and weightier.
"And I protest that you astonish me.  It is as unmodish a performance
as ever I saw.  I wish some of your friends could see you now."

"Oh, Lord," says Cynthia, in great terror from beneath the udder, "I
would not have them see me for the world.  I vow if they did I should
die of it."

"I believe you would," says I; "and I believe they would also."

Cynthia had the first drink from the hat, which, being of a good, stiff
felt quality, and being pretty commodious too, for its business as you
know was to enclose a great brain, it made an admirable receptacle.
But to drink from it without spilling the milk was not by any means a
simple performance.  Great address was required, but the expert Mrs.
Cynthia contrived it somehow.  And when she fitted her lips to the
brim, there was never a drop that left this quaint vessel but it went
to its right destination.

"How warm and delicious it is!" says she, after bibbing a most
immoderate quantity.  "How refreshed I feel!"

Shaking with laughter, I followed her example.  Yet the vigour with
which I did it, combined with my clumsier masculine methods, had
unfortunate consequences.  I choked and sputtered and turned a good
deal down my coat ere I was able to get any satisfaction out of my
labours.  However, when I had learned to control my impatience, and had
found the true knack of drinking hot milk out of my own hat, it was
almost worth enduring the pangs of so shrewd a hunger to have such an
exquisite recompense.  One hatful did not suffice us either.  We
returned to the cow again and again; and with such excellent
consequences, that for the nonce, we were both strongly agreed that no
meal of rare dishes served on silver with powdered servants behind our
chairs had ever given us any pleasure to approach our present one.
Indeed, so delicately satisfied did we feel within, and such a sense of
sweet lassitude was stealing over us, as made the thoughts of our couch
of straw a thousand times more delectable than any pillows and lavender
sheets we had ever slept in--nay, we really marvelled that if this was
a state of mind incident to a vagabond roving life, how any one could
ever do aught else but adopt it?  Truly it must be the ignorance of the
world.  People could not know of these Arcadian delights.  Who would
trouble else to be a peer, for ever sweating and fuming in the toils of
one's position, spending one's days in contriving fresh devices for the
defeat of weariness and in the excitement of new appetites?  Who would
game and drink every night in order to forget the _ennui_ of the world,
only to find day by day that instead of forgetting it, the intolerable
oppression of it did increase?

After shaking down several bundles of sweet-smelling hay and making of
it a rare soft bed, I was about to lie in it, when the propriety of the
feminine character was most excellently manifested.  With a good deal
of confusion in her voice, and I'll swear in her face too, though
unhappily the darkness of this far corner was so great I could not
observe it, my companion intimated her modest doubts.  It seemed we had
not yet been through the hands of the clergyman.  Be sure that this
marvellously bashful proper miss did not use words of this rude
character.  In faith, I hardly think that she used words at all; and if
she did, certainly not more than three at a time, and even they were of
such a nature that taken by themselves they could have no meaning
whatever.  But so evident were the poor child's modest distresses, and
so keen her desire not to act in anywise contrary to the conventions of
that propriety in which her sex has ever been foremost, that I nearly
cracked a rib with my vulgar mirth.

"So be it, Mrs. Puritan," says I.  "But upon my soul more _bourgeois_
reasons I never heard.  'Fore Gad, though, a most meritorious
respectability."

Little Cynthia, however, was not to be smoked out of her demeanour.
She persevered in it in the most straight-laced manner, and in the end
I was fain to erect a barrier of hay between us, and build up a second
couch for myself.  Thus we might at a pinch be said to occupy separate
chambers, though to be sure the partition between us was not stout
enough to prevent us conversing as we lay in our separate beds.  But it
was little talk that passed between us.  We were so delightfully weary
that it began and ended in "Good-night!"  The next minute an
unmistakable indication came from Mrs. Cynthia's apartment, and a
minute afterwards I was sunk in the honestest and therefore the most
delicious sleep I had enjoyed for many a year.  I neither dreamt nor
wandered, but just dropt into a profound insensibility which was
continued well into the daylight of the morning.  This rare refreshment
was destined to end in a somewhat peremptory fashion.

I think it must have been a kick or a blow that waked me.  For I came
to my senses with an unnatural suddenness and a curse on my tongue.  It
was broad day, and the misty morning sun was struggling in through
numerous chinks in the roof and walls of the hovel.  A farmer with a
pitchfork in his hand was standing before me.  He was almost
inarticulate with rage.  As I opened my eyes he burst out into a
violent Doric that I hope these pages are much too chaste to adequately
reproduce.

"Well I nivver in all my born days," says he, stamping his feet, and
then rounding his period with a most ferocious kick on my shin.

"Get up, ye impident scoundrel, and I'll beat ye to purpose so I will.
In my own barn, in broad daylight too.  O the impidence, the domned
impidence of it!"

The kick had greatly helped me to realize the state of the case.  We
had been discovered by the owner of the cow-house, and he, with true
British respect for the rights of property, was not unnaturally
incensed that two persons were so calmly infringing them.  For by this
he had discovered poor little Cynthia, whom I was able to observe
through the frail portion of hay between us, sitting up in her bed with
a very woeful, frightened countenance.

"Whoy theer's a woman too," says the farmer.  "Well if this doan't beat
all I ivver heard.  O you impident hussy."

"My good fellow," says I, fearing lest he should deal Cynthia a kick
also, "I am afraid you are under some misapprehension in this matter.
Allow me to explain."

I thought it to be an occasion when the very nicest suavity of tone and
manner was required, for the consequences were like to be uncommonly
ruffling else.  Therefore I could not have been more careful of my
courtesy had I been addressing my remarks to the King.  But all I got
for my pains was the sight of a great bewilderment that suddenly ran in
the farmer's purple face.

"Whoy, a dom'd foreigner," says he.  "That makes it wuss, an hundred
times wuss, that it do.  I'll give you foreigner, I will too.  A
foreigner in my plaace, among my cows, lying in my hay.  Come out o' it
and I'll break your yedd in two plazen; once for yersen, and once for
t' little witch with the blue eyes.  How d'ye like that, Mister
Foreigner?"

Crack came the blunt end of the pitchfork at me so smartly, that it was
only the fact that I was expecting some small manifestation of the kind
that enabled me to get up my arm quick enough to save my head.

As my attempt at a polite argument had had such an unfortunate effect
upon him, I judged that I should best serve my skin by advancing a less
formal sort of rejoinder, but one that might more directly appeal to
his rustic character.

"Enough of this, sir," says I, "But just lay down your pitchfork, take
off your jacket and step outside, and you shall be the judge as to
whether I am a foreigner, or as good an Englishman as you are yourself."

The effect upon him was excellent.  His anger melted at once at this
proposal, so clearly was it after his own mind.

"'Tis fair speaking anyway," says he.  "I could not have spoken it
better myself.  Come on this way, my lad, we'll soon set this matter to
rights."

Cynthia was terribly frightened.  She clung to my arms, and refused to
let me follow the farmer into the yard.

"Much as I admire your solicitude, my prettiness," says I, "it is most
highly inconvenient.  For do you not see that this is as much an affair
of honour as an appointment at Lincoln's Inn Fields?  Mr. Chawbacon has
suffered an injury at our hands, and you who milked his cow last night
should be the last to deny it.  Wherefore should he not have the
satisfaction that he desires?  You would not, I am sure, have me put
off my gentility now that I cease to wear its livery.  It is the only
reparation that I can make to Mr. Chawbacon, and if I denied it to the
honest fellow I should cease to respect myself."

Poor little Cynthia having no substantial argument to advance against
this--indeed how could she have?--had recourse to a flood of tears, at
once the most natural, formidable and convincing one her sex can set
up.  But greatly as her behaviour embarrassed me, I was committed with
the farmer, and I have such an instinct in these matters, that
notwithstanding Cynthia's very real distress, I could not possibly have
backed out of my position with any shred of credit.  Therefore taking
off my great-coat I bade the poor frightened child wrap herself in it
up to her ears and to stay where she was, that she might neither hear
nor observe that which was going forward.  She obeyed me in this, and
lay sobbing softly to herself while I went forth to do battle with my
friend the farmer.

On stepping out of the hovel into the yard I found my antagonist was
surrounded by three or four of the farm yokels, and moreover was
stripped to the waist.  To judge by his expression he was plainly
animated by the highest intentions towards me, and was prepared to give
quite as much or even more than he was likely to receive.

"Now then, my lad," he says briskly, "I'm a-going to do as well by you
as Tench did last week by the Fightin' Tinman.  Now then, Joe Barker,
and you, Bill Blagg, come on with them there pails and moppses."

To my infinite delight I saw that the two children of the soil in
question were bearing two buckets of water towards us with a sponge
floating on the top of each.

"We can't have this done in due and proper form according to the
reggerlations," says this sportsman of a farmer in an apologetic voice,
"because you see we've got no judge, and none o' these men o' mine
could be trusted with the dooties.  I wish Squire was here, I do so.
We _could_ have it all done proper then accordin' to the reggerlations.
Squire was Tench's backer down Putney way last week, and knows all the
reggerlations off by heart, does Squire.  He only lives just across the
road, and if you'll wait a minute I'll have him fetched."

"No, my good man," says I hastily, "we'll have no squires if you
please.  We can trust one another, I suppose.  Let me suggest that a
knock-down ends the round, and that we set-to again when we feel able."

"That seems fair," says the farmer.  "But I should a-liked Squire to
ha' been here all the same, and I'm thinking he'd a-liked to ha' been
here too.  He's the best sporting man in Surrey, is the Squire, and
fair death on the reggerlations."

Having fixed up all the preliminaries of an encounter in this
expeditious fashion, I proceeded to prepare for the fray.  I imitated
the farmer's excellent example, divested myself of coat, waistcoat and
shirt, and bound up my breeches with a leathern belt I was able to
borrow from a flattered and delighted yokel.  It was in this negligent
attire that I regarded my antagonist, and devoutly hoped the while that
my little Cynthia was still sobbing among the hay in the hovel.



CHAPTER V

I VINDICATE THE NATIONAL CHARACTER

The farmer held out his hand with a grin, but quite in the approved
manner, and I seized the occasion of shaking it briefly to run over his
points.  He was extremely broad: a hard-looking, powerful fellow,
apparently capable of taking a deal of punishment.  But his years were
against him.  He was considerably on the wrong side of fifty to judge
by his looks, and in height I had the advantage of a full four inches.
To judge by the attitude in which he set himself, I doubted whether,
whatever his experience of these encounters, he had much science to
recommend him.  For myself I must confess I was hugely delighted with
the whole thing, and entered into it with the spirit of a boy.  A match
or a contest or a wager of any kind has ever been peculiarly acceptable
to me.  Indeed was it not this fondness, amounting almost to a passion,
that had so largely contributed to my present position?  I had always,
I think, been pretty ready with my hands; had had some little practice
in night affrays with footpads and persons of that kidney; had
witnessed more than one set-to in the ring; whilst as for the matter of
science, I had in my younger days taken so keen an interest in this
invaluable art, as to put myself under the tutelage of acknowledged
masters of it.  Therefore I was not without a certain confidence in
myself, although there was a grim determination about the mien and air
of the farmer that was not to be despised.  He was unmistakably game
and full of the true fighting instinct, but his years were no friends
of his intrepidity.

Disregarding all subtleties and finesse, as well became his blunt,
rustical, honest character, we had no sooner greeted one another and
got our hands up, than the farmer came at me both hands pell-mell, with
his head down, like a bull at a gate.  His onset was so fierce and
sudden, that I was by no means prepared to receive it, and he had me at
a decided disadvantage.  He had rained in a full dozen of short-armed
blows, right and left, left and right at my face, at my ribs, at my
chest, ere I could even so much as find my fighting legs, or bring into
action any little skill that I might possess.  My long-unpractised ward
could not prevail at all against such an onslaught.  I received
half-parried blows on the mouth, which cut my lip and broke a tooth, on
the right eye which partially closed it up, and a full one in the ribs.
This last was the worst of all, as for a time it deprived me somewhat
of my wind and made me sob to catch my breath.  And while I was meeting
with these misfortunes, the bystanding yokels, whose sympathies were
all on one side and that not mine, as you may suppose, were dancing
with delight, and shrieking their hoarse encouragement.

"Go it, varmer.  Give un pepper, give un snuff!"

However, by this I had pulled myself together somewhat, and had found a
means of coping with this hand-over-hand style of fighting.  There was
plenty of room to dodge in.  This I began to make use of.  Indeed it
was the only chance I had of protecting myself, for I was quite
incapable of standing up to the farmer's terrible blows.  But as soon
as I could find myself sufficiently to begin dancing out of his reach,
the game turned at once in my favour.  There was devil a bit of guile
or finesse in the heart of my honest adversary.  The moment I gave
ground, he pursued me, hitting the air.  Happily for me he was much too
slow and heavy in this kind of warfare ever to get his knuckles near
the place he desired.

In a little while his great jowl grew inflamed, the sweat poured off
his forehead into his eyes, his breath came short and thick, and his
hitting grew gradually weaker and less sustained.  It was not yet that
I went in, however.  I continued to prance round and round him, there
being plenty of room in which to do so; and at every futile blow he
grew more unsteady.  But all this while I had a keen eye for my
opportunity.  It was coming slowly but surely, for I was well enough
versed in the matter to know better than to go so much as an inch to
meet it.  I waited then with a wary patience, sometimes letting him get
nearer than I need have done to encourage him in his course.  Not that
this was necessary, for the old fellow was as game as any pet of the
"fancy" that ever buffed in the ring.  But not again did I allow him to
get his "ten commandments" home on me; I had had enough of that.  And
at last having allowed him to spend himself entirely, I quickly
selected the moment of my advantage, even deliberated on it to make
quite sure, and then stiffened every muscle into trim.  I made a
pretence of closing up with him.  This had the effect of luring him
into another futile rush.  As he came hitting blindly, I feinted, and
as he went past, my right went out at the most correct fraction of an
instant, and down went the gallant farmer into the muck of his own
barton.  The Fighting Tinker himself could not have done it more
neatly, I'll vow.  But the old fellow was of a rare British mettle.  He
was no sooner down than he was up again.  Apparently he was ashamed to
be seen in such a humiliating posture.

I, for my part, had barely time to wipe away the blood that was oozing
from my broken lip, ere the farmer was up and at me again.  But I was
not to be caught napping a second time.  By this I was perfectly calm
and sure of myself, for I felt that I enjoyed a command of the methods
that were likely to bring me success.  Instead of dodging from my
opponent on this occasion I allowed him to come right up and literally
hurl himself on his own undoing.  For again at the exact instant I got
a beautiful lead on to his point, and stunned as much by the unexpected
check to his own impetus as by the blow itself, he fell flat on his
back.  This time he lay half stunned.  He made several attempts to rise
immediately, but was quite unable to do so.

Seeing him to be somewhat the worse, his yokels ran to him, whilst I
went too, and rendered him all the assistance that lay in my power.  He
lay puffing and panting in the mire of the yard, half-dazed by his
disaster, otherwise apparently not a penny the worse.  He was still
full of fighting courage; but unfortunately he lay as weak as a child
from the shock of the blow and the fall.  Strive as he might he was
quite unable to rise.  His yokels of course were at a loss to know what
to do in the circumstances, but I did what I could by propping his head
on my knee, and dispatching one of the men to the house for some
brandy.  And at this moment who should arrive but little Cynthia with a
very white face indeed, and in such a quiver of distress as plainly
said that she had witnessed the whole affair from the seclusion of the
cowhouse.

"Oh," says she, taking charge of the farmer at once, and sponging his
face and his breast with the cold water, "you are neither of you
killed, I hope.  Oh, you pair of ruffian wretches!  Have you much pain,
poor farmer?  Lean your head on Jack, and take things gently a little.
And do you, What's-your-name? bring his coat and put over the poor
man's shoulders."

While these delicate attentions were going forward, my sturdy adversary
was recovering remarkably.

"I'm all right, my wench," says he.  "But I'm dom'd if I can stand up
again, much as I should like.  Your mate's done me fair for once, and I
can tell you he's the only man hereabouts that ivver gave Joe Headish
his bellyful.  Dom'd if I don't go at 'im again.  Here, let be; let me
get up."

By a sudden effort he tried to rise, but immediately fell back again in
a still more dilapidated state.  But the arrival of the brandy did a
good deal to restore him, and a little afterwards he was on his legs.
Feeling himself in no condition to continue, reluctant as he was to
admit the fact, he held out his hand, and we both subscribed to the
articles of peace.

By the time I had donned my clothes in the seclusion of the hovel, and
had emerged forth again in all the respectability of my great-coat,
coat, waistcoat, and shirt, the farmer was thoroughly recovered and
talking to Cynthia in the most friendly spirit.  At my appearance, says
he:

"I don't know who you are, young man; I don't know you from Adam, that
I don't, but I respect you.  You're of the right stuff, my lad, and
pretty handy with your mauleys.  I ax pardon for calling you a
foreigner.  Whatever part you come from, and whatever your occipation
may be, dom'd if you're not as true-blood an Englishman as I am mysen.
And I don't care who hears me say it."

"I thank you, sir," says I gravely.  "But I am sure the apology should
come from me.  I on my side ask your pardon for using your cowhouse and
using your milk in the small hours of the morning."

"Don't name it," says the farmer.  "You're quite welcome to the best
I've got.  And dom me if it comes to that you shall have it too.  You
come along with me, and bring the little wench as well.  Purty a little
wench as ivver I see, she is so!"

I suppose it was the rudest and coarsest invitation either of us had
ever had in our lives, but it was certainly the heartiest; and this
I'll vow, there never was an invitation in this world more promptly and
thankfully accepted.  Indeed at the first hint of it our hearts almost
leapt with joy, and then a tear sparkled in Cynthia's eyes as she
curtsied to the farmer.  It was really fine to observe the behaviour of
the honest fellow.  There was not a spark of animosity in him.  He had
arbitrated on the merits of the case in his own fashion, and he now
acquiesced in the result with the same game spirit with which he had
arrived at it.  And I am perfectly certain for my part that there was
more wisdom in the man's instincts of justice than may at the first
sight appear.  If all the world would recognize his as the accepted
manner of adjudicating on its private and individual grievances, it
would be found the best method, the one least likely to breed bad
blood, and the one most calculated to engender a mutual respect in the
parties concerned.  And now having delivered this superior sentiment as
a sort of grace before meat, let us follow our good farmer to his
dwelling with the cheerful expedition that we did on the occasion
itself.

The excellent man, although evidently puzzled as to who we might
be--our mode of life was certainly such as to justify his gravest
suspicions--was at great pains to conceal any doubts of our character
and occupation that he might entertain.  But the moment we entered the
ample food-smelling kitchen of the farm, the ceiling hung if you please
with hams, a rare dish of bacon frizzling before the fire, and a
breakfast table that to our charmed eyes was almost overborne with good
homely and appetizing things, we had to run the gauntlet of the
farmer's wife.  She was a little, keen-featured, hard-faced woman,
with, as we were soon to discover, the devil of a sharp tongue.  She
ruffled her feathers as soon as she saw us.

"Lork-a-mercy!" says she, "I didn't know, Joseph, as 'ow you was
a-bringing of company to breakfast."

"I didn't know mysen," says Joseph complacently.  Then followed a
moment of embarrassment.  It was plainly the good man's duty to present
us to his wife.  She very properly expected it of him.  But as in his
own phrase he did not know us from Adam himself, he was at a loss to
know in what terms to represent us.  Nor did the pause that ensued help
matters at all.  The farmer's wife had from the first, as her manner
showed, been by no means disposed to view us favourably.  There was
evidently something in our appearance that had caused her to take a
strong prejudice against us.  One cannot be surprised that this was the
case, however, seeing that we were both unwashed, and as unkempt as we
possibly could be, whilst to add a final touch to the picture we
presented, I was embellished with a puffy and discoloured eye, and a
bloodied lip.  These misfortunes, when her good man had made
appearances ten times more unfortunate by his hesitation, his wife was
only too ready to take as a confirmation of her suspicions.  We were a
pair of worthless persons, and Joseph was unable to account for the
sudden impulse that had led him to bring us into that respectable
abode.  For if we were persons of some credit, why did not Joseph say
so at once?  His wife sniffed, and after gazing at us in a most
disconcerting manner, was moved to say:

"Joseph, I'm surprised at you.  I'll have no wicked vagabond
play-actors here.  I've always done my best to keep this house
respectable, and, please God, it shall always be so.  How dare you
bring such people here?  I'll be bound you found them sleeping in your
barn, and then, soft-hearted fool that you are, you bring them in to
breakfast.  Oh, I know; you can't deceive me.  It is not enough then
that they should trespass on your premises, lie on your hay, and rob
your hen-roosts, but you must encourage 'em in it into the bargain, and
bring them into this clean, wholesome kitchen that you know I've always
took such a pride in."

The farmer turned as red as a cabbage.  In his heart he was bound to
admit that every word his wife uttered was true in substance.  But he
was a very honest fellow; and though he might feel that he was greatly
to blame for taking a couple of vagrants so much under his wing, he was
not the man to go back on his hospitality.  He stood by us nobly.

"Wife," says he, "what words be these?  If I choose to ask a lady and
gentleman to come and sit at table with me, shall my own wife insult
them lo their faces?"

"Lady and gentleman!" says the redoubtable wife.  "A pretty sort of
lady and gentleman, ain't they?  A brazen madam with a hat on.  Oh, and
curls too!  Lord, look at her!  If she's not a play-actress I've never
seen one.  And what a bully of a rogue she has got with her, too.  Hath
he not the very visnomy of a footpad?  He's lately escaped from Newgate
Gaol, I'll take my oath on't."

There could be no doubt that this good lady was blest with a tongue of
the sharpest kind.  Her husband was terribly put out by it.  Poor
little Cynthia was, too.  For all her high breeding and her modish
London insolence, which in circumstances favourable to it was wont to
sit so charmingly upon her, she could hardly restrain her tears.  I
suppose it is that a woman can never bear to be ridiculed, or abused,
or put in a false position.  The poor child trembled and clung to my
arm, while her face grew pink and white by turns.

"Oh, Jack," she whispered, "do say something that will put us right.
Tell them who we are.  I cannot bear to be spoken to like this."

"You surely would not have me spoil the comedy just now?" says I.  "I
am enjoying it vastly."

In sooth I was.  I dare say it is that I am always keenly alive to
these odd passages in life, and that I am more prone to seize the
whimsicality of a matter than is a person of a better gravity.  I vow
it was finer than a play to me to witness a highly rustical farmer and
his spouse violently quarrelling because Mr. Chawbacon had degraded his
rural abode by bringing a duke's daughter into it.  And here was the
storm growing shriller, the farmer redder and angrier, and poor little
Cynthia ready to faint with the humiliation of it all.

The state of the case was not improved when the farmer turned his back
on his wife in the middle of her invective.  And doubtless to define
his opinion of her behaviour and to show that he was determined to
stand by us, come what might, he very civilly asked us whether we would
care to have some hot water from the kettle and go upstairs and perform
our ablutions.  You may guess with what alacrity we accepted this
invitation; indeed nothing could have better accorded with our needs
and our wishes.  But no sooner had the farmer spoken to this tenor than
Mistress Headish broke out shriller than before:

"What can you be thinking of, Joseph Headish?" says she.  "Do you think
I would trust two such rapscallion persons out of my sight in our clean
upper chambers, and so many things to tempt their honesty in them, too?
No; if they want to wash themselves, they must do it at the pump in the
yard, as their betters have had to do often enough.  And why people
like that, leading the vagrant, masterless life they do, should require
to wash themselves at all, I don't know.  And as you have promised them
a bite to eat, they shall have it, after they have washed themselves.
But not in my nice clean kitchen.  I'll send 'em out half a loaf of
bread and a piece of cold bacon, and a mug of my good October ale, and
they can take it sitting on the pump, and think themselves lucky to get
it too."

"Peace, woman," says the farmer, in a voice of such dudgeon as did him
the highest credit.  "Are you the master in this house, or am I?"

To emphasize the inquiry he brought his hand down with such a force
upon the breakfast-table as set the dishes rattling; whilst he
indicated the answer by peremptorily bidding us follow him upstairs.
This we were in something of a hurry to do, and we soon found ourselves
in a spacious bed-chamber, which smelt of cleanliness to such an extent
that, knowing how very ill our own persons must consort with it, we
began to feel that the farmer's wife was justified of her grievances.
That worthy shrew, having thoroughly aroused her honest husband, did
not think fit to interpose any active resistance to his commands, but
contented herself by staying below, and in delivering a shrill
monologue from the foot of the stairs.



CHAPTER VI

CONTAINS A FEW TRITE UTTERANCES ON THE GENTLE PASSION

We had to wait a minute for the hot water and fresh towels which our
host had had the forethought to order for us.  These were presently
brought by a strapping servant lass, whose ill-repressed grins proved
that she had been a spectator of these incidents.  While we waited, the
good man's apologies for his wife were truly comic.  He chivalrously
made it clear to us that her defects sprang from the very excess of
excellencies in her character.

"A notable good woman," says he, while her voice continued to shrill up
the stairs.  "A fine, honest, energetic woman--a woman in a thousand.
Always strivin', savin', and cleanin' she is, the very model of what a
housewife should be.  If she's got a fault, it is her over-anxiousness.
She will look on the dark side of things; and she's that dreadful
suspicious, all in the interest of her household, that if a stranger is
seen with his head over the fence, she can't sleep for a week after it,
being so certain in her mind that the hayricks are going to be fired,
the stock taken, the farmstead broken into, and our throats cut as we
lie in bed.  But I know you'll overlook it; she don't mean nothing by
it, as you can see with half an eye.  She's a rare good woman as ivver
I see; it's only her worritin' frettishness for the welfare o' the
farm; you do understand that, don't you?"

"Perfectly," we said together, an assurance that relieved the good man
mightily.

"You know, what upsets her most," says he, "is that I can't put a name
to ye.  For myself, although I came by you promiscuous like at the
onset, I likes you and I believes in you.  I think you're the right
sort, only a bit down in the world.  But of course she don't know that.
She's not seen you use your ten commandments, young man; and she don't
know what pretty little ways your nice little wife 'ave."  Cynthia
blushed such a brilliant colour at this complimentary reference that
the farmer paused to chuckle.  "Begs your pardon, I'm sure, my dear,"
says he, "if I've put my big foot in it.  Not his wife.  Well, well, I
thinks none the worse o' 'im for that, I don't; but if I was you I
would not let the mistress know it.  Her virtue makes her that
disagreeable sometimes as you wouldn't believe.  Now if you can give me
a name by which I can introjuice you by, fair and square, as though you
was friends o' mine, it'll make things easier, do you see, when we sits
down to breakfast."

"Well," says I, "since you ask it of us, this lady is the Lady Cynthia
Carew, daughter to the Duke of Salop, and you can call me the Earl of
Tiverton."

Instead of betraying any surprise at finding us in the possession of
dignities which, to say the least, he could not have expected us to
enjoy, the farmer betrayed not a whit of it, but broke into a fit of
laughter and clapped me upon the shoulder.

"Oh, if it comes to that," says he, "you can call me the Cham of
Tartary and my old missis the Queen of Sheba."

Nor would he, in spite of the solemn assurances that I rather delighted
to give him, be convinced of our true condition.

"No, my lad," says he, still laughing at the humour of it, "you may be
pretty handy with your mauleys, and I would be the last to be denying
that, but you're no more the pattern of a nobleman than I am.  You
should try this game on with a greener chap than me.  You must not
think because I'm a plain farmer that I can't recognize the real
slap-up nobility when I meets them.  Now if you allowed yourself to be
some sturdy vagabond that's too idle to work for his livelihood, or a
strolling actor that is a peddling along the country with his
puppet-show, or an incorrigible rogue that's lately out of the stocks
for robbing hen-roosts, and was lying last night in my cowhouse to take
more than his lodging, I wouldn't disbelieve you.  But an earl!--no,
you've overshot the mark a bit, my lad.  Say a bart now--be satisfied
with just a blessed bart--and we'll let it pass at that."

"No, rat me if I will," says I, pretending to be angry.  "I'll have my
earldom, or I'll have nothing at all."

"But surely a bart's good enough for anybody," says the farmer, fully
entering, as he supposed, into the humour of the thing.  "Why, I
wouldn't mind being a bart mysen.  Come, let it go at a bart, my lad.
Yes, I'll pass you at a bart out of respect for your fisticuffs, but
between you and me I don't think my old mis'ess will."

"No," says I, "'od's blood!  I will not be a bart as you call it.  I
will be the Right Honourable Anthony Gervas John Plowden-Pleydell,
Fifth Earl of Tiverton, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter,
or I will be nothing at all."

"Very well, then," says the farmer perfunctorily, "since that is your
humour, we'll have it at that.  But wait till I announce your title to
my old mis'ess, and hear what she's got to say about it.  And this
little wench--pretty little wench, I'll allow--she's daughter to my
lord the Duke of who?"

"To my lord the Duke of Salop," says I, importantly, dwelling on each
syllable of her title for the jest's sake, "and you can call her my
Lady Cynthia Mary Jane Carew."

"Dom'd if I don't then," says he.  "And here come the clean clouts and
the warm water.  Here, Jenny, put them down there for his lordship and
her ladyship.  And we'll leave his lordship and her ladyship to do
their dressing, and then they'll please condescend to honour our humble
meal.  Now, then, my girl, off with you below; and how dare you have
the impertinence to stand grinning there like a Cheshire cat, before my
lord and my lady, too!"

With a great guffaw for the honour of his own wit, the farmer left us
to our much-needed toilets.  The reflections with which we made them
would have served a philosopher of the kidney of my grandfather, for
instance, for a monstrous fine homily on the true value of rank and
title.  What were they worth when enclosed in a suit of homespun?  They
required all the appurtenances with which they are hedged about in the
public mind to be of any value whatever.  It seemed that a lord derived
the consideration of the world from his silk stockings and the congees
of his servants--not from any intrinsic merits within himself; and it
was with this trite reflection that I looked in the hand-glass, and
smiled in something of a cynical manner at the unredeemed villainy of
the countenance that I found there.  A lively scrubbing did a little
for it, it is true, but that could not obliterate the traces of my
recent bout with the farmer, nor the growth of beard upon my chin, nor
enhance the rude, ill-fitting clothes in which my friend the Jew had,
as it seemed, so effectually disguised me.  Cynthia, however, who had
the true feminine ingenuity in these matters, having washed her face
and trimmed up her curls a little--Lord knows how!--contrived to make a
very much better appearance in the role of the duke's daughter than
ever I was like to do in that of the noble wearer of the Order of the
Garter.  When we were sufficiently furbished to think of going down to
that delicious meal, in which the greater part of our thoughts were
centred, says I as we descended:

"Remember now, we are under no alias whatever.  I am my lord, and you
are my lady."

"But surely," says Cynthia, who in so many ways had the true feminine
imperviousness to the whimsicality of things, "is this not the very
height of imprudency?  If we leave evidences behind us at every place
at which we tarry we shall be certainly taken in three days."

"Rest content," says I, "they will never inquire in out-of-the-way
places of this sort.  In dangerous places we can still be incognito.
But do you not see the cream of this affair is that our real names are
the best disguises we can wish to have?  We are far less likely to be
recognized by them than any we might adopt."

It was with this conviction that we came in to breakfast, and
confronted the farmer and his wife.  Determined to play up to my part,
I bowed to the farmer's wife with a most sweeping air, as though she
were a woman of the first fashion, and I made her as gracious a speech
as I could possibly make.  There were a thousand apologies in it, and a
great many compliments to her, her husband, her kitchen, and more
sincerely, the hot meal we were dying to partake of.  I did it with all
the breeding I could summon, and to see such ceremony issuing from so
common not to say low a person, dumbfounded the good wife so
completely, that even her powers of speech forsook her.  She blinked,
and nodded her head, and fidgeted this way and that; and when little
Cynthia, taking her cue from me, curtsied to her with the best grace of
a lady-in-waiting to her most gracious Majesty, as indeed the naughty
miss was destined to be, the poor goodwife was so taken by confusion
that she trod on the cat, and the cat I doubt not would have knocked
over the dish of bacon on the hearth in its fright, had not I, in
anticipation of some such disaster, very gallantly interposed between
them.

The farmer himself, although equally at a loss to reconcile our manners
with our appearance and presence in that place, was evidently too much
of a lover of his joke to let the occasion pass.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, wife," says he, "that these are a lady and
gentleman of the first nobility.  You would run on so when they first
came in that you gave me no chance of saying who they were.  Just tell
the mis'ess, my lord, who your lordship and her ladyship may be, for I
domm'd if I don't forget."

This I did with a good deal of unction, for seeing what a comic effect
our manners had had on the good woman, our names in all probability
would have one still more singular.  This proved to be the case, for no
sooner had I, with much apologetic modesty for the circumstances which
had impelled me to it, played the herald to my fair companion and
myself, than our hostess became the victim of an even more remarkable
nervousness, and grew as apologetic on her part as she had been
cross-grained before.

"La," says she, "I can never forgive my husband for not having told me.
To think you should honour us by sitting down in our humble
farm-kitchen to our humble fare, and you should be treated so unseemly!
But it is so like my husband not to have told me.  La, will your
lordship have ale, or does your lordship prefer to take a little
claret-wine of a morning?  We have it, although it is not on the table.
Jenny, go this minute and fetch the claret-wine for his lordship."

It seemed that our hostess having got over the first shock of our
identity, proposed to match our breeding with some of her own.  She
began to use a high clipping tone that she evidently kept for company,
and became so assiduous in the attentions she paid us, and so heedful
of our wants, that we profited vastly by her credulity, if that is the
right name to apply to it.  Her husband, however, was not so lightly to
be imposed upon, as he was at pains to show.  At every polite effort
put forward by his wife, he counteracted it by a wink or a cough, or a
chuckle, or a snigger.  And he put the handles to our names in such a
voice of banter as greatly distressed his wife, who continued to
overpower us with her civilities.  At last, says she:

"Your lordship and your ladyship must really excuse my husband.  He is
a very good honest man to be sure," here she sank her voice to a
mysterious whisper, "but he is a little vulgar and low-bred in these
things, although," with a still lower voice and more mystery, "I would
not have him hear me say it for the world.  You see he is not come of
so good a family as I am.  His folk were a little vulgar and low-bred
too, and people said at the time that for all his farm and his prize
heifers it was the last thing to be expected that a person like me
would ever marry him.  Ah, well, I suppose it is always a mistake to
marry out of one's station, although to be sure no one could have a
kinder, better husband.  But your lordship and your ladyship follow me,
do you not?  He almost makes me blush for his manners, that he do."

"My dear madam," says I, "I am sure we both feel for you from the
bottom of our hearts, and understand the occasion perfectly."

And could there have been a prettier comedy?  First we had had the
husband apologizing for the wife, and now we had the wife apologizing
for the husband.  Lord knows whether she allowed us to be what we were
or not, but she certainly entertained us to a royal breakfast.  Two
famished people never sat down to a finer meal in this world than the
one we partook of.  And when we left our honest but wonderfully
ill-assorted host and hostess, about nine of the clock in the morning
to continue on our way, we were most handsomely fortified in mind and
body.

As we passed from the farmyard and struck into the fields the sun was
showing handsomely, and the thrushes were singing their lusty notes.
It was as fine a spring morning as the heart could desire.  The
virginal airs played on our faces; the birds called to one another from
hedge to tree; the little lambs frisked among the white daisies in the
meads, as hand-in-hand we took our way again.  We still had no clear
idea as to whither we were going.  But we were mightily content
wherever our way might lead.  The sense we had of our liberty was a
something we had never tasted before.  Had we not cast off the trammels
of the world?  We could begin life again; and be whom we chose.  We
were a pair of unknown persons, moving among unknown people in unknown
places.  Every hour we passed in these solitudes of nature had
something of the glamour of romance invested in it.  For we did not
know how our next meal would be come by, or what would be the next
shelter for our weary heads when nightfall overtook us.  But we cared
not.  We were in the crisp, free, open air, snuffing the sunshine, and
trampling across a carpet of flowers over hill and dale, while the
spring birds sang.

