by Ruth Sawyer
V
A TINKER POINTS THE ROAD
The Brambleside Inn lost one of its guests at an inconceivably earlyhour the morning after Patsy O'Connell unexpectedly filled Miss St.Regis's engagement there. The guest departed by way of thesecond-floor piazza and a fire-escape, and not even the nightwatchman saw her go. But it was not until she had put a mile or moreof open country between herself and the Inn that Patsy indulged inthe freedom of a long breath.
"After this I'll keep away from inns and such like; 'tis toowit-racking to make it anyways comfortable. I feel now as if I'd beencaught lifting the crown jewels, instead of giving a hundred-guineaperformance for the price of a night's bed and board and coming awayas poor as a tinker's ass."
A smile caught at the corners of her mouth--a twitching, memorysmile. She was thinking of the note she had left folded in with thegreen-and-gold gown in Miriam St. Regis's trunk. In it she hadstated her payment of one Irish grandfather by the name of Denis--inreturn for the loan of the dress--and had hoped that Miriam wouldfind him handy on future public occasions. Patsy could not forbearchuckling outright--the picture of anything so unmitigatedly Britishas Miriam St. Regis with an Irish ancestor trailing after her for therest of her career was too entrancing.
An early morning wind was blowing fresh from the clover-fields,rose-gardens, and new-leafed black birch and sassafras. Such awell-kept, clean world of open country it looked to Patsy as her eyefollowed the road before her, on to the greening meadows and woodedslopes, that her heart joined the chorus of song-sparrow andmeadow-lark, who sang from the sheer gladness of being a live part ofit all.
She sighed, not knowing it. "Faith! I'm wishing 'twas more nor sevenmiles to Arden. I'd like to be following the road for days and days,and keeping the length of it between Billy Burgeman and myself."
Starting before the country was astir, she had met no one of whom shecould inquire the way. A less adventuresome soul than Patsy mighthave sat herself down and waited for direction; but that would havemeant wasting minutes--precious minutes before the dawn should breakand she should be no longer sole possessor of the road and the worldthat bounded it. So Patsy chose the way for herself--content that itwould lead her to her destination in the end. The joy of truevagabondage was rampant within her: there was the road, urging herlike an impatient comrade to be gone; there was her errand ofgood-will giving purpose to her journey; and the facts that she washomeless, penniless, breakfastless, a stranger in a strange country,mattered not a whit. So thoroughly had she always believed in goodfortune that somehow she always managed to find it; and out of thisshe had evolved her philosophy of life.
"Ye see, 'tis this way," she would say; "the world is much like agreat cat--with claws to hide or use, as the notion takes it. If yekick and slap at it, 'twill hump its back and scratch at ye--sure asfate; but if ye are wise and a bit patient ye can have it coaxed andsmoothed down till it's purring to make room for ye at anyhearthside. And there's another thing it's well to remember--thatfolks are folks the world over, whether they are wearing your dressand speaking your tongue or another's."
And as Patsy was blessed in the matter of philosophy--so was sheblessed in the matter of possessions. She did not have to own thingsto possess them.
There was no doubt but that Patsy had a larger share of the worldthan many who could reckon their estates in acreage or who owned somany miles of fenced-off property. She held a mortgage on every inchof free roadway, rugged hilltop, or virgin forest her feet crossed.She claimed squatters' rights on every bit of shaded pasture, orsunlit glade, or singing brook her heart rejoiced in. In other words,everything outside of walls and fences belonged to her by virtue ofher vagabondage; and she had often found herself pitying the narrowfolk who possessed only what their deeds or titles allotted to them.
And yet never in Patsy's life had she felt quite so sure about it asshe did this morning, probably because she had never before set forthon a self-appointed adventure so heedless of means and consequences.
"Sure, there are enough wise people in the world," she mused as shetramped along; "it needs a few foolish ones to keep things happening.And could a foolish adventuring body be bound for a better place thanArden!"
She rounded a bend in the road and came upon a stretch of old stumpfencing. From one of the stumps appeared to be hanging a grotesquefigure of some remarkable cut; it looked both ancient and romantic,sharply silhouetted against the iridescence of the dawn.
Patsy eyed it curiously. "It comes natural for me to be partial toanything hanging to a thorn, or a stump; but--barring that--it stilllooks interesting."
