A Hero of Romance

by Richard Marsh

  Chapter XXII

  THE END OF THE JOURNEY

  Throughout the day which followed, and throughout the night, andthroughout the succeeding days and nights, Bertie wandered among thewilds of Finistere, and among its lanes and villages. How he lived hehimself could have scarcely told. The misfortunes which had befallenhim since he had set out on his journey to the Land of Golden Dreamshad told upon him. He became ill in body and in mind. He needed restand care, good food and careful nursing. What he got was no food, orscarcely any, strange skies to shelter him, a strange land to servehim as his bed.

  It was fortunate that summer was at hand. Had it been winter he wouldhave lain down at night, and in the morning they would have found himdead. But he was at least spared excessive cold. The winds werenot invariably genial. The occasional rain was not at all timeswelcome--to him at least, whatever it might have been to the thirstyearth--but there was no frost. If frost had come he would certainlyhave died.

  What he ate he scarcely knew. Throughout the whole of his wanderingshe never received food from any human being. He found his breakfast,dinner, tea, and supper in the fields and on the hedges. A patch ofturnips was a godsend. There was one field in particular in which grewboth swedes and turnips. It was within a stone's-throw of a village;to reach it from the road you had to scramble down a bank. To this hereturned again and again. He began to look upon it almost as his own.

  Once, towards evening, the farmer saw him getting his supper. Thefarmer saw the lad before the lad saw him. He stole upon him unawares,bent upon capturing the thief. He had almost achieved his purpose, andwas within half a dozen yards of the miscreant, when, not lookingwhere he was going in his anxiety to keep his eyes upon the pilferer,he caught his sabot in a hole, and came down upon his knees. As hecame he gave vent to a deep Breton execration.

  Startled, Bertie looked behind and saw the foe. He was off like thewind. When the farmer had regained, if not his temper, at least hisperpendicular, he saw, fifty yards ahead, a wild-looking, raggedfigure tearing for his life. The Breton was not built for speed. Heperceived that he might as well attempt to rival the swallow in itsflight as outrun the boy. So he contented himself with shaking hisfists and shouting curses after the robber of his turnip field.

  Never washing, never taking his clothes from his back nor his shoesfrom his feet, in appearance Bertie soon presented a figure whichwould have discredited a scarecrow. Scrambling through hedges,constant walking over stony ways, beds on dampish soil--these thingstold upon his garments; they soon began to drop away from him inshreds. His face went well with his clothing. Very white and drawn,very thin and dirty, his ravenous eyes looked out from under a tangledshock of hair. One night he had been startled in his sleep, as heoften was, and he had sprung up, as a wild creature springs, and runfor his life, not waiting to inquire what it was that had startledhim, whether it was the snapping of a twig or the movement of a rabbitor a bird. In his haste he left his hat behind him, and as he neverreturned to get it, afterwards he went with his head uncovered.

  It began to be rumoured about those parts that some strange thing hadtaken up its residence in the surrounding country. The Breton peasantsand small farmers are ignorant, credulous, superstitious. Theslightest incident of an unusual character they magnify into amystery.

  It was told in the hamlets that some wild creature had made itsappearance in their neighbourhood. Some said it was a boy, some saidit was a man, some said it was a woman; some said it was neither onething nor the other, but a monster which had taken human shape.

  Bertie lent an air of veracity to the different versions by his ownproceedings. He was not in his own right mind. Had care been taken,and friends been near, all might have been well; as it was, feverwas taking more and more possession of his brain. He shunned hisfellow-creatures. At the sight of a little child he would take to hisheels and run. He saw an enemy in every bush, in every tree; in a manor a woman he saw his worst enemy of all.

  In consequence the tales gained ground and grew. A lout, returningfrom his labour in the fields, saw on a distant slope in the gatheringtwilight a wild-looking figure, who, at sight of him, turned and ranlike the wind. The lout ran too. The tale did not lose by being told.Bertie was magnified into a giant, his speed into speed of theswiftest bird. The lout declared that he uttered mysterious sounds ashe ran. He became a mysterious personage altogether--and a horribleone.