I think we were too desperately happy to talk much.  Cynthia was
radiant, and as light of foot and heart as the birds that called to us
from the green hedges.  The words of an appropriate ballad were on her
lips:

  When Strephon wooed his Chloe dear,
  All in the springtime of the year.

And I took the infection of her spirits also, I was sensible, ere we
had walked a mile, of a frank, jovial, devil-may-care lightheartedness,
not so fresh and buoyant as my little one's perhaps, since I had lived
a little longer, had therefore had the brightness of my youth more
overlaid with the rust of the world, and had a greater weight of
responsibility, more particularly for her, upon my shoulders.  It was
little I felt it, however.  For suddenly as we walked in these sweet
fields, an idea was born in my mind that banished everything except the
thrill of joy it brought.

"My prettiness," says I, "we could not wish for a perfecter wedding
morning."

"That we could not," says she, so promptly that it struck me she had
been expecting some such suggestion from me.  Her blushes were
adorable, it is true, but I believe they were more a matter of instinct
than the offspring of any particular commotion in her bosom.

"Wilt marry me, pretty one," says I, "at the first church we come to,
that hath a snug parsonage sitting in honeysuckle beside it?"

"Ay, that I will," says she, cocking up her thin with an archness of
invitation that was not to be denied.

I suppose it was that the adventures we had already had together had
given us the most perfect understanding of one another.  There was a
feeling of proprietorship between us; and had not each given up
everything in life for the other's sake?

"My dear," says I, feeling that a little sentiment would not come amiss
this rare spring morning, "I hope you have realized what I have to
offer you.  I have but my blasted reputation, my destitute condition,
my debts, my crimes, my prostituted name.  This is all the estate that
a very humble, constant heart is endowed with."

"They will serve," says Cynthia simply.  "If you were the wickedest man
in England, and by your own account you are not far removed from that
state, it would be the same.  It is not for what you be that I like
you; it is for what I think you to be."

"If it comes to that," says I, "I don't suppose it is me at all you
care for.  It is not myself you are in love with, nor my virtues, nor
my vices, nor my hair, my eyes, my clothes, my understanding, nor
anything that is mine.  You are at that romantical instant of your
womanhood when you have fallen in love with the name of love.  If
instead of a man I were a tame white mouse, or a bob-tailed rabbit, or
a bull-calf you would invest me with all the pretty fancies that are
running in your head, so that the reflection in your mind would yet be
the one that you most wished to see.  But a truce to philosophy, let us
to church."

Cynthia was so evidently of my mind in this last particular that she
laughed, and resumed the singing of her ballad, as we strode out the
brisker for our intercourse.



CHAPTER VII

AN INSTRUCTIVE CHAPTER; IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT IF A LITTLE LEARNING
IS DANGEROUS, MUCH MAY BE CALAMITOUS.

As we took our way through the grass of a most charming flower-coated
country, there was a kind of rivalry between us as to who should be the
first to spy a church.  The honour of doing so had not fallen to either
of us, when Cynthia suddenly darted from the path to pick some white
violets out of a hedge.

"Why," says she, in the delight of finding them, "we will make
ourselves a posy apiece to carry with us to church, as it is our
wedding morning.  Oh, look at the marsh-marigolds at the side of the
brook there!"

She gave me the violets to hold, with some injunction as to the correct
manner of holding them, for my handling of them was much too crude to
please her, and ran away again to fetch the pretty yellow flowers.  All
sorts of things she gathered for our nosegays, lady-smocks all silver
white from the meadow, and daisies pied and violets blue, cowslips and
even a blue-bell.  Nothing would content her but that we should make
them up into posies there and then; which we did, and bound them round
with grasses.  But hardly had we finished this pastoral employment and
continued on our way, when we became the victims of a singular
diversion.  We passed out of one meadow over a stile into another of a
similar kind.  But in the second a few cows were browsing.  To these we
paid no heed, but walked jauntily enough through the pasture,
apprehending no danger; but by the time we had come perhaps to the
middle of the field we were startled by a commotion behind us.  Turning
round to discover whence it arose, we were horrified to find what the
source of it was.  A young bull with its head grounded and its tail in
the air was charging down upon us.  A single exclamation and a
frightened instant of hesitation in which to take our bearings, and
evolve a mode of escape, was all we had time for.  The bull was coming
so furiously that it was almost upon us, yet we were stranded full in
the middle of the field, with no chance whatever of taking refuge in
flight.  But happily my eye lit on a tree, a sturdy young sapling a
yard or two off.  Thither I pushed the terrified Cynthia, and literally
lifted her into one of the lower branches, whilst she, with an
admirable conception of the case and how to act in it, scrambled with a
mighty rending of her garments into the boughs above.  I clambered
after her madly, not a second too soon.  The vigorous snorting young
bull crashed his horns against the tree with great force.  He was so
near to my leg that I instinctively felt it to be gashed wide open;
whilst such a mighty shake did its impact give to our place of refuge
that it was indeed a mercy we were not both of us thrown on to the
ground to be gored and trampled on.  But despite our fright we were
able to cling to the branches; and when at last I was able to get a
glimpse of my leg, I found to my relief that I had been the victim of
my imagination.

The bellowing beast made divers onslaughts against the bark of the
tree, whilst we very fearfully hurried up higher and higher, dreading
at each stroke of our enemy to feel ourselves flying through the air.
Providentially, however, by clinging with rare tenacity to our vantage
place we were able to maintain ourselves in the security of the highest
branches of all.  And presently our adversary having wreaked a good
deal of his fury on the offending tree, desisted from an occupation
that brought him so little profit, and having walked off a yard or two,
proceeded to regard us morosely.  He seemed prepared to stay in that
employment too for an indefinite period.  But feeling our position,
snug as it was and safe for the time being, to be yet highly
precarious, since the very boughs on which we sat swayed and cracked
and creaked in a truly alarming fashion, I determined to play a coup,
ere any melancholy thing should happen which would put it out of my
power to play one.

Divesting myself with much difficulty of my cloak, although Cynthia
rather audaciously, considering her own position at the time, lent me a
hand, I committed that garment to her charge, and proceeded to select
the most favourable moment for a speedy flight to the nearest hedge.
Keeping perfectly motionless in our unhappy posture, we presently
contrived to lull the unsuspecting bull into a state of quiescence
which I am sure he would have been the first to admit, had he but
known, the circumstances hardly warranted.  For suddenly taking an
advantage of his sleeping vigilance, I made a leap off the tree as far
as possible from the spot on which he stood watching.  It was then a
case of run devil, run baker.  I'm sure no poor devil ever ran more
fleetly than I did then; whilst I am equally sure that there never was
a baker in this world that ran more swiftly than that roaring,
rampageous bullock.  Luckily for my precious bones I had a fair good
start of the fellow, and the distance to the hedge was less than a
hundred yards.  Had it been otherwise this history had never been
written else, for not for a moment do I think Cynthia would ever have
troubled to write it; nor between ourselves, do I think she would ever
have been capable of doing so, even had her ambition jumped in that
direction.  Running pell-mell, my heart beating holes in my ribs, and
the clear tones of Mrs. Cynthia issuing from the topmost branches of
the tree in words of lusty encouragement such as: "Bravo, lad, bravo!
Mightily done!" I panted to the hedge with the bull ever at my heels,
and had just the strength to take a second leap at the green brambles,
and half jump, half scramble through their tenacious barriers, and so
into the neighbouring field, while the bull, foiled for the second
time, raged and vented his disappointment from the other side.

Meanwhile little Cynthia, with a delightful intrepidity, also took
advantage of our enemy.  While Mr. Bull continued to thrust his head at
the hedge in his mighty rage, and roared forth his threats,
high-couraged little Cynthia, if you please, very simply and
dexterously dropped down my cloak out of the tree, neatly dropped down
after it, and then with the most gallant coolness gathered herself up
again, the cloak too, and even stayed to recover our late discarded
posies, which the bull had evidently thought too mean to be worthy of
his regard.  With these articles tucked away in one hand, she gathered
her skirts in the other, and away scudded her dainty ankles through the
grass to the opposite fence.  All this time the bull, foiled and
nonplussed as he was, continued to fume and rush at the fence that kept
him from me, but never for an instant did he guess that Cynthia was in
the act of cheating him too.

Convinced by this that my little one had made good her escape, I could
not restrain my joy.  I began to jump and clap my hands, and bellow out
hearty encouragements and applause to her across the field.  This
behaviour so surprised the bull, that he whisked angrily round to
discover the cause of it.  He beheld Cynthia in the very height of her
rapid victorious transit.  Away he dashed, head down, in pursuit of
her, but she was much too well advanced in her flight to have any fear
of him whatever.  By the time he had come level with the tree, Cynthia
was calmly climbing into security over the stile; and when the
outwitted animal rushed up and thrust his nose over it, she tauntingly,
if a trifle vain-gloriously, shook the cloak and the posies at him.
Never, I think, did I see an act more neatly or more bravely performed.

When we came presently together again in the middle of an adjoining
field, a sort of half-way house from where the bull had respectively
left us, we were both in high feather and mightily pleased with
ourselves and one another.

"I declare," says I, "that hunting the fox becomes a tame and foolish
sport by comparison.  In all my amusements, from cards to
cudgel-playing, I was never furnished, I'll swear, with so entertaining
an episode.  Besides, I am vastly proud of your conduct this morning,
my prettiness.  Come, let us waste not a moment; I am dying to get
married at once."

The deep crimson in Cynthia's cheeks, that her late eminent exertions
had induced, lent her even more of an adorable appearance than even I
had ever observed in her.  And when she tossed me my cloak, and gravely
gave one of the posies into my hands, I think I never saw the eyes of a
woman beam with such mirth and high spirits.  Flushed and breathless as
we were, no two human persons could possibly have been happier.
Already our haphazard, vagrant life had proved the antidote of that
weariness of the world, that fatigue of mind and body, the chains of
polite life had induced.  Already we had come to take a fraternal
pride, as it were, in one another.  We no longer had to apprehend how
we should get through the day without perishing of weariness, but
rather how to pass it without perishing of hunger and violence.  And we
were revealing such unexpected qualities to ourselves and each other in
overcoming these calamities that we were falling in love anew with our
own heroic attributes, and were already prepared to vow to one another
that we were a monstrous well-assorted pair.  Indeed, the foolish bull
had given us such a fine conceit of ourselves, that on the score of the
hour of high-wrought happiness he brought us, he must, I am sure, be
allowed after all to be our friend.

A good deal of walking through the blossoming fields brought us at last
on to a good broad highway, and a little later having climbed up a
hill, we saw from the top of it the thing we were seeking.  A village
nestled below, and very properly the tallest roof among the collection
that clustered there together, and by far the most imposing object of
them all, was a sweet little country church, grey with age, surrounded
by a low stone wall whose crannies were filled with moss.  Approaching
it we were overjoyed to find that a pretty little parsonage stood
beside it, which in every particular matched the quaint and venerable
appearance of the church itself.  But no sooner had we come to the
latticed gate of the parson's house than our pleasure fled suddenly
away.  We had been bold enough in the contemplation of the deed, and
had even been disposed to treat it airily.  Yet when our fingers fell
on the parson's latch, we were suddenly confronted with its magnitude.
We were going to be married!

Now although I had started from town not twelve hours before as cynical
and desperate a character as any to be found, the humane influences
that had been brought to bear upon me, even in that short period, had
not been without their effect.  I began to see things in their true
relation once again, and even to be sensible of feelings I had so long
outlived that I almost forgot that I had ever known them.  For
instance, the emotion of timidity that overtook me at the parson's
gate, I could have sworn I had never met with before in my life.  The
uncomfortable sense of the bashful business to follow caused me to
falter with my hand still at the latch, and to parley with Cynthia.

"I think you had better go first, my prettiness," says I seductively,
"I don't doubt that you will make a better hand of it than I, and you
will have a better knowledge of how to talk to the parson.  I am so
devilish unused to talking to parsons, d'ye see."

"Oh, yes, I quite see that," says Cynthia significantly, "and I also
see that you are afraid."

"I dare say you might have shot wider of the truth," says I.  "It is
the first time I have been called on to smell this kind of powder, and
burn me! if ever I want to be called on again."

"I hope you won't be," says Cynthia.

She herself, I must confess, was as cool as a cucumber.  Her colour was
a little high perhaps, and the animation in her eyes was, I think, more
than usually fine.  But take her altogether, she seemed to have all the
calmness and assurance of an old campaigner, whilst I was wincing and
starting like a raw recruit.  They say that all women are alike in
this.  They go to church as complacently as they go to Ranelagh, and
take as keen an enjoyment from the reading of the marriage service as
they do in the performance of the Italian dancers at the theatre in
Covent Garden.  And it is said again that never a man of us all,
whatever his years, disposition and ideas, comes to this ceremony but
what he is beset with those same qualms that fastened upon me so
unexpectedly at the parson's gate.

When we walked up the pretty garden and came to the door of the
parson's house, it was Cynthia who unhesitatingly knocked upon it.  But
the operation had to be repeated ere it was replied to.  And when at
last the door was drawn back from within we were confronted by a stout,
red-faced woman in a gown of printed calico.  Her sleeves were rolled
up above the elbow, her cap and apron were awry, and there was a look
of industrious ill-temper about her that contributed nothing to our
encouragement.  She stuck her hands on her hips, filled the whole of
the doorway with her defiant presence, very like the dragon in the
fable that barred the way to the princess in the enchanted palace, and
surveyed us in a grimly critical fashion from top to toe.

"Is the parson at home?" says the audacious Cynthia.

"He be!" says the woman in a loud, harsh voice.

"We wish to see him then, if you please," says Cynthia.

"What might your business be?" says the woman, looking us all over with
a really disconcerting keenness.

"I think we must explain that to the parson himself," says Cynthia.

"Then I think you will not then," says the woman, mighty uncivilly.
"I've formed my own opinion of you.  You shall not see the master, not
if I know it.  He's got such a character for softness of heart all
about the countryside that you vagrant beggars come for miles to get
what you can out of him.  It's mortal lucky he's got me to look after
him, or he would have given away the shirt off his back this many a
year ago."

It was impossible to deny that the good woman's estimate of our station
and business was shrewd enough.  We were certainly a pair of vagrants,
if ever there was a pair in the world, and were certainly come to get
something of the parson that we had no means of requiting him for.  And
I am sure neither of us, singly or together, would have stood a chance
of melting that adamantine bosom, since everything we said seemed more
clearly to reveal our humble not to say destitute condition; indeed we
had come to the point where this clergyman's uncompromising guardian
was about to bang the door in our faces, when the parson himself made a
very welcome intervention.

He came shuffling along the path from some remote part of the vicarage
garden, in a pair of old down-trodden carpet slippers, wearing over an
old-fashioned wig a beaver grotesquely battered and green with age.
His cassock hung in tatters at his heels, and he made about as unkempt
and disreputable a figure of a clergyman as it was possible to
conceive.  Besides, he was a very small and insignificant rat of a
fellow, and had a strange odd way of peering through his horn
spectacles.  But the moment he began to speak such a pleasant twinkle
of courtesy came into his ugly countenance--by itself it was plain to
the point of ugliness, although to this day Cynthia will never allow it
to be so--and his voice was so wondrous musical, that straightway we
forgot that he had such a singular appearance, and fell in love with
him.

"A very good morning to you," says he.  "I hope you are drinking in
this golden morning that God hath sent us.  Hey, what a thing it is to
be a human being!"

As he came up and observed Cynthia more closely, he, bowed with a
wonderful grave dignity, and took off his hat with a flourish that
became him most inimitably well.  Such courtesy from an appearance so
discourteous never was seen.

"La, master, what be you at?" says the woman, highly scandalized by so
polite a demeanour.  "Do you not see these are an arrant pair of
vagrant beggars?  I must get you more artful spectacles if you will
stay so close at your book-reading."

"Peace, my good Blodgett," says the parson.  "Do you think I do not
know breeding when I see it?  It is a rare possession that nothing can
disguise.  There is sensibility here, in this fair countenance, and
pride and candour, and the features are almost highly classical in
their outline.  A little too full in the lips perhaps, yes, I think a
little too full, or this would have been the countenance of Minerva
with the animation of Diana in it.  I must remind you again, my good
Blodgett, that appearances are apt to deceive; _non semper ea sunt quæ
videntur_, as the excellent Phædrus has so wisely said.  You will do me
the honour, I hope, my dear young lady, of entering my house and
partaking of a glass of my gooseberry-wine and of eating a piece of
Banbury cake.  And you, sir, also, I hope and trust; although in your
case the credentials you bear in your countenance are nothing like so
noteworthy.  But as Plautus very pertinently asks, _non soles respicere
te_, to look at oneself ere one abuses another, the less said the
sooner we shall mend it, _tulum silentii præmium_.  Come this way, I
beg you."

During this peroration poor Blodgett wrung her hands and shook her
head, and kept repeating some such mystical phrase as:

"He is off at the top again!  He is off at the top again!"

However, this strange old parson, all unconscious of the distress of
mind he was occasioning his handmaid or housekeeper, or whatever she
might call herself, flowed on and on in his extraordinary monologue,
and led us indoors into a spacious room full of a remarkable disorder
of books, which doubtless composed his library.  Books open and shut,
piled up and overlaid, were on the table, and under the table, on the
chairs, and on the floor.  Any square inch of space wherein a book
might insinuate itself, there was a book to be found.  Dusty,
black-letter, grimy Aldine, foxed Elzevir, any folio, quarto, or
octavo, providing it was old enough and dirty enough, was assembled
there.  Those that lay open seemed to be annotated and scored under,
and embellished with marginal notes in a delicate minute handwriting,
on every page.  And among all these tomes there was never a one that
was in a new dress, or done in a reasonable easy print, nor one written
by a reasonably modern author.  To observe the _Paradise Lost_, with
the imprint of Jacob Tonson upon it, was to be startled with that sense
of gratified surprise that one would experience at unexpectedly meeting
with a personal friend in a foreign country.

The parson was an odd match to his books.  His conversation was as
musty, learned and interminable as themselves.  He talked of all topics
but those that could have been of the least interest to anybody.  He
never thought to ask who we were, or what business had brought us
thither, but having lured us into his library, he very vigorously began
to engage us with matters at least a thousand years old.  We were very
polite at first, and nodded our heads in deep interest at the mention
of the first Punic war, and kept saying, "Ah, to be sure!" and
inserting "yes" and "oh yes" whenever we found half a chance to get in
so much in the middle of some animadversions he thought fit to make on
the behaviour of the Carthaginians generally.  But when proceeding to
move with an air of great mystery and consequence to topics of the most
inconsequent character, and presently to prove to us that in his
opinion the battle of Cannæ, or it may have been Marathon, or the siege
of Troy for aught we knew or cared, was not so important and decisive
an affair as the historians of these times had represented, our
observance of a polite interest showed signs of giving out.

We might shuffle, however, and shift our stations, and cough, and take
our weight off our right leg and lean it on our left, but it never made
one bit of difference to this terrible monologue.  The old parson, with
his eyes half closed and his hands spread forth, poured out the finest
prose in his mellifluous voice, with every period rounded to such a
perfection that had he been a historian and his speech a printed page
the world could never have sufficiently admired his attainments.  And
every emphasis and quantity seemed so indubitably exact in the
classical tongues he so freely quoted, as must have made him the envy
of pedagogues and the paragon among them all.  And all this time we
were striving to maintain our well-bred interest as best we might, and
inwardly cursed Rome and Greece and the whole race of poets, historians
and soldiers that ever sprang from them.

His mind was filled with a vast deal of knowledge of a recondite sort.
It could have been of no possible service to anybody, least of all to
himself.  Yet he moved lightly and easily from one antediluvian topic
to others more antediluvian still.  He was armed with a great array of
theories of no moment at all, and a matchless sheaf of facts that
proved and disproved and proved them over again.  How weary we became!
How we fidgeted and looked at one another in our despair, for he grew
more minute as he proceeded, and called up, extempore, authority upon
authority to show that Lais was a woman of virtue, and that Virgil did
not write his own works.  He split straws with Aristotle, and picked
holes in his Ethics.  He said that Cicero was a windbag, and that Plato
was a dunce.  He said that Herodotus was loose in his facts, and no
more worthy of credence than Plutarch, and that Plutarch was not a whit
better than Herodotus neither.  He said that Homer was the biggest
impostor in history.  He had nothing to do with the _Iliad_, whilst as
for the _Odyssey_, he had long come at the truth that it was by a
female hand, most probably one of the Hesperides, though to be sure he
had not quite satisfied himself as to which, just as the plays of the
poet Shakespeare would one day be allowed to be the handiwork of Lord
Bacon, the eminent lawyer and philosopher; and again, as the world,
purblind as it was, would one day discover that Mr. Fielding's
so-called novel of _Joseph Andrews_ had sprung from the fertile brain
of Mr. Colley Gibber.  Indeed I was so fearful lest he should take
steps to disprove my grandfather's claims to have produced his
celebrated Commentary on the _Analects of Confucius_, that I became
quite desperate, and determined to put a stop to the unceasing current
of his talk, even at the risk of making a hole in my good manners.
Having reached a point in his discourse wherein he showed that Cæsar
did not cross the Rubicon, I slapped my hand on the table with a vigour
that knocked down half-a-score of tomes and startled everything and
everybody but the speaker himself; and, says I, at the top of my
heartiest voice:

"I quite agree with you there, sir; I do indeed."

"I presume, sir," says the parson, "you know the authorities there are
against us, and what adversaries of weight, Cæsar himself, Suetonius,
and Plutarch, to name only three, that we have to face."

"I care not if there are three thousand," says I valiantly, "in this
matter I am entirely of your mind."

The parson, whose simplicity was as great as his learning, grasped my
hand with the utmost fervour.

"My dear sir," says he, "I can never sufficiently extol your spirit.
It is excellently said, sir, excellently said.  Would that there were
more persons like you in the world.  I can but offer you some
gooseberry-wine and a piece of Banbury cake, but I am sure you are very
welcome.  I do declare that Blodgett has forgotten them; I will go and
see about them myself."

At last in the very height of our sufferings we obtained in this truly
unexpected, not to say whimsical fashion, a brief instant of relief.
It was plain that this learned wight was possessed of a mind of the
most singular simplicity and inconsequence.  Everything that was told
him he took for gospel.  He had the faith of a child.  Everything that
had the least interest for himself he felt that all men were
languishing to hear of.  With him evidently to think was to act; he was
the slave of his own whims; no sooner did he mention a thing than he
went straightway and performed it.

The prospects of being united in the bonds of wedlock by so
extraordinary a gentleman were indeed remote; but armed with the
knowledge of his character we had already gained, we concluded that if
we beat about the bush at all, he would be quite content for his own
part to detain us a "month of Sundays" in his library, while he
unfolded his facts and propounded his theories.  On his own initiative
he would not be in the least likely to surrender a single moment to our
affairs.  We must be bold and decisive, and grapple firmly with him.

Therefore when the good parson returned, preceding the umbrageous
Blodgett, who bore the Banbury cakes and the gooseberry-wine on a tray,
before he had the chance to open his mouth to take up his discourse,
says I, in a truly dramatic manner:

"If it pleases you, sir, we are here, this lady and I, to ask you to
marry us."

"Marry you," says he, without a moment's reflection.  "I shall be
delighted.  Blodgett, have the goodness to set down the tray on the top
of the _De Imitatione_ there and go and find the clerk, and tell him to
open the church.  And tut, tut! my good woman, how often must I beseech
you not to dust my books with your sacrilegious apron."

While Mrs. Blodgett flounced out to find the clerk, and the good parson
in the height of his courtesy poured out the gooseberry-wine and served
us with it, Cynthia and I fell to talking at the top of our voices
about nothing at all, since we were certain that as soon as the parson
got an opportunity he would furnish us with a criticism of Strabo's
geographies, which, however damaging to that worthy ancient, would be
even more so to us; or prove that it was a vulgar error to speak of
Castor as the twin of Pollux; and proceed to demonstrate that Achilles
was vulnerable in other places than his heel.



CHAPTER VIII

WE GET US TO CHURCH

By the time the parson had served us solemnly with our refection, I
deemed it proper to give him some relation of our circumstances.  I was
emboldened to do so because his simple, honest character made him easy
to talk to; it was also essential that he should be let some little way
into the state of our affairs, since we had but the sum of twelvepence
halfpenny with which to requite him for his services and to vail the
clerk.  And again I talked to him the more readily because while he was
engaged with these matters, he was not so likely to revert to those
that concerned us less.

He received the confessions of our bankrupt condition with a breadth of
generosity that was truly noble in its magnitude.

"I am grieved that you should have thought fit to name that matter,"
says he.  "What a world it is for pounds, shillings, and pence, to be
sure!  One cannot come into it, nor go out of it, nor even enter into a
highly natural and commendable contract for its advantage, but what
somebody has to be feed.  And I blush to say that that somebody is
generally some old rogue of a parson; but I hope, sir, you agree with
Tully when he says----"

"Yes, sir," says I hastily, "I quite agree with Tully, I have ever been
of Tully's opinion.  And, sir, let me say that we are overcome with
your generosity.  But there is yet another matter that irks us; we have
no ring by which we can be wed into matrimony."

"An even more trivial thing," says the parson, "the good Blodgett,
honest widow that she is, shall lend you hers."

It was bravely resolved of the parson, but I dare swear we both
shuddered at the same instant, when we conceived of the courage
required to put it into practice.  To think of us "vagrant beggars"
summoning that redoubtable dragon to deliver up her marriage ring!  It
would be perilously like commanding an ogre to cut off his own head.
I'll vow that Cynthia trembled a little; whilst she goes even farther
and says I grew as pale as death.

"Do you think, sir," said Cynthia fearfully, "that good Mrs. Blodgett
will be so kind?"

"She will be delighted, my dear madam," says the parson.  "She will be
delighted!"

We were still wrestling with our honest doubts on the score of Mrs.
Blodgett's delight, when lo and behold! that formidable fair burst into
the room, redder in the face than ever, for she was out of breath.  She
had seen the clerk, and he had gone that minute to open the door of the
church.  And she conveyed this piece of news in such a brisk and
important tone as seemed a good deal out of keeping with her severity
of character.  She had an air of interest which we had certainly not
expected her to betray in our humble affairs.  And when the parson
without a word of preface had the audacity to prefer his proposal in
regard to the ring she bore on her finger, an audacity that caused us
both to hold our breaths, since we were fully persuaded that Blodgett
would at least break into a most violent diatribe against the impudence
of some people, drawing an affecting parallel with the late departed
saint whose relict she was, and how wild horses should not tear her and
this venerable sanctified token of their marital harmony apart, to our
surprise her reply was mercifully brief.

"Humph!" says she.  Having glanced at us for a very embarrassing
period, during which time a good deal of perplexity distorted her harsh
features, says she: "Well, I never did!  Is it a runaway?"

"You can take it at that," says I.

A very singular change was being wrought in this stern matron.  Where
is the female bosom that can resist a wedding, or a touch of the
romantical?  Not even that of the Spartan Blodgett.  The more she
pondered the matter in hand the less terrible she became.  She began to
ask a dozen questions of us in a greatly mollified voice.  Nay, the
tone she used to Cynthia might even be called indulgent.

"Well," says she, "seeing as how it is an emergency, you shall have my
ring this once, but it goes against my conscience, I am sure.  You are
doing a very wicked thing, young woman.  To think of a little chit like
you running away to get married!  I am sure I ought not to countenance
it.  Oh, what will your mother say?"

"I have not a mother," says Cynthia, putting her hands to her eyes, and
smiling at me through her fingers.

This admission seemed considerably to ease the mind of Mrs. Blodgett,
and forthwith she began wrestling with the wedding-ring on her fat
finger.  In the meantime her master was very fortunately engrossed in
another matter, and we were therefore spared his comments.

It seemed that Blodgett had brought him that day's _London Gazette_,
which had been left by the coach at the village alehouse.  It was the
newspaper that claimed the parson's attention while his housekeeper
struggled with her wedding-ring.  I vow it was as whimsical a sight as
ever was seen to witness the good lady growing redder and redder in her
face, and puffing, grunting, and twisting her countenance into the most
fantastical shapes, while she freely "dratted the thing," and called
down a murrain upon it.  But strive as she might, the precious ring
still clung faithfully to her finger.  Presently Cynthia was fain to
take a hand at hauling it off, but she fared not a whit better than
Mrs. Blodgett.  Whereon I was called on, and after several very natural
and becoming protestations on my part as to my inability and so forth,
even I was pressed into the service.  I tugged and hauled away with
what gravity I might, but never an inch would that wretched ring budge.
In the height of this deadlock, I was seized with a brilliant expedient.

"One of the rings round the curtain-pole," says I.  "Surely one of them
will do most admirably well, and at least there will be no difficulty
about getting it off, nor on neither."

Now when I proffered this suggestion Mrs. Cynthia blushed such a colour
and looked so ill at ease, that I half began to doubt whether this idea
was so fine after all.  And indeed, Blodgett took me up warmly.

"Wedded in a curtain-ring indeed!" says she.  "I'facks, that she never
shall be.  Who ever heard of such a thing!  Has the man no decency!
Rather than that, my dear, I will run to neighbour Hodge's and borrow
hers.  As she's a thin body it should slip off easy."

There and then the scandalized Blodgett was as good as her word.
Favouring me with a glance of such scorn and contempt that a person
more impressionable would have been rooted to the spot, she flounced
out of the room all in a moment, and directly afterwards passed by the
library window, running quite excitedly down the garden path.  Surely a
whole chapter of dissertation might be written on the metamorphosis of
Mrs. Blodgett.  From openly deriding Cynthia she had passed to an
almost motherly tenderness towards her.  She had become as concerned
for her as though she had been her own daughter.  She was no longer
"wench," or "vagrant beggar," nay nor even "young woman," but just "my
dear."  And why was this?  Do you think it was because she had suddenly
lighted on some latent virtues in my little madam, some strain of moral
loveliness, some unexpected beauty in her mind and heart?  I am sure I
crave the pardon of her ladyship, but it was devil a one of these
things that had such a magic effect on Mrs. Blodgett.  It was simply
that she had run away to get married, and that this was her wedding
morning.  Oh, woman, woman! where is the daughter among you that can
resist the blandishments of Hymen?

While this was going forward, and we were congratulating ourselves in
secret on the most fortunate course this portentous affair was like to
take, an incident happened that shook me dreadfully, and recalled to my
mind much more sharply than I cared, the kind of fortune I was about to
endow my bride with.  For the time being I had forgotten the colour of
my reputation, the character of my past, and my black prospects for the
future, in the cheerful topsy-turvy madness of the last twelve hours.
But now all of a sudden, in the least expected fashion, I was reminded
as to who I was, and what I was.  The parson, who all the time had been
deeply involved in his news-sheet, suddenly cast it down, uttered a
loud exclamation, and with tears in his honest eyes began striding down
in his agitation, and knocked down many an unoffending book.

"_O tempera!  O mores!_" says he, "In what degenerate days do we live!
To think that this should be the grandson of such a grandsire!  No; I
cannot believe it of him; nay, I will not believe it of him."

You may guess that as there was a grandfather in the case I pricked up
my ears at once, and on looking at the newspaper saw that which
confirmed my premonition.  There was a paragraph in the column of
"Newest Intelligence" that ran in this wise:

"On Tuesday evening in the near neighbourhood of divers well-known
coffee-and-chocolate-houses in Saint James's Street, Piccadilly, was
found the body of Mr. Richard Burdock, of His Majesty's 4th Regiment of
Horse Guards.  The unfortunate gentleman had been done to death by a
sword-wound in the upper part of the chest.  Precisely in what manner
the deceased came by his end is not at present known, but we are
informed that on the following day an information was laid against the
Earl of Tiverton, a nobleman whose name has been most unhappily
notorious of late.  A warrant was at once procured for the arrest of
Lord Tiverton, and on an attempt being made to put it in force at his
lordship's residence later in the day, a most desperate struggle
ensued, and his lordship with the assistance of his household succeeded
in effecting, for the time being, his escape.  We learn, however, that
the celebrated Mr. John Jeremy of Bow Street has the matter in hand;
that Mr. Jeremy with his world-famed acumen is in possession of a clue
as to Lord Tiverton's whereabouts; that Mr. Jeremy is already actively
following up the same, and that presently an event may transpire that
shall set all the town by the ears."

I directed Cynthia's attention to this account, and she was so startled
by it that she changed colour, and offered so many visible evidences of
her distress, that I feared she would have excited the suspicions of
the parson, yet after all that must have been an impossible feat, for I
am sure the honest parson was a man so utterly without guile, that he
was incapable of harbouring any sort of suspicion against a
fellow-creature.  Besides he was still fully occupied in lamenting the
low repute into which our name had fallen, with a grief so genuine that
I did not know whether to be touched or amused by it.

However, I could not pay much heed to the parson at that minute, being
deeply concerned for little Cynthia.  I began to fear that I had done
an ill-considered thing in allowing her to see the news-sheet.  I had
never tried to find out how far she was acquainted with my history of
the past few years--my gaming, duels, intrigues and debts.  That she
must have known of it to some extent was certain.  She had heard of
them from my own lips in a haphazard sort of way; and again, they were
too well known to be suppressed, as witness the conduct of her father
in the matter of my suit.  At his hands, and those of my friends, and
of my rival too, they would certainly lose nothing of their magnitude.
Whatever she had heard of me, she had been able to condone.  But now
confronted with a more circumstantial charge against me, clothed in all
the authority of black and white, a charge of the most terrible
character that can be preferred against any person, it came on her with
a cruel force that almost crushed her down.  She stood faltering, with
the newspaper still clutched in her hands; her lips trembled, and the
tears gathered slowly in her eyes.

"I don't believe it," said she, in a low, shaking voice.

She held out her hand, and I, despite the presence of the parson, took
it to my lips with the same passion with which she had extended it to
me.  If a man in the midst of all the contumely and detraction of the
world, can yet get one woman to believe in him, it is enough!

Meantime the parson, whatever he may have thought of our behaviour, not
that it is altogether certain that he happened to witness it, was so
strangely ingenuous that he took my little one's distress to spring
from the same source as his own.  He laid it all to that precious
Commentary on the _Analects of Confucius_!

"Your grief does you honour, my dear madam, allow me to say," says he,
wiping the memorials of his own from his red eyes.  "It honours you
vastly.  It is something in this benighted age to know that the
reverence for polite letters has not yet died out amongst us.  And I,
on my part, will never be persuaded that the descendant of so noble and
learned a gentleman, whatever the errors of his youth, could fall into
an act of such a hideous kind.  I blame the publick press too for
disseminating such a story.  If it is false, as I believe it to be, oh,
the pity of it!  But if it should be true, the pity is the greater.
With your permission, I will destroy this newspaper, lest this
scandalous thing it contains should come under the eye of Blodgett, and
she should spread it amongst the village folk."

I protest with all my settled views on life, and my arbitrary way of
looking at things, I did not know whether to burst out into a shout of
laughter, or fall a-weeping too, for, ecod! there was an affecting side
to the affair when our simple old parson tore up the offending
newspaper in a hundred pieces, all to preserve the fair name of that
philosopher who had perished of the gout a full thirty years ago.

Cynthia was so greatly shaken, that to defend her from his observation
I was even moved to indulge in the parson's fondness for the dead
languages and abstruse theories.  However, I had just induced him to
quarrel with Cicero on the strength of something that Cicero ought to
have said and yet had not said at all, when Blodgett returned, bearing
the ring.

That redoubtable lady observed Cynthia's distress at once, but did not
put the same construction on it that her master had.

"Very natural to be sure," says she.  "Weddings are strange, exciting
things, and apt to upset the strongest of us.  I remember the first
time I went through the ceremony.  I was mortal worried by it."

Mrs. Blodgett having by this time fully entered into the affair, took
Cynthia in hand.  She insisted that Cynthia should go with her
upstairs, "to tidy herself like," and be accomplished generally in a
manner more befitting the occasion.  Indeed so enthusiastic had the
housekeeper become about it that she even proposed to search for some
of her own discarded nuptial garments, which she ventured to say with a
bit of fettling and contriving, a pleat here and a tuck there, Cynthia
after all might not lack for a wedding-gown.  The conceit of a young
lady who a week ago had been of the first fashion, appearing as a bride
in a gown that had once done duty for the admirable Blodgett, convulsed
me with laughter.  And this behaviour was heightened rather than
depressed when I recollected that such an attire would consort very
aptly with the hobnailed appearance of the bridegroom.

