Chapter 1

THE PLEASURES OF THE ROAD.

The caravan rolled slowly along the dusty road with creakings and groanings and jingling of horse-bells. It was painted a dark-green colour, with white-curtained windows picked out in rose pink, and bright red shafts and wheels. The corrugated iron roof showed no signs of exposure to wind, rain, or sun, while the brasswork on door and harness glittered like fine gold. Evidently it was quite new, and this was its first journey into rural England. The sleek black animal that drew the gaily tinted structure picked his steps leisurely; his driver strolled alongside with sauntering step and whistling lip. A complacent fox-terrier followed at his master's heels with an observant eye for stray rabbits. Man, and horse, and dog, and house on wheels looked fitter for play than for work. There was something exasperating in their idle looks and lazy meanderings. A holiday company in holiday humour.

It was very pleasant creeping across the broad heath in the twilight. Overhead, the sky, a dome of opal tints, showed here and there a twinkling star; underfoot, the grass, dry with summer heat, revealed moorland flowers. Between heaven and earth blew cool winds laden with many odours. In vague immensity the plain spread on every side towards the luminous horizon, and the caravan with its attendant life was but a speck on its vast bosom. Bird and beast and insect had retired to rest, and over all this large empty world brooded a dead silence. It was less like a moor in crowded England than a trackless wilderness in some unexplored country.

For over an hour man and animals pursued their way. With their backs to the sunset, they pressed steadily onward, as if in search of some unseen goal. Then the fox-terrier grew weary, and jumped up on the doorstep behind, where he whimpered angrily for his victuals. His master merely laughed at such doggish impatience, and kept a keen look-out for the sign whereby to determine his halting-place for the night. Shortly a mighty ridge topped by stunted pines heaved up like a wave on the plain. The horse stopped at a signal from his driver.

"It cannot be far off now," murmured the latter; "there are the pines, but I don't see the tall one."

Here the road curved to the right, and round this the horse plodded of his own accord. The change of position brought into sight a many-branched pine, which showed proudly above its fellows. When he saw the tree loom black against the clear sky, the owner of the caravan gave a nod of satisfaction as at an expected sight, and looked thoughtfully from road to heath. His meditation only lasted two minutes.

"I must go cross country," said he, and guided the horse on to the yielding turf.

The vehicle swung and swayed and dipped and rose on the uneven ground, but by leading the horse carefully an upset was avoided. In a quarter of an hour the man and his belongings halted at the foot of the ridge immediately below the tall pine. A dull murmur like the buzzing of bees became audible, and the man stilled the impatient yapping of the dog to listen.

"The sea!"

Hardly had the last word left his lips, when an old woman--ugly as the witch of Endor--with red coif and scarlet cloak, hobbled out of the wood and planted herself deliberately before him. Her brown face, peaked eyes, and sharply cut features would have proclaimed her Romany, even without her fantastic garments and dazzling gold coins. From ears and neck and wrists depended strings of sequins, which jingled musically as she shivered in the keen air and stared at the new-comer. He beheld a withered gipsy hag, she a splendidly handsome young man. In her feminine eyes he was well worth looking at. Brown velveteen coat and knickerbockers, grey cloth shirt with blue neckerchief, cloth cap, gaiters, and heavy boots. There you have his dress--that of a gamekeeper. Yet the wearer would not have escaped the guillotine in the Reign of Terror. Aristocrat was writ largely on face and bearing. His six feet of stalwart manhood showed the influence of athletic training; his masterful mien, and the imperious look of his grey eyes, firm lips, and wide nostrils, betrayed the class to which he belonged. A glance revealed that this dominating nature was derived from long generations of men accustomed to command. His attempt to pass as a man of the people was a dismal failure. A step, a word, a gesture, proclaimed his breeding, and showed him superior to his surroundings. With the astuteness of her race, the gipsy saw the stamp of birth in this shabbily dressed vagrant, and framed her speech accordingly.

"Cross my hand with gold, my fair-faced lord, and let the poor gipsy tell your fortune."

The man addressed smoothed his moustache, and looked down with a quiet smile at the red-cloaked dame. He reflected before making answer, and even when he opened his mouth gave her but little satisfaction.

"With you, no doubt, every one to be wheedled is a lord."

"Trust a Romany to trick a Gorgio," said she, with a flicker of mirth in her glazed eye; "but truth will out at times. You are a gentleman, rye."

He glanced at the vehicle behind him, at his rough clothes and heavy boots, and dismissed her speech with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.

"A gentleman! A lord! And tramping the country tinker-fashion! Your eyes are not sharp, mother."

"Glib tongue! Steady eye. A rare lie, my dearie; but Mother Jericho ain't no fool. Can an eagle hide in goose-feathers? No! nor can you hide gentle birth in rough clothes."

"I am having greatness thrust upon me," he answered smiling. "You are quite wrong, mother. Some rags of gentility, some scraps of learning, I may have picked up; but I am neither lord nor gentleman. My name is Dan, and I set up for being a cheap-jack."

