CHAPTER XI

“Tea?” asked Marion.

Through the long casement window, which lazily unfolded its unaustere yet deliberate length in a benediction of sunlight, not more interminable than the crepitant genuflection of the waveless ocean, came the tall dark cry of the curlew, as it lashed its angry though querulous tail in intermittent certitude. Perhaps that was why the shiny, untarnished mud flats, blue veined with the tortuous eternal channels of the running tides, interspersed with the nostalgic counterparts of antiquity, and the gray green marshes, where the red shanks choired in uninterrupted but not unvexed prolixity, despite their propinquity, had always seemed to her as remote from the perpetual imbroglio with spiritual things that makes man the most ridiculous of animals, though just emerged from a brave dive in some pool of vitality, whose whereabouts are the secret that makes the mouth vigilant.

“Yes, please,” answered Ellen, smiling.

Perhaps that was why the chair, on which she sat, so dully gleaming in its polished adroitness that not even in her childhood, when the saffron-tinted memories of yesterday were mellowed in glorious achievement, could she withstand the monotonous testimony of its faultlessness, seemed now to her to concentrate and reveal what either simple necessity or pain-flawed consanguinity had crowded back into the stuffed closets of perpetual oblivion, darkling upon the wimpled surface of an efflorescent yet intangible conviction. She could not but recall to mind another night, more than thirty years before, when she stood in the barnyard where it was brown and oozy underfoot and there was nothing neat about it all, yet the mellow cry of well-fed cattle lambently surged through the windows of the tumbledown sheds, with their thatched eaves like thick brows over eyes ever gazing at the strange fluctuations of the wine-like light, as if they were consciously preserving the cattle from the magic of any enchantment, and the round red moon hung on the breast of a flawless night, whose feet were hidden in an amethystine haze, and held in her arms two little Berkshire pigs.

“Sugar?”

It was because of this sterility of outlook that Richard’s father’s tomb, standing whitely in its futile magnificence, abruptly, almost innately, yet clandestinely intricate in its classic contour, could never have called to her with the high ecstatic voice with which the Pentlands, so remote, but not untutored nor conflicting with the harmonious interposition of all that was sagely beneficial, challenged Ellen. No one, not even he, had ever engendered a skepticism of the value of all activities, rose-tinted but not blue, shining vaguely like a great cloud galleon, whose shrill cry drilled a tiny hole in the ensphering silence. Richard had never done that.

“Two lumps, please,” she replied.

Her voice trailed away from her mouth in a long ambiguous spiral of malachite-green silk, shot through with golden gleams like porphyry, so that the other, knowing nothing of its source could not have supposed that, with the conscious artistry of the unprecedented, yet not unembarrassed by all the implications of a too great inattention, there could be other than the most delicate intimation of flattery in its rich effulgency, tempered by the knowledge of interminable philanthropy, that so often masquerades as the unseen offspring of a nature, noble in its essential attributes, yet not unhampered by the apparent inelasticity of its unchangeable, though not immutable, because finely tempered, intimations of immortality. Never had there been any doubt of this.

“Lemon?”

It was not so easy to forgive Aunt Alphonsine, for her voice had been as sharp as the shears click-clacking with never-ceasing vigilance through the exiguous fleeces of the lanate lambs now, in alliterative honesty, so palely, so profitably become shorn sheep, and yet not angry, though with an acerbating asperity evident in every tone of its fluctuating timbre, running indefatigably up the switch-backs and circling in the merry-go-rounds, capriciously perambulating on which the voices of French-women, from the lucent symbolism of the errant wife of Charles Martel, bathed in the ineffable luxury of mediæval intricacy, to the misguided, yet pitiable, complacency of a Parisian midinette, travel eternally, since that French thrift, which made her clean her shoes at home and thereby maim herself into something new and strange, seared by the hot vapors of the exploding benzine, that desired to assassinate love, sacred and profane, whenever she saw it, made her terribly exercised at the potency of starvation to dull the edge of appetite into the semblance of inarticulate inevitability, the crucifixion of honest hunger. Richard himself was aware of that.

“No, thank you.”

In all of this there had been nothing to distract her attention, which so often divagated intermittently, as with the pulsing beat of the tides, now lapsing into desuetude, in the purple-bathed intricacies of interminable monotony, from a candid valuation of the dress of the other so blue, so deeply blue, that, from depths unsounded, whence ghostly memories of her childhood emerging, appeared and beat upon her nether eyelids, there was now extruded none of those waves of intelligent vacuity, whose infrequency alone gave her pleasant physical sensations as of creeping gooseflesh at the roots of her hair and the desire to erase from the pages of her memory the pictures of the Christmas number of the _Graphic_, though all their colors seemed to refuse to travel from her eyes to her nerves and back again, as with rhythmic diastole, pendulously they swung in their predestined arc, such as she usually experienced when the turbid instancy of old rose impinged in somnolent ecstasy upon the complicated convolutions of her brain. Richard was right after all.

