Peregrine's Progress

"Nineteen to-day, is he!" said my uncle Jervas, viewing me languidly through his quizzing-glass. "How confoundedly the years flit! Nineteen-and on me soul, our poor youth looks as if he hadn't a single gentlemanly vice to bless himself with!"

"Not one, Jervas, my boy," quoth my uncle George, shaking his comely head at me. "Not one, begad, and that's the dooce of it! It seems he don't swear, he don't drink, he don't gamble, he don't make love, he don't even-"

"Don't, George," exclaimed my aunt Julia in her sternest tone, her handsome face flushed, her stately back very rigid.

"Don't what, Julia?"

"Fill our nephew's mind with your own base masculine ideas-I forbid."

"But damme-no, Julia, no-I mean, bless us! What's to become of a man-what's a man to do who don't-"

"Cease, George!"

"But he's almost a man, ain't he?"

"Certainly not; Peregrine is-my nephew-"

"And ours, Julia. We are his legal guardians besides-"

"And set him in my care until he comes of age!" retorted my aunt defiantly.

"And there, happy youth, is his misfortune!" sighed my uncle Jervas.

"Misfortune?" echoed my aunt in whisper so awful that I, for one, nearly trembled. "Misfortune!" she repeated. "Hush! Silence! Not a word! I must think this over! Misfortune!"

In the dreadful pause ensuing, I glanced half-furtively from one to other of my three guardians; at my uncle Jervas, lounging gracefully in his chair, an exquisite work of art from glossy curls to polished Hessians; at my uncle George, standing broad back to the mantel, a graceful, stalwart figure in tight-fitting riding-coat, buckskins and spurred boots; at my wonderful aunt, her dark and statuesque beauty as she sat, her noble form posed like an offended Juno, dimpled chin on dimpled fist, dark brows bent above long-lashed eyes, ruddy lips close-set and arched foot tapping softly beneath the folds of her ample robe.

"His misfortune!" she repeated for the fourth time, softly and as to herself. "And ever have I striven to be to him the tender mother he never knew, to stand in place of the father he never saw!"

"I'm sure of it, Julia!" said my uncle George, fidgeting with his stock.

"His misfortune! And I have watched over him with care unfailing-"

"Er-of course, yes-not a doubt of it, Julia," said uncle George, fiddling with a coat button.

"His upbringing has been the passion of my life-"

"I'm sure of it, Julia, your sweet and-er-womanly nature-"

"George, have the goodness not to interrupt!" sighed my aunt, with a little gesture of her hand. "I have furthermore kept him segregated from all that could in any way vitiate or vulgarise; he has had the ablest tutors and been my constant companion, and to-day-I am told-all this is but his misfortune. Now and therefore. Sir Jervas Vereker, pray explain yourself."

"Briefly and with joy, m'dear Julia," answered my uncle Jervas, smiling sleepily into my aunt's fierce black eyes. "I simply mean that your meticulous care of our nephew has turned what should have been an ordinary and humanly promising, raucous and impish hobbledehoy into a very precise, something superior, charmingly prim and modest, ladylike young fellow-"

"Ladyli-!" My stately aunt came as near gasping as was possible in such a woman, then her stately form grew more rigidly statuesque, her mouth and chin took on that indomitable look I knew so well, and she swept the speaker with the blasting fire of her fine black eyes. "Sir Jervas Vereker!" she exclaimed at last, and in tones of such chilling haughtiness that I, for one, felt very like shivering. There fell another awful silence, aunt Julia sitting very upright, hands clenched on the arms of her chair, dark brows bent against my uncle Jervas, who met her withering glance with all his wonted impassivity, while my uncle George, square face slightly flushed, glanced half-furtively from one to the other and clicked nervous heels together so that his spurs jingled.

"George!" exclaimed my aunt suddenly. "In heaven's name, cease rattling your spurs as if you were in your native stables."

"Certainly, m'dear Julia!" he mumbled, and stood motionless and abashed.

"'Pon me life, Julia," sighed my uncle Jervas, "I swear the years but lend you new graces; time makes you but the handsomer-"

"Begad, but that's the very naked truth, Julia!" cried uncle George.

"You grow handsomer than ever."

"Tush!" exclaimed my aunt, yet her long lashes drooped suddenly.

"Your hair is-" said uncle Jervas.

"Wonderful!" quoth uncle George. "Always was, begad!"

