CHAPTER XVI.
eaving the Priory on her right, Fairy went down the street in which stands the pretty old wooden house in which Anne of Cleves is said to have lived, and which goes by her name, from whence she turned up a lane into the High-street, and going to the bottom of the hill on which the High-street is built, she paused at a blacksmith’s shop.
The blacksmith was the father of the veterinary whom Fairy was seeking, and both men were standing in the shed, the blacksmith in his apron, with his hammer in his hand, scratching his head, and looking exceedingly puzzled, the veterinary in his shirt-sleeves, which looked like a protest against the heat which streamed from his father’s forge. He, too, looked equally puzzled.
In the centre of the shed stood a third figure, a gentleman, tall, thin, young, and dark—if not handsome, at least very good-looking—with an aristocratic air about him which at once caught Fairy’s fancy. She saw at a glance he was unlike anyone she had ever met before, by the cut of his clothes and the dark moustache, in days when moustaches were rarely seen in England; she half suspected he was not English, and his first words, in a strong foreign accent, confirmed this idea.
“I want to take it wif me, a horse’s iron, the iron of a horse.”
Fairy’s appearance in the shed caused the stranger to turn round, and seeing a lady he took off his hat and bowed so profoundly, at the same time stepping back, and gracefully hinting, by a wave of his hand, that his business would wait till hers was concluded, removed any lingering doubts in her mind as to his nationality. He was French, she was sure, and for the first time in her life, to her knowledge, Fairy found herself face to face with a Frenchman, as great a curiosity then as a Japanese or Chinaman is now.
Fairy returned his elaborate bow with a pretty inclination of her graceful head, and briefly stated her business to the veterinary, who, however, seemed to hesitate at first to come at once, and Fairy was obliged to resort to a little judicious flattery to induce him to comply with her request.
While she was speaking the stranger had an opportunity of indulging in a good look at her without her being aware of it. How pretty she was! fresher and brighter and prettier than ever among the dark, grimy surroundings of the blacksmith’s shop, which formed a striking background for this brilliant little vision of youth and health and beauty, the red glow of the furnace sending a rosy reflection over her white dress, and kindling the soft golden lights in her hair into a burning auburn. How simply she was dressed too! the first of her countrywomen who understood the art of dressing herself who had yet crossed the stranger’s path, he afterwards told her; and yet her boots and gloves, about which Fairy was very particular, fitted her tiny hands and feet to perfection.
Where did she come from, this blooming little creature, who looked as if a puff of wind might blow her away, so small and slight and dainty was she? And in default of wind the young Frenchman was by no means sure that she would not suddenly spread out a pair of wings from among the folds of her white drapery and fly away! At any rate he determined to speak to her first and satisfy himself that she was flesh and blood, and not a mere sprite or vision, so as she turned to leave, after having prevailed upon the veterinary to do her bidding at once, he stepped forward, and, with another grand bow and a smile, he said, in his native tongue—
“Mademoiselle peut-elle parler Français?”
“Mais oui, monsieur,” answered Fairy.
“Pardon mille fois, mademoiselle est Française?” said the Frenchman, with true French politeness.
“Mais non, monsieur,” laughed Fairy, in a half-reproachful, half-deprecating tone.
“Mademoiselle speaks like a native, but will she have the kindness to tell me what is the English for fer-de-cheval; I have forgotten?”
“A horseshoe,” said Fairy.
“A horseshoe,” lisped the Frenchman.
“A horseshoe, and he asked for a horse’s iron; no wonder I didn’t know what he meant,” growled the blacksmith, proceeding to get the article in question.
“A horseshoe—a horse’s iron,” laughed the veterinary, in an undertone of scorn, as he went his way to look after John Shelley’s sheep.
“Yes,” said the Frenchman, in French, to Fairy, “I want a horseshoe. They tell me a horseshoe always brings good luck, so I am going to keep one in my room.”
“Oh, but it is no use to buy a horseshoe; you must find it, pick it up on the road, and keep it for it to bring good luck,” laughed Fairy, speaking French.
“Is that it? Well, never mind, this horseshoe has brought me some good luck at any rate already.” And then, fearing he was presuming too much on his brief acquaintance to pay the compliment his last speech implied, he added, apologetically, “I have not often the good luck to meet a lady out of France who speaks French so fluently as mademoiselle.”