As she came abreast it she saw it was not hanging, however. It wasperched on a lower prong of a root and it was a man, clothed in themost absolute garment of rags Patsy had ever seen off the legitimatestage.
"From an artistic standpoint they are perfect," was Patsy's mentaltribute. "Wouldn't Willie Fay give his Sunday dinner if he couldgather him in as he is, just--to play the tinker! Faith! those ragsare so real I wager he keeps them together only by the grace of God."
As she stopped in front of the figure he turned his head slowly andgazed at her with an expression as far away and bewildered as a lostbaby's.
In the half-light of the coming day he looked supernatural--a strangespirit from under the earth or above the earth, but not of the earth.This was borne in upon Patsy's consciousness, and it set her Celticblood tingling and her eyes a-sparkling.
"He looks as half-witted as those back in the Old Country who havethe second sight and see the faeries. Aye, and he's as young andhandsome as a king's son. Poor lad!" And then she called aloud, "'Tisa brave day, this."
"Hmm!" was the response, rendered impartially.
Patsy's alert eyes spied a nondescript kit flung down in the grass atthe man's feet and they set a-dancing. "Then ye _are_ a tinker?"
"Hmm!" was again the answer. It conveyed an impression of hesitantdoubt, as if the speaker would have avoided, if he could, theresponsibility of being anything at all, even a tinker.
"That's grand," encouraged Patsy. "I like tinkers, and, what's more,I'm a bit of a vagabond myself. I'll grant ye that of late years thetinkers are treated none too hearty about Ireland; but there was atime--" Patsy's mind trailed off into the far past, into a maze oflegend and folk-tale wherein tinkers were figures of romance andmystery. It was good luck then to fall in with such company; andPatsy, being more a product of past romance than presentcivilization, was pleased to read into this meeting the promise of afair road and success to her quest.
Moreover, there was another appeal--the apparent helplessbewilderment of the man himself and his unreality. He was certainlynot in possession of all his senses, from whatever world he mighthave dropped; and helplessness in man or beast was a blood bond withPatsy, making instant claim on her own abundant sympathies and wits.
She held the tinker with a smile of open comradeship while her voicetook on an alluring hint of suggestion. "Ye can't be thinking ofhanging onto that stump all day--now what road might ye betaking--the one to Arden?"
For some minutes the tinker considered her and her question with anexaggerated gravity; then he nodded his head in a final agreement.
"Grand! I'm bound that way myself; maybe ye know Arden?"
"Maybe."
"And how far might it be?"
"Seven miles."
Patsy wrinkled her forehead. "That's strange; 'twas seven miles lastnight, and I've tramped half the distance already, I'm thinking.Never mind! What's behind won't trouble me, and the rest of the waywill soon pass in good company. Come on," and she beckoned her headin indisputable command.
Once again he considered her slowly. Then, as if satisfied, he swunghimself down from his perch on the stump fence, gathered up his kit,and in another minute had fallen into step with her; and the twowere contentedly tramping along the road.
"The man who's writing this play," mused Patsy, "is trying to matchwits with Willie Shakespeare. If any one finds him out they'll havehim up for plag
iarizing."
She chuckled aloud, which caused the tinker to cast an uneasy glancein her direction.
"Poor lad! The half-wits are always suspicious of others' wits. Hethinks I'm fey." And then aloud: "Maybe ye are not knowing it, butanything at all is likely to happen to ye to-day--on the road toArden. According to Willie Shakespeare--whom ye are not likely to beacquainted with--it's a place where philosophers and banished dukesand peasants and love-sick youths and lions and serpents all livehappily together under the 'Greenwood Tree.' Now, I'm the banishedduke's own daughter--only no one knows it; and ye--sure, ye can takeyour choice between playing the younger brother--or the fool."
"The fool," said the tinker, solemnly; and then of a sudden he threwback his head and laughed.
Patsy stopped still on the road and considered him narrowly."Couldn't ye laugh again?" she suggested when the laugh was ended."It improves ye wonderfully." An afterthought flashed in her mind."After all's said and done, the fool is the best part in the wholeplay."
