I was now going at what seemed like a speed of ninety or a hundred
miles an hour, with the wind rushing in between my teeth like water
over a mill-dam, and I felt sure that if I kept on going down that hill
I should soon be whirling through space like a comet. The only way I
could think of to save myself was to turn into some level place where
the thing would stop, but not a crossroad did I pass; but presently I
saw a little house standing back from the road, which seemed to hump
itself a little at that place so as to be nearly level, and over the
edge of the hump it dipped so suddenly that I could not see the rest of
the road at all.

"Now," thought I to myself, "if the gate of that house is open I'll
turn into it, and no matter what I run into, it would be better than
going over the edge of that rise beyond and down the awful hill that
must be on the other side of it." As I swooped down to the little house
and reached the level ground I felt I was going a little slower, but
not much. However, I steered my tricycle round at just the right
instant, and through the front gate I went like a flash.

I was going so fast, and my mind was so wound up on account of the
necessity of steering straight, that I could not pay much attention to
things I passed. But the scene that showed itself in front of me as I
went through that little garden gate I could not help seeing and
remembering. From the gate to the door of the house was a path paved
with flagstones; the door was open, and there must have been a low step
before it; back of the door was a hall which ran through the house, and
this was paved with flagstones; the back door of the hall was open, and
outside of it was a sort of arbor with vines, and on one side of this
arbor was a bench, with a young man and a young woman sitting on it,
holding each other by the hand, and looking into each other's eyes;
the arbor opened out on to a piece of green grass, with flowers of
mixed colors on the edges of it, and at the back of this bit of lawn
was a lot of clothes hung out on clothes-lines. Of course, I could not
have seen all those things at once, but they came upon me like a single
picture, for in one tick of a watch I went over that flagstone path and
into that front door and through that house and out of that back door,
and past that young man and that young woman, and head and heels both
foremost at once, dashed slam-bang into the midst of all that linen
hanging out on the lines.

[Illustration: "AT LAST I DID GET ON MY FEET"]

I heard the minglement of a groan and a scream, and in an instant I was
enveloped in a white, wet cloud of sheets, pillowcases, tablecloths,
and underwear. Some of the things stuck so close to me, and others I
grabbed with such a wild clutch, that nearly all the week's wash, lines
and all, came down on me, wrapping me up like an apple in a
dumpling--but I stopped. There was not anything in this world that
would have been better for me to run into than those lines full of wet
clothes.

Where the tricycle went to I didn't know, but I was lying on the grass
kicking, and trying to get up and to get my head free, so that I could
see and breathe. At last I did get on my feet, and throwing out my arms
so as to shake off the sheets and pillowcases that were clinging all
over me I shook some of the things partly off my face, and with one
eye I saw that couple on the bench, but only for a second. With a yell
of horror, and with a face whiter than the linen I was wrapped in, that
young man bounced from the bench, dashed past the house, made one clean
jump over the hedge into the road, and disappeared. As for the young
woman, she just flopped over and went down in a faint on the floor.

As soon as I could do it I got myself free from the clothes-line and
staggered out on the grass. I was trembling so much I could scarcely
walk, but when I saw that young woman looking as if she was dead on the
ground I felt I must do something, and seeing a pail of water standing
near by, I held it over her face and poured it down on her a little at
a time, and it wasn't long before she began to squirm, and then she
opened her eyes and her mouth just at the same time, so that she must
have swallowed about as much water as she would have taken at a meal.
This brought her to, and she began to cough and splutter and look
around wildly, and then I took her by the arm and helped her up on the
bench.

"Don't you want a little something to drink?" I said. "Tell me where I
can get you something."

She didn't answer, but began looking from one side to the other. "Is he
swallowed?" said she in a whisper, with her eyes starting out of her
head.

"Swallowed?" said I. "Who?"

"Davy," said she.

"Oh, your young man," said I. "He is all right, unless he hurt himself
jumping over the hedge. I saw him run away just as fast as he could."

"And the spirit?" said she. I looked hard at her.

"What has happened to you?" said I. "How did you come to faint?"

She was getting quieter, but she still looked wildly out of her eyes,
and kept her back turned toward the bit of grass, as if she was afraid
to look in that direction.

"What happened to you?" said I again, for I wanted to know what she
thought about my sudden appearance. It took some little time for her to
get ready to answer, and then she said:

"Was you frightened, lady? Did you have to come in here? I'm sorry you
found me swooned. I don't know how long I was swooned. Davy and me was
sitting here talking about having the banns called, and it was a sorry
talk, lady, for the vicar, he's told me four times I should not marry
Davy, because he says he is a Radical; but for all that Davy and me
wants the banns called all the same, but not knowing how we was to have
it done, for the vicar, he's so set against Davy, and Davy, he had just
got done saying to me that he was going to marry me, vicar or no vicar,
banns or no banns, come what might, when that very minute, with an
awful hiss, something flashed in front of us, dazzling my eyes so that
I shut them and screamed, and then when I opened them again, there, in
the yard back of us, was a great white spirit twice as high as the cow
stable, with one eye in the middle of its forehead, turning around like
a firework. I don't remember anything after that, and I don't know how
long I was lying here when you came and found me, lady, but I know what
it means. There is a curse on our marriage, and Davy and me will never
be man and wife." And then she fell to groaning and moaning.

