The Jester. LM

want,” said Isabel, one fat finger pointed towards the treasure clutched by the scowling boy. That was the way with Isabel in childhood as in later years, knowing what she desired she hesitated not to demand it, and obtain it by whatever means came best to hand.

      It is not becoming that the son of a Jester should deny the desire of his Lady’s daughter. Nichol, the dames, my Lady even, were prepared for insistence, a ruthless seizing of the treasure from the baby grasp; when suddenly and without compulsion, the child’s mien changed. Of his own accord he tendered the bauble to Isabel.

      She took it, smiling. Even babes can be gracious when their wish is granted. For a moment she held it examining it with curiosity, a curiosity soon satiated, since after a brief space she held it in a listless hand, tendered it again.

      “I don’t like it.”

      Peregrine backed away from her. Perhaps—in fact I am sure—there was reproach in his blue eyes. So for a moment they stood. Then Isabel cast the bauble upon the ground. And herein some may read an omen. The squires and dames laughed; my Lady murmured a gentle word of chiding; Nichol picked up the bauble; but Peregrine still looked at Isabel.

      This, then, was Peregrine’s introduction to that society wherein later he was to wear the cap and bells as no mere pastime but in very truth. Nor was it at this time his last appearance therein. For the first few years of his life he played, in a manner, the rôle of zany to his father, gaining thereby much favour. Candour, a virtue allowed both children and fools, was a marked characteristic of Peregrine’s. If at moments the recipients of his frank speeches felt a trifle of embarrassment there was always the knowledge that their own blush or wince would presently be superseded by a laugh at the blush or wince of another. This squared all accounts, made the momentary embarrassment worth enduring.

      Yet what may well pass as the artlessness of a child, the privilege of a fool, is of other brand from the boy. With the loss of his milk teeth—and he was full late in parting with them—Peregrine’s candour began to lose its charm. Outspoken speeches when issuing from between cherry lips and pearls are of different ilk when the pearls are lacking. Herein we see the injustice of the world.

      The day came when an outspoken speech of Peregrine’s, exceeding apt, perchance of over-candour—though assuredly a year ago it would have gained him high applause—was taken in ill part. True, there were some who tittered, yet surreptitiously, feeling the atmosphere somewhat charged with unfriendly omen, an omen none could overlook, seeing that it emanated from the guest of note who sat frowning at the insouciant Peregrine. Had the guest been of less importance it is possible the affair might have been settled by a slight rebuke, but with her rank and dignity in view no such flimsy method was of avail.

      Peregrine was dismissed the hall wherein he had been a petted favourite since his first breeching; and, before being deprived of cap and bells, was breeched—and soundly—after other fashion, the distinguished guest having made it evident that the smart of her wounded feelings could only be eased by the smarting of Peregrine’s small body.

      Sore and sobbing he sought his mother, wept out his woes, his perplexities, his hot face buried in her lap. Thus with pain of body, though with but dim realization of mind, Peregrine first became acquainted with the injustice of the world.

      For a time Peregrine saw the hall no more. Clad after the ordinary manner of his kind he kept out of the way of the noblesse, the gentry, ill at ease when he by chance crossed their path, found what human companionship he would among the servitors alone—excepting always that of his father and mother, in whose company he at all times found pleasure.

      He took now to frequenting the woods and moors which lay around the castle. Lying on the heather, its scent and the scent of the golden gorse warm and fragrant in his nostrils, he would gaze over the surrounding country, see the blue channel below him gleaming in the sunlight, the Welsh coast dim and hazy beyond, look northwards to the small town nestling at the foot of the hill which rises some eight hundred feet above it.

      Roaming the woods he would watch for the first hint of Spring in the swelling buds of the larch trees, would rejoice in the faint shimmer of green flung over them when she first shows a shy face, would seek among brown leaves scattered on the ground for the pale primrose, the delicate windflower, the fragile wood sorrel with its tiny white petals lightly veined in mauve. Here he learned of the ways of the wild creatures of nature, rather than the ways of men, and found them more to his liking. What we give that shall we receive, so are we told, though verily there are times when the giving will appear to outweigh all receipts. Possibly this is because we look to reward to follow hard upon bestowal, trust not to the finding after many days. Here in the woods, however, Peregrine found swift reward. The love he bestowed upon the woodland creatures gained him their love in return. The birds would feed from his hand, the animals brought their young to play at his feet; confidence between them and him reached a very pretty note of harmony.

      Wandering further afield he would watch the red deer which in daylight found hiding-place in distant combes, see them in moonlight moving in great herds across the moor. In the combes he would go boldly up to them, feed them with pieces of coarse bread, and bunches of freshly pulled grass. Only in the mating season he left them alone, knowing the wild jealousy of the stag.

      When, as frequently happened, he heard the huntsman’s horn, caught a glimpse of hounds, horses, and their riders in full cry, he would clench his brown fists, his young jaw set in a grim line, his whole body a-quiver with rage. Even so might a man feel who saw his friend hunted to his death.

      Once when the harriers were out after a hare, and being close on her heels, the frighted creature, seeing Peregrine, turned, crouching at his feet. In a twinkling he had her in his arms, swarmed, still holding her, up an oak, whence hidden in the topmost branches, too slender to bear aught but a boy’s weight, he heard angry baying at the tree’s base. Presently up came the huntsmen. There was a colloquy, a debating. The foliage was too thick to allow of Peregrine being perceived, perched as he was aloft, one arm entwining a bough, the other clutching the hare, which for the moment lay panting, too frightened for struggle. It is not in the nature of things for hares to climb trees; nor was the actual occurrence one likely to dawn on the unaided imagination. Baffled, perplexed, the huntsmen stood among the baying harriers, scratching their heads, flicking their boots with their riding crops, swearing meanwhile each after his own particular form and fancy. And the dogs, who might have told them the manner of the happening, being dumb of human speech but bayed the louder. A hole in the oak’s trunk some four feet or so from the ground offered a solution, an unlikely one enough, yet at this juncture better than none. Madam Hare, so they asseverated among themselves, had sprung for the hole and by ill chance for their sport had reached it. No doubt she was now crouched within the hollow of the oak. To get her out was impossible, short of felling the tree; and in very sooth she had found a worse death within that prison than the quick end the dogs would have made of her.

      Yet, in spite of seeing Madam Hare as escaped from their clutches, a victim of a slow death by starvation, they still lingered, muttering, jabbering, swearing; the dogs still making loud din, causing Peregrine’s heart to beat with fear, knowing not of the hole in the tree which had doubtless saved his skin, and the life of the trembling creature in his arm. The weight of the animal was no light one, and his muscles began to suffer cramp. Feeling extremity at hand he put up a small prayer, which possibly was heard by Saint Francis, seeing he had once rescued a like creature from the hounds. Whether it was the advocacy of the prayer, or whether the huntsmen were weary of their sojourn beneath the tree, you may settle as it best pleases you; for my part I will maintain that the Saint himself drew them away, caused them to call off the dogs, and ride baulked of their prey away from wood and moor.

      Silence had fallen for the space of some ten or fifteen minutes before Peregrine thought safe to descend; and in that the hare had lain quiet so long we may likewise see the hand of the gentle Saint. Twenty yards or so away from the tree, clear from the scent of the dogs, Peregrine deposited his burden upon the ground. A moment she crouched while his hand caressed her soft fur, then leaping, vanished down the glade.

      Yet this freedom of wood and moorland, this sojourning with wild creatures, that I have shown you, belonged in main to Peregrine’s