"Something in tweeds."
"Tweeds, sir! surely you forget your appointment with the Lady Cecily Prynne, and her party? Lord Mountclair had me on the telephone, last night—"
"Also a good, heavy walking-stick, Baxter, and a knap-sack."
"A knap-sack, sir?"
"I shall set out on a walking tour—in an hour's time."
"Certainly, sir—where to, sir?"
"I haven't the least idea, Baxter, but I'm going—in an hour. On the whole, of the four courses you describe for one whose life is blighted, whose heart—I say whose heart, Baxter, is broken—utterly smashed, and—er—shivered beyond repair, I prefer to disappear—in an hour, Baxter."
"Shall you drive the touring car, sir, or the new racer?"
"I shall walk, Baxter, alone—in an hour."
CHAPTER III
Which concerns itself with a hay-cart, and a belligerent Waggoner
It was upon a certain August morning that George Bellew shook the dust of London from his feet, and, leaving Chance, or Destiny to direct him, followed a hap-hazard course, careless alike of how, or when, or where; sighing as often, and as heavily as he considered his heart-broken condition required—which was very often, and very heavily—yet heeding, for all that, the glory of the sun, and the stir and bustle of the streets about him.
Thus it was that, being careless of his ultimate destination, Fortune condescended to take him under her wing, (if she has one), and guided his steps across the river, into the lovely land of Kent—that county of gentle hills, and broad, pleasant valleys, of winding streams and shady woods, of rich meadows and smiling pastures, of grassy lanes and fragrant hedgerows—that most delightful land which has been called, and very rightly, "The Garden of England."
It was thus, as has been said, upon a fair August morning, that Bellew set out on what he termed "a walking tour." The reservation is necessary because Bellew's idea of a walking-tour is original, and quaint. He began very well, for Bellew—in the morning he walked very nearly five miles, and, in the afternoon, before he was discovered, he accomplished ten more on a hay-cart that happened to be going in his direction.
He had swung himself up among the hay, unobserved by the somnolent driver, and had ridden thus an hour or more in that delicious state between waking, and sleeping, ere the waggoner discovered him, whereupon ensued the following colloquy:
THE WAGGONER. (Indignantly) Hallo there! what might you be a doing of in my hay?
BELLEW. (Drowsily) Enjoying myself immensely.
THE WAGGONER. (Growling) Well, you get out o' that, and sharp about it.
BELLEW. (Yawning) Not on your life! No sir—'not for Cadwallader and all his goats!'
THE WAGGONER. You jest get down out o' my hay—now come!
BELLEW. (Sleepily) Enough, good fellow—go to!—thy voice offends mine ear!
THE WAGGONER. (Threateningly) Ear be blowed! If ye don't get down out o' my hay—I'll come an' throw ye out.
BELLEW. (Drowsily) 'Twould be an act of wanton aggression that likes me not.
THE WAGGONER. (Dubiously) Where be ye goin'?
BELLEW. Wherever you like to take me; Thy way shall be my way, and—er—thy people—(Yawn) So drive on, my rustic Jehu, and Heaven's blessings prosper thee!
Saying which, Bellew closed his eyes again, sighed plaintively, and once more composed himself to slumber.
But to drive on, the Waggoner, very evidently, had no mind; instead, flinging the reins upon the backs of his horses, he climbed down from his seat, and spitting on his hands, clenched them into fists and shook them up at the yawning Bellew, one after the other.
"It be enough," said he, "to raise the 'Old Adam' inside o' me to 'ave a tramper o' the roads a-snoring in my hay—but I ain't a-going to be called names, into the bargain. 'Rusty'—I may be, but I reckon I'm good enough for the likes o' you—so come on down!" and the Waggoner shook his fists again.
He was a very square man, was this Waggoner, square of head, square of jaw, and square of body, with twinkling blue eyes, and a pleasant, good-natured face; but, just now, the eyes gleamed, and the face was set grimly, and, altogether, he looked a very ugly opponent.
Therefore Bellew sighed again, stretched himself, and, very reluctantly, climbed down out of the hay. No sooner was he fairly in the road, than the Waggoner went for him with a rush, and a whirl of knotted fists. It was very dusty in that particular spot so that it presently rose in a cloud, in the midst of which, the battle raged, fast and furious.
And, in a while, the Waggoner, rising out of the ditch, grinned to see
Bellew wiping blood from his face.
"You be no—fool!" panted the Waggoner, mopping his face with the end of his neckerchief. "Leastways—not wi' your fists."
"Why, you are pretty good yourself, if it comes to that," returned Bellew, mopping in his turn. Thus they stood a while stanching their wounds, and gazing upon each other with a mutual, and growing respect.
"Well?" enquired Bellew, when he had recovered his breath somewhat, "shall we begin again, or do you think we have had enough? To be sure, I begin to feel much better for your efforts, you see, exercise is what I most need, just now, on account of the—er—Haunting Spectre of the Might Have Been—to offset its effect, you know; but it is uncomfortably warm work here, in the sun, isn't it?"
"Ah!" nodded the Waggoner, "it be."
"Then suppose we—er—continue our journey?" said Bellew with his dreamy gaze upon the tempting load of sweet-smelling hay.
"Ah!" nodded the Waggoner again, beginning to roll down his sleeves, "suppose we do; I aren't above giving a lift to a chap as can use 'is fists—not even if 'e is a vagrant, and a uncommon dusty one at that;—so, if you're in the same mind about it, up you get—but no more furrin curses, mind!" With which admonition, the Waggoner nodded, grinned, and climbed back to his seat, while Bellew swung himself up into the hay once more.
"Friend," said he, as the waggon creaked upon its way, "Do you smoke?"
"Ah!" nodded the Waggoner.
"Then here are three cigars which you didn't manage to smash just now."
"Cigars! why it ain't often as I gets so far as a cigar, unless it be Squire, or Parson—cigars, eh!" Saying which, the Waggoner turned and accepted the cigars which he proceeded to stow away in the cavernous interior of his wide-eaved hat, handling them with elaborate care, rather as if they were explosives of a highly dangerous kind.
Meanwhile, George Bellew, American Citizen, and millionaire, lay upon the broad of his back, staring up at the cloudless blue above, and despite heart break, and a certain Haunting Shadow, felt singularly content, which feeling he was at some pains with himself to account for.
"It's the exercise," said he, speaking his thought aloud, as he stretched luxuriously upon his soft, and fragrant couch, "after all, there is nothing like a little exercise."
"That's what they all say!" nodded the Waggoner. "But I notice as them as says it, ain't over fond o' doing of it—they mostly prefers to lie on their backs, an' talk about it—like yourself."
"Hum!" said Bellew, "ha! 'Some are born to exercise, some achieve exercise, and some, like myself, have exercise thrust upon them.' But, anyway, it is a very excellent thing—more