Part 5 (2/2)
Moreover, there was another appeal--the apparent helpless bewilderment of the man himself and his unreality. He was certainly not in possession of all his senses, from whatever world he might have dropped; and helplessness in man or beast was a blood bond with Patsy, making instant claim on her own abundant sympathies and wits.
She held the tinker with a smile of open comrades.h.i.+p while her voice took on an alluring hint of suggestion. ”Ye can't be thinking of hanging onto that stump all day--now what road might ye be taking--the one to Arden?”
For some minutes the tinker considered her and her question with an exaggerated gravity; then he nodded his head in a final agreement.
”Grand! I'm bound that way myself; maybe ye know Arden?”
”Maybe.”
”And how far might it be?”
”Seven miles.”
Patsy wrinkled her forehead. ”That's strange; 'twas seven miles last night, and I've tramped half the distance already, I'm thinking.
Never mind! What's behind won't trouble me, and the rest of the way will soon pa.s.s in good company. Come on,” and she beckoned her head in indisputable command.
Once again he considered her slowly. Then, as if satisfied, he swung himself down from his perch on the stump fence, gathered up his kit, and in another minute had fallen into step with her; and the two were contentedly tramping along the road.
”The man who's writing this play,” mused Patsy, ”is trying to match wits with Willie Shakespeare. If any one finds him out they'll have him up for plagiarizing.”
She chuckled aloud, which caused the tinker to cast an uneasy glance in her direction.
”Poor lad! The half-wits are always suspicious of others' wits. He thinks I'm fey.” And then aloud: ”Maybe ye are not knowing it, but anything at all is likely to happen to ye to-day--on the road to Arden. According to Willie Shakespeare--whom ye are not likely to be acquainted with--it's a place where philosophers and banished dukes and peasants and love-sick youths and lions and serpents all live happily together under the 'Greenwood Tree.' Now, I'm the banished duke's own daughter--only no one knows it; and ye--sure, ye can take your choice between playing the younger brother--or the fool.”
”The fool,” said the tinker, solemnly; and then of a sudden he threw back his head and laughed.
Patsy stopped still on the road and considered him narrowly.
”Couldn't ye laugh again?” she suggested when the laugh was ended.
”It improves ye wonderfully.” An afterthought flashed in her mind.
”After all's said and done, the fool is the best part in the whole play.”
After this they tramped along in silence. The tinker kept a little in advance, his head erect, his hands swinging loosely at his sides, his eyes on nothing at all. He seemed oblivious of what lay back of him or before him--and only half conscious of the companion at his side.
But Patsy's fancy was busy with a hundred things, while her eyes went afield for every sc.r.a.p of prettiness the country held. There were meadows of brilliant daisies, broken by clumps of silver poplars, white birches, and a solitary sentinel pine; and there was the roadside tangle with its constant surprises of meadowsweet and columbine, white violets--in the swampy places--and once in a while an early wild rose.
”In Ireland,” she mused, ”the gorse would be out, fringing the pastures, and on the roadside would be heartsease and faery thimbles, and perhaps a few late primroses; and the meadow would be green with corn.” A faint wisp of a sigh escaped her at the thought, and the tinker looked across at her questioningly. ”Sure, it's my heart hungering a bit for the bogland and a whiff of the turf smoke. This exile idea is a grand one for a play, but it gets lonesome at times in real life. Maybe ye are Irish yourself?”
”Maybe.”
It was Patsy's turn to glance across at the tinker, but all she saw was the far-away, wondering look that she had seen first in his face.
”Poor lad! Like as not he finds it hard remembering where he's from; they all do. I'll not pester him again.”
He looked up and caught her eyes upon him and smiled foolishly.
Patsy smiled back. ”Do ye know, lad, I've not had a morsel of breakfast this day. Have ye any money with ye, by chance?”
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