After this they tramped along in silence. The tinker kept a little inadvance, his head erect, his hands swinging loosely at his sides, hiseyes on nothing at all. He seemed oblivious of what lay back of himor before him--and only half conscious of the companion at his side.But Patsy's fancy was busy with a hundred things, while her eyes wentafield for every scrap of prettiness the country held. There weremeadows of brilliant daisies, broken by clumps of silver poplars,white birches, and a solitary sentinel pine; and there was theroadside tangle with its constant surprises of meadowsweet andcolumbine, white violets--in the swampy places--and once in a whilean early wild rose.
"In Ireland," she mused, "the gorse would be out, fringing thepastures, and on the roadside would be heartsease and faery thimbles,and perhaps a few late primroses; and the meadow would be green withcorn." A faint wisp of a sigh escaped her at the thought, and thetinker looked across at her questioningly. "Sure, it's my hearthungering a bit for the bogland and a whiff of the turf smoke. Thisexile idea is a grand one for a play, but it gets lonesome at timesin real life. Maybe ye are Irish yourself?"
"Maybe."
It was Patsy's turn to glance across at the tinker, but all she sawwas the far-away, wondering look that she had seen first in his face."Poor lad! Like as not he finds it hard remembering where he's from;they all do. I'll not pester him again."
He looked up and caught her eyes upon him and smiled foolishly.
Patsy smiled back. "Do ye know, lad, I've not had a morsel ofbreakfast this day. Have ye any money with ye, by chance?"
The tinker stopped, put down his kit, and hunted about in his ragswhere the pocket places might be; but all he drew forth were his twoempty hands. He looked down the stretch of road they had come with anodd twist to his mouth, then he burst forth into another laugh.
"Have ye been playing the pigeon, and some one plucked ye?" sheasked, and went on without waiting for his answer. "Never mind! We'llsharpen up our wits afresh and earn a breakfast. Are ye handy attinkering, now?"
"You bet I am!" said the tinker. It was the longest speech he hadmade.
* * * * *
At the next farm Patsy turned in, with a warning to the tinker to doas he was told and to hold his tongue. It was a thoroughlywell-kept-looking farm, and she picked out what she decided must bethe side door, and knocked. A kindly-faced, middle-aged woman openedit, and Patsy smiled with the good promise of her looks.
"We are two--down on our luck, and strangers hereabouts. Have ye gotany tinkering jobs for my man there? He's a bit odd and says little;but he can solder a broken pot or mend a machine with the best. Andwe'll take out our pay in a good, hearty meal."
"There be a pile of dishes in the pantry I've put by till we wasgoin' to town--handles off and holes in the bottom. He can mend themout on the stoop, if he likes. I've got to help with berry-pickin';we're short-handed this season."
"Are ye, just? Then I'm thinking I'll come in handy." Patsy smiledher smile of winning comradeship as she stooped and picked up a trayof empty berry-boxes that stood by the door; while the woman's smiledeepened with honest appreciation.
"My! but you are willing folks; they're sometimes scarce 'roundhere."
"Faith, we're hungry folks--so ye best set us quickly to work."
They left the tinker on the stoop, surrounded by a heterogeneouscollection of household goods. Patsy cast an anxious backward glanceat him, but saw that he was rolling up the rags that served forsleeves, thereby baring a pair of brawny, capable-looking arms, whilehe spread his tools before him after the manner of a man who knowshis business.
"Fine!" commented Patsy, with an inner satisfaction. "He may befoolish, but I bet he can tinker."
They picked berries for an hour or more, and then Patsy turned tooand helped the woman get dinner. They bustled about in silence to theaccompanying pounding and scraping of the tinker, who workedunceasingly. When they sat down to dinner at last there was atableful--the woman and her husband, Patsy, the tinker, and the"hands," and before them was spread the very best the farm couldgive. It was as if the woman wished to pay their free-will gift ofservice with her unstinted bounty.
"We always ask a blessin'," said the farmer, simply, folding hishands on the table, about to begin. Then he looked at Patsy, and,with that natural courtesy that is common to the true man of thesoil, he added, "We'd be pleased if you'd ask it."
Patsy bowed her head. A little whimsical smile crept to her lips, buther voice rang deep with feeling: "For food and fellowship, goodLord, we thank Thee. Amen!" And she added under her breath, "Andtake a good grip of the Rich Man's son till we get him."
