Lavengro

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Isopel departed, and I remained seated on my stone, as nothing belonging
to myself required any particular attention; in about a quarter of an
hour she returned, and seated herself upon her stool.

"How dark the place is become since I left you," said she; "just as if
night were just at hand."

"Look up at the sky," said I; "and you will not wonder; it is all of a
deep olive. The wind is beginning to rise; hark how it moans among the
branches; and see now their tops are bending--it brings dust on its
wings--I felt some fall on my face; and what is this, a drop of rain?"

"We shall have plenty anon," said Belle; "do you hear? it already begins
to hiss upon the embers; that fire of ours will soon be extinguished."

"It is not probable that we shall want it," said I, "but we had better
seek shelter: let us go into my tent."

"Go in," said Belle, "but you go in alone; as for me, I will seek my
own."

"You are right," said I, "to be afraid of me; I have taught you to
decline master in Armenian."

"You almost tempt me," said Belle, "to make you decline mistress in
English."

"To make matters short," said I, "I decline a mistress."

"What do you mean?" said Belle, angrily.

"I have merely done what you wished me," said I, "and in your own style;
there is no other way of declining anything in English, for in English
there are no declensions."

"The rain is increasing," said Belle.

"It is so," said I; "I shall go to my tent; you may come, if you please;
I do assure you I am not afraid of you."

"Nor I of you," said Belle; "so I will come. Why should I be afraid? I
can take my own part; that is--"

We went into the tent and sat down, and now the rain began to pour with
vehemence. "I hope we shall not be flooded in this hollow," said I to
Belle. "There is no fear of that," said Belle; "the wandering people,
amongst other names, call it the dry hollow. I believe there is a
passage somewhere or other by which the wet is carried off. There must
be a cloud right above us, it is so dark. Oh! what a flash!"

"And what a peal," said I; "that is what the Hebrews call Koul Adonai--the
voice of the Lord. Are you afraid?"

"No," said Belle, "I rather like to hear it."

"You are right," said I, "I am fond of the sound of thunder myself. There
is nothing like it; Koul Adonai behadar; the voice of the Lord is a
glorious voice, as the prayer-book version hath it."

"There is something awful in it," said Belle; "and then the lightning,
the whole dingle is now in a blaze."

"'The voice of the Lord maketh the hinds to calve, and discovereth the
thick bushes.' As you say, there is something awful in thunder."

"There are all kinds of noises above us," said Belle; "surely I heard the
crashing of a tree?"

"'The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedar trees,'" said I, "but what you
hear is caused by a convulsion of the air; during a thunder-storm there
are occasionally all kinds of aerial noises. Ab Gwilym, who, next to
King David, has best described a thunder-storm, speaks of these aerial
noises in the following manner:--

'Astonied now I stand at strains,
As of ten thousand clanking chains;
And once, methought, that overthrown,
The welkin's oaks came whelming down;
Upon my head up starts my hair:
Why hunt abroad the hounds of air?
What cursed hag is screeching high,
Whilst crash goes all her crockery?"

You would hardly believe, Belle, that though I offered at least ten
thousand lines nearly as good as those to the booksellers in London, the
simpletons were so blind to their interest as to refuse purchasing them."

"I don't wonder at it," said Belle, "especially if such dreadful
expressions frequently occur as that towards the end; surely that was the
crash of a tree?"

"Ah!" said I, "there falls the cedar tree--I mean the sallow; one of the
tall trees on the outside of the dingle has been snapped short."

"What a pity," said Belle, "that the fine old oak, which you saw the
peasants cutting up, gave way the other night, when scarcely a breath of
air was stirring; how much better to have fallen in a storm like this,
the fiercest I remember."

"I don't think so," said I; "after braving a thousand tempests, it was
meeter for it to fall of itself than to be vanquished at last. But to
return to Ab Gwilym's poetry, he was above culling dainty words, and
spoke boldly his mind on all subjects. Enraged with the thunder for
parting him and Morfydd, he says, at the conclusion of his ode,

'My curse, O Thunder, cling to thee,
For parting my dear pearl and me!'"

"You and I shall part; this is, I shall go to my tent if you persist in
repeating from him. The man must have been a savage. A poor wood-pigeon
has fallen dead."

