“I have not yet found what I need,” thought Gian-Luca, slowly shaking his head.
The road grew more thickly wooded beyond Virginia Water, and he fancied that the trees were tramping beside him—beech tree and ash tree, holly and chestnut; and their branches swept forward a little in the wind as though pointing the way to Gian-Luca.
“Where are you taking me to?” he asked them, and for answer the trees swept forward again.
All day he tramped on, forgetting his luncheon, and the trees never left him for long. Sometimes he would pass through a town or a village, but the trees would be waiting on the far side to meet him, while the gentle, green pastures with their gentle-eyed cattle would be drowsing beyond the trees. This was the day on which he saw his first lambs; quite new they were, and unbelievably clean. Being strong little lambs, they played a great deal, but without any sense of direction. On their stiff, hoop-stick legs they wore fluffy black gaiters; their faces were black, too, so the rest of their fleece seemed exceedingly white by contrast. After their babes walked the careful old ewes, nuzzling, pushing, calling. From time to time a lamb stopped abruptly, ducking its head for the comfort of its mother, and the ewe would stand patiently gazing into space while the lamb drank in life from her body.
How pleasant they were, these wide English meadows, happy with flocks and herds. The sky and the green grass belonged to their creatures, but Gian-Luca, remembering Lidia’s poor beasts, must turn his eyes away from these meadows, filled with a reminiscent pity.
Towards evening he came to a quiet inn standing at the end of a village, a low black-and-white building with timbers and gables; and because a huge elm tree guarded its entrance, he decided to stay there for the night. He ate his supper at a rough wooden table that stood just under the tree; he could hear the perpetual talking of leaves, and, whatever it was that they talked of, it soothed him, for their sibilant words sounded patient and hopeful.
And so ended his second day.
III
Gian-Luca fell in with a tramp the next morning who was going in his direction, a dusty fellow with a hole in his shoe, and the restless eyes and shuffling gait that belong to the Brothers of the Road. Gian-Luca himself looked scarcely less dusty, and he too was shuffling a little, for those who walk far must economize force—they very soon drop their goose-step. A two days’ growth was on Gian-Luca’s chin, for he had not troubled to shave.
“I will let my beard grow,” he had said to himself, and now it was obviously growing.
But this unkempt appearance did not deceive the tramp, who had taken in Gian-Luca’s clothes. “A toff,” thought the tramp, “and ’e’s tryin’ to look shabby. Lordy, ain’t people amazin’!”
“Good morning!” said Gian-Luca on a sudden impulse; “it looks like being a fine day.”
“Yus,” grunted the tramp noncommittally, and proceeded to scratch his head.
After that there was silence for several minutes while he eyed Gian-Luca with suspicion; he had certainly met this type before, he decided—swells, and loonies, and suchlike, doing the simple; they generally tried to find out all about you, then wrote a lot of rubbish to the papers.
“Are you going very far?” inquired Gian-Luca, breaking the awkward pause.
“Middlin’,” he was told, and again there was silence as they trudged along side by side.
“This road leads to Basingstoke, I think,” remarked Gian-Luca.
“ ’Ook comes fust,” growled his Brother.
“Oh, does it?” said Gian-Luca.
“Yus, it do,” snapped the tramp; “ain’t yer looked at the signposts? Don’t yer know where yer goin’?”
Gian-Luca smiled at him: “Well, no, not exactly, but every road must lead somewhere in the end.”
And now the tramp felt thoroughly suspicious: “I suppose yer’ve come walkin’ out ’ere for fun; yer one of them crack-brains wot wants ter live simple. Blimey! you try it! It ain’t so darned simple to live no’ow, to my way of thinkin’.” Then he added quickly: “Or maybe yer a writer, one of them as writes for the papers.”
But Gian-Luca informed him that he had once been a waiter, and at this his companion looked a little more friendly: “A waiter, was yer? That sounds all right ter me—so nice and ’andy to the food.”
“I suppose so. I have thrown up my job quite lately. I used to be at the Doric.”
“Gawd!” muttered the tramp, “that swell plyce in Piccadilly? Yer spoilt, that’s wot you are; some folks never knows their blessin’s, not till they’ve lost ’em.”
Gian-Luca examined the man’s face more closely, noticing the restless eyes. He said: “You would never tolerate four walls—”
“Now then, wotch’yer gettin’ at!” scowled the tramp, glancing at Gian-Luca with annoyance.
At Hook the tramp bethought him of food, and he paused beside a shop window. The window was full of cold meats and pork pies, interlarded with rock cakes and apples.
But the tramp shook his head: “No, thanks,” he remarked. “I ain’t got the price of the Doric terdye, nor yet of the Berkeley neither—”
“You may choose!” said Gian-Luca.
“Go on!” said the tramp.
“You may choose; I mean it,” laughed Gian-Luca.
The tramp chose a couple of large pork pies and a goodly portion of beef. Gian-Luca chose bread and cheese and some apples.
“Well, I never!” scoffed his companion.
Farther on down the street Gian-Luca bought beer, then they hurried along through the town.
“Come on!” urged the tramp. “I knows a nice spot fer a picnic!” and he grinned with amusement.
Out beyond the town they came to a meadow; a large board was affixed to its gate: “Trespassers will be prosecuted,” read the board, but the tramp wormed his way through a gap in the hedge, and after him went Gian-Luca.
The tramp was soon mellow with pork pies and beer, his eyes grew more steady and friendly; and now he was talking of the life