"Tchah!" exclaimed my aunt.

"Your hair is as silky," pursued my uncle Jervas, "as abundant and as black as-"

"As night!" added uncle George.

"A fiddlestick!" exclaimed my aunt.

"A raven's wing!" pursued my uncle Jervas. "Time hath not changed the wonder of it-"

"Phoh!" exclaimed my aunt.

"Devil a white hair to be seen, Julia!" added uncle George.

"While as for myself, Julia," sighed my uncle Jervas, "my fellow discovered no fewer than four white hairs above my right ear this morning, alas! And look at poor George-as infernally grey as a badger."

"I think," said my aunt, leaning back in her chair, "I think we were discussing my nephew Peregrine-"

"Our mutual ward-precisely, Julia."

"Aye," quoth uncle George, "we are legal guardians of the lad and-"

"Fie, George!" cried aunt Julia. "A vulgar word, an unseemly word!"

"Eh? Word, Julia? What word?"

"'Lad'!" exclaimed my aunt, frowning. "A most obnoxious word, applicable only to beings with pitchforks and persons in sleeved waistcoats who chew straws and attend to horses. Lads pertain only to your world! Peregrine never was, will, or could be such a thing!"

"Good God!" exclaimed my uncle George feebly, and groped for his short, crisp-curling whisker with fumbling fingers.

"Peregrine never was, will, or could be such a thing!" repeated my aunt in a tone of finality.

"Then what the dev-"

"George!"

"I should say then-pray, Julia, what the-hum-ha-is he?"

"Being my nephew, he is a young gentleman, of course!"

"Ha!" quoth my uncle George.

"Hum!" sighed my uncle Jervas. "A gentleman is usually a better man for having been a lad! As to our nephew-"

"Pray, Jervas," said aunt Julia, lifting white imperious hand, "suffer me one word, at least; in justice to myself I can sit mute no longer-"

"Mute?" exclaimed uncle George, grasping whisker again. "Mute, were you, Julia; oh, begad, why then-"

"George-silence-I plead!" said my aunt, and folding her white hands demurely on her knee gazed down at them wistfully beneath drooping lashes.

"Proceed, Julia," quoth my uncle Jervas, "your voice is music to my soul-"

"Mine too!" added uncle George, "mine too, dooce take me if 't isn't!"

MY AUNT (her voice soft and plaintively sad). For nineteen happy years I have devoted myself to caring for my nephew Peregrine, body and mind. My every thought has been of him or for him, my love has been his shield against discomforts, bodily ailments and ills of the mind-

MY UNCLE JERVAS. And precisely there, Julia, lies his happy misfortune. You have thought for him so effectively he has had small scope to think for himself; cared for him so sedulously that he shall hardly know how to take care of himself; sheltered him so rigorously that, once removed from the sphere of your strong personality, he would be pitifully lost and helpless. In short, he is suffering of a surfeit of love, determined tenderness and pertinacious care-in a word, Julia, he is over-Juliaized!

MY UNCLE GEORGE (a little diffidently, and jingling his spurs). B'gad, and there ye have it, sweet soul-d'ye see-

MY AUNT (smiting him speechless with flashing eye). I-am-not your sweet soul. And as for poor dear Peregrine-

MY UNCLE JERVAS. The poor youth is become altogether too preternaturally dignified, too confounded sober, solemn and sedate for this mundane sphere; he needs more-

UNCLE GEORGE. Brimstone and the devil!

MY AUNT (freezingly). George Vereker!

UNCLE JERVAS. Wholesome ungentleness.

UNCLE GEORGE (hazarding the suggestion). An occasional black eye-bloody nose, d'ye see, Julia, healthy bruise or so-

MY AUNT. Mr. Vereker!

UNCLE GEORGE (groping for whisker). What I mean to say is, Julia, a-ha-hum! (Subsides.)

UNCLE JERVAS. George is exactly right, Julia. Our nephew is well enough in many ways, I'll admit, but corporeally he is no Vereker; he fills the eye but meanly-

MY AUNT (in tones of icy gloom). Sir Jervas-explain!

UNCLE JERVAS. Well, my dear Julia, scan him, I beg; regard him with an observant eye, the eye not of a doting woman but a dispassionate critic-examine him!

(Here I sank lower in my great chair.)

MY AUNT. If Peregrine is not so-large as your robust self or so burly as-monstrous George, am I to blame?

