The Romany Rye | Page 7

as much
interest in the case as though the child had been his own. He went at
short intervals to the camp to see Perpinia, who had abandoned her pipe,
for the time being. And when after a fortnight the child, either from
Perpinia's temporary abstention from nicotine, or through the "good
luck" sent by the magpie, or from some other cause began to recover
from its illness, he reported progress with the greatest gusto to his
friend.
"Is not Perpinia very grateful to you and to me?" said the friend.
"Yes," said Borrow, with a twinkle in his eye. "She manages to feel
grateful to you and me for making her give up the pipe, and also to
believe at the same time that her child was saved by the good luck that
came to her because she guarded the magpie."
If it were needful to furnish other instances of Borrow's interest in
children, and also of his susceptibility to feminine charms, I could
easily furnish them. As to the "rancorous hatred that smouldered in that
sad heart of his," in spite of all his oddities, all his "cantankerousness,"
to use one of his own words, he was a singularly steadfast and loyal
friend. Indeed, it was the very steadfastness of his friendship that drove
him to perpetrate that outrage at Mr. Bevan's house, recorded in Dr.
Gordon Hake's "Memoirs." I need only recall the way in which he used
to speak of those who had been kind to him (such as his publisher, Mr.
John Murray for instance) to show that no one could be more loyal or
more grateful than he who has been depicted as the incarnation of all
that is spiteful, fussy, and mean. There is no need for the world to be
told here that the author of "Lavengro" is a delightful writer, and one
who is more sure than most authors of his time to win that little span of
life which writing men call "immortality." But if there is need for the
world to be told further that George Borrow was a good man, that he
was a most winsome and a most charming companion, that he was an
English gentleman, straightforward, honest, and brave as the very best
exemplars of that fine old type, the world is now told so--told so by two

of the few living men who can speak of him with authority, the writer
of the above letter and myself.
THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON.
CHAPTER I.
THE MAKING OF THE LINCH-PIN--THE SOUND
SLEEPER--BREAKFAST--THE POSTILLION'S DEPARTURE.
I awoke at the first break of day, and, leaving the postillion fast asleep,
stepped out of the tent. The dingle was dank and dripping. I lighted a
fire of coals, and got my forge in readiness. I then ascended to the field,
where the chaise was standing as we had left it on the previous evening.
After looking at the cloud-stone near it, now cold, and split into three
pieces, I set about prying narrowly into the condition of the wheel and
axle-tree--the latter had sustained no damage of any consequence, and
the wheel, as far as I was able to judge, was sound, being only slightly
injured in the box. The only thing requisite to set the chaise in a
travelling condition appeared to be a linch-pin, which I determined to
make. Going to the companion wheel, I took out the linch-pin, which I
carried down with me to the dingle, to serve me as a model.
I found Belle by this time dressed, and seated near the forge: with a
slight nod to her like that which a person gives who happens to see an
acquaintance when his mind is occupied with important business, I
forthwith set about my work. Selecting a piece of iron which I thought
would serve my purpose, I placed it in the fire, and plying the bellows
in a furious manner, soon made it hot; then seizing it with the tongs, I
laid it on my anvil, and began to beat it with my hammer, according to
the rules of my art. The dingle resounded with my strokes. Belle sat
still, and occasionally smiled, but suddenly started up and retreated
towards her encampment, on a spark which I purposely sent in her
direction alighting on her knee. I found the making of a linch-pin no
easy matter; it was, however, less difficult than the fabrication of a
pony-shoe; my work, indeed, was much facilitated by my having
another pin to look at. In about three-quarters of an hour I had

succeeded tolerably well, and had produced a linch-pin which I thought
would serve. During all this time, notwithstanding the noise which I
was making, the postillion never showed his face. His non-appearance
at first alarmed me: I was afraid