  Others saw this thing of evil, for that it was a thing of evil allwere agreed. The farmer who saw him in his turnip field had a wondroustale to tell.

  He had not tripped through his own stupidity and clumsiness. On thecontrary, it was all owing to the influence of the evil eye. Bertie,being a thing of evil, had seen him--as things of evil have doubtlessthe power of doing--although his approach was made from the rear; and,seeing him, had glanced at him with his evil eye through the back ofhis head, as things possessing that fatal gift have, we may take itfor granted, the power of doing. Nay, who shall decide that the evileye is not itself located in the back of the head?

  Anyhow, under its influence the farmer tripped. This became clearer tohis mind the more he thought of it, and, it may be also added, thefarther off the accident became. The next morning he remembered thathe had been conscious of a mysterious something in his joints as heapproached the turnip stealer--a something not to be described, butaltogether mysterious and horrible. In the afternoon he declared thathe had not followed the plunderer because he had been rooted to theground, he knew not how nor why--rooted in the manner of his ownturnips, which he had seen disappearing from underneath his eyes.

  That night the tale grew still more horrible. He had a couple ofglasses of brandy, at two sous a glass, with a select circle of hisfriends, and under the influence of conviviality the farmer made hisneighbours' hair stand on end. He went to bed with the beliefimpressed firmly on his mind that he had encountered Old Nick inperson, engaged in the nefarious and characteristic action of stealingturnips from his turnip field.

  Thus it came about that while Bertie avoided aboriginals, theaboriginals were equally careful in avoiding him. One day some oneheard him speak. That was the climax. The tongue he spoke was neitherBreton nor French. Delirium was overtaking the lad, and under itsinfluence he was beginning to spout all sorts of nonsense in hisfeverish wanderings here and there.

  The aboriginal in question had seen him running across the field andshouting as he ran. He declared, probably with truth, that never hadhe heard the like before. It was undoubtedly the language which was incommon use among things of evil. This conclusion was not flattering toEnglish-speaking people, but there are occasions on which ignorance isnot bliss, and it is not folly to be wise. Being a Breton peasant ofaverage education, this aboriginal decided that Bertie's English wasthe language in common use among things of evil.

  That settled the question. There are possibly Beings--Beings in thiscase should be written with a capital letter--of indifferent, andworse than indifferent character, who have at least some elementaryacquaintance with the Breton tongue. Let so much be granted. But itcannot be doubted--at any rate no one did doubt it--that the fact ofthis stranger speaking in a strange tongue made it as plain as apike-staff that he was the sort of character which is better leftalone.

  So, as a rule, they left him alone in the severest manner.

  Of course this could not endure for ever. Bertie was approaching theLand of Golden Dreams in a sense of which he had not dreamed even inhis wildest dreams. One cannot subsist on roots alone. Nor can a younggentleman, used to cosy beds and well-warmed rooms and regular meals,exist for long on such a diet, under ever-changing skies, in aninhospitable country, in the open air. Bertie was worn to a shadow. Hewas wasted not only physically, but mentally and morally. He was aghost of what he once had been, enfeebled in mind and body.

  If something did not happen soon to change his course of living, hewould soon bring his journeying to an untimely end, and reach the Landof Dreams indeed
.

  Something did happen, but it was not by any means the sort of thingwhich was required.

  One day a great hunt took place in that district. It was first-ratesport. They occasionally hunt wolves, and even wild boars inFinistere, but this time what was hunted was a boy. And the boy wasBertie.

  The mayor of St. Thegonnec was a wise man. All mayors are ofnecessity, and from the nature of their office, wise, especially themayors of rural France; and this mayor was the wisest of wise mayors.He was a miller by trade, honest as millers go, and as pig-headed arustic as was ever found in Finistere. His name was Baudry--JeanBaudry.

