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Title: Out Of Season Author: Fred M White * A Project Gutenberg Australia eBook * eBook No.: 1200841h.html Language: English Date first posted: January 2012 Date most recently updated: February 2012 This eBook was produced by: Roy Glashan Project Gutenberg Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.htmlGO TO Project Gutenberg Australia HOME PAGE
He was quite a young man—apparently not more than
twenty-five—good-looking in a rugged sort of way, with close-cropped
curly hair and a fair moustache. For some little time he lay there absolutely
motionless, until Gipsy forced a few drops of crude whisky between his pallid
lips, and then he opened his eyes again.
"Was it an earthquake?" the stranger asked.
He struggled to his feet and then collapsed from sheer weakness. Apparently
there were no bones broken, and nothing very serious the matter besides the
shock and the nasty wound over the stranger's left eye. But Gipsy was familiar
with this sort of thing, and he needed no one to tell him that the stranger was
sorely in need of attention. By slow degrees he managed to get the wounded man
as far as the hut and laid him on the bedstead there.
"Now, you just lie there quietly," he said, "whilst I go up to the house and
get assistance. There's no help for it. When I tell that old writin' cove wot's
'appened—"
"What's that?" the stranger demanded. "Are you speaking of Mr. Carmichael?
But of course you are, seeing that there is no other house within three miles.
Now, listen to me, my friend. I am feeling very queer, and as if I didn't care
what happened to me; but, all the same, I can't go up there. Never mind why,
but I have the strongest reasons why Mr. Carmichael should not know that I am
here—in fact, he mustn't know, or anybody else, for that matter. Are you
alone here?"
"Yus," Gipsy replied. "There ain't likely to be anybody 'ere this week. I
got a bit of a blastin' job on, an' you was unlucky enough to run into it.
D'you mean to say as 'ow you want to stay 'ere? D'you mean as 'ow your identity
is to be kep' a dark secret, just the same as if you was 'idin' from justice?
Is that the gime?"
A queer smile trembled on the stranger's lips. He did not know it, but he
was appealing to Gipsy on his most vulnerable side. Already the little man was
scenting a fascinating mystery, already he saw himself hiding this handsome
stranger from the bloodhounds of the law. Here, suddenly, the literary desert
was blossoming like a rose.
Here, without warning, was drama full-blooded and strong of wing. This, of
course, must be the persecuted hero, the falsely-accused son of the old squire,
who had escaped from gaol, after he had been convicted for the forgery which
was really the work of his wicked and designing cousin. No doubt the heroine
and the rest of the characters in this thrilling drama would come along
presently. This was Gipsy's way of constructing a drama, and in this particular
instance the little man was building a great deal better than he knew. It was
nothing to him that the man lying there in the bed did not look in the least
like an escaped convict, though, indeed, the shabby Norfolk suit he wore and
his threadbare flannel shirt might easily have been looted on the way and
exchanged for convict garb. But Gipsy was too grateful to be critical.
"Now, listen to me," the man in the bed said. "You are more or less
responsible for my accident, and the least you can do is to give me shelter for
a day or two. I shall be all right by the end of the week. And I am used to
roughing it; the plainest food will be good enough for me. And no one is to
know that I am here—least of all the people at the house yonder. I am
quite prepared to pay for all that I have, and to give you a sovereign for
yourself; but I rely upon your secrecy. Promise me that you will respect my
wishes."
Gipsy was asking nothing better. Here was a situation exactly after his own
heart. If there was one thing needed to make his happiness complete, it was a
little candour on the stranger's part. But that, no doubt, would come
presently. Apart from all this, Gipsy was a kind-hearted and hospitable little
soul, and he would have gone out of his way to help the stranger even had there
been no possibility hanging to the situation. With something like tenderness he
bathed his visitor's head and tied up the wound. He gave him bread and bacon,
toasted on the little wood fire in front of the hut, and beer out of his big
stone bottle. He produced the deadly tobacco, but this the stranger refused,
saying that he had plenty of cigarettes, which he produced from his pocket. But
so far he vouchsafed no further information about himself. He appeared to be
quite satisfied now that he was safe in the hut, and that no curious person was
likely to intrude upon his privacy.
"No, thanks," he said. "There is nothing further you can do for me. Don't
let me keep you from your work. And if you want any money, let me know, and
I'll give it you."