I felt like laughing when I thought how much like a church ghost I must
have looked, standing there in solid white with my arms stretched out;
but the poor girl was in such a dreadful state of mind that I sat down
beside her and began to comfort her by telling her just what had
happened, and that she ought to be very glad that I had found a place
to turn into, and had not gone on down the hill and dashed myself into
little pieces at the bottom. But it wasn't easy to cheer her up.

"Oh, Davy's gone," said she. "He'll never come back for fear of the
curse. He'll be off with his uncle to sea. I'll never lay eyes on Davy
again."

Just at that moment I heard somebody calling my name, and looking
through the house I saw Jone at the front door and two men behind him.
As I ran through the hall I saw that the two men with Jone was Mr.
Poplington and a young fellow with a pale face and trembling legs.

"Is this Davy?" said I.

"Yes," said he.

"Then go back to your young woman and comfort her," I said, which he
did, and when he had gone, not madly rushing into his loved one's arms,
but shuffling along in a timid way, as if he was afraid the ghost
hadn't gone yet, I asked Jone how he happened to think I was here, and
he told me that he and Mr. Poplington had taken the road to the left
when they reached the fork, because that was the proper one, but they
had not gone far before he thought I might not know which way to turn,
so they came back to the fork to wait for me. But I had been closer
behind them than they thought, and I must have come to the fork before
they turned back, so, after waiting a while and going back along the
road without seeing me, they thought that I must have taken the
right-hand road, and they came that way, going down the hill very
carefully. After a while Jone found my hat in the road, which up to
that moment I had not missed, and then he began to be frightened and
they went on faster.

They passed the little house, and as they was going down the hill they
saw ahead of them a man running as if something had happened, so they
let out their bicycles and soon caught up to him. This was Davy; and
when they stopped him and asked if anything was the matter he told
them that a dreadful thing had come to pass. He had been working in the
garden of a house about half a mile back when suddenly there came an
awful crash, and a white animal sprang out of the house with a bit of a
cotton mill fastened to its tail, and then, with a great peal of
thunder, it vanished, and a white ghost rose up out of the ground with
its arms stretching out longer and longer, reaching to clutch him by
the hair. He was not afraid of anything living, but he couldn't abide
spirits, so he laid down his spade and left the garden, thinking he
would go and see the sexton and have him come and lay the ghost.

Then Jone went on to say that of course he could not make head or tail
out of such a story as that, but when he heard that an awful row had
been kicked up in a garden he immediately thought that as like as not I
was in it, and so he and Mr. Poplington ran back, leaving their
bicycles against the hedge, and bringing the young man with them.

Then I told my story, and Mr. Poplington said it was a mercy I was not
killed, and Jone didn't say much, but I could see that his teeth was
grinding.

We all went into the back yard, and there, on the other side of the
clothes, which was scattered all over the ground, we found my tricycle,
jammed into a lot of gooseberry bushes, and when it was dragged out we
found it was not hurt a bit. Davy and his young woman was standing in
the arbor looking very sheepish, especially Davy, for she had told him
what it was that had scared him. As we was going through the house,
Jone taking my tricycle, I stopped to say good-by to the girl.

"Now that you see there has been no curse and no ghost," said I, "I
hope that you will soon have your banns called, and that you and your
young man will be married all right."

"Thank you very much, ma'am," said she, "but I'm awful fearful about
it. Davy may say what he pleases, but my mother never will let me marry
him if the vicar's agen it; and Davy wouldn't have been here to-day if
she hadn't gone to town; and the vicar's a hard man and a strong Tory,
and he'll always be agen it, I fear."

When I went out into the front yard I found Mr. Poplington and Jone
sitting on a little stone bench, for they was tired, and I told them
about that young woman and Davy.

"Humph," said Mr. Poplington, "I know the vicar of the parish. He is
the Rev. Osmun Green. He's a good Conservative, and is perfectly right
in trying to keep that poor girl from marrying a wretched Radical."

I looked straight at him and said:

"Do you mean, sir, to put politics before matrimonial happiness?"

"No, I don't," said he, "but a girl can't expect matrimonial happiness
with a Radical."

I saw that Jone was about to say something here, but I got in ahead of
him.

"I will tell you what it is, sir," said I, "if you think it is wrong to
be a Radical the best thing you can do is to write to your friend, that
vicar, and advise him to get those two young people married as soon as
possible, for it is easy to see that she is going to rule the roost,
and if anybody can get his Radicalistics out of him she will be the one
to do it."

Mr. Poplington laughed, and said that as the man looked as if he was a
fit subject to be henpecked it might be a good way of getting another
Tory vote.

"But," said he, "I should think it would go against your conscience,
being naturally opposed to the Conservatives, to help even by one
vote."

"Oh, my conscience is all right," said I. "When politics runs against
the matrimonial altar I stand up for the altar."

"Well," said he, "I'll think of it." And we started off, walking down
the hill, Jone holding on to my tricycle.

When we got to level ground, with about two miles to go before we would
stop for luncheon, Jone took a piece of thin rope out of his pocket--he
always carries some sort of cord in case of accidents--and he tied it
to the back part of my machine.