MY UNCLE JERVAS. The adjective robust as applied to myself is, I think, a trifle misplaced. I suggest the word "elegant" instead.

MY AUNT (patient and sighful). What have you to remark, George

Vereker?

UNCLE GEORGE (measuring me with knowing eye). I should say he would strip devilish-I mean-uncommonly light-

MY AUNT (in murmurous horror). Strip? An odious suggestion! Only ostlers, pugilists, and such as yourself, George, would stoop to do such a thing! Oh, monstrous!

UNCLE GEORGE (pathetically). No, no, Julia m'dear, you mistake; to "strip" is a term o' the "fancy"-milling, d'ye see-fibbing is a very gentlemanly art, assure you; I went three rounds with the "Camberwell Chicken" before I-

My AUNT (scornfully). Have done with your chickens, sir-

UNCLE GEORGE (ruefully). B'gad, he nearly did for me-naked mauleys, you'll understand. In-

MY AUNT (covers ears). Horrors! this ribaldry, George Vereker!

UNCLE GEORGE. O Lord! (Sinks into chair and gloomy silence.)

MY UNCLE JERVAS (rising gracefully, taking aunt Julia's indignant hands and kissing them gallantly). George is perfectly right, dear soul. Our Peregrine requires a naked mauley (clenches Aunt Julia's white hand into a fist)-something like this, only bigger and harder-applied to his torso-

UNCLE GEORGE. Of course, above the belt, you'll understand, Julia! Now the Camberwell Chicken-

MY UNCLE JERVAS. Applied, I say, with sufficient force to awake him to the stern-shall we say the harsh realities of life.

AUNT JULIA. Life can be real without sordid brutality.

UNCLE JERVAS. Not unless one is blind and deaf, or runs away and hides from his fellows like a coward; for brutality, alas, is a very human attribute and slumbers more or less in each one of us, let us deny it how we will.

UNCLE GEORGE. True enough, Jervas, and as you'll remember when I fought the "Camberwell Chicken," my right ogle being closed and claret flowing pretty freely, the crowd afraid of their money-

MY AUNT (coldly determined). Enough! My nephew shall never experience such horrors or consort with such brutish ruffians.

UNCLE GEORGE. Then he'll never be a man, Julia.

MY AUNT. Nature made him that. I intend him for a poet.

Here my uncle George rose up, sat down and rose again, striving for speech, while uncle Jervas smiled and dangled his eyeglass.

MY UNCLE GEORGE (breathing heavily). That's done it, Jervas, that's one in the wind. A poet! Poor, poor lad.

MY AUNT (triumphantly). He has written some charming sonnets, and an ode to a throstle that has been much admired.

UNCLE GEORGE (faintly). Ode! B'gad! Throstle!

MY UNCLE JERVAS. He trifles with paints and brushes, too, I believe?

MY AUNT. Charmingly! He may dazzle the world with a noble picture yet; who knows?

MY UNCLE JERVAS. Oh, my dear Julia, who indeed! He has a pronounced aversion for most manly sports, I believe: horses, for instance-

MY AUNT. He rides with me occasionally, but as for your inhuman hunting and racing-certainly not!

UNCLE GEORGE. And before we were his age, I had broken my collarbone and you had won the county steeplechase from me by a head, Jervas. Ha, that was a race, lad, never enjoyed anything more unless it was when the "Camberwell Chicken" went down and couldn't come up to time and the crowd-

AUNT JULIA. You were both so terribly wild and reckless!

UNCLE JERVAS. No, my sweet woman, just ordinary healthy young animals.

AUNT JULIA. My nephew is a young gentleman.

UNCLE GEORGE. Ha!

UNCLE JERVAS. H'm! A gentleman should know how to use his fists-there is Sir Peter Vibart, for instance.

UNCLE GEORGE. And to shoot straight, Julia.

UNCLE JERVAS. And comport himself in the society of the Sex. Yet you keep Peregrine as secluded as a young nun.

MY AUNT. He prefers solitude. Love will come later.

UNCLE JERVAS. Most unnatural! Before I was Peregrine's age I had been head over ears in and out of love with at least-

MY AUNT. Reprobate!

UNCLE GEORGE. So had I, Julia. There was Mary-or was it Ann-at least if it wasn't Ann it was Betty or Bessie; anyhow, I know she was-

AUNT JULIA. Rake!

