CHAPTER XXXVIII. OF THE HOME-COMING TO HAMPSHIRE.

atyellowcogwhereinwesailedtoBordeaux,andinitweshallgoforthandseekSirNigel.” Alleynesmiled,butshookhishead.“Werehealiveweshouldhavehadwordofhimerenow,”saidhe.“Butwhatisthistownbeforeus?” “Why,itisRomsey!”criedJohn.“Seethetoweroftheoldgraychurch,andthelongstretchofthenunnery.Butheresitsaveryholyman,andIshallgivehimacrownforhisprayers.” Threelargestonesformedaroughcotbytheroadside,andbesideit,baskinginthesun,satthehermit,withclay-coloredface,dulleyes,andlongwitheredhands.Withcrossedanklesandsunkenhead,hesatasthoughallhislifehadpassedoutofhim,withthebeadsslippingslowlythroughhisthin,yellowfingers.Behindhimlaythenarrowcell,clay-flooredanddamp,comfortless,profitlessandsordid.Beyondittherelayamidthetreesthewattle-and-daubhutofalaborer,thedooropen,andthesingleroomexposedtotheview.Themanruddyandyellow-haired,stoodleaninguponthespadewherewithhehadbeenatworkuponthegardenpatch.Frombehindhimcametherippleofahappywoman'slaughter,andtwoyoungurchinsdartedforthfromthehut,bare-leggedandtowsy,whilethemother,steppingout,laidherhanduponherhusband'sarmandwatchedthegambolsofthechildren.Thehermitfrownedattheuntowardnoisewhichbrokeuponhisprayers,buthisbrowrelaxedashelookeduponthebroadsilverpiecewhichJohnheldouttohim. “Thereliestheimageofourpastandofourfuture,”criedAlleyne,astheyrodeonupontheirway.“Now,whichisbetter,totillGod'searth,tohavehappyfacesroundone'sknee,andtoloveandbeloved,ortositforevermoaningoverone'sownsoul,likeamotheroverasickbabe?” “Iknownotaboutthat,”saidJohn,“foritcastsagreatcloudovermewhenIthinkofsuchmatters.ButIknowthatmycrownwaswellspent,forthemanhadthelookofaveryholyperson.Astotheother,therewasnoughtholyabouthimthatIcouldsee,anditwouldbecheaperformetoprayformyselfthantogiveacrowntoonewhospenthisdaysindiggingforlettuces.” EreAlleynecouldanswerthereswungroundthecurveoftheroadalady'scarriagedrawnbythreehorsesabreastwithapostilionupontheouterone.Veryfineandrichitwas,withbeamspaintedandgilt,wheelsandspokescarvedinstrangefigures,andoverallanarchedcoverofredandwhitetapestry.Beneathitsshadetheresatastoutandelderlyladyinapinkcote-hardie,leaningbackamongapileofcushions,andpluckingouthereyebrowswithasmallpairofsilvertweezers.Nonecouldseemmoresafeandsecureandathereasethanthislady,yetherealsowasasymbolofhumanlife,forinaninstant,evenasAlleynereinedasidetoletthecarriagepass,awheelflewoutfromamongitsfellows,andoveritalltoppled—carving,tapestryandgilt—inonewildheap,withthehorsesplunging,thepostilionshouting,andtheladyscreamingfromwithin.InaninstantAlleyneandJohnwereonfoot,andhadliftedherforthallinashakewithfear,butlittletheworseforhermischance. “Nowwoeworthme!”shecried,“andillfallonMichaelEasoverofRomsey!forItoldhimthatthepinwasloose,andyethemustneedsgainsayme,likethefoolishdaffethatheis.” “Itrustthatyouhavetakennohurt,myfairlady,”saidAlleyne,conductinghertothebank,uponwhichJohnhadalreadyplacedacushion. “Nay,Ihavehadnoscath,thoughIhavelostmysilvertweezers.Now,lack-a-day!didGodeverputbreathintosuchafoolasMichaelEasoverofRomsey?ButIammuchbeholdentoyou,gentlesirs.Soldiersy