"Now," said he, "I'm going to keep hold of the other end of this, and
perhaps your tricycle won't run away with you."

I didn't much like going along this way, as if I was a cow being taken
to market, but I could see that Jone had been so troubled and
frightened about me that I didn't make any objection, and, in fact,
after I got started it was a comfort to think there was a tie between
Jone and me that was stronger, when hilly roads came into the question,
than even the matrimonial tie.




_Letter Number Ten_


CHEDCOMBE, SOMERSETSHIRE

The place we stopped at on the first night of our cycle trip is named
Porlock, and after the walking and the pushing, and the strain on my
mind when going down even the smallest hill for fear Jone's rope would
give way, I was glad to get there.

The road into Porlock goes down a hill, the steepest I have seen yet,
and we all walked down, holding our machines as if they had been fiery
coursers. This hill road twists and winds so you can only see part of
it at a time, and when we was about half-way down we heard a horn
blowing behind us, and looking around there came the mail-coach at full
speed, with four horses, with a lot of people on top. As this raging
coach passed by it nearly took my breath away, and as soon as I could
speak I said to Jone: "Don't you ever say anything in America about
having the roads made narrower so that it won't cost so much to keep
them in order, for in my opinion it's often the narrow road that
leadeth to destruction."

When we got into the town, and my mind really began to grapple with old
Porlock, I felt as if I was sliding backward down the slope of the
centuries, and liked it. As we went along Mr. Poplington told us about
everything, and said that this queer little town was a fishing village
and seaport in the days of the Saxons, and that King Harold was once
obliged to stop there for a while, and that he passed his time making
war on the neighbors.

Mr. Poplington took us to a tavern called the Ship Inn, and I simply
went wild over it. It is two hundred years old and two stories high,
and everything I ever read about the hostelries of the past I saw
there. The queer little door led into a queer little passage paved with
stone. A pair of little stairs led out of this into another little
room, higher up, and on the other side of the passage was a long,
mysterious hallway. We had our dinner in a tiny parlor, which reminded
me of a chapter in one of those old books where they use f instead of
s, and where the first word of the next page is at the bottom of the
one you are reading.

There was a fireplace in the room with a window one side of it, through
which you could look into the street. It was not cold, but it had begun
to rain hard, and so I made the dampness an excuse for a fire.

"This is antique, indeed," I said, when we were at the table.

"You are right there," said Mr. Poplington, who was doing his best to
carve a duck, and was a little cross about it.

When I sat before the fire that evening, and Jone was asleep on a
settee of the days of yore, and Mr. Poplington had gone to bed, being
tired, my soul went back to the olden time, and, looking out through
the little window in the fireplace, I fancied I could see William the
Conqueror and the King of the Danes sneaking along the little street
under the eaves of the thatched roofs, until I was so worked up that I
was on the point of shouting, "Fly! oh, Saxon!" when the door opened
and the maid who waited on us at the table put her head in. I took this
for a sign that the curfew bell was going to ring, and so I woke up
Jone and we went to bed.

But all night long the heroes of the past flocked about me. I had been
reading a lot of history, and I knew them all the minute my eyes fell
upon them. Charlemagne and Canute sat on the end of the bed, while
Alfred the Great climbed up one of the posts until he was stopped by
Hannibal's legs, who had them twisted about the post to keep himself
steady. When I got up in the morning I went down-stairs into the little
parlor, and there was the maid down on her knees cleaning the hearth.

"What is your name?" I said to her.

"Jane, please," said she.

"Jane what?" said I.

"Jane Puddle, please," said she.

I took a carving-knife from off the table, and standing over her I
brought it down gently on top of her head. "Rise, Sir Jane Puddle,"
said I, to which the maid gave a smothered gasp, and--would you believe
it, madam?--she crept out of the room on her hands and knees. The cook
waited on us at breakfast, and I truly believe that the landlord and
his wife breathed a sigh of relief when we left the Ship Inn, for their
sordid souls had never heard of knighthood, but knew all about
assassination.

[Illustration: "Rise, Sir Jane Puddle"]

That morning we left Porlock by a hill which compared with the one we
came into it by, was like the biggest Pyramid of Egypt by the side of a
haycock. I don't suppose in the whole civilized world there is a worse
hill with a road on it than the one we went up by. I was glad we had to
go up it instead of down it, though it was very hard to walk, pushing
the tricycle, even when helped. I believe it would have taken away my
breath and turned me dizzy even to take one step face forward down such
a hill, and gaze into the dreadful depths below me; and yet they drive
coaches and fours down that hill. At the top of the hill is this
notice: "To cyclers--this hill is dangerous." If I had thought of it I
should have looked for the cyclers' graves at the bottom of it.

The reason I thought about this was that I had been reading about one
of the mountains in Switzerland, which is one of the highest and most
dangerous, and with the poorest view, where so many Alpine climbers
have been killed that there is a little graveyard nearly full of their
graves at the foot of the mountain. How they could walk through that
graveyard and read the inscriptions on the tombstones and then go and
climb that mountain is more than I can imagine.

In walking up this hill, and thinking that it might have been in front
of me when my tricycle ran away, I could not keep my mind away from the
little graveyard at the foot of the Swiss mountain.




