Chapter X: Oh, for that Beautiful Summer!

The worthy showman was now more convinced than ever that an enemy existed who would move heaven and earth to remove Peggy from his charge, and she was quite as much to him as if she had been his daughter. He determined, therefore, to keep a more watchful eye over her. She was a wilful, wandering little maiden, who took everybody to be good even as she herself was good. She had no suspicion of evil in any one, because it existed not in her own warm little heart.

But Fitzroy told her now that she must promise never to go away from the camp without her bloodhound. Wondering much, the girl made this promise, and the good fellow breathed more freely now.

But for weeks after that strange adventure, they spent a really good time in Scotland, and drew in the dollars too, for above all countries in the world, perhaps, Caledonia is the land of song and poetry. The love of beauty lies deep down at the bottom of each far-northern heart, side by side with sentiment and true patriotism, a flower that can only bloom in a mountain land.

Then one day they found themselves all back once more, safe and sound in England, the scenery of which, though less wild than that of its warlike neighbour, is very sweet and tender.

Summer would not be leaving here for some time to come.

They had given Wales a turn, and lay for a whole week on the beautiful bank of the Wye. The music of Wales is also Celtic, that is the old, old music, and though the country is now famous for its study of the classical, dearly do they love the more simple lilts of the land of Burns and Tannahill.

So Fitzroy did well to introduce Scottish scenes and customs, and Scottish melodies into the little plays he now presented to the rural public. At L---- they had one of the heartiest welcomes ever accorded to them anywhere, and it was with great reluctance that Fitzroy at last intimated to a bumper house, that next morning they must start on their wanderings once again.

“But we are coming back, my friends,” he concluded, “for never while life holds on to burn within our breasts shall we forget the kindly welcome we have received in Wales.”

* * * * *

So early did they start, on and away over the hills and through the beautiful woods, next day, that there was hardly a soul astir to see them off.

They did not give another entertainment for a whole fortnight. But nobody was really idle. Indeed, Fitzroy was the busiest of the busy. Wasn’t he building a new play to be put upon the boards late in autumn? Besides, he spent his leisure time in fashioning flutes. This was most congenial employment, and he could think out his drama even as he worked. The flutes when fashioned were really beautiful instruments, and there was in London a firm that knew their value and gave him good prices. But he received even larger sums for the flutes he sold privately.

When they lay for a few days at some village, they billed it, not for the play, but for “Peggy the Palmist.”

“Oh, yes, she had studied palmistry as an exact science. I myself have doubts concerning its exactness, but after reading a hand, Peggy made wonderfully good guesses as to the past and future life of her visitors. The bills ran something as follows:--

“THALASSAINE,

The world-renowned Child Palmist, will deliver an outdoor lecture
on Palmistry in the camp of the Wandering Minstrels

On etc., etc.,
Admission Free.

Thalassaine may be consulted by appointment at her caravan, the
‘Little Rover,’ or will attend ladies at their own residences. Fee
on application.”

Did the lectures pay? Indeed they did. Though they were free, a collection was made to defray all expenses, and after this Peggy would sing and play, the giant and dwarf went through a short performance, and Johnnie gave an exhibition with the Indian clubs.

Then the lecture led to such good business that the Wandering Minstrels often stayed for three weeks in a nice pitch, which under other circumstances they would have left next day.

* * * * *

Oh, for that beautiful summer that so quickly wore away! And, oh, for the charming scenery of the south and the west of Merrie England, which they might perhaps never see again!

Shall I describe the scenery in detail which day after day they passed through as the weeks glided over their heads? If I had space, nothing on earth would please me more, my dear girl and boy readers. Some day perhaps--yes, some day! Heigho! But I must not seem to sadden you, children, even with a sigh.

