Peregrine's Progress Part 5

"Lord love me!"

"Now on me immortal soul!" exclaimed my two uncles in one breath.

"My dear sirs," I continued, "I have long suspected your pa.s.sion for my peerless aunt, nor do I venture to blame you--"

"Blame, b'gad!" exclaimed my uncle George faintly.

"To-night I chanced to overhear words pa.s.s between you that put the matter beyond doubt--"

"Impertinent young eavesdropper!" exclaimed my uncle Jervas, very red in the face.

"Thus, in taking my departure, I can but wish you every happiness. But before I go, I would beg of you to satisfy me on a point of family history--if you will. My parents died young, I believe?"

"They did!" answered my uncle Jervas in strangely repressed voice.

"Very young!" sighed my uncle George.

"And what--how came they to die?" I questioned.

"Your mother died of--a broken heart, Peregrine," said uncle Jervas.

"Sweet child!" added uncle George.

"Then I pray that G.o.d in His mercy has mended it long ere this," said I. "And my father, sirs,--how came he by death so early?"

Here my two uncles exchanged looks as though a little at a loss.

"Has your aunt never told you?" enquired my uncle Jervas.

"Never, sir! And her distress forbade my questioning more than the once. But you are men and so I ask you how did your brother and my father die?"

"Shot in a duel, lad, killed on the spot!" said my uncle George, and I saw his big hand clench itself into a quivering fist. "They fought in a little wood not so far from here--such a lad he was--our f.a.g at school, d'ye see. I remember they carried him up these very steps--and the sun so bright--and he had scarcely begun to live--"

"And the bullet that slew him," added my uncle Jervas, "just as surely killed your mother also."

"Yes!" said I. "And whose hand sped that bullet?"

"He is dead!" murmured my uncle Jervas, gazing up at the placid moon.

"Dead and out of reach--years ago."

"Aye--he died abroad," added uncle George, "Brussels, I think, or Paris--or was it Vienna--anyhow he--is dead!"

"And--out of reach!" murmured uncle Jervas, still apparently lost in contemplation of the moon.

"As to yourself, dear, foolish lad," said uncle George, laying his hand upon my shoulder, "if go you will, come back soon! And should you meet trouble--need a friend--any a.s.sistance, d'ye see, you can always find me at the Grange."

"Or a letter to me, Peregrine, directed to my chambers in St. James's Street, will always bring you prompt advice in any difficulty and, what is better, perhaps--money. Moreover, should you wish to see the town or aspire socially, you will find I can be of some small service--"

"My dear uncles," I exclaimed, grasping their hands in turn, "for this kind solicitude G.o.d bless you both again and--good-bye!"

So saying, I turned (somewhat hastily) and went my way; but after I had gone some distance I glanced back to behold them watching me, motionless and side by side; hereupon, moved by their wistful att.i.tude, I forgot my dignity and, whipping off my hat, I flourished it to them above my head ere a bend in the drive hid them from my view.

CHAPTER III

WHEREIN THE READER SHALL FIND SOME DESCRIPTION OF AN EXTRAORDINARY TINKER

I went at a good, round pace, being determined to cover as much distance as possible ere dawn, since I felt a.s.sured that so soon as my indomitable aunt Julia discovered my departure she would immediately head a search party in quest of me; for which cogent reason I determined to abandon the high road as soon as possible and go by less frequented byways.

A distant church clock chimed the hour and, pausing to hearken, I thrilled as I counted eleven, for, according to the laws which had ordered my life hitherto, at this so late hour I should have been blissfully asleep between lavender-scented sheets. Indeed my loved aunt abhorred the night air for me, under the delusion that I suffered from a delicate chest; yet here was I out upon the open road and eleven o'clock chiming in my ears. Thus as I strode on into the unknown I experienced an exhilarating sense of high adventure unknown till now.

It was a night of brooding stillness and the moon, high-risen, touched the world about me with her magic, whereby things familiar became transformed into objects of wonder; tree and hedgerow took on shapes strange and fantastic; the road became a gleaming causeway whereon I walked, G.o.dlike, master of my destiny. Beyond meadow and cornfield to right and left gloomed woods, remote and full of mystery, in whose enchanted twilight elves and fairies might have danced or slender dryads peeped and sported. Thus walked I in an ecstasy, scanning with eager eyes the novel beauties around me, my mind full of the poetic imaginations conjured up by the magic of this midsummer night, so that I yearned to paint it, or set it to music, or write it into adequate words; and knowing this beyond me, I fell to repeating Milton's n.o.ble verses the while:

"I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wand'ring moon Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven's wide pathless way."