_Letter Number Eleven_


[Illustration]

CHEDCOMBE, SOMERSETSHIRE

On the third day of our cycle trip we journeyed along a lofty road,
with the wild moor on one side and the tossing sea on the other, and at
night reached Lynton. It is a little town on a jutting crag, and far
down below it on the edge of the sea was another town named Lynmouth,
and there is a car with a wire rope to it, like an elevator, which they
call The Lift, which takes people up and down from one town to another.

Here we stopped at a house very different from the Ship Inn, for it
looked as if it had been built the day before yesterday. Everything was
new and shiny, and we had our supper at a long table with about twenty
other people, just like a boardinghouse. Some of their ways reminded
me of the backwoods, and I suppose there is nothing more modern than
backwoodsism, which naturally hasn't the least alloy of the past. When
the people got through with their cups of coffee or tea, mostly the
last, two women went around the table, one with a big bowl for us to
lean back and empty our slops into, and the other with the tea or
coffee to fill up the cups. A gentleman with a baldish head, who was
sitting opposite us, began to be sociable as soon as he heard us speak
to the waiters, and asked questions about America. After he got through
with about a dozen of them he said:

"Is it true, as I have heard, that what you call native-born Americans
deteriorate in the third generation?"

I had been answering most of the questions, but now Jone spoke up
quick. "That depends," says he, "on their original blood. When
Americans are descended from Englishmen they steadily improve,
generation after generation." The baldish man smiled at this, and said
there was nothing like having good blood for a foundation. But Mr.
Poplington laughed, and said to me that Jone had served him right.

The country about Lynton is wonderfully beautiful, with rocks and
valleys, and velvet lawns running into the sea, and woods and ancestral
mansions, and we spent the day seeing all this, and also going down to
Lynmouth, where the little ships lie high and dry on the sand when the
tide goes out, and the carts drive up to them and put goods on board,
and when the tide rises the ships sail away, which is very convenient.

I wanted to keep on along the coast, but the others didn't, and the
next morning we started back to Chedcombe by a roundabout way, so that
we might see Exmoor and the country where Lorna Doone and John Ridd cut
up their didoes. I must say I liked the story a good deal better before
I saw the country where the things happened. The mind of man is capable
of soarings which Nature weakens at when she sees what she is called
upon to do. If you want a real, first-class, tooth-on-edge Doone
valley, the place to look for it is in the book. We went rolling along
on the smooth, hard roads, which are just as good here as if they was
in London, and all around us was stretched out the wild and desolate
moors, with the wind screaming and whistling over the heather, nearly
tearing the clothes off our backs, while the rain beat down on us with
a steady pelting, and the ragged sheep stopped to look at us, as if we
was three witches and they was Macbeths.

The very thought that I was out in a wild storm on a desolate moor
filled my soul with a sort of triumph, and I worked my tricycle as if I
was spurring my steed to battle. The only thing that troubled me was
the thought that if the water that poured off my mackintosh that day
could have run into our cistern at home, it would have been a glorious
good thing. Jone did not like the fierce blast and the inspiriting
rain, but I knew he'd stand it as long as Mr. Poplington did, and so I
was content, although, if we had been overtaken by a covered wagon, I
should have trembled for the result.

That night we stopped in the little village of Simonsbath at Somebody's
Arms. After dinner Mr. Poplington, who knew some people in the place,
went out, but Jone and me went to bed as quick as we could, for we was
tired. The next morning we was wakened by a tremendous pounding at the
door. I didn't know what to make of it, for it was too early and too
loud for hot water, but we heard Mr. Poplington calling to us, and Jone
jumped up to see what he wanted.

"Get up," said he, "if you want to see a sight that you never saw
before. We'll start off immediately and breakfast at Exford." The hope
of seeing a sight was enough to make me bounce at any time, and I never
dressed or packed a bag quicker than I did that morning, and Jone
wasn't far behind me.

When we got down-stairs we found our cycles waiting ready at the door,
together with the stable man and the stable boy and the boy's helper
and the cook and the chambermaid and the waiters and the other
servants, waiting for their tips. Mr. Poplington seemed in a fine
humor, and he told us he had heard the night before that there was to
be a stag hunt that day, the first of the season. In fact, it was not
one of the regular meets, but what they called a by-meet, and not known
to everybody.

"We will go on to Exford," said he, straddling his bicycle, "for though
the meet isn't to be there, there's where they keep the hounds and
horses, and if we make good speed we shall get there before they start
out."

The three of us travelled abreast, Mr. Poplington in the middle, and on
the way he told us a good deal about stag hunts. What I remember best,
having to go so fast and having to mind my steering, was that after the
hunting season began they hunted stags until a certain day--I forget
what it was--and then they let them alone and began to hunt the does;
and that after that particular day of the month, when the stags heard
the hounds coming they paid no attention to them, knowing very well it
was the does' turn to be chased, and that they would not be bothered;
and so they let the female members of their families take care of
themselves; which shows that ungentlemanliness extends itself even into
Nature.

