The Highwayman | Page 6

with my
Benjamin? Your gentle heart would never have him hanged."
Her eyes made Harry feel that he was impudent, which, unhappily,
amused him. "I desire the fellow should be given up to the law, sir," she
said coldly. "Have you anything against it?"
"Oh, ma'am, a thousand things, with which I'll not weary you. For I see
that you would not understand. You are very young (as I hope).
Perhaps you may soon grow older (which I pray for you). Let this
suffice then. My Benjamin may deserve a hanging. Who knows? We
are not God, ma'am, neither you nor I. Therefore I have no mind to be a
hangman. And you--why, you are young enough to wait another
occasion. And so I give you good-night. Home, coachman, home."
The young woman stared at him as though he were grovelling stupidity,
and then lay back on her cushions with a "You will drive on, Samuel."
Harry made his bow, and then, as the coach began to move, there was a
cry: "Alison! Alison! It is not right!" The older woman leaned forward,

and for the first time he remarked a gentle, motherly face, much lined
and worn. "Sure, sir, you will ride with us," she said, and he liked the
voice. "We may carry you home."
Harry smiled at her. "Nay, ma'am. I am too dirty for such fine
company."
"Drive on," said Mistress Alison. And the coach rolled away.
Harry looked down at the wretched Benjamin, whose eyes answered
with apprehension and anxiety. "What's the game?" said Benjamin
hoarsely. "I say, master--what d'ye want with me?"
Harry did not answer. He was finding that motherly face, that pleasant
voice, curiously vivid still. This annoyed him, and he forced himself
back with a jerk to the oddity of events. "A queer business, my
Benjamin," he said. "Who was your captain, I wonder?"
Benjamin scowled. "I know nought o' no captain."
"Ah, I thought you did. But I fear you have annoyed the captain,
Benjamin. Now what had you done--or what had you not done?"
"It's not fair, master," Benjamin whined. "You do be making game of
me, and me beat."
"I am rebuked, Benjamin. Good-night."
"Oons, ye won't leave me so?" Benjamin howled. "I ha' done you no
harm, master. Come now, play fair. What d'ye want of me?"
"Nothing, Benjamin, nothing. I like you very well. You are a beautiful
mystery. Pleasant dreams."
The hapless Benjamin howled after him long and loud. Thereby Harry,
who had a musical ear, was spurred to his best pace. "It's a vile voice,"
he reflected; "like Lady Waverton's. The marmoreal Alison was right.
He would be better hanged. But so also would Lady Waverton. She will
acridly want to know why I am late. Well! It will be a melancholy

satisfaction not to tell her. That will also annoy Geoffrey, who'll
magnificently indicate that I owe him an apology. The poor Geoffrey!
He is so fond of himself!"
His evening was as pleasant as he had anticipated. He won two
shillings from Lady Waverton at ombre, which made her angry; and
lost them to Geoffrey, which made him melancholy. For Mr. Waverton
loved (in small things) to be a martyr.

CHAPTER II
THE HOUSE OF WAVERTON
Mr. Waverton had an idea in his head. That was not the least unusual. It
was, unhappily, a wrong one. That was not unusual either. We must
have a trifle of Latin. Mr. Waverton, studying Horace, desired to
translate, Civium ardor prava jubentium "the wicked ardour of the
overbearing citizens." In vain Harry urged that he was outraging
grammar. Mr. Waverton did not believe him, did not want to believe
him--the same thing. Mr. Waverton was convinced that he had an
insight into the soul of Horace which Harry's pedantic eyes could not
share. He explained, as one explains to a dull child, the rare poetic
beauty of the sentiment which he had produced. The hero whom
Horace was celebrating, you know, was the man superior to the
common herd. Now common men (as even Harry might be aware) are
all overbearing. It is this quality in the vulgar which most distresses
fine souls (like Mr. Waverton) who desire nothing but their just rights.
"I dare say it is," Harry yawned. "If Horace had wanted to mean that, he
would have said so."
"I often think, Harry, you dry scholars have no sense for the thought of
a poet," said Mr. Waverton elegantly, and lay back in his chair and
surveyed Harry.
He was a handsome lad and knew how to set it off. He had height and

bulk--almost too much of that indeed, and so made light of it by a
careless, lounging ease. At this time he was only twenty-two, but of a
precocious maturity. He