"Very well then!" he nodded, and, lifting his brooms, made towards the cottage door!

"Where are you going?"

"To sleep in this 'ere empty 'ut."

"But it isn't empty!"

"So much the better," nodded the Pedler, "good night!" and, with the words, he laid his hand upon the door, but, as he did so, it opened, and Charmian appeared. The Pedler fell back three or four paces, staring with round eyes.

"By Goles!" he exclaimed. "So you are married then?"

Now, when he said this I felt suddenly hot all over, even to the very tips of my ears, and, for the life of me, I could not have looked at Charmian.

"Why--why--" I began, but her smooth, soft voice came to my rescue.

"No--he is not married," said she, "far from it."

"Not?" said the Pedler, "so much the better; marriage ain't love, no, nor love ain't marriage--I'm a married cove myself, so I know what I'm a-sayin'; if folk do talk, an' shake their 'eads over ye--w'y, let 'em, only don't--don't go a-spilin' things by gettin' 'churched.' You're a woman, but you're a fine un--a dasher, by Goles, nice an' straight-backed, an' round, an' plump if I was this 'ere cove, now, I know what--"

"Here," said I hastily, "here--sell me a broom!"

The Pedler drew a broom from his bundle and passed it to me.

"One shillin' and sixpence!" said he, which sum I duly paid over.

"Don't," he continued, pocketing the money, and turning to Charmian, "don't go spilin' things by lettin' this young cove go a-marryin' an' a-churchin' ye--nobody never got married as didn't repent it some time or other, an' wot's more, when Marriage comes in at the door, Love flies out up the chimbley--an' there y'are!

Now, if you loves this young cove, w'y, very good! if this 'ere young cove loves you--which ain't to be wondered at--so much the better, but don't--don't go a-marryin' each other, an'--as for the children--"

"Come--I'll take a belt--give me a belt!" said I, more hastily than before.

"A belt?" said the Pedler.

"A belt, yes."

"Wi' a fine steel buckle made in--"

"Yes--yes!" said I.

"Two shillin' an' sixpence!" said the Pedler.

"When I saw you last time, you offered much the same belt for a shilling," I demurred.

"Ah!" nodded the Pedler, "but belts is riz--'arf-a-crown's the price--take it or leave it."

"It's getting late," said I, slipping the money into his hand, "and I'll wish you good night!"

"You're in a 'urry about it, ain't you?"

"Yes."

"Ah--to be sure!" nodded the fellow, looking from me to Charmian with an evil leer, "early to bed an'--"

"Come--get off!" said I angrily.

"Wot--are ye goin' to turn me away--at this time o' night!"

"It is not so far to Sissinghurst!" said I:

"But, Lord! I wouldn't disturb ye--an' there's two rooms, ain't there?"

"There are plenty of comfortable beds to be had at 'The Bull.'"

"So you won't gi'e me a night's shelter, eh?"

"No," I answered, greatly annoyed by the fellow's persistence.

"An' you don't want to buy nothin' for the young woman--a necklace--or, say--a pair o' garters?" But here, meeting my eye, he shouldered his brooms hastily and moved off. And, after he had gone some dozen yards or so, he paused and turned.

"Very well then!" he shouted, "I 'opes as you gets your 'ead knocked off--ah!--an' gets it knocked off soon!" Having said which, he spat up into the air towards me, and trudged off.

CHAPTER XIV

CONCERNING BLACK GEORGE'S LETTER

It was with a feeling of great relief that I watched the fellow out of sight; nevertheless his very presence seemed to have left a blight upon all things, for he, viewing matters with the material eye of Common-sense, had, thereby, contaminated them--even the air seemed less pure and sweet than it had been heretofore, so that, glancing over my shoulder, I was glad to see that Charmian had re-entered the cottage.

"Here," said I to myself, "here is Common-sense in the shape of a half-witted peddling fellow, blundering into Arcadia, in the shape of a haunted cottage, a woman, and a man. Straightway our Pedler, being Common-sense, misjudges us--as, indeed, would every other common-sense individual the world over; for Arcadia, being of itself abstract and immaterial, is opposed to, and incapable of being understood by concrete common-sense, and always will be --and there's the rub! And yet," said I, "thanks to the Wanderer of the Roads, who built this cottage and hanged himself here, and thanks to a Highland Scot who performed wonderfully on the bagpipes, there is little chance of any common-sense vagrant venturing near Arcadia again--at least until the woman is gone, or the man is gone, or--"

Here, going to rub my chin (being somewhat at a loss), I found that I had been standing, all this while, the broom in one hand and the belt in the other, and now, hearing a laugh behind me, I turned, and saw Charmian was leaning in the open doorway watching me.

"And so you are the--the cove--with the white hands and the taking ways, are you, Peter?"

"Why--you were actually--listening then?"

"Why, of course I was."

"That," said I, "that was very--undignified!"

"But very--feminine, Peter!" Hereupon I threw the belt from me one way, and the broom the other, and sitting down upon the bench began to fill any pipe rather awkwardly, being conscious of Charmian's mocking scrutiny.

"Poor--poor Black George!" she sighed.

"What do you mean by that?" said I quickly.

"Really I can almost understand his being angry with you."