"Yes," said I, "there he lies just outside the tent; often have I
listened to his note when alone in this wilderness. So you do not like
Ab Gwilym; what say you to old Goethe:--

'Mist shrouds the night, and rack;
Hear, in the woods, what an awful crack!
Wildly the owls are flitting,
Hark to the pillars splitting
Of palaces verdant ever,
The branches quiver and sever,
The mighty stems are creaking,
The poor roots breaking and shrieking,
In wild mixt ruin down dashing,
O'er one another they're crashing;
Whilst 'midst the rocks so hoary,
Whirlwinds hurry and worry.
Hear'st not, sister--'"

"Hark!" said Belle, "hark!"

"'Hear'st not, sister, a chorus
Of voices--?'"

"No," said Belle, "but I hear a voice."

CHAPTER XCVI.

A Shout--A Fire Ball--See to the Horses--Passing Away--Gap in the
Hedge--On Three Wheels--Why Do You Stop?--No Craven Heart--The
Cordial--Across the Country--Small Bags.

I listened attentively, but I could hear nothing but the loud clashing of
branches, the pattering of rain, and the muttered growl of thunder. I
was about to tell Belle that she must have been mistaken, when I heard a
shout, indistinct it is true, owing to the noises aforesaid, from some
part of the field above the dingle. "I will soon see what's the matter,"
said I to Belle, starting up. "I will go, too," said the girl. "Stay
where you are," said I; "if I need you, I will call;" and, without
waiting for any answer, I hurried to the mouth of the dingle. I was
about a few yards only from the top of the ascent, when I beheld a blaze
of light, from whence I knew not; the next moment there was a loud crash,
and I appeared involved in a cloud of sulphurous smoke. "Lord have mercy
upon us!" I heard a voice say, and methought I heard the plunging and
struggling of horses. I had stopped short on hearing the crash, for I
was half stunned; but I now hurried forward, and in a moment stood upon
the plain. Here I was instantly aware of the cause of the crash and the
smoke. One of those balls, generally called fire-balls, had fallen from
the clouds, and was burning on the plain at a short distance; and the
voice which I had heard, and the plunging, were as easily accounted for.
Near the left-hand corner of the grove which surrounded the dingle, and
about ten yards from the fire-ball, I perceived a chaise, with a
postillion on the box, who was making efforts, apparently useless, to
control his horses, which were kicking and plunging in the highest degree
of excitement. I instantly ran towards the chaise, in order to offer
what help was in my power. "Help me," said the poor fellow, as I drew
nigh; but before I could reach the horses, they had turned rapidly round,
one of the fore-wheels flew from its axle-tree, the chaise was overset,
and the postillion flung violently from his seat upon the field. The
horses now became more furious than before, kicking desperately, and
endeavouring to disengage themselves from the fallen chaise. As I was
hesitating whether to run to the assistance of the postillion, or
endeavour to disengage the animals, I heard the voice of Belle
exclaiming, "See to the horses, I will look after the man." She had, it
seems, been alarmed by the crash which accompanied the firebolt, and had
hurried up to learn the cause. I forthwith seized the horses by the
heads, and used all the means I possessed to soothe and pacify them,
employing every gentle modulation of which my voice was capable. Belle,
in the meantime, had raised up the man, who was much stunned by his fall;
but presently recovering his recollection to a certain degree, he came
limping to me, holding his hand to his right thigh. "The first thing
that must now be done," said I, "is to free these horses from the traces;
can you undertake to do so?" "I think I can," said the man, looking at
me somewhat stupidly. "I will help," said Belle, and without loss of
time laid hold of one of the traces. The man, after a short pause, also
set to work, and in a few minutes the horses were extricated. "Now,"
said I to the man, "what is next to be done?" "I don't know," said he;
"indeed, I scarcely know anything; I have been so frightened by this
horrible storm, and so shaken by my fall." "I think," said I, "that the
storm is passing away, so cast your fears away too; and as for your fall,
you must bear it as lightly as you can. I will tie the horses amongst
those trees, and then we will all betake us to the hollow below." "And
what's to become of my chaise?" said the postillion, looking ruefully on
the fallen vehicle. "Let us leave the chaise for the present," said I;
"we can be of no use to it." "I don't like to leave my chaise lying on
the ground in this weather," said the man, "I love my chaise, and him
whom it belongs to." "You are quite right to be fond of yourself," said
I, "on which account I advise you to seek shelter from the rain as soon
as possible." "I was not talking of myself," said the man, "but my
master, to whom the chaise belongs." "I thought you called the chaise
yours," said I. "That's my way of speaking," said the man, "but the
chaise is my master's, and a better master does not live. Don't you
think we could manage to raise up the chaise?" "And what is to become of
the horses?" said I. "I love my horses well enough," said the man; "but
they will take less harm than the chaise. We two can never lift up that
chaise." "But we three can," said Belle; "at least, I think so; and I
know where to find two poles which will assist us." "You had better go
to the tent," said I, "you will be wet through." "I care not for a
little wetting," said Belle; "moreover, I have more gowns than one--see
you after the horses." Thereupon, I led the horses past the mouth of the
dingle, to a place where a gap in the hedge afforded admission to the
copse or plantation, on the southern side. Forcing them through the gap,
I led them to a spot amidst the trees, which I deemed would afford them
the most convenient place for standing; then, darting down into the
dingle, I brought up a rope, and also the halter of my own nag, and with
these fastened them each to a separate tree in the best manner I could.
This done, I returned to the chaise and the postillion. In a minute or
two Belle arrived with two poles, which, it seems, had long been lying,
overgrown with brushwood, in a ditch or hollow behind the plantation.
With these both she and I set to work in endeavouring to raise the fallen
chaise from the ground.

