Five Tales [73]
stream, pretending they had this accomplishment also. They tickled nothing, of course, for their giggling and shouting scared every spotted thing away. Ashurst, on a rock at the edge of the beech clump, watched them, and listened to the cuckoos, till Nick, the elder and less persevering, came up and stood beside him.
"The gipsy bogle zets on that stone," he said.
"What gipsy bogie?"
"Dunno; never zeen 'e. Megan zays 'e zets there; an' old Jim zeed 'e once. 'E was zettin' there naight afore our pony kicked--in father's 'ead. 'E plays the viddle."
"What tune does he play?"
"Dunno."
"What's he like?"
"'E's black. Old Jim zays 'e's all over 'air. 'E's a praaper bogle. 'E don' come only at naight." The little boy's oblique dark eyes slid round. "D'yu think 'e might want to take me away? Megan's feared of 'e."
"Has she seen him?"
"No. She's not afeared o' yu."
"I should think not. Why should she be?"
"She zays a prayer for yu."
"How do you know that, you little rascal?"
"When I was asleep, she said: 'God bless us all, an' Mr. Ashes.' I yeard 'er whisperin'."
"You're a little ruffian to tell what you hear when you're not meant to hear it!"
The little boy was silent. Then he said aggressively:
"I can skin rabbets. Megan, she can't bear skinnin' 'em. I like blood."
"Oh! you do; you little monster!"
"What's that?"
"A creature that likes hurting others."
The little boy scowled. "They'm only dead rabbets, what us eats."
"Quite right, Nick. I beg your pardon."
"I can skin frogs, tu."
But Ashurst had become absent. "God bless us all, and Mr. Ashes!" And puzzled by that sudden inaccessibility, Nick ran back to the stream where the giggling and shouts again uprose at once.
When Megan brought his tea, he said:
"What's the gipsy bogle, Megan?"
She looked up, startled.
"He brings bad things."
"Surely you don't believe in ghosts?"
"I hope I will never see him."
"Of course you won't. There aren't such things. What old Jim saw was a pony."
"No! There are bogies in the rocks; they are the men who lived long ago."
"They aren't gipsies, anyway; those old men were dead long before gipsies came."
She said simply: "They are all bad."
"Why? If there are any, they're only wild, like the rabbits. The flowers aren't bad for being wild; the thorn trees were never planted--and you don't mind them. I shall go down at night and look for your bogie, and have a talk with him."
"Oh, no! Oh, no!"
"Oh, yes! I shall go and sit on his rock."
She clasped her hands together: "Oh, please!"
"Why! What 'does it matter if anything happens to me?"
She did not answer; and in a sort of pet he added:
"Well, I daresay I shan't see him, because I suppose I must be off soon."
"Soon?"
"Your aunt won't want to keep me here."
"Oh, yes! We always let lodgings in summer."
Fixing his eyes on her face, he asked:
"Would you like me to stay?"
"Yes."
"I'm going to say a prayer for you to-night!"
She flushed crimson, frowned, and went out of the room. He sat, cursing himself, till his tea was stewed. It was as if he had hacked with his thick boots at a clump of bluebells. Why had he said such a silly thing? Was he just a towny college ass like Robert Garton, as far from understanding this girl?
Ashurst spent the next week confirming the restoration of his leg, by exploration of the country within easy reach. Spring was a revelation to him this year. In a kind of intoxication he would watch the pink-white buds of some backward beech tree sprayed up in the sunlight against the deep blue sky, or the trunks and limbs of the few Scotch firs, tawny in violent light, or again, on the moor, the gale-bent larches which had such a look of life when the wind streamed in their young green, above the rusty black underboughs. Or he would lie on the banks, gazing at the clusters of dog-violets, or up in the dead bracken, fingering the pink, transparent buds of the dewberry, while the cuckoos called and yafes laughed, or a
"The gipsy bogle zets on that stone," he said.
"What gipsy bogie?"
"Dunno; never zeen 'e. Megan zays 'e zets there; an' old Jim zeed 'e once. 'E was zettin' there naight afore our pony kicked--in father's 'ead. 'E plays the viddle."
"What tune does he play?"
"Dunno."
"What's he like?"
"'E's black. Old Jim zays 'e's all over 'air. 'E's a praaper bogle. 'E don' come only at naight." The little boy's oblique dark eyes slid round. "D'yu think 'e might want to take me away? Megan's feared of 'e."
"Has she seen him?"
"No. She's not afeared o' yu."
"I should think not. Why should she be?"
"She zays a prayer for yu."
"How do you know that, you little rascal?"
"When I was asleep, she said: 'God bless us all, an' Mr. Ashes.' I yeard 'er whisperin'."
"You're a little ruffian to tell what you hear when you're not meant to hear it!"
The little boy was silent. Then he said aggressively:
"I can skin rabbets. Megan, she can't bear skinnin' 'em. I like blood."
"Oh! you do; you little monster!"
"What's that?"
"A creature that likes hurting others."
The little boy scowled. "They'm only dead rabbets, what us eats."
"Quite right, Nick. I beg your pardon."
"I can skin frogs, tu."
But Ashurst had become absent. "God bless us all, and Mr. Ashes!" And puzzled by that sudden inaccessibility, Nick ran back to the stream where the giggling and shouts again uprose at once.
When Megan brought his tea, he said:
"What's the gipsy bogle, Megan?"
She looked up, startled.
"He brings bad things."
"Surely you don't believe in ghosts?"
"I hope I will never see him."
"Of course you won't. There aren't such things. What old Jim saw was a pony."
"No! There are bogies in the rocks; they are the men who lived long ago."
"They aren't gipsies, anyway; those old men were dead long before gipsies came."
She said simply: "They are all bad."
"Why? If there are any, they're only wild, like the rabbits. The flowers aren't bad for being wild; the thorn trees were never planted--and you don't mind them. I shall go down at night and look for your bogie, and have a talk with him."
"Oh, no! Oh, no!"
"Oh, yes! I shall go and sit on his rock."
She clasped her hands together: "Oh, please!"
"Why! What 'does it matter if anything happens to me?"
She did not answer; and in a sort of pet he added:
"Well, I daresay I shan't see him, because I suppose I must be off soon."
"Soon?"
"Your aunt won't want to keep me here."
"Oh, yes! We always let lodgings in summer."
Fixing his eyes on her face, he asked:
"Would you like me to stay?"
"Yes."
"I'm going to say a prayer for you to-night!"
She flushed crimson, frowned, and went out of the room. He sat, cursing himself, till his tea was stewed. It was as if he had hacked with his thick boots at a clump of bluebells. Why had he said such a silly thing? Was he just a towny college ass like Robert Garton, as far from understanding this girl?
Ashurst spent the next week confirming the restoration of his leg, by exploration of the country within easy reach. Spring was a revelation to him this year. In a kind of intoxication he would watch the pink-white buds of some backward beech tree sprayed up in the sunlight against the deep blue sky, or the trunks and limbs of the few Scotch firs, tawny in violent light, or again, on the moor, the gale-bent larches which had such a look of life when the wind streamed in their young green, above the rusty black underboughs. Or he would lie on the banks, gazing at the clusters of dog-violets, or up in the dead bracken, fingering the pink, transparent buds of the dewberry, while the cuckoos called and yafes laughed, or a