Lavengro, George Borrow [i love reading books txt] 📗

to do no such thing. Isopel Berners had abandoned me, and I would not follow her. “Perhaps,” whispered Pride, “if I overtook her, she would only despise me for running after her;” and it also told me pretty roundly, that, provided I ran after her, whether I overtook her or not, I should heartily despise myself. So I determined not to follow Isopel Berners. I took her lock of hair, and looked at it, then put it in her letter, which I folded up and carefully stowed away, resolved to keep both forever, but I determined not to follow her. Two or three times, however, during the day, I wavered in my determination, and was again and again almost tempted to follow her, but every succeeding time the temptation was fainter. In the evening I left the dingle, and sat down with Mr. Petulengro and his family by the door of his tent; Mr. Petulengro soon began talking of the letter which I had received in the morning. “Is it not from Miss Berners, brother?” said he. I told him it was. “Is she coming back, brother?” “Never,” said I; “she is gone to America, and has deserted me.” “I always knew that you two were never destined for each other,” said he. “How did you know that?” I inquired. “The dook told me so, brother; you are born to be a great traveller.” “Well,” said I, “if I had gone with her to America, as I was thinking of doing, I should have been a great traveller.” “You are to travel in another direction, brother,” said he. “I wish you would tell me all about my future wanderings,” said I. “I can’t, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “there’s a power of clouds before my eye.” “You are a poor seer, after all,” said I; and getting up, I retired to my dingle and my tent, where I betook myself to my bed, and there, knowing the worst, and being no longer agitated by apprehension, nor agonised by expectation, I was soon buried in a deep slumber, the first which I had fallen into for several nights. XVII

It was rather late on the following morning when I awoke. At first I was almost unconscious of what had occurred on the preceding day; recollection, however, by degrees returned, and I felt a deep melancholy coming over me, but perfectly aware that no advantage could be derived from the indulgence of such a feeling, I sprang up, prepared my breakfast, which I ate with a tolerable appetite, and then left the dingle, and betook myself to the gypsy encampment, where I entered into discourse with various Romanies, both male and female. After some time, feeling myself in better spirits, I determined to pay another visit to the landlord of the public-house. From the position of his affairs when I had last visited him, I entertained rather gloomy ideas with respect to his present circumstances. I imagined that I should either find him alone in his kitchen smoking a wretched pipe, or in company with some surly bailiff or his follower, whom his friend the brewer had sent into the house in order to take possession of his effects.

Nothing more entirely differing from either of these anticipations could have presented itself to my view than what I saw about one o’clock in the afternoon, when I entered the house. I had come, though somewhat in want of consolation myself, to offer any consolation which was at my command to my acquaintance Catchpole, and perhaps like many other people who go to a house with “drops of compassion trembling on their eyelids,” I felt rather disappointed at finding that no compassion was necessary. The house was thronged with company; the cries for ale and porter, hot brandy and water, cold gin and water, were numerous; moreover, no desire to receive and not to pay for the landlord’s liquids was manifested⁠—on the contrary, everybody seemed disposed to play the most honourable part: “Landlord, here’s the money for this glass of brandy and water⁠—do me the favour to take it; all right, remember I have paid you.” “Landlord, here’s the money for the pint of half-and-half⁠—fourpence halfpenny, ain’t it?⁠—here’s sixpence; keep the change⁠—confound the change!” The landlord, assisted by his niece, bustled about, his brow erect, his cheeks plumped out, and all his features exhibiting a kind of surly satisfaction. Wherever he moved, marks of the most cordial amity were shown him, hands were thrust out to grasp his, nor were looks of respect, admiration, nay, almost of adoration, wanting. I observed one fellow, as the landlord advanced, take the pipe out of his mouth, and gaze upon him with a kind of grin of wonder, probably much the same as his ancestor, the Saxon lout of old, put on when he saw his idol Thur, dressed in a new kirtle. To avoid the press, I got into a corner, where on a couple of chairs sat two respectable-looking individuals, whether farmers or sow-gelders, I know not, but highly respectable-looking, who were discoursing about the landlord. “Such another,” said one, “you will not find in a summer’s day.” “No, nor in the whole of England,” said the other. “Tom of Hopton,” said the first: “ah! Tom of Hopton,” echoed the other; “the man who could beat Tom of Hopton could beat the world.” “I glory in him,” said the first. “So do I,” said the second; “I’ll back him against the world. Let me hear anyone say anything against him, and if I don’t⁠—” then, looking at me, he added: “Have you anything to say against him, young man?” “Not a word,” said I, “save that he regularly puts me out.” “He’ll put anyone out,” said the man, “anyone out of conceit with himself;” then, lifting a mug to his mouth, he added, with a hiccup, “I drink his health.” Presently the landlord, as he moved about, observing me, stopped short: “Ah!” said he,