We experienced considerable difficulty in this undertaking; at length,
with the assistance of the postillion, we saw our efforts crowned with
success--the chaise was lifted up, and stood upright on three wheels.

"We may leave it here in safety," said I, "for it will hardly move away
on three wheels, even supposing it could run by itself; I am afraid there
is work here for a wheelwright, in which case I cannot assist you; if you
were in need of a blacksmith it would be otherwise." "I don't think
either the wheel or the axle is hurt," said the postillion, who had been
handling both; "it is only the linch-pin having dropped out that caused
the wheel to fly off; if I could but find the linch-pin! though, perhaps,
it fell out a mile away." "Very likely," said I; "but never mind the
linch-pin, I can make you one, or something that will serve: but I can't
stay here any longer, I am going to my place below with this young
gentlewoman, and you had better follow us." "I am ready," said the man;
and after lifting up the wheel and propping it against the chaise, he
went with us, slightly limping, and with his hand pressed to his thigh.

As we were descending the narrow path, Belle leading the way, and myself
the last of the party, the postillion suddenly stopped short, and looked
about him. "Why do you stop?" said I. "I don't wish to offend you,"
said the man; "but this seems to be a strange place you are leading me
into; I hope you and the young gentlewoman, as you call her, don't mean
me any harm--you seemed in a great hurry to bring me here." "We wished
to get you out of the rain," said I, "and ourselves too; that is, if we
can, which I rather doubt, for the canvas of a tent is slight shelter in
such a rain; but what harm should we wish to do you?" "You may think I
have money," said the man, "and I have some, but only thirty shillings,
and for a sum like that it would be hardly worth while to--" "Would it
not?" said I; "thirty shillings, after all, are thirty shillings, and for
what I know, half-a-dozen throats may have been cut in this place for
that sum at the rate of five shillings each; moreover, there are the
horses, which would serve to establish the young gentlewoman and myself
in housekeeping, provided we were thinking of such a thing." "Then I
suppose I have fallen into pretty hands," said the man, putting himself
in a posture of defence; "but I'll show no craven heart; and if you
attempt to lay hands on me, I'll try to pay you in your own coin. I'm
rather lamed in the leg, but I can still use my fists; so come on both of
you, man and woman, if woman this be, though she looks more like a
grenadier."

"Let me hear no more of this nonsense," said Belle; "if you are afraid,
you can go back to your chaise--we only seek to do you a kindness."

"Why, he was just now talking of cutting throats," said the man. "You
brought it on yourself," said Belle; "you suspected us, and he wished to
pass a joke upon you; he would not hurt a hair of your head, were your
coach laden with gold, nor would I." "Well," said the man, "I was
wrong--here's my hand to both of you," shaking us by the hands; "I'll go
with you where you please, but I thought this a strange lonesome place,
though I ought not much to mind strange lonesome places, having been in
plenty of such when I was a servant in Italy, without coming to any
harm--come, let us move on, for 'tis a shame to keep you two in the
rain."