THE PERILS OF PEREGRINE

_à la_

JEFFREY FARNOL

I

I awoke very sore from the gruelling adventures of the previous day. Being more hungry than was my wont, I quickly despatched the hunch of crusty bread and bit of cheese, which the highwayman had left me, and fared forth upon my journeying. My way lay adown a leafy lane, lined with hedgerows, gemmed with myriad sparkling dew drops, wherein birds sang a jubilant pæan. So faring forth, I crossed a small rustic bridge spanning a murmurous brook and so into a dense wood, whose twisted, writhen branches and myriad leaves made a dim twilight, wherein a wind dank and chill moaned fitfully, very dismal to hear.

I sought to flee these gloomy shades, but tripped and fell headlong into a leafy glade, where sat a small, fierce, quick, keen-eyed tinker a-tinkering.

“Oh!” said I, “pray pardon my intrusion.”

“’Old ’ard!” quoth he in mighty voice, “that’s a good word. I’m a poet myself. Wot d’ye think o’ this?

“Full fathom five my father lies In Xanadu with Kubla Khan. With a heigh and a ho and a hey nonny-no! Night and day on me he cries ‘Go fetch to me a pint o’ wine!’ Cuckoo! Cuckoo! So was it when my life began So is it now that I’m a man I’ve always had to chase the can. Heigho, fair Rosaline!”

“Oh!” cried I, “you say that is original?”

“Aye, it is,” he answered.

“Strange how much you resemble your father,” quoth I, and left him.

II

I had scarce advanced an hundred paces ere I espied a murmurous brook and at the same time was aware of snapping of twigs and sounds of one, who burst through all obstacles in desperate flight. I gazed wildly about and espied a gypsy girl, who came bounding adown the steep. At sight of me she checked and stood at gaze.

There she stood, a young dryad of the woods, gray eyes adream, passionate with life yet boldly virginal.

“Who the hell are you?” she murmured softly. Then she seized me by the hand. “Come, let’s run,” she quoth; “they’re after me.”

“Oh,” I gasped, “who?”

“Shadrach, Meschech and Abednego,” she stated briefly, “The Rommany Three. Count them!” and so saying, she fled, I perforce following.

Ensued wild scramble through dismal wood, where mournful wind stirred, trees dankly dripped, wet leaves brushed faces, rain-sodden underbrush clung about wearied limbs. Came we at last out upon a broad highway, between grassy banks, topped by hedgerows and trees, whose wide-flung rustling leafage cast a pleasant shade, while, high in air, a lark caroled, faint and sweet against the blue.

III

Then looked I again upon my companion so vivid with life, so boldly virginal, and, catching my breath, which had hitherto eluded me,

“Some runner!” I quoth. “Haven’t I met you somewhere before?”

“I dessay,” she lightly answered. “You see, George Borrow was my father and I played _Isopel Berners_ to his _Lavengro_. You’ll meet a lot of those old troupers before you’re through this book. There’s the Tinker now, and old Mrs. Herne. She plays _Azor_ in this piece. Oh! them was the days!” she sighed, “when we was playin’ in the legit, before we come down to this movie stuff.”

“Oh,” quoth I, “then I suppose I ought to teach you grammar. It seems to me——”

“Cut it out!” she responded wearily. “Don’t! _Lavengro_ done that once and for all. You can’t improve on him.”

IV

After a space were we ware of a wayside inn, the yard whereof was a-throng with gigs, carts, currycombs and other vehicles. One was a handsome closed traveling carriage, with blood horses stamping impatient hoofs and tossing proud heads. Standing by it was a man, tall, slim, superlatively dark, clad in garments of quiet elegance. His handsome pale face was paler by contrast with locks of raven hue. When we drew anear, he espied Diana.

“Come, my goddess, let us fly,” said he, and, seizing her by the waist, half lifted, half tossed her into the carriage, leapt lightly after. In an instant the carriage, rocking and reeling with its swift motion, disappeared in a cloud of dust. Dazed, I looked about me, but Diana was nowhere to be seen.

V

Not a moment was to be lost. Seizing the nearest horse, a jet black creature with blood-red nostrils, I leapt lightly into the saddle and was after them. Hedges, gemmed with dewdrops, trees, with wide-flung leafage, spun by as my gallant steed fell into his racing stride. Onward we flew, mile after mile, horse after carriage, me after her. Ever I gained upon the pursued. At last drew level with whiffle-trees, stooped over, with one stroke of knife cut the traces. I was at the door of the carriage as it lurched to a full stop.

“Come, Diana,” I said, “this is no place for you. I do not think this is a very nice man. And as for you, sir, I shall spare you now because, methinks, you will get yours in the last chapter but one.” With that we left him.