When we got to Exford we left our cycles at the inn and followed Mr.
Poplington to the hunting stables, which are near by. I had not gone a
dozen steps from the door before I heard a great barking, and the next
minute there came around the corner a pack of hounds. They crossed the
bridge over the little river, and then they stopped. We went up to
them, and while Mr. Poplington talked to the men the whole of that pack
of hounds gathered about us as gentle as lambs. They were good big
dogs, white and brown. The head huntsman who had them in charge told me
there was thirty couple of them, and I thought that sixty dogs was
pretty heavy odds against one deer. Then they moved off as orderly as
if they had been children in a kindergarten, and we went to the stables
and saw the horses; and then the master of the hounds and a good many
other gentlemen in red coats, in all sorts of traps, rode up, and their
hunters were saddled, and the dogs barked and the men cracked their
whips to keep them together, and there was a bustle and liveliness to a
degree I can't write about, and Jone and I never thought about going in
to breakfast until all those horses, some led and some ridden, and the
men and the hounds, and even the dust from their feet, had disappeared.

I wanted to go see the hunt start off, but Mr. Poplington said it was
two or three miles distant, and out of our way, and that we'd better
move on as soon as possible so as to reach Chedcombe that night; but
he was glad, he said, that we had had a chance to see the hounds and
the horses.

As for himself, I could see he was a little down in the mouth, for he
said he was very fond of hunting, and that if he had known of this meet
he would have been there with a horse and his hunting clothes. I think
he hoped somebody would lend him a horse, but nobody did, and not being
able to hunt himself he disliked seeing other people doing what he
could not. Of course, Jone and me could not go to the hunt by
ourselves, so after we'd had our tea and toast and bacon we started
off. I will say here that when I was at the Ship Inn I had tea for my
breakfast, for I couldn't bring my mind to order coffee--a drink the
Saxons must never have heard of--in such a place; and since that we
have been drinking it because Jone said there was no use fighting
against established drinks, and that anyway he thought good tea was
better than bad coffee.




_Letter Number Twelve_


CHEDCOMBE

As I said in my last letter, we started out for Chedcombe, not abreast,
as we had been before, but strung along the road, and me and Mr.
Poplington pretty doleful, being disappointed and not wanting to talk.
But as for Jone, he seemed livelier than ever, and whistled a lot of
tunes he didn't know. I think it always makes him lively to get rid of
seeing sights. The sun was shining brightly, and there was no reason to
expect rain for two or three hours anyway, and the country we passed
through was so fine, with hardly any houses, and with great hills and
woods, and sometimes valleys far below the road, with streams rushing
and bubbling, that after a while I began to feel better, and I pricked
up my tricycle, and, of course, being followed by Jone, we left Mr.
Poplington, whose melancholy seemed to have gotten into his legs, a
good way behind.

We must have travelled two or three hours when all of a sudden I heard
a noise afar, and I drew up and listened. The noise was the barking of
dogs, and it seemed to come from a piece of woods on the other side of
the field which lay to the right of the road. The next instant
something shot out from under the trees and began going over the field
in ten-foot hops. I sat staring without understanding, but when I saw a
lot of brown and white spots bounce out of the wood, and saw, a long
way back in the open field, two red-coated men on horseback, the truth
flashed upon me that this was the hunt. The creature in front was the
stag, who had chosen to come this way, and the dogs and the horses was
after him, and I was here to see it all.

Almost before I got this all straight in my mind the deer was nearly
opposite me on the other side of the field, going the same way that we
were. In a second I clapped spurs into my tricycle and was off. In
front of me was a long stretch of down grade, and over this I went as
fast as I could work my pedals; no brakes or holding back for me. My
blood was up, for I was actually in a deer hunt, and to my amazement
and wild delight I found I was keeping up with the deer. I was going
faster than the men on horseback.

"Hi! Hi!" I shouted, and down I went with one eye on the deer and the
other on the road, every atom of my body tingling with fiery
excitement. When I began to go up the little slope ahead I heard Jone
puffing behind me.

"You will break your neck," he shouted, "if you go down hill that way,"
and getting close up to me he fastened his cord to my tricycle. But I
paid no attention to him or his advice.

"The stag! The stag!" I cried. "As long as he keeps near the road we
can follow him! Hi!" And having got up to the top of the next hill I
made ready to go down as fast as I had gone before, for we had fallen
back a little, and the stag was now getting ahead of us; but it made me
gnash my teeth to find that I could not go fast, for Jone held back
with all his force (and both feet on the ground, I expect), and I could
not get on at all.

"Let go of me," I cried, "we shall lose the stag. Stop holding back."
But it wasn't any use; Jone's heels must have been nearly rubbed off,
but he held back like a good fellow, and I seemed to be moving along no
faster than a worm. I could not stand this; my blood boiled and
bubbled; the deer was getting away from me; and if it had been Porlock
Hill in front of me I would have dashed on, not caring whether the road
was steep or level.

A thought flashed across my mind, and I clapped my hand into my pocket
and jerked out a pair of scissors. In an instant I was free. The world
and the stag was before me, and I was flying along with a tornado-like
swiftness that soon brought me abreast of the deer. This perfectly
splendid, bounding creature was not far away from me on the other side
of the hedge, and as the field was higher than the road I could see him
perfectly. His legs worked so regular and springy, except when he came
to a cross hedge, which he went over with a single clip, and came down
like India rubber on the other side, that one might have thought he was
measuring the grass, and keeping an account of his jumps in his head.

