Peregrine's Progress Part 9

"'Am, sir?" sighed the gloomy landlord at this juncture, "if you gentleman was a-thinking of 'am, I've as fine a gammon as was ever smoked, leastways so my missus do say, so if you'm minded for a rasher or so--cut thick--an' say 'arf a dozen eggs--why, say the word, sir."

"The word is 'yes'--if this gentleman will honour me with his company," said I. Hereupon the down-at-heels gentleman shook his head, scowled into his tankard, sighed, and, meeting my eye, broke into a wry smile.

"With all the pleasure in life, sir!" said he.

Thus in a little while we were seated in a small, clean room with the ham and eggs smoking on a dish between us, whence emanated a savour most delectable.

"It smells very appetising!" said I, taking up knife and fork.

"So much so," said he, "so very much so, that before I accept more of your hospitality, it is as well you should know whom you would honour--" here I paused and stared down at the ham and eggs. "Sir, I am a thief!" Here I let fall the knife. "Three nights since, sir," he continued in the same pa.s.sionless voice, "I broke into a farmhouse and stole a loaf and a piece of cheese. I should have stolen more but that I was interrupted and pursued. I lost the cheese clambering over a wall, the last of the loaf I finished yesterday morning, since when I have subsisted on air and an occasional mangel-wurzel--"

"Then surely it is time you ate something more substantial--this ham seems excellent and--"

"G.o.d love you, Sir Oswald--you're a trump!" he exclaimed and sitting down, fell to upon the food I had set before him.

"It is good ham!" said I.

"Sublime!" he answered, and seeing with what fervour he addressed himself to the viands, I troubled him with no further speech until, his plate empty, he leaned back in his chair and vented a sigh of blissful and utter content.

"For that--" he began haltingly, his voice a little hoa.r.s.e, "for--your hospitality--accept the thanks of a starving wretch!"

"And my name is not Oswald!" said I.

"Of course not, but it answered very well with the fellows outside--nothing like a high-sounding name or t.i.tle to awe your British rustic. And now," said he, with an expression half-whimsical, half-rueful, as he picked up his woebegone hat, "having by your courtesy eaten and drunk my fill, I will do my best to repay you by ridding you of my company."

"I was christened Peregrine," said I, reaching over to refill his tankard. Now at this he stood mute a s.p.a.ce, and very still, only he fumbled nervously with his hat and I heard his breath catch oddly, wherefore I kept my gaze bent upon the jug in my hand.

"Sir," said he at last, speaking as with an effort, "when I stole the bread and cheese, I would have stolen--anything that had chanced in my reach--money--jewels--anything. I was mad and desperate with hunger.

And yet many a poor rogue in the same circ.u.mstances did no more and their bodies dangle in chains on the highway. I have even contemplated turning footpad--"

"I think," said I, "you told me your name was Anthony--well, if you are going on, I will come with you, if I may."

"You will trust yourself--with me--in these solitary byways!"

"Of course," said I, rising, "because, in spite of everything, you are a gentleman!"

At this he turned very abruptly and strode to the latticed cas.e.m.e.nt, while I, having summoned the landlord, paid the reckoning. Then, bidding the company good-day, we set forth together.

CHAPTER V

FURTHER CONCERNING THE AFORESAID GENTLEMAN, ONE ANTHONY

So we walked on together, side by side, through leafy byways and winding paths, past smiling cornfield and darkling wood; we talked of the Government, of country and town, of the Fashionable World and its most famous denizens, concerning which last my companion's knowledge seemed profound; we spoke but little of books, of which he seemed amazingly ignorant--in fine, we exchanged thoughts and reflections on any and everything except ourselves. And thus, as evening drew nigh, we came to the top of a hill. Here he stopped all at once and taking off his dilapidated hat, pointed with it up at the thing that rose above us, looming against the sunset-glory, beam, cross-bar and chain.

"Look at that!" quoth he, staring up at something hideously warped and weather-beaten and clasped round with iron bands,--an awful shape that dangled from rusting chain. "But for my light heels--I might have come to that--and yet why not--his troubles are over. So in a year--six months--who knows,--there hang I--"

"G.o.d forbid, Anthony?" cried I.

Now at this he whirled round and, clapping his two hands upon my shoulders, burst forth into vehement oaths to my deep amazement until I saw the tears in his haggard eyes.

"....Curse and confound it!" he ended. "Why must you call me Anthony!"

"Because it is the only name I know you by, for one thing."

"Well!" said he, blinking and scowling savagely.

"And because I like the name of Anthony."

"Oh! egad do you? Well, I like the name Peregrine."

"Good!" said I, and we walked on down the hill together. "My other name is Vereker," I volunteered, seeing he was silent.

"Vereker?" he repeated and stopped to stare at me. "No relation to Sir Jervas Vereker?"

"His nephew!"

"The devil you are!" And here he stood looking down at me from his superior height, rasping his fingers up and down his thin, unshaven cheek like one quite dumbfounded.

"Do you happen to know my uncle?"

"I do--or rather I did, humbly and at a distance, for Sir Jervas is, and always will be, magnificently aloof from all and sundry--but you know this, of course?"

"On the contrary, though I have seen him frequently, I know him not in the least."

"My dear Vereker--who does?"

"My name is Peregrine!" said I, whereupon came that impulsive hand to rest lightly upon my shoulder again for a moment.

"My dear Peregrine, your uncle is unique; there never was any one quite like him unless it were Sir Maurice Vibart, the famous Buck, though your uncle, perhaps, is not quite so coldly devilish; still, he's sufficiently remarkable."

"How so?"

"Well, he has fought three duels to my knowledge, won a point-to-point steeplechase not so long ago and a fortune with it--came down at the first jump and rode with a broken arm though n.o.body knew until he fainted. Youthful despite years, quick of eye, hand and tongue, correct in himself and all that pertains to him, one who must be sought--even by Royalty, it seems--who might have married among the fairest and lives solitary except for his man John. Sir Jervas Vereker is--Sir Jervas."

"You seem to know my uncle rather well."

"I did--for my name besides Anthony is Vere-Manville!" Here he paused as expecting some comment but finding me silent, continued: "My father was killed with Sir John Moore, at Corunna, and I was brought up by a curmudgeonly uncle, the most preposterous unavuncular uncle that ever bullied a defenceless nephew to the dogs. Well, I grew up and was a moderately happy man despite my uncle, until I took to my bosom a friend who deceived me and a mistress who broke my heart."

"Oh," said I, not a little touched by this gloomy and romantic tale, "then this explains your--your--"

"My present misery, Peregrine? Not altogether. Had I been a philosopher and bent to the storm, I might perchance have gone my solitary way a broken and embittered man, but philosophy and bending to storms is not in me, unhappily, for chancing to encounter my faithless friend, I twisted his nose to such a tune that he demanded satisfaction which resulted in my wounding him; after which I consigned my perjured mistress to perdition; after which again, purely because she happened to be a wealthy heiress, my curmudgeonly uncle cast me adrift, cut me off and consigned me to the devil."