So we descended the path which led into the depths of the dingle; at the
bottom I conducted the postillion to my tent, which, though the rain
dripped and trickled through it, afforded some shelter; there I bade him
sit down on the log of wood, while I placed myself as usual on my stone.
Belle in the meantime had repaired to her own place of abode. After a
little time, I produced a bottle of the cordial of which I have
previously had occasion to speak, and made my guest take a considerable
draught. I then offered him some bread and cheese, which he accepted
with thanks. In about an hour the rain had much abated: "What do you now
propose to do?" said I. "I scarcely know," said the man; "I suppose I
must endeavour to put on the wheel with your help." "How far are you
from your home?" I demanded. "Upwards of thirty miles," said the man;
"my master keeps an inn on the great north road, and from thence I
started early this morning with a family which I conveyed across the
country to a hall at some distance from here. On my return I was beset
by the thunder-storm, which frightened the horses, who dragged the chaise
off the road to the field above, and overset it as you saw. I had
proposed to pass the night at an inn about twelve miles from here on my
way back, though how I am to get there to-night I scarcely know, even if
we can put on the wheel, for, to tell you the truth, I am shaken by my
fall, and the smoulder and smoke of that fire-ball have rather bewildered
my head; I am, moreover, not much acquainted with the way."

"The best thing you can do," said I, "is to pass the night here; I will
presently light a fire, and endeavour to make you comfortable--in the
morning we will see to your wheel." "Well," said the man, "I shall be
glad to pass the night here, provided I do not intrude, but I must see to
the horses." Thereupon I conducted the man to the place where the horses
were tied. "The trees drip very much upon them," said the man, "and it
will not do for them to remain here all night; they will be better out on
the field picking the grass, but first of all they must have a good feed
of corn." Thereupon he went to his chaise, from which he presently
brought two small bags, partly filled with corn--into them he inserted
the mouths of the horses, tying them over their heads. "Here we will
leave them for a time," said the man; "when I think they have had enough,
I will come back, tie their fore-legs, and let them pick about."

CHAPTER XCVII.

Fire of Charcoal--The New Comer--No Wonder!--Not a Blacksmith--A Love
Affair--Gretna Green--A Cool Thousand--Family Estates--Borough
Interest--Grand Education--Let us Hear--Already Quarrelling--Honourable
Parents--Most Heroically--Not Common People--Fresh Charcoal.

It might be about ten o'clock at night. Belle, the postillion, and
myself sat just within the tent, by a fire of charcoal which I had
kindled in the chafing-pan. The man had removed the harness from his
horses, and, after tethering their legs, had left them for the night in
the field above, to regale themselves on what grass they could find. The
rain had long since entirely ceased, and the moon and stars shone bright
in the firmament, up to which, putting aside the canvas, I occasionally
looked from the depths of the dingle. Large drops of water, however,
falling now and then upon the tent from the neighbouring trees, would
have served, could we have forgotten it, to remind us of the recent
storm, and also a certain chilliness in the atmosphere, unusual to the
season, proceeding from the moisture with which the ground was saturated;
yet these circumstances only served to make our party enjoy the charcoal
fire the more. There we sat bending over it: Belle, with her long
beautiful hair streaming over her magnificent shoulders; the postillion
smoking his pipe, in his shirt-sleeves and waistcoat, having flung aside
his great coat, which had sustained a thorough wetting; and I without my
wagoner's slop, of which, it being in the same plight, I had also
divested myself.

The new comer was a well-made fellow of about thirty, with an open and
agreeable countenance. I found him very well informed for a man in his
station, and with some pretensions to humour. After we had discoursed
for some time on indifferent subjects, the postillion, who had exhausted
his pipe, took it from his mouth, and, knocking out the ashes upon the
ground, exclaimed, "I little thought, when I got up in the morning, that
I should spend the night in such agreeable company, and after such a
fright."

"Well," said I, "I am glad that your opinion of us has improved; it is
not long since you seemed to hold us in rather a suspicious light."

"And no wonder," said the man, "seeing the place you were taking me to. I
was not a little, but very much, afraid of ye both; and so I continued
for some time, though, not to show a craven heart, I pretended to be
quite satisfied; but I see I was altogether mistaken about ye. I thought
you vagrant Gypsy folks and trampers; but now--"

"Vagrant Gypsy folks and trampers," said I; "and what are we but people
of that stamp?"

"Oh," said the postillion, "if you wish to be thought such, I am far too
civil a person to contradict you, especially after your kindness to me,
but--"

"But!" said I; "what do you mean by but? I would have you to know that I
am proud of being a travelling blacksmith: look at these donkey-shoes, I
finished them this day."