[Illustration: "In an instant I was free."]

For one instant I looked around for the hounds, and I saw there was not
more than half a dozen following him, and I could only see the two
hunters I had seen before, and these was still a good way back. As for
Jone, I couldn't hear him at all, and he must have been left far
behind. There was still the woods on the other side, and the deer
seemed to run to keep away from that and to cross the road, and he
came nearer and nearer until I fancied he kept an eye on me as if he
was wondering if I was of any consequence, and if I could hinder him
from crossing the road and getting away into the valley below where
there was a regular wilderness of woods and underbrush.

If he does that, I thought, he will be gone in a minute and I shall
lose him, and the hunt will be over. And for fear he would make for the
hedge and jump over it, not minding me, I jerked out my handkerchief
and shook it at him. You can't imagine how this frightened him. He
turned sharp to the right, dashed up the hill, cleared a hedge and was
gone. I gave a gasp and a scream as I saw him disappear. I believe I
cried, but I didn't stop, and glad I was that I didn't; for in less
than a minute I had come to a cross lane which led in the very
direction the deer had taken. I turned into this lane and went on as
fast as I could, and I soon found that it led through a thick wood.
Down in the hollow, which I could not see into, I heard a barking and
shouting, and I kept on just as fast as I could make that tricycle go.
Where the lane led to, or what I should ever come to, I didn't think
about. I was hunting a stag, and all I cared for was to feel my
tricycle bounding beneath me.

I may have gone a half a mile or two miles--I have not an idea how far
it was--when suddenly I came to a place where there was green grass and
rocks in an opening in the woods, and what a sight I saw! There was
that beautiful, grand, red deer half down on his knees and perfectly
quiet, and there was one of the men in red coats coming toward him with
a great knife in his hand, and a little farther back was three or four
dogs with another man, still on horseback, whipping them to keep them
back, though they seemed willing enough to lie there with their tongues
out, panting. As the man with the knife came up to the deer, the poor
creature raised its eyes to him, and didn't seem to mind whether he
came or not. It was trembling all over and fairly tired to death. When
the man got near enough he took hold of one of the deer's horns and
lifted up the hand with the knife in it, but he didn't bring it down on
that deer's throat, I can tell you, madam, for I was there and had him
by the arm.

He turned on me as if he had been struck by lightning.

"What do you mean?" he shouted. "Let go my arm."

"Don't you touch that deer," said I--my voice was so husky I could
hardly speak--"don't you see it's surrendered? Can you have the heart
to cut that beautiful throat when he is pleading for mercy?" The man's
eyes looked as if they would burst out of his head. He gave me a pull
and a push as if he would stick the knife into me, and he actually
swore at me, but I didn't mind that.

[Illustration: "IF YOU WAS A MAN I'D BREAK YOUR HEAD"]

"You have got that poor creature now," said I, "and that's enough. Keep
it and tame it and bring it up with your children." I didn't have time
to say anything more, and he didn't have time to answer, for two of the
dogs who had got a little of their wind back sprang up and made a jump
at the stag; and he, having got a little of his wind back, jerked his
horn out of the hand of the man, and giving a sort of side spring
backward among the bushes and rocks, away he went, the dogs after him.

The man with the knife rushed out into the lane, and so did I, and so
did the man on horseback, almost on top of me. On the other side of the
lane was a little gorge with rocks and trees and water at the bottom of
it, and I was just in time to see the stag spring over the lane and
drop out of sight among the rocks and the moss and the vines.

The man stood and swore at me regardless of my sex, so violent was his
rage.

"If you was a man I'd break your head," he yelled.

"I'm glad I'm not," said I, "for I wouldn't want my head broken. But
what troubles me is, that I'm afraid that deer has broken his legs or
hurt himself some way, for I never saw anything drop on rocks in such a
reckless manner, and the poor thing so tired."

The man swore again, and said something about wishing somebody else's
legs had been broken; and then he shouted to the man on horseback to
call off the dogs, which was of no use, for he was doing it already.
Then he turned on me again.

"You are an American," he shouted. "I might have known that. No English
woman would ever have done such a beastly thing as that."

"You're mistaken there," I said; "there isn't a true English woman that
lives who would not have done the same thing. Your mother--"

"Confound my mother!" yelled the man.

"All right," said I; "that's all in your family and none of my
business." Then he went off raging to where he had left his horse by a
gatepost.

The other man, who was a good deal younger and more friendly, came up
to me and said he wouldn't like to be in my boots, for I had spoiled a
pretty piece of sport; and then he went on and told me that it had been
a bad hunt, for instead of starting only one stag, three or four of
them had been started, and they had had a bad time, for the hounds and
the hunters had been mixed up in a nasty way. And at last, when the
master of the hounds and most every one else had gone off over Dunkery
Hill, and he didn't know whether they was after two stags or one, he
and his mate, who was both whippers-in, had gone to turn part of the
pack that had broken away, and had found that these dogs was after
another stag, and so before they knew it they was in a hunt of their
own, and they would have killed that stag if it had not been for me;
and he said it was hard on his mate, for he knew he had it in mind that
he was going to kill the only stag of the day.