But so far there was no lack of provisions, and neither was there likely to
be for a day or two. Gipsy went back to his work with a heart full of gratitude
towards the kindly Fate that had thrown this adventure in his way. Already in
his mind he was building up the drama, already he was beginning to feel his way
to the great situation which was to bring the hero and heroine together, and
conclude the great melodrama with a fitting and appropriate climax. But Gipsy
was not blind to the fact that all this largely depended upon the persecuted
hero himself. For persecuted heroes are invariably proud, and are almost
grotesquely morbid on the subject of suffering their wrongs in silence. Almost
invariably the villain is the weak and wicked brother of the heroine, and for
her sake the secret of his perfidy must be locked in the breast of the hero, so
that the girl of his heart shall not know to what depths her own flesh and
blood has descended. This, then, was a problem that Gipsy had to solve, and,
until the heroine herself came upon the scene, the plot would have to lag.
Gipsy had charged and fired three shots whilst he was thinking this over,
but so far he could not see his way out. He decided to abandon work for the
rest of the afternoon, although it was yet barely three o'clock, and seek
inspiration along the river in the direction of the salmon pool.
He had hardly reached the spot in question before he was assailed by name,
and a small child came down the steep path between the clump of rowan trees.
She was a little girl, dressed in some rough homespuns, her long hair was
hanging over her shoulders in red confusion, and her slim legs were cased above
the knee in big fishing-boots. Her dark eyes were full of audacity and
sparkling with mischief. She hailed Gipsy with the familiarity of an old
acquaintance, though this was only the third time they had met. But then Gladys
Carmichael was no respecter of conventions—indeed, it is improbable that
she had ever heard the word. The grand-daughter of the great novelist was
entirely superior to that sort of thing, and, incidentally, she was the only
creature on earth who was not afraid of that terrible old man. For the rest,
she was utterly spoilt without being in the least spoiled, she was a law unto
herself, so far absolutely uneducated, and what Richard Carmichael called the
"apotheosis of the natural."
In her unconventional way she had made frieNds with Gipsy, and already the
two were the firmest comrades. All children gravitated naturally to the little
man, the same as all dogs. They knew by instinct that they had a friend in him,
and never had that instinct played them false.
"Hello, old man!" the girl said. "I suppose there's nobody about? It's all
right, isn't it?"
Gipsy's mouth broadened into a huge grin.
"It's all O.K., Lady Gwendoline," he said. There was no reason why he should
call her Lady Gwendoline, except that the child had constituted herself the
heroine of a drama, which, however, was quite another story. "It's all serene.
Now, if you'll come with me, we'll catch that salmon wot you've set your 'eart
upon. But you ain't goin' to do no good with that there rod o' yourn; it ain't
big enough.".
"Say not so, Ali Baba," the child replied. "Say not so, or my heart will
break! Know you that this rod was given me by the gallant sportsman to whom I
was engaged in the days of my youth—I mean the sailor who went down on
the bridge of his ship, singing 'God Save the King,' with all his crew
accompanying him on their mouth-organs. Or was it the soldier who won the
Victoria Cross at the Battle of Waterloo? Upon my soul, it's so long since then
that I've almost forgotten!"
Gipsy shook with inward laughter, for in this child he had found a comrade
after his own heart.
"I don't want to 'urt the feelin's o' them dead-an'-gone 'eroes?" he
said—"them brave boys for whom you cry yerself to sleep on your piller
every night. I ain't sayin' as they weren't 'eroes, but they didn't know
nothin' about salmon-fishin'. That 'ere rod might do for dace."
"I've just caught three with it now," the child said.
"No use for our gime," Gipsy cried. "You 'ang on 'ere while I goes as far as
the 'ut."
Inside the door of the hut the stranger was standing, holding on to the
door-post and gazing down the valley with eager and hungry eyes. They seemed to
blaze like stars in that dead-white face of his, as if he could see something
invisible to his companion. Gipsy stared at him with amazement.
"'Ere, you jest get back on that bed o' yourn," he said. "Wot's the
matter?"
"Who was that you were talking to?" the other man asked. "What is that child
doing here?"
"Don't you worry abaht that—she ain't likely to come in 'ere. Fond o'
children, perhaps, mate?"