During the absence of the ladies upstairs, the parson had the
forethought to give me a two-shilling-bit, for the purpose of feeing
the clerk.  I was so struck by this further instance of his generous
courtesy, that I asked the name of my benefactor, for I swore that I
would not rest content until I had repaid him.  It seemed that this
obscure country clergyman bore the name of Scriven.  It is a name as
far as I can make out, that has not yet come to any eminence in letters
or the humane arts; nor has it attained to any signal preferment in
that Church of which it is so true an ornament.  His great learning,
his simple ingenuous character, his notable generosity, his tenderness
of heart, his implicit courtesy have never advanced him one step, so
far as I can gather, in the world's opinion.  For aught I know he is
still the country parson on his forty pounds or so a year, whilst many
a sleek old worldling with half of his learning and a tithe of his
humanity is my lord Bishop riding by in his gilt coach with footmen
behind it, the recipient of a hundred times more kudos and emolument.

When Cynthia came down again she looked wonderfully spic and span.  Her
hair had been done into a becoming rustic mode, most admirably neat,
and showed off its qualities of abundance, gloss and curliness to true
advantage.  She had not thought fit to call in the aid of Mrs.
Blodgett's gown it is true, but her own became her as well as another,
and happily at the same time afforded no index to her degree.  It was a
plain and simple country dress, sober in hue and severe in its style.
Yet it fell so exactly into the exquisite lines of her shape, that she
and the dress became one as it were; and if there was a woman's tailor
who could have exhibited a lovely figure more artfully than that, she
must have been good Mrs. Nature herself.  Cynthia, for all her country
clothes, looked so sweet, arch and dainty too, so much the gentlewoman
without the affectations that go with _ton_ and "fine," that by their
absence the breeding that lurked in every inch of her, the carriage of
her person, slender and small as it was, the set of her head, and the
cast of her features became more apparent.

These evidences had even an effect on Mrs. Blodgett.  She was mightily
pleased with her _protégée_.

"I don't know who _you_ are, young man," says she, "and I won't say all
that's in my mind about you, but I hope you know that you are taking a
real born lady to wife.  Such white hands I never did see, and such
pretty ways, saving her presence, as she 'ave too.  You are not a
quarter good enough, young man, for the likes of her, and just keep
that in your mind and live up to it.  But I gravely misdoubt me as to
whether you will, for take you all round you are about as disreppitable
and low a fellow as ever I saw.  To think that such as you should have
lured the pretty lamb from her father's house.  But as I've told her,
it is not yet too late for her to go back again."

Although neither Cynthia nor I was greatly inconvenienced by this crude
statement of the case, except in the matter of the smiles we strove in
vain to control, the parson, good, honest man, was not a little
disconcerted by it.

"Tut, tut!" says he, "my good Blodgett, your tongue runs too fast.
However excellent the motives may be that inspire you, I could wish you
had a somewhat less direct manner of expressing them.  I really cannot
have you intervene between plighted lovers, at the very steps of the
altar.  And whatever the personality of our young lady, if truth
compels us to admit that our young gentleman is scarcely so fortunate
in his physical semblance, I am sure he hath a very nice mind."

With these panegyrics we ultimately got us to church.  Now it is not to
be expected, I hope, that a man should describe his own nuptials.  If
there are three acts in his life on which he is the least qualified to
speak, are not those his birth, his marriage, and his burial?  For in
not one of them can he testify with any certainty as to whether he went
through them on his heels or his head.  Besides, I am one who holds
that there should be a becoming reticence in these things.

I can recall perhaps an empty, musty-smelling church, and the clerk, a
solemn, unctuous man, with a graveyard cough.  Some little wind of the
affair had evidently got abroad in the village, owing to the exertions
of Mrs. Blodgett in quest of the wedding-ring.  Thus the ceremony was
not so entirely private as we could have wished.  A few women in
aprons, and some with babes in their arms kept the porch and the
immediate interior of the church.  It seemed that they did not venture
to go further owing to their awe of the clerk.  Various ragamuffin
children of tender years played hide-and-seek round the gravestones and
their mothers' gowns.  When however the wedding party came along in a
kind of little procession, they desisted for a minute, and having
safely seen the parson precede us into the sacred edifice, they put out
their tongues at Cynthia and myself, and made several references of a
nature uncomplimentary to us couched in the form of rustic wit.

Mrs. Blodgett had undertaken the office of chief bridesmaid.  She would
have undertaken that of groomsman too, had I given her the least
encouragement.  She made an impressive figure at the altar rails, clad
in a severe black hood; whilst she was quite conscious of her
conspicuous position, and stood calm and erect in the dignity of her
infinite experience.  What whispered but animated counsel she proffered
to Cynthia during the brief period in which we waited for the parson to
emerge from the vestry, I know not, but I would have given a good deal
to have been a party to it, for I am sure that if the look on Mrs.
Cynthia's countenance was any index to its character, it would well
have been worth setting down in this place.

At the last moment when the tension of our minds was very great, the
clerk became obstreperous.  He asked parson Scriven in a significant
undertone for the special licence that was to marry us, as the banns
had not been put up and cried in church.  Of course we were not
furnished with anything of the kind.

Parson Scriven, as became his amiable casual character, was not at all
disconcerted by such an informality.

"Pooh and faugh!" says he.  "Banns and licence, John, stuff and
nonsense!  Why should an honest couple be hedged about in this way?  If
they have no licence, upon my soul I will marry them without."

The clerk was scandalized.  The parson, however, would hear no
argument.  He was not the person to allow his head to interfere with
the dictates of his heart.

"Parson's main obstinate," said the clerk, scratching his head.  "And I
do believe he cares no more for law an' regulation than the gypsies on
the common.  It won't be legal, this won't, but bless you what'll
parson care!"

So long as we could get this awkward business over we cared as little
for law and regulation as this singular old clergyman.  Therefore, when
he disdained the opinions of the clerk, and reiterated his intention to
marry us, we breathed again.

At last all was ready, and the parson came out of the vestry with his
book and his gown, and smiled upon us with benevolent self-possession.
We strung ourselves for the great ordeal.  Yet as a preliminary we were
confronted with one that we found vastly the more awkward of the two,
and one that we had not anticipated either.  How we both came to
overlook it, I know not, unless the palpitation that our minds were in
was the secret of it.  It had never occurred to us that the parson
could not marry us unless he was informed of our names.  But when he
made that very obvious and natural stipulation it came upon us as a
thunderbolt.  What a pair of arrant fools we were, not to have thought
of that contingency, and to have provided for it!

When the parson bluntly demanded this of us, we stood staring
open-mouthed at one another, a pair of zanies.  I pursued a bold
course, however.  To give our own was out of the question in that
public place, and more particularly as the newspaper had just
acquainted the reverend gentleman of my black history.  Therefore, says
I, with an impudent assurance:

"John Smith and Jane Jones."

"How truly national!" says the officiating clergyman in a rapture of
sentiment.  "How exquisitely English are these names, to be sure!"

I durst not look at my poor little Cynthia.  But somehow I felt that
she was trembling and deadly pale, and ready to sink to the ground
under this humiliation to her native delicacy.  I fear that I was of a
much coarser grain.  I had suffered too much from the world already to
be easily bowed with a sense of shame.  "Needs must when the devil
drives," was a good enough motto for me.  We were in a pretty tight
corner, and if we ever came out of it at all, we must expect to lose a
little of our tender skins in doing so.

My little one was most monstrous brave.  Having recovered the
possession of herself, she set her teeth and went through the thing
gallantly.  I'faith she was of a good mettle.  In spite of Mrs.
Blodgett's opinion of my worth, my little miss answered the
all-important query in such a clear affirmative voice as never was
heard, and entered into vows of a sort that argued some degree of
rashness on her part.  Even at the time I was inclined to raise a doubt
of her ability to be the equal of them.  Nor hath aught subsequently
transpired to cause me to forego this estimate of the matter.  When we
had been duly put through these trials, we were led into the vestry to
write our names in the marriage register.

"Oh, Jack," whispers Cynthia, as we went, "whatever shall we do?  I am
sure it cannot be legal."

"I am sure I don't know," says I.  "What a folly of mine not to have
thought of it sooner!"

"It was my place to think of it," says Cynthia.  "The folly is mine."

"No, not at all," says I.  "What have you to do with it, a chit as you
are?  The folly is mine, I tell you."

"Then I tell you it's not," says Cynthia flatly, and stamping her
petulant shoe on the very steps of the altar.



CHAPTER IX

WE GO UPON OUR WEDDING TOUR

I am sure it is expected of me to improve this occasion with a few sage
remarks, for could anything have been more ominous to the prosperity of
our married life?  But I hope I have too much chivalry in me to say to
what extent this evil presage has been borne out since, and I dare Mrs.
Cynthia to do so.  _Revenons à nos moutons_, a phrase I think that
always looks better in French.  We got through all these important
matters at last, even to the forging of the honoured names of Jane
Jones and John Smith, or Jane Smith and John Jones, I forget precisely
which, in the parish register.  Then having vailed the clerk with the
parson's two-shilling-bit, and having thanked and bid farewell to our
kind benefactors, we moved out of the church amid the acclamation of
the whole female and juvenile population of the village, and got us
with some speed upon our wedding-tour.

Now we had made about half-a-mile along the highway at a round pace,
when Cynthia to her great concern discovered that she had carried away
upon her finger the ring that Mrs. Blodgett had borrowed from a
neighbour.

"Oh, this will never do," says she.  "We can never rob such kind honest
people."

"I suppose we cannot," says I, "but the value of that ring will come in
wonderfully apt this evening when we desire a lodging for our
weariness."

"Oh, Jack, how can you!" says she.  "We must take it back at once."

And willy-nilly with never another word my pretty one, with a fine
indignant colour in her face, turned about and set her nose straight
back to the parson's door.  And taking a material view of the matter,
honesty was just as good a policy in this case as any other, for when
we had come to the parson and Cynthia had got her mission off her lips
and the ring off her finger, all in due time, the kind man was so
pleased by our worthy behaviour, that says he to Mrs. Blodgett: "There,
there, what did I say?  I knew you judged them too harshly," and
straightway invited us to an excellent repast of potherbs and boiled
mutton, that even then was smoking on the table.

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon when we set out again on our
travels.  We took the highway, and followed it mile upon mile, through
pretty hamlets, past inviting inns, lush green meadows, and here and
there a shady little copse.  Up hill and down dale we went, and always
in something of a joyful spirit, for no two people could be more happy
in their freedom, or more careless of what might befall.  The moment
was enough for us.  We were sound in limb and spirit, stout of heart,
too, I ween, and my little wife had the sum of twelvepence half penny
in her pocket.  An avenging law was doubtless pursuing me, and a stern
parent was most probably pursuing her, but we were so taken up with one
another that we could think only of our present happiness.  Avaunt dull
care, it was our wedding journey.

Who could help being happy in the soft airs of the spring afternoon?
They were so generous, and the sun was so mild and pleasant, that we
discarded our cloaks, and I bore them both over my arm.  But we were
not allowed to remain in this paradise very long without being rudely
reminded of its insecurity.  After awhile, growing hot with our
exertions and a little weary also, we began to desire a cool shady
place in which to rest.  A hill more than usually steep lay before us,
and having toiled to the top, at considerably less of a pace than the
one at which we had started, found there the spot we were in need of.
Seating ourselves under a tree covered with snowy blossom we proceeded
to take our earned repose.  And we had been in this occupation perhaps
five minutes or so, when our attention was directed to the sound of
wheels at the foot of the hill we had just overcome.  A pair-horse
chaise was coming up at a round pace.  It was occupied by two persons,
and was so striking in colour and design that it was in the distance
likely to be recognized sooner than the people in it.  This proved to
be the case.  No sooner had it come into view than Cynthia clutched at
my arm in a quick, frightened manner.

"Look, look!" says she.  "Oh, what shall we do?  'Tis papa's curricle
coming up the hill, and on my life, it is papa within it."

I needed no second exhortation.  There was an instant of time in which
we both looked wildly about us, backwards and forwards, only to
discover that it was impossible to get away from our present place
without being caught in the act of doing so.  A hedge was at our back,
another was on the opposite side of the way, and in front stretched the
long level surface of the road.  Yet there was just one chance of our
passing unnoticed, though heaven knows a precarious and remote one!
There was a slight declivity running under the hedge at our backs.  It
was a kind of dry ditch, but the bed of it was so shallow that it could
hardly be dignified by the name of ditch at all.  I commanded Cynthia
to lie perfectly flat in this, face downwards, and to squeeze herself
as far into the earth as she could get, whilst I did the same, though
in regard to the last particular I fear my precept was higher than my
resolution.  Meantime the chaise came grinding and grunting up the
hill, at the same smart pace, while we lay in our ridiculously
inadequate hiding-place, perfectly convinced in our own minds that we
must be discovered.  What an agony of suspense we lay in, stretched
full length, Cynthia's head pressed firmly against my heel, and our
noses nestling in the dry earth!  We durst hardly breathe as the
carriage came nearer and nearer.

How it was its occupants failed to see us I cannot understand, for we
could have been scarcely shielded at all from their observation.  But
sure enough the curricle went past us, and as it did so we could even
detect the familiar voices issuing out of it, above the noise of the
horses and the vehicle.  One belonged to my lord the Duke, Mrs.
Cynthia's papa, a terribly irascible loud-toned voice to be sure;
whilst the other, smooth, polished and elegant, was that of Mr.
Humphrey Waring.

When at last they had fairly passed us by at a deuce of a rattle, we
were able to sit up from our tight positions and show our noses again.
We gazed at one another solemnly, and then broke into a peal of
laughter apiece.

"Phew!" says I, "it was as bad a two minutes as ever I've had.  I
thought papa sounded very angry too."

"Poor papa!" says Cynthia, with a very odd mingling of sorrow and mirth
in her face.  "I wouldn't have given much for you, sir, had he spied
us; and for that matter I would have given even less for myself."

"I suppose he is in full pursuit of us?" says I.

"There cannot be a doubt of it," says his daughter.  "And if I know
anything of his Grace, he'll hardly sleep in his bed again until he
hath tracked us down.  He's a terrible implacable man when he's
aroused.  He'll be hunting us night and day, and he'll spend his last
penny sooner than he'll be baulked by us, now that he hath seen fit to
start on this business."

"Humph!" says I, "a nice energetic old gentleman to have for a
father-in-law, to be sure.  And that smooth villain Waring too.  Did
you not catch his voice also?"

"Yes," says Cynthia, flaming, "the wicked, wretched, contriving
villain.  What can he hope to get by it all?"

"A wife," says I.

"He's like to go empty-handed there at least," says Cynthia.  "What a
mercy it was we were married this morning!"

"I doubt whether we were," says I.  "I do not know that the ceremony
will hold in the sight of the law."

"Then," says Cynthia, "we will be married over again in our real names
and with a proper licence at the first church we can."

"Nor will that avail you," says I, "when he hath got me hanged."

Mrs. Cynthia grew thoughtful, but says she after a moment's reflection:

"When he does that I will put an ounce of lead into his heart, then I
can be hanged beside you."

At this perforce I had to capitulate before her ingenuity.

We resumed our way somewhat chastened in spirit.  We looked keenly
ahead of us along the road as we went, for any sign of the vehicle that
had lately overtaken us.  Any inn or alehouse that happened to lie at
the roadside we passed with particular caution, lest our papa and his
companion should have broken their journey there.  As time went by, and
we had begun to forget the excellent repast of boiled mutton and
potherbs with which we had been regaled by parson Scriven, we cast our
eyes on these wayside places of entertainment with another end in view.
We were growing honestly tired and hungry.  Coming to one that wore an
air of unobtrusive respectability and general cleanliness, we
determined to part with half of our fortune in exchange for some bread
and cheese and ale.

Having first been at the precaution to convince ourselves that his
Grace's curricle lingered nowhere about the house, we went in and
called for our modest refreshment.  And we were engaged in doing
justice to it with a good deal of zest, when to our great fear we heard
the sound of wheels on the road, and by the time we could turn round
and look out of the inn-window a chaise had come to a stand in front of
the door.  It needed but a glance to tell us that we might have been
spared our alarm, since it was not the one belonging to Mrs. Cynthia's
papa.  This was a much less imposing carriage, of a prim colour and
cast that was designed not to attract any attention.  It contained two
persons.  The first who alighted from it was a middling drab-coated
kind of a fellow, smug of countenance, and not to be looked at twice.
He was doubtless the unliveried servant of a well-to-do tradesman; an
estimate that was borne out by the deferential, not to say obsequious
air with which he stood at the side of the vehicle, and assisted the
second occupant to get out.  This was a vastly more imposing person.
He was a great fat, heavy-featured man, with an almost overpowering
consequentialness about him.  He moved with a slow but dignified strut,
spoke in a very loud voice, and yet there was a tone of affable
condescension about him too that was very baffling.  He might be the
mayor or an alderman of some provincial town, some local big-wig, or
even a pursy magnate of commerce.

By the time he had moved in his heavy dignity into the room in which
Cynthia and I were seated at our bread and cheese, the landlord had
taken note of his visitor, and had come forward to greet him with all
the respectful familiarity of one who was happy to meet again an old
and cherished and highly-valued client.

"No other than Mr. John Jeremy, by all that's wonderful," says the
landlord, bowing and smiling.  "_The_ Mr. John Jeremy, as I'm a
licensed victualler."

No sooner had the landlord uttered the name than I looked hastily at
Cynthia, and she looked hastily at me.  Where had we heard that name so
recently, and in what connexion?  Suddenly the same flash of
recollection illuminated the minds of us both.  It was the name of the
celebrated Bow Street runner, as given in the _London Gazette_.  I
think we both went hot and then cold.  But when the first emotion of
surprise was overpast, a dogged resolution succeeded to it and with it
a determination to put, if need be, as bold a face upon the matter as
we could.  After all there was nothing about us by which we could be
identified.  Appearances were certainly in our favour; and the black
eye I had that morning received from the farmer was not the least
likely thing of all to stand me in good stead.

"Sit tight," I whispered to her, "and we'll keep asipping out of the
same pot as unconcerned as possible."

Mr. Jeremy having seated himself with majestic negligence at a table
immediately opposite us, turned to his companion and says:

"Wattle you 'ave, Willum?"

"Make it porter," says Willum, in a voice of extreme melancholy.

"Wattle you 'ave, Mr. Johnson?" says Mr. Jeremy, addressing the host, a
reel-faced worthy of simple ways, who seemed pleased with himself and
all the world.

"Make it porter, Mr. Jeremy, as you're so haffable," says he; "and what
might be your own?"

"If you 'ave any of that there sloe-gin, mine's sloe-gin," says Mr.
Jeremy.

These preliminaries being arranged to the satisfaction of all
concerned, and the host having retired to fetch the refreshment, Mr.
Jeremy remarked to his companion with a wonderful air of reflection:
"Honest, unassooming feller."

"Very," says the other, more gloomily than ever.

Mr. Jeremy then observed us for the first time.  We returned his gaze
with one of the most simple unconcern.

"Nice day," says he.

"Very," says I heartily.

Here the host returned with the refreshment, and having pledged each
other, they drank solemnly and copiously.

"Well, Mr. Jeremy," says the host, "what are you after this time?  It's
a murder, I know, for you to be taking it on.  You never do nothing
under a murder, you don't, as I've heard you say."

"You don't mean to say as you 'aven't 'eard?" says Mr. Jeremy.  "The
whole case was printed in this morning's _Gazette_.  It's no small
thing, this isn't, I can tell you.  The quality's in it, to start with."

"Ha!" says the landlord, with breathless interest.  "Is it a hanging
matter?"

"Of course," says Mr. Jeremy.  "And a hearl, and a thorough bad lot
too.  A thorough wicked feller with a record as black as your hat.  I
always say when one of that sort goes wrong he's much worse than
ord'nary."

"If it's you that says it, Mr. Jeremy, there can be no manner of doubt
about it," says the landlord.

He appeared to hang on every word that the man from Bow Street uttered.
That worthy gentleman who was by no means unaware of the impression he
created, was at pains in a dozen little ways to heighten it.  Now and
then he would halt in a mysterious manner, wink and nod, and then
continue in a truly oracular way.  It was plain that he felt himself to
be a man of a great reputation, and it would certainly be no fault of
his if he failed to sustain it.  Nor was he content to work on the mind
of the landlord, but continually looked across at us to see what effect
he was having on our susceptibilities.  Observing this, I began at once
to betray an interest in all he thought fit to say and do; an interest
more exaggerated than the landlord's even, and certainly less sincere.

"Are you the great Mr. John Jeremy from Bow Street, sir?" says I at the
first opportunity.  I asked it in a voice of as much timidity as I
could summon, as one astonished at his boldness.

Instead of replying, the gentleman from Bow Street closed his eyes in
exquisite self-satisfaction, threw his head back against the wall and
folded his arms across his chest.

"How can you ask?" says the landlord, replying for him.  "Who else can
he be?  I should ha' thought your eyes would ha' told you that with one
look at him."

"I am very proud to meet you, sir," says I, and added, turning to
Cynthia: "Who would have thought it, Betsy, that you and I of all
people would ever have met the great Mr. Jeremy from Bow Street in
London."

"Don't mention it," says Mr. Jeremy, opening his eyes with vast
condescension.

"Oh, Mr. Jeremy," says my little Cynthia, playing up to her part in the
comedy with admirable instinct, "would you--could you let me have a
peep at the--at the handcuffs?"

Mr. Jeremy needed no second invitation to exhibit the badges of his
office.  He took them from his pocket and laid them on the table with
an air.  And nothing would content Cynthia but she must rise from her
seat, go over to the gentleman from Bow Street, and have the manacles
clapped upon her wrists to see how they felt.  Her curiosity was very
prettily and justly simulated.  It was done to the life, and no one
could have been more pleased by it than Mr. Jeremy.

Not content with thrilling Cynthia with the handcuffs, the gentleman
from Bow Street was anxious to impress everybody else.  He presently
produced the warrant for the wicked earl's arrest; also a handbill
offering one hundred pounds reward for any information that should lead
to the apprehension of the person whose full description was contained
therein.

"But that's only a matter of form, you know," says Mr. Jeremy.  "I've
already got all the information that I want in this 'ere," Mr. Jeremy
solemnly tapped his forehead.  "It's only a work of time.  We knows
everything about him: his age, his height, his complexion, his general
appearance, how he was drest, and his religious views.  All there is to
know of him we knows.  I wouldn't give a snap of the fingers for that
man, no that I wouldn't, not if you paid me to do it."

"Wonderful!" says the landlord, his eyes dilated with admiration.
"Wonderful smart!  What a mind you must have, sir."

"_I_ didn't say so," says Mr. Jeremy, "Though I wouldn't contradict you
there.  A feller's got to have a mind for our perfession.  A numscull
can't make head or tail of it, can't a numscull.  It's observation that
does it, d'ye see?  You've got to put two and two together, and to know
how many beans make five.  Now in the case of this 'ere hearl, I've
made such a liberal use o' my faculties that the noose is as good as
round his neck.  Pore feller, I'm sorry for him."

Mr. Jeremy's sorrow was reproduced in the face of each one of his
hearers.  In that of his man and the innkeeper it was sincere enough,
and at least in mine and Cynthia's it was very well simulated.  One and
all professed the greatest admiration for the gentleman's genius.  To
be sure, in what way it had been manifested was not very clear; but as
his speech, his behaviour, and the airs he gave himself furnished
incontestable proofs of its possession, how could we help doing homage
to it?  He sat like a potentate, and received the court we paid to him
as by no means more than his due.  But he was generous as well as
great, for having ordered his own glass to be replenished, he asked us
all to name our tipple, wherein we had the privilege of drinking his
health.

As soon as we felt that we could slip off without attracting any
particular attention to our going, we took the road again.  Yet in the
precautions we were at to get away as little observed as might be, we
were more ill-served than by an ostentatious departure.  For our one
object being to retire quickly and privily, we discovered when we had
gone a few yards on the road that we had not paid our reckoning.  Thus
when the landlord awoke to this fact, we should be much more freely
discussed and commented on than by paying our score and effecting our
retirement at our leisure.  Cynthia, who had a wonderful itch of
honesty, was mightily put out, and was all for going back and for
requiting the landlord at any cost.  But I demurred to this strongly.
The sooner we put a few country miles between ourselves and Mr. Jeremy
the better, said I.  Yet Cynthia argued more subtly, and more justly,
as I was fain to allow.  Mr. Jeremy and the innkeeper had taken no
suspicion of us to the time of our leaving the inn, said she, and if we
were at the trouble to go back again, frankly admit our lapse of
memory, and even go out of our way to behave honestly, we should be far
more likely to continue in their good graces, than if we left them in
the lurch as I proposed.  In that event we should infallibly get
ourselves and our concerns talked about.

Admitting the justness of this reasoning, I consented after a brief
argument to our going back.  Mrs. Cynthia was pleased indeed, partly
because this course was such a tribute to her wisdom, and again because
she would not have to carry on her nice conscience an act that fretted
it.  When we re-entered the inn it seemed that the landlord had already
discovered his loss, and was in the very act of calling us harsh names.
Indeed he was so occupied with this and was expressing himself so
fervently, whilst Mr. Jeremy laughed at him in a humorous key, that he
was not conscious of the fact that we stood behind him, until I said:

"I quite agree with you, host, in all you have said, if such was our
intention.  But as it happens, nothing could be farther from it.  The
moment we discovered our omission, we returned to rectify it."

The landlord was in a great taking when he heard my voice at his back.
Having listened to his apologies that were no less fervent than his
previous abuse, and having taken them in very good part, I demanded to
know the amount of the score, and smiled at Mr. Jeremy while I did so,
in an intimate way, for I judged a display of some little familiarity
towards him was the most calculated to propitiate that gentleman.

Eightpence was the score, a sum fortunately well within our truly
modest means.  But judge of our desperate chagrin an instant later when
Cynthia, the custodian of our poor fortune, having felt in all her
pockets, declared that the purse which contained it was not to be
found.  Search as she might, there was never a trace of it.  We stared
at one another blankly, and then at the landlord, and then at Mr.
Jeremy.  It was this last good gentleman who saved the situation for
us, since he burst out a-laughing.  Thereon I broke into a roar; and
presently Cynthia, Willum, and the landlord were roaring too.  And
could anything have been more ludicrous than two persons leaving an inn
without paying the reckoning, and wending all the way back again for
the purpose of rectifying the error with devil a penny between them
with which to do so!

Under cover of the commotion that this discovery provoked, I racked my
wits to find an excuse for our behaviour.

"You may laugh, gentlemen," says I, with a sudden gravity, "but it is
no laughing matter for us, let me tell you.  My wife's pocket hath been
picked, and how we are to get back home with not so much as a penny
between us, strike me dead if I can say!"

"Why, 'tis a case for Mr. Jeremy's genius," says Cynthia, smiling at
that flattered person in a most bewitching manner.  "He must devise us
a means out of his infinite wit."

"Peace, woman," says I, angrily.  "Is it not enough then that you
should lose all our travelling money and bring us into disgrace with
our honest host, whom we are unable to requite for his hospitality, but
you must lose the control of that unlucky tongue too, and let it grow
so familiar with the name and attainments of one of the foremost
persons of his age that it brings us into disrepute with him also?"

I spoke with my tongue in my cheek to be sure, and Cynthia more than
once had to bite her lips to restrain her merriment.  But Mr. Jeremy
nodded his head delightedly all the time, and purred with satisfaction.

"No offence, no offence," says that gentleman.  "Don't mind me, my
pretty one.  But since you ask my opinion as to 'ow you shall get back
home again, I think after carefully considering all the circumstances,
the only means I can discover is 'Shanks's mare.'"

"Ha ha! he he!" we all laughed at this desperate piece of wit.

The upshot was that we were allowed to depart indebted to the innkeeper
in the sum of eightpence.  The loss of our money was a blow.  Why it
should have been I cannot tell, for after all it was very little the
right side of destitution.  Cynthia was quite unable to say in what
manner she had lost it, and when I came to put a few shrewd questions
to her on the subject, she was so vague in her ideas and so uncertain
in her answers, that it became a moot point at last whether her fortune
of twelvepence halfpenny had not existed from the first in her
imagination only.



CHAPTER X

WE ARE BESET BY A HEAVY MISFORTUNE

It was about sundown now.  We had not so much as a penny to purchase a
loaf of bread.  Night was coming on; there were no friends to whom we
might recommend ourselves; and at least two parties of persons were
engaged in hunting us down in that vicinity.  To set against these
inconveniences we had only our liberty and our comradeship; and
although our bellies were like to go empty, and our heads unpillowed
that night, and for full many a weary one to come, we did not rail
against our lot.  We were as free as the air and could defy the polite
conventions.  Lest we should fall in again with Mr. Waring and our
papa, or less dangerously with Mr. Jeremy, we decided to forsake the
high road and its publicity, and take to the fields.  All ways were
alike to us; north, south, east, and west, it did not matter.

We had not gone far across the country when the twilight overtook us.
We did not view it with the least apprehension, however.  The night
promised to be so mild, and we were so warmly found against it with our
cloaks and thick clothes, that another evening couch in a barn or a
cowhouse would not greatly daunt us.  Indeed we had already made up our
minds to this, unless Providence should throw a more luxurious one in
our path.  In the event this proved to be the case, for after awhile
our wanderings brought us to a kind of common, across which smoke was
seen to be rising.  It came from a fire of sticks as we presently
found, and on coming to it, we discovered ourselves in the midst of a
gypsy encampment.

Four or five persons of a dirty, ragged and uncouth sort, were busying
themselves about the fire in various ways.  One was tending it with
fuel, another was adjusting a great cooking-pot that sat in the midst
of the embers, a third was cleaning a clasp-knife with a piece of rag
and a tuft of grass, a fourth had two parts of a flute in his hand and
was striving to fix them together; an old woman sat staring into the
blaze with her hands on her knees, smoking a pipe; and a young woman,
by no means destitute of a swarthy beauty, sat beside her with a child
at her breast.

The reception we met with at the hands of these simple strange people
was at first reserved and suspicious to a degree.  One of the men
addressed us in a barbarous tongue, the like of which I have neither
heard before nor since.  I could not make a word out of it.  Showing
plainly that we were at a loss in this language, the man translated it
into good if a trifle rustic English:

"What do you want?" says he roughly.

"Leave to sit down by your cheerful fire a little," I replied.  They
were in no hurry to extend this permission to us, but by the time that
Cynthia with excellent tact had greatly admired the babe in its
mother's arms, and I, who amongst my accomplishments pride myself as
being somewhat of an amateur of the flute, had pieced that instrument
together, for its owner did not appear to understand much about it, and
had been at pains to make ourselves agreeable to our company in several
ways, their gruff reserve grew sensibly less.  And shortly, so much did
our addresses have their effect, that we found ourselves seated around
the fire, with a pleasant odour of cookery tickling our noses.  For
after all bread and cheese and ale, although excellent in themselves to
be sure, do not form a very enduring diet.

By the time the meal was ready the moon had risen.  Sitting in the
midst of these strange gypsy people, beside a bright fire that threw up
its flames to the open fields, and clothed trees and hedges and the sky
itself with a vagueness and mystery that we had never noticed in them
before, we became possessed with a sense of the weirdness of the shapes
about us.  They made the folk we had come amongst seem more singular
than they might otherwise have appeared.  However, the meal we
presently partook of in their company did much to alleviate this
feeling of strangeness.  When the lid was taken off the hissing
cauldron, and platters, spoons and knives were produced, the circle
about the fire was increased by the arrival of other gypsies of various
ages and both sexes.

As their guests, they had the courtesy to serve us first.  From the pot
was produced a hot and grateful mess, that to persons with appetites
sharpened to the degree that ours were, was deliriously palatable.  It
appeared to consist of fowls, mutton, hares, onions, and potatoes, and
probably other meats and vegetables not so easy to detect.  We were
also given some excellent ale in a great horn tumbler, and a hunch of
barley bread apiece.  We feasted indeed on the liberal fare, and were
fain to pay a second visit to the cauldron.

It was to be remarked that our entertainers were much better disposed
toward us after supper than before.  Their suspicion and reserve melted
more and more, and instead of using the Romany language, ordered their
conversation in ours, that we might take some profit of their
intercourse.  They all showed this amenable disposition with the
exception of the old crone, who had supped only on tobacco, preferring
her pipe to the lustier fare of the cauldron.  She would have none of
us.  We could clearly see the expression of her lowering, tawny face,
since she sat opposite to us, full in the glare of the fire.  This
indifference to us was more than passive.  We discerned with some
uneasiness that it amounted to positive dislike.  She would stare at us
whole minutes together, while a concentrated malignity came into her
already sufficiently ugly face.  She would then mutter incoherently
under her breath.  Once she spat venomously into the fire.  At last,
after staring at us longer and more resentfully than usual, she
clutched a fellow who sat beside her fiercely by the arm.  She talked
to him with great energy, and ended with something that sounded of the
nature of an imprecation.  As she did so she shook her finger at our
faces.  Whatever her communication was, the man was much discomposed by
it.  He nodded, infused a certain malignity too in the look with which
he regarded us, and then addressed several of his companions very much
in the manner that the old woman had addressed him.

Cynthia, who had observed these signs as keenly as I had, grew alarmed.
Nor was this unreasonable in her, for such were the weight of the old
crone's objections to us, whatever their nature, that before long they
had spread to the whole community.  Thus we soon found ourselves in the
unpleasant position of being the cynosure of all their eyes, the
objects at which their fingers were wagged, and against whom their
passionate talk was directed.  But we suffered from the additional
misfortune of being unable to understand a single word, and were thus
quite at a loss to know wherein we had offended.  It was the man with
the flute who presently enlightened us.  Probably his devotion to
music, one of the liberal arts, gave him a more humane cast than his
brethren.  Indeed at this moment he alone seemed friendly towards us.

"Old Goody does not like the set o' ye," says he.  "You will bring
ill-luck upon us wandering folk, she thinks."

"What does she object to in us?"

"Nay," says he, "that is more than I can say.  She is as full of
prediction, whimsies, and foreboding as a dog-fox is of cunning.  She
has lived a long while, d'ye see, and can read the signs.  She has
forseen many a corpse, by looking at the moon.  Many's the man-child
she's brought into the world.  And only last year when she heard the
wind soughing through the branches, she told not only the day but the
very hour that Jerry Boswell came to be hanged."

This sinister reference did nothing to ease us.  Looking around, the
cunning and superstition that was everywhere about us took a direr
significance.  As their resentment in no wise abated, it struck us that
we should do well to resume our way.  But the man with the flute
assured us that we were under no necessity, for since we had sat at
meat with them, the mischief, if any, was already done.  He said
besides that his people were the civillest in the world, and whatever
their fear of us, they would be the last to visit their dislike upon
us.  As the fire was so bright and genial, and our present position,
despite any little inconveniences that might arise therefrom, was so
much more to be desired than any other we were likely to lie in that
night, we were seduced to remain.  It may have been against our better
judgment that we took this course, or like the gypsies themselves, we
may have had an instinct of something impending, for in the end we were
to rue it bitterly.

Our friend with the flute, doubtless to compose the minds of his more
nervous brethren, began a strange sort of melody.  It was played not
very well to be sure, but they gave an alert attention to it that
furnished an instance of the power of music on untutored minds.
Presently one of the women broke into a song to match the air.  It was
in the gypsy language, and though sung in a low crooning voice and a
primitive fashion, it was by no means unpleasing, whilst its weird
character was highly appropriate to the place in which it was
performed.  The rude audience was vastly soothed by it too; their
fierce looks grew softer; and soon they fell to regarding the music
entirely instead of Cynthia and myself.

