Part 12 (1/2)

As he thus talked, Helmsley took the bottle from him and tasted its contents. The ”yerb wine” was delicious. More grateful to his palate than Chambertin or Clos Vougeot, it warmed and invigorated him, and he took a long draught, Matthew Peke watching him drink it with great satisfaction.

”Let the yerbs run through yer veins for two or three minits, an' ye'll step across yon fields as light as a bird 'oppin' to its nest,” he declared. ”Talk o' tonics,--there's more tonic in a handful o' green stuff growin' as the Lord makes it to grow, than all the purr-escriptions what's sent out o' them big 'ouses in 'Arley Street, London, where the doctors sits from ten to two like spiders waitin' for flies, an' gatherin' in the guineas for lookin' at fools' tongues. Glory be good to me! If all the world were as sick as it's silly, there'd be nowt wantin' to 't but a grave an' a shovel!”

Helmsley smiled, and taking another pull at the black bottle, declared himself much better and ready to go on. He was certainly refreshed, and the weary aching of his limbs which had made every step of the road painful and difficult to him, was gradually pa.s.sing off.

”You are very good to me,” he said, as he returned the remainder of the ”yerb wine” to its owner. ”I wonder why?”

Peke took a draught of his mixture before replying. Then corking the bottle, he thrust it in his pocket.

”Ye wonders why?” And he uttered a sound between a grunt and a chuckle--”Ye may do that! I wonders myself!”

And, giving his basket a hitch, he resumed his slow trudging movement onward.

”You see,” pursued Helmsley, keeping up the pace beside him, and beginning to take pleasure in the conversation--”I may be anything or anybody----”

”Ye may that,” agreed Peke, his eyes fixed as usual on the ground. ”Ye may be a jail-bird or a missioner,--they'se much of a muchity, an' goes on the road lookin' quite simple like, an' the simpler they seems the deeper they is. White 'airs an' feeble legs 'elps 'em along considerable,--nowt's better stock-in-trade than tremblin' s.h.i.+ns. Or ye might be a War-office neglect,--ye looks a bit set that way.”

”What's a War-office neglect?” asked Helmsley, laughing.

”One o' them totterin' old chaps as was in the Light Brigade,” answered Peke. ”There's no end to 'em. They'se all over every road in the country. All of 'em fought wi' Lord Cardigan, an' all o' 'em's driven to starve by an ungrateful Gov'ment. They won't be all dead an' gone till a hundred years 'as rolled away, an' even then I shouldn't wonder if one or two was still left on the tramp a-pipin' his little 'arf-a-league onard tale o' woe to the first softy as forgits the date o' the battle.”

Here he gave an inquisitive side-glance at his companion. ”But you aint quite o' the Balaclava make an' colour. Yer shoulders is millingterry, but yer 'ead is business. Ye might be a gentleman if 'twornt for yer clothes.”

Helmsley heard this definition of himself without flinching.

”I might be a thief,” he said--”or an escaped convict. You've been kind to me without knowing whether I am one or the other, or both. And I want to know why?”

Peke stopped in his walk. They had come to the stile over which the way lay across the fields, and he rested himself and his basket for a moment against it.

”Why?” he repeated,--then suddenly raising one hand, he whispered, ”Listen! Listen to the sea!”

The evening had now almost closed in, and all around them the country lay dark and solitary, broken here and there by tall groups of trees which at night looked like sable plumes, standing stiff and motionless in the stirless summer air. Thousands of stars flashed out across this blackness, throbbing in their orbits with a quick pulsation as of uneasy hearts beating with nameless and ungratified longing. And through the tense silence came floating a long, sweet, pa.s.sionate cry,--a s.h.i.+vering moan of pain that touched the edge of joy,--a song without words, of pleading and of prayer, as of a lover, who, debarred from the possession of the beloved, murmurs his mingled despair and hope to the unsubstantial dream of his own tortured soul. The sea was calling to the earth,--calling to her in phrases of eloquent and urgent music,--caressing her pebbly sh.o.r.es with winding arms of foam, and showering kisses of wild spray against her rocky bosom. ”If I could come to thee! If thou couldst come to me!” was the burden of the waves,--the ceaseless craving of the finite for the infinite, which is, and ever shall be, the great chorale of life. The shuddering sorrow of that low rhythmic boom of the waters rising and falling fathoms deep under cliffs which the darkness veiled from view, awoke echoes from the higher hills around, and David Helmsley, lifting his eyes to the countless planet-worlds sprinkled thick as flowers in the patch of sky immediately above him, suddenly realised with a pang how near he was to death,--how very near to that final drop into the unknown where the soul of man is destined to find All or Nothing! He trembled,--not with fear,--but with a kind of anger at himself for having wasted so much of his life. What had he done, with all his toil and pains? He had gathered a mult.i.tude of riches. Well, and then? Then,--why then, and now, he had found riches but vain getting. Life and Death were still, as they have always been, the two supreme Facts of the universe. Life, as ever, a.s.serted itself with an insistence demanding something far more enduring than the mere possession of gold, and the power which gold brings. And Death presented its unwelcome aspect in the same perpetual way as the Last Recorder who, at the end of the day, closes up accounts with a sum-total paid exactly in proportion to the work done. No more, and no less. And with Helmsley these accounts were reaching a figure against which his whole nature fiercely rebelled,--the figure of Nought, showing no value in his life's efforts or its results. And the sound of the sea to-night in his ears was more full of reproach than peace.

