Here the river made a bend and came to the breast of an ancient orchard, rich with grass and thick with trees leafless now, but thickly bearded upon every twig with moss. This was of every form and fashion, and of almost every hue. I had never seen such a freaksome piece of work outside the tropics, although in Devonshire common enough, where the soil is moist and the climate damp. Some of these trees lay down on the ground, as if they wore tired of standing, and some were in sitting postures, and some half leaning over; but all alive, in spite of that, and fruitful when it suited them. And everything being neglected now, from want of the Squire’s attention, heaps of rosy and golden apples lay where they had been piled to sweat, but never led to the cider-press.
Perceiving no sign of Sir Philip about, and remembering how it was now beginning to draw on for Christmas-time, I felt myself welcome to one or two of these neglected apples; for it was much if nobody of the farmers’ wives who crossed the ferry could afford me a goose for Christmas in my solitary hole. And even if all should fail disgracefully of their duty towards me, I had my eye on a nice young bird of more than the average plumpness, who neglected his parents’ advice every day, and came for some favourite grass of his, which only grew just on the river’s verge, within thirty yards of my fusil. It would have shown low curiosity to ask if he owned an owner. From his independent manner I felt that he must be public property; and I meant to reduce him into possession right early in the morning of the Saint that was so incredulous. It is every man’s duty to treat himself well at the time of the Holy Nativity; and having a knowledge of Devonshire geese, after two months on the stubbles, I could not do better than store in my boat one or two of these derelict apples.
Never do I see or taste an apple without thinking of poor Bardie. “Appledies,” she always called them, and she was so fond of them, and her little white teeth made marks like a small-tooth comb in the flesh of them. I was thinking of her, and had scarcely embarked more than a bushel or so, for sauce, in a little snug locker of my own, when I had the pleasure of seeing the gentleman whom I had come all that way to see.
At my own desire, and through Miss Carey’s faith in me, it had not been laid before Sir Philip that I was likely to meet him here; only she had told me when and where to come across him, so as not to be broken in upon. Now he came down the narrow winding walk, at the lower side of the orchard, a path overhanging a little brook which murmured under last summer’s growth; and I gazed at him silently for a while, through the bushes that overhung my boat. He was dressed as when I had seen him last through my telescope, at the time we came up the river; that is to say, in black velvet, and with his long sword hanging beside him. A brave, and stately, and noble man, walking through a steady gloom of grief, and yet content to walk alone, and never speak of it.
I leaped through the bush at the river’s brink, and suddenly stood before him. He set his calm cold gaze upon me, without a shadow of surprise, as if to say, “You have no business in my private grounds; however, it is not worth speaking of.” I made him a low bow with my hat off; and he moved his own, and was passing on.
“Will your Worship look at me,” I said, “and see whether you remember me?” He seemed just a little surprised, and then with his inborn courtesy complied.
“I have seen you before, but I know not where. Sir, I often need pardon now for the weakness of my memory.”
In a few short words I brought to his mind that evening visit to my cottage, with Anthony Stew and the yellow carriage.
“To be sure, to be sure! I remember now,” he said, with his grave and placid smile: “David Llewellyn! Both good old names, and the latter, I daresay, in your belief, both the older and the better one. I remember your hospitality, your patience, and your love of children. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, your Worship, nothing. I am here for your sake only; although if I wanted, I would ask you, having found you so good and kind.”
“Whence did you get that expression, my friend? The common usage is ‘kind and good;’ I once knew a very little child—but I suppose it is the Welsh idiom.”
“Your Worship, I can speak English thoroughly; better even than my own language; and all around us the scholarly people have more English than of Welsh. But to let your Worship know my cause to come so much upon you, is of things more to the purpose. I have found a bad man meaning mischief to your Worship.”
“It cannot be so,” he replied, withdrawing, as if I were taking a liberty; “no doubt but you mean me well, Llewellyn, and yourself believe it. But neither I, nor anyone else of all my family, now so small, can have given reason for any ill-will towards us.”
It was not for me to dare to speak, while the General was reflecting thus, as if in his own mind going through every small accident of his life; even the servants he might have discharged; or the land-forces ordered for punishment, whereof to my mind they lack more than they get, and grow their backs up in a manner beyond all perception of discipline.
For my part, I could not help thinking, as I watched
