Part 6

There was a pasture of about twenty acres in extent, in which a flock of sheep were feeding. At a given signal a young man--evidently a farmer--stepped forth with his dog, to which he spoke almost in a whisper. In a twinkling the beautiful and intelligent creature leaped forth, like an arrow from a bow, and began to gather the sheep into a compact mass. This he did without alarming them, so that they moved slowly together, while still cropping the grass. At the far end of the field there was a fold, toward which they slowly but surely moved. No sooner, however, did they discover what was before them than they began to scatter, like young children summoned to bed before the accustomed hour! It was then the dog showed his training. His master blew on a whistle and he scampered to the right, another whistle and he flashed to the left. Now the sheep were again moving toward the fold, but they had begun to run and were bleating piteously. Evidently this was not good "form," for there was a sharp whistle and the dog dropped to the ground, lay motionless for a moment, and then crept slowly forward when the panic had subsided. Now came the critical moment. The fold was built with an opening to the south, but when that should have been passed there was another opening to the left which led into an enclosure large enough to hold the flock. I should have been satisfied when the dog had succeeded in getting the sheep into that, but not so the judges. Both dog and sheep were given a moment's rest and then a new signal was given, as much as to say: "Now, mind your eye!" At the far end of the enclosure was a narrow opening through which the sheep must pass in Indian file. Into the pen then the dog leaped and nosed the bell-wether toward the narrow passage. When that had been done, the others followed meekly and found themselves in another enclosure, out of which they were, in due time, led through the same gateway by which they had first entered, and found themselves once more in the pasture from which they had been gathered. Then the dog came bounding back to his master, and crouching at his feet looked up into his face, as much as to say: "Was it well done?" There was a loud burst of applause, and the farmer stooped down and stroked the dog's head as if he were saying, "Well done, good and faithful servant," and the expression in the creature's eyes showed that he had entered into the "joy of his lord."

I did not care to see more, but it might have seemed discourteous to withdraw before the match was ended, though later I wished I had.

XVIII

BRIGANDS AND BOOTBLACKS

The car was not ready for us the next day. Indeed, I found that the garage was not able to do anything with it, and so telegraphed to London to have a new radiator sent down C.O.D. It was then I was thankful that I had an American, _i.e._, a standardized car!

I thought it would be well to take advantage of the delay to make a little journey by rail to a town near by--that is, near as the crow flies--to pay a visit to the parents of a lad in the parish at home. I thought they might like to hear news of him, and I knew it would give him pleasure to learn that I had seen his people, of whom he had often spoken.

The trains, however, do not follow the track of the crow, and I found that what looked like a short journey necessitated two changes and rather long waits at each junction. I was reminded of a bright saying of Mrs. Freeman Allen. When her husband was the rector of the parish at Amherst some one asked her how long she had been there. She answered: "Seven years." But her husband said: "No, dear, you are mistaken, only five years." To which she replied: "You forget, dear, the time spent at Palmer!"

I reached my destination at about noon. Captain Burchell, the father of my young friend, is a retired naval officer, and proved to be one of the most silent men I had ever met. After he had examined my credentials he called his wife, and, having invited me to stay to lunch, evidently felt he had done his duty--and what more does England expect from any sailor! Nevertheless, no one could look at that strong face without seeing that he was one of that fine body of men who have kept alive the spirit of the English navy during the long years of "inglorious" peace, so that if war ever does come, it will be ready.

The wife made up for the taciturnity of the husband--perhaps was the cause of it! She was keenly interested in hearing about her boy, as, no doubt, the father was too, only she said so, and he did not! It was years since they had seen him, and probably had given up hope of ever seeing him again, and were reconciled.

I suggested that as it was now an easy thing to make the journey, she might be induced to go out to him. But at this she cried out. How strange it is that the English, who are the masters of the sea, have such a dread of it! Perhaps it is because they have lost so many at sea, but whatever may be the reason, it is a fact that the average Englishwoman--and the same is almost as true of men--seems to think that a trip to New York is as dreadful as the voyage of Columbus.

But I soon found that there were other reasons besides the "perils of the great deep" that alarmed the gentle lady.

"I should be afraid of brigands," she said.

I laughed and said I did not think there was much danger from them.

"But, indeed, there must be. I frequently see in the _Times_ accounts of armed men entering into the railway carriages and robbing the passengers."

I had to admit such things did occur, but as they happen in the Far West, and her boy now lives in New Rochelle, the danger did not seem imminent. But as the good lady did not seem to know whether New Rochelle is a suburb of New York or of Omaha, I gave it up.

Indeed, I soon learned that there were spiritual enemies to be feared more dreadful than those of flesh and blood.