VI

And now our way lay adown a leafy lane lined with grassy banks, topped by hedgerows and trees, whose wide-flung rustling leafage cast a pleasant shade, while, high in air, a lark caroled faint and sweet against the blue. Crossing by a rustic bridge, a murmurous brook, I was ware of a rough-clad, villainous-looking man, who stood opposed to us, powerful legs apart, hairy fist grasping a short heavy stick or bludgeon, as the case may be. Evil face outthrust, he leered upon Diana’s loveliness.

“Oh,” said I, “what do you want?”

“Not you!” he snarled and, snarling, leapt at me. With his bludgeon he struck full force a crashing blow upon my hat. Staggering back, I reeled for a moment’s space, but as he made to smite again, I leapt lightly aside. “Strike one!” I cried, the joy of battle welling within me. Then my right flashed and smote him full on his bristly chin. His great body shrank horribly upon itself, rolled a limp and twisted lump upon the ground and lay still. I turned to look for Diana, but she was nowhere to be seen.

VII

So I went my way, sorrowing for my lost love adown leafy lanes lined with hedgerows, gemmed with myriad sparkling dew drops, wherein birds sang a jubilant pæan, till I came to a broad highway lined with grassy banks, topped by trees, whose wide-flung rustling leafage cast a pleasant shade, while, high in air, a lark caroled faint and sweet against the blue. Full many a weary mile I trod before I was ware of strange sounds from a dingle hard by. Crashing into the dingle, I came at last to behold Diana struggling in the arms of a man and him none other than he from which I had so lately rescued her. Then, as I stood at gaze, ere yet I leapt lightly to her succor, a hand gripped me.

VIII

I turned and saw a little man, his slender figure erect, one hand in the bosom of his coat.

“Devereux!” he called, with a terrible loud voice.

The villain started, loosed Diana and turned upon the speaker of the evening.

“Meaning me, withal?” he sneered; “that’s not my name.”

“Quite unimportant,” said the little man. “Devereux, Haredale, Marmaduke, Chester, Steerforth—name’s unimportant. I’ve met you a hundred times in a hundred books and plays and whatever the name, you’re always the same.”

The stranger’s lips curled from gnashing teeth, as he seized his heavy riding whip. A blinding flash, a deafening report, the oncoming figure stopped, right arm dangling helplessly, then lurched and stumbled out of sight, as the little man restored his little silver-mounted pocket-pistol to his pocket.

“My child,” said he, “yonder comes my man with the tea equipage. He always comes when he hears me shoot any one. Let us have tea. I am the Earl of Wyvelstoke.”

So we had tea but lingered not long, as yet there was much to be done ere the rising of the orbed moon gave us surcease of action.

IX

And so we fared forth many a weary mile along the broad highway, lined with grassy banks, topped by——

“Hist!” remarked Diana.

“Oh,” said I, “my dear! You must not interrupt my description of the scenery. Pray, why hist?”

“Shadrach, Meschech and Abednego!” she averred, pointing to where three evil faces peered through three gaps in the hedgerow.

Ensued a scrambling rush of three dark figures, with upraised heavy sticks or bludgeons. One, snarling as was his wont, strode me-wards. I leapt lightly aside only to meet both the other weapons, which simultaneously descended upon my head. Instant blackness overwhelmed me, interspersed, however, with luminaries of dazzling hue. When I recovered consciousness, Diana was nowhere to be seen.

X

So I went my way, sorrowing for my lost love. It was growing dusk when I reached a ruined and desolate barn. A solitary place and dismal, remote from the world, a very sinister place forsooth, such indeed as might be the haunt of grisly specters and angry moo-cows. Breath in check, with eyes of horror stared I at that dreadful barn, whence emanated the sound of hollow knocks. Instantly I was transformed into a cool, dispassionate, relentless creature, intent upon one desperate purpose, though as yet I wot not what that purpose was.

“Be damned to ye, Shadrach!” panted a hoarse voice. “’Eave, man! ’Eave! Her’s a sittin’ on th’ trap door.”

I crept toward the ladder whereon they stood, leapt and smote with all my might. Ensued a battle grim and great. Ensued thereupon a silence, an emptiness, a stillness and from afar I heard lugubrious voices growing fainter and fainter.

“Oh,” cried I, “Diana! Ah there, Diana!”

“Well, what’s wanted?” queried she.

“Will you marry me, Diana?”

“Don’t be foolish, kid. You’ve mixed your cues. That line belongs in the last chapter. You’d better go to bed now. You’ve had a busy day.”

So, knowing that the morrow would bring further adventure, I lay down and fell into a dreamless sleep, but when I awoke in the morning, Diana was nowhere to be seen.

ONE OF HERS

_Long After_

WILLA CATHER