  It was reported to M. Baudry by his colleague, the mayor of thecommune of Plouigneau, which lies on the other side of Morlaix, thatthere was a Being--with a capital B--which had come no one knew fromwhence, and which was plundering the fields in a way calculated tomake the blood of all honest men turn cold--or hot, as might accordbest with the natural disposition of the blood of the man in question.

  The mayor of St. Thegonnec had told this story to the mayor ofMorlaix; and the mayor of Morlaix, being the mayor of the_arrondissement_, had thought it an excellent opportunity to snub themayor of a mere commune, and had snubbed the mayor of St. Thegonnecaccordingly; who, coming fresh from the snubbing, had encountered hiscolleague in the market-place, and then and there told his wrongs.

  The two worthies agreed that, at the first opportunity, they would layviolent hands upon this plunderer of the fields of honest men, andmake him wish that he had left such fields alone.

  Such an opportunity, or what looked like such an one, was not long inoffering itself to M. Baudry.

  One afternoon he was engaged in his occupation of grinding flour,standing in an atmosphere which would have rendered life disagreeable,if not altogether unsupportable, to any one but a miller, when Robert,Madame Perchon's eldest born, put his head inside the open door of themill.

  "This creature, M. le Maire; this creature!"

  Robert Perchon was an undersized youth of some twenty years of age,who had escaped military service not only as being the eldest son of awidow, but as being in possession of an unrivalled squint, which wouldhave excluded him in any case, and which would have rendered it reallydifficult for a drill sergeant to have ascertained to his ownsatisfaction whether, at any given moment, the recruit had his "eyesfront" or behind.

  "Ah, at last! Where is this vagabond? We will settle his business in atrice!"

  Having shouted instructions to his assistant to keep his eyes upon thestones, M. le Maire came forth.

  "He is in the buck-wheat field! I was going to the little field by theriver, when, behold! what should I see in the buck-wheat field, lyingclose to the hedge, and yet among the wheat, what but this creature,fast asleep! It is so, I give you my word. At this time of day, whenall honest people are at work, in the middle of my field there wasthis creature, fast asleep. I knew him at once, although I have notseen the wretch before; but I have heard him described, and there isindeed something absolutely diabolical in his aspect even as he liesamong my buck-wheat fast asleep!"

  "You did not wake him?"

  "Ah, no! Why should I wake him? Who knows what injury the creaturemight have done me when he found himself disturbed?"

  "Then we will wake him, I give you my word. We will capture thisvagabond. We will discover what there is about him diabolical."

  The mayor's courage was applauded. There was Robert Perchon, hismother--in tears, at the thought of the peril which her son had onlyjust escaped--a select assembly of the villagers, and the two gorgeousgendarmes from the St. Thegonnec gendarmerie. All these peopleperceived that the mayor was brave.

  The assembly started, with the intention of making an example of theplunderer of the fields of honest men.

  In front was the mayor, not looking particularly dignified, for he waswhite with flour, though void of fear.

  In his hand he carried a mighty stick. Behind him came the gendarmes,as was befitting. They had forgotten to buckle on their swords, butin their case dignity was everything, and it was just possible thatthe stick of the mayor would render more deadly weapons needless.Behind--a pretty good distance behind--came the villagers. Some ofthem carried pitchforks, others spades. One gallant lady carried akettle full of boiling water. It did not occur to her, perhaps, thatthe water would have time to cool before they reached their quarry.Madame Perchon brought up the rear, and behind her sneaked thegallant Robert.

  It occurred to the mayor that this was not exactly as it ought to be.He suggested to M. Robert that as he alone knew exactly where thevagabond lay, it befitted him to lead the van. This, however, M.Robert did not see; he preferred to shout out his directions from therear.

  They entered the buck-wheat field. No persuasions would induce him toenter with the rest. He insisted on remaining outside, guiding themfrom a post of safety. His mother stayed to keep him company.

  "By there! a little to the left! Keep straight on! If he has not gone,M. le Maire, which is always possible, you can touch him with yourstick from where you are now standing!"

  He had not gone.