When the flute-player had given his melody, he politely handed the
instrument to me, with the request that if I had any skill in the art I
should give one also.  Being as I have said an amateur of the flute,
and being like all other amateurs as I have observed, never in any
situation averse to display my poor aptitude, I struck up a ranting air
from the _Beggar's Opera_.  I was surprised to find how excellent the
instrument was, and was therefore able to enter into the performance as
much for my own gratification as for theirs.  When I had finished I was
agreeably surprised to find how warmly my efforts were received.  The
former player wrung my hand, and, strange as it may appear, many eyes
shone about me with pleasure and admiration.  Nothing would content
them but I must play again.  Mightily pleased with my success, as every
person who seeks the approbation of the public invariably is, I needed
no second invitation, but ventured on a more ambitious piece.  With
many a spring and trill and roulade I ranted it into their ears.  They
followed me with rapt attention, and again and again would have me
play.  How long I continued to do so I do not know.  For seeing the
singular pleasure they took from it, I should have been a churl indeed
not to gratify such hospitable and simple people.  Therefore I poured
out all the tunes I knew for their behoof.

Little did we reck however of the calamity that was about to befall us.
The old woman, it is true, had had a premonition of something
impending.  Had it been concerned with the effect as well as the cause
much might have been spared us.  As it was, no catastrophe could have
come more swiftly, unexpectedly, or completely.  I was still in the
height of my music, and the group around the fire were absorbed in it
wholly, when this unhappy interruption came.  Without a sound of
warning a dozen forms or more suddenly sprang into being out of a ditch
hard by, and rushed into our midst.  By the light of the moon we could
observe enough of them as they came to see that they were armed with
formidable staves, and clearly meant mischief.

We had only just time to spring to our feet before they were upon us.
What their business was we did not stay to inquire; indeed, it was soon
evident that my friends, the gypsies, were only too intimately
acquainted with it.  Without passing a word they resisted this
onslaught with all the vigour they could summon.  One or two ran into
the tents close at hand to procure weapons of defence; others produced
their knives; whilst the old crone, who along among the gypsy women was
not barefooted snatched off one of her boots and brandished it
fiercely.  As for Cynthia and I, we were so taken aback by this strange
situation that we did not know what course to pursue.  We had neither
art nor part in this quarrel whatever its nature.  Besides, we were
weaponless and utterly at a loss to understand whether submission or
resistance might serve us the better.

The aggressors, whatever their impetuosity, stopped short at first of
actual violence.  Seeing the uncompromising attitude of the gypsies,
the foremost man, a fine strapping fellow as ever I saw, halted a few
yards off, put up his hand to speak, and said with a great air of
authority:

"Now, you Egyptians, let me give you a word of advice before we come to
blows.  You have no chance at all.  You are outnumbered by three to
one, and whatever blood is shed, will be to your hurt.  Whatever polls
are broken will not save any man Jack of you a hanging.  I summon you
to put down your weapons, and the women shall go free.  But I arrest
every man of you in the name of the High Sheriff for stealing sheep."

The reply of the sheep-stealers was brief enough in all conscience.

"Take that!" cried the old woman, flinging her boot at the speaker's
head.

It was the signal for the battle to begin.  My friend the flute-player
followed up the boot by hitting the spokesman of the law full in the
face with his fist.  Thereon blows fell thick and fast and furious on
every side.  The Sheriff's men closed up, nor did the gypsies budge an
inch.  Without a weapon of any sort, as I was, I had to bear my part
perforce, since there was no opportunity to explain that I was neither
a gypsy nor a stealer of sheep.  But even had it offered, I could never
have embraced it.  Just as a man may be known by the company he keeps,
he is at the same time laid under the obligation to defend his friends.

My first care, of course, was for Cynthia.  As the Sheriff's men were
not likely to molest her should she run away out of reach of harm, I
insisted on her doing so.  I had to be firm with her too, since she was
by no means disposed to separate from me in this pass.  She would
either have me come with her or she would stay where she was.  The
first alternative was impracticable even had I wished to embrace it.
The enemy were all about us by now, and I should not have been
permitted to go; and the second put her personal safety into such a
jeopardy that I had to be very stern.  Thereon she unwillingly complied.

No sooner had she gone than I slipped the flute in my pocket and
prepared to take a hand in the defence.  As I had no other weapons I
had to employ my hands.  Had the conditions been equal I could have
wished no better.  But they were little likely to prevail against
superior numbers, armed with staves.  Indeed, from the first,
submission would have been the wiser course for us all, as the gypsies
were at such a disadvantage that they had no chance.  Yet blows were
dealt with mighty goodwill on both sides; sometimes the upholders of
the law went down, but more often the breakers of it.  Presently two
fellows with cudgels in their hands made lo seize me by the collar,
whereon I dealt the most assiduous of the twain so shrewd a crack on
the point of the jawbone as laid him low.  The other fellow came at me
furiously with his stave, and I had barely time to whisk my head aside
and so get it clear of the blow that was aimed at it.  I was hastening
to follow up this delicate attention with a few of my own, when a third
adversary unseen came behind me, and gave me such a tap at the side of
the head as brought me to the ground bleeding and half insensible.

Before I could make any attempt to gather myself again, a pair of knees
were in the middle of my chest, and a strong hand half choked the life
out of my throat.  I was in no condition to kick or struggle much; but
whatever the philosophy of my temper in the piping times of peace,
devil a bit did I exercise of it now.  Bleeding and breathless as I
was, I resisted with what was in the circumstances an absurd tenacity;
and it was some little time, after a great display of energy on both
sides that two or three of my enemies ultimately secured me, bound my
hands and raised me to my feet.  And I hope the reader will observe
that I again insist that it took two or three persons to conclude this
unfortunate business, as it did to inaugurate it.  I know not what vain
glory it is in a man that makes him so punctilious in matters of this
sort.

By the time I had been overcome and raised on to my feet in fetters,
the affair was almost decided.  There could be but one ending; and very
soon the unfortunate gypsies were all of them captive too, with cords
round their wrists, and most of them bloody of bearing.  No time was
lost in marching us away to the nearest magistrate.  There seemed about
a score of armed men to take the custody of us.  In the haste with
which everything was carried out, in the uncertain moonlight, and in
the dull vague condition of mind that the shock of events, to name only
one cause, had induced, I had not the smallest opportunity of taking
farewell of Cynthia.  Nor had she any means of approaching me, seeing
how sedulously we were guarded, and how promptly we were marched away.

The whole thing was begun and ended so swiftly that this very
grandiloquent and self-important quill-pen hath made, I find, an
incomparably greater business of it than ever it was in itself.  It can
never bring its dignity down to the subordinate office of the relation
of a plain piece of history, but is all for the frills and the
trimmings.  Do not be deceived into thinking, therefore, that this
country brawl was as great as the battle of Marathon.  But at least, at
the time the consequences were to me very poignant.  As we were dragged
along over the stubble and through the moonlight, we knew not whither,
I was more stunned by my evil fortune than by the blow I had come by in
the argument, notwithstanding that as I walked the blood trickled in a
thin warm stream on to my coat.  For a person in my circumstances to
fall into the hands of the law in a hedge scuffle in an alien quarrel,
was about as scurvy an accident as could possibly happen.  I was truly
between the devil and the deep sea.  To clear myself of the charge of
being a gypsy and a sheep-stealer, I should be compelled to expose my
identity, and in doing so should but fall out of the frying-pan into
the fire.

There was another side to the matter, equally black.  Whatever would
happen to Cynthia?  Was she not left utterly destitute, without a
friend, in a foreign country?  Even in the extreme unlikelihood of my
regaining my freedom, neither of us would know where to seek the other,
and thus at a time when it was so imperative that we should be
together, we should be wrenched apart.  Look at the case as I might, I
could derive no crumb of comfort from it.

It was in a great depression of spirit then that I was haled, weak,
bleeding, and encumbered along the country lanes to meet my fate.  What
it was likely to be I did not exactly know, but look at the matter how
I would, there seemed to be but one natural ending to it.  I was parted
from my poor little wife, doubtless for ever; and if I did not come to
the gallows for murder or stealing sheep, I must perforce end my days
in a debtor's prison.



CHAPTER XI

I COME A PRISONER TO A FAMILIAR HOUSE, AND FIND STRANGE COMPANY

We had marched along for what seemed to me in my unhappy state an
intolerable period, although I suppose actually the time was less than
an hour, when we passed through the gates of a great house.  When the
porter came out of his lodge to let us through, and held his lantern
against the iron-work, I observed that the device of the family wrought
therein had a strangely familiar appearance.  There was something about
the porter too that awoke all sorts of remote recollections in my mind.
As we went along the paths, even the situation of the trees that
skirted them added to this impression.  And when we came at last on to
the lawn, and the house itself was clearly exposed in the moonlight, a
cry of surprise almost escaped my lips, for the place had once been my
own.

It was a house in which a great part of my boyhood had been spent, and
one that I had inherited at my father's death.  It was but a little
while that it remained in my hands, however, for one night, having lost
much more than I cared about over a game of piquet, I think it was, in
a desperate attempt to retrieve my fortunes, I staked this precious
house upon the cards and lost it also, to a fellow as reckless as
myself.  It is impossible to say, therefore, what my emotions were at
this my strange return to the home of my childhood, and the seat for
many a generation of those whose name I bore.  But I think that the
first moment of recognition over, my tendency was towards laughter, for
could anything have been more comical than that I should be brought in
such a company, and on such a charge, to this of all the places in the
world?

Even the fellow who replied to the summons on the great hall-door, I
remembered nearly as well as my own father, for I ought to tell you
that servants, furniture and plate had passed over with the property.
We were kept waiting without whilst the head-constable or chief officer
among our captors went in to confer with the magistrate.  In the end it
was decided that we should be brought before the justice in person.  He
was said to have been a prime mover in the matter from the first, and
was highly incensed against the unfortunate gypsies.

"We could not have come to a worse place," said my friend the
flute-player, who stood beside me.  "This is the house of Sir Thomas
Wheatley, a hard man, and the biggest enemy to us poor folk of any one
about.  If his name and interest count for anything, we shall all of us
infallibly be hanged."

There were eight of us prisoners, and we were presently led into Sir
Thomas's presence.  When we were brought into the fine dining-room that
I knew so well, every inch of which was so familiar to me, in which
every object of vertu and article of furniture was a thing so well
recollected that even in this predicament I could not refrain from
regarding them with pride and affection, how can I indicate the flood
of emotions that surged in my head?  After all, a man in the depths of
his abandonment is something more than a piece of wood.

The justice was a common type of person enough; a man in middle life,
who doubtless lived well and drank much, to judge by his purple cheeks
and the somewhat puffed appearance of his body.  He was a middling sort
of man in every way; middling in his stature, in his mind and in his
character, and more especially so, as we were to discover, in his
thoughts and ideas.  He affected the very nicest style of the squire in
his dress, was highly formal in his deportment; and he sat playing
cards with another fellow, apparently not so much for the amusement of
himself or the entertainment of his friend, but rather as one who
followed a dignified occupation in a dignified way.  In his every word,
gesture and motion he had an indescribable air of one sitting for his
picture.  He was in a towering rage, it is true, but it was a rage that
appeared not to spring from the heat of his blood, for he was of that
lethargic habit, which does not rise to heats of any sort.  He was in a
towering rage, because it was expected of one of his position and
sentiments to be in one at such a time.  Therefore, when we poor
prisoners had been ranged along the wall, he put down his cards with
great deliberation, slowly wheeled his chair round towards us, put
together his thumbs, and looked us all over with a noble indignation.

"Soh!" says the justice, counting us carefully.  "One, two,
three--eight of you fairly taken; eight cut-throat rogues that most
richly merit a hanging.  And a hanging you shall get if there is any
law left in the country.  I will commit you at once, so help me I will!
Fetch me pen and ink somebody, and I'll fill in the mittimus.  I hope
you are mightily ashamed of yourselves, you wicked, blackamoor
villains."

"Can you not see that they are, good Tommie?" says the man with whom he
was playing at cards.  "They are as ashamed as the devil was when he
singed the hairs on his tail through overheating his parlour."

The solemn justice was somewhat shocked at this piece of levity.  He
frowned at his companion, and coughed to cover his annoyance.  The man
who had spoken to this disconcerting tenor appeared rather a singular
fellow.  It was difficult to say who or what he might be.  Of a rather
massive frame, he had a countenance that recommended him to the
curious.  His features were large and bold, with an aquiline nose, a
devil of a chin, and a short upper lip.  His face shone with wassail
and intemperate excess; there was a deal of sensuality in it, and more
than a suggestion of coarseness, but it was for none of these things
that it was remarkable.  There was something besides that was baffling
and indescribable to a degree, that drew one's attention to it again
and again.  It was a face of marvellous humorous animation, with the
mockery of a devil and the candour of a saint.  It was as prodigal of
wit as it was of appetite; of majesty and mischief; of impudence and
nobility.  It was the face of a poet and a sot.  Here, apparently, was
a great heart, a humane spirit overlaid with flesh and infirmities.  I
think I was never so arrested by a countenance before, and certainly
never more puzzled by one.

"Why do you propose to hang these gentlemen, Tommie?" says this
whimsical fellow, with a mockery in his eyes and a curl of the lip that
made the justice more uncomfortable than ever.  "Have they picked a few
hazel-twigs off your honour's footpaths?"

"Oh lord, Harry, I pray you be a little serious," says the justice.
"These are gypsies and sheep-stealers; villains and rascals all."

"They are beyond our prayers then," says Harry.  "The law must take its
course.  Even if it could overlook the rape of the mutton, it could
never condone the colour of their hair.  _Lex citius tolerare vult
privatum damnum quam publicum malum_.  There you are as pat and
pragmatical as Marcus Tullius Cicero.  I tell you, Tommie, the world
lost a great lawyer when I became a hackney writer."

While this was going forward I had collected a few of my wits and had
determined on the course to pursue.  Unless by hook or by crook I could
seize these precious moments prior to our committal to prison in which
to put myself right or regain my freedom, all chance would be gone.
Jack Tiverton was as dear to the law as a sheep-stealing gypsy, and
once before a judge I must prove myself to be the one before I could
prove I was not the other.  Therefore I boldly seized the occasion.

"I beg your worship's pardon," says I, humbly; "but surely you will not
commit a man without evidence?  And there is not a tittle of evidence
against me.  I am neither a gypsy nor a sheep-stealer."

I was several times interrupted in the course of this little address by
one of our custodians, who continued to pluck at my sleeve, and
enjoined me in audible whispers to hold my impertinent tongue.  The
justice was astounded by my audacity in daring to address him, and grew
as red and pompous as a turkey-cock.

"How dare you, fellow, talk to me?" says he.  "If I had the power I
would commit you twice over for your insolent presumption, yes I would,
so help me."

"Yes, Tommie, you would, so help you," says his friend.  "The spirit of
Hector; ye speak like Priam's son.  How dare the fellow ask to hear the
evidence when you have had the magnanimity to commit him without it?
Does he forget too that when innocence ceases to suffer it will no
longer be the highest wisdom to be a rogue?"

I was likely to profit nothing by these protestations of my innocence.
This justice was evidently of the worst type of magistrate.  He was too
high and mighty to imperil his preconceived opinions by entering into
the merits of the matter.  He was too lofty to argue; too swollen with
self-esteem to be affronted with facts.  All persons who were brought
before him must be guilty of some crime or other, otherwise they would
not have come there; and he held that he had discharged his office with
credit to himself and with profit to his country when he had
impartially committed them to gaol.  I soon came to the conclusion
therefore that it would be impossible to prevail on a man of this mould
with a simple relation of the case, or expect to meet with any
suggestion of justice at his hands.  I must try a more uncompromising
method; and that an exceedingly bold one.  I must prove to him beyond
all doubt that I was far other than an ignorant gypsy, taking the risk
of the revelation of my true identity, and any consequences that might
ensue.  For that matter if I must go to gaol, I might just as well go
there in the role of the defaulting nobleman as in that of the
larcenous vagabond.

Disregarding all attempts on the part of the officers of the law to
restrain me, I gazed about the spacious apartment with the air I might
have worn had it still belonged to me, and says: "The old place is just
as it was, I see.  But, my good Sir Thomas, it grieves me to observe
that you have put your fat aunt by the side of a Rubens; and that you
have not scrupled to set a pompous citizen in a tie-wig, who, to judge
by a certain consanguinity of expression and countenance, was the
illustrous man your father and a cheesemonger at that, cheek by jowl
with one of Vandyck's gentlemen."

The justice was too incensed by this audacious speech to find words
with which to reply to it.  He spluttered and stuttered himself to the
verge of an apoplexy.  His friend took it far otherwise, however.

"A hit, a palpable hit," says he, laughing heartily.  "I never heard a
ripe thought better expressed.  And, damn it, Tommie, you deserve it
too.  Your fat aunt, and your illustrious father the cheesemonger in a
tie-wig, ha, ha, ha!  Our friend of the black eye and the bloody
countenance is an amateur of the arts, a lover of the beautiful."

"Remove the prisoners out of my presence," says the justice in a fury.

"No, no, Tommie," says his companion, "you go too fast.  Our friend is
so monstrous good that I vow and I protest he must drink a glass of
claret."

Thereupon he countermanded the justice's order with a certain easy air
of authority that was natural to him, which carried more weight than
all the assumption of the magistrate.  This strange fellow, still
chuckling, poured out a glass of wine from one of several bottles that
adorned the table, and leaving his seat carried it over to me, despite
the fact that he hobbled very badly with the gout.  When he stood up he
was wonderfully imposing, being more than six feet tall, with an
appearance of perfect breeding and majesty, for all his profligate
looks and his free, laughing, jovial, devil-may-care manners.  As he
offered me the glass of claret with a charming grace, I looked down at
the cords that so tightly secured my wrists with an air of humorous
deprecation.

"Here, hold this, and keep your long nose clear of the rim," says he,
putting the wine into the hands of the astonished head-constable.  He
then drew a knife from his pocket, and without more ado cut off my
fetters.  As he did so an honest indignation seemed to run in him
suddenly.

"What a dirty way to treat a gentleman!" he said.  "But you must excuse
these low fellows; they are not to blame.  They have no discretion but
simply to follow their calling.  They only know a hog by his bristles."

"As a former _custos rotulorum_ for the county of Wilts, none knows
that better than I, sir.  But I am vastly obliged to you, vastly
obliged."

Thereupon I drank the glass he so kindly handed to me.

"My dear sir," says he, with another great laugh, "that was not the
work of a tyro.  There was a neatness and a deftness in the manner of
it that must have cost you at least ten thousand liftings of the elbow
to acquire.  You are as good to drink with as to talk to.  I'faith you
must do me the honour of sitting at table, for you are a three-bottle
man, or I have never seen one in the world."

You may be sure that I was nothing loth to accept an invitation that
was as unexpected as it was desirable.  The bewilderment of the
justice, the constable and his men, and the poor gypsies too, was
boundless as I briskly followed this extraordinary gentleman when he
hobbled back to his chair, and promptly ensconced my disreputable self
in one of the high-backed oaken seats of my forefathers, now so
courteously placed at my disposal.  While he proceeded to refill my
glass and his own too, the scandalized magistrate very naturally
expostulated in the most vehement manner.

"Why, Harry, God save us all!" he cried, "have you gone horn-mad?  It
is the most outrageous thing that ever was perpetrated.  I vow and
protest, Harry, that you are gone stark mad to bring a thief and a
gypsy to my table to share your cups.  It is unbearable, Harry, and
'fore God I will not have it.  When this gets wind in the county they
will deride me to death.  Lord, I shall get struck off the
justice-roll."

"Your petitioner will ever pray," says Harry, while simultaneously we
raised the distraught justice's good claret to our lips.

Taking my cue from the familiarity of my entertainer, I threw aside
restraint and adopted the attitude of a guest in lieu of the humbler
one of a prisoner.  Continuing to gaze about completely at my ease,
says I, with that frank criticism that had been formerly so effective:

"Things are no longer what they were.  This place hath deteriorated
since I was in it last.  The city creeps into the ancestral hall;
cheesemongery obtrudes itself.  Where formerly there were Old Masters
and French Tales, there are now Bibles and bad prints.  But I rejoice
to see that some few of my ancestors are still faithful to their
old-time haunt.  My parents, my grand parents, my uncles, my cousins
and my aunts, Vandycks, Lelys, and Knellers, and the devil knows who,
are still assembled here, even to the replica of Sir Peter's picture of
that nobleman, most illustrious of his race, who made a Commentary on
the _Analects of Confucius_, the original of which I last saw in the
shop of a Jew dealer the other day."

My singular acquaintance with the contents of his dining-room,
evidently far more extensive than his own, was not without its effect
on the justice.

"What is the meaning of all this, Harry?" he asked of my benefactor.
"What is the fel----what is the man talking of?  What does the man mean
by his ancestors?  Who ever heard such impudence, such effrontery?"

"Well, Tommie," says his frank friend, "I'll lay my last guinea that he
hath more right to call them his ancestors than their present owner."

"A murrain take you," says the justice, more purple than before, for
this was a stab in a tender place.  "Will you never learn to control
your infernally long tongue?  And yet again must I ask you not to
address me as Tommie when I am in the exercise of my high functions.
Thomas if you like, or my full title would be still better on these
occasions.  The King would not have conferred it upon me, were it not
designed for use, and that he desired I should profit by it."

His friend nearly choked himself with laughter long before the justice
had come through this solemn homily.  Indeed he could not recover his
breath until he had poured himself out another glass of wine, and had
refilled mine.

"You will kill me of laughing, Tommie, one of these days," says he.
"If it were not that your claret is as good as any for thirty miles
round London, I would never come near you.  How a man can keep such a
good table and yet such a poor understanding is a thing I have never
fathomed.  But I protest you will certainly kill me if you do not amend
your mind a little."

"Harry," says the justice sternly.  "I can never understand how it is
that a grandson of the Earl of Denbigh, and a person of undeniable
family and descent, should have such ungenteel manners."

"Damn the Earl of Denbigh," says Harry, banging his fist on the table,
"and you too, Tommie.  You can no more keep that fly out of the
ointment, than a pig can his snout out of the muck."

"What, sir," says I eagerly, "are you also cursed with a grandfather?"

"Aye, to be sure I am," says he.  "Though I'll thank no man that names
him.  If it were not for my grandfather I could go to the devil in my
own way."

"Why, my dear sir," says I, "never were there two such brothers in
misfortune.  Your case is the very counterpart of mine."



CHAPTER XII

I DISCOVER A GREAT AUTHOR WHERE I LEAST EXPECT TO FIND ONE

While all this was going forward very eloquent glances were repeatedly
exchanged between the justice and the head-constable.  They were both
equally at a loss to know what to do in the matter.  Their plain duty
was to have me removed in custody.  But this they could not very well
do, seeing on what terms of intimacy I had already been placed.  There
must be a grave mistake somewhere.  What it was they were too greatly
puzzled to say, but the end of it all was that my fellow-prisoners were
removed into the stables against the next morning, when they could be
more conveniently taken to prison, whilst I for the nonce was allowed
to remain seated at the table in the society of my whimsical friend.

Sir Thomas's composure had been so rudely shaken that for a long time
he could hardly venture on another word.  He sat watching us with a
kind of stupefied horror, whilst we made short work of several bottles
of his most excellent claret.

"The true Falernian," says my companion, smacking his lips.  "I would
that Roman fellow were here in the room of Tommie, who sits like a dead
dog in a dry ditch.  I have remarked it before, and I remark it again,
that I can never understand how it is that a man who can keep such a
full-bodied, generous wine in his cellar should yet keep such a lean,
ill-liberal heart in his body.  It is an internal paradox on which I
break my brains anew.  You would think that one would cry out upon the
other, and that they could live together no better than a keg of
gunpowder and a live coal.  And how in the first place they ever came
to be associated passes me.  Ring the bell, Tommie, and tell 'em to
bring us up another bottle a-piece."

While Sir Thomas did so with the mechanical meekness of one well
accustomed to obey, says I:

"I think I can give you ease on this last matter, sir.  Hath it never
struck you that our host may have bought his cellar at the same shop
that he bought his ancestors?  It sticks in my mind that I have met
both his forebears and his vintages before.  Indeed, to come down to
the details of this odd matter, I believe at the period of which I
speak they may have had my name appended to them."

"Shrewdly said, sir," says my companion; and then going on to another
matter which I had sedulously been leading up to, for I had come to the
conclusion that my one chance of ultimate escape lay in betraying
myself entirely, continued: "You begin to interest me vastly.  I
confess you are a man after my own heart.  I like your talk, I like
your manner, the colour of your eye, the cock of your old beak,
i'faith, I like you altogether.  You are the very perfect gentle guest;
you abuse your host and drink his wine with the same impartial spirit.
You bear the same relation to a gypsy as our club-footed Thomas does to
the herald Mercury.  No, no, my good sir, it will not do; _ex ungue
leonem_."

"Your compliments charm me," says I, raising the glass to my lips
again, "but I could have wished, sir, that you had not nosed out my
_incognito_.  It may be the source of a greater inconvenience than I
care to think about, if it and I part company."

"The blame is entirely your own, sir," says the other.  "Hercules
should not try to hide behind an arbutus tree.  But no man ever had
aught to fear from me, unless that man was myself.  To him, it is true,
I have been a great enemy.  Yet I'll swear on my life that even that
poor unlucky young man whose name is proscribed in this morning's
news-letter would never be a penny the worse for revealing himself to
such a rough fellow as me.  As for Tommie, I will answer for Tommie
too.  It is true that Tommie hath weaknesses, but they are on the
surface mostly.  If he can never forget that Nature had a hand in the
fashioning of Sir T. Wheatley, Knight, and Justice of the Peace, and is
in a sense a self-made man therefore, he nevertheless hath a very good
heart.  I can answer for Tommie as for myself."

When he came to mention the "poor unlucky young man," I suppose I must
have winced or blinked a little, or he was a marvellously subtle and
keen observer, for after looking into my eyes, he slapped his hand on
his thigh, and cried:

"By God, can it be?  Surely it is too whimsical, too fantastical.
These things do not happen outside the story books."

"Such a coincidence is a little after the manner of _Tom Jones_, to be
sure, sir," says I.

I suppose it was the word "story books" that led to my mentioning that
immortal novel which at that moment held all the town in a spell of
wonder and delight.  But no sooner had I uttered the magic name of _Tom
Jones_ than I thought I saw my companion's flushed face flush deeper
than ever, and at the same instant my mind was assailed with a dozen
points of recognition.  In a flash I jumped to the conclusion that I
was being entertained by the author of that inimitable work.  For a
moment we sat regarding one another with the frankest amusement.  Then
my companion took up his glass, and lifting it slowly to his lips, says:

"Lord Tiverton."

Thereupon I followed his polite example; and when the glass was at my
lips, says I:

"Mr. Henry Fielding."

Upon that we fell a-laughing wildly, and wrung one another warmly by
the hand.  Now that the murder was out we grew closer in
good-fellowship.  Had we not shown proofs of an admirable sagacity in
our previous respect for one another?  The magistrate, however, was
aghast.  No sooner was he acquainted with my name than he was beset
with his manifest duty as a justice of the peace.

"As you are a refugee from the law, my lord," says he, looking
anxiously at me and then at Fielding, "I fear that I have no
alternative other than to hand you over to the proper authorities.  You
see, as one holding his Majesty's commission of the peace for this
county, I am precluded from giving way to any private feelings I might
entertain in the matter, but must do my plain and obvious duty, however
it be opposed to the dictates of my heart."

The dignity and the rather florid effect of this speech, which I will
do Sir Thomas the justice of saying was very well meant, was utterly
spoiled by Mr. Fielding's reception of it.

"Come down off the high horse, Tommie, if you love me," says he.  "Be
damned to the dictates of your heart and your duty too.  Do strive to
be natural, Tommie; if you would but be content to be natural I would
suffer you gladly, for at bottom you are as good a fellow as I know.
But when you get on these magisterial airs of yours a common mortal
cannot touch you with a six-foot pole."

"That is all very well, Harry," says Sir Thomas, "but you forget my
responsibilities."

"There you go again," says Fielding.  "Be damned to your
responsibilities.  Come and drink a glass of good claret with us and
forget yourself, your office, your dignity, your wig, your knighthood,
and your laced coat for a brief five minutes.  Perpend, Tommie,
perpend; and for the nonce consent to be a human being."

"Would you have me, then," says the magistrate, "sit down with a man in
my own house, knowing him to be a great criminal?  How can I possibly
entertain such a person?  Were I to do so I should be altogether
unworthy of the high trust that hath been reposed in me."

Mr. Fielding scratched his wig.

"A very moral sentiment," says he, "but all the morality in the world
is not worth a penn'orth of humanity."

"Sir," says I warmly, "I am grateful to you.  You can scarcely know how
an example such as yours helps a drowning man to keep his head above
the flood that is like to overwhelm him.  But I think I owe it to
myself to lessen the weight of Sir Thomas's responsibilities, by
assuring you that I am innocent of the horrid crime with which I am
charged.  The poor fellow came by his end in a fair fight; and
therefore if you can only overlook the sums I owe my creditors, you may
relieve your scruples."

"I am more than glad of these assurances," says the justice.  "A great
load is taken off my mind."

"On the contrary," says Mr. Fielding, "they make not a farthingworth of
difference to me.  I care not if you are the most long-suffering peer
that ever went to the dogs, or if you are the greatest villain that
ever tried to dodge the gallows.  What's the odds?  You are a proper
enough fellow for all rational purposes.  Certainly I would not choose
to meet Mr. Jack Sheppard in a lonely lane on a dark night, but I would
as willingly drink a bottle with a lad of his mettle just as well as
with another.  If a man shall bear himself gallantly at table, with a
merry courage and a kindling eye, who am I that shall ask uncivil
questions of him?"

Whatever Mr. Henry Fielding's philosophy, and it seemed to have a
savour of that of the late eminent Sir John Falstaff, Knight, he was a
fine merry companion, who asked no better of the hour and the company
in which he sat than that they should consort with his humour.  After a
while his wit, his gallant spirits, and his brave bearing before the
bottle did not fail of their effect upon the justice too.  That staid
and pompous fellow resisted them for a time, but as first one and then
another bottle was numbered among the slain, and our tongues grew
looser as our brains grew warm, he fell at last from his high estate
and was seduced into a course that ill consisted with his sentiments.
When he had accepted several glasses from Mr. Fielding's own fair hands
he began to grow rather thicker in his speech, weighed his words less,
and showed several signs of having departed from his usual habit.

"You can see," says Mr. Fielding, winking at me, "that our gallant
Tommie hath been nurtured on cinnamon-water and Dr. Akenside's sermons.
I should say that four glasses are about the limit of him; five, and he
goes over the verge."

Although both Mr. Fielding and I had already accommodated a far greater
quantity than the magistrate, we had served such a much longer
apprenticeship to this business (the shame is our own) that whereas we
were scarcely conscious as yet of what we had drunk, the square-toed
Sir Thomas was already hanging out his evidences.  Now no sooner did I
observe this disposition in him than I was taken with a scheme by which
my poor fellow-prisoners incarcerated in the stables outside were to
profit.  Whatever my shortcomings, I would never have it said of me
that I left a friend in the lurch.  These poor gypsies had given us of
their hospitality; that in itself therefore was enough of a reason why
I should endeavour to spare them a hanging.  Therefore I suggested the
matter to my companion.

"Do you think, sir," says I, "that we can get our good magistrate drunk
enough to be worked on to give the order for the release of my poor
friends the gypsies?  It is like to go very hard with them, I fear,
unless we can find some such way as this to aid them."

"It is very well thought on," says this truly humane fellow, without so
much as pausing to consider the matter.  "Leave this jocund old
justicer to me, and I'll answer for it that the king's enemies shall
get a free pardon.  Now then, Tommie, by your leave I'll name a toast.
We will drink to Law and Order.  Fill up, Tommie, and no heel-taps."

So thoroughly did Mr. Fielding enter into this plan, that very soon Sir
Thomas began to babble in his talk with a most unwonted levity, and
even essayed to sing a song.  With such assiduity was he plied, that he
presently advanced stage by stage, until my companion considered him to
be sufficiently primed for this business.  Thereon Fielding rang the
bell and ordered the head-constable, who with his men was keeping guard
over the premises, to be brought to him.  When that worthy presented
himself, Mr. Fielding says with an inimitable glib audacity:

"Sir Thomas, after much weighing of the merits of this case, hath come
to the conclusion that the evidence is not sufficient to send these
prisoners for trial.  He is sensibly fearful of some miscarriage of
justice, the more particularly as one of their number that you brought
before him hath turned out on an examination to be anything but what he
was represented.  Therefore Sir Thomas bids me to inform you that he
hath decided to remit these charges.  And he would have you release
these people at once, that they may go about their business.  And when
you have done this, you are to take your men to the kitchen, where they
are to have a good supper of beef and ale, and they can then repair to
their homes.  And at least this course, this somewhat extreme course I
may say, that Sir Thomas hath decided on will save you all from a long
and weary vigil in the night air."

However surprised the head-constable was at this unexpected turn of
events, he was by no means disposed to cavil at it, since the only way
in which the fate of the gypsies could affect himself was the one that
Mr. Fielding had so adroitly indicated.  Not so the scandalized
justice.  Fuddled as he was, he had enough wit left to apprehend what
was going forward.  But he had not enough, however, to interpose his
authority in a way that was at all likely to take effect.  At all his
thick and nearly inarticulate protests, his friend Mr. Fielding kept
hushing and soothing him down, with highly eloquent and imploring
gestures.

"Oh lord, Tommie," he would say, "I pray you have a care.  Here am I
trying to conceal the fact that you are abominably drunk, and yet you
will flaunt it and advertise it, before the servants too.  Think of
your own dignity, Tommie, I beseech you."

Whereon the head-constable would rub his coat-sleeve across his face to
conceal his laughter.  Sir Thomas would grunt and wriggle and writhe
his tipsy protests, and his friend, Mr. Fielding, with the oddest
mingling of sorrow, amusement, and solemnity, apparently struggled to
put the best face he could on the justice's scandalous behaviour.



CHAPTER XIII

I FIND OUT CYNTHIA: CYNTHIA FINDS OUT ME

It was in this agreeable fashion that my unlucky friends obtained their
release.  The justice was in no condition to cope with Mr. Fielding's
peremptory ways; and the constable, seeing and caring nothing beyond
the advantage to his own personal comfort, was not at all disposed to
wait until the magistrate was in a better condition to express his
opinions and good pleasure.  Thus he bowed to Sir Thomas whilst that
inarticulate gentleman was still wrestling with his thick speech,
assured him his will should be obeyed, and that he would see to it that
his officers made a good supper in the kitchen, and took his departure
without any reluctance whatever.

"So much for that matter," says Mr. Fielding, highly pleased with the
success of his own ingenuity.  "We have robbed the gallows of eight
good necks and true, which is, I think, a pretty liberal evening's
work.  Yet as this is a night for good works, let us spend it
fittingly.  Ring the bell, Tommie, ring the bell.  The last of these
bottles died a full two minutes ago."

Unfortunately Sir Thomas was in no condition at this stage to comply
with such a request, and Mr. Fielding had perforce to perform that
office himself.  A fresh relay of wine was brought, and our glasses
were filled up again.  Sitting here in the midst of these insidious
allurements, well found in all bodily comfort and good companionship,
it needed but a corresponding ease of mind to be as perfectly content
as Mr. Fielding himself.  I had been most providentially delivered from
a very real and immediate peril, had contributed to the saving of eight
poor people from the gallows, and had exchanged the cold night for a
far happier sanctuary; but with all this, I was nearly at the verge of
despair.  Where was Cynthia?  What had happened to that poor child, and
how could we hope to come together again!  Neither of us knew in which
direction the other had gone; and to search for each other in that dark
night was clearly impossible, seeing how complete was our ignorance of
the neighbouring country.

In my distraught state I mentioned my unhappy case to Mr. Fielding.
He, with the sanguine temper that seemed to be so strangely
characteristic of him, pooh-poohed my fears, and swore that all would
come right by the morning.

"I will wager you the last guinea I have got in the world," says he,
"which by the way I borrowed from Tommie to bear me back to Fleet
Street to-morrow, that you will see her pretty face in this parlour
before you are prepared to leave it.  Why, man, if she hath any wit at
all she will remain with the gypsies until they discover whither you
have been taken, and then she will come to Tommie with a mighty long
tale and a mighty heart-moving countenance.  I suppose it is that my
wit runs wonderfully clear to-night, for I confess I can see the whole
course of this matter as plain as the back of my hand."

