Peregrine's Progress Part 6

"Pray pardon my intrusion, but--"

"Your what?" he demanded, while his quick, bright eyes roved over my shrinking person.

"Intrusion," I repeated, "and now, if you will kindly allow--"

"Intrusion," quoth he, mouthing the word, "intrusion! Why, here's one as don't come my way often! Intrusion! 'T is a good word and rhymes wi' confusion, don't it?"

"It does!" said I, wondering at his manner.

"And 'oo might you be--and what?" he questioned, beckoning me nearer with a motion of the kettle.

"One who has lost his way--"

"In silver b.u.t.tons an' a jerry 'at--hum! You're a young n.o.b, you are, a swell, a tippy, a go--that's what you are! Wherefore and therefore I ask what you might be a-doing in this here wood at midnight's lone hour?"

"I am lost--"

"Aha!" said he, eyeing me dubiously and scratching his long, blue chin with the spout of his kettle. "A young gent in a jerry 'at--lost an'

wandering far from a luxurious 'ome in a wood at midnight! And wherefore? It ain't murder, is it? You aren't been doing to death any pore, con-fiding young fe-male, have ye?"

"Good G.o.d--no!" I answered in indignant horror.

"Why then, you don't 'appen to ha' been robbing your rich uncle and now on your way to London wi' the family jew-ells to make your fortun', having set fire to the fam-ly mansion to cover the traces o'

your dark an' desp'ret doin's?"

"Certainly not!"

"Ha!" said he, with rueful shake of his head, "I knew it--from the first. I suppose you'll tell me you ain't even forged your 'oary-'eaded grandfather's name for to pay off your gambling debts and other gentlemanly dissipations--come now?"

"No," said I, a little haughtily, "I am not the rogue and scoundrel you seem determined to take me for."

"True!" he sighed. "And what's more, you ain't even got the look of it. Life's full o' disapp'intments to a romantic soul like me and not half so inter-esting as a good nov-el. Now if you'd only 'appened to be a murderer reeking wi' crime an' blood--but you ain't, you tell me?" he questioned, his keen eyes twinkling more brightly than ever.

"I am not!"

"Why, very well then!" said he, nodding and seating himself upon a small stool. "So be it, young master, and if you'm minded to talk wi'

a lonely man an' share his fire, sit ye down an' welcome. Though being of a nat'rally enquiring turn o' mind, I'd like to know what you've been a-doing or who, to be hiding in this wood at this witching hour when graves do yawn?"

"I might as well ask you why you sit mending a kettle and singing?"

"Because I'm a tinker an' foller my trade, an' trade's uncommon brisk hereabouts. But as to yourself--"

"You are a strange tinker, I think!" said I, to stay his questioning.

"And why strange?"

"You quote Shakespeare, for one thing--"

"Aha! That's because, although I'm a tinker, I'm a literary cove besides. I mend kettles and such for a living and make verses for a pleasure!"

"What, are you a poet?"

"'Ardly that, young sir, 'ardly that!" said he, rubbing his chin with the shaft of his hammer. "No, 'ardly a poet, p'raps,--but thereabouts.

My verses rhyme an' go wi' a swing, which is summat, arter all, ain't it? I made the song I was a-singing so blithe an' 'earty--did ye like it?"

"Indeed, yes."

"No, but did ye though?" he questioned wistfully, slanting his head at me. "Honest an' true?"

"Honest and true!"

At this, his bright eyes danced and a smile curved his grim lips; setting by hammer and kettle, he rose and disappeared into the small dingy tent behind him, whence he presently emerged bearing a large case-bottle, which he uncorked and proffered to me.

"Rum!" said he, nodding. "Any cove as likes verses, 'specially my verses, is a friend--so drink hearty, friend, to our better acquaintance."

"Thank you, but I never drink!"

"Lord!" he exclaimed, and stood bottle in hand, like one quite at a loss; whereupon, perceiving his embarra.s.sment, I took the bottle and swallowed a gulp for good-fellows.h.i.+p's sake and straightway gasped.

"Why, 'tis a bit strong," quoth he, "but for the concocting, or, as you might say, com-posing o' verses there's nothing like a drop o'

rum, absorbed moderate, to hearten the muse now and then--here's health an' long life!"

Having said which, he swallowed some of the liquor in turn, sighed, corked the bottle and, having deposited it in the little tent, sat down to his work again with a friendly nod to me.

"Young sir," quoth he, "'tis very plain you are one o' the real sort wi' nothing flash about you, therefore I am the more con-sarned on your account, and wonder to see the likes o' you sitting alongside the likes o' me at midnight in Dead Man's Copse--"

"Dead Man's Copse!" I repeated, glancing into the shadows and drawing nearer the fire. "It is a very dreadful name--"

"But very suitable, young sir. There's many a dead 'un been found hereabouts, laying so quiet an' peaceful at last--pore souls as ha'

found this big world and life too much for 'em an' have crept here to end their misery--and why not? There's the poor woman that's lost, say, and wandering in the dark, but with her tired eyes lifted up to the kindly stars; so she struggles on awhile, but by an' by come storm clouds an' one by one the stars go out till only one remains, a little twinkling light that is for her the very light of Hope itself--an'

presently that winks an' goes, an' with it goes Hope as well, an'

she--poor helpless, weary soul--comes a-creeping into some quiet place like this, an' presently only her poor, bruised body lies here, for the soul of her flies away--up an' up a-singing an' a-carolling--back to the stars!"

"This is a great thought--that the soul may not peris.h.!.+" said I, staring into the Tinker's earnest face.

"Ah, young sir, where does the soul come from--where does it go to?

Look yonder!" said he, pointing upwards with his hammer where stars twinkled down upon us through the leaves. "So they've been for ages, and so they will be, winking down through the dark upon you an' me an'

others like us, to teach us by their wisdom. An' as to our souls--Lord, I've seen so many corpses in my time I know the soul can't die. Corpses? Aye, by goles, I'm always a-finding of 'em. Found one in this very copse none so long ago--very young she was--poor, lonely la.s.s! Ah, well! Her troubles be all forgot, long ago. An'

here's the likes o' you sitting along o' the likes o' me in a wood at midnight--you as should be snug in sheets luxoorious, judging by your looks--an' wherefore not, young friend?"

Now there was about this small, quick, keen-eyed tinker a latent kindliness, a sympathy that attracted me involuntarily, so that, after some demur, I told him my story in few words as possible and careful to suppress all names. Long before I had ended he had laid by hammer and kettle and turned, elbows on knees and chin on sinewy fists, viewing me steadfastly where I sat in the fireglow.

"So you make verses likewise, do you?" he questioned, when I had done.

"Yes."

"And can paint pic-toors, beside?"