“Monsieur is very kind to say so, but unless I can be of any further use I must say good morning,” said Fairy, moving to the door.
The young Frenchman uttered a thousand thanks, bowed lower than ever, and stood uncovered at the door of the shed, watching till Fairy’s little figure and fluttering white skirts disappeared from view.
“Rum ways! Is Mr. Parlez-vous, with his outlandish talk, going to stand there all day in the broiling sun? He’ll have a sunstroke if he does. He is the queerest customer ever darkened my door,” growled the blacksmith, as he hammered on his anvil to attract the stranger’s attention.
The stranger had no intention of moving until Fairy had disappeared from view, and then he put on his hat and walked up to the anvil.
“Who is that lady?” he asked.
“Nobody knows,” growled the surly old blacksmith.
“What is her name?”
“Can’t say; nobody knows,” answered the blacksmith, in a still surlier tone, though to do him justice he thought this fine gentleman’s sudden interest in the shepherd’s Fairy, as people called her, boded no good to Fairy.
“How much is the horse-iron—shoe, I mean?”
“Sixpence, sir.”
The Frenchman laid down half-a-crown, and pushing it towards the blacksmith, gave him a meaning look as he repeated the question.
“What is that lady’s name?”
The blacksmith understood well enough that if he gave a satisfactory answer no change would be required, and soothing his conscience with the thought that after all it was no business of his—he was only answering a civil question, he said, “They call her the shepherd’s Fairy.”
“But what is her real name?” and the Frenchman produced another half-crown, and held it temptingly in his finger and thumb.
“I never heard tell of any name but that; she is John Shelley’s foster daughter,” answered the man, glancing at the second half-crown, which was now lying by the side of the first.
“And where does John Shelley live?”
“At Bournemer, about a mile and a half from here.”
“Comment? How do you call it, Bonnemère? How can I get there?”
“Can’t say; it ain’t easy to find,” said the blacksmith, thinking the Frenchman had had his five shillings’ worth, and, as was evident from his manner, resolved not to enlighten him any further.
“Easy or difficult, I shall find it, my civil friend,” said the young Frenchman, in French, and then, raising his hat, he wished the blacksmith good-day, and left the forge, muttering to himself a criticism on the manners of these English not over flattering to our nation.
“Palavering jackanapes, talking a tongue that no one understands but himself! What has the shepherd’s Fairy to do with him, I should like to know? But there don’t appear to be any scarcity of half-crowns with him; seems made up of them. A queer customer—a mighty queer customer; I wonder where he hails from.” And so saying, the blacksmith went to his door to look after the young Frenchman.
The stranger walked up the High-street to the Crown, where he had left his horse, and when it was brought to him, innocently asked the ostler if he could get back to Oafham, where he was staying, by Bournemer.
“Yes, sir; you can go across yonder meadows; there is a drift right through them which will bring you out close upon John Shelley, the shepherd’s, house; go past that and turn sharp to your right, that will take you straight back to the park,” said the ostler, giving the stranger all the information he required for nothing.
A few minutes later the blacksmith strolled casually up to the inn, and inquired of the ostler who that foreign gentleman was.
“Dunnow; reckon he is some relation of Lady Oafham up at Oafham Park; they say my lady’s sister is married to a French gentleman; anyhow, he is staying there. I know the mare.”
“He is a rum customer, wherever he is staying. He didn’t happen to ask you where John Shelley lived, did he now?” said the blacksmith.
“No, but I happened to tell him,” returned the ostler.
“More fool you, then. Ah! he is a queer customer.” And muttering to himself all the way down the street, the blacksmith returned to his forge.
Meanwhile the French gentleman rode slowly off in the direction indicated by the ostler, keeping his horse to a walking pace for fear he should overtake Fairy, who, after a little while, he discerned as a little speck of white some way in front of him. He paid no heed to the ostler’s directions now; where that speck of white led he would follow, but at a safe distance, lest he should frighten or annoy her if discovered. Keeping well in the rear, he saw Fairy finally turn into the field in which the shepherd’s cottage stood, and as soon as she was out of sight he put his horse into a canter, and rode past, taking a good survey, as he passed, of the house of the shepherd’s Fairy, whom he had traced to her home.
(To be continued.)