UNCLE JERVAS. Remember, we were very young and had never been privileged to behold the Lady Julia Conroy-

UNCLE GEORGE. Begad, Julia-and there y'have it!

MY AUNT. We were discussing my nephew, I think!

MY UNCLE JERVAS. True, Julia, and I was about to remark that since you refuse to send him up to Oxford or Cambridge, the only chance I see for him is to quit your apron strings and go out into the world to find his manhood if he can.

My aunt turned upon the speaker, handsome head upflung, but, ere she could speak, the grandfather clock in the corner rang the hour in its mellow chime. Thereupon my aunt rose to her stately height and reached out to me her slender, imperious hand.

"Peregrine, it is ten o'clock. Good night, dear boy!" said she and kissed me. Thereafter, having kissed the hand that clasped mine, I bowed to my two uncles and went dutifully to bed.

"Ladylike!" said I to myself, leaning forth from my chamber window into a fragrant summer night radiant with an orbed moon. But for once I was heedless of the ethereal beauty of the scene before me and felt none of that poetic rapture that would otherwise undoubtedly have inspired me, since my vision was turned inwards rather than out and my customary serenity hatefully disturbed.

"Ladylike!"

Thus, all unregarding, I breathed the incense of flowery perfumes and stared blindly upon the moon's splendour, pondering this hateful word in its application to myself. And gradually, having regard to the manifest injustice and bad taste of the term, conscious of the affront it implied, I grew warm with a righteous indignation that magnified itself into a furious anger against my two uncles.

"Damn them! Damn them both!" exclaimed I and, in that moment, caught my breath, shocked, amazed, and not a little ashamed at this outburst, an exhibition so extremely foreign to my usually placid nature.

'To swear is a painful exhibition of vulgarity, and passion uncontrolled lessens one's dignity and is a sign of weakness.'

Remembering this, one of my wonderful aunt's incontrovertible maxims, I grew abashed (as I say) by reason of this my deplorable lapse. And yet:

"'Ladylike!'"

I repeated the opprobrious epithet for the third time and scowled up at the placid moon.

And this, merely because I had a shrinking horror of all brutal and sordid things, a detestation for anything smacking of vulgarity or bad taste. To me, the subtle beauty of line or colour, the singing music of a phrase, were of more account than the reek of stables or the whooping clamour and excitement of the hunting-field, my joys being rather raptures of the soul than the more material pleasures of the flesh.

"And was it," I asked myself, "was it essential to exchange buffets with a 'Camberwell Chicken,' to shoot and be shot at, to spur sweating and unwilling horses over dangerous fences-were such things truly necessary to prove one's manhood? Assuredly not! And yet-'Ladylike!'"

Moved by a sudden impulse I turned from the lattice to the elegant luxuriousness of my bedchamber, its soft carpets, rich hangings and exquisite harmonies of colour; and coming before the cheval mirror I stood to view and examine myself as I had never done hitherto, surveying my reflection not with the accustomed eyes of Peregrine Vereker, but rather with the coldly appraising eyes of a stranger, and beheld this:

A youthful, slender person of no great stature, clothed in garments elegantly unostentatious.

His face grave and of a saturnine cast-but the features fairly regular.

His complexion sallow-but clear and without blemish.

His hair rather too long-but dark and crisp-curled.

His brow a little too prominent-but high and broad.

His eyes dark and soft-but well-opened and direct.

His nose a little too short to please me-but otherwise well-shaped.

His mouth too tender in its curves-but the lips close and firm.

His chin too smoothly rounded, at a glance-but when set, looks determined enough.

His whole aspect not altogether unpleasing, though I yearned mightily to see him a few inches taller.

Thus then I took dispassionate regard to, and here as dispassionately set down, my outer being; as to my inner, that shall appear, I hope, as this history progresses.

I was yet engaged on this most critical examination of my person when I was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the flagged terrace beneath my open window and the voices of my two uncles as they passed slowly to and fro, each word of their conversation very plain to hear upon the warm, still air. Honour should have compelled me to close my ears or the lattice; had I done so, how different might this history have been, how utterly different my career. As it was, attracted by the sound of my own name, I turned from contemplation of my person and, coming to the window, leaned out again.

"Poor Peregrine," said my uncle George for the second time.

"Why the pity, George? Curse and confound it, wherefore the pity? Our youth is a perfect ass, an infernal young fish, a puppy-dog-pah!"

