Julia and Her Romeo: A Chronicle of Castle Barfield | Page 7

in the black-blue waste of sky, and when the lad
paused to listen for possible sounds of pursuit the hollow moaning of
the wind and the clang of bare wintry poles mingled with the noise of
his own suppressed breathing.
The runaway fancied himself bound (as all British runaway boys seem
bound) for sea, and he set out without delay to walk to Liverpool. He
got as far as the brook which formed the limit to his father's farm, and
lingering before he set foot upon the bridge, began to cry a little, and to
bemoan his chances and the dear ones left behind. His father came in
for none of Joe's regrets. It was in the nature of things to the boy's mind
that his father should administer to him periodical thrashings, whether
he had earned them or not. It was the one social relationship which
existed between them. It was only quite of late that Joe had begun to
discern injustice in his father's bullyings. Children take things as they
come, and to the mind of a child--in a modified sense, of
course--whatever is, is right. That a thing exists is its own best
justification. There is no reason to seek reasons for it. But Joe
Mountain, having nearly outgrown this state of juvenile acquiescence,
had begun to make inquiry of himself, and, as a result, had familiarised
himself with many mental pictures in which he figured as an adventurer
rich in adventures. In his day the youth of England were less instructed
than they are now, but the immortal Defoe existed, and Lemuel
Gulliver was as real as he is to-day. Perhaps the Board schools may
have made that great mariner a little less real than he used to be. Joe
believed in him with all his heart, had never had the shadow of a doubt

about him, and meant to sail straight from Liverpool to Lilliput. He
would defer his voyage to Brobdingnagia until he had grown bigger,
and should be something of a match for its inhabitants.
But it was cold, it was darkening fast, it was past his ordinary tea-time.
Liverpool and Lilliput were far away, pretty nearly equidistant to the
juvenile mind, and but for Samson's shadow the tea-table would have
looked alluring. To be sure of tea, and a bed to sleep in afterwards, it
seemed almost worth while to go back to the brewhouse and obey the
paternal command to take his shirt off. To do the child justice, it was
less the fear of the thrashing than the hot sense of rebellion at
unfairness which kept him from returning. His father had beaten him
into that untrue cry of 'No,' and had meant to force him to it, and then
to beat him anew for it. Joe knew that better than Samson, for Samson,
like the rest of us, liked to stand well with himself, and kept
self-opinion in blinkers.
Joe set foot on the bridge. He had crossed the boundary brook hundreds
of times in his brief life, and it had generally come into his mind, with a
boyish sense of adventure, that when he did so he was putting foot into
the enemy's country. But the feeling had never been so strong as now.
The Mountain Farm was home, and beyond it lay the wide, wide world,
looking wide indeed, and bleak and cold. What with hot rebellion at
injustice and cold fear of the vast and friendless expanse, Joe's tears
multiplied, and leaning his arms upon the low coping of the bridge,
with his head between them and his nose touching the frozen stone, he
began to cry unrestrainedly.
Suddenly he heard a footstep, and it struck a new terror into his soul.
Freebooters, footpads, kidnappers, et hoc genus omne, roamed those
fields by night, in course of nature. To the snug security of the home
fireside and bed their images came with a delightful thrill of fear, but to
be here alone and in the midst of them was altogether another thing. He
crept crouching across the bridge, and stowed himself into the smallest
possible compass between the end of the stonework and the
neighbouring hedgerow, and there waited trembling. His pulses beat so
fast and made such a noise in his ears that he was ready to take the

sound of footsteps for the tread of a whole ogreish army, when he heard
a voice.
'Hode on a minute, while I shift the sack.'
The sack? It was easy--it was inevitable--to know that the sack
contained a goblin supper.
'I shall be late for tea, Ichabod,' said another voice, 'and then I shall get
a blowing-up for coming.'
Let him who sighs in sadness here, Rejoice, and know a friend is near.
Joe sprang from his hiding-place,