"The only things in the world that matter—the salt of the earth! I was
wondering—"
The speaker broke off abruptly and, without another word, went back to his
bed again. But all this was not lost upon the little man. Here was the real
thing, hot to his hand and burning to the touch of the born dramatist. A less
practised craftsman would have betrayed himself and ruined the whole situation,
but Gipsy avoided a crudity like that. He began to see his way—the path
began to lie clear before him. He was back again by the riverside a few minutes
later, with a light salmon-rod in his hand and the deadliest bait in the world.
It mattered nothing to Gipsy just now that he was poaching. The thing that
mattered was that Gladys Carmichael should catch a salmon and take it home
proudly for her Christmas dinner. The child opened her eyes wide as she saw the
prawn dexterously fixed to the cruel-looking hook.
"This is really poaching!" she cried gleefully.
"Wot do you think?" Gipsy responded. "Besides, I thought that was jest wot
we was after."
"I shall love it," the child said. "Wouldn't it be splendid if the keepers
came and took us both off to gaol?"
Gipsy shuddered. This was the only thing that the little man was afraid of.
But he argued that it mattered nothing now, because within a year or so the
spawning-beds would be spoilt, and the headwaters of the Gwylt closed to the
salmon for all time. So he fixed his prawn—most illicit and deadly of
bait—and showed the child how to make her cast. A quarter of an hour
later, and a fresh-run fish of about nine pounds lay gasping on the gravel
before the delighted eyes of the child. It was some little time before she came
down to the level of the commonplace again and began to take an interest in
mundane things. She sat on a stone with her hands clasped round her knees,
regarding her prize with delighted eyes.
"This ought to make a jolly Christmas for you," Gipsy said.
"We don't have any now," the child sighed. "There ain't no high-toned
fixings to our Yuletide procession in these days— no, sir. And you can
just gamble on that."
"Eh, what?" the astonished Gipsy grunted. "Where did you get all that from?
Real Yankee talk that is."
Gladys proceeded to explain. A day or two before, a choice selection of
Boston literary pilgrims had come from America to worship at the shrine of The
Master, and Gladys had been duly presented to the deputation. She absorbed
phrase and accent as one drop of water absorbs another, and the Western
metaphor had strangely appealed to her. She was a constant source of surprise
and delight to Gipsy. In some respects she was woefully ignorant and simple,
but from her illustrious grandfather she had imbibed certain scraps of high
philosophy and a fund of quotations, which she used on every available occasion
without in the least appreciating their meanings.
"I got that from the Boston pilgrims," she said. "The day after they came I
was American all the time. But I was telling you all about our Christmases. We
don't get any more since Uncle Basil went away."
"An' 'oo might 'e be, lidy?" Gipsy asked.
"The only son of The Master," the child said. "My dead mother's only
brother. Before he went away, our Christmas was the real thing. It's all
different now. But, if you like, I will tell you the story of The Great
Tragedy."
"Go on," Gipsy said. "I like stories."
"Well, it was like this. There was Uncle Basil and Aunt Lily, who really
isn't an aunt, you know, but she's a dear, and I love her. And so did Uncle
Basil. Uncle Basil is going to be a dramatist some day, though the only play he
has written so far was a failure. It is a beautiful play, but the people in
London didn't like it, and they took it off. Now, The Master, he is a funny
man, and after Uncle Basil came down from Oxford, he was told that he would
have no more money, till his father died, unless he earned it himself. That's
one of The Master's little idi-idi-idiosyncrasies."
"Wot's that?" Gipsy asked. "Sounds a powerful word."
"Well, it's what you call a fad. But Uncle Basil wasn't kicking, because
he's clever, too, so he just sat down and, wrote that play. And he asked The
Master to lend him a thousand pounds to produce it, and The Master, he said
'Rats!' He took an awful lot of words to say 'Rats,' but that's what it came
to. And then, somehow, the thousand pounds of his money that The Master had got
from his bank, to pay to a builder here, disappeared from the safe, and The
Master said that Uncle Basil had stolen it to produce his play. Otherwise he
wanted to know who was paying the people in London. And Uncle Basil refused to
say. And so he was kicked out of the house like a prodigal son, and from that
day to this, which is two years ago, we have never had a word from him. Auntie
Lil thinks that he went to Australia after the failure of the play, and that he
will come back some clay, when he has made his fortune."
"'Ere, 'old on a minute," Gipsy said thoughtfully. "You are gettin' it all
wrong. O' course, the old 'un acted in the right way. Wot I mean to say is,
'e's the sort o' father, the 'ot-'eaded old cove wot's always down on the 'ero,
an' finds 'is mistake out afterwards. But you ain't goin' to tell me as the
'eroine—by which I means your Aunt Lil—actually believed as 'er
young man collared the dollars."