* * * * *
The late afternoon found them back on the road once more. They partedfrom the farmer and his wife as friend parts with friend. The womanslipped a bundle of food--bread, cheese, and meat left from thedinner, with a box of berries--into Patsy's hand, while the man gavethe tinker a half-dollar and wished him luck.
Patsy thanked them for both; but it was not until they were well outof earshot that she spoke to the tinker: "They are good folk, butthey'd never understand in a thousand years how we came to betraveling along together. What folks don't know can't hurt them, and'tis often easier holding your tongue than trying to explain whatwill never get through another's brain. Now put that lunch into yourkit; it may come in handy--who knows? And God's blessing on all kindhearts!"
Whereupon the tinker nodded solemnly.
They had tramped for a mile or more when they came to a cross-roadsmarked by a little white church. From the moment they sighted itPatsy's feet began to lag; and by the time they reached the crossingof the ways she had stopped altogether and was gazing up at thelittle gold cross with an odd expression of whimsical earnestness.
"Do ye know," she said, slowly, clasping the hands long shorn of thevagabond gloves--"do ye know I've told so many lies these last twodays I think I'll bide yonder for a bit, and see can Saint Anthonylift the sins from me. 'Twould make the rest o' the road lessburdensome--don't ye think?"
The tinker looked uncomfortably confused, as though this suddenquestion of ethics or religion was too much for his scattered wits.He dug the toe of his boot in the gravel of the church path andremoved his cap to aid the labor of his thinking. "Maybe--" he agreedat last. "An' will I be waitin' for you--or keepin' on?"
"Ye'll wait, of course," commanded Patsy.
She had barely disappeared through the little white door, and thetinker thrown himself down with his back to the sign-post whichmarked the roads, when a sorrel mare and a runabout came racing downthe road over which they had just come. There were two men in therunabout, both of them tense and alert, their heads craned far inadvance of the rest of them, their eyes scanning the diverging roads.
"I cal'ate she's gone that way." The driver swung the whip,indicating the road that ran south.
"Wall--I cal'ate so, too," agreed the other. "But then again--shemightn't."
They reined in and dis
covered the tinker. "Some one passed this waysence you been settin' there?" they inquired almost in unison.
"I don't know"--the tinker's fingers passed hurriedly across his eyesand forehead, by way of seeking misplaced wits--"some one might bealmost any one," he smiled, cheerfully.
"Look here, young feller, if you're tryin' to be smart--" the driverbegan, angrily; but his companion silenced him with a nudge and afinger tapped significantly on the crown of his hat. He moderated histone:
"We're after a girl in a brown suit and hat--undersized girl. She wasasking the way to Arden. Seen any one of that description?"
"What do you want with her?"
"Never mind," growled the first man.
But the second volunteered meager information, "She's a suspect.Stayed last night in the Inn and this morning a couple of thousanddollars' worth of diamonds is missin'; that's what we want her for."
The tinker brightened perceptibly. "Guess she went by in a wagon halfan hour ago--that way. I think I saw her," and as the men turnedsouthward down the road marked Arden he called after them, "Betterhurry, if you want to catch her; the wagon was going at a right smartpace."
He waited for their backs to be turned and for the crack of the whipthat lifted the heels of the sorrel above the dashboard before sheplunged, then, with amazing speed, of mind as well as of body, hewrenched every sign from the post and pitched them out of sightbehind a neighboring stone wall.
The dust from departing wheels still filled the air when Patsystepped out of the cross-roads church, peacefully radiant, and foundthe tinker sitting quietly with his back against the post.
"So ye are still here. I thought ye might have grown tired of mycompany, after all, and gone on." Patsy laughed happily. "Now do yeknow which road goes to Arden?"
"Sure," and the tinker joined in her laugh, while he pointed to thestraight road ahead, the road that ran west, at right angles to theone the runabout had taken.
"Come on, then," said Patsy; "we ought to be there by sundown." Shestopped and looked him over for the space of a second. "Ye areimproving wonderfully. Mind! ye mustn't be getting too keen-witted orwe'll have to be parting company."
"Why?"
"That's the why!" And with this satisfactory explanation she led theway down the road the tinker had pointed.