Swift we flew, with the wind before, and the dust behind, past
wayside inns where besmocked figures paused in their grave
discussions to turn and watch us by; past smiling field and
darkling copse; past lonely cottage and village green; through
Sevenoaks and Tonbridge, with never a stop; up Pembry hill, and
down, galloping so lightly, so easily, over that hard, familiar
road, which I had lately tramped with so much toil and pain; and
so, as evening fell, to Sissinghurst.
A dreamy, sleepy place is Sissinghurst at all times, for its few
cottages, like its inn, are very old, and great age begets
dreams. But, when the sun is low, and the shadows creep out,
when the old inn blinks drowsy eyes at the cottages, and they
blink back drowsily at the inn, like the old friends they are;
when distant cows low at gates and fences; when sheep-bells
tinkle faintly; when the weary toiler, seated sideways on his
weary horse, fares, homewards, nodding sleepily with every
plodding hoof-fall, but rousing to give one a drowsy "good
night," then who can resist the somnolent charm of the place,
save only the "Bull" himself, snorting down in lofty contempt--as
rolling of eye, as curly of horn, as stiff as to tail as any
indignant bull ever was, or shall be.
But as I rode, watching the evening deepen about me, soft and
clear rose the merry chime of hammer and anvil, and, turning
aside to the smithy, I paused there, and, stooping my head,
looked in at the door.
"George!" said I. He started erect, and, dropping hammer and
tongs, came out, running, then stopped suddenly, as one abashed.
"Oh, friend!" said I, "don't you know me?"
"Why--Peter--" he stammered, and broke off.
"Have you no greeting for me, George?"
"Ay, ay--I heerd you was free, Peter, and I was glad--glad,
because you was the man as I loved, an' I waited--ay, I've been
waitin' for 'ee to come back. But now you be so changed--so fine
an' grand--an' I be all black wi' soot from the fire--oh, man! ye
bean't my Peter no more--"
"Never say that, George--never say that," I cried, and, leaping
from the saddle, I would have caught his hand in mine, but he
drew back.
"You be so fine an' grand, Peter, an' I be all sooty from the
fire!" he repeated. "I'd like to just wash my 'ands first."
"Oh, Black George!" said I, "dear George."
"Be you rich now, Peter?"