"Can you patter, rye?"

"Can I what?" asked he, unable to understand her speech.

"He! he!" mocked Mother Jericho. "A fine cheap-jack, truly! Why, he doesn't even know the lingo of the road! No, no, my dearie; I'm too fly to be taken in. Give me your hand and I'll tell your fortune. Then you can go."

Dan was rather annoyed at this speech, which convicted him of being an impostor, and turning away, led his horse past Mother Jericho. She followed, screaming alternate blessings and cursings on his indifference, but neither had the effect of making him pause. Seeing it was useless to gain anything from such imperturbability, the old woman marched off in the opposite direction with a farewell shake of her fist. When the flare of her red cloak was no longer visible, Dan laughed quietly, and patted the fox-terrier.

"Gipsies about, hey, Peter! We must keep a good watch to-night, or we may wake to find ourselves robbed of everything. Here is a chance for you to distinguish yourself, lad."

Peter leaped up and whimpered as to assure Dan that he would do his best; and once more set in motion, the caravan moved up the incline between solemn files of pine trees. A pathway cut through the wood led upward in gentle gradations, so that there was little difficulty in making the ascent. It was now growing dark, and Dan pushed on rapidly so as to reach his camping-place under the tall pine before it became impossible to see his way.

At length the caravan arrived almost at the summit of the ridge, when the road suddenly trended downward to the right and descended into a small dell. This, hollowed in a rough semicircle, was immediately below the tall pine, and being sheltered from the keen sea winds by trees and rocky walls, made a very comfortable camping-place. The limited area at the bottom bore marks of former wayfarers in the shape of wheel-ruts, black ashes of ancient fires, and downtrodden grass. With a nod of satisfaction, the individual who called himself Dan, and asserted so strenuously that he was not a gentleman, halted his horse and began to busy himself in preparations for his camp. He seemed to know his business as pioneer and wanderer. The horse, who answered to the unusual equine name of Simon, was unharnessed and turned loose to feed on the plentiful grass which carpeted the bottom of the dell. Dan rubbed him down in a most scientific manner, and then departed with bucket and lantern to seek for water. Peter was left on guard, and as a strong friendship existed between him and Simon, they bore the absence of their master with less impatience than might have been expected.

Nothing is so clearly defined as the pathway to a spring, for the first act of all wayfarers is to search for water. Other paths may be grass-grown and untrodden, but the way to the spring is always well worn and plainly indicated. With the eye of a practical traveller, Dan selected the most beaten path and followed its track, confident that he would be able to fill his bucket where it ended. His expectations proved correct, for a well of good water under the shadow of a rock soon flashed in the rays of his lantern. Under the pines it was as dark as midnight, and had not Dan been careful to lighten his steps ahead, he would have pitched head foremost into the well. Had this happened, Simon and Peter would have waited his return in vain. As it was, they welcomed him back with neigh and bark. After filling the tea-kettle, Dan placed the bucket before Simon, who buried his nose therein with a grateful snort; nor did he lift his head till the water was gone. His thirst thus satisfied, he betook himself again to his grazing, and Dan, having been merciful to his beast, found time to be merciful to himself. Peter took a deep interest in the movements of his master. When the fire was lighted, he barked at the crackling of the wood, and snapped fiercely at the flying sparks. As Peter danced round it, the fire roared boisterously and lighted the rocky walls and solemn pines with gleams of red flame. There is nothing more cheerful than a fire, and even Dan, who had hitherto been silent, felt its influence, for he broke into a merry song while getting out the food. To the vagrant, where he lights his fire is home, and Dan, broiling rashers of bacon over the friendly flame, felt that he was in his own parlour.

Assisted by Peter, whose mouth watered at the smell and sight of victuals, Dan made ready a plentiful meal. He was a most accomplished cook, and carried with him a store of comestibles which it is certain are unknown in gipsydom. Does your Romany know of p�te de foie gras, or of Italian salami; or does he even guess at the existence of olives, or of caviare? All these toothsome morsels had this luxurious young man in his caravan, thereby giving the lie to his pretence of vagrancy. He was, without doubt, some outcast from civilization who regretted the flesh-pots of Egypt. He loved the life, but not the coarse fare, of the road, and was, so to speak, only playing at being a gipsy. Thoreau would have scorned so half-hearted a disciple, nor would Obermann have relished the company of so patent a sybarite.

Yet on this special occasion Dan devoured none of his delicacies, but contented himself with dry bread, broiled bacon, and capital tea. With an appetite sharpened by keen air and long walks, he performed Homeric feats in the way of eating. For Peter a mutton-bone was provided, and he too proved a valiant trencher-dog--if such a term be allowable. There have been worse meals than that enjoyed by those two in the lonely dell, and when Dan finished his bacon and Peter his bone, both were thoroughly content.