The postillion took the shoes and examined them. "So you made these
shoes?" he cried at last.

"To be sure I did; do you doubt it?"

"Not in the least," said the man.

"Ah! ah!" said I, "I thought I should bring you back to your original
opinion. I am, then, a vagrant Gypsy body, a tramper, a wandering
blacksmith."

"Not a blacksmith, whatever else you may be," said the postillion,
laughing.

"Then how do you account for my making those shoes?"

"By your not being a blacksmith," said the postillion; "no blacksmith
would have made shoes in that manner. Besides, what did you mean just
now by saying you had finished these shoes to-day? a real blacksmith
would have flung off three or four sets of donkey-shoes in one morning,
but you, I will be sworn, have been hammering at these for days, and they
do you credit, but why? because you are no blacksmith; no, friend, your
shoes may do for this young gentlewoman's animal, but I shouldn't like to
have my horses shod by you, unless at a great pinch indeed."

"Then," said I, "for what do you take me?"

"Why, for some runaway young gentleman," said the postillion. "No
offence, I hope?"

"None at all; no one is offended at being taken or mistaken for a young
gentleman, whether runaway or not; but from whence do you suppose I have
run away?"

"Why, from college," said the man; "no offence?"

"None whatever; and what induced me to run away from college?"

"A love affair, I'll be sworn," said the postillion. "You had become
acquainted with this young gentlewoman, so she and you--"

"Mind how you get on, friend," said Belle, in a deep serious tone.

"Pray proceed," said I; "I dare say you mean no offence."

"None in the world," said the postillion; "all I was going to say was
that you agreed to run away together, you from college, and she from
boarding-school. Well, there's nothing to be ashamed of in a matter like
that, such things are done every day by young folks in high life."

"Are you offended?" said I to Belle.

Belle made no answer; but, placing her elbows on her knees, buried her
face in her hands.

"So we ran away together?" said I.

"Ay, ay," said the postillion, "to Gretna Green, though I can't say that
I drove ye, though I have driven many a pair."

"And from Gretna Green we came here?"

"I'll be bound you did," said the man, "till you could arrange matters at
home."

"And the horse-shoes?" said I.

"The donkey-shoes, you mean," answered the postillion; "why, I suppose
you persuaded the blacksmith who married you to give you, before you
left, a few lessons in his trade."

"And we intend to stay here till we have arranged matters at home?"

"Ay, ay," said the postillion, "till the old people are pacified, and
they send you letters directed to the next post town, to be left till
called for, beginning with 'Dear children,' and enclosing you each a
cheque for one hundred pounds, when you will leave this place, and go
home in a coach like gentlefolks, to visit your governors; I should like
nothing better than to have the driving of you: and then there will be a
grand meeting of the two families, and after a few reproaches, the old
people will agree to do something handsome for the poor thoughtless
things; so you will have a genteel house taken for you, and an annuity
allowed you. You won't get much the first year, five hundred at the
most, in order that the old folks may let you feel that they are not
altogether satisfied with you, and that you are yet entirely in their
power; but the second, if you don't get a cool thousand, may I catch
cold, especially should young madam here present a son and heir for the
old people to fondle, destined one day to become sole heir of the two
illustrious houses, and then all the grand folks in the neighbourhood,
who have, bless their prudent hearts! kept rather aloof from you till
then, for fear you should want anything from them--I say, all the
carriage people in the neighbourhood, when they see how swimmingly
matters are going on, will come in shoals to visit you."

"Really," said I, "you are getting on swimmingly."

"Oh," said the postillion, "I was not a gentleman's servant nine years
without learning the ways of gentry, and being able to know gentry when I
see them."

"And what do you say to all this?" I demanded of Belle.

"Stop a moment," interposed the postillion, "I have one more word to
say:--and when you are surrounded by your comforts, keeping your nice
little barouche and pair, your coachman and livery servant, and visited
by all the carriage people in the neighbourhood--to say nothing of the
time when you come to the family estates on the death of the old people--I
shouldn't wonder if now and then you look back with longing and regret to
the days when you lived in the damp dripping dingle, had no better
equipage than a pony or donkey-cart, and saw no better company than a
tramper or Gypsy, except once, when a poor postillion was glad to seat
himself at your charcoal fire."