"Aye, but," quoth my uncle George (and I could distinguish the faint jingle of his spurs), "we roasted him devilishly to-night between us, Jervas, and never a word out o' the lad-"

"Egad, Julia did the talking for him-"

"Ha, yes-dooce take me, she did so!" exclaimed uncle George. "What an amazingly magnificent creature she is-"

"And did ye mark our youth's cool insolence, his disdainful airs-the cock of his supercilious nose-curst young puppy!"

"Most glorious eyes in Christendom," continued my uncle George, "always make me feel so dooced-er-so curst humble-no, humble's not quite the word; what I do mean is-"

"Fatuous, George?" suggested Uncle Jervas a trifle impatiently.

"Unworthy-yes, unworthy and er-altogether dooced, d'ye see-her whole life one of exemplary self-sacrifice and so forth, d'ye see, Jervas-"

"Exactly, George! Julia will never marry, we know, while she has this precious youth to pet and pamper and cherish-"

"Instead of us, Jervas!"

"Us? George, don't be a fool! She couldn't wed us both, man!"

"Why, no!" sighed uncle George. "She'd ha' to be content wi' one of us, to be sure, and that one would be-"

"Myself, George!"

"Aye!" quoth uncle George, sighing more gustily than ever. "Begad, I think it would, Jervas."

"Though, mark me, George, I have sometimes thought she has the preposterous lack of judgment to prefer you."

"No-did you though!" exclaimed my uncle George, spurs jingling again.

"B'gad, and did you though-dooce take me!"

"Aye, George, I did, but only very occasionally. Of course, were she free of this incubus Peregrine, free to live for her own happiness instead of his, I should have her wedded and wifed while you were thinking about it."

"Aye," sighed my uncle George, "you were always such an infernal dasher-"

"As it is, the boy will grow into a priggish, self-satisfied do-nothing, and she into an adoring, solitary old woman-"

"Julia! An old woman! Good God! Hush, Jervas-it sounds dooced indecent!"

"But true, George, devilish true! Here's Julia must grow into a crotchety old female, myself into a solitary, embittered recluse, and you into a lonely, doddering old curmudgeon-and all for sake of this damned lad-"

At this, stirred by sudden impulse, I thrust my head out of the window and hemmed loudly, whereupon they halted very suddenly and stood staring up at me, their surprised looks plain to see by reason of the brilliant moon.

"Pardon me, my dear uncles," said I, bowing to them as well as I might, "pardon me, but I venture to think not-"

"Now 'pon me everlasting soul!" exclaimed my uncle Jervas, fumbling for his eyeglass. "What does the lad mean?"

"With your kind attention, he will come down and explain," said I, and clambering through the casement, I descended forthwith, hand over hand, by means of the ivy stems that grew very thick and strong hereabouts.

Reaching the terrace, I paused to brush the dust from knee and elbow while my uncle Jervas, lounging against the balustrade, viewed me languidly through his glass, and uncle George stared at me very round of eye and groped at his close-trimmed whisker.

"Sirs," said I, glancing from one to other, "I regret that I should appear to you as a 'fish,' a 'puppy' and a 'self-satisfied do-nothing,' but I utterly refuse to be considered either an 'incubus' or a 'damned lad'!"

"Oh, the dooce!" ejaculated uncle George.

"To the which end," I proceeded, "I propose to remove myself for a while-let us say for six months or thereabouts-on a condition."

"Remove yourself, nephew?" repeated uncle Jervas, peering at me a little more narrowly. "Pray where?"

"Anywhere, sir. I shall follow the wind, tramp the roads, consort with all and sundry, open the book of Life and endeavour to learn of man by man himself."

"Very fine!" said my uncle Jervas,-"and damned foolish!"

"In a word," I continued, "I propose to follow your very excellent advice, Uncle Jervas, and go out into the world to find my manhood if I can! That was your phrase, I think?"

"Ah, and when, may I ask?"

"At once, sir. But, as I said before-on a condition."

"Hum!" quoth my uncle Jervas, dropping his glass to tenderly stroke his somewhat too prominent chin.

"And might we humbly venture to enquire as to the condition?"

"Merely this, sir; so soon as Aunt Julia is freed of her incubus-so soon as I am gone-you will see to it she is not lonely. You will woo her, beginning at once, both together or turn about, because I would not have her-this best, this noblest and most generous of women-forfeit anything of happiness on my account; because, having neither father nor mother that I ever remember, the love and reverence that should have been theirs I have given to her."

