CHAPTER VI.
"We are all creatures of habit." So my learned uncle, Draen y Coed, whowas a Welsh hedgehog, used to say. "Which was why an ancestor of my own,who acted as turnspit in the kitchen of a farmhouse in Yorkshire, quiteabandoned the family custom of walking out in the cool of the evening,and declared that he couldn't take two steps in comfort except in acircle, and in front of a kitchen-fire at roasting heat."
Uncle Draen y Coed was right, and I must add that I doubt if, in all hisexperience, or among the strange traditions of his most eccentricancestors, he could find an instance of change of habits so unexpected,so complete, I may say so headlong, as when very quiet people, with analmost surly attachment to home, break the bounds of the domesticcircle, and take to gadding, gossiping, and excitement.
Perhaps it is because they find that their fellow-creatures are nicerthan they have been wont to allow them to be, and that other people'saffairs are quite as interesting as their own.
Perhaps--but what is the good of trying to explain infatuations?
Why do we all love valerian? I can only record that, having set up everyprickle on our backs against intruders into our wood, we now dreadednothing more than that our neighbours should forsake us, and wished fornothing better than for fresh arrivals.
In old days, when my excellent partner and I used to take our eveningstroll up the field, we were wont to regard it quite as a grievance if acousin, who lived at the far end of the hedge, came out and caught usand detained us for a gossip. But now I could hardly settle to my middaynap for thinking of the tinker-mother; and as to Mrs. Hedgehog, shealmost annoyed me by her anxiety to see Christian. However, curiosity isthe foible of her sex, and I accompanied her daily to the encampmentwithout a murmur.
The seven urchins we sent down to the burdocks to pick snails.
It was not many days after that on which we heard the old tinker-motherrelate Christian's history, that we were stopped on our way to thecorner where we usually concealed ourselves, by hearing strange voicesfrom the winding pathway above us.
"It's a young man," said I.
"It's Christian!" cried Mrs. Hedgehog.
"I feel sure that it is not," said I; "but if you will keep quiet, Iwill creep a little forward and see."
I am always in the right, as I make a point of reminding Mrs. Hedgehogwhenever we dispute; and I was right on this occasion.
The lad who spoke was a young gentleman of about seventeen, and no morelike a gipsy than I am. His fair hair was closely cropped, his eyes werequick and bright, his manner was alert and almost anxious, and though hewas very slight as well as very young, he carried himself with dignityand some little importance. A lady, much older than himself, was withhim, whom he was helping down the path.
"Take care, Gertrude, take care. There is no hurry, and I believethere's no one in the wood but ourselves."
"The people at the inn told us that there were gipsies in theneighbourhood," said the lady; "and oh, Ted! this is exactly the wood Idreamt of, except the purple and white--"
"Gertrude! What on earth are you after?"
"The flowers, Ted, the flowers in my dream! There they are, a perfectcarpet of them. White--oh, how lovely!--and there, on the other side,are the purple ones. What are they, dear? I know you are a goodbotanist. He always raved about your collection."
"Nonsense, I'm not a botanist. Several other fellows went in for it whenthe prize was offered, and all that my collection was good for was hisdoing. I never did see any one arrange flowers as he did, I must say.Every specimen was pressed so as somehow to keep its own way of growing.And when I did them, a columbine looked as stiff as a dog-daisy. I nevercould keep any character in them. Watson--the fellow who drew sowell--made vignettes on the blank pages to lots of the specimens--'LikelyHabitats' we called them. He used to sit with his paint-box in mywindow, and Christian used to sit outside the window, on the edge,dangling his legs, and describing scenes out of his head for Watson todraw. Watson used to say, 'I wish I could paint with my brush as thatfellow paints with his tongue'--and when the vignettes were admired,I've heard him say, in his dry way, 'I copied them from Christian'spaintings;' and the fellows used to stare, for you know he couldn'tdraw a line. And when--But I say, Gertrude, for Heaven's sake, don'tdevour everything I say with those great pitiful eyes of yours. I am aregular brute to talk about him."
"No, Ted, no. It makes me so happy to hear you, and to know that youknow how good he really was, and how much he must have been aggravatedbefore--"
"For goodness' sake, don't cry. Christian was a very good fellow, acapital fellow. I never thought I could have got on so well with any onewho was--I mean who wasn't--well, of course I mean who was really agipsy. I don't blame him a bit for resenting being bullied about hisparents. I only blame myself for not looking better after him. But youknow that well enough--you know it's because I never can forgive myselffor having managed so badly when you put him in my care, that I ambacking you through this mad expedition, though I don't approve of itone bit, and though I know John will blame me awfully."
("It's the clergywoman," whispered Mrs. Hedgehog excitedly, "and I mustand will see her."
When it comes to this with Mrs. Hedgehog's sex, there is nothing for itbut to let the dear creatures have their own way, and take theconsequences. She pushed her nose straight through the lower branches ofan arbutus in which we were concealed, and I myself managed to get anearer sight of our new neighbours.
As we crept forward, the clergywoman got up from where she was kneelingamongst the flowers, and laid her hand on the young gentleman's arm. Inoticed it because I had never seen such a white hand before; Sybil'spaws were nearly as dark as my own.)
"John will blame no one if we find Christian," she said. "You are very,very good, Cousin Ted, to come with me and help me when you do notbelieve in my dream. But you must say it is odd about the flowers. Andyou haven't told me yet what they are."
"It is the bulbous-rooted fumitory," said the young man, pulling a pieceat random in the reckless way in which men do disfigure forestflower-beds. "It isn't strictly indigenous, but it is naturalized inmany places, and you must have seen it before, though you fancy youhaven't."
"I have seen it once before," she said earnestly--"all in delicateglaucous-green masses, studded with purple and white, like these; but itwas in my dream. I never saw it otherwise, though I know you don'tbelieve me."
"Dear Gertrude, I'll believe anything you like to tell me, if you'llcome home. I'm sure I have done very wrong. You know I'm always hard up,but I declare I'd give a hundred pounds if you'd come home with me atonce. I don't believe there's a gipsy within--"
"Good-day, my pretty young gentleman. Let the poor gipsy girl tell youyour fortune."
He turned round and saw Sybil standing at his elbow, her eyes flashingand her white teeth gleaming in a broad smile. He stood speechless insudden surprise; but the clergywoman, who was not surprised, cameforward with her white hands stretched so expressively towards Sybil'sbrown ones, that the gipsy girl all but took them in her own.
"Please kindly tell me--do you know anything of a young gipsy, namedChristian?"
The clergywoman spoke with such vehemence that Sybil answered directly,"I know his grandmother"--and then suddenly stopped herself.
But as she spoke, she had turned her head with an expressive gesture inthe direction of the encampment, and without waiting for more, theclergywoman ran down the path, calling on her cousin to follow her.
Brothers of Pity and Other Tales of Beasts and Men Page 8