Black Bartlemy's Treasure Part 47

"Look now," quoth I, as she rose, "in losing the world you do lose everything--."

"And you also, Martin."

"Nay," says I, "in losing the world of yesterday I may find more than ever I possessed!"

"Meaning you are content, Martin?"

"Is anyone ever content in this world?"

"Well--I--might be!" says she slowly. "But you--I do fear you will never know true content, it is not in you, I think."

And off she goes to bed leaving me very full of thought. Howbeit the moon being very bright (though on the wane) I stayed there until I had finished her hairpin, of the which I give here a cut, viz.:--

(Sketch of a hairpin.)

CHAPTER x.x.xII

TELLS HOW I FOUND A SECRET CAVE

Next morning I was up mighty early and away to the little valley, first to view my pots and then to pick some flowers for her birthday, remembering her great love for such toys. Coming to the ashes of the fire, I must needs fall a-cursing most vilely like the ill fellow I was, and to swearing many great and vain oaths (and it her birthday!).

For here were my pots (what the fire had left of them) all swollen and bulged with the heat, warped and misshapen beyond imagining.

So I stood plucking my beard and cursing them severally and all together, and fetched the nearest a kick that nigh broke my toe and set the pot leaping and bounding a couple of yards, but all unbroken.

Going to it I took it up and found it not so much as scratched and hard as any stone. This comforted me somewhat and made me to regret my ill language, more especially having regard to this day, being as it were a day apart. And now as I went on, crossing the stream at a place where were stepping-stones, set there by other hands than mine, as I went, I say, I must needs think what a surly, ill-mannered fellow I was, contrasting the gross man I was become with the gentle, sweet-natured lad I had been. "Well but" (thinks I, excusing myself) "the plantations and a rowing-bench be a school where a man is apt to learn nought but evil and brutality, my wrongs have made me what I am. But again" (thinks I--blaming myself) "wrong and hardship, cruelty and suffering do not debase all men, as witness the brave Frenchman that was whipped to death beside me in the 'Esmeralda' gallea.s.s. Wrong and suffering either lift a man to greatness, or debase him to the very brute! She had said as much to me once. And she was right" (thinks I) "for the Frenchman had died the n.o.ble gentleman he was born, whiles I, as well-born as he and suffering no greater wrong than he, according to his own account, I had sullied myself with all the vileness and filth of slavedom, had fought and rioted with the worst of them!" And now remembering the shame of it all, I sat me down in the shade of a tree and fell to gloomy and sad reflection, grieving sorely over things long past and forgotten until now, and very full of remorse and scorn of myself.

"Howbeit" (thinks I) "if rogue and brute I am" (which is beyond all doubt) "I will keep such for my own kind and she shall know nought of it!" And here, getting upon my knees I took a great and solemn oath to this effect, viz., "Never by look, or word, or gesture to give her cause for shame or fear so long as we should abide together in this solitude so aid me G.o.d!" This done I arose from my knees and betook me to culling flowers, great silver lilies and others of divers hues, being minded to lay them on the threshold of her door to greet her when she should arise. With these in my arms I recrossed the brook and stepping out from a thicket came full upon her ere she was aware; and seeing her so suddenly I stood like any fool, my poor flowers hidden behind me. She had taken up one of my misshapen pots and was patting it softly as she viewed it, and a little smile on her red lips. All at once she turned and, spying me, came towards me all smiling, fresh and radiant as the morning.

"O Martin," says she, turning the pot this way and that, "O Martin, 'tis wonderful--"

"'Tis an abomination!" quoth I.

"And 'twill hold water!"

"'Tis like an ill dream!" says I.

"And so strong, Martin."

"True, 'tis the only merit the things possess, they are like stone--watch now!" And here, to prove my words, I let one drop, though indeed I chose a soft place for it.

"And they will be so easy to carry with these handles, and--why, what have you there?" Saying which she sets down the pot, gently as it had been an egg-sh.e.l.l, and comes to me; whereupon I showed her my posy, and I more fool-like than ever.

"I chanced to--see them growing," says I, "and thought--your birthday--they might pleasure you a little, mayhap--"

"Please me?" says she, taking them. "Please me--O the dear, beautiful things, I love them!" And she buries her face among them. "'Twas kind of you to bring them for me, Martin!" says she, her face hidden in the flowers, "Indeed you are very good to me! After all, you are that same dear Martin I knew long ago, that boy who used to brandish his rusty sword and vow he'd suffer no evil to come near me, and yearned for ogres and dragons to fight and slay on my behalf. And one day you caught a boy pulling my hair."

"It was very long hair even then!" says I.

"And he made your lip bleed, Martin."

"And I hit him on the nose!" says I.

"And he ran away, Martin."

"And you bathed my lip in the pool and afterwards you--you--"

"Yes I did, Martin. Though 'tis a long time to remember."

"I--shall never forget!" says I. "Shall you?"

Here she buries her face in her flowers again.

"As to the pots, Martin, there are four quite unbroken, will you help me bear them to our refuge, breakfast will be ready."

"Breakfast is a sweet word!" quoth I. "And as to these things, if you will have them, well and good!"

And thus, she with her flowers and I with the gallipots, we came to our habitation.

"What do we work at to-day?" she questioned as we rose from our morning meal.

"To-day I make you a pair of shoes."

"How may I aid you, Martin?"

"In a thousand ways," says I, and I plucked a great fan-shaped leaf that grew adjacent. "First sit you down! And now give me your foot!"

So, kneeling before her, I traced out the shape of her foot upon the leaf and got no further for a while, so that presently she goes about her household duties leaving me staring at my leaf and scratching my head, puzzling out how I must cut and shape my goat-skin. Well-nigh all that morning I sat scheming and studying how best I might achieve my purpose, and the end of it was this:

(Sketch of a leaf cut to shape.)

This shape I cut from the leaf and with it went to find my lady; then, she sitting upon the stool, I took off one of her shoes (and she all laughing wonderment) and fitting this pattern to her foot, found it well enough for shape, though something too large. I now took the goat-skin and, laying it on the table, cut therefrom a piece to my pattern; then with one of my nails ground to a sharp point like a cobbler's awl, I pierced it with holes and sewed it together with gut in this fashion:

(Four sketches of shaped hide showing stages of manufacture.)

This is quickly over in the telling, but it was long a-doing, so that having wrought steadily all day, night was at hand ere her shoes were completed, with two thicknesses of hide for soles and all sewed mighty secure.

Now though they were not things of beauty (as may plainly be seen from my drawing herewith) yet, once I had laced them snug upon her feet, they (shaping and moulding themselves to her slender ankles and dainty feet) were none so ill-looking after all. And now she, walking to and fro in them, must needs admire at their construction and the comfort of them, and very lavish in her praise of them and me; the which did pleasure me mightily though I took pains to hide it.

"Why, Martin" says she, thrusting out a foot and wagging it to and fro (very taking to behold), "I vow our cobbler surpa.s.seth our carpenter!

Dian's buskins were no better, nay, not so good, judging by pictures I have seen."

"They will at least keep out any thorns," says I, "though as to looks--"

"They look what they are, Martin, the shoes of a huntress. You will find her very swift and sure-footed when her bruises are quite gone."

"I'm glad they please you," says I, yet upon my knees and stooping to view them 'neath her petticoat, "though now I see I might better them by tr.i.m.m.i.n.g and shaping them here and there."

"No, no, Martin, leave well alone."