Mr. Fielding declared his opinions with such an energy, that in spite
of myself I half subscribed to them.  Indeed, as he pointed out,
nothing could be done by repining.  But as he followed up this last
sage reflection in a manner peculiarly his own, no less than by the
opening of a new bottle, I am not sure that the occasion itself was not
the source of his wisdom.  "_Vino diffigiunt mordaces curæ_," says he,
"an old, old tag, but a monstrous good one.  Come, my dear fellow, do
not spoil the excellent impression you have already made.  I am sure to
mump and moan is not in you; besides, you would be the last to have
yourself numbered among the Tommies of the world, the half-bottle men.
You are capable to bear me company for many an hour yet.  Come, let us
grapple with melancholy and put him to sleep."

I was in such a state of maudlin misery by this, thanks to the wine I
had already drunk, and my dubious speculation in regard to Cynthia,
that I soon fell a-prey to Mr. Fielding's importuning.  That lusty
full-blooded fellow was not to be denied.  As I accepted glass after
glass of the insidious liquor from his hands, I felt my resolution
weaken as of old, and that same sense of large content and utter
heedlessness of the morrow steal upon me.  As my brain grew hotter and
heavier and less capable of thinking and doing, Cynthia's absence grew
less poignant to it, and my own situation of the moment more perfectly
acceptable.  It was truly Elysian to sit in this warm room and in this
mellow society, after having been without a roof to one's head and in
such peril for so many hours.  The sense of abandoning oneself by slow
degrees and against one's proper judgment to this forbidden pleasure,
was fraught with a delight that it is only in the power of the illicit
to bestow.  At the same time that I knew Mr. Fielding's point of view
was specious and worthless, _vide_ the teachings of a bitter
experience, I could hardly find it in my heart to resist his wit, the
compliment of his good-fellowship, his whole-hearted gaiety.  He was
such a lovable spirit that he would have seduced the first of the
Pharisees to hang with him at Tyburn, for the sake of the
companionship.  It would have taken sterner stuff than was ever in me
to deny or resist him.

It was not long before the justice was so overcome by the contents of
his cellar that he drooped his head on the table and straightway fell
fast asleep.  Mr. Fielding, who was himself so seasoned that his face
hardly shone as yet, laughed, and says with a kind of kingly pity:

"What a penny-halfpenny haberdasher of a man it is!  _C'est un vrai
épicier_.  Strip him of his paunch, his purse, and his knighthood, and
there remains one who hath no more parts than a Presbyterian.  If I
were old Sir John, I would undertake to make a better man out of a
cheese paring.  It is a pretty behaviour in him, when we are sitting at
this table, bearing ourselves so gallantly before his claret.  But
after all, I would prefer that his honour should speak with his nose
rather than with his mouth.  Both organs are equally witty; and we are
under no obligation to answer his lustiest performances in that style."

It was not long before I began to feel some inklings of a disposition
to imitate Sir Thomas.  Fortunately Mr. Fielding did not observe it in
me; and he on his side was so brisk and jovial-hearted that he easily
found enough of conversation for us both.  And he was so prolific that
I am sure he would have been the last to notice it.  My bosom was no
longer torn with the same pain when my thoughts reverted to Cynthia.
My wits were so deadened that I had a sort of sweet sorrow instead; the
sorrow whose expression is an amiable snuffling melancholy, and a
tender reflection on the days that are past.  I was fast sinking into
the depths of this maudlin condition, when a diversion occurred that
mercifully kept me from it, even as my mind tottered on the brink.  A
servant entered with the information that a woman was at the hall door
demanding to see the justice on a most particular business.  In an
instant a great possibility possessed me completely, and startled me
out of the bibulous lassitude that was creeping upon me.

"What kind of a woman?" I asked eagerly, "A very beautiful woman, a
most adorably beautiful woman, with the voice of a nightingale and as
dainty in her carriage as, as----  Fielding, an you love me, give me a
simile--as dainty as----"

"The swift Camilla," says he instantly, "the virgin Volscian queen, as
she

  'Flies o'er th' unbending corn, or skims along the main,'

in the crude language of the crookbacked Twickenham bard.  If you were
not so drunk I would give it you in Virgil's eleganter tongue."

"I don't know what the female's like in her carriage," says the fellow,
regarding us both with a very natural bewilderment, "for she's not come
in no carriage, do you see.  She's come afoot.  But she's a shortish
wench, with a pert tongue, and she's a-crying like fun."

Prosaic as this description was, and sensibly differing as it did from
the one I had furnished, I was sure that the female was no other than
Cynthia.  That there could be other shortish wenches in the world with
pert tongues, who were capable of crying like fun, never entered my
head.  It may have been that I had so continually brooded on her fate,
or the guilt of my conscience was so keen as to lead me to this
conclusion on such slender grounds.  Relieved as I was, I yet had some
twinges of contrition.  Despite my heavy-witted state I was fully alive
to it, and mightily uneasy as to the figure I must make in her eyes.

"A pretty kettle of fish," says I, "that I should be as drunk----"

"As a lord," suggested Mr. Fielding.

"As drunk as a lord on our wedding-day.  I pray you have pity on my
state, sir, and help me out as much as you can."

"My dear fellow," says Mr. Fielding, "this is no sort of talk.  It is
unworthy of you.  Why, nothing could have been better contrived, sir.
Can anything be more commendable than that a man should begin as he
means to go on.  One cannot begin too soon to bring up one's wife
properly."

"Poor little toad," says I.  "When she sees me like this I am sure she
will weep more bitterly."

"Hath she never seen you drunk before?" says Fielding.

"Never," says I.

"It is time she did then," says he.  "But after all, as it is your
wedding-day there may be some little reason for your perturbation.  She
is still the first woman in Christendom, I suppose, and you are still
the true prince.  It can contribute nothing to the welfare of either
for you to be seen at such little advantage.  Get thee behind the
screen there and leave this to me."

Having still enough wit to be fully aware of my unfortunate condition;
and being at the same time assailed with many pangs for having so
callously sat down to my ease before the bottle, whilst I was seemingly
content to allow her to roam the night to find me, I felt truly
shamefaced and hangdog.  I was but too ready therefore to embrace any
proposal that might alleviate my position.  Certainly Mr. Fielding had
a much better command of himself than I had, and was therefore much
more fitted to receive her.  Besides, I was so deeply imbued with my
desperate case that I counted on his ready wit to shield me from an
exposure.

Therefore I stumbled into concealment behind the screen, and drunk as I
was, I was sufficiently sober to follow and to keenly appreciate the
whimsical scene that was enacted before my eyes.  Sir Thomas being
hopelessly surrendered to Morpheus, Mr. Fielding profanely assumed his
character.  But at least the mad rogue played it with a far finer
spirit and _abandon_ than the justice could have done.  When my poor
little Cynthia was ushered in, for she it was undoubtedly, he rose,
gout and all, to greet her, and bowed very low.

"Pray take a seat, madam, pray take a seat," says he, with an
inimitable gesture of politeness.  "And if there is any small service
that you would have me render you you have only to put a name to it,
and you may consider it rendered."

My poor little one, who was very pale and trembled with apprehension,
peered out of the hood of her cloak with the tears still in her eyes.
Despite Mr. Fielding's obvious gallantry she gazed at him with a dim
distrust, and then cast a look of downright fearfulness in the
direction of the heavy-slumbering Sir Thomas.  It was the first time I
had been in a situation to observe these feminine timidities in her,
and methought they enhanced her a hundredfold.

"I would not have you regard that fuddle-witted fellow, madam," says
Mr. Fielding, mad wag as he was.  "He is but a common hackney writer of
a man, Henry Fielding by name, who hath come out of Grub Street to take
the country air.  And the country air hath proved too strong for him,
do you see.  Do not regard that fellow, madam: believe me he is quite
unworthy of your attention."

The excess of chivalry with which this was uttered did something to
compose poor Cynthia; though why such flummery should have imposed upon
her I cannot tell.  Even a parcel of lies, if it is made up into the
semblance of a delicate attention, can do a great work with that sex,
apparently.  Anyhow, Cynthia sufficiently overcame her trepidation to
find the courage to ask:

"Are you Sir Thomas Wheatley, sir?"

"You can call me that, madam," says Mr. Fielding.

"Then do you know anything of my--my husband?" says Cynthia.

"Your husband, madam," says he.  "I did not know that you had a
husband.  Since when have you had a husband, madam?"

At this point Cynthia blushed divinely.  All her proverbial pertness
was fled.  The situation was too great for the foibles she had
acquired.  She stood forth in her strange predicament just a simple
rustic maid, who longed to express her misery in tears, but was too
proud to do so.  Thus, with an ingenuousness that I had never observed
in her before, she faltered:

"Since--since this morning, sir."

"Since this morning, madam," says Fielding, "and you have lost him
already.  Is it credible?  He did not leave you at the church door, I
hope."

"He did not leave me at all, sir," says Cynthia.

"Then if he did not leave you at all, madam, why is he not with you
now?" says Mr. Fielding.

Little by little, with numberless hesitations and small attempts at
concealment on her part, and many sly quips and verbal quibbles on his
own, the roguish fellow drew out of her a fair account of the state of
the case.  Cynthia's anxiety to conceal her husband's name and how he
came to be placed in such an unhappy pass, afforded Mr. Fielding a
great deal of pleasure.  He was continually springing awkward questions
upon her with a wonderful appearance of judicial innocence; and to
observe the unfortunate chit wriggle and contort herself out of many an
awkward corner was as good as a play.  It was a cruel sport, perhaps,
and I half thought it so at the time; but I am sure Fielding did not
hold it to be such, for I do not think it was in him wittingly to give
pain to anyone.  This whimsical by-play was really directed against me,
for when he had got her into a more than usually tight corner he would
look at me, as I frowned at him from my hiding-place, with a face that
dared me to intervene.

"I am afraid, madam," says Fielding, "you are not dealing with me quite
fairly.  I must really assure you that this repeated and noticeable
concealment--I can use no less explicit term--of your husband's name is
most embarrassing.  With the best will in the world to serve your
interests, and to aid you to the extent of my poor ability, how can I
give you any information about your husband if you will not take me far
enough into your confidence to vouchsafe me his name?  Even though I am
a justice of the peace, I do not pretend to any supernatural knowledge.
I am no mystery-reader, nor a worker of miracles."

Poor Cynthia's dilemma was desperate.  She did not know how to act.  I
shook my fist at the wicked wag, and began to wish heartily that I had
not added to my other weaknesses by shirking the consequences of them.
I longed to come to her aid.  But I had less desire than ever to expose
myself now; and after all here was a very pretty comedy.

"Come, come, madam," says Mr. Fielding.  "I would not have you trifle
with justice in this manner.  What is your husband's name?"

"His name is Smith," says she at last, taking the name we had been
married in.

The pseudo-justice expressed his disappointment.  He grieved to say
that to the best of his knowledge no person of that name had called
upon him that evening.

"But he was among the gypsies that were brought to your house this
evening," Cynthia persisted.  "What is become of them?"

"Is your husband a gypsy, madam?" says he.  "I should have thought it
not at all likely, to judge by the appearance of his wife?"

"No, he is not," says she.

"Then why is he concerned with gypsies in such a scandalous charge?"

At every turn the mischievous fellow contrived some new means of
embarrassing her story; and at the same time he embarrassed my patience
also, as he very well knew.  But it was quite in vain for me to publish
my threats from behind the screen.  Both of us were delivered into his
hands.

"I am disappointed that he was among the gypsies, madam," says he,
"since they were discharged and sent away several hours ago."

"Oh," says Cynthia eagerly, "how glad I am to hear that!"  But then her
face fell.  "How may I find him?" she says, very anxiously.

"Nay, madam," says Fielding, "that is more than I can tell.  But I am
disappointed to hear that his name is Smith.  You are sure his name is
Smith, madam?"

Cynthia hesitated between hope and fear.  Could it be possible that my
true name had been discovered, and that concealment was no longer
desirable or necessary?

"It is most strange, madam," says her relentless persecutor, "that you
should not be certain of the name of your own husband.  I suppose you
could not by any chance have made a mistake in regard to the name of
him?"

"I might have done," poor Cynthia faltered; whilst I felt such an
overpowering desire to execute a prompt vengeance on the wretch that it
was as much as I could do to remain in my seclusion.

"Well, if you might have done," says he, "his name could not by any
chance have begun with a 'T.'  Could his name be something like 'Tivy,'
or 'Tantivy'?"

Poor Mrs. Cynthia had completely lost her bearings by this.  She was
utterly nonplussed, and looked at the wicked Fielding as helplessly as
a child.  She was still unable to overcome her scruples about revealing
my real name.  To do so to a justice of the peace of all people in the
world was like to be a most imprudent act.  But at the same time she
could not rid her mind of the thought that he already knew more than he
would tell.

"Tivy or Trivy or Tantivy," says Mr. Fielding; "you are sure his name
is nothing of that sort?  Now could it by any chance be Tiverton?"

At this mention of my name Cynthia was unable to go further with her
imposture.  With a face of much confusion and distress she made the
confession.

"Well, madam," says Mr. Fielding reproachfully, "why could you not have
said so at once without so much beating about the bush?  Really the
name of Smith was too facile, too obvious.  Now as it happens, I am in
a position to know where my Lord Tiverton is."

"Oh, sir," says Cynthia, clasping her hands, "I beseech you to tell me
of his whereabouts."

"Yes, my dear madam," says Mr. Fielding, "that I will, on one
condition."

Mrs. Cynthia eagerly asked it.

"That you give me a kiss," says Mr. Fielding.  "I vow and protest,
madam, I never saw a creature more divinely handsome."

My breath was almost taken away by the audacity of the villain, as I
fear he had intended that it should be.  But what could I contribute to
the situation beyond a few impotent threats, made in dumb show?  I was
never had at a greater disadvantage in my life?  It was in vain that
Cynthia evaded the demand, and besought him by the name of humanity to
tell her where I lay.  The spirit of mischief in the fellow, inflamed
by the quantity of wine he had drunk, caused him to brook no denial.

"Come, my dear madam," says he, "one kiss from those dainty lips is all
I seek.  Then i'faith shall you know where your husband lies."

"You are no gentleman, sir," says Cynthia, with more spirit than she
had yet shown.

"No, only a justice of the peace," says he.

"It is cruel of you," says Cynthia, flaming, "to drive such a bargain
in these circumstances.  You know it is not in my power to say you nay
when so much is at stake."

"To be sure I do," says he, favouring me with a triumphing look.  "And
as for the cruelty of it, surely the onus of that matter lies with you.
Is it not your adorable sex that provokes that which it denies?  It is
ever a point with me that if I can ever take any little revenge upon
you, I take it with an easy conscience, knowing full well that you
beauteous ladies have scored up such a heavy tally of cruelties as can
never be expunged.  Besides, madam, where is this cruelty you speak of?
Am I not at least as well favoured as this ugly profligate Lord
Tiverton of yours; and is there not the additional advantage of my not
being your lawful wedded husband?"

"I would that Lord Tiverton were here to hear you say this," says
Cynthia indignantly.

"Bah," says Mr. Fielding, "the water-blooded fellow, I would that he
were too, then I with five pints of good claret in me would prove upon
his miserable person how mean a figure he doth cut."

It was with the utmost difficulty that I could hold back at this
challenge.  I might be very drunk, and therefore doubly disposed to
resent such wanton insults; but I was also sober enough to be aware
that they were not prompted by ill-nature.  It was a piece of mischief
merely.  We were entirely at his mercy, and he proposed to torment us
to death.  Could a fourth person have witnessed this play, he would
have found it a truly diverting affair.  First Cynthia was made to
writhe, and then I; and then both of us together; yet at the same time
each quite unknown to the other; whilst the audacious rogue of a fellow
mocked at us both, and defied us to prevent ourselves being made
ridiculous.  The unfortunate Cynthia was led on by his disparagement of
me to take up the cudgels warmly on my behalf.  The sly look of
satisfaction that shone in him when she did so, was proof enough, if
any were needed, that she was still ministering to his diversion.

"I give you the lie there, sir," says she angrily.  "How dare you
presume to malign such a noble brave gentleman!  You utter behind his
back that which you dare not utter to his face."

"Good a thousand times," says Mr. Fielding.  "This is delightful.
Harkee, my noble, brave gentleman, and tell me if I do not utter it to
your face!"

I clenched my fists; I vowed to myself I would not suffer this impudent
sport another minute.  But then there was no gainsaying that I was
abominably drunk; that my pretty innocent was but a child; and that it
was our wedding-day.  Come what may, I must bear with the fellow's mad
humour for the present, and requite him in a more seasonable hour.

Cynthia might be angry and I extremely discomposed, but Mr. Fielding
still pressed his jest.

"No, madam, I will not be put off with your arrogance," says he.  "I
demand one token from those charming lips as the price of the
satisfaction that you seek."

Covered with a modest confusion, Cynthia was preparing to comply with
this demand unwillingly enough, when I was no longer able to contain my
just resentment.  Whatever the consequences, we should not be flouted
so.  Therefore as the impudent fellow was in the very act of forcing
this concession from her, I threw caution to the winds, and sprang
forth from my concealment in a violent rage.  I aimed a mighty blow at
Mr. Fielding's head; but what with my impetuosity, combined with my
drunken condition, I miscalculated the distance sadly, and instead of
getting home on that audacious person, missed him entirely, and fell
full length at Cynthia's feet.

Between her distressed exclamations and Mr. Fielding's immoderate
laughter I was got up again, to find myself a little sobered by the
fall.  With a joyful recognition of me, and a truly withering glance of
contempt for Mr. Fielding, neither of which I can positively depict,
Cynthia fell into my arms, and showered upon me those salutes Mr.
Fielding had been so importunate to obtain.  But I must confess that I
received them with a great deal more of shame than pleasure; for Mr.
Fielding regarded us with such a degree of boisterousness, that the
bitter fact suddenly came upon me that in my guilt I had committed her
to the tender mercies of a person even more drunk than I was myself.



CHAPTER XIV

AMANTIUM IRÆ

"Curse my jacket," says the drunken fellow, "if this is not the first
time I have kissed a wife in the presence of her husband."

"It shall be the last, sir," I hiccoughed furiously.

"What words are these to use before a lady?" says Mr. Fielding, amiably
measuring out glasses of wine for the three of us.  "If I were not the
most easy man in the world, I vow and protest it should be coffee and
pistols at five."

"By God, sir, it shall be whatever you are," says I, holding on by the
table.  "I swear I will pup--punish you for this."

"Well, as you are determined to pup--punish me," says he, "here is
another glass of Tommie's claret, another hair of the dog that bit you,
to confirm you in that meritorious resolve."

As he laughingly offered me the glass of wine, Cynthia came forward and
took it from him.  But instead of giving it to me, she flung both the
wine and the glass in his face.  Whereon he stood with the claret
dripping from his features, and the blood too where the broken glass
had cut his forehead, so that he made the very picture of his own
Parson Adams, when he was assailed in a similar way by the hostess of
the inn with the pan of hog's blood.

Poor Cynthia stood white and trembling, but she never once looked at me
for counsel or countenance.  The tears were in her eyes too, but she
never uttered so much as a word of reproach, although I am sure her
misery was very great.  I never felt such a mean villain and coward in
my life as I did then.

"Come," says she, "let us leave these--these people."

Here she threw such a glance at the sleeping justice that must have
pierced him to the marrow had he but been conscious of it.  By this,
however, Mr. Fielding with the aid of his silk handkerchief had wiped a
good deal of the wine and blood from his features, and stood staunching
the wound on his forehead.  A more truly whimsical expression I never
observed in any man before.  There was a highly comic look of
contrition, humility, and self-abnegation in him, and withal an air of
the most perfect good-breeding, that could not possibly have been more
contrary to his appearance.  Although Cynthia was white and speechless
with anger, and she had made what might easily have been construed into
a very unprovoked attack on a benefactor, Mr. Fielding behaved,
whatever his faults, as only a true gentleman could have done.
Cynthia's act had brought him to his senses; he saw that he had pushed
the matter too far; but after all he did not apprehend, as I more
shrewdly did, that the head and front of his offending lay, not so much
in his own conduct, as in that he had been the inspirer of mine.

"I crave a thousand pardons of you, madam," says he, "if I have been so
unlucky as to carry a jest farther than a jest should go.  Perchance it
was not conceived in quite the best taste at the outset; but at least I
make you all amends.  I am sure I am your duteous humble servant,
madam, if you will but permit me to be so."

Only a person with the instincts of a true gentleman could have shown
such a punctilious regard for the feelings of another, and such a
disregard for his own.  For in a sense he had been deeply provoked, and
had suffered more indignity on his own part than any that he had
inflicted on Mrs. Cynthia.  But no, my little madam refused to be
mollified by his humble demeanour.  She looked steadily past him, as
though he had ceased to be there at all.  Upon that my own brief spirit
of anger cooled down immediately; for certainly I thought, considering
his unhappy plight, poor Fielding was playing a very gallant part.

"I think there is enough said, sir," says I, striving to speak as
articulately as possible.  "I am sure you do very well; and I am
equally sure that the apologies should not be all on your side."

Whereon we grasped the hand of one another, and were sworn friends
again.  Yet although Cynthia would not deign to notice my behaviour one
way or the other, on the other hand, greatly to Mr. Fielding's
distress, she would not condone the conduct of that honest fellow.  Her
imperviousness hurt him the more, I think, because he did not apprehend
the true reason for it.  She could have forgiven his having smoked her
so badly, but what she could not forgive was that he had made her
husband drunk.  I dare say it was that she was acting on the invariable
principle that a woman will never own her lord and master in the wrong
to a third person.  And as she must vent her anger on some one, and she
could not very well vent it on me, the true culprit, Mr. Fielding was
made to suffer vicariously.

"Come, Jack," says she haughtily, disdaining Mr. Fielding's repeated
solicitude; "let us wipe the foulness of this disgraceful place off our
feet.  If daylight came and caught us in it, I could never respect
myself again."

The stress of these events had done a great deal for my sobriety.  I
was still acutely conscious of my condition, but I had recovered enough
of my wits to be able to battle with it successfully.  That being the
case, I clearly saw that my little one was like to do a great injustice
to Mr. Fielding.

"Cynthia," says I, "I conceive you do not know what we owe to the
generosity of this gentleman.  Had it not been for his friendly offices
I should have been still in the hands of the constables."

"I had rather you had," says she cruelly, "than that you should have
passed into his."

Not only was I hurt by such arbitrary behaviour; I was angered by it
too.  It seemed monstrous that so small a fault in a liberal character
should be allowed to outweigh the essential goodness of it.

"Cynthia," says I, "I trust you will not refer to our benefactor in
these terms.  He is far too good a friend of ours to merit your
reproaches."

Mrs. Cynthia lifted her chin again, and disdained to reply.

"Come," says I, "I would have you take back the expressions you have
used towards him.  For I am sure no man merited them less."

"Never," says she.

"The lady is overwrought a little," says Mr. Fielding, coming gallantly
if somewhat unwisely to my aid.  "Is she not weary and distrest?  Sir
Thomas, were he not otherwise engaged, would be delighted to place a
chamber at madam's disposal for the remainder of this evening.  May I
have the honour to do so in his name, for I am sure she is in a great
need of repose?"

"I thank you, sir," says Cynthia coldly, "but I am surprised that you
should presume to propose a service that you must know, after what hath
passed, must be highly distasteful to me."

"You do the gentleman a great wrong," says I, with some heat.  "And I
am sure, madam, when you look at this matter more reasonably, you will
be the first to acknowledge it.  I thank you, sir, from the bottom of
my heart for this kind offer, also for those other services you have
rendered to us; and I beg to accept it of you, sir, in the name of my
wife, in the spirit in which it is given."

I thought that some such speech was no more than Mr. Fielding's due,
but the effect of it was greatly marred by Cynthia's unreasonable
conduct.  Drawing herself up into all the majesty of her five feet
nothing, she bowed to us both in an imperious manner.

"I wish you a good evening, Mr.----, I did not catch your name," says
she.  "You also, my lord, as you choose to remain."

Before we could reply, or any attempt could be made to detain her, she
turned on her heel and swept forth of the room, straight out of the
house into the black midnight.  There was no other course open to me
but to follow her.  But ere I did so, I clasped Mr. Fielding warmly by
the hand, again thanked him for his generous behaviour, and made some
sort of an apology for that of Cynthia.  He, good fellow, although
evidently perturbed that he should have so distrest her, was yet very
warm on his part too, and as I was going out, slipped the only guinea
he had in the world into my hand.  I protested strongly and refused to
take it.

"My dear fellow," says he, "you are ill-advised to refuse it.  I know
what even that sum must mean to one in your condition, when the hand of
every man is against you.  To be sure by accepting it you will be a
guinea better off than your benefactor.  But at least I have a few
friends left, however little I may merit them; and although it be ever
my fate to have my character judged by those foibles that I am least
willing to have it judged by."

Indeed he so insisted on my accepting this highly desirable guinea,
that there was no other course than to take it, however reluctantly;
for to have refused it might have seemed churlish.  And Heaven knows
that it is the last thing I would have risked after what had happened.

"Sir," says I, "I can wish no better than that we should meet again,
and in happier circumstances.  You have been a true friend, and I hope
I may live to requite you.  And I hope, sir, you will think no more of
the humours of my poor little wife; you who have shown such a knowledge
of the ways of her adorable sex will be the first to condone them in
her.  You will not forget, sir, that she hath lately been called on to
endure a great deal."

"More than enough of that matter, my dear fellow," says he heartily.

I am sure he must have been hurt, but he was by far too true-bred a
gentleman to betray as much.  I fear we were both still a little drunk,
but I do not think the fervour of our leave-takings owed anything to
the heat of our brains.  To this day I have always thought of this fine
spirit, this great master of the science of human nature, with the same
degree of affection.  As for him, I do not suppose he ever gave me a
second thought, or if he did, I could be nothing more than a whimsical
circumstance, a piece of romantical history.  But at the time of our
parting, his pitiful, generous heart enabled him to feel a very real
concern for my welfare, and also for that of my wayward little one who
had treated him so harshly.

No sooner had I left Mr. Fielding waving his frank good-bye from the
steps of the house, than I set off running in hot pursuit of Cynthia.
The gate of the porter's lodge at the end of the long dark avenue of
overhanging trees was just closing upon her, when I overtook her.  She
was in too proud and defiant a mood to pay any attention to the fact
that I had done so, and that I was walking greatly out of breath by her
side.

I followed her implicitly into the weary darkness.  I did not dare to
break the dogged silence she maintained, and therefore maintained one
too.  For I had not walked a mile in the cool night air before I was as
sober as any man could be.  And perfect sobriety brought a new shame
and a fuller measure of repentance.  Lord knows, I had been drunk often
enough before; more completely and uproariously so; I had committed far
greater excesses in that state than any I had been guilty of that
evening; and yet now for almost the first time I conceived a disgust
for such a folly.  Lord knows, I am so little of a pietist that the
sense of humiliation which came upon me as I walked by the side of the
silent Cynthia was so foreign to my character, that I almost laughed at
myself for suffering it.  Yet at the same time I was bitterly angry
with myself.  No man's weaknesses could have led him to play a more
unworthy part.

As we walked mile upon mile on the dark, tree-shadowed highway that led
to anywhere, everywhere, and nowhere, there never was so moral a person
as I outside the moral pages of Mr. Richardson.  Self-abasement creaked
out of my boots, self-reproach fluttered out of my brains,
self-abnegation beat out of my heart.  I forget the name of the Moral
Muse; indeed, now I come to think of it, there is most probably none
such among them, for I fear they are baggages all.  But in the name of
the righteous lady, whoever she be, was there ever such a hang-dog
rogue as I?--such a whipt cur with his tail between his legs?

Hours came and hours went, the steeples of neighbouring village
churches chimed two o'clock, three and four, but still we wandered on,
while never a word passed from one to the other.  At times I feared my
poor little one was crying softly to herself, but I had not the courage
to attempt to find out if that were so.  Instead, my fingers would
tighten on Mr. Fielding's guinea, whereon such a poignancy would be
added to my sufferings that I was tempted at times to cast his money
incontinently to the road, as a heroic but not very intelligible
concession to them, in the hope that I might purchase at that price a
moment's surcease to my pains.



CHAPTER XV

AMORIS INTEGRATIO: WE ARE CLAPT IN THE STOCKS

The measure of Cynthia's resentment might be inferred from that of her
endurance.  The weary silent miles she trudged along must have called
forth a great impetus from within, for without that stimulus the poor
little creature must have drooped and flagged upon the dark road long
ere she did.  It was not until the birds began to chirp in the trees,
and the grey face of the dawn began to speckle the darkness that she
abated her defiant paces.  But once she had begun to do so, the
weakness grew rapidly upon her.

Presently she stumbled and nearly fell.  Then it was I took the courage
to venture on the first of my penitent advances.  I lightly touched her
shoulder to support her.  Finding that she had not the strength, I
hardly dare say the inclination, to resist, I took her at last by the
arm, very tenderly at first, but then a little more firmly, and then
more firmly still.  Thus, without a word passing on the side of either,
the sense of our comradeship was re-established.  If I could not feel
that I was forgiven, I might take the comfort to myself that I was
suffered.

It soon grew apparent, now that the meridian of poor Cynthia's wrath
was overpast, that the child would have to pay the price of it.  She
became a very weight in my arms, and with the first beams of daylight
was ready to faint with fatigue.  In the reaction of her mood she
yielded herself to my will as readily and completely as ever.
Therefore, to spare her as much as I could, I seized the first occasion
to give her a place of rest.

In the little light there were no houses to be seen, and even had there
been, it was too early to hope to gain sanctuary in them.  There was a
wood, however, close at hand, whither I partly led and partly carried
her.  Within its warm and dry recesses, I selected a couch of green
earth for her underneath a great tree, whose rough bark made something
of a pillow for her head.  First, I took off my great-coat and spread
it on the ground as comfortably as I could, placed her upon it, and
then divesting myself of my thick, rough jacket wrapped her snugly in
it.  The poor child was no sooner fixed in a position of some little
comfort than she fell fast asleep.

While she was very mercifully occupied thus, I spent several hours in
pacing up and down the glades of the wood to keep myself warm, for,
after all, in the air of the dawn, the sleeves of one's shirt are no
very adequate protection.  To diversify this occupation I hunted an
occasional squirrel, but with no prospect of catching one; and lay in
wait, stone in hand, for many a white-tailed rabbit, but did so in
vain.  Indeed, the only good fortune that fell to me in these nefarious
pursuits was the discovery of a bird's-nest with several fine eggs in
it.  But somehow I had not the heart to disturb those exquisite things;
it may have been, especially as a small piece of sentiment may not come
amiss even to the sworn enemies of it on an occasion of this kind, that
the distrest birds and the distrest Cynthia had something in common.

Any lingering fumes of wine being long since out of my head, thanks to
the operations of the wholesome open air, I grew conscious of a very
distinct craving for food about eight of the clock.  It was then that
the thought of the generous Mr. Fielding's guinea proved such a source
of solid comfort.  One must be a vagrant by the wayside, dependent on
chance for one's crusts of bread, to experience what the contemplation
of twenty-one shillings sterling means, when that contemplation is
sharpened and assisted by a biting hunger.  In the days of my material
greatness, not my houses, lands, revenues, not all my precious
possessions had the power to bestow upon me that inexpressible sense of
delightful anticipation which Mr. Fielding's guinea was able to do.  A
whole guinea to a desperately hungry mortal who for two days had begged
his bread!  What would it not purchase?  How much sheer honest feeding
did it represent!  It would permit of delicate feeding, too, for
Cynthia.  A fine lusty mutton-pasty for the earl; and a bowl of
cream-covered milk, flanked with the whitest bread and the purest
butter, for his countess.

Cynthia still slept so soundly that I could not find it in my heart to
rouse her.  Quite a long time I debated within myself whether to leave
her thus whilst I betook myself to the nearest house in quest of food.
At last, as she showed no signs of waking yet, I determined to do so.
Fixing the spot with particular care in my mind where she lay, I went
off briskly on my errand.  Happily a farm-house of goodly size was but
a little distant; and here, by the aid of the magic guinea, was I
accommodated, though, to be sure, without any special degree of favour.
And at least my appearance could not be said to merit it.  I was
without my coat, my clothes were coarse, and the worse for travel, I
still bore a black eye, and the small wound at the side of my head was
still rendered visible by the blood that had dried about it.  But as I
had promised myself I got a draught of most excellent ale, a
mutton-pasty too, which I bore along with me to eat at my leisure;
whilst I procured for Cynthia a jug of warm milk, and fresh butter
spread on some dainty slices of bread.

As soon as I returned to the place where Cynthia lay, she awoke,
wonderfully refreshed and with no trace of the distresses of the
previous night about her.  She gave expression to her delight when I
proudly produced her breakfast; whereon I redonned my coat.  And no
sooner did she observe the use to which it had been put, than she
upbraided me for discarding it.  Seating myself beside her, we made a
perfectly admirable meal, but perhaps it was not after all our keen
hunger that made the best sauce to it, but rather the fact that we were
both in our natural minds again, and that our differences were
forgotten.  All the same, I devoutly hoped that my dear Cynthia would
not pause to inquire from what source the royal breakfast sprang.  I
had no wish, you may be sure, to associate it with Mr. Fielding,
however black the ingratitude.  Happily the question was not asked.

When we had made our meal in this happy fashion, we repaired to the
farm-house from which it had been obtained, to crave permission to
perform our ablutions.  By paying for the same, we were able to make
them in some comfort.  Like the arrant spendthrifts that we were, money
was no object to us so long as our fortune lasted.  This accomplished,
we set off again wonderfully refreshed in mind and body.  It was a
sweetly fair spring morning, that made us step forth blithely.  It
takes a very old and hardened cynic to resist nature at her vernal
period.  And I think our reconciliation added to our happiness,
although not once did we allude to the unlucky events of the night
before.  But we exhibited such a fine consideration for one another
now, and were so scrupulous of every little detail of our demeanour one
towards the other, as plainly showed that the articles of peace were
being heartily subscribed to by us both.  All the way it was, "Let me
carry thy coat, my pretty one," or "Darling, walk this side of me in
the shade lest the sun should overpower you," or "I do hope this bright
sunshine will not affect your poor, broken pate."

Sedulously avoiding all places of any size, lest our enemies should be
lurking in them, we selected a modest roadside inn, in which to rest at
mid-day, having left, I think, the town of Guildford some two miles to
our right.  Here we ate and drank again with a degree of comfort that,
considering our low estate, was quite luxurious.  So discreetly had we
ordered the reckoning too, that there would be means enough left to us
to furnish us with supper and a bed at some similar unpretentious inn
when evening came.  You may believe me, or believe me not, but merely
to think of sleeping once again on a bed of feathers, after having
passed the best part of the two previous nights and days afoot, was
almost a distracting pleasure.  I suppose a beggar's happiness consists
solely in his belly and his bones; and even if it is not of the highest
kind, what can be so intimate and full of zest?

The evening came without any adventure worthy to be recorded.  We still
kept well off the beaten tracks and were therefore so happy as not to
encounter runners from Bow Street, indignant parents, nor scheming
rivals.  The inn we selected was an ungenteel one enough in a remote
village; and that night we supped and lay in it in conscious state, and
royally spent the last of Mr. Fielding's guinea on a breakfast the
following morning.  It was wanton in us, I dare say, to spend such a
sum in a fashion so prodigal, but as yet our extremity had taught us no
measure of prudence.  Besides, when we had not the wherewithal, were we
not imbued with the excitements of those hunters who pursue for their
needs?  It is an incomparable kind of sport to seek for food and
lodging with devil a farthing to purchase it.