The events and the incidents of the road were for ever changing. Every turn of the highway brought before them a new scene--woods draped in all the glory of sunshine, high green lights, and darkest foliage; the silence of forests, broken only by the songs of the wild-birds or the croodling of the ring-doves in the thickets of spruce; the solemn silence of moorlands--in spring-time dotted over with the white blossoming hawthorn or may, and the golden glory of furze that scented the air for miles around--in autumn, crimson and purple with heather and heath; great stretches of greenest grass-land, undulating, charming, with maybe a streamlet meandering through them, by the banks of which rustic divinities in the shape of red or speckled cows waded knee-deep in buttercups and daisies; cattle and sheep happy together on lone hill-sides; hares on the heaths, who sat up and quietly washed their faces as they gazed at or after the caravans; wild-flowers everywhere, by the river’s brink, afloat in the river itself, standing erect in their glory of crimson or pink among the bulrushes; wild-flowers on the moors, on the mountains, in the fields, by the hedgeways, and covering great patches of level sward through which the brown road went winding and winding till it climbed mountain and hill perhaps, and disappeared over its brow, or went rapidly downwards till lost in the rolling shadows of woodlands; little lakes and lonely tarns near to which they often made the mid-day halt, and rippling streams, with here a pool and there a pool, from which glad fish leapt up into the sunshine.

Sunshine? Oh, yes, sunshine, but not always. There were days of wind and rain, drizzling mountain rain that soaked the roads, that saddened the very horses; wild storms of wind or sudden squalls that at times all but overturned the great caravan. Then there were the thunder-storms that so delighted Peggy, for the louder heaven’s artillery, the heavier the spate, and the more vivid the lightning, the better pleased were Peggy and little Willie.

On rainy days even with the wind ahead, little concerts would be held in the wee caravan, as the horse jogged slowly on. On days like these they tried to get earlier into camp, and after the tent was erected and the horses seen to, an excellent dinner made all hands forget the weariness of the long, long way they had traversed.

I pause here--give one more sigh for the summer that passed so soon away.

* * * * *

One autumn evening they encamped in a field not far from a sweet little village, or rather hamlet, of scattered, old-fashioned, and very Saxon houses. The children were as Saxon as the village, fair-headed, rosy-lipped, bare-headed innocents, with eyes of “himmel blue”; beautiful enough were they to dream of.

There was an inn here and there in the village, but the streets, as they might have been called by courtesy, were so winding and so interlaced, crossing here and crossing there, that to walk down any one of them

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“You cowards,” cried the captain.]

streamlet and play to it and its water-lilies. The blood-hound was her constant companion, hardly ever leaving her side for a moment. Nor did she ever go out without Kammie. She never cared much whither she went or wandered, so long as there was rustic beauty around her, and I daresay she was guilty of trespassing as often as not.

The sun was declining in the west, and his beams were already shimmering horizontally through the tall and leafy elms of a beautiful park, one afternoon when she came to a tiny Gothic bridge and crossed it. It was evidently private ground, for there was an air of cultivation everywhere around, and two snow-white swans sailed up to her and looked sidelong at her with their wise, soft eyes. These swans seemed to be fifty years of age, if a day.

Peggy wandered on and over the grass, past great clumps of brown-stemmed pine-trees, clumps of ferns and rhododendrons, at present out of bloom, till she came in sight of a fine old English mansion-house: yellow were its walls against the green and well-kept lawn, and in the rays of the fast-declining sun.

Peggy stopped now and gazed in a bewildered way at the house, then at all its surroundings. Where had she seen a house something like this before? Was it in a dream, or had the place only some resemblance to mansions she must often have seen during her wanderings. But no; it must have been a dream. She seated herself on a little rustic bench, and Ralph jumped up by her side. Her fingers touched the mandoline. Music always clears memory, because it calms the mind.

She was singing a song that was sad but sweet. She could not tell who had taught her that song, nor where she had heard it, only it welled up in her memory, and seemed to mingle with the dream that was around her.

Presently Ralph rose slowly and growled low, but not in an unfriendly way. Indeed, he was wagging his tail. Peggy looked quickly round, for a gentle hand was laid upon her shoulder.

“Dear child,” said a white-haired, kindly-faced, elderly lady who stood over her, “will you oblige me by playing that air again and singing the song? It is an old, old favourite of mine. I will sit beside your noble hound.”

Peggy had been used to encores all her life, or ever since she had joined the Wandering Minstrels, so she readily complied. When she looked about again, she noticed that tears had been falling over the lady’s face. But these were quickly dried.

“Thank you, dear. Thank you, Thalassaine. You see I know your name. What is on your shoulder, child? You are smoothing it with one finger.”

Then the truth flashed upon Peggy’s mind. This gentle-faced lady, with hair like the winter’s snow, was partially blind.

