Part 25 (1/2)

”It's a much changed if it ain't, sir,” said Jim, putting on his breeches. ”I was in there not eighteen months since. It's a fighting-house; and there used to be a dog show there, and a reunion of vocal talent, and all sorts of villanies.”

”Well, see to the horse, Jim, and I'll sing out when I'm ready,” said the Major, and went back into the house.

He came back through the kitchen, and saw that Madge was being treated by the maids with that respect that a reputed witch never fails to command; then, having sat for some time talking to his wife, and finding that the storm was cleared off, he kissed his sleeping child and its mother, and, mounting his horse in the stable-yard, rode off towards Exeter.

In the morning, when Mrs. Buckley came down stairs, she inquired for Madge. They told her she had been up some time, and, having got some breakfast, was walking up and down in front of the house. Going there, Mrs. Buckley found her. Her dress was rearranged with picturesque neatness, and a red handkerchief pinned over her rich dark hair, that last night had streamed wild and wet in the tempest. Altogether, she looked an utterly different being from the strange, storm-beaten creature who had craved their hospitality the night before. Mrs.

Buckley admired the bold, upright, handsome figure before her, and gave her a cheery ”good morning.”

”I only stayed,” said Madge, ”to wish you goodbye, and thank you for your kindness. When they who should have had some pity on me turned me out, you took me in!”

”You are heartily welcome,” said Mrs. Buckley. ”Cannot I do more for you? Do you want money? I fear you must!”

”None, I thank you kindly,” she replied; ”that would break the spell.

Good-bye!”

”Good-bye!” said Mrs. Buckley.

Madge stood in front of the door and raised her hand.

”The blessing of G.o.d,” she said, ”shall be upon the house of the Buckleys, and more especially upon you and your husband, and the boy that is sleeping inside. He shall be a brave and a good man, and his wife shall be the fairest and best in the country side. Your kine shall cover the plains until no man can number them, and your sheep shall be like the sands of the sea. When misfortune and death and murder fall upon your neighbours, you shall stand between the dead and the living, and the troubles that pa.s.s over your heads shall be like the shadow of the light clouds that fly across the moor on a sunny day. And when in your ripe and honoured old age you shall sit with your husband, in a garden of your own planting, in the lands far away, and see your grandchildren playing around you, you shall think of the words of the wild, lost gipsy woman, who gave you her best blessing before she went away and was seen no more.”

Mrs. Buckley tried to say ”Amen,” but found herself crying. Something there was in that poor creature, homeless, penniless, friendless, that made her heart like wax. She watched her as she strode down the path, and afterwards looked for her re-appearing on a high exposed part of the road, a quarter of a mile off, thinking she would take that way.

But she waited long, and never again saw that stern, tall figure, save in her dreams.

She turned at last, and one of the maids stood beside her.

”Oh, missis,” she said, ”you're a lucky woman today. There's some in this parish would have paid a hundred pounds for such a fortune as that from her. It'll come true,--you will see!”

”I hope it may, you silly girl,” said Mrs. Buckley; and then she went in and knelt beside her sleeping boy, and prayed that the blessing of the gipsy woman might be fulfilled.

It was quite late on the evening of his second day's journey that the Major, occupying the box-seat of the ”Exterminator,” dashed with comet-like speed through so much of the pomps and vanities of this wicked world as showed itself in Piccadilly at half-past seven on a spring afternoon.

”Hah!” he soliloquized, pa.s.sing Hyde-park Corner, ”these should be the folks going out to dinner. They dine later and later every year. At this rate they'll dine at half-past one in twenty years' time. That's the Duke's new house; eh, coachman? By George, there's his Grace himself, on his brown cob; G.o.d bless him! There are a pair of good-stepping horses, and old Lady E---- behind 'em, by Jove!--in her war-paint and feathers--pinker than ever. She hasn't got tired of it yet. She'd dance at her own funeral if she could. And there's Charley Bridgenorth in the club balcony--I wonder what he finds to do in peace time?--and old B---- talking to him. What does Charley mean by letting himself be seen in the same balcony with that disreputable old fellow?

I hope he won't get his morals corrupted! Ah! So here we are! eh?”

He dismounted at the White Horse Cellar, and took a hasty dinner. His great object was speed; and so he hardly allowed himself ten minutes to finish his pint of port before he started into the street, to pursue the errand on which he had come.

It was nearly nine o'clock, and he thought he would be able to reach his destination in ten minutes. But it was otherwise ordered. His evil genius took him down St. James Street. He tried to persuade himself that it was the shortest way, though he knew all the time that it wasn't. And so he was punished in this way: he had got no further than Crockford's, when, in the glare of light opposite the door of that establishment, he saw three men standing, one of whom was talking and laughing in a tone perhaps a little louder than it is customary to use in the streets nowadays. Buckley knew that voice well (better, perhaps, among the crackle of musketry than in the streets of London), and, as the broad-shouldered owner of it turned his jolly, handsome face towards him, he could not suppress a low laugh of satisfaction. At the same moment the before-mentioned man recognised him, and shouted out his name.

”Busaco Buckley, by the Lord,” he said, ”revisiting once more the glimpses of the gas-lamps! My dear old fellow, how are you, and where do you come from?”

The Major found himself quickly placed under a lamp for inspection, and surrounded by three old and well-beloved fellow-campaigners. What could a man do under the circ.u.mstances? Nothing, if human and fallible, I should say, but what the Major did--stay there, laughing and joking, and talking of old times, and freshen up his honest heart, and shake his honest sides with many an old half-forgotten tale of fun and mischief.

”Now,” he said at last, ”you must let me go. You Barton (to the first man he had recognised), you are a married man; what are you doing at Crockford's?”

”The same as you are,” said the other,--”standing outside the door. The pavement's free, I suppose. I haven't been in such a place these five years. Where are you staying, old boy?”

The Major told them, and they agreed to meet at breakfast next morning.