After some while I espied a stile upon my right and climbing this, I crossed a broad meadow to a small, rustic bridge spanning a stream that flowed murmurous in the shade of alder and willow. Being upon this bridge, I paused to look down upon these rippling waters and to watch their flash and sparkle where the moon caught them.

And hearkening to the melodious voice of this streamlet, I began to understand how great poems were written and books happened. At last I turned and, crossing the bridge, went my way, pondering on Death, of which I knew nothing, and on Life, of which I knew little more, and so at last came to the woods.

On I went amid the trees, following a gra.s.sy ride; but as I advanced, this grew ever narrower and I walked in an ever-deepening gloom, wherefore I turned about, minded to go back, but found myself quite lost and shut in, what with the dense underbrush around me and the twisted, writhen branches above, whose myriad leaves obscured the moon's kindly beam. In this dim twilight I pushed on then, as well as I might, often running foul of unseen obstacles or pausing to loose my garments from clutching thorns. Sudden there met me a wind, dank and chill, that sighed fitfully near and far, very dismal to hear.

And now, as I traversed the gloom of these leafy solitudes, what must come into my head but murders, suicides and death in lonely places. I remembered that not so long ago the famous Buck and Corinthian Sir Maurice Vibart had been found shot to death in just such another desolate place as this. And there was my own long-dead father!

"They fought in a little wood not so far from here!"

These, my uncle George's words, seemed to ring in my ears and, shivering, I stopped to glance about me full of sick apprehension. For all I knew, this might be the very wood where my youthful father had staggered and fallen, to tear at the tender gra.s.s with dying fingers; these sombre, leafy aisles perhaps had echoed to the shot--his gasping moan that had borne his young spirit up to the Infinite! At this thought, Horror leapt upon me, wherefore I sought to flee these gloomy shades, only to trip and fall heavily, so that I lay breathless and half-stunned, and no will to rise.

It was at this moment, lying with my cheek against Mother Earth, that I heard it,--a strange, uncanny sound that brought me to my hands and knees, peering fearfully into the shadows that seemed to be deepening about me moment by moment.

With breath held in check I crouched there, straining my ears for a repet.i.tion of this unearthly sound that was like nothing I had ever heard before,--a quick, light, tapping c.h.i.n.k, now in rhythm, now out, now ceasing, now recommencing, so that I almost doubted but that this wood must be haunted indeed.

Suddenly these foolish apprehensions were quelled somewhat by the sound of a human voice, a full, rich voice, very deep and sonorous, upraised in song; and this voice being so powerful and the night so still, I could hear every word.

"A tinker I am, O a tinker am I, A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll die; If the King in his crown would change places wi' me I'd laugh so I would, and I'd say unto he: 'A tinker I am, O a tinker am I, A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll'--"

The voice checked suddenly and I cowered down again as in upon me rushed the shadows, burying me in a pitchy gloom so that my fears racked me anew, until I bethought me this sudden darkness could be no more than a cloud veiling the moon, and I waited, though very impatiently, for her to light me again.

Now as I crouched there, I beheld a light that was not of the moon, but a red and palpitant glow that I judged must be caused by a fire at no great distance; therefore I arose and made my way towards it as well as I could for the many leafy obstacles that beset my way. And thus at last I came upon a glade where burned a fire and beyond this, flourishing a tin kettle in highly threatening fashion, stood a small, fierce-eyed man.

"Hold hard!" quoth he in mighty voice, peering at me over the fire.

"I've a blunderbuss here and two popps, so hold hard or I'll be forced to brain ye wi' this here kettle. Now then--come forward slow, my covey, slow, and gi'e us a peep o' you _churi_--step cautious now or I'll be the gory death o' you!"

Not a little perturbed by these ferocious expressions, I advanced slowly and very unwillingly into the firelight and, halting well out of his reach, spoke in tone as conciliatory as possible.