Lavengro by George Borrow (read me a book txt) 📕

a fifth; “let us carry her to her own house.” Not being able to render any assistance, I left the poor female in the hands of her townsfolk, and proceeded on my way. I had chosen a road in the direction of the northwest, it led over downs where corn was growing, but where neither tree nor hedge were to be seen; two or three hours’ walking brought me to a beautiful valley, abounding with trees of various kinds, with a delightful village at its farthest extremity; passing through it I ascended a lofty acclivity, on the top of which I sat down on a bank, and taking off my hat, permitted a breeze, which swept coolly and refreshingly over the downs, to dry my hair, dripping from the effects of exercise and the heat of the day.

And as I sat there, gazing now at the blue heavens, now at the downs before me, a man came along the road in the direction in which I had hitherto been proceeding: just opposite to me he stopped, and, looking at me, cried: “Am I right for London, master?”

He was dressed like a sailor, and appeared to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age; he had an open manly countenance, and there was a bold and fearless expression in his eye.

“Yes,” said I, in reply to his question; “this is one of the ways to London. Do you come from far?”

“From ⸻,”183 said the man, naming a well-known seaport.

“Is this the direct road to London from that place?” I demanded.

“No,” said the man; “but I had to visit two or three other places on certain commissions I was entrusted with; amongst others to ⸻, where I had to take a small sum of money. I am rather tired, master; and, if you please, I will sit down beside you.”

“You have as much right to sit down here as I have,” said I, “the road is free for everyone; as for sitting down beside me, you have the look of an honest man, and I have no objection to your company.”

“Why, as for being honest, master,” said the man, laughing and sitting down by me, “I haven’t much to say⁠—many is the wild thing I have done when I was younger; however, what is done, is done. To learn, one must live, master; and I have lived long enough to learn the grand point of wisdom.”

“What is that?” said I.

“That honesty is the best policy, master.”

“You appear to be a sailor,” said I, looking at his dress.

“I was not bred a sailor,” said the man, “though, when my foot is on the salt water, I can play the part⁠—and play it well too. I am now from a long voyage.”

“From America?” said I.

“Farther than that,” said the man.

“Have you any objection to tell me?” said I.

“From New South Wales,” said the man, looking me full in the face.

“Dear me,” said I.

“Why do you say ‘Dear me’?” said the man.

“It is a very long way off,” said I.

“Was that your reason for saying so?” said the man.

“Not exactly,” said I.

“No,” said the man, with something of a bitter smile; “it was something else that made you say so; you were thinking of the convicts.”

“Well,” said I, “what then⁠—you are no convict.”

“How do you know?”

“You do not look like one.”

“Thank you, master,” said the man cheerfully; “and, to a certain extent, you are right⁠—bygones are bygones⁠—I am no longer what I was, nor ever will be again; the truth, however, is the truth⁠—a convict I have been⁠—a convict at Sydney Cove.”

“And you have served out the period for which you were sentenced, and are now returned?”

“As to serving out my sentence,” replied the man, “I can’t say that I did; I was sentenced for fourteen years, and I was in Sydney Cove little more than half that time. The truth is that I did the Government a service. There was a conspiracy amongst some of the convicts to murder and destroy⁠—I overheard and informed the Government; mind one thing, however, I was not concerned in it; those who got it up were no comrades of mine, but a bloody gang of villains. Well, the Government, in consideration of the service I had done them, remitted the remainder of my sentence; and some kind gentlemen interested themselves about me, gave me good books and good advice, and, being satisfied with my conduct, procured me employ in an exploring expedition, by which I earned money. In fact, the being sent to Sydney was the best thing that ever happened to me in all my life.”

“And you have now returned to your native country. Longing to see home brought you from New South Wales.”

“There you are mistaken,” said the man. “Wish to see England again would never have brought me so far; for, to tell you the truth, master, England was a hard mother to me, as she has proved to many. No, a wish to see another kind of mother⁠—a poor old woman whose son I am⁠—has brought me back.”

“You have a mother, then?” said I. “Does she reside in London?”

“She used to live in London,” said the man; “but I am afraid she is long since dead.”

“How did she support herself?” said I.

“Support herself! with difficulty enough; she used to keep a small stall on London Bridge, where she sold fruit; I am afraid she is dead, and that she died perhaps in misery. She was a poor sinful creature; but I loved her, and she loved me. I came all the way back merely for the chance of seeing her.”

“Did you ever write to her,” said I, “or cause others to write to her?”

“I wrote to her myself,” said the man, “about two years ago; but I never received an answer. I learned to write very tolerably over there, by the assistance of the good people I spoke of. As for reading, I could do that very well before I went⁠—my