”When the water moans like that,” said Peke softly, under his breath, ”it seems to me as if all the tongues of drowned sailors 'ad got into it an' was beggin' of us not to forget 'em lyin' cold among the sh.e.l.ls an'

weed. An' not only the tongues o' them seems a-speakin' an' a-cryin', but all the stray bones o' them seems to rattle in the rattle o' the foam. It goes through ye sharp, like a knife cuttin' a sour apple; an'

it's made me wonder many a time why we was all put 'ere to git drowned or smashed or choked off or beat down somehows just when we don't expect it. Howsomiver, the Wise One sez it's all right!”

”And who is the Wise One?” asked Helmsley, trying to rouse himself from the heavy thoughts engendered in his mind by the wail of the sea.

”The Wise One was a man what wrote a book a 'underd years ago about 'erbs,” said Peke. ”'_The Way o' Long Life_,' it's called, an' my father an' grandfather and great-grandfather afore 'em 'ad the book, an' I've got it still, though I shows it to n.o.body, for n.o.body but me wouldn't unnerstand it. My father taught me my letters from it, an' I could spell it out when I was a kid--I've growed up on it, an' it's all I ever reads. It's 'ere”--and he touched his ragged vest. ”I trusts it to keep me goin' 'ale an' 'arty till I'm ninety,--an' that's drawin' it mild, for my father lived till a 'underd, an' then on'y went through slippin'

on a wet stone an' breakin' a bone in 'is back; an' my grandfather saw 'is larst Christmas at a 'underd an' ten, an' was up to kissin' a wench under the mistletoe, 'e was sich a chirpin' old gamec.o.c.k. 'E didn't look no older'n you do now, an' you're a chicken compared to 'im. You've wore badly like, not knowin' the use o' yerbs.”

”That's it!” said Helmsley, now following his companion over the stile and into the dark dewy fields beyond--”I need the advice of the Wise One! Has he any remedy for old age, I wonder?”

”Ay, now there ye treads on my fav'rite corn!” and Peke shook his head with a curious air of petulance. ”That's what I'm a-lookin' for day an'

night, for the Wise One 'as got a bit in 'is book which 'e's cropped out o' another Wise One's savin's,--a chap called Para-Cel-Sus”--and Peke p.r.o.nounced this name in three distinct and well-divided syllables.

”An this is what it is: 'Take the leaves of the Daura, which prevent those who use it from dying for a hundred and twenty years. In the same way the flower of the _secta croa_ brings a hundred years to those who use it, whether they be of lesser or of longer age.' I've been on the 'unt for the 'Daura' iver since I was twenty, an' I've arskt ivery 'yerber I've ivir met for the 'Secta Croa,' an' all I've 'ad sed to me is 'Go 'long wi' ye for a loony jacka.s.s! There aint no sich thing.' But jacka.s.s or no, I'm of a mind to think there _is_ such things as both the 'Daura' an' the 'Secta Croa,' if I on'y knew the English of 'em. An'

s'posin' I ivir found 'em----”

”You would become that most envied creature of the present age,--a millionaire,” said Helmsley; ”you could command your own terms for the wonderful leaves,--you would cease to tramp the road or to gather herbs, and you would live in luxury like a king!”

”Not I!”--and Peke gave a grunt of contempt. ”Kings aint my notion of 'appiness nor 'onesty neither. They does things often for which some o'

the poor 'ud be put in quod, an' no mercy showed 'em, an' yet 'cos they're kings they gits off. An' I aint great on millionaires neither.

They'se mis'able ricketty coves, all gone to pot in their in'ards through grubbin' money an' eatin' of it like, till ivery other kind o'

food chokes 'em. There's a chymist in London what pays me five s.h.i.+llings an ounce for a little green yerb I knows on, cos' it's the on'y med'cine as keeps a millionaire customer of 'is a-goin'. I finds the yerb, an'