"Lord!" exclaimed my uncle George, clashing his spurs suddenly. "Lord love the lad-begad-oh, the dooce!"

As for uncle Jervas, forgetting his languor, he stood suddenly erect, frowning, his chin more aggressive than ever.

"You haven't been drinking, have you, Peregrine?" he demanded.

"No, sir!"

"Then you must be mad!"

"I think not, sir. Howbeit, I shall go!"

"Preposterousandamridiculous!" he exclaimed in a breath.

"Possibly, sir!" quoth I, squaring my shoulders resolutely. "But my mind is resolved-"

"Julia-your aunt, will never permit such tom-fool nonsense, boy!"

"I am determined, sir!" said I, folding my arms. "I go for her sake-her future happiness-"

"Happiness?" cried my uncle George, pulling at his whisker, "'t would break her heart, Perry; she'd grieve, boy, aye, begad she would-she'd grieve, as I say, and-grieve, d'ye see-"

"Then you must comfort her-you or Uncle Jervas, or both! Woo her, win her whoever can, only make her happy-that happiness she has denied herself for my sake, all these years. This you must do-it is for this I am about to sacrifice the joy of her companionship, the gentle quiet and luxury of home to pit myself, alone and friendless, against an alien world. This, my dear uncles," said I, finding myself not a little moved as I concluded, "this is my prayer, that, through one of you she may find a greater happiness than has ever been hers hitherto."

"Tush, boy!" murmured my uncle Jervas, lounging gracefully against the balustrade of the terrace again, "Tush and fiddle-de-dee! If you have done with these heroics, let us get to our several beds like common-sense beings," and he yawned behind a white and languid hand.

His words stung me, I will own; but it was not so much these that wrought me to sudden, cold fury, as that contemptuous yawn. Even as I stood mute with righteous indignation, all my finer feelings thus wantonly outraged, he yawned again.

"Come, Peregrine," he mumbled sleepily, "come you in to bed, like a sensible lad."

"Uncle Jervas," said I, smiling up at him as contemptuously as possible, "I will see you damned first!"

"Good God!" exclaimed my uncle George, and letting go his whisker he fell back a step, staring down at me as if he had never seen me before in all his life. Uncle Jervas, on the contrary, regarded me silently awhile, then I saw his grim lips twitch suddenly and he broke into a peal of softly modulated laughter.

"Our sucking dove can roar, it seems, George-our lamb can bellow on occasion. On me soul, I begin to hope we were perhaps a trifle out in our estimation of him. There was an evil word very well meant and heartily expressed!" And he laughed again; then his long arm shot out, though whether to cuff or pat my head I do not know nor stayed to enquire, for, eluding that white hand, I vaulted nimbly over the balustrade and, from the flower bed below, bowed to him with a flourish.

"Uncle Jervas," said I, "pray observe that I bow to your impertinence, by reason of your age; may God mend your manners, sir! Uncle George, farewell. Uncles both, heaven teach you to be some day more worthy my loved aunt Julia!" Saying which, I turned and strode resolutely away across the shadowy park, not a little pleased with myself.

I was close upon the gates that opened upon the high road when, turning for one last look at the great house that had been my home, I was amazed and somewhat disconcerted to find my two uncles hastening after me; hotfoot they came, at something betwixt walk and run, their long legs covering the ground with remarkable speed. Instinctively I began to back away and was deliberating whether or not to cast dignity to the winds and take to my heels outright, when my uncle George hailed me, and I saw he flourished a hat the which I recognised as my own.

"Hold hard a minute, Perry!" he called, spurs jingling with his haste.

"My good uncles," I called, "you are two to one-two very large, ponderous men; pray excuse me therefore if I keep my distance."

"My poor young dolt," quoth uncle Jervas a trifle breathlessly, "we merely desire a word with you-"

"Aye, just a word, Perry!" cried uncle George. "Besides, we've brought your hat and coat, d'ye see."

"You have no other purpose?" I enquired, maintaining my rearward movement.

"Dammit-no!" answered uncle Jervas.

"Word of honour!" cried uncle George.

At this I halted and suffered them to approach nearer.

"You do not meditate attempting the futility of force?" I demanded.

"We do not!" said uncle Jervas.

"Word of honour!" cried uncle George.