  The journey was almost done. The end was drawing near. Delirious,beside himself, fever-racked, hunger-stricken, not knowing what he wasdoing, the boy had sunk down in Madame Perchon's buck-wheat field tosleep. And he had slept--a mockery of sleep! A thousand hideousimaginations passed through his fevered mind. M. Robert Perchon, whohad been contented with a single glance at the sleeping lad, had somewarranty for his declaration that in his aspect there was somethingdiabolical, for his limbs writhed and his countenance was distorted bythe paroxysms of his fever.

  Dreaming some horrible dream, the noise made by the advancing bravefell upon his fevered ear. Starting upright at M. Baudry's feet, witha shriek which horrified all who heard him, he rushed across thefield, and flew as if all the powers of evil were treading on hisheels. And, indeed, in a sense the powers of evil were, for he wasdelirious with fever.

  The first impulse of the champions of the fields of honest men was todo, with one accord, what the boy had done, to turn and flee--theother way. Some, believing Bertie's delirious shriek to be theveritable voice of Satan, acted on this first impulse and fled.Notable among them were M. Robert and his mother. That gallant pairraced each other homewards, shrieking with so much vigour that italmost seemed that in that direction they had made up their minds tooutdo the plunderer of the fields of honest men. But there were braverspirits abroad that day. Among them was the mayor. Besides, the publiceye was upon him, and behind him were the two gendarmes. In France therepresentative of authority never runs--at least, he never runs away.

  It is true that when Bertie sprang with such startling suddenness fromright underneath his feet, and gave utterance to that ear-alarmingshriek, M. Baudry thought of running. But he only thought; it went nofurther. He would certainly have denied that he had even allowedhimself to think of such an ignominious contingency a momentafterwards.

  The creature was running away. That was evident. It would be absurdfor the champions of those fields to run away from him, when therascal had been sensible enough to run away from them. M. Baudryperceived this fact at once.

  "After him!" he cried. "I give you my word we shall catch him yet!"

  Off went the assembly, helter-skelter, after the delirious boy.

  "Forward! forward! We will teach this rogue a lesson! We will teachhim to rob the fields of honest men! We will learn the stuff that heis made of--this vagabond!"

  Courage revived. They all shouted, and they all ran.

  If the mayor was in the habit of giving his word as lightly as he gaveit then, it could not have been worth having. It was soon evident thatthey had about as much chance of catching the fugitive as they had ofcatching the clouds which wandered above their heads.

  M. Baudry was not built for violent exercise. He had probably not runthirty yards in the last thirty years. He was in his sabots, andsabots are not good things for running. Fifty paces in MadamePerchon's buck-wheat field
was quite enough for him. He perceived thatit is not a proper thing for mayors to run; so he ran no more. Insteadof running he sat down to think, and to encourage, of course, hisfriends.

  The gendarmes kept on. It was evidently their duty to keep on. Butthey were not much fonder of running than the mayor, and a gendarme'sboots, when it comes to running, are not much more satisfactory,regarded as aids to progress, than sabots. Especially are gendarmesnot built to run across ploughed fields.

  In fact the chase was prolonged for almost, if not quite, a hundredyards. Then it ceased. Most of the champions of the fields of honestmen sat down upon the fields they championed; those who didn't gaspedfor breath upon their feet.

  The affair was, perhaps, something of a fiasco, but they consoledthemselves with the reflection that they would catch the vagabond nexttime, when they could run a little better and a little further, and hecould run a little worse--or a good deal worse, in fact.

  But for Bertie the chase was very far from done. He fled, not fromthings of flesh and blood, but from things of air--the wild imaginingsof fever. On and on and on--over fields and hedges, dykes andditches--on and on and on, until the day waned and the night had come.

  And in the night his journey ended. Even delirium would no longer givestrength unto his limbs. His style of going changed. Instead ofrunning, like a maddened animal, straight forward, he went reeling,reeling, reeling, staggering from side to side.

  Then he staggered down.

  He rose no more. It was the end of the journey.