“Trust me,” answered Tom, in his loftiest
manner, which Annie said was “so noble,”
but which seemed to me rather flashy, “trust
me, good mother, and simple John, for knowing brilliants,
when I see them. I would have stopped an eight-horse
coach, with four carabined out-riders, for such a
booty as that. But alas, those days are over;
those were days worth living in. Ah, I never
shall know the like again. How fine it was by
moonlight!”
“Master Faggus,” began my mother, with
a manner of some dignity, such as she could sometimes
use, by right of her integrity, and thorough kindness
to every one, “this is not the tone in which
you have hitherto spoken to me about your former pursuits
and life, I fear that the spirits”—but
here she stopped, because the spirits were her own,
and Tom was our visitor,—“what I
mean, Master Faggus, is this: you have won my
daughter’s heart somehow; and you won my consent
to the matter through your honest sorrow, and manly
undertaking to lead a different life, and touch no
property but your own. Annie is my eldest daughter,
and the child of a most upright man. I love her
best of all on earth, next to my boy John here”—here
mother gave me a mighty squeeze, to be sure that she
would have me at least—“and I will
not risk my Annie’s life with a man who yearns
for the highway.”
[Illustration: 407.jpg “Master Faggus,”
began my mother]
Having made this very long speech (for her), mother
came home upon my shoulder, and wept so that (but
for heeding her) I would have taken Tom by the nose,
and thrown him, and Winnie after him, over our farm-yard
gate. For I am violent when roused; and freely
hereby acknowledge it; though even my enemies will
own that it takes a great deal to rouse me. But
I do consider the grief and tears (when justly caused)
of my dearest friends, to be a great deal to rouse
me.
[Illustration: 409.jpg Tailpiece]
CHAPTER XLVII
JEREMY IN DANGER
[Illustration: 410.jpg Illustrated Capital]
Nothing very long abides, as the greatest of all writers
(in whose extent I am for ever lost in raptured wonder,
and yet for ever quite at home, as if his heart were
mine, although his brains so different), in a word
as Mr. William Shakespeare, in every one of his works
insists, with a humoured melancholy. And if my
journey to London led to nothing else of advancement,
it took me a hundred years in front of what I might
else have been, by the most simple accident.
Two women were scolding one another across the road,
very violently, both from upstair windows; and I in
my hurry for quiet life, and not knowing what might
come down upon me, quickened my step for the nearest
corner. But suddenly something fell on my head;
and at first I was afraid to look, especially as it
weighed heavily. But hearing no breakage of ware,
and only the other scold laughing heartily, I turned