"On the contrary," continued uncle Jervas, handing me my silver-buttoned, frogged surtout, "I for one heartily concur and commend your decision in so far as concerns yourself-a trifle of hardship is good for youth and should benefit you amazingly, nephew-"

"B'gad, yes!" nodded uncle George. "Fine thing, hardship-if not too hard. So we thought it well to see that you did not go short of the-ah-needful, d'ye see."

"Needful, sir?" I enquired.

"Rhino, lad-chink, my boy!"

"Ha, to be sure," sighed uncle Jervas, noting my bewilderment. "These coarse metaphors are but empty sounds in your chaste ears, nephew-brother George is trying to say money. Do you happen to have a sufficiency of such dross about you, pray?" A search of my various pockets resulted in the discovery of one shilling and a groat. "Precisely as I surmised," nodded my uncle Jervas, "having had your every possible want supplied hitherto, money is a sordid vulgarity you know little about, yet, if you persist in adventuring your precious person into the world of men and action, you will find money a somewhat useful adjunct. In this purse are some twelve guineas or so-" here he thrust the purse into the right-hand pocket of my coat.

"And six in this, Perry!" said uncle George, thrusting his purse into my left pocket.

"So here are eighteen-odd guineas," quoth uncle Jervas, "a paltry and most inadequate sum, perhaps, but these should last you a few days-with care, or at least until, wearying of hardship, you steal back into the silken lap of luxury."

"And look 'ee, Perry lad," added uncle George, clapping me on the shoulder and eyeing me a little anxiously, "come back soon, boy-soon, d'ye see-"

"He will, George, he will!" nodded uncle Jervas.

"He looks damnably solitary, somehow, Jervas."

"And small, George."

"Sirs," said I, "for my lack of size, blame nature. As to loneliness-'my mind to me my kingdom is,' and one peopled by a thousand loved friends, or of what avail the reading of books?"

"Books? M-yes, precisely!" quoth my uncle George, ruffling up his thick curls and eyeing me askance. "But what are we to tell your aunt Julia?"

"Nothing, sir. At the first inn I stop at I will write her fully regarding my departure and future plans-"

"But-oh, curse it. Perry," exclaimed uncle George, fumbling for his whisker, "she'll be sure to blame us, aye, she will so, b'gad d'ye see-"

"Not when she reads my letter, sir. Indeed I feel-nay, I know that my absence will but serve to draw you nearer together, all three, and I look forward with assured hope to seeing her happily wedded to-to one or other of you when-when I return-"

"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 passion 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 pass 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 God 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 fag 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 assistance, 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 God 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 attitude, 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.

I went at a good, round pace, being determined to cover as much distance as possible ere dawn, since I felt assured 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, godlike, 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 noble 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 grassy 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 grass 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 repetition of this unearthly sound that was like nothing I had ever heard before,-a quick, light, tapping chink, 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.

"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 buttons an' a jerry 'at-hum! You're a young nob, 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 God-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 embarrassment, I took the bottle and swallowed a gulp for good-fellowship'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 perish!" 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 lass! 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?"

"Yes-of a sort!" I answered, finding myself suddenly and strangely diffident.

"An' you so young!" said he in hushed and awestruck tones. "Have you writ many poems, sir?"

"I have published only one volume so far."

"Lord!" he whispered. "Published a vollum-in print-a book! Ah-what wouldn't I give t' see my verses in print-in a book-to know they were good enough-"

"Ah, pray don't mistake!" said I hastily, my new diffidence growing by reason of his unfeigned and awestruck wonder. "I published them myself-no bookseller would take them, so I-I paid to have them printed."

"And did it cost much-very much?" he enquired eagerly. "Anywhere near, well, say-five pound?"

"A great deal nearer a hundred!"

"A hun-" he gasped. "By goles!" he ejaculated after a moment, "poetry comes expensive, don't it? A hundred pound! Lord love me, I don't make so much in a year! So I'll never see any o' my verses in a book, 'tis very sure. Ah, well," said he with a profound sigh, "that won't stop me a-thinking or a-making of 'em, will it?"

"And what do you write about?" I enquired, vastly interested.

"All sorts o' things-common things, trees an' brooks, fields an' winding roads, and then-there's always the stars. Wrote one about 'em this very week, if you'd care to-"

"I should," cried I eagerly. "Indeed I should!"