He went on to say, that as for himself he wasn't so sorry, for this was
Sir Skiddery Henchball's land, and when a stag was killed it belonged
to the man whose land it died on. He told me that the master of the
hunt gets the head and the antlers, and the huntsman some other part,
which I forget, but the owner of the land, no matter whether he's in
the hunt or not, gets the body of the stag. "There's a cottage not a
mile down this lane," said he, "with its thatch torn off, and my sister
and her children live there, and Sir Skiddery turned them out on
account of the rent, and so I'm glad the old skinflint didn't get the
venison." And then he went off, being called by the other man.

I didn't know what time it was, but it seemed as if it must be getting
on into the afternoon; and feeling that my deer hunt was over, I
thought I had better lose no time in hunting up Jone, so I followed on
after the men and the dogs, who was going to the main road, but keeping
a little back of them, though, for I didn't know what the older one
might do if he happened to turn and see me.

I was sure that Jone had passed the little lane without seeing it, so I
kept on the way we had been going, and got up all the speed I could,
though I must say I was dreadfully tired, and even trembling a little,
for while I had been stag hunting I was so excited I didn't know how
much work I was doing. There was sign-posts enough to tell me the way
to Chedcombe, and so I kept straight on, up hill and down hill, until
at last I saw a man ahead on a bicycle, which I soon knew to be Mr.
Poplington. He was surprised enough at seeing me, and told me my
husband had gone ahead. I didn't explain anything, and it wasn't until
we got nearly to Chedcombe that we met Jone. He had been to Chedcombe,
and was coming back.

Jone is a good fellow, but he's got a will of his own, and he said that
this would be the end of my tricycle riding, and that the next time we
went out together on wheels he'd drive. I didn't tell him anything
about the stag hunt then, for he seemed to be in favor of doing all the
talking himself; but after dinner, when we was all settled down quiet
and comfortable, I told him and Mr. Poplington the story of the chase,
and they both laughed, Mr. Poplington the most.




_Letter Number Thirteen_


CHEDCOMBE, SOMERSETSHIRE

It is now about a week since my stag hunt, and Jone and I have kept
pretty quiet, taking short walks, and doing a good deal of reading in
our garden whenever the sun shines into the little arbor there, and Mr.
Poplington spends most of his time fishing. He works very hard at this,
partly for the sake of his conscience, I think, for his bicycle trip
made him lose three or four days he had taken a license for.

It was day before yesterday that rheumatism showed itself certain and
plain in Jone. I had been thinking that perhaps I might have it first,
but it wasn't so, and it began in Jone, which, though I don't want you
to think me hard-hearted, madam, was perhaps better; for if it had not
been for it, it might have been hard to get him out of this comfortable
little cottage, where he'd be perfectly content to stay until it was
time for us to sail for America. The beautiful greenness which spreads
over the fields and hills, and not only the leaves of trees and vines,
but down and around trunks and branches, is charming to look at and
never to be forgotten; but when this moist greenness spreads itself to
one's bones, especially when it creeps up to the parts that work
together, then the soul of man longs for less picturesqueness and more
easy-going joints. Jone says the English take their climate as they do
their whiskey; and he calls it climate-and-water, with a very little of
the first and a good deal of the other.

Of course, we must now leave Chedcombe; and when we talked to Mr.
Poplington about it he said there was two places the English went to
for their rheumatism. One was Bath, not far from here, and the other
was Buxton, up in the north. As soon as I heard of Bath I was on pins
and needles to go there, for in all the novel-reading I've done, which
has been getting better and better in quality since the days when I
used to read dime novels on the canal-boat, up to now when I like the
best there is, I could not help knowing lots about Evelina and Beau
Brummel, and the Pump Room, and the fine ladies and young bucks, and it
would have joyed my soul to live and move where all these people had
been, and where all these things had happened, even if fictitiously.

But Mr. Poplington came down like a shower on my notions, and said that
Bath was very warm, and was the place where everybody went for their
rheumatism in winter; but that Buxton was the place for the summer,
because it was on high land and cool. This cast me down a good deal;
for if we could have gone where I could have steeped my soul in
romanticness, and at the same time Jone could have steeped himself in
warm mineral water, there would not have been any time lost, and both
of us would have been happier. But Mr. Poplington stuck to it that it
would ruin anybody's constitution to go to such a hot place in August,
and so I had to give it up.

So to-morrow we start for Buxton, which, from what I can make out, must
be a sort of invalid picnic ground. I always did hate diseases and
ailments, even of the mildest, when they go in caravan. I like to take
people's sicknesses separate, because then I feel I might do something
to help; but when they are bunched I feel as if it was sort of mean for
me to go about cheerful and singing when other people was all grunting.

But we are not going straight to Buxton. As I have often said, Jone is
a good fellow, and he told me last night if there was any bit of fancy
scenery I'd like to stop on the way to the unromantic refuge he'd be
glad to give me the chance, because he didn't suppose it would matter
much if he put off his hot soaks for a few days. It didn't take me long
to name a place I'd like to stop at--for most of my reading lately has
been in the guide books, and I had crammed myself with the descriptions
of places worth seeing, that would take us at least two years to look
at--so I said I would like to go to the River Wye, which is said to be
the most romantic stream in England, and when that is said, enough is
said for me, so Jone agreed, and we are going to do the Wye on our way
north.