She suddenly said: "You have a great many dissenters in the 'States,' have you not?"

"Oh, no," I said. "We have none."

"You surprise me. Roy [her son] has written me that there seem to be more of them than of church people, and that their chapels are often more beautiful than the churches. I was also sorry to hear that he had gone with a young lady to one of their places of worship, 'The Fifteenth Avenue Church,' I think he called it."

"Oh," I said, "I see, you mean non-Episcopalians. Yes, there are millions of those. But, as we have no established church, of course there can be no dissenters."

I confess I thought this rather neat. But she solemnly answered:

"They are dissenters from the church of Christ!"

Fortunately, at that moment the daughter came in from tennis, and I hoped that by giving a more worldly turn to the conversation I might fare better, so said:

"I have been trying to induce your mother to pay your brother a visit, but she does not seem to like the idea. Perhaps you might enjoy it more."

"Indeed I should not," she cried. "I hear the hotels are dreadful."

I thought of London! but meekly replied that I did not think she would find them unbearable.

"I am sure I should. A friend of mine--Bessie Salter, you know, Mumsie--went over to the 'States' a year ago, and told me, when she returned, that if one wished to have one's boots blacked, one must go down into the cellar and cock one's feet up on two iron pegs, and have them brushed by a grinning 'nigger.'"

I now gave up "for keeps," and wondered why I had come! However, I consoled myself with the thought that it was part of one's education. I felt that I had got to the heart of the great middle class of England. It is religious, kindly, and self-satisfied to a degree unequalled in the world.

I was rather depressed that evening as I gave an account of my day to Ruth. But she laughed till the tears came.

"If only I had been there to see your face! Why, it is perfect. If one read it in a book one would think the writer was trying to parody Dickens on America. Honestly, did it really happen, or have you embroidered it?"

"I give you my word, it is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!"

"Well, I hope it will be blest to you! A hundred years and more of independence, and the dear old things think of us as an unworthy 'colony,' with dissenters and brigands and boot-blacks! My dear, I hope I may never hear you brag of that unhappy country again! And now come down and get some dinner. They are going to have cherry tart and custard--for a change!"

XIX

THE PISTON-ROD

To-day we have enjoyed one of the most beautiful rides in the world. I do not mean grand, like the Corniche, but lovely, because man has beautified what the hand of God had made. The valley of the Wye would have been charming had man never cultivated it, but now it blossoms like the rose. We were tempted to turn off from the main road that we might get a better view of the lovely gardens and charming houses all along the way. I believe it is disputed whether Kent or Shropshire is the more beautiful county; but I cast my vote for Shropshire. I reckon Ruth picked out a score of houses in which she said, had she them, life would be full of joy.

"Do you wonder," she said, "that Englishmen in exile--in India, China, Canada, South Africa, and even America--turn back with longing to such homes as these? Surely nothing like it is to be found on earth! But it makes me sad to think how many of these happy girls playing in these gardens must go out to the colonies, and how many of those dear little boys may be killed in some obscure and unnecessary war! Our people have been pilgrims from the beginning, but what New Englander going to the West, or what Virginian crossing the Alleghanies, or farmers trekking from Iowa to Northwest Canada have left anything like this? No wonder 'Home-week' is enough for us! But the English carry with them the smell of the newly turned earth to the desolate, sun-baked plains of India, and the scent of the roses to the snows of Hudson's Bay. And yet, with all their deep sentiment for home, they do not die of nostalgia as do the French when they are taken away from the asphalt and the theatre! What a people they are!"

After this rhapsody there was silence for a little space, and then Ruth came back to earth with the remark: "How fortunate it is that we have never had trouble with our tires! I feared we might be changing them all the time."

I sapiently remarked: "Well, you see we have not gone far enough yet. These tires are guaranteed for five thousand miles."

She pondered this for a moment, and then said: "I don't see how they can be guaranteed, with all this broken glass lying about the road. Think how the drunken carters throw out the empty beer-bottles!"

I don't know why it is, but at times Ruth irritates me! It is so hard to explain to a woman anything that involves a mathematical problem. I made no reply, but the remark troubled me. I could not frame an explanation which satisfied me or in a way I felt she would understand! I tried on the law of average, like the insurance actuaries, but, as I say, I could not get it to suit me. It was something like my early attempts to explain to a Bible class why Jacob, rather than Esau, should have inherited the blessing!

However, my mind was soon diverted by the charming scenery and the unfamiliar sights on every side. But about an hour later an unfamiliar sound called me from the beauties of England to the motor which I was driving.

Ruth said: "What can that be?"