With every penny of our late fortune squandered, we were again reduced
to this employ.  It was then I bethought me of the gypsy's flute.  I
bore it still in the pocket of my cloak; and had improvised several
melodies already upon it to cheer our lonely way.  Thus, when we came
to a village about noon, wanting refreshment and even a penny to
furnish it, I boldly took forth the instrument and blew it for all I
was worth as we walked slowly along the principal street.  Probably my
notes were lustier and in better tune than is ordinary with others of
this profession; or again, even an itinerant musician may have been a
strange bird in this out-of-the-way place; for be it known that when
Cynthia holding my hat in her hand sweetly importuned every staring
yokel and every opened window with her daintiest smile and her
gracefullest curtesy, we had acquired the sum of fourpence, mostly in
halfpence, by the time we had come to the village alehouse.  Thither we
repaired to invest this reward of our toil in as good a repast of bread
and cheese and ale as could be obtained for the money.  We seasoned it
by a fine argument as to whom the credit of it belonged.  I vowed it
was my fine playing that was alone responsible for it; whilst Cynthia
was equally firm in her conviction that it was entirely due to the
elegance of her solicitations.

We were mightily pleased with a prospect that offered a new source of
revenue.  But ere long we were doomed to discover that it was not fair
as we had supposed, and that it had its drawbacks.  This melancholy
incident happened the very next time we put it in practice.  The scene
of it was a somewhat larger village than the first, and we attracted
such an amount of attention that I believe Cynthia collected as much as
sevenpence in a very little while.  And so encouraged were we by the
amount of favour with which we were received that we were emboldened to
give a kind of set performance in front of the village ale-house.  It
had even been decided that Cynthia should sing a love ballad, for she
had a very sweet voice and was prettily accomplished in the use of it.

Everything prospered with us admirably well for some time.  An audience
gathered about us; and although a little inclined to be abashed at
first, we overcame those feelings very soon and gave our singing and
music with great spirit.  But just before we had come to the conclusion
of the last piece, the throng was invaded by several stalwart fellows,
amongst whom were the beadle of the parish and the squire of the place,
both highly indignant to be sure.  The latter was red and fat and full
of choler.

"Take 'em both, Thomas," says he, wonderfully angry and stern, "and
they shall be clapt into the stocks, sink me so they shall.  The idea
of two vagrant wretches daring to affront me thus under my very nose.
There shall be no playing of profane tricks and loud music in this
parish, curse me if there shall be."

Meanwhile the beadle, in the exercise of his authority, had twice set
his dirty hands on my coat, and twice had I gently but firmly removed
them.

"I will venture to say we are doing no harm to any one, sir," says I to
the squire, controlling my resentment as well as I could, and striving
to ape a humility I did not feel.  "And surely, sir, you will not be
too hard on poor people."

This fellow, however, was plainly of that tribe that loves to exult
over the weak.  It was his pleasure to display a greater and more
despotic authority the less occasion there was for its exercise.  The
meeker he found us the more unbending was his indignation.

"How dare you venture to address me, you wandering vagabond?" says he.
"Your damnable impertinence does but aggravate your offence.  I will
see whether you will defy me, I will so.  You shall go to the stocks at
once, and you may bless your fortune it is not the house of correction."

It needed but a glance to assure us that to resist would be vain.  Not
only the beadle, but several other persons under the immediate eye of
this despot, were but too ready to curry favour with him by doing his
bidding.  In fact, one and all of those present seemed to conceive a
mighty admiration of his rage.  They felt such a display of anger and
unfettered will to be sublime.  Therefore, we were pushed and hustled
with many unnecessary indignities, all the throng following to the
village green, and were set side by side in the stocks forthwith.  When
we had been duly affixed in this place of humiliation, the squire made
us quite a lengthy harangue, not so much I suspect for our edification
as for the glory of himself.  His anger against us inoffensive
creatures who answered him not a word, mounted higher and higher till
it grew truly magnificent.  He stamped and raved and swore; he had a
mind to do this, and a mind to do that, and 'fore God he would if it
were not for the abominable leniency of his character.  The beadle kept
nodding his head, and fretted himself into a kind of ecstasy of
admiration of the squire's remarks; whilst the villagers could be heard
to say to one another: "Lord, an't squire noble angry-like to be sure."
But neither of us retorted on the fellow by so much as a word, and I
think we were well advised not to do so, for had we but unbosomed
ourselves of a very small part of what was in our hearts he might have
had a real grievance to set against us.

Therefore we both regarded him in silence, and strove to maintain a
demeanour of the coldest disdain.  It was not very easy, to be sure, in
that posture, with jeers and humiliation besetting us on every side.
Yet we persevered in it so well that presently it did not fail in its
effect.  For our persecutor was such a poltroon at heart that although
we were secured and quite at his mercy, he no sooner observed that we
scorned him, than the torrent of his eloquence grew sensibly less.  So
long as we were humble and appeared to shrink and tremble before him,
his rage knew no bounds.  But the moment we called in a little disdain
to our aid, he grew less certain of himself, and was so baffled and
held in check by it, that at last he bethought himself that he would
best serve his dignity by taking himself off.  His parasite the beadle
went with him, but a considerable number of the yokels stayed to keep
us company.  Their disposition was to make sport of our misfortune.
But how true is that old saw--so the master, so the man.

For with a good deal of difficulty, as you may guess, we managed to
preserve an appearance of mighty dignified unconcern, however far we
might be from feeling it, and contrived to converse one with another in
a perfectly natural and amiable manner, for all the world as though we
were not sitting in the stocks at all, but in the village alehouse.  In
the face of such a fine contempt the spectators were just as much at a
loss as ever the squire had been.  They were there to bully and bait
us, but under our unwavering eyes had not the courage to do so.  Indeed
it seemed to involve such a degree of initiative on their part to kick
two persons who after all were not thoroughly and effectually knocked
down, that one by one they followed the example of the squire and slunk
away.

When the best part of these idle and mischievous persons had departed,
and our admirers were diminished to about a score of the village
urchins who were not to be so easily daunted, says I to my little
companion, who to be sure had been wonderfully steadfast through all
our misfortunes:

"I think, your ladyship, we shall best forget the distresses of our
present situation by arrogating to ourselves the grandeur of our former
state.  How was the dear queen when you saw her last?  Had she quite
recovered of her whooping-cough?"

"Oh yes, I thank your lordship," says Cynthia glibly.  "But surely your
lordship was at the levée last Tuesday month?"

"No, rat me if I was," says I, with a languid air.  "The fact of the
matter is, I have not the taste for these routs and drums and crushes
and assemblies.  My father, the late lord, I have heard boast that he
never missed above three in thirty years.  But I think your ladyship
will be the first to own that in these days the _haut ton_ is not so
vastly energetic as it once was.  For myself, I would be the first to
confess that the practices and observances of the genteel and polite
world weary me to distraction.  I never get into my Court suit but what
I die of fatigue in the operation!"

"His Grace of Middlesex I have heard speak to the same tenor," says
Cynthia; "and often enough have I heard her grace the duchess reprove
it in him."

"I think," says I, "it was a fashion that first obtruded itself in the
Prince of Wales."

"Ah, the dear prince!" says she.  "How like his poor dear Royal
Highness it is, to be sure!  I hope your lordship was not with him at
that particular drawing-room where he took off so many of the gentlemen
to play a game at basset or hazard or what not in the antechamber."

"Primero, your ladyship," says I gravely.

It was in this edifying fashion that we supported ourselves in our
present trials.  Our conversation was carried to the very heights of
the genteel, and was chiefly concerned with the Royal Family.  We
mentioned nobody under a peer, and contrived to bring in those great
persons in a highly inept and fashionable manner.  Had any one heard
our conversation they must have marvelled to know how two people so
vastly polite and who moved in such exalted circles could ever have
come in that place.  The smack of humour in the thing was undeniable,
but I am not sure that we did not retail those details, anecdotes, and
reminiscences in the mincing, clipping tone of St. James's as much for
a vindication of ourselves and a salve for our wounded feelings as for
the whimsicality of the occupation.

We were still beguiling the time in this way when the beadle came to
release us.  In the performance of this office he gave us a great deal
of advice that we could very well have dispensed with.  He was also
charged with a message from the squire as to how much more serious the
consequences would be if either of us were caught in those parts again.
Having at last obtained our freedom, we were not long in shaking the
dust of this unlucky parish off our feet.

As we went away we were a good deal disconcerted by the turn our
affairs were taking.  It was already growing dark, and sensibly colder,
and worse, it was coming on to rain.  And we had but a matter of
sevenpence to provide us with the supper that we should soon be greatly
in need of, and a protection from the night's inclemency.  To have had
recourse to the flute once more, and I gravely doubt after what had
happened whether we should have had the stomach to have done so, would
not have served us.  We were a long way from the next village, and the
evening had already come.



CHAPTER XVI

WE ARE SO SORELY TRIED THAT WE FAIN HAVE RECOURSE TO OUR WITS

Hand-in-hand we trudged along valiantly.  The rain came, at first a
thin, hesitating haze, then with a quicker patter and a brisker
resolution, which presently settled into a steady sullen all-night
down-pour.  We were very well shod, happily, and we drew our cloaks
tightly about us, and turned our faces to the deluge.  To pass the
night in the open air in weather of this sort was impossible, but we
were like to be in the predicament of that first evening out of London.
Once more were we wholly ignorant of the way, were in great discomfort
of body, and had no wherewithal by which we could relieve it.  We were
again called on to endure all the discomforts inseparable from our lot.
The only sound from the great darkness that covered the land was the
squish of the water under our feet, and the ceaseless twitter of the
rain on the road.  Although our clothes were a steaming burden, and
clung about us in a sop, we tried not to be daunted.  We pursued our
way through mud and puddles, resisting the hunger and weariness that
crept so insidiously upon us.  And whatever the outward conditions of
our state I don't think we minded greatly.  The example of one another
kept us from flagging, even as the possession of one another kept us
from complaining.

At last, having dragged our weary limbs up a steep hill, and having
crested the brow, we saw all at once quite a number of lights gleaming
below in the valley.  It was plainly a considerable place, to judge by
them; and though it was in our best interests to keep away from all
towns and villages of any size and importance, on this occasion we did
not pay much heed to these scruples, but went boldly and gladly towards
it.

"But what shall we profit when we get there?" says Cynthia.  "We have
but a matter of sevenpence between us, which will avail us little
enough for food and a lodging.  And I am sure there will be nobody to
be found who will extend their charity to such a pair of drenched
beggars as we are.  Oh, what can we possibly do!"

I pondered on this hard problem for a full minute.  Cynthia's gloomy
views were hopelessly right.  We were indeed a pair of beggars,
homeless and destitute.  But we could not walk about all through that
wretched wet night on the open road.  We must find some asylum for our
weariness, if only a cow-hovel as it had been formerly.  This night,
however, put us in no mind for that kind of thing.  We longed for the
luxuries of a bright fire at which to dry our clothes, a warm supper at
which to defeat the dismal weather, and a snug bed afterwards.  But how
could we make sevenpence go so far?  Beat my brains as I might, I could
find no solution to this hard problem.  Yet we both yearned for these
comforts so keenly, that at last we came to the resolve that we would
obtain them by hook or by crook, if not by fair means, by those more
desperate, and be hanged to the consequences!  Accordingly, when we
arrived at the first house in the place, I thrilled Cynthia by boldly
knocking on the door, and thrilled her further by more boldly asking
the title of the principal inn.  As it bore the promising name of the
Angel, and was less than half-a-mile along that very road, and was said
to be a remarkably good inn, we were encouraged to push on in search of
it.

"Oh, Jack," says poor Cynthia nervously, "whatever will the
consequences be?  It must be quite a public place; the landlord will
certainly ask to see our money before he serves us, such a poor vagrant
pair must we seem in the eyes of everybody; some of those horrid Bow
Street runners may be there too, or possibly my father.  And if we take
that for which we are unable to pay, we may get sent to prison, or----"

"Put in the stocks," says I.

Cynthia shuddered, and then laughed a little.

"I don't think," says she, "we shall ever fear that indignity again.
At least we came triumphantly through that ordeal."

"Merely by being bold," says I, "and the exercise of our sense of
mirth.  And that is what will be demanded of us in the adventure that
is before us.  Let us play our parts as bravely here, and I am
convinced that we shall come out of it just as successfully.  Let us be
bold and take our courage in our hands, and I'll answer for it we'll
get a supper, a fire, a bottle, and a bed, and no questions asked.  But
only a sufficient hardihood can do it, do you understand?  We must not
bear ourselves as a pair of beggars at this inn, but rather as persons
of consideration and great place.  You must be daughter to the duke, my
prettiness, and I will be a devil of a peer."

"That is all very fine, Jack," says Cynthia, who on occasion could be
very shrewd, "but how are we to reconcile our lost and destitute state
with our exalted degree?

"A most happy idea," says I, suddenly seized with the same.  "I have it
exactly.  We must be a pair of travellers who have been set on by a
highwayman, turned out of our carriage, and robbed of all our money and
valuables."

"Yes," urged Cynthia, "but what carriage can we have to show?"

"We can provide for that too," says I, in the throes of invention.
"Our servants were so affrighted at the highwayman's appearance, that
they made off pell-mell, carriage and all, without once stopping to
look behind them."

"A not very plausible story," urged Cynthia again.

"I agree with you there," says I, "but we must strengthen any defects
in our tale by the vigour and sincerity of its narration.  We must play
our parts at the very height of our ability, and the landlord, whoever
he is, shall be put to it very hard to catch us tripping.  A bold
demeanour and a loud voice go a long way in these days.  I can smell
that supper already, and I feel my feet to be toasting before the warm
blaze.  And here we are to be sure under the very sign of the house, as
goodly a country hostel i'faith as I ever saw, at which to arrive on a
pouring wet night."

Forsooth we were already come to the door.  By its substantial,
well-lit, comfortable look, and the space in front of it, it had the
appearance of a coaching inn.  And for that matter it did not call for
much observation to prove such to be the case.  It stood at the
junction of four roads.  The one that had carried us thither was a
by-road, running at this point across one of the main coaching
highways.  When we discovered this to be the case we paused a moment.
There was a degree of publicity about such a hostelry that we could
have very well done without.  We were certainly taking a great risk
lest our enemies should enter it; and again, the charges were likely to
be high.  Yet it took only a brief reflection to decide us.  We were
utterly cold, hungry and jaded, our cloaks were soaked with rain, and
the mud rose above our ankles.  Therefore leaving discretion outside in
the rain, we entered boldly.

The chamber we found ourselves in was in singular and delightful
contrast to the conditions from which we had emerged.  It was brightly
lit, a rare wood fire crackled and sputtered on the hearth, and threw
its shadows on the oaken panellings.  An incomparable smell of cookery
pervaded it, and a table was laid for supper.  The whole apartment was
spotlessly clean, replete with comfort, and altogether was a model of
what such a room should be in an inn of the better sort.

The room had only one occupant; he, a gentleman who sat at his ease,
waiting for his supper in a chair by the brisk fire.  He was a
wonderfully handsome man, young, bold-eyed, and with a look of gay
impudence more winning than displeasing.  He threw up his eyes as soon
as we entered and frankly took our measure.  He went over us from top
to toe with the frank audacity of a pretty woman or a child.  He was
plainly a little puzzled by us.  He could not reconcile our appearance
with our address.  We must indeed have looked to a stranger at that
moment the most draggle-tailed couple that ever came out of Bridewell.
But we had got all our best town airs about us too, and the contrast
between our state and our address must have been ludicrous, truly.

We had hardly got in to the room ere the landlord came bustling
forward.  His mode of assessing the character of his guests was more
peremptory.  We were in a wretched plight, and had come afoot without
baggage and unattended.  He gave us one shrewd contemptuous glance and
says:

"You are come to the wrong house, are you not, master?  The Chequers, a
bit further along the road to your left, is more in your style, I'm
thinking.  The quality comes to this house, dy'e see?"

"God bless my soul," I roared, "was there ever such effrontery!  Why,
you pot-bellied ruffian, I would knock you down as flat as your own ale
were it not for fatigue and the presence of a lady.  The wrong house,
is it?  Do you take us for a pair of pickers and stealers then, you
beer-barrel!  Call a chambermaid this minute and have her ladyship
taken to the best bedroom you have got in the place, or I will rub my
boots into the small of your fat back, upon mine honour so I will."

A less forcible method of address might have permitted of a
controversy, in which we should have everything to lose and nothing
whatever to gain.  But this fine assault, this taking of the landlord
by storm, completely disarmed him.  In an instant his demeanour
completely changed, as is usual with those of his kidney.  From the
contemptuous critic he was transformed into the grovelling lackey.  On
the instant he was ours to command.  With many bows and congees he was
soon inquiring what we would have for supper, and which wine we would
prefer.  He also presumed that our luggage and attendants would
presently arrive.

"Devil a bit of it," says I.  "Neither one nor the other will you see
this night.  Our wretched rogues have had such a fright that I will bet
my leg they never draw rein until they make the blessed town o' London.
A murrain upon them, and may they die of a vertigo!"

The landlord clasped his palms in a fine attitude of humility,
curiosity and awe.

"Lord save us!" says he, "what can have happened to your lordship?"

"Why, something that is always happening to us, of course," says I,
with a great air of a glib matter of fact.  "One of these pestilential
highwaymen stopped us and tried us on this very road, not five miles
off.  Cocked his ugly mug through the carriage-window as cool as a
church, and had us step out of our cushions into the pouring rain.
Took our money and jewels off us before you could say your prayers.
And not content with all this, burn me for a heretick! if out of pure
wantonness this villain did not discharge his barker across the nose of
the leader, and away they flew downhill to the devil before we could
jump in again.  They are miles away ere this, and lord knows how we
shall contrive to return to town."

I suppose there must have been a nice tone of verisimilitude in this
tissue of lies, or a ring of truth in my tone, or an expression of
perfect veracity in my eyes, for the landlord put never another
question to us upon that matter, but accepted my heart-moving tale with
a mien of deep solicitude.  I think I must be unusually gifted in this
particular, since this bold story worked on his credulity to such a
remarkable degree.  And either our supposed misadventures or my command
of great oaths must have invested us in the landlord's mind with the
indisputable evidences of high quality, for his obeisances grew
profounder for the recital, and though by our own confession we had not
a penny about us with which to requite him, he proposed to entertain us
to the utmost of his capacity.

"Your lordship and your ladyship will doubtless prefer an entirely
private apartment in which to sup," says he.  "If you will very kindly
bear with this one while a fire is lighted in another, I will go about
it at once, and also prepare you as good a meal as it is in the power
of this poor place to furnish."

However, as I was rather taken than otherwise with the appearance of
the solitary occupant of this room, and even more so by the rare warmth
and comfort of it, I was fain to suggest that if our company was not
disagreeable to the present occupant, we should be well content to stay
where we were, and take our supper in his society.  And, indeed, the
frank, amused, wonderfully naïve countenance he turned on the
innkeeper, and the air of perfect good-breeding with which he asked the
honour of our company at his table, promised excellent companionship to
follow.  I having gratefully accepted his offer, he very politely
insisted that I should choose the wine, adding that our host kept a
very tolerable cellar, and paid a particular compliment to the Burgundy.

In a variety of amiable ways we were very well advanced in a
companionship long before supper was served.  Our friend, in addition
to his handsome looks and elegant manners, appeared to have a good deal
of knowledge of the world.  His tastes, too, seemed extremely refined.
He was well versed in Dryden, Virgil, and Shakespeare, and passed the
highest encomiums on the genius of Mr. Henry Fielding.  He contributed
some excellently apposite remarks to the long-standing controversy
respecting the merits of the author of _Tom Jones_ in comparison with
those of the author of _Clarissa_.  To my extreme gratification he
declared strongly for the former, whereon Mrs. Cynthia, following the
fashion of her sex, took up the cudgels very warmly for the latter.

"My dear madam," says our friend, laughing in his musical tones, "the
difference between those two authors is that between honest, searching
brandy punch and tea twice watered with a good deal of sugar in it."

"That is doubtless the case," says Cynthia.  "But whereas the one may
degrade a man to the level of a beast,"--I will do her the justice of
saying she laid no particular stress on this simile, neither did she
look at me, greatly to my relief--"the other is perfectly harmless,
wholesome and stimulating.  Mr. Richardson's morality hath never been
impeached, but Mr. Fielding's hath never been defended."

"It is not always the person who lifts up his voice the loudest, madam,
who is the most worthy to be heard," says our friend gravely.  "Nor is
it he who makes the best parade of his virtue who is invariably the
most valuable member of society.  I dare say Mr. Fielding would blush
as much to be found out in a good act as Mr. Richardson would to be
caught in a bad one; but for all that I would prefer to recommend
myself to the author of the so-called loose and scandalous _Tom Jones_,
than he of the so-called high-toned _Clarissa_, were I in need of a
dinner and a guinea."

"Sir," says I, "you have put the gist of the matter excellently.  You
are one of the very few persons I have met who hath had the wit to draw
this essential distinction between the characters of two such diverse
writers.  What the world is for ever failing to apprehend is that true
morality, like true religion, has nothing to do with the profession of
it; and that man who as often as not best serves his species is he who
least pretends to do so."

Yet no sooner had I ventured to confirm the wisdom of my friend with my
own opinion, than my dear Mrs. Cynthia began to take my interference as
a personal matter aimed at her rather than at the argument.  Thus in a
truly feminine fashion she got upon her dignity and invested her
championship of Mr. Richardson, and more especially her animadversion
of Mr. Fielding, with several palpable references to my recent
behaviour in his company.  At least the unease of my conscience put
this construction upon her replies, although when I reflected upon the
matter afterwards I could find no grounds except those of my own guilty
knowledge for supposing that she was at all acquainted with our meeting.

It was a real relief none the less when our heated discourse on
morality was at last interrupted by the arrival of the first dish, a
highly delectable loin of pork flanked with sage and onions.  We sat
down in much comfort and did ample justice to the fare.  Our friend's
manners at the table had all the elegance of good-breeding, whilst his
conversation under the benign influences of excellent dishes and good
wine was as entertaining and various as any one need listen to.  He was
at a loss on no subject whatever; and there was such an easy air of
gallantry about him, too, as commended him extremely to the susceptible
Cynthia, however they might differ in their opinions on the subject of
morality.  Indeed his mien was so winning and so perfectly acceptable
withal to her ladyship, that I could have wished he had less of those
graces to recommend him.  For I'll swear that her eyes shone to his
speeches, and there was a fine colour in her cheeks, however
indignantly she may be moved to deny it.  There was a sly humour in the
fellow too, which as the meal wore on and the excellence of the fare
warmed his heart, he manifested in various ways.  To start with, he
made more than one allusion to our supposed misfortune.  What kind of a
person was the highwayman, he asked in a tone equally pregnant with
mischief and concern.

"Oh, pretty tallish," says I, with admirable vagueness and promptitude.

Thereupon he put a vast number of questions all bearing on the
appearance of our assailant.  Had he a cast in his eye? a scar on his
lip?  Did he speak with a west country burr? and so forth.  These were
but a few.  For strive as we would to turn the topic towards something
that might disconcert us less, he persisted in returning again and
again to our supposed adventure on the road.  The theme seemed to have
a kind of fascination for him.  At last it grew too plain that his
pertinacity had serious purpose behind it.  Either my fencing grew too
obvious or his queries grew too direct, for I was presently led to see
that he had formed his own opinion on the matter, and that he proposed
to convict us out of our own mouths.  It was with an effort therefore
that I retained my politeness, since the deeper one is in the wrong the
more is one inclined to resent its being proved against one.

"I should be obliged, sir," says I, "if you will do us the favour of
forgetting this unfortunate circumstance.  We have already come to
regard our property as lost, and having made up our minds upon that we
cease to regret it.  Indeed, we had already dismissed so trivial a
matter from our minds, and should not have thought fit to recall it,
had not the predicament of our penury, and the obstinate importunities
of this fellow the landlord, compelled us to allude to it again.  You
will vastly oblige me, sir, by ceasing to mention it."

"You are very well schooled in the art of evasion, sir," says the
other.  "But I am much too greatly interested in this affair to consent
to its stopping at this.  The manner of the appearance of your adorable
companion and yourself here in this place this evening perplexes and
surprises me beyond measure.  I humbly crave your pardon if I may seem
to transgress the bounds of good taste, sir, but might I venture to ask
whether you were coming from London or were you going there?"

"Going there," says I incautiously.

"Then I confess," says he smoothly, "my perplexity increases.  If you
were going to London, how could it happen that you were descending,
instead of mounting Marling Hill?"

I plainly saw that the fellow had lured me into a trap.

"Really, sir," says I, with some show of heat, "I am sorry that you
cannot see fit to respect my protests.  You will do me a real service,
sir, if you will cease to pursue this disagreeable subject."

"I do not doubt you on that last point, sir," says the other.  "And I
wonder if I might make so bold as to inquire how it befalls that two
persons who are presumably of the first quality, or at least of great
gentility, are to be found travelling the country in an attire that the
meanest of their servants would think twice before they affected?"

"This is insufferable, this is intolerable," says I.  "I decline
peremptorily to answer such questions.  They are impertinent, sir,
impertinent; and it grieves me to think that a gentleman of your taste
and discretion could have thought fit to put them."

However, my annoyance could restrain him no better than my persuasion.
He laughed openly, and then suddenly cast off the veil.  With a curl at
his lips, and an unmistakable impudence in his eyes, says he:

"I think the time is come, sir, when we might with profit understand
one another a little better.  Might we not deal a little more frankly
with one another, do you not think?  For instance, if you are prepared
to confess that you have been beset by no highwayman whatever, and the
whole invention of him, the coach, the valuables, the servants, and the
horses is a cock-and-bull story intended to divert the attention of our
honest host from your destitute condition, I am just as prepared to
accept that statement."

"Sir," says I, "I fear that you forget yourself.  You insult me
wantonly."

However difficult it may be to condone the truth when it is so
unblushingly expressed, I was hardly in a position to punish him for
the publication of it.  Not that it was any sneaking respect for the
truth that restrained me.  It was rather that I had arrived at years of
a certain discretion.  Was there not everything in the world to lose
and nothing whatever to gain by indulging in open passages with a total
stranger?  Cynthia was at my side, and wholly dependent upon me.  And
it was her presence and that thought which enabled me to keep so tight
a rein on my furious inclination.  Meanwhile this person had turned
such a cool impudent scrutiny upon me that it seemed as though he
calmly spelt out every phase of thought through which I was at that
moment passing.



CHAPTER XVII

WE MAKE ACQUAINTANCE WITH A PERSON OF DISTINCTION

I was by now worked up to a pretty rage.  The stranger regarded it,
however, with perfect calmness, not to say enjoyment.

"In your own particular branch of the profession, sir," says he,
laughing, "I am the first to admit that you do remarkably well.  A good
carriage, a refined appearance, an excellent address, and a quite
singular degree of assurance, there is but little wanting to your
success.  The lady, your fair companion, is wholly admirable.  She hath
the very look and air of a gentlewoman.  She is vastly engaging too,
and hath some sweet looks of her own; and I am prepared to say that she
would reassure the most suspicious of landlords and the most
incredulous of travellers."

"I protest, sir," says I, "that I do not follow you in the least."

"I think between friends, sir," says the other, "you might reasonably
drop the high tone.  I am not at all imposed on by it.  Besides, where
is the need?  Believe me, I am the last man in the world to betray a
brother in the pursuit of his calling.  I have some few gifts myself,
and my name for some years past hath been considered an ornament to the
profession; but whatever my vanity, I am ever foremost in recognizing
true merit in others.  I have never had the pleasure of meeting you
before, sir, but the very real talent you have already evinced will
make William Sadler proud to be numbered among your friends."

Although Mr. William Sadler, whoever he might be, pronounced his name
in the manner of one who is accustomed to have it greeted with
flattering recognition, as this was the first time I had happened to
hear of so exalted a personage, I was unable to pay it the homage I
think he expected from me.

"You must really pardon me, sir," says I, "but who you are or what your
name is does not particularly interest me.  I do not remember to have
heard it before, and certainly as you appear to entertain such strange
views as to the manner in which friendship is to be conducted, I have
no very burning desire to hear it again."

At last it seemed I had found in him a tender spot.  The purple
deepened in his cheeks, and there was a brightness of anger in his
eyes.  It was plain that to be ignorant of the name of Mr. William
Sadler was to be guilty of a grave solecism.  But his chagrin was only
momentary, for he had an admirable command of himself, and at once
resumed the control of his feelings.

"It strikes me as something of an affectation, sir," says he, "that one
who practises a very similar calling should yet profess an ignorance of
a name, which I may say, without making a boast of it, stands foremost
in a kindred profession, and hath ever been reckoned an honour and an
embellishment to it.  The name of William Sadler, sir, is known and
reverenced wherever gentlemen of the pad of all shades and degrees do
congregate or hold their intercourse.  It grieves me, sir, that such a
fine example of our calling at its best, as is to be seen in the person
of yourself, sir, and in that of your fair companion, should yet deny
the smallest recognition to one who hath been allowed by the ablest
practitioners of the time, and by publick opinion also, to be worthy of
his meed of praise."

I confess I was getting out of my depth.  My companion was wholly
unintelligible to me.  What he meant by his allusions to our kindred
professions, his own celebrity, and my own skill in an art of which I
did not even know the name, gravelled me completely.  In his smooth,
even tones, it was impossible not to find a genuine regret.  But
methought there was even more of irony in it too, a very delicate irony
that seemed entirely to consist with his cultivated and polished
character.  Indeed the man was an enigma altogether.  His manner, his
appearance, his address were those of a gentleman.  He was an elegant,
well-informed, well-equipped man of the world, capable of exciting the
admiration of a lady of quality, as many a time I have been fain to
acquaint Mrs. Cynthia subsequently.  But who he might be passed me
altogether.  He could not be a great author like Mr. Fielding.  In that
case I should have been more familiar with his name.  He could not be a
man of the first fashion, for the same reason.  Neither was he foremost
in Parliament, in the King's service, in the Queen's favour, nor was he
a virtuoso in the arts.  In what manner was he celebrated then?  I
could not forbear from putting the question to him.  As it happened,
our host was fussing about the supper-table at that moment with the
pudding.

"I refer you, sir," says he, "to our worthy Boniface, our excellent Mr.
Jim Grundy, for the panegyric of my character."

Upon this the innkeeper looked from one to the other of us with a great
deal of unction, and involved his rosy countenance in such a number of
nods and winks as conferred a great air of mystery on a simple question.

"Come, my good Grundy," says our companion, "inform the lady and
gentleman who Mr. William Sadler is."

"They don't know who Mr. William Sadler is," says the landlord.  "Who
ever heard the like of it!  He, he, he!"

Instead of giving us any precise information on this point, the
landlord laughed and laughed again.  Once or twice he seemed to brace
himself to break the important news to us, yet on each occasion as he
was about to open his mouth to do so, a fresh gust of mirth nearly
choked him into a fit.  Indeed, he was wholly incapable of getting
farther than:

"Not know who Mr. Will Sadler is; well, I call that a good 'un."

And I suppose we might have still remained in ignorance of the identity
of our companion to this hour, for apparently Mr. William Sadler was
too proud to exhibit his claims to notoriety, and the innkeeper was
physically incapable of doing so, had it not been for a whimsical
occurrence that presently befell.  Amity had been in a great measure
restored, and we had nearly finished our supper in peace, having at the
same time behaved very creditably by the wine and the victuals, when
the landlord suddenly burst in upon us again with a very agitated face.
"Oh, Mr. William," cries he to our friend, "whatever shall we do?  A
sheriff's posse is coming along, and I fear it is you they are seeking
hot-foot.  They will be here in a minute, and I do not see that you can
possibly get out in time."

Words of this nature vastly interested us, you may be sure.  We noted
that despite the shaken condition of the landlord, Mr. Sadler was
perfectly cool.

"Hold 'em as long as you can in talk," says he, "and I will play 'em my
old trick.  But, my dear fellow, let me beg of you to compose yourself
a little.  Such a face as you are wearing is enough to betray the
cunningest knight in the country, and I must also crave the indulgence
of my two friends here.  I am sure their true sporting instincts, to
say nothing of a professional fellow-feeling, will enable them to give
me any small assistance I may be in need of."

While he was speaking in this singular manner, he was occupying himself
in one no less remarkable.  He casually produced a fresh wig from one
of the huge pockets of the riding-coat that hung on the back of a chair
near his elbow, and having shook it out, discarded the modest tie wig
he was wearing in favour of this much grander one, which he placed on
his head with absolute nicety and correctness.  Having got as far as
this, the landlord apprehended which line he was going to take.  Armed
with that knowledge, the host accordingly moved to the threshold to
greet the sheriff's posse, whilst Mr. Sadler went on with his toilet.
This consisted in attaching a grey beard to his chin, a pair of
moustachios to his upper lip, and a formidable pair of horn spectacles
to his eyes.  All of these he produced from the same pocket as the wig.
The consequence was a complete and effectual transformation; and had we
not been witnesses of the process itself, we could not possibly have
identified our companion of the previous moment in this venerable sage.

This strange play which was passing in front of our eyes was so
bewildering that at first we could hardly realize what was taking
place, or gauge the singular situation in which we found ourselves.
But hearing the lusty demanding voices of the persons who even at that
moment were at the threshold of the inn, the whole meaning of this odd
matter suddenly flashed into my mind.  Our elegant companion was a
professional breaker of laws, a highwayman most probably, and the
sheriff's men were hot on his track.  Yet as I looked at the venerable
figure before me, the embodiment of stately grace and honoured age, I
could not forbear from laughing at him.

"An excellent jest," says he, in a voice that so utterly differed from
his natural one as to bestow the last and crowning touch to his altered
character.  "But it is one that I have played so often in one form or
another upon these and similar people that I begin to fear it may grow
a little worn-out.  However, I must trust to my proverbial luck, and
your kind co-operation."

He had no time to say anything more before these unwelcome visitors
came into the room with the landlord at their head.

"You can really take my word for it, gentlemen I assure you," he said
positively, protesting, "I have seen no such person as you describe.
Nor is it at all likely that my house, which has ever been famous for
its high respectability, would harbour such a desperate ruffian.  You
say that His Majesty's mail has been stopped and tried this evening by
Will Sadler not five miles off, and that booty exceeding four thousand
pounds hath been taken.  Lord defend us, gentlemen, whoever heard the
like!  It is incredible; can this be the eighteenth century?"

By this about half a-dozen dirty, rain-soaked ruffians, comprising the
sheriff's posse, had come into the room.  And at the head of them, if
you please, was that very despotic justice, the squire of the
neighbouring parish, who that afternoon had clapt us in the stocks.
His appearance certainly complicated matters a good deal, and was like
to make them vastly more awkward for us.  Yet the fellow at this time
was in such an excited state of mind, due to the recent terrible event
and his high sense of what he was pleased to call his public duty, that
he gave neither Cynthia nor myself the slightest recognition.  Indeed,
he had most probably forgotten our recent encounter.

I had hardly on my side recognized the justice ere my decision was
taken.  It may be to my lasting discredit as a good citizen and true
subject that I hardly so much as gave a thought to betraying the
desperate fellow who was so completely delivered into our hands.  One
word from either of us, and his last exploit would have been
perpetrated.  But it would have called for a greater humanity or a
less, sure I know not which, and a deeper instinct of the public weal
than either of us appeared to possess, to deliver up Mr. Sadler in cold
blood to the tender mercies of the law.  Accordingly I took a bold
course, perhaps as much to assist the disguise of our companion as to
preserve our own impunity.

Swinging round on the justice and the inn-keeper, I exhibited a degree
of excitement at the news by no means inferior to their own.

"Zounds!" I cried, "what are you saying, landlord?  King's mail, four
thousand pounds, villain escaped.  Whenever did I hear the like?  He
must be pursued; we must leave no stone unturned.  Do I understand that
he is on these premises?"

The stress of my concern and the degree of authority I contrived to
insinuate into it, stood me in good stead with the squire, who saw in
me a person as law-abiding as himself.  Indeed, the number of
breathless questions I pestered him with concerning how the matter
happened, when it happened, who could be made responsible for it, and
what steps could be taken to prevent it happening again, all of which
were so futile and worth so little, as presently suggested to the
squire that he might conceivably be in the company of a brother justice.

"Are you in the commission, may I ask, sir?" says he.

"Aye, that I am, sir," says I, "for the county of Wilts.  I never was
more distressed by anything than the news of this grievous affair."

