Part 1 (2/2)
And Jim--or Christopher,--trained and renowned for a useful evasiveness of retort in those far-off London days, answered mechanically: ”Waiting for the fortune to come true.”
Then the hot blood rushed to his face from sheer shame at his own betrayal of the darling secret of his small existence.
”Your fortune?” echoed the other slowly. ”Fortunes do not come for waiting. What do you mean?”
”It was the old woman said so--mother didn't believe it. She said as how my fortune would come to me on the Great Road. There wer'n't no Great Road there, so when I heard as how they called this the Great Road, I just stuck to it.”
It was a long speech. The boy had none of the half-stupid stolidity of the country-bred, and yet lacked something of the garrulity of the cute street lad. His voice too was a surprise. The broad vowels seemed acquired and uncertain and jarred on the hearer with a sense of misfit.
”Do you live at Whitmansworth Union?”
There was a faint tinge of resentment in the short ”Yes.”
How did the gentleman know it, and, anyhow, why should he tell him?
Jim felt irritated.
The owner of the phaeton stood still a moment with one hand on the dusty little shoulder, and then looked round at the water-meadows, the distant copses, the more distant s.h.i.+mmering downs. Then he laughed, saying something the boy did not understand, and looked down at the sharp inquiring little face again.
”Which means, Christopher, hide-and-seek is an easy game when it's over,” he explained. ”Come and show me where you live.”
They walked back towards the carriage together. The elderly gentleman holding the reins was looking back at them; so was the groom. The elderly gentleman cast a puzzled, inquiring glance from the boy to his companion as they came near.
”Fortune meets us on the road-side, Stapleton,” said the owner of the phaeton. ”Let me introduce you to Christopher Hibbault. Get up, child.”
Get up? Mount that quietly magnificent carriage, ride behind those beautiful animals with their pawing feet and arched necks? The small boy stood still a moment to appreciate the greatness of the event.
”Are you afraid, Christopher?”
Resentment sprang to life. Yet it was almost well so transcendent a moment should have its pin p.r.i.c.k of annoyance. With a ”No” of ineffable scorn, Jim--or Christopher--the name was immaterial to him--clambered up into the high carriage and wedged himself between the elderly gentleman and the inquisitive driver, who had regained his seat and the reins.
Christopher's experiences of driving were of a very limited nature, and certainly they did not embrace anything like this. He had no recollection of ever having travelled by train, and it was the question of pace that fascinated him, the rapid, easy swinging movement through the air, the fresh breeze rus.h.i.+ng by, the distancing of humbler wayfarers, all gave him a strange sense of exhilaration.
Years afterward, when flesh and blood were all too slow for him and he was one of the best motorists in England, if not in Europe, he used to recall the rapturous pleasure of that first drive of his, that first introduction to the mad, tense joy of speed that ever after held him in thrall.
The owner of the phaeton and the elderly gentleman whom he had called Stapleton exchanged no remarks, but they both cast curious, thoughtful glances at their small companion from time to time. They had to rouse him from his rhapsody to ask the way at last. He answered concisely and shortly with no touch of the local burr.
”How came you to be so far away?” demanded Jim's fine gentleman as they were pa.s.sing through the market-place.
Jim was engaged in superciliously ignoring the amazed stares of the town boys who were apt to look down on the ”workhouse kid,” though he attended the Whitmansworth school. Once past them he answered the question vaguely.
”The master was out: I hadn't to do anything.”
”And you had permission to wander where you liked?”
To this Jim did not reply. He had _not_ permission, but he counted on the good nature of Mrs. Moss, with whom he was a favourite, to plead his cause with her husband.
”Had you permission?” demanded his questioner again, bending down suddenly to look in the boy's face with his disconcerting eyes.
It would have seemed to Jim on reflection a great deal more prudent and quite as easy to have said ”yes” as ”no,” but the ”no” slipped out, and the questioner smiled, not ill-pleased.
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