"Of course she didn't," the child cried indignantly. "She loved him to
distraction—I think that's the right word—and she has mourned him
ever since."
"An' 'oo did tike them dollars?" Gipsy asked.
"I was just coming to that," the child said. "You see, Aunt Lily had a
brother George, who was The Master's private secretary, and it was he who stole
the money. We only found that out a few months ago, just before Uncle George
died, but it's my belief that Uncle Basil knew it all along."
"O' course 'e did," Gipsy cried. "An' 'e didn't say nothin', so as to spare
the 'eroine's feelin's. I suppose you don't 'appen to know who found the money
to produce that play."
"Yes, I do," Gladys said. "I know all about it. They think I am ignorant of
everything, but you can't keep anything from me when I make up my mind to find
it out. It was the lady who played the leading part in my uncle's drama who
found the money. She told The Master so in London one day, when he was up
there, and when he came back he wasn't half sorry for himself. And he's been
advertising for Uncle Basil ever since. Perhaps he will come back some
day."
Here it all was ready to Gipsy's hand. Once again he held the key of the
situation, once more Fate was playing a leading part for him. But Gipsy was too
consummate an artist to spoil the picture by that raw haste which the greatest
of all playwrights tells us is half-sister to delay.
"This 'ere 'eroine—wot I mean to say your Aunt Lily—an' is she
beautiful?" Gipsy asked half wistfully.
"You bet!" the child said. "'Idalian Aphrodite, beautiful, fresh as the foam
new bathed in Parthian wells.' She is all my fancy painted her, she is
charming, she's divine. And don't you forget it, old man!"
"Where did you get all that from? " Gipsy cried admiringly. "What a thing it
is to be a scholard! But never mind that for a moment. Now, I suppose, as Aunt
Lily is fond o' you, I suppose she'll do most anything you ask 'er?"
Miss Carmichael winked knowingly.
"Well, I should smile," she said. "I guess I can twist her round my little
finger any time I want to."
"That's good," Gipsy said. "Now, what you've got to do is this. The day
after to-morrow's Christmas Eve. You bring the lidy down 'ere an' tell 'er all
about me an' my 'ut. Tell 'er— No, you needn't do that. You bring the
lidy 'ere an' leave me to do the rest. Abaht 'arf-past three the day after
to-morrow. An' I give you my word for it as I shan't be wastin' 'er time. An'
now you trot off to the 'ouse an' take that fish with you. Unless I am
mistaken, we're approaching the crisis of the drama. An don't you go askin' too
many questions, an don't you be gettin' to know too much."
"Mum's the word," Gladys said, and vanished.
Gipsy sat there smoking the pungent tobacco, and watched her till the little
trim figure vanished between the rowan trees. He had much food for thought as
he reclined there in the winter sunshine, and, on the whole, this was by no
means the most unhappy moment of his life. For before his delighted eyes this
wonderful new drama was shaping itself. Here was absolutely everything to his
hand. Had he evolved the whole thing out of his inner consciousness, the scheme
had been no more perfect. For here was the hero, the misjudged and maligned
hero, driven from the home of his fathers and falsely accused of a crime which
another had committed, and that other no less than the same flesh and blood as
the lovely heroine. Gipsy had seen the man who was known to countless thousands
as The Master, and no finer specimen of the harsh parent could be imagined. In
Gipsy's mind's eye he could see that leonine, head bent in silent grief, he
could see the stern lips which had never smiled again. Many a time and oft had
Gipsy revelled in this kind of thing from the gallery of some transpontine
theatre, many a time had he reconstructed the mimicry of emotion for his own
delectation.
And here he was once more the veritable god in the car, pulling the strings
of Fate whilst his puppets danced to the tune that he played. He was
particularly proud, too, of the child, who, in his opinion, was something quite
new in connection with the legitimate drama.
He sat there till the light began to fade and the sun slid down behind the
shoulder of the hills. So far the first three acts were all right, but the last
and the greatest was yet to come. Gipsy had pretty well shaped it in his mind
as he walked back to the hut and closed the door against the winter night. He
lighted the lamp presently and made up the fire. Then he proceeded in his
clever way to cook the supper for himself and his guest, by which time they
were quite on friendly terms.