I confessed I did not know. It came at regular intervals. When the car ran fast it was quick, when I slowed down it lessened in frequency but not in volume. I stopped and looked under the hood, but could find nothing amiss. So we continued on our way. It seemed to grow worse, and soon the whole car was shaken by the jar. Then I remembered I had never tested the valves to see if they leaked, so I again lifted the hood and dropped a few drops of oil on each of the valves in turn and started the engine up. Yes, that was the trouble, Nos. 2 and 4 were not quite tight. I was much pleased with myself, and when I had tightened them took my place at the wheel, congratulating myself on being such a good mechanic. Indeed, I did not think Ruth overstated the case when she said: "I think you are wonderful." But, alas! the noise and the jar continued, and I began to fear that some serious injury had been sustained.

When I opened the hood once more I showed Ruth how to start the engine so that I could test the engine better than when it was at rest. I put my head down so near the cylinder that I nearly burned my ear, and found that there was no noise at all! I then told her to let in the clutch and let the car run on the road slowly. "I said 'slowly'!" I cried, as the motor nearly ran over me. So Ruth tried again. I hopped along by the side of the car as best I could, hearing the distressing noise more plainly than ever, coming, I was now convinced, from the interior of the cylinder.

"We have broken a piston-rod," I said in a calm but desperate tone, "and the car will have to be laid up for an indefinite time to replace it."

"But how could we break a piston-rod when we have met with no accident that could break anything?" exclaimed Ruth.

Like a doctor who has diagnosed a case to his own satisfaction, I could afford to be patient with a layman, so I replied: "Well, you see there is sometimes a flaw in the metal, and the mere expansion and contraction by heat and cold may cause the metal to break without any concussion at all."

It was a tiny village in which we had stopped, but all the inhabitants had assembled, and it was surprising to see how many of them there were!

"What's the trouble?" said one.

"A broken piston-rod," I replied tersely. Indeed, annoying as it was, I felt a certain pride in the gravity of the situation! I was like a man seized with a sudden pain in the night, whose trouble the doctor declares to be "appendicitis"; he is alarmed, but still has the satisfaction of feeling that the family will now know that he did not call them from their beds for a vulgar stomach-ache!

I was about to inquire if there was any one in the village who had a horse which could tow us to the nearest garage, when Ruth remarked: "There is one funny thing about it----"

This did irritate me, and I sarcastically remarked: "I am glad your sense of humor is so keen. I suppose I am dull, but a broken piston-rod does not strike me as 'humorous."

Her eyes filled with tears, as they always do when my ill temper takes the form of sarcasm, and I felt like the brute I am. So I hurriedly added: "It's all right, honey, what were you going to say?"

"I was only going to say," said she, with a gulp, and tactfully changing the form of her remark, "that it seems strange that we should hear no sound when we are standing still and the engine running if the trouble is a piston-rod."

I pondered this for a moment and then said: "Well, let's see if that is so." I started the engine and it ran as sweetly as one could wish, but as soon as the car began to move--bump, bump, bump was heard louder than ever.

At that moment an urchin, who had been doing some investigating on his own hook, called out: "Your tire's flat!"

The announcement was as reassuring and as humiliating as to have the doctor say, when you were convinced you had appendicitis, "What the deuce have you been eating?" This tiny layman had diagnosed correctly a case which the learned of the faculty had failed to understand! He promptly received his fee and scampered off with his companions to spend it before Ruth and I had reached the back of the car and were gazing at a long nail protruding from the tire of one of the rear wheels.

I had never changed a rim before, but I remembered the agent had told me that it took three minutes. It did--and twenty-seven more--but what was that compared with a week's waiting to have a broken piston-rod replaced?

When we were again under way, I said: "We were talking this morning about the guarantee on tires, and I ought to have explained that the guarantee, of course, refers only to the bursting of a tire and not to an accident like this." Why is it we men cannot make up our minds to tell the truth to the wives of our bosoms? I have not in mind now our wickedness but our folly. Ruth knew as well as I did that this great truth had not dawned on my clouded brain until the rusty nail had punctured the tire and my ignorance at the same time! Of course she expressed her gratification at this bit of valuable information. What would women do with their spare time if they did not have to waste so much of it in "saving the faces" of their lords!