“Oh, dear lady,” she said, soothingly, and laying her tiny hand on hers, “are you--I mean, don’t you see quite well?”

“But,” she added, before she could receive an answer, “this is my pet chameleon. Johnnie baptised him Kammie. He never speaks nor makes a single sound, but he is quiet in all his ways, and _so_ droll that--well, I think Johnnie and I have grown fond of him.”

“Who is Johnnie?”

“Oh, Johnnie is--just Johnnie.”

“Naturally, but----”

“I live in a show, lady, and Johnnie’s the owner’s son. He is very strong and good, and nice, and he always calls me cousin. But I don’t know why. Father Fitzroy--we all call him Father--brought me to the show when I was very tiny, and that was after mother and father died, you know. He told me that. I think you would like Kammie. May I put him in your hand?”

The lady stretched out her white palm, and immediately she did so Peggy forgot all about Kammie, and he remained there on her shoulder looking all round him for his evening meal of unwary flies. Peggy took the hand, and as she did so a strange and unaccountable thrill ran through her.

“Ah, little maiden, you are a palmist, and what soft, little, fondling hands you have. Yes, you may read my palm if you please.”

It was a sweet, still evening, the winds whispering through the trees; and though summer was over, a blackbird still fluted on the hawthorn. Beauty everywhere around, in the sky, on the trees, and on yonder lakelet, that shone like a mirror, and reflected the dying glory of the shrubs that grew around it. But Peggy heard nothing, saw nothing except the white palm held out for inspection.

The child believed in palmistry as she believed in the Book, and yet often she found it difficult indeed to read a hand. But now, it was all so very different, and everything was as clear to her as a landscape in the noonday sun. Nay, more, it did not seem to be herself who was talking, or rather, I should say, it did not appear to be her own self that was accountable for the words she spoke. Something appeared to be talking to her--through her, and she was but repeating what she heard. It was a soul voice. The child spoke earnestly, as she examined line after line.

“You have had much sorrow and disappointment in life, lady--more, I mean, than many have. (A sigh from her patient attested to the truth of what she said.) You were born to wealth and riches--you married, but not the man you loved--he was reported false--he was true as needle to the pole--he might never talk to you again--you were the bride of another--for long years, though you never knew it, he dwelt near to you in a humble cottage, that he might see you as you passed his garden--an undying love--but your child, a prattling infant girl of four, made the hermit’s acquaintance--he had always a flower for her or sweets as she passed with her maid--and the child became fond of the recluse--became the light of his soul--he was never happy on the days she did not come--a wild wintry storm raged--the village was blocked for weeks--at last the sun shone--bud and burgeon on the trees--bird song in the copse--but the blinds were drawn down over the hermit’s windows--he was gone.”

“Was he dead?” said the lady.

“There is one line, dear lady, that I cannot read.”

“Go on, child.”

“Months after this, proof of death and a will.”

“Yes, yes.”

“That will left all his wealth to your little daughter--in case of her death it would revert to his brother, a man who lived by his wits, a betting man, a man of the world, yet poor. Then, lady, that child was lost--she had wandered away from her maid and had fallen into a disused pit, where the body was found a month afterwards, recognisable only by the clothes she wore.”

Peggy stopped. The soul voice had ceased to prompt her.

“I can tell no more,” she said. “All your future seems dark and misty.”

“Ay, child, and dark will it be when my sight goes--quite dark. I shall then have but the past to dwell on. Would it had been a happier one! But,” she added, “you have read my hand aright. I hope you will come here again often before you go, and that you will write to me. Down in that clump of trees is a marble tablet, and under it the remains of the child I loved so dearly. Good-bye, little one. Mind you come again to-morrow. Bring your beautiful dog and your little cold Kammie.”

And so Peggy said “Good-night.” The lady kissed her beautiful hair, and though she could not tell why, the tears came with a rush to Peggy’s eyes as she did so.

Johnnie himself came to meet her, as the shades of evening were now falling and the boy was anxious. Peggy sighed sadly as she was told that Father Fitzroy had ordered an early start for next day. Father Fitzroy must be obeyed.

And Peggy had no time then to call on the gentle, white-haired lady. But the meeting was one she would never, never forget.