When Gipsy liked, he had a plausible way with him, to say nothing of a
certain innate sympathy, and before he slept that night his guest had confirmed
practically everything that the child had said, though it hardly needed this to
tell Gipsy that he was entertaining Basil Carmichaei under his humble roof. And
he knew, too, that the young man was quite innocent of recent events, and that
he had come down there, not with any intention of seeking reconciliation with
his family, but merely to have a look at his old home for the last time before
it was submerged beneath the waters of the Gwylt. He had spoken without heat or
bitterness; it was only when he alluded to the child that the yearning look
came into his eyes and his voice grew less steady. Gipsy closed the discussion
presently and put out the light. He was afraid lest he might say too much.
"Well, good night, mate," he said. "An' don't you worry. Somethin' tells me
as it'll all come right in the end."
It was about half-past three the following afternoon that a tall and
gracious lady, with a wistful expression and a pair of glorious grey eyes, made
the acquaintance of Gladys's latest friend. She had to be told, of course, the
story of the friendship, and how the salmon had been caught, and after that
Gipsy expressed a hope that the lady would so far honour him as to have tea in
his hut, a suggestion which was received in the most gracious and friendly
spirit.
Now, Gipsy had been lying awake half the night, wondering how he was going
to lead up to this perfect climax; and when the time came, all he could do was
to usher Miss Carmichael into the hut, with a curt intimation to his guest that
here was a lady who wanted to see him. It was not a bit like what Gipsy had
expected; he knew that he was making a hash of it, and that a perfect situation
had suddenly become trite and commonplace.
"'Ere's a lidy as wants to see yer," he said.
Basil Carmichael had risen from his bed, conscious only of the slim figure
that stood before him. Gipsy heard the broken cry that came from the girl's
lips, then he made a grab for the hand of the child by his side, and dragged
her, loudly protesting, from the hut. Indeed, in subsequent calmer moments,
Gipsy judged, from the sore state of his shins, that he had been the victim of
a bad case of assault and lattery.
"Liter on, Lady Gwendoline," he said. "I don't know no Latin an' Greek, like
you, but I know somethin' o' the drama, an' you an' me, though we are 'umble
instruments, ain't wanted in this scene. But we'll come in presently."
It was half an hour or more before Gipsy deemed it expedient to knock gently
on the door of the hut. And then for some time afterwards he found himself
dazzlingly in the limelight. It was easy to see that the atmosphere had
cleared, and that the whole story had been told. But to the suggestion that
Gipsy should accompany the rest of the party up to the house, and personally
receive the thanks of The Master, the little man turned a deaf ear. His own
natural delicacy told him that he would be distinctly out of place up
there.
"But I'd like to come up to-morrow," he said. "It's a bit lonely for a bloke
to be all alone on Christmas Day. An' if I might come up after dinner an' drink
a glass of sherry wine to the 'ealth o' all the lidies an' gentlemen, why, if I
might make so bold—"
The girl with the grey eyes held out her hand to Gipsy, who took it as if it
were something rare and precious.
"You will come and dine with us," she said. "We shouldn't be happy without
you. And you must not be afraid of Mr. Carmichael. He is really one of the
kindest and best of men, and the humour of the situation will appeal to him.
Come up about half-past six or a quarter to seven."
"And I'll be at the gate to meet you!" Gladys cried.
She was as good as her word. And it was Gladys who conceived the great idea
of rigging out Gipsy in an old dress-suit of the butler's. And it was Gipsy who
sat in the drawing-room most of the evening, with a huge cigar in his mouth,
telling Gladys stories of flood and field, whilst the others listened, and The
Master, himself strangely and wonderfully younger, conceived the idea of a new
character for a book he was contemplating. And, had Gipsy but known it, he was
on the way to immortality.
It was nearly midnight before the little man turned his back upon the most
glorious day of his life, and made his way back to his lonely hut again.
"I never lived before," he told himself. "I'll tell you what it is, my boy,
that is the real thing—so real that I ain't goin' to say nothin' abaht
it. I can stand a joke as well as most men, but there's some things as don't
bear laughing at—things wot's in a way sacred, if I got 'old o' the right
word, an' this is one o' them. But there's one matter as puzzles me. When them
two young people gets married, shall I 'ave to send them a wedding present, or
will they 'ave to give me one?"
And, with this problem uppermost in his mind, Gipsy turned over between his
blankets and went to sleep.
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