"Should you, friend?" said he, fumbling in a pocket of his sleeved waistcoat. "Why, then, so you shall, though there ain't much of it, which is p'raps just as well!"

From his pocket he brought forth a strange collection of oddments whence he selected a crumpled wisp of paper; this he smoothed out and bending low to the fire, read aloud as follows:

"When night comes down, where'er I be

I want no roof to shelter me;

I love to lie where I may see

The blessed stars.

"Though I am one not over-wise

They seem to me like friendly eyes That watch us kindly from the skies,

These winking stars.

"Though I've no friend to share my woe

And bitter tears unseen may flow,

To soothe my grief I silent go

To tell the stars.

"And when my time shall come to die

I care not where my flesh shall lie

Because I know my soul shall fly

Back to the stars!"

"Did you write that?" I exclaimed.

"Aye, I did!" he answered, a little anxiously. "Rhymes true, don't it?"

"Yes."

"Goes wi' a swing, don't it?"

"Yes."

"Very well then; what more can you want in a verse?"

"But you've got more-much more!"

"What more?"

"A great deal! Atmosphere, for one thing-"

"Why, 't was writ under a hedge," he explained. "And now, friend, p'raps you'll oblige me wi' one o' yourn?"

"Indeed I would rather not," said I, finding myself oddly ill at ease for once.

"Come, fair is fair!" he urged. Hereupon, after some little reflection, I began reciting this, one of my latest efforts:

"Hail, gentle Dian, goddess-queen

Throned 'mid th' Olympian vasts

Majestic, splendidly serene

'Spite Boreas' rageful blasts.

Immaculate, 'midst starry fires

Incalculable thou-"

here I stopped suddenly and bowed my head.

"Why, what now, young sir; what's wrong?" questioned the Tinker.

"Everything!" said I miserably. "This is not poetry!"

"It-sounds very fine!" said the Tinker kindly.

"But it is just sound and nothing more-it is fatuous-trivial-it has no soul, no meaning, nothing of value-I shall never be a poet!" And knowing this for very truth, there was born in me a humility wholly unknown until this moment.

"Nay-never despond, friend!" quoth the Tinker, laying his hand on my bowed shoulder. "For arter all you've got what I ain't got-words! All you need is to suffer a bit, mind an' body, an' not so much for yourself as for some one or something else. Nobody can expect to be a real poet, I think, as hasn't suffered or grieved over summat or some one! So cheer up; suffering's bound to come t' ye soon or late; 'tis only to be expected in this world. Meanwhile how are ye going to live?"

"I haven't thought of it yet."

"Hum! Any money?"

"Only eighteen guineas."

"Why, 'tis a tidy sum! But even eighteen pound can't last for ever, an' when 'tis all gone-how then?"

"I don't know."

"Hum!" quoth the Tinker again and sat rubbing his chin and staring into the fire, while I, lost in my new humility, wondered if my painting was not as futile as my poetry.

"Can ye work?" enquired my companion suddenly.

"I think so!"

"What at?"

"I don't know!"

"Hum! Any trade or profession?"

"None!"

"Ha! too well eddicated, I suppose. Well, 'tis a queer kettle o' fish, but so's life, yet, though heaviness endure for a night, j'y cometh in the morning, and mind, I'm your friend if you're so minded. And now, what I says is-let's to sleep, for I must be early abroad." Here he reached into the little tent and presently brought thence two blankets, one of which he proffered me, but the night being very hot and oppressive, I declined it and presently we were lying side by side, staring up at the stars. But suddenly upon the stillness, from somewhere amid the surrounding boskages that shut us in, came the sound of one sighing gustily, and I sat up, peering.

"All right, friend," murmured the Tinker drowsily; "'tis only my

Diogenes!"

"And who is Diogenes?"

"My pony, for sure!"

"But why do you call him Diogenes?"

"Because Diogenes lived in a tub an'-he don't! Good night, young friend! Never thought o' writing a nov-el, I s'pose?" he enquired suddenly.

"Never! Why do you ask?"

"I met a young cove once, much like you only bigger, and this young cove threatened to write a nov-el an' put me into it. That was years ago, an' I've sold and read a good many nov-els since then, but never came across myself in ever a one on 'em."

"Good night!" said I and very presently heard him snore. But as for me

I lay wakeful, busied with my thoughts and staring up at the radiant

heaven. "No!" said I to myself at last, speaking my thought aloud,

"No, I shall never be a poet!"