The Disowned — Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

For the food that has cost us nought!

            CHRUS.—So the king to his hall, etc.

        And when we have ceased from our fearless feast

         Why, our jigger [door] will need no bars;

        Our sentry shall be on the owlet’s tree,

         And our lamps the glorious stars.

                 CHORUS.

        So the king to his hall, and the steed to his stall,

         And the cit to his bilking board;

        But we are not bound to an acre of ground,

         For our home is the houseless sward.

      Rude as was this lawless stave, the spirit with which it was sung atoned to the young stranger for its obscurity and quaintness; as for his host, that curious personage took a lusty and prominent part in the chorus; nor did the old woods refuse their share of the burden, but sent back a merry echo to the chief’s deep voice and the harsher notes of his jovial brethren.

      When the glee had ceased, King Cole rose, the whole band followed his example, the cloth was cleared in a trice, the barrel—oh! what a falling off was there!—was rolled into a corner of the tent, and the crew to whom the awning belonged began to settle themselves to rest; while those who owned the other encampment marched forth, with King Cole at their head. Leaning with no light weight upon his guest’s arm, the lover of ancient minstrelsy poured into the youth’s ear a strain of eulogy, rather eloquent than coherent, upon the scene they had just witnessed.

      “What,” cried his majesty in an enthusiastic tone, “what can be so truly regal as our state? Can any man control us? Are we not above all laws? Are we not the most despotic of kings? Nay, more than the kings of earth, are we not the kings of Fairyland itself? Do we not realize the golden dreams of the old rhymers, luxurious dogs that they were? Who would not cry out,—

          ‘Blest silent groves! Oh, may ye be

           Forever Mirth’s best nursery!

            May pure Contents

            Forever pitch their tents

        Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains.’”

      Uttering this notable extract from the thrice-honoured Sir Henry Wotton, King Cole turned abruptly from the common, entered the wood which skirted it, and, only attended by his guest and his minister Mim, came suddenly, by an unexpected and picturesque opening in the trees, upon one of those itinerant vehicles termed caravans, he ascended the few steps which led to the entrance, opened the door, and was instantly in the arms of a pretty and young woman. On seeing our hero (for such we fear the youth is likely to become), she drew back with a blush not often found upon regal cheeks.

      “Pooh,” said King Cole, half tauntingly, half fondly, “pooh, Lucy, blushes are garden flowers, and ought never to be found wild in the woods:” then changing his tone, he said, “come, put some fresh straw in the corner, this stranger honours our palace to-night; Mim, unload thyself of our royal treasures; watch without and vanish from within!”

      Depositing on his majesty’s floor the appurtenances of the regal supper-table, Mim made his respectful adieus and disappeared; meanwhile the queen scattered some fresh straw over a mattress in the narrow chamber, and, laying over all a sheet of singularly snowy hue, made her guest some apology for the badness of his lodging; this King Cole interrupted by a most elaborately noisy yawn and a declaration of extreme sleepiness. “Now, Lucy, let us leave the gentleman to what he will like better than soft words even from a queen. Good night, sir, we shall be stirring at daybreak;” and with this farewell King Cole took the lady’s arm, and retired with her into an inner compartment of the caravan.

      Left to himself, our hero looked round with surprise at the exceeding neatness which reigned over the whole apartment. But what chiefly engrossed the attention of one to whose early habits books had always been treasures were several volumes, ranged in comely shelves, fenced with wirework, on either side of the fireplace. “Courage,” thought he, as he stretched himself on his humble couch, “my adventures have commenced well: a gypsy tent, to be sure, is nothing very new; but a gypsy who quotes poetry, and enjoys a modest wife, speaks better than books do for the improvement of the world!”

      CHAPTER III

        Hath not old custom made this life more sweet

        Than that of painted pomp?

—As You Like It.

      The sun broke cheerfully through the small lattice of the caravan, as the youth opened his eyes and saw the good-humoured countenance of his gypsy host bending over him complacently.

      “You slept so soundly, sir, that I did not like to disturb you; but my good wife only waits your rising to have all ready for breakfast.”

      “It were a thousand pities,” cried the guest, leaping from his bed, “that so pretty a face should look cross on my account, so I will not keep her waiting an instant.”

      The gypsy smiled, as he answered, “I require no professional help from the devil, sir, to foretell your fortune.”

      “No!—and what is it?”

      “Honour, reputation, success: all that are ever won by a soft tongue, if it be backed by a bold heart.”

      Bright and keen was the flash which shot over the countenance of the one for whom this prediction was made, as he listened to it with a fondness for which his reason rebuked him.

      He turned aside with a sigh, which did not escape the gypsy, and bathed his face in the water which the provident hand of the good woman had set out for his lavations.

      “Well,” said his host, when the youth had finished his brief toilet, “suppose we breathe the fresh air, while Lucy smooths your bed and prepares the breakfast?”

      “With all my heart,” replied the youth, and they descended the steps which led into the wood. It was a beautiful, fresh morning; the air was like a draught from a Spirit’s fountain, and filled the heart with new youth and the blood with a rapturous delight; the leaves—the green, green leaves of spring—were quivering on the trees, among which the happy birds fluttered and breathed the gladness of their souls in song. While the dewdrops that—

             “strewed

        A baptism o’er the flowers”—

      gave back in their million mirrors the reflected smiles of the cloudless and rejoicing sun.

      “Nature,” said the gypsy, “has bestowed on her children a gorgeous present in such a morning.”

      “True,” said the youth; “and you, of us two, perhaps only deserve it; as for me, when I think of the long road of dust, heat, and toil, that lies before me, I could almost wish to stop here and ask an admission into the gypsy’s tents.”

      “You could not do a wiser thing!” said the gypsy, gravely.

      “But fate leaves me no choice,” continued the youth, as seriously as if he were in earnest; “and I must quit you immediately after I have a second time tasted of your hospitable fare.”

      “If it must be so,” answered the gypsy, “I will see you, at least, a mile or two on your road.” The youth thanked him for a promise which his curiosity made acceptable, and they turned once more to the caravan.

      The meal, however obtained,