CHAPTER I
CONCERNING ONE TOM MARTIN, AN OSTLER
I sat upon a hay pile in that same shady corner of the yard behind the "Chequers" inn where once had stood a weather-beaten cart drawn by a four-footed philosopher called Diogenes.
But to-day this corner was empty save for myself, and the yard also except for two or three wains or country waggons and a man in a sleeved waistcoat who chewed upon a straw and stared at the inn, the waggons and myself with a faded, lack-lustre eye and sniffed; so frequently indeed, and so loudly that at last it obtruded itself upon my notice.
"You have a very bad cold!" said I.
"I ain't!" he retorted gloomily.
"Yet you sniff very loud."
"Con-sti-tootional!" quoth he. "My feyther done it afore me, an' 'is feyther afore 'im, 'an 'is feyther afore 'im an'—but wot of it, my chap? Can't a cove sniff if so minded?"
"Certainly!" I answered.
"I ain't said nothink to you about wallerin' in that theer 'ay—'ave
I? Very well! Why can't you let a man sniff in peace?"
"Very well," said I, "sniff!"
"I will!" said he and immediately did so, louder than ever.
"Astonishing!" said I.
"A cove can sniff without a cold if so be 't is 'is natur' so to do, can't 'e?"
"So I perceive."
"An' 't is a free country an' such so bein', a man's at liberty to sniff or no, an' no offence give or took, ain't 'e? Very well, then!"
"Very well indeed!" I nodded. "I have never heard a man sniff better or louder—"
"You leave my sniffin' alone an' I'll leave you alone—"
"I hope you will," said I.
"Well, I ain't so sure as I will; you wags your chin too much to please me—an' let me tell ye, bold an' p'inted, I don't like the cock o' your eye! So s'pose you stand on your pins—"
"Well," I answered, stretching myself more comfortably, "let us suppose so—what then?"
"Why, then, my covey, I'll knock ye off your pins again—prompt an' j'yful!"
"Under those circumstances I much prefer to remain as I am."
"Why, then you're a weevil—a worm, ah—an' what's more, a weevily worm at that, an' I spits on ye!"
Here, perceiving that he was about to put his heinous threat into execution, I arose.
"Enough!" quoth I, buttoning my coat. "Now let Olympus shake, the caverns of ocean roar, the round earth tremble! If you have fists, prepare to use them now—come on, pestiferous peasant, most contumacious clod, and 'damned be he that first cries Hold—enough'!"
"Well, drown'd me!" exclaimed the ostler, staring. "Drown'd me if I ever 'eard sich 'orrid talk in all my days, an' I've groomed for a earl—ah, an' a markis afore now!"
Having said which, he clenched his fists, squared his shoulders and launched himself at me like a charging bull. But profiting by Jessamy Todd's many lessons and painful instruction, I danced nimbly aside, tapped him with my left, spun round to meet his second rush, checked him with a flush hit, swung my right beneath his chin and next moment saw him sitting upon the cobblestones, legs wide-straddled, gaping about him with a vacant air.
"'Oly 'eavens!" he murmured, glancing from the cloudless sky to me and back again. "An' sich a whipper-snapper—'oly 'eavens!"
"A—weevily worm?" I enquired.
"Sir, I takes it back!" he answered, tenderly feeling his chin. "There ain't a weevil breathin', no, nor yet a worm as could ha' knocked me off my pins so neat an' true! I takes back weevil an' likewise worm, sir."
"Good!" said I, and tossed him a shilling.
"What's this 'ere for?" he enquired.
"The exercise you have afforded me; it has done me good, chased the dusty cobwebs from my brain, stimulated more healthy thought. Life perchance is not all dust and ashes nor the world a pit of noisome gloom; some day even I may learn perhaps to be—almost happy—"
"Lord, sir, you sound as if you'd been crossed an' double-crossed in love, you do—"
"Ah—what do you mean?"
"No offence, sir! But y' see, I were in love once—ah, an' with a sweet purty lass an' she wi' me, but afore I could marry 'er she bolted along of a circus cove in a scarlet, laced coat an' whip, d'ye see."
"Extremely feminine!" said I, nodding.
"May be, sir, but one day she come creepin' back to me, very 'eart-broke an' shameful, pore lass; seems the circus cove, growin' tired-like, 'ad took to usin' 'is whip on 'er—an' so she come a-creepin' back to me."
"And what then?"
"Why, then, o' course I married 'er."
"Married her! But after—the disgrace—"
"There weren't no disgrace; I married 'er! Y' see, I loved 'er purty looks an' gentle ways."
"And you—married her—notwithstanding! You forgave her!"
"Aye, I did—years an' years ago! Ah, an' a danged good little wife she's been too—ah, an' mother—none better."
"Have you many children?"
"Nine!"
"And you feed them all?"
"Every one—an' very frequent, bless their little 'earts."
"And clothe them?"
"As well as I can, sir, though their clo'es gets uncommon wore an' 'oley, 'igh an' low—specially low, sir!"
"You provide a roof to shelter them?"
"Aye—such as it is—needs re-thatchin' bad."
"And are you happy?"
"Aye, I am—though times is 'ard."
"And pray what is your name?"
"Martin, sir—Thomas Martin."
"Then, Thomas Martin, you are a man—and a better, a far better man than I, for—hear me confess, Tom Martin, I have never performed any one of these man's virtues. You have done nobly!" And I thrust five guineas into his work-hardened palm.
"Well drown'd me!" he gasped, very much as if he were undergoing that watery ordeal. "Egad, sir! Lord love your eyes an' limbs—"
"For the children and their mother," said I.
"God bless ye, sir!"
"Indeed I hope He may. Heaven knows I have been a sufficing failure hitherto, a sorrow to myself and my friends. But you, Tom Martin, have inspired me to attempt a notable good action—perhaps the noblest of my life. So good-bye, Tom; let me hasten to perform the best act I ever did!"
Hurrying into the inn I called for pens, ink and paper, and sitting down forthwith, wrote this:
MY DEAR ANTHONY:
The wind has whispered, a bird has sung to me, and an ostler, by name
Tom Martin (long may he flourish) has shown me a man's work.
For who am I, poor finite wretch, to judge my fellows and condemn such as work me evil (and, inadvertently, themselves also, since Evil is double-edged and cuts both ways?) Who am I to despise or dislove them for the pain they cause me to endure (and, inadvertently, themselves also?) Should I not rather seek to forget past wrongs, to cherish and comfort such as despitefully use me? Is not this the secret of true and abiding happiness?
My two uncles (whom God eternally bless!) waked in me the desire to be a true man; and what is there more manly than to forget a wrong, to forgive past trespasses and cherish the hand that has hurt us?
So to-day, dear Anthony, instead of awaiting you here, I do a better thing; to-day at last, I go seeking my manhood in the achievement of a nobler act than I ever thought possible of my accomplishment; to-day I go to Diana.
Your devoted friend,
PEREGRINE VEREKER.
This letter despatched, I ordered a horse to be saddled; very soon, thanks to Tom Martin's zeal, the animal was at the door and, though the day was far advanced, I mounted forthwith and galloped away for Wyvelstoke Towers.