"Very pleased to meet you, sir," says the squire.  "I am in the
commission too, sir, and I quite agree with every word you have thought
fit to utter.  Every word, I do upon my word, sir."

It was remarkable how the fact that I was a justice of the peace as
well as himself affected his demeanour.  He developed a sudden
affability towards me, and used a special tone in which to address me.
He discovered such a respect for my opinion, showed so many marks of
his consideration for me, and generally endeavoured to ingratiate
himself into my esteem in a way that allowed it to be clearly
understood that to his mind the office of a magistrate had lifted me at
once out of the ruck of common men.  I was one who, like himself, had
been as it were initiated into the Eleusinian mysteries.  My look, my
lightest word, was to him of vastly more importance than even the
business he had come upon.  Indeed he was quite overjoyed to find
himself in the society of a person who was of his own rank in life, and
one with whom he might converse without imperilling his own uneasy
dignity.  It was delightful to observe how my presence unfitted him to
pay the slightest attention to any one other than myself.  He could
hardly bring himself to address the innkeeper or his attendants in the
presence of a brother magistrate.  And to such an extent was he worked
upon that even the business that had brought him thither paled into
insignificance before so felicitous a meeting.

After a full five minutes had been spent on his affable reception of
me, and he had repeated again and again how pleased and honoured he was
to meet me; and he had asked me how long I had been in the commission,
and had told me how long he had been in it, and how long his father had
been in it before him; with other matters of the first importance, and
all mightily pertinent to the robbery of the royal mail, one of his men
had the temerity to make a suggestion.

"Begging your honour's pardon," says he, politely touching his hat,
"but what does your honour think we had better do, seeing as how the
man don't seem to be here?"

"Do," says the squire, taking him up angrily.  "Burn me, was there ever
such insolence?  Are you not aware that I am at present engaged with
your betters, and yet you have the damnable impertinence to ask me what
you shall do."

"But the highwayman, if you please, your honour," says the other, who
was rather a stubborn fellow.

"Oh, the highwayman," says the squire.  "How dare you intrude a person
of that low character when I am engaged with a brother magistrate?  Let
the highwayman go to the devil too."

"In short," says I, reading the squire's disposition, "you can all go
to the devil, the sooner the better.  Do you think the meeting of two
gentlemen can be disturbed by such a petty matter?  I am about to ask
the honour of the company of my brother justice over a bottle.
Landlord, have the goodness to bring up some more of your excellent
Burgundy, and also do us the service of sending these dirty rascals
about their business.  There are no highwaymen here, and if there were,
do you suppose that gentlemen are to be put to inconvenience by them?"

Hereupon the squire, finding himself received in such high favour,
hastened to second my proposal.  The posse was sent packing into the
wind and rain to continue the pursuit of Mr. William Sadler, although
they evidently had not the least idea as to which direction he might be
in; whilst the magistrate proposed to take his ease in his inn, in the
society of the very rogue his men had gone forth to seek.

The host soon returned with the wine, and we settled ourselves to
good-fellowship.  To judge by the sly satisfaction that appeared at
intervals in Mr. Sadler's venerable countenance, he was very well
pleased with the arrangement; whilst I am sure the squire was vastly
so.  As for Cynthia and myself, I think we both had some share in this
satisfaction also.  We figured to ourselves the eventuality of being
able to repay this numscull fellow in his own coin, by putting upon him
some of the indignity he had been so prompt to put upon us that
afternoon.

In a person of a better capacity it might have been a matter of
surprise that we should have gone unrecognized.  But this squire was
but a poor apology of a fellow, with probably as many wits as a rabbit,
and as great a discernment as a mole.  And in my case there may have
been some little excuse, for after all one man is very much like
another, and differs not so much in his appearance as in his
circumstances.  In the parlour of a tavern it is as easy to pass for a
justice of the peace as it is in the stocks to pass for a rogue.
Perhaps in Cynthia's case an even better excuse could be found for him.
Instead of a dejected and bedraggled creature (madam hath twice already
blotted this sentence out!) trudging at the side of a forlorn
musicianer that blew the flute, here was a very different person.  Her
muddy cloak had been discarded to disclose a very tolerable travelling
attire beneath, which, laced as it was, could pass very well in the
country for the first fashion.  Besides, in some impalpable feminine
way, by some cunning trick of the sex, she had added here and there a
touch to her hair and her person, till she shone forth as fair and trim
in the glow of the fire and the candles as Herrick's Julia.  She was no
longer the wandering female (saving her presence!), but the lady of
quality, holding her court of three.  The brightness of the place was
communicated to her cheeks and her eyes.  The dainty malice, the grave
insolence, the superb disdain, the assurance and yet the solicitude of
fashion wedded to beauty, youth to breeding, was a sufficient masque to
the draggle-tailed little creature of the afternoon.  If it may be said
of men that they are the victims of their circumstances, and cut their
figure in the world according to them, how much more truly may the same
be said of women, for are they not chameleons that receive their hue
from their surroundings?

Being completely confident that we ran no risk of discovery from any
exercise the squire might make of his natural faculties, I had no
compunction about introducing Mrs. Cynthia and Mr. Sadler, that the
feast of reason and the flow of soul might be unimpeded.  Thoroughly
alive to the whimsicality of the passages that were like to ensue from
such ill-assorted company sitting down together, I mischievously
determined to give the thing a more extravagant touch if possible, by
sailing as near to the truth as I could.  Therefore, fully aware of the
delicious savour of the whole affair, Mrs. Cynthia was presented as my
wife, the Countess of Tiverton, and our friend Mr. Sadler, the
highwayman and lord knows what besides, as her ladyship's choleric
papa, his grace of Salop.

Never, I vow, was a man so overcome with the society in which he found
himself as this rustical clown of a justice.  Having plainly been used
to no better all his life than that of his pigs, his sheep, his cows,
his horses, the village beadle, and the worthies of the village
ale-house, he had no higher sense of rendering what he conceived was
due to our superior dignity, than they had in rendering the same to
his.  His bows, his smirks, his grimaces, his gross flatteries, would
have excited our pity had he deserved any.  They were so grotesque that
even Mr. Sadler grinned through his great beard.

The landlord too fell in very sagaciously with the whole thing.
Whatever opinion he might entertain on his own part of our figure in
the world, the fact that we had been admitted to the friendship of Mr.
Sadler was a sufficient guarantee of his not going unrequited.  Armed
with this assurance he produced some really excellent wine in liberal
quantities, and furnished us with the fullest meed of his respectful
service; though it is gravely to be doubted whether he considered we
had any better right to enjoy our titles than had Mr. Sadler.  But I
will go bail for the justice, who rejoiced in the name of Hodgkin, that
no such doubts invaded his mind.  He was simply happy.  His wildest
dreams were realized.  His loftiest ambitions were fulfilled.  Was he
not hobnobbing with the great at their own table on terms of perfect
equality?  He never addressed any of us without bringing in our titles
somehow, either as the prologue or the epilogue of what he had to say,
sometimes as both, and in the middle too.  And just as a duke is a
personage of more consideration than an earl, even if he be a justice
of the peace, or a countess if she be young and fair, so did our
squire, after he had felt his way a bit, had drunk a glass or two and
got used to such unaccustomed company, direct the main of his attention
to his grace of Salop.  Indeed such advances did he presently make in
the good esteem of that venerable nobleman that he was fain to direct
nearly the whole of his discourse to him.  He played him, and ogled
him, your grace'd him this, and your grace'd him that, until he felt he
had ingratiated himself into the highest favour.  And having attained
to this good fortune, he could hardly bring himself to so much as look
at Cynthia and me.  As in the case of his rustics and the inn-keeper,
we, as it were, presently discovered him engaged with our betters; and
he clearly hoped we should understand that to be the case.



CHAPTER XVIII

CONTAINS A PANEGYRIC ON THE GENTLE PASSION

It was truly a novel kind of amusement to enjoy the patronage of such a
clodhopper; but it was one infinitely rich in the comic.  The
highwayman fell in exactly with the spirit of this comedy.  He seemed
to take an almost diabolical pleasure in causing this pitiful specimen
of human nature to reveal the weakness and sterility of his mind.  And
I fear that this pleasure was communicated to Cynthia and myself.
Could we have forgotten the persecution endured at the hands of the
fellow that afternoon, we must have found it in our hearts to pity him
in his fool's paradise.  But with the sense of our late indignities yet
abiding within us, we followed the course of the play with the keenness
and zest of the leading actor in it.  It was our revenge, and a very
ample and satisfying one we felt it to be, although in the tameness of
print it may not appear to possess the solid satisfaction of one
administered with a cudgel or a pair of resolute fists.

When at last the squire proposed to depart, he vowed that never had he
spent an evening with such profit and enjoyment.  It far exceeded, he
was good enough to say, the memorable one he had once had the honour to
pass in the society of Colonel Musket of Barker's Hill.  He swore he
would cherish the memory of it to his last day; and having humbly
thanked his grace for his condescension and his affability; and having
given a curt nod to Cynthia and myself, since the boon companion of a
duke is surely entitled to dispense his patronage, our justice stumbled
out into the rainy night, with more good wine in him than he deserved,
and certainly more than he could decently carry.

"Ships, pegs, coos and 'osses," says the highwayman, breaking out into
laughter as soon as our guest had lurched into the rain.  "Let a man
live with them long enough, and they shall reduce his wit and
understanding to the level of their own.  Was there ever such a pitiful
cheese of a fellow in the world before?  If it were not such a foul
night, and I lay less snug in my corner, I would go after him, drub him
soundly, and fling him into the kennel.  But at least we have had an
entertainment, and I have thought well to exact a ransom of him for his
own."

Here to our surprise our strange companion pulled forth a purse which a
few minutes since had been the squire's.  The justice had been seated
next the venerable duke, and had paid for the high privilege.  Besides,
is it not an axiom among the great that they never condescend unless
they are in need of a service, or can get something by their
condescension?  His grace's exaction was the latter.  Neither Cynthia
nor I could find it in our hearts to blame the highwayman for his
trick.  Nay, I do not know that in one sense we were not secretly glad
that a tangible and material punishment had been inflicted upon the
fellow.  When the purse was opened it was found to contain the sum of
nineteen pounds and a few odd shillings.  The highwayman, after a
careful mental calculation, doled the money out into three heaps of
equal value, and having slipped one portion, some six pounds twelve
shillings, into his fob, pushed the two remaining portions over to us,
insisting that in this adventure it was share and share alike.

Of course we could not bring ourselves to accept of our friend's
somewhat embarrassing generosity.  But the sight of such a fortune to
people in our penurious state, who had already partaken of much more
than they could pay for, was temptation indeed.  Although we refused
the gifts with the same courtesy with which they were offered, I fear
that our eyes shone with a singular lust, and our minds rebelled as we
did so.  The highwayman himself was astonished by our scruples.

"My dear friends," says he.  "I confess I have never observed such
reluctancy in persons of your kidney before.  You baffle me.  I cannot
hold it to be generosity in you, since there can be little doubt that
William Sadler makes a fatter living than you do with all your talents.
Why then should you refuse a gift from a brother of your calling?  And
it cannot be pride either, for if we come down to plain terms it is not
a gift at all.  By all those unwritten laws that obtain amongst the
brethren of our profession, you are each honourably entitled to take a
share with me.  Come, my friends, pocket the affront and let no more be
said."

The highwayman's high sense of right and wrong in regard to those he
was pleased to call "the brethren of our profession" was really
touching.  Nothing in the first place could convince him that we were
not in that sense his brethren, and that we did not earn our livelihood
by his uncompromising methods.  We had entered the inn by the aid of
false protestations; we had ordered a meal that he was sure we had no
means of paying for; we had connived at the escape of a desperate
malefactor, and had committed a gross fraud on a justice of the peace;
therefore he had every good reason to stand firm in his estimate of our
character.  To my rejoinder that we hoped he would not pursue the
matter, as we were anything but what we appeared to be, and were
debarred by circumstances that had recently befallen us from publishing
our true condition to him or to any one else, he replied with laughter
of the most immoderate sort.

"Rat me," says he, "this is no new tale.  I wonder how many times in a
twelvemonth it does duty at Old Bailey!  But I do not like to be
baffled by anybody, and I must say your behaviour is inexplicable.  It
is Quixotic, my friends, it is Quixotic.  I cannot possibly let it
pass.  I must beg you to accept these small monies as a token of my
gratitude."

He had the devil for his advocate too.  It truly was Quixotic.  It was
wealth untold to persons in our condition; persons condemned to blow
the flute from place to place for a livelihood.  We were reminded of
nights in the rain; of empty bellies; of fainting limbs; of rags,
misery and mud, and the hundred other ills that attend on a bitter
poverty.  We had sevenpence in our pockets with which to discharge a
score that would be reckoned in pounds.  What wonder that we felt our
resolution falter before the lure that was laid before us?  Together,
however, we prevailed where one of us singly might have given way.

The highwayman vented his perplexity in various ways.  He put forth a
dozen theories that would cover our irreconcilable conduct.  But all of
them were equally wide of the mark.  To all sources but the true one
did he trace our demeanour.  That we were striving to be as honest as
our circumstances would permit, never entered his head.  And when at
last we gave him a cordial good-night prior to retiring to the chamber
that had been prepared for us, he was fain to acknowledge that he was
never so completely beaten by anything as by our behaviour.

"Smart you are, the pair of you," says he, "there's no manner of use in
denying that.  But I'm damned if I can make head or tail of you.  Never
heard of such a thing in my life as two pads on the road refusing their
share of the booty.  But I like you none the less.  You are a
well-favoured well-mannered pair, with rare good heads on your
shoulders.  I'faith you are endowed with a most excellent presence.
You are bound to succeed in the line you have adopted; but if you are
not above taking a piece of advice from one who hath had a pretty long
apprenticeship on the road, you will dress a trifle better.  Clothes go
for a great deal.  A lord in rags counts for less than a postilion in
ruffles and a laced coat.  You will not forget now; it is sure to mean
such and such a sum per annum to you.  And harkee, here's a proposal.
I've got such a fancy for you both, that if you like to take up with
me, we will do the country in company and share the profits; and this I
may tell you is an offer not to be blinked at, when it is made by
William Sadler.  Little madam there shall be the decoy, and you and I,
my lad, shall lift the blunt and generally attend to the practical
matters.  Come now, I can't speak fairer; what do you say!"

Much to Mr. Sadler's disappointment, and I believe to his astonishment
too, I politely declined this liberal proposal.  It was almost
incredible to him that a gentleman of his eminence and success could
meet with a refusal.  It was like two green apprentices declining to
enter into partnership with a master of the highest credit!

"I confess you pass me altogether," says he in despair.

The last glimpse we had of this strange, whimsical, and in a sense
gifted man, was his sitting at the table, with his wig, his spectacles
and false whiskers removed, waving his good-night in the most cordial
fashion.  He was as handsome and intelligent a fellow as I ever
encountered; and I can readily believe what was asserted of him at the
time of his hanging less than a year from this date, that he was a
cadet of a noble family.  Certainly in his gaiety, generosity, and
gallant good humour, he was the very type of man to win the great fame
of the public that I believe was his.  Strange as it may appear, there
was not one trace of vulgarity that I could discern in him; and leaving
his peculiar ideas in regard to _meum_ and _tuum_ out of the question,
in all other particulars he was a charming gentleman.  And if I am one
day burnt for the heresy, I shall be ever the first to admit that in my
short acquaintance of this wicked rogue that so richly came to be
hanged on the Tree, I discovered better parts, a more chivalrous heart,
and vastly more liberal talents than in half the persons of high
consideration and great place, whose intimacy it has been my misfortune
to submit to for a longer period.

As for Cynthia, the first thing she did in the privacy of our chamber
was to burst into tears.

"Oh," she sobbed, "to think that a man like that should be such a
villain.  Oh, I am sure I cannot believe it of him."

"Then why weep for him?" says I.  "But what a pity it is that these
villains are so delectable.  Even a man like your husband if he gets
his deserts will come to be hanged.  Can you tell me, my dear, why it
is that virtue never walks in these radiant colours?  Can it be that
you strait-laced madams secretly lean to the wicked?"

Poor Cynthia sobbed louder than ever.

"Oh, I cannot, I will not believe it of such a dear fine gentleman!"
says she.

The next morning found us heavy of heart.  In what manner we could meet
the landlord's charges we did not know.  Although we were both too
proud to say so, I am sure we should have been greatly thankful could
we have had our share of the highwayman's booty to comfort us.  After
all it was a queer kind of scruple that preferred to rob the innkeeper
rather than the squire.  For it was plain that he, poor fellow, must go
unpaid.  Honesty, I take it, is largely a question of terms; and why we
should hold it to be more venial to rob the one than the other I cannot
tell.  We breakfasted over the hard problem of what to do.  We had no
other course, we decided, than to persevere in the original fiction of
our misfortunes on the road at the hands of a highwayman, and defer the
settlement of the landlord's account against the time when our affairs
had assumed a more prosperous shape.

As it happened, our misgivings and searchings of conscience were in
vain.  The highwayman, who had ridden away in the small hours of the
morning, had insisted unknown to us in giving at least some token of
his gratitude.  He had discharged our score and his own in a handsome
manner, the innkeeper said.  Perchance it was he held that our host
merited some sort of reward for his behaviour too; and he doubtless
held in the shrewd opinion he had formed of our condition, that it was
little enough he was likely to receive at our hands.

In this fortunate manner we were able to go forth into the world again.
Our hunger and weariness had been amply refreshed and our debts paid.
We did not pause to consider that these happy contingencies had been
brought about by the very means that we had so loftily disdained.  It
was the squire's purse after all that had paid our charges.  Honesty,
as I have said, is largely a question of terms.

To the downpour of the night had succeeded a sullen morning.  The
lowering sky promised more misery to follow.  The air was wet with
mists; the trees dripped incessantly; every blade of grass shone with
the dankness that clung to it, and the state of the deep-rutted, rude,
uneven roads was terrible.  But even all these things together, and the
fact that we had to plough our way, step by step, slowly through seas
of mud could not entirely depress our spirits.  We felt ourselves in
the society of one another, to be in spite of everything, invincible in
our common courage, unconquerable in our common resolution.  The one
sustained the other in these adventures.

"My prettiness," says I, "it is under embarrassing conditions such as
these that we should endeavour to sustain ourselves with a few tender,
amorous passages of love.  I think I will pay you a compliment or two
upon your beauty, if you will give me but a minute's time in which to
rack my mind to find them."

"For your pretty speeches to be sincere, sir," says Cynthia, "they
should be quite spontaneous."

"Here is one," says I.  "The sunshine of your countenance lights up the
morning's gloom."

"A common enough figure, I confess," says she, "which a hundred poets
have better exprest."

"Here is another, then," says I, undaunted.  "The solace of your
companionship sweetens the bitter miles."

"Nay," says she, "I think no better of that trope than the first.  It
wants a poet to give an originality, a point and grace, to things of
this sort."

"But every lover is a poet," says I triumphantly.

"I am deluded then," says Cynthia, "for if your love is measured by
your poetry I am like to die of a broken heart.  But after all, that
last glib phrase of yours is but a poor sort of speech for a man to
make to his mistress.  A poet, as all the world knows, is but an
embellisher of common things."

"A poet is more than that," says I.  "A thousand times more.  A poet
is----  A poet is----"

"A poet is?" says Cynthia archly.

"The human mind cannot express what a poet is," says I.  "He is all,
and he is nothing.  He weaves a sovereign spell about material things.
He can put a new glamour in the stars, although he cannot hold a candle
to the sun.  He is the airy nothing that can reveal the face of God to
simple men."

"But what hath all this to do with Love?" says Cynthia.  "And I confess
I never suspected this phase to your character.  I always held you for
a common four-square kind of a fellow enough, by no means given to
these sudden heats and violences, these sudden whimsies and
nonsensicals."

"No more did I," says I ruefully.  "But it is so like this wretched
passion to take us in our weakest part, which in me, as you are ever
the first to remind me, is the head."

"It is not such a wretched passion neither," says Cynthia, "if it is
but left to itself.  It is these low poets and people that debase it.
Love is the noblest thing in the world, until your puny twopenny poets
and the like sing of it, and prate of it, and write an advertisement of
it, that they may earn enough to spend at the nearest tavern."

"Alas! mistress," says I, "you are too severe on the muse.  There have
been elegies composed to Love that could dignify even that sacred
passion."

"All of which the sacred passion could very well have done without,"
says my didactic miss.  "There is not a painter in the world, be he
never so cunning, that can put a new colour in the sunset, nor is there
an author of them all that can add a new rapture to a kiss."

"Body o' me," says I, "you are not a little right there."

If there is any vindication needed of the sex's incontestable
prerogative to enjoy the last word in any argument, be it of the nature
of metaphysics, reason or common practice, here is it to be found.  We
stopped in the middle of the road and concluded our discourse with a
chaste salute.  And I think there was a strain of poetry in us both as
we did so.  The weeping heavens smiled upon us; all the wet verdure of
the spring was a sparkling face that laughed and greeted us.  We went
along refreshed and more cheerful of heart.

Yet it was a toilsome journey.  The mud clogged our feet, the damp
pervaded our clothes, and our unaccustomed fatigues of the last few
days were beginning to tell upon us terribly.  Never in all our lives
had we given our feet such exercise.  We had not walked much beyond an
hour this morning before I noticed with something of a sinking heart
that poor Cynthia was limping.  At first these symptoms were hardly to
be discerned, and when I taxed her with them, she denied them stoutly.
But too soon were they revealed beyond a doubt.  It was getting towards
noon before my proud little miss would in any wise admit this to be the
case, though.  By then, however, she was so footsore that she could
scarce drag one foot behind the other.  Chancing to pass near a
handrail bridge a little later, that spanned a small clear stream
running over long floating moss and stones, nothing would content me
but she should go and sit upon it, take off her shoes and stockings,
and bathe her bruised feet by dangling them over the side.  A little
cottage nestling close at hand, fenced with box in front and
apple-trees behind, thither I repaired to beg clean linen rags to wrap
them in.

The cottage door was opened at my knock by a smiling, buxom housewife,
who stood out upon a background of crowing babes.  No sooner had I made
my request than with cheerful energy, says she:

"Oh yes, sir, to be sure I can," and feeling that we were like to find
a true friend in her, no sooner had I explained the occasion for it
than she proved a friend indeed.  Having procured these requisites with
a bustling promptitude, she carried them to Cynthia and found her
seated on the bridge as I had left her, bathing her toes in the cool
sweetness of the stream.  With many a "poor lamb!" and many a "deary,
deary me!" she played the good Samaritan to my unlucky little one.  She
dried them, comforted them, and bound them up with all the honest grace
of her great good nature.  Never did I see a woman so brisk and
motherly, and certainly never one so overflowing with true charity.
When she had fulfilled her tender offices, and having kissed poor
Cynthia on both cheeks in a most resounding manner, "because she was
such a little beauty," she had us both go back with her to the cottage,
that we might eat a bowl of curds and whey in the arbour cut in the
laurel bushes, next the well, at the bottom of the garden.

Looking back on the scenes of our itinerary, this bustling, kindly
housewife makes the fairest picture of them all.  Can the great who
dwell in palaces conceive the degree of simple happiness it is in the
power of such a creature to bestow?  Whenever subsequently, in an hour
of gloom, I may have been led to doubt the essential goodness that lies
buried in the hearts of our human kind, I insensibly recall the conduct
of this honest woman on that wet spring morning when we came to her
door afflicted of mind and body.

By gentle walking we were able to make many more miles that day.  But a
shadow had come over us.  We had no longer the joyous intrepidity with
which we had set out less than a week ago.  A foreboding had come upon
us.  We could not hope to go much farther by our present mode.  My
little companion, strive as she might to conceal the dire fact, was
rapidly being overcome.  Her boots were wearing thin, she was already
suffering much pain, and there was the sum of sevenpence left to us by
which she could obtain her ease.  We had not the heart to endeavour to
increase it by blowing further on the flute.  Besides, if the truth of
that matter must be told, the stocks had given us a particular distaste
for the gentle instrument.  As the slow, cloud-laden hours passed to
the occasional accompaniment of rain, with no glint of sunshine to
relieve their drab monotony, it called for all the courage of which we
had made a boast that morning to keep us from repining.  The nearer we
approached the evening the greater was our gloom.  There was the
eternal problem of food and shelter to be solved.  The previous night
our audacity had solved it for us.  But in our present state we both
felt quite incapable of furnishing the necessary spirit and effrontery
for a repetition of that bold trick.  Alas! our one desire was to be
wafted by some magic into warmth and plenty that we might sup and fall
asleep.

We spent our last pence at a hedge inn on our habitual repast of bread
and cheese and ale.  But the longer we lingered, the cheerless,
wretched place appeared to heighten our dejection, so that we hailed
the wet countryside as a relief when we walked out again upon it.  But
I cannot tell you how we dreaded the coming of night.  The barren
character of the landscape, and the few people and the fewer
habitations that we came upon probably increased the depression of our
spirits.  Indeed, towards evening, the only human being that we
encountered in several miles was a travelling tinker singing on a
stile, and I think we could have wished to have been spared this
meeting.  In our forlorn state we regarded such an irresponsible gaiety
in the light of a personal affront.  But the dirty rogue had such a
cheerful, jolly look that I was fain to accost him with my curiosity.

"I beg your pardon, sir," says I, "but why do you uplift your soul in
merriment on such a dismal afternoon?"

The tinker looked at me suspiciously, and then at his bundle reposing
at his feet.  He evidently speculated as to what designs I could have
upon it.

"It is a good world, my lad, that is why I sing," says he, "and you'd
be singing too, I fancy, if this was your first day out o' jail."

However that might be I am sure we both envied the tinker his frame of
mind.  Our own was desperate indeed.  There was nothing for it but to
push on relentlessly, and to hope against hope for some happy chance.
We were both utterly wearied and dispirited by this; no houses were
near at hand; and the night was closing in.  We were consoled in a
slight degree with the thought that we were on a high road and that a
shelter of one sort or another should not be far to seek.  By what
means we should be able to avail ourselves of it in our destitute state
was another question.

In the very height of our distresses we suddenly came upon a wayside
inn, and a scene of a violent and singular character was being enacted
on the threshold.  Two persons, a man and a woman of mean appearance,
had evidently just been ejected from it, since they stood resentfully
in the middle of the road with divers bundles containing their goods
and chattels scattered around them.  The landlord stood at the inn
door, shaking his fist and declaiming his great indignation, whilst his
wife, standing in a haven of security behind him, was giving rein to
her own sentiments with neither hesitation nor uncertainty.



CHAPTER XIX

WE APPEAR IN A NEW CHARACTER

It seemed that the man and woman in the middle of the road were the
ostler and chambermaid to the inn, who had just been convicted of a
grave misdemeanour.  The language in which it was designated and
described by the host and hostess, energetic in form and warm in colour
as it was, could not, I fear, be reproduced in this chaste narrative.
It must suffice to say that the guilty persons had been discharged at a
moment's notice.  They were now resenting this extreme course from
their station in the middle of the road; and whatever were the colours
in which their own conduct had been depicted, it is greatly to be
doubted, whether they could possibly have been more vivid than those
applied to that of their late master and mistress.

To these people in the midst of their altercation came Cynthia and I.
Almost at the same instant a similar thought entered the minds of us
both.  Why should we not apply for these vacated situations?  We had
had no experience of such duties, it was true.  Our lot indeed would be
arduous.  But we should at least be provided with a shelter for the
night; and we could relinquish our unaccustomed tasks the moment we
might feel ourselves better served by doing so.  A brief whispered
conference as we stood apart in the road, and we decided to make
application.  Never for an instant did the idea cross our minds that
such a highly superior ostler and chambermaid could be anything but
acceptable to the good people of the inn.  Yet when taking our courage
in our hands we came up to the door, and I put forward my suggestion
with a becoming modesty, the landlord seemed by no means so eager to
close with this tempting offer as I had fully expected he would be.

"Have you a character?" says he sharply.

"Oh yes, I think I have a very good character," says I.

"Humph," says he, "you think you have a very good character, do you?
Well, my lad, I should like to see it."

"Well," says I, "a character is not very easy to see, unless there is
something to show it by."

"I am quite aware of that," says the landlord sharply.  "However, we
will leave this precious pair and go inside, light a candle and look at
it."

With that, man and wife led the way within, and we followed meekly,
leaving the discharged couple in the road to pursue their own devices.
In what way a candle would enable them to discern our characters we
could not tell, although we were half inclined to think that the common
phrase "to hold a candle to" might have in fact a more literal
significance than any we had dreamt of.  The inn kitchen presented a
rosy fire and a cosy appearance.  The sight of it seemed to increase
the sense of our unhappy plight, and I think we both anxiously awaited
the landlord's judgment, for it was impossible to contemplate being
turned out into the night again with equanimity.

"Now then, my lad," says the landlord, "I will thank you to let me see
your character."

"I do not know how I can show you my character, sir," I ventured to
say, "until I have been some little time in your service."

"Come, that won't do, my lad," says the landlord, "I must either see
your character or out you go."

Filled with misgiving, I was about to ask the landlord for an
explanation of this odd demand, when it suddenly occurred to me that he
wished to have it in writing, like any other master who was about to
engage a servant.  I had to confess that I had not a character.

"Ha," says the landlord keenly.  "Then why did you leave your last
place?"

I had to confess that I had never had a last place.

"You don't mean to tell me," says the landlord, "that you have had the
impidence to apply to me when you have never had no experience of the
dooties?"

I had to explain that such was the case, but earnestly stated that
whatever I might lack in knowledge I would certainly make up in zeal.
For all that it was like to have gone hard with our engagement had it
not been for the intervention of the landlord's wife.  It may have been
that vanity which is inseparable from the male character, but it did
seem to me that from the first the good woman had been disposed to
regard me with favour.

"Well, Joseph," says she at this critical moment, "he is a very proper
looking young man, I am sure, and as honest looking as the day.  I am
sure he will do his best if he says he will.  Besides, they are man and
wife, which is a very main thing."

This reference to the pair of us had the effect of diverting the worthy
landlord's attention to Cynthia.  No sooner did he observe her than his
objections became sensibly less formidable than they had been.  And I
am afraid it was my little madam's _beaux yeux_ and not our
qualifications and accomplishments that got us the situation.  Yet even
when we had been duly engaged at four pounds a year and our keep, there
was like to have been a hitch.  The landlady's closer inspection of us
revealed the fact that although I might, as she had been good enough to
say be "a very proper-looking young man," Cynthia in her opinion was
vastly too fine-looking a young woman.  She even went the length of
describing her as "a blue-eyed slut."  Whatever the force of her
objections, however, as she herself was entirely responsible for the
engagement of the ostler, she could hardly have gainsaid, much as she
could have wished to have done so, her husband's right to engage the
chambermaid.

It was in this singular but fortunate fashion then that we found
ourselves once more provided for.  The inn being on a coaching road was
not such a mean one as we had at first supposed.  The host and hostess
of it did not seem to be such bad people either, and as they did not
except to have company in the place until later in the evening, and
observing that our travels had left us in a sorry condition, they
allowed us to make a rough meal, and afterwards to sit by the fire a
bit.

It went to my heart that my poor little companion should be brought to
this pass, but she acquiesced in it so cheerfully, and with such a
merry sense of the occasion as did a great deal to diminish my concern.
She was indeed a courageous little creature; and there was something
about her new duties that seemed to amuse her, for she went about them
with a humorous zest as though she was laughing at herself while she
did so.  All the same we were genuinely glad when at last the hour came
for our retirement.  We were thoroughly wearied and footsore too.

We rose in much better heart betimes on the following morning, and set
about our unaccustomed tasks with a vigour that compensated for our
inexperience.  After all, they were of an elementary character, not at
all difficult to learn.  To be sure it was more than a little strange
at first to find ourselves engaged in such lowly capacities, but when
after an hour or two the singularity had worn off, they became by no
means irksome.  Indeed, the novelty of the thing might be said to pass
the time pleasantly.  But as it happened, we were to be startled out of
these pursuits in the rudest manner.

It chanced that about noon I had led the horse of a gentleman, who had
passed the previous night at the inn, out of the stable round to the
front door.  And while I was holding its head against its master's
departure there arose a clatter of wheels on the road.  In a minute, or
less, a chaise drew up at the door.  No glance was needed at its
occupants to tell me to whom it belonged.  The peculiar shape and
colour were quite sufficient to advertise me of that matter.  It was
the Duke in person, accompanied by the indefatigable Mr. Waring.  His
Grace lost no time in relinquishing the reins, and together they
stepped from the vehicle to ease their legs somewhat, and entered the
inn in quest of any little refreshment it might afford them.  Happily
neither paid much heed to me.  Indeed beyond an order to give an eye to
the horses and to fetch them a drink of water, I claimed no share of
their attention.

No sooner had they entered the inn, however, than in the midst of some
self-congratulation on my present impunity from discovery, I was beset
with a sudden fear of Cynthia.  What more likely than that they should
directly encounter her, unless she could be apprised of their
proximity?  She must be warned at all costs.  Fortunately at that
moment the owner of the horse, whose head I was holding, appeared and
relieved me of its charge.  Thereupon I hastily entered to advise
Cynthia of her danger.  Yet I did so only to find that the worst had
happened already.

From the parlour the Duke's voice issued in a tremendous key.  There
could be no doubt that it was as I feared.  I lost no time in hastening
to my poor little one's assistance, if only to divert a portion of her
father's wrath.  The scene that confronted me when I entered the inn
parlour would not by any means have been devoid of a certain
whimsicality had it not had so sinister a bearing on our fortunes.  The
innkeeper and his wife stood aghast.  Mr. Waring was languidly helping
himself to a pinch of snuff with an air of the frankest amusement.
Cynthia was in a dreadful taking, and weeping bitterly.  The Duke, her
father, was hopping about like a pea on a hot plate, and threatening to
go off any minute into an apoplexy.  At my appearance he very nearly
did so.

"You villain," he squeaked, shaking his fist in my face, and dancing
round me, "you impudent, unblushing villain!  Have I routed you out at
last?  Have I run you to earth, you damned young scoundrel?  By God,
you shall pay a price; yes, you shall, so help me.  Your purse may be
bankrupt, but you shall pay this account with the last drop of blood
that is left in your black heart.  Pass your box, Humphrey."

Mr. Waring passed his box with a grim chuckling countenance; and his
Grace paused in the midst of his violent denunciation to make use of
it.  It appeared to lend him succour, whereon he continued with renewed
vigour.  I would not like to set down here the number of hard names he
put his tongue to, every one of which was levelled at my devoted head.
To be sure I had used him pretty badly, but I fear that I was not in
the least repentant.  I listened to his passionate abuse which he
delivered in a curious senile staccato, with an amusement possibly as
great as Mr. Waring's own, and certainly more cynical.  I don't think
at the moment I cared much about the pass I was come to.  I was utterly
desperate.

Poor little Cynthia, bitterly frightened as she was, and despite the
tears that streamed from her eyes, was still very brave.  She could not
bear to hear my name degraded in this manner.  In the face of her
father's wrath she came to my side and took my hand, and I loved her
the better for the deed.

"Landlord," says his Grace, "don't stand gaping there like a pig on a
spit.  Just have the goodness to bestir yourself, and fetch the
constables.  This young scoundrel shall not go out of my sight, except
in custody.  The law hath wanted him long, and as I'm a person, it
shall have him, too."

It was somewhere about this point in the scene, I think, that a bold
expedient came unexpectedly into my head.  It had a full measure of
audacity befitting the occasion.  If only we could make a dash out into
the road and gain possession of the chaise one short instant before our
enemies, all was not lost even now.  It was truly a remote chance, yet
it was the only one that offered.  Therefore no sooner had it entered
my mind than I set my will to work to put it in practice.  With this
end in view I gave a furtive eye to the position of the parlour door.
I found myself even now the nearest person to it.  I must contrive to
get still nearer and acquaint Cynthia of the nature of my desperate
design without arousing the suspicions of our furious papa or the
languid Mr. Waring.