XX

FALSTAFF

We were destined to have another experience with the car that day before we reached our destination. As we drew near Shrewsbury there was a sharp shower, which, though it did not last many minutes, was enough to make the roads rather greasy. As we had, however, such a short distance to go, it did not seem worth while to put on the chains. As we drove along the main street I was very careful, fearing we might skid. There is a tramway running through the street, which did not make things easier, for the rails were wet and shining in the rain. The street is lined with trees, and on one side is a high brick wall. My subconscious mind was noting all these things and perhaps allowing me to drive a little faster than I had intended, when suddenly the car, as if it were possessed of a devil, shot from the track to the sidewalk, passing between two trees, grazing the wall, and was back again on the rails before one could say "Jack Robinson," or even the English equivalent, "Knife"! It was not the rear wheels which had slipped but the front ones! No one had ever told me that could happen, nor should I have known how to guard against it if they had. Was it not fortunate that it was the tea hour that the car chose for this little side-trip? All the tradespeople were in the back rooms behind their shops, and the street was almost deserted. I trembled to think what might have happened had children been on their way to or from school, or feeble folk had failed to jump like grasshoppers! I never was more thankful than when I turned the motor into the garage of the "Raven."

Our first business in Shrewsbury was, of course, to visit the battle-field. I reminded Ruth as we drove out of the town the following morning of a saying of yours: that the best investment any nation or town could make was to breed a genius! "Sir Walter Scott," you said, "had brought more money to Scotland than all the ship-building on the Clyde, and that the money spent each year in Marseilles, by men and women who came from all over the world to look at the Château d'If, and speculate as to which side of it a man, who had never lived, had escaped could not be counted for multitude!" It is the same here. What a triumph of the imagination it is that after four hundred years pilgrims should still be wending their way to the field of Shrewsbury, as many were doing that morning! Not because it was historical--as the French say--"they mock themselves well of that." It is Shakespeare who is the Pied Piper that led us all to the spot where Harry Monmouth and Hotspur fought indeed, but where Falstaff bore off the honors of the day!

What a futile fight it was! Would not England have been better off if Percy had won? Did not the triumph of Henry IV sow the dragon's teeth that were harvested in the Wars of the Roses? Did it not lead to the desolation of France and the crime of Jeanne d'Arc's death? It is the genius of Shakespeare alone which lends glamour to this stupidity. Look at the heroes! Has any figure in history, except the miserable Stuarts, called forth such sympathy as the reckless Hotspur? How much Percy resembles our national hero! It is the feminine in us that admires Henry V--the reformed rake! It would seem as if the prudent, calculating world reacts in shame from Henry IV, as if it saw in him a picture of itself, and admires the reckless Percy just because it dare not follow him! Falstaff is the real hero. The fool at the feast of folly! Gross and witty, brave enough but cynical--what genius to draw respectable people to such companionship and compel them to enjoy it though they are ashamed to be seen with him! I suppose the real explanation of this moral paradox is that human nature esteems a sinner more than it does a hypocrite. The Lord Chancellor was a more respectable man than Falstaff, but he was a humbug, and we are glad the fat knight flouted him.

While I was thus moralizing and, no doubt, boring Ruth, we had reached the battle-field, and she exclaimed: "Why, there is Mr. Rhodes!" the historian, whom she had known in Boston--and ran to meet him.

"Oh, Mr. Rhodes," she cried, "I am sure you have made some new historical discovery!"

"I have, indeed," he gravely replied, but with a twinkle in his eye.

"Tell me at once what it is," she asked eagerly.

"I have discovered a new lie of Falstaff's--he 'fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock,' and the clock is not visible from the battle-field!"

Shrewsbury was one of the ancient and is still one of the modern gates into Wales, and had we been tied to a route we should have entered the kingdom of Glendower from there, but we received two letters which changed our plans, and led us to leave the motor, and depart in different directions by train. Of which you will hear in due time.

XXI

THE BLACK COUNTRY

My letter was from Archdeacon Williams. I had never met him but had read his books and been much influenced by them, as I know you have been. To tell the truth, I hesitated about accepting his invitation to spend the "week-end," for I feared I might be disappointed! Authors are like miners: they put the precious metal into their books, but when one gets to the mine there is apt to be a lot of "slag" lying about! But it was not so in this case. The books are the man--he lives as he talks.

England is the land of contrasts. Shropshire seems to belong to another planet, when one gets into the dark and chilly atmosphere of the black country. It was most depressing. Instead of the charming vicarage I had pictured, I found a plain brick house on the street of the town, and instead of a blooming garden, a few sickly shrubs, blackened, like everything else, by the smoke from the mills.

But within all was sweetness and light. The house was overflowing with delightful children, and every one seemed to be at work. Or, perhaps I should say, every one seemed to have a purpose, for as I arrived at tea-time, work had been suspended.

There was but one drawback: the archdeacon does not smoke, and does not seem to have heard that any one else does! I thought that three days would be more than I could bear. But, indeed, mind and body were kept so busy that I hardly missed my pipe at all! Can I say more?

The archdeacon and I sat up until all hours of the night, talking of the things which are most worth while.