There is going to be an election here in a few days, and this morning
Jone and me hobbled into the village--that is, he hobbled in body, and
I did in mind to think of his going along like a creaky wheelbarrow.

Everybody was agog about the election, and we was looking at some
placards posted against a wall, when Mr. Locky, the innkeeper, came
along, and after bidding us good-morning he asked Jone what party he
belonged to. "I'm a Home Ruler," said Jone, "especially in the matter
of tricycles." Mr. Locky didn't understand the last part of this
speech, but I did, and he said, "I am glad you are not a Tory, sir. If
you will read that, you will see what the Tory party has done for us,"
and he pointed out some lines at the bottom of a green placard, and
these was the words: "Remember it was the Tory party that lost us the
United States of America."

"Well," said Jone, "that seems like going a long way off to get some
stones to throw at the Tories, but I feel inclined to heave a rock at
them myself for the injury that party has done to America."

"To America!" said Mr. Locky, "Did the Tories ever harm America?"

"Of course they did," said Jone; "they lost us England, a very valuable
country, indeed, and a great loss to any nation. If it had not been for
the Tory party, Mr. Gladstone might now be in Washington as a senator
from Middlesex."

[Illustration: "I'm a Home Ruler"]

Mr. Locky didn't understand one word of this, and so he asked Jone
which leg his rheumatism was in; and when Jone told him it was his left
leg he said it was a very curious thing, but if you would take a
hundred men in Chedcombe there would be at least sixty with rheumatism
in the left leg, and perhaps not more than twenty with it in the right,
which was something the doctors never had explained yet.

It is awfully hard to go away and leave this lovely little cottage with
its roses and vines, and Miss Pondar, and all its sweet-smelling
comforts; and not only the cottage, but the village, and Mrs. Locky and
her husband at the Bordley Arms, who couldn't have been kinder to us
and more anxious to know what we wanted and what they could do. The
fact is, that when English people do like Americans they go at it with
just as much vim and earnestness as if they was helping Britannia to
rule more waves.

While I was feeling badly at leaving Miss Pondar your letter came, dear
madam, and I must say it gave heavy hearts to Jone and me, to me
especially, as you can well understand. I went off into the
summer-house, and as I sat there thinking and reading the letter over
again, I do believe some tears came into my eyes; and Miss Pondar, who
was working in the garden only a little way off--for if there is
anything she likes to do it is to weed and fuss among the rose-bushes
and other flowers, which she does whenever her other work gives her a
chance--she happened to look up, and seeing that I was in trouble, she
came right to me, like the good woman she is, and asked me if I had
heard bad news, and if I would like a little gin and water.

I said that I had had bad news, but that I did not want any spirits,
and she said she hoped nothing had happened to any of my family, and I
told her not exactly; but in looking back it seemed as if it was almost
that way. I thought I ought to tell her what had happened, for I could
see that she was really feeling for me, and so I said: "Poor Lord
Edward is dead. To be sure, he was very old, and I suppose we had not
any right to think he'd live even as long as he did; and as he was
nearly blind and had very poor use of his legs it was, perhaps, better
that he should go. But when I think of what friends we used to be
before I was married, I can't help feeling badly to think that he has
gone; that when I go back to America he will not show he is glad to see
me home again, which he would be if there wasn't another soul on the
whole continent who felt that way."

Miss Pondar was now standing up with her hands folded in front of her,
and her head bowed down as if she was walking behind a hearse with
eight ostrich plumes on it. "Lord Edward," she said, in a melancholy,
respectful voice, "and will his remains be brought to England for
interment?"

"Oh, no," said I, not understanding what she was talking about. "I am
sure he will be buried somewhere near his home, and when I go back his
grave will be one of the first places I will visit."

A streak of bewilderment began to show itself in Miss Pondar's
melancholy respectfulness, and she said: "Of course, when one lives in
foreign parts one may die there, but I always thought in cases like
that they were brought home to their family vaults."

It may seem strange for me to think of anything funny at a time like
this, but when Miss Pondar mentioned family vaults when talking of Lord
Edward, there came into my mind the jumps he used to make whenever he
saw any of us coming home; but I saw what she was driving at and the
mistake she had made. "Oh," I said, "he was not a member of the British
nobility; he was a dog; Lord Edward was his name. I never loved any
animal as I loved him."

I suppose, madam, that you must sometimes have noticed one of the top
candles of a chandelier, when the room gets hot, suddenly bending over
and drooping and shedding tears of hot paraffine on the candles below,
and perhaps on the table; and if you can remember what that overcome
candle looked like, you will have an idea of what Miss Pondar looked
like when she found out Lord Edward was a dog. I think that for one
brief moment she hugged to her bosom the fond belief that I was
intimate with the aristocracy, and that a noble lord, had he not
departed this life, would have been the first to welcome me home, and
that she--she herself--was in my service. But the drop was an awful
one. I could see the throes of mortified disappointment in her back, as
she leaned over a bed of pinks, pulling out young plants, I am afraid,
as well as weeds. When I looked at her, I was sorry I let her know it
was a dog I mourned. She has tried so hard to make everything all right
while we have been here, that she might just as well have gone on
thinking that it was a noble earl who died.