As the landlord stood hesitating as to which course he should adopt,
the Duke directed some attention to him, and gave him freely of his
orders.  It was while our papa was thus engaged that I bent down to
Cynthia and whispered my audacious plan into her ear.  From that moment
we turned all our energies towards getting closer to the door without
being suspected of doing so.  Every step we could encroach might
presently be of the greatest possible service.  Unfortunately the fact
that the parlour-door was closed was a great barrier.  We should not
have time to open it and get away.

The Duke having at last prevailed on the landlord to go for the
constables, it was with inexpressible anxiety that we watched him go
out of the room.  If he would but leave that door unlatched we had just
a chance of getting to the chaise in time.  With a thrill of
satisfaction we saw him go out, leaving the door wide open behind him.
The Duke and Mr. Waring were apart at the other end of the room, quite
oblivious of any scheme we might be evolving.  They had forgotten
apparently that a chaise and a pair of horses stood outside the door.
Carefully noting the actions of our enemies and the degree of attention
they thought fit to pay us, we sidled nearer and nearer, an inch at a
time, to the parlour-door.  And at last, having concluded that the
landlord had got well clear of the premises, and was therefore not
likely to present any obstacle, I decided that now or never was the
moment.  I whispered my last brief instructions to my little companion;
and then taking our careless captors entirely unawares, she darted out
through the door, and I as swiftly followed her.

The scheme had been thoroughly matured in my mind.  To allow Cynthia
time to run on and gain access to the chaise, a proper control of the
reins, and to set the horses in motion, I did not follow her at once,
but preferred to bang the parlour-door in the face of our pursuers, and
clung with both hands to the handle that they might be impeded as much
as possible.  Once aroused to their danger, they lost not a second of
time in besieging the door, but with my back firmly planted against the
opposite wall I was quite a match for them in the matter of hauling.  I
was able to detain them the wrong side therefore, until a cry from
Cynthia informed me that she had fulfilled her part of the business.
Thereon I suddenly released the handle, and our enemies found
themselves so unexpectedly in possession, that they fell back one upon
another, whilst I ran forth to the chaise.

It was already starting briskly down the road.  I was able to overtake
it and get in by the time the Duke and his friend showed at the door;
and though they ran after us for a few yards they soon came to the
conclusion, with the horses fleeing faster and faster, that immediate
pursuit was hopeless, and relinquished the chase accordingly.  We had
not gone very far, however, when we overtook the landlord on his way to
fetch the constables.  That puzzled fellow made no effort to detain us,
and in that I think he was well advised.

It was some little time before we could get the excitement engendered
by these events out of our minds, and realize that we were still in
possession of our freedom, that most cherished thing, for which we were
doing and suffering so much.  We had a chaise and a pair of horses too.
But I do not think that any two persons could have looked so little in
their places in such a handsome vehicle.  The appearance we presented
must have been highly ridiculous.  Neither of us had cloaks or
coverings for our heads, whilst I, in the pursuit of my late
occupation, had divested myself of my coat in addition.  We were thus
in absurd contrast to our fine manner of procedure.  Having put an
honest mile between us and the inn, we began to examine the contents of
the chaise with an eager curiosity, not unmingled with anxiety.  The
first articles to rejoice our hearts were several thick rugs, which we
lost no time in putting to use.  There was a case of pistols, too; and
over and above these things we discovered to our supreme satisfaction a
couple of travelling valises, the property of Mr. Waring and his Grace.

Our straits were much too dire for our minds to be greatly oppressed
with the morality of things.  To us it seemed as though these
travelling valises had come from heaven.  Robinson Crusoe on his island
could not have had a devouter thankfulness when he recovered the
articles from the wreck than we had in the contemplation of our
treasure.  We experienced an exquisite curiosity as we speculated on
what they might contain.  However, we deferred the opening of them,
partly because the time and place would for the present be ill-chosen
(we must put many more miles between us and the enemy before we could
venture to draw rein) and again, because we desired, like a pair of
children, to draw out to the outmost the pains of our delicious
expectation.



CHAPTER XX

DISADVANTAGES OF A CHAISE AND A PAIR OF HORSES

In this rapt condition of mind, and in this remarkable fashion did we
proceed along the road.  Through villages and hamlets, past churches
and inns, up hill and down we took our gallant way.  The sense of rapid
motion made without the least inconvenience to our own jaded limbs,
coming after hours of arduous travelling by their painful exercise, was
incomparable, unless it be likened to what the soul must feel when
wafted to Elysium on a cloud, after suffering the slow agonies of
death.  The exhilaration of our progress was wonderful indeed.
Steaming along the highways in an elegant equipage, the late oppression
fell off our spirits and gaiety came out in us once again.  We did not
know whither we were going, to be sure; it was sufficient that we were
fortified with ways and means once more, and that we had so audaciously
contrived to leave our pursuers in the lurch.

"I wonder what are the contents of these boxes," says I, indulging a
delightful speculation as we sped along.

"I suppose we ought not to touch them, whatever they are," says Cynthia
nervously.

"In that case," says I, "we must not open them."

"Oh, I think we might safely do that," says Cynthia in a voice of the
deepest disappointment.  "Although they are not ours, that is no
reason, as far as I can see, why we should not have just one peep at
what they are.  That will be doing harm to no one, will it?"

"I fear it will be otherwise," says I mischievously.  "For if we get so
far as the opening of the boxes I am sure we shall not be content with
a mere inspection of the contents."

"Oh, Jack," says the indignant Cynthia, "how can you talk so.  I am
sure you cannot mean to infer that we should be guilty of anything--of
anything we ought not to be guilty of."

"Of appropriating articles that belong to others, for example."

"Yes," says she, "that is what I meant."

"Well," says I, "is there not the melancholy case of our refusing the
highwayman's booty in one form and accepting it in another?"

"That I am sure we did not," says Mistress Virtue.  "We did not ask him
to pay our bill."

"To be sure we did not," says I, "but he paid it, none the less.  Now,
had we acted in that matter according to your fine ideas, we should, in
the first place, have delivered that highwayman up to the King's
justice; then the rape of the squire's guineas would never have been
committed, and the landlord's bill would not have been paid at all.
That is why one is ever so perplexed by these high principles of
conduct.  Why draw the line in one place and not in another?  Do we not
make these arbitrary distinctions and often deny ourselves all manner
of things thereby, when we can least afford to do without them, and yet
there is not a day that passes but what we commit offences against our
codes of honour with a cheerful heart.  So much depends upon the title
by which an act is dignified.  Persons in our degree of life refer to
certain sources of their emolument as privilege and monopoly, whereas
if they were enjoyed by those in a humbler sphere, who would hesitate
to denounce them as robbery and fraud?  Now these boxes being in our
possession, and as we are quite destitute of means, is not there a
hundred ways by which we can prevail upon our consciences to permit us
to enjoy their contents?"

Cynthia stoutly denied this specious reasoning at the time.  But after
awhile, when the horses began to flag, and hunger, our ancient dogged
enemy, began once more to assert himself, she was inclined to look at
the matter in a rather more lenient light.

"We must incontinently perish of starvation by the way," says I,
"unless these chests of Mr. Waring and his Grace, your papa, can help
us.  Now which course shall we adopt?  And we to take the articles
therein as a loan, fully intending to recompense their owners at a more
fortunate season? or shall we simply take them without any reservation
whatever, as lawful prizes won from the enemy in open fight?"

"I think I like the idea of the 'borrowing' best," says the scrupulous
Cynthia.

"Very well, then, we will effect a loan," says I.

We could hardly venture to pull up at the door of any reputable inn in
our present state.  We were the beggars no longer, but a lady and
gentleman of quality.  Persons who drive about the country a pair of
fine horses and a chariot of the first fashion are compelled to support
their responsibilities.  That is ever the eternal drawback.  I, clad in
the meanest of garments, divested of my coat and hat, would have been
entirely at ease in my former mean character, and should have passed
unnoticed in it.  But once I drove to the inn door in the Duke's
chaise, attired in that fashion, I should be the talk of the place.
Therefore I brought the horses to a halt, in a secluded part of the
road, and proceeded to investigate the nature of the articles in the
chests, in order to see if they could afford an embellishment to our
present unfortunate garb.  We hoped to discover some money, too, for we
had not so much as a penny between us.

However, no sooner did we try to open these valises, than we received a
serious set back.  They were both securely locked.  Search as we might
among the cushions of the chaise, we could find, as we anticipated,
never a trace of the keys.  We were greatly dashed, but still it was an
opportunity for the display of our resources.  I got out of the
vehicle, and after much poking about in a ditch at the side of the
road, discovered a heavy stone.  Armed with this, I attempted to knock
off the fastenings from Mr. Waring's box.  It was a tedious, weary
business, for they were stout indeed, but at last patience, if not
virtue, met with its reward.  The lid flew open and disclosed the
precious contents.

Conscious of our ragged, penniless condition, we enjoyed every thrill
that such treasure trove could afford us.  To prolong our pleasure we
refrained from all reckless rummaging, but drew forth and duly examined
each article in the order in which it was packed.  First came a suit of
clothes, and then silk stockings, shoes, another suit of clothes,
handkerchiefs, a razor, brushes, a cocked hat, and all the details that
go to make up the masculine attire.

But although we delved to the bottom of the box and searched every inch
of it, we could not discover so much as a copper piece in money.  This
was a severe disappointment, and we addressed ourselves fearfully to
the opening of the Duke's box, for should that prove barren of it too,
our pass would be indeed a sore one.

It was no easier matter to force this box than it had been the other,
but at last our task was accomplished and the thing stood open before
us.  The articles within it bore a striking resemblance to those in the
other, only that they were not so elegant and costly.  They began with
a shirt and a white cotton night-cap, and below we came upon a wig and
a dressing-gown, but although our hearts might beat never so wildly it
was in vain that we looked for money.  Indeed, the only things that we
might regard as a substitute for it were a few trifling articles of
jewellery, such as a solitaire and a gold pin or two for the Duke's
neckcloth, a pearl button, and a pair of shoes with silver buckles.

"Oh," says I, bitterly, "never again will I be at the trouble of
picking his Grace's baggage if this be the manner of his travelling.
One would have thought that a duke of all people would have gone
equipped handsomely.  I expected to find guineas galore; or, allowing
his Grace to be a thrifty soul, and that he preferred to carry them in
his boots or next his heart, I had certainly looked for a profusion of
gold diamond ornaments.  Why, curse it all, never one of his toilet
requisites hath so much as a pearl or silver handle.  Why, even his
night-cap, which should be studded with precious stones, like the fez
of the Shah of Persia, is but a common affair of white cotton.  A Duke
is not alive to the responsibilities of his position who goes about
with these mean accompaniments."

"Poor papa," says Cynthia, sadly, "I confess that I ought to have known
that we must go wanting should we rely on him.  It was ever his chief
foible to make a halfpenny go as far as two farthings possibly could.
Even the solitaire surprises me.  I am sure he must be proposing to
break his journey at the house of the rich widow at Bath, to whom he
hath been paying his addresses this twelvemonth, else he would never
have encumbered himself with such an extravagant finery."

We were, indeed, bitterly disappointed.  Here we were, two persons of
quality, with our own horses and chariot, with two boxes of luggage and
a case of pistols, and not a grey groat piece to the two of us.  This
fact seemed to acquire a new irony from our otherwise liberal
circumstances.  Whatever could we do?  Cynthia suggested that we should
sell one of the horses, as two were not essential.  However, I was firm
in the opinion that so long as we retained the chaise we must have two
horses to draw it, for the Duke was certain to lose not an instant in
pursuing us in the hottest manner.  I then proposed that we should part
with the vehicle itself and both the horses, and resume our wandering
nomad life once more.

Cynthia shuddered at this.  She had plainly no zest now for our former
mode, nor could it be wondered at, poor child, when her trials and
exertions came to be considered.  Had there only been me in the case I
should not have hesitated to try to find a purchaser for our equipage,
difficult as the matter might have proved.  For I was convinced that we
were really in a more unsafe situation now than ever before.  It would
be impossible to avoid publicity; and at every inn we came to we should
be the objects of conjecture, and everything pertaining to us would be
discussed and commented on.  Besides, we could no longer sleep where we
listed.  The horses would require rest and succour whatever the
deprivations of their masters.

After addressing and re-addressing ourselves to the great problem of
how to obtain the service of innkeepers without paying for the same, we
came to the conclusion that we could best hope to do so by adopting a
former expedient, which was attended with not unhappy results.  In lieu
of hard cash we must present them with a grievous tale of being stopped
by a highwayman, who had taken our last penny.  To do this with the
best effect, however, we must neglect no opportunity of maintaining in
our own persons the status of our chaise and horses.  My own attire did
well enough for an ostler, but as our friend Mr. Sadler had pointed
out, it was likely to detract from the story we had to tell.
Therefore, I decided to exchange my raiment for the more appropriate
clothes of Mr. Waring.  I did not apprehend any difficulty in regard to
the fit, as we were greatly alike in stature.

With this end in view I selected the necessary articles of apparel from
the box, and left Cynthia to take care of our vehicle, whilst I retired
into the shelter of a neighbouring hedge and made a complete
transformation of my outward semblance.  Mrs. Cynthia was hugely
delighted at the result.  She had never quite been able to acquiesce in
my late style, and her feelings on the subject were pretty clearly
indicated by her immense satisfaction now.

"Shoes, and silk stockings too," says she with a childlike pleasure.
"And what a dear laced coat, and what nice white ruffles!  I am certain
you make a far more perfect gentleman than you do an ostler, though to
be sure you are greatly lacking a shave."

"It is ever so," says I.  "The moment one goes up in the world one's
responsibilities multiply.  When I was an ostler my unrazored chin
passed without comment; but the moment I improve my condition I must
shave every morning, or else be more miserable than ever I was in my
former station."

Mrs. Cynthia was too preoccupied with my appearance to chide me for
long-winded truisms of this sort.  I must not omit to state that during
my absence she had supplied the deficiencies in her own attire by
taking a smart three-cornered hat of Mr. Waring's which, though greatly
too large for her, she had contrived artfully to adjust on the back of
her head, and thereby gained a sweetly rakish appearance from it; and
further supplied her lack of a cloak in a no less skilful fashion by
draping one of the rugs about her in a way that simulated such an
article.

We came to an inn with our pitiful tale.  We had it all most
wonderfully pat, having rehearsed it carefully, until we were able to
pour it forth with an infinity of detail.  If the distressed condition
of the horses, and our own evident sincerity were not enough, there
were the boxes all tumbled and ransacked to add weight to the evidence.
Our imposition being so well received, and the attitude of the landlord
seeming so friendly, we determined to run the risk of being overtaken,
and break our journey here for an hour while we made a meal, and the
horses were fed and rested.  Whether it was that the landlord was a man
of a most tender heart, or that our address was so truly excellent, I
cannot say, but certainly the honest fellow did not hesitate to take us
at our own valuation.  If there was any small particular in which he
could serve the earl and countess he should be more than happy.  The
small particular in which he was able to do so was by remitting the
amount of our charges against a future occasion, and by lending us a
guinea or two on no better security than the possession of our pleasant
manners and a chaise and a pair of horses.

We went our way in much better heart.  We were fortified indeed by such
a generous confidence.  And so susceptible is the mind to the opinion
of others, that on the strength of the landlord's disposition, we began
to hold up our heads again in the world, and to take a rose-coloured
view of our affairs.  All was not lost yet by a good deal.  With our
admirable equipage we had resources of a sort; and we were still in the
complete possession of our freedom.  It remained for us to utilize it
to the full.

It was while we were engaged with this train of speculation that a
concrete and definite idea came into my head.  Why not make for the
port of Bristol and flee the country?  Why not indeed?

"A brave plan, truly," Cynthia says, "but we cannot do it without
money."

"We will sell our horses and chariot to some honest vintner of Bristol
city," says I, "and the proceeds should easily suffice to take us to
the Americas."

Although Mrs. Cynthia shook her head and deprecated it as a wild-goose
scheme, she was compelled to admit that it was the best that offered.
Her protests were not unmingled with regret, for she could not be got
to consider it so light a thing to renounce her country.  For my part I
must confess that I was troubled with no such scruples.  Like all
persons who serve it scurvily, and who are least of an ornament to it,
I held myself to be as ill-used by it as ever it had been by me.  I
felt that I could renounce it for ever without a pang.

After some little meditation I became immeasurably taken with this
scheme.  There was no reason why with one bold stroke we should not
renounce our liabilities and put away our dangers.  Every hour we spent
in England now was at our peril.  But let us reach the port of Bristol
and turn our chaise and horses into ready money sufficient to defray
the expenses of the voyage, and once again should we be able to breathe
the air of freedom.  Seeing me more than ever possessed with the
notion, Mrs. Cynthia, like a dutiful wife, began presently to yield to
it.  She owned at least that a life over seas could not be much more
precarious than the one we were at present enjoying, and it might
conceivably be less so.

"But I could wish," says she, "that we had more to found our fortunes
on.  How can we support ourselves when we get to--to
what-d'ye-call-'em?"

"You will spin, my dear," says I, "and I shall delve, in some lone wood
cabin on the prairie."

"But we shall perish of the dulness in a twelve-month."

"Oh no, my dear," says I, "there will be wild beasts and Red Indians to
provide us with more than enough of relaxation."

By slow degrees I brought her so entirely to my way of thinking, that
she became as keen to make the port of Bristol as ever I could be.
Indeed, so much were we put in mind of this that we began to make
inquiries of our whereabouts, that we might set our faces thither at
the earliest moment.  We lay that night at an honest, comfortable inn,
and learned to our surprise that our wanderings had brought us to
within a day's journey of Exeter.  We had certainly not supposed that
we had come so far from town, nor that we had penetrated so far into
the country of the enemy.  For, as Cynthia excitedly exclaimed, in the
near neighbourhood of Exeter was her father's seat.  This unexpected
circumstance wrought upon her in a singular way.

"I would dearly love to look on the old place for the last time," she
said.

Although her father's house had in itself so slight a hold on her
affection that she had renounced its advantages for ever, despite all
the desperate consequences of such an act, its proximity had still the
power to kindle a sentiment in her heart.  Besides, as a little later
she pointed out, there was a certain expedience in going thither.
There were some small pieces of her personal property that she had left
behind in the sudden recklessness of her flight, which could be easily
retrieved and would add materially to our resources.  This to my mind
was something like an argument.  I had no longer that fine disregard
for ways and means with which I had set out on our pilgrimage.  Money
was a base consideration enough, but it seemed a mighty difficult
matter to do without it.  Cynthia's few jewels and trinkets were likely
to serve us too well, even in the Americas, for us to afford to
disregard them.

Here then was an end to all my objects.  We would diverge a little out
of the straight road to Bristol, and pay a visit to Cynthia's home in
the absence of her papa.  We counted for our safety on the fact that we
must be some hours ahead of that irate old gentleman.  All the same, we
were taking a considerable risk.  Much depended on how soon our papa
had been able to replace the chaise and horses we had stolen from him.
But I do not think we hesitated an instant on this account, having once
committed ourselves to this daring course.  Besides, there was a
certain savour of humour in paying a call on his Grace in these
circumstances, which did a great deal to reconcile us to the
inconvenience.



CHAPTER XXI

WE REAP THE FRUITS OF OUR AUDACITY

The whimsical plan fixed in our minds, we began at once to conceive a
keener rest for our affairs.  Notwithstanding the urgency of our
travelling, we had not exchanged the Duke's horses at any of the
posting-houses we had passed.  Poverty had taught us a fine economic
prudence.  Whatever we might gain in speed we should lose in momentary
value, for his Grace's animals were an admirable pair, on which the
best part of our fortune depended at Bristol.  The continuous strain
was already telling on them, however, and they flagged a good deal
during the day.

The evening had already come when we approached our destination.  Among
the country lanes in the twilight it called for all Cynthia's intimate
knowledge of the neighbourhood to enable us to pursue the direct path
to her father's house.  The moon was showing over the trees, and we
were within a mile of the place, according to madam's account, when we
were startled by a disconcerting incident.  A sudden clatter of horses'
hoofs arose in the lane.  From whence they came we could not tell; but
before we had time to think much about them, a horseman was riding
beside us, with a particularly sinister-looking pistol presented at our
faces.

My poor little madam nestled to me in a great deal of terror; but for
my own part I must confess that I was more annoyed than daunted by such
an unwarrantable intrusion.

"My dear fellow," I protested, "you are but wasting your time; and you
are wasting ours too, which just now I am inclined to think is the more
valuable.  We have not a guinea in the world.  Had we one we should be
only too happy to present it to you."

The highwayman laughed in a familiar voice.

"Why," says he, putting a pair of mischievous eyes into the chaise, "is
it not my friend, Lord What's-his-name?"

"My love," says I to the trembling Cynthia, "here is your papa."

"Of course," says the highwayman, "you mean the Duke of Thing-em-bob."

"To be sure I do," says I.  "We are very well met, I think."

By this our chaise had stopped, and Mr. Sadler had pulled his horse up
too.  I was not at all displeased by this interruption, for in any
circumstances the sight of this merry, cheerful fellow was welcome.  He
was one of those rare persons whose voice alone had the power to charm.
He was a genial rogue indeed; an engaging spirit whom to meet was to
ask to dinner.  We were already the better for his society.

Therefore, as we had but a mile to go to the Duke's house--Hurley Place
was the name of it--I proposed that we should carry him along with us,
and enjoy his company at dinner.  Mr. Sadler was nothing loth.

Wherefore it fell out that the Lady Cynthia returned to her ancestral
home in the company of a notorious highwayman, and a bankrupt, a
discredited peer.  What a suppressed excitement there was to be sure
when we drove up to the door, and it became known among the servants
that the Lady Cynthia had returned of her own free will!  More than one
aged servitor, who had grown old in the service of the Duke, was so
affected by the erring child's return that he shed a silent tear.
Inquiry elicited the fact that there was no reason to expect our papa
at present: and that not a word had been heard of his Grace since he
had left the house in pursuit of his naughty daughter.

Nothing could have been more delightful than the sensations we
experienced on our brief re-entry into civilization.  What luxuries in
the matter of washing, shaving, and polishing generally were we able to
enjoy after the discomforts of our itinerary!

Cynthia had her own maid to dress her; Mr. Sadler was provided with a
valet of the Duke's, and another man was found for me.  Orders were
given to the butler that the best dinner for three persons the cook
could devise was to be served in an hour, and in the meantime we
arrayed ourselves in our choicest garments to do justice to it.  It was
the last evening of luxury we were likely to spend; and we were
determined that we would neglect no opportunity of making the most of
it.

The contents of Mr. Waring's valise were a material assistance to my
wardrobe, and for that matter to Mr. Sadler's too.  His silk stockings
and breeches, brocaded vests, and laced coats, served us admirably.  We
took advantage of them, chiefly, I think, for the laudable reason that
we might do the more honour to Cynthia and the dinner.  And I at least
am free to confess that the sensation of having once again clean smart
clothes upon my person gave a wonderful impetus to my self-esteem.  I
felt that I could look the world in the face once more, and that I was
again my own man.  I never was a scoffer at the virtues of fine
clothes, and distrust him that is.  So long as one is sure of one's
tailor, one's soul may take care of itself.  The grace of a good coat
is communicated to the wearer.

Although Mr. Sadler and I were attired as near the first fashion as our
borrowed plumes would permit, we were as nothing to Mrs. Cynthia.  When
she joined us in the room where the dinner was laid, my friend, the
highwayman, _blasé_ as he was, could not repress his admiration.  She
did indeed appear to perfection not only in the cunning of her gown,
but in the sparkling animation of her face, her lively colour, and the
mocking intrepidity lurking in her eyes.

Her mood was a match for the occasion.  She clearly recognized the
extravagant whimsicality of sitting down to dinner in such company, at
such a season, and in such a place.  It was a piece of mad folly, of
cynical bravado; and she took her seat at the table with an air of
reckless mischief that was wholly adorable.  She played the game.
To-morrow we must leave our native land for ever, but that night we
contrived to forget everything--our perilous situation, our destitution
and our desperate case, in quips and jests, good wine and boisterous
laughter.

Mr. Sadler afterwards, very deservedly I do not doubt, came to be
hanged.  But it was sound judgment in me to invite him to our last
dinner.  What a fine merry rogue he was, to be sure!  What an instinct
he betrayed for goodfellowship!  He came to be hanged, it is true, but
that night his laugh rang the loudest and frankest, his jests had the
keenest edge, and it was from his eyes that the most whole-hearted
humour beaconed.  He was as merry a rascal as any with whom I ever had
the honour to drain a glass.  But he was a man of true breeding too, so
that he neither embarrassed Mrs. Cynthia as a highwayman less of a
gentleman doubtless would have done in such singular circumstances; nor
did he once arouse anger or jealousy in me.

"To your eyes, your ladyship, and to your lordship's nose," so far from
provoking offence, became a source of mirth from the frank jovial tones
with which it was uttered, and the inimitable gestures by which it was
accompanied.  For his own part, Mr. Sadler admitted that this meeting
was highly piquant to him, since on a former occasion he had solemnly
written us down in his own mind as a pair of cheats and impostors.  It
struck him as an entirely remarkable circumstance that after all we
should prove to be the very persons we had purported to be; and as one
no less so, that he should ever have presumed us to be otherwise.  But
as I pointed out to him, after all, his error was not so surprising.
The judgment of the world is at the mercy of the obvious.  It prefers
to appraise a picture by its frame.  Were it otherwise, our very
titles, and material distinctions of that kind, would cease to have a
meaning.

Oblivious of everything, we continued to cat and drink, and be of good
cheer.  In the audacity of our mood neither Cynthia nor I gave a
thought to our pursuers.  We did not consider that we were in the house
of the enemy, and that it could be by no means unexpected that we
should be surprised at any hour.  And I am not sure that we were
prepared greatly to care should aught so untoward happen.  By this I
believe we were utterly desperate.  A reaction had come upon us.  We,
who had been so excessively solicitous for the well-being of our skins
and the preservation of our perfect liberty, were at this moment unable
to muster much interest in these matters.  We were in a warm room, in a
congenial society, snug, well fed, and mighty well content.  No two
persons could have been in a happier case in which to confront the
worst.  Let the devil walk in if he chose.  For once we were in a
condition to beard him.  Our cheeks burnt; our eyes shone; our hearts
were overflowing and generous.

Such was the state of our minds, when without a solitary note of
warning, and as a wholly natural consequence, the devil walked in.  In
the very height of our cheerful rattle, of our foolish talk that
hallowed by the bottle was so witty, the door opened suddenly, and the
oath that sprang to my lips involuntarily to greet the servant who had
so unceremoniously obtruded himself upon our familiar gaiety, was
stifled before it was uttered.  The little Duke hopped in, purple, and
gobbling like a turkey.  The cool and smiling Mr. Humphrey Waring,
chewing his eternal wisp of straw, followed at his heels at a more
elegant leisure.

I suppose their sudden unheralded appearance was to us in the nature of
a thunderbolt.  Yet after all it was so little unexpected as not to
astonish us.  And, speaking for myself, now that I was fairly cornered,
my last card played, the old recklessness returned, and instead of
faltering before this outraged old gentleman, I rose, bowed, and
greeted him with the completest self possession.  And as I did so,
whether by virtue of the noble wine of his Grace's cellar, or as
probably by an ecstasy of desperation, I conceived a kind of joy of our
meeting.

Between his alternate gobblings and hoppings and gaspings for breath,
the old gentleman must have come perilously close to his inevitable
apoplexy.  At first in his inarticulate fury he could neither speak nor
act; and I found myself awaiting his good pleasure quite a long time,
with a smile of greeting on my lips, and my hand on my heart.



CHAPTER XXII

THE LAST

In the end it was neither his Grace nor I who broke the spell.  Mr.
Waring took the wisp of straw from his teeth, and says:

"Tiverton, my dear fellow, you amuse me."

"I rather amuse myself," says I, a little wearily.  "We are come to the
last act in this somewhat pitiful poor-hearted sort of farce, and I
suppose we must continue furiously to laugh until the curtain is rung
down."

"Of course, my dear fellow, of course," says Waring.  "But before we do
so, would it not be as well if we had a few brief explanations in the
true stage manner?  In the first place, may I ask why you so
persistently shun the society of the one person who is the most likely
to contribute something towards setting you right in the eyes of the
world?"

"I confess I do not understand you," says I.

"Then I am sorry for it," says my rival, with a strange frank smile.
"For, after all, the person I refer to is myself."

"You?" says I.

The incredulity in my voice caused the man to open his snuff-box very
deliberately, and to offer its contents to me.

"Perhaps, after all," says he, "there is no particular reason why you
should take my meaning.  For you have doubtless forgotten that I am the
only person now alive who was privileged to witness a certain incident.
But that of course may be a fact you may wish to forget; or the
incident in question may be too trifling for your recollection.  In any
case I ask your pardon if I weary you."

"On the contrary," says I coldly, "you interest me vastly."

"The topic is one I should crave your pardon for mentioning," says the
other, with his baffling air; "were not your interest so greatly at
stake.  I presume you are not unacquainted with the construction the
world hath already put upon this matter?"

"I am not," says I curtly.

"Then I hope, my dear fellow," says Waring, "you will accept a service,
however slight, at my hands.  My testimony may be of some little value
to you before a jury of your peers."

My rival held out his hand with a jovial grace.  I stood looking at it,
groping, with the wine still in my brain.  For the candour sparkling in
the fellow's eyes was a thing I had never seen in that place before;
the winning earnestness of it was so hard to realize that it
overwhelmed me.  The bitter truth suddenly poured into my heart like a
torrent.

"My God," says I, "all this time I have been weighing your character by
the measure of my own.  Is it not ever the fate of the mean and the
little to do so?  You have been the phantom, from whom we have fled.
The phantom, however, was not in a chaise and pair, but in our own
hearts!"

"The old fault, Tiverton, I protest," says Waring.  "What a trite,
pragmatical, moralizing fellow it is!  I do hope you will not, like
your damned old ancestor, lay a burden on an unprovoking posterity and
write a book."

"Ecod, I will," says I, "one day.  I will take a revenge of my mean
mind by exhibiting it naked to the sneers of the world.  But in the
meantime, Waring, I must show you in your true colours to my little
Cynthia.  Even her feminine penetration had not divined them."

It was a light word, lightly uttered; and I cursed myself.  The man was
as pale as his neckcloth, and the old mocking whimsicality--alas!  I
had nearly writ ugliness--was in his eyes.  There was but an instant in
which this was to be observed, however, for with shaking fingers he
opened his snuff-box, and regained possession of himself.

I offered him my hand.

"Waring," says I, "we cannot ever be friends.  You will continue to
loathe me as you would a thief; and I on my part shall continue to hate
you for the consummate hypocrite and charlatan you are.  But, curse my
jacket, sir! as a dilettante in the arts, as a lover of the beautiful,
I shall reverence for ever your singularly noble character."

"Then I am repaid," says this cynical, candid devil.  "'Tis the reward
I had looked for, my good Tiverton, that you, robber and ruffian as you
are, whose foremost desire will ever be to put an inch of steel in my
heart, should yet be condemned to lay your neck in the dust while
Humphrey Waring walks upon it.  I do not think I could desire a
prettier revenge.  'Tis a dear pretty chit, though."

Involuntarily his eyes wandered across the room to Cynthia.  Mine
followed them, in spite of myself, jealously.  It was then I saw that a
strange thing had happened.  Father and daughter were seated together,
tears streaming down their faces, locked in one another's arms.

"Your victory is completer than I had supposed," says my rival coolly.

At the moment I did not perceive the full force of his meaning.  An
instant later, however, I had that felicity.  The old man in a broken
voice called me over to him.  The tears still streamed down his cheeks.

"I am a foolish, fond old man," says his Grace.  "Curse it all, was
there ever such a damned, snuffling, weak old fool as I am!  Ecod, I
must be very old.  How old am I, Humphrey?"

"Eighty-two in December, Duke."

"Curse me, so I am," says his Grace.  "If I hadn't been so old--if I
had been eighty now, if I had been eighty--I would 'a broken a stick
across your shoulders, miss, and I would 'a peppered your hide with
lead, young what's-your-name.  But as I'm so old, 'od's lud!  I suppose
I must be benevolent.  Miss says she loves you, young man--don't you,
my pretty pet?--And she says you love her, so I suppose you had better
marry her.  Humphrey won't mind; will you, Humphrey?  You be an old
bachelor, and don't be plagued with daughters.  But I forget the
fellow's name; what's his name, Humphrey?"

"Tiverton," says Humphrey.

"Of course," says the Duke.  "Knew your father, young man; thin man
with a bald head and no chin; used to stutter when he got excited.
Knew your grandfather too.  Of course I knew your grandfather, he, he,
he!  Was at Eton with him.  Great man, your grandfather; writ a
pamphlet or something.  Dirty little varlet at Eton; had red hair.
What is the amount of your debts, young man?  I suppose I must pay 'em,
though why I don't know.  But we'll go into it to-morrow, young
Tiverton.  I must go to bed.  Give me your shoulder, Humphrey."

Here is the end of my prosaic history.  The Duke's credit and
influence, and Mr. Waring's testimony averted those calamities that had
been such a nightmare to us.  We also had the banns cried; and were
married all over again by Parson Scriven, lest any irregularities in
regard to the union of Jane Smith and John Jones, or Jane Jones and
John Smith, should recoil on their heirs.  Mr. Waring lives on his
property in Ireland, troubles Saint James's little, and Devonshire
less.  Mr. Sadler, as I have said, came to be hanged.  No man of the
world was more courteous and polite than he; no man was more genial;
yet I should be the last to deny that his fate was richly merited.
Even in the very moment of our reconciliation on that eventful night,
he stole away.  A pair of cameos of great price went with him, I grieve
to say.  It may, of course, have been his boast that he too was a lover
of the beautiful.



THE END



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HAROLD BINDLOSS.

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A STUDY IN SCARLET.

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A MAKER OF HISTORY.

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JUSTUS M. FORMAN.

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LOUIS TRACY.

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GUY BOOTHBY.

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WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

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A. W. MARCHMONT.

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FRED M. WHITE.

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WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

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ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW.

The finest emotional and entertaining story these authors have written.


YOUNG LORD STRANLEIGH.

ROBERT BARR.

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THE DUST OF CONFLICT.

HAROLD BINDLOSS.

Another excellent story of adventure comparable to its Author's great
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TWO BAD BLUE EYES.

"RITA."

A delightfully charming and exciting story of strong human interest.


MR WINGRAVE, MILLIONAIRE.

E. P. OPPENHEIM.

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FRED M. WHITE.

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GUY BOOTHBY.

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THE SPORTING CHANCE.

A. AND C. ASKEW.

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MAX PEMBERTON.

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E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.

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A DAMAGED REPUTATION.

HAROLD BINDLOSS.

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THE SOUL OF GOLD.

JUSTUS MILES FORMAN.

This story has been acclaimed by _The Daily Telegraph_ as worthy of
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THE MARRIAGE OF ESTHER.

GUY BOOTHBY.

A story full of action, life, and dramatic interest.


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J. C. SNAITH.

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A. W. MARCHMONT.

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THE WHEEL O' FORTUNE.

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THE SLAVE OF SILENCE.

FRED M. WHITE.

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"RITA."

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SIR WILLIAM MAGNAY.

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THE TEMPTRESS.

WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

A fascinating mystery story of holding interest.


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MAX PEMBERTON

Shows Mr. Pemberton at his best.


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GUY BOOTHBY.

Fairly bristles with thrilling passages, exciting adventures, and
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WILD SHEBA.

ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW.

Brimful of life and amusement.


BY SNARE OF LOVE.

A. W. MARCHMONT.

One of the most rousing romances of modern times.


BENEATH HER STATION.

HAROLD BINDLOSS.

A powerful and well written story of hardihood, love and adventure.


HOPE MY WIFE.

L. G. MOBERLY.

Provides much sentiment and pathos.


THE MISSIONER.

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.

Deeply engrossing as a novel, pure in style, and practically faultless
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THE MESSAGE OF FATE.

LOUIS TRACY.

Written in a clear and crisp style, the story abounds with thrilling
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THE WAYFARERS.

J. C. SNAITH.

Pulsing with strong healthy life, and brimming over with incident.


TOMMY CARTERET.

JUSTUS MILES FORMAN.

Another triumph from the pen of the author of "The Garden of Lies,"
"Buchanan's Wife," etc.





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