The Yeoman Adventurer
God send me a less observant damsel. There's nothing to forgive. The plain
truth is that I was frightened, a little bit. But I'm new to this sort of
thing, and I hope to improve." Then, after a pause, I met her eyes full
with mine and added, "As we go on."
"Frightened," she said scornfully, "you frightened, you who leaped
unarmed on the best swordsman in London? No, don't mock me, Master
Wheatman, forgive me."
"Of course I do, and thank you for your kind words. And we've both got
some one to forgive."
She smiled radiantly--"Whom? And what for?"
I leaped over the wall, and put my arms around her to lift her down.
"Marry-me-quick, for dropping the rabbit-stew."
CHAPTER VII
THE RESULTS OF LOSING MY VIRGIL
We slipped down the blind alley and came out in the street leading to the
East Gate. There was still great plenty of people strolling up and down,
for night had not yet killed off the novelty and excitement caused by the
arrival of the army. The smaller houses were crowded with soldiery,
hob-nobbing with the folk on whom they were billeted, and all were yelling
out, "Let the cannakin clink!" and other rowdy ditties in the intervals of
drinking. At the East Gate itself, a fire blazed, and pickets warmed
themselves round it, while along the street late-coming baggage and
ammunition wagons were trailing wearily. It was idle to expect to pass
unseen, so we plunged into the throng, threaded through the wagons, and
skirted leftward till we arrived at a quieter street running down to the
line of the wall.
Here every brick and stone was as a familiar friend, for the little
grammar school backed on to the wall at the very spot where the main
street led through the old north gate of the town. Old Master Bloggs lived
in a tiny house on the side of the school away from the gate. There were
the candles flickering in the untidy den in which the old man passed all
his waking hours out of school-time, and there, I doubted not, they would
be guttering away if the Highlanders sacked the town. I led the way across
the little fore-court, paled off from the street by wooden railings,
gently opened the door, and walked in to the dark passage.
The study door was ajar, and we peeped in. There the old, familiar figure
was, eyesight feebler, shoulders rounder, hair whiter, and clothing
shabbier than of yore, crumpled over a massive folio. He was reading
aloud, in a monotonous, squeaky half-pitch. Latin hexameters they were,
for even his voice could not hide all the music in them, and as I listened
it became clear that the old man had that night been moved to select
something appropriate to the occasion, for he was going through the
account of the fall of Troy in the second Aeneid.
I put my fingers on my lips and crept on, followed by Mistress Waynflete.
In the little back room I whispered, "My old school and schoolmaster. We
will not disturb the old man. Poor little Marry-me-quick may have to
suffer on our account, and old Bloggs shall at any rate have the excuse of
knowing nothing about us. He's happy enough over the fall of Troy. Nothing
that he can do can help us. Let him be."
She nodded assent and I looked round. Opening a cupboard, I found half a
loaf of bread, a nipperkin of milk, and a rind of cheese. "Eat," said I,
"and think it's rabbit-stew." I made her take all the milk, but shared the
bread and cheese. Troy went on falling steadily meanwhile, and when we had
finished our scanty nuncheon I once more led the way, and we passed out
into the little yard behind the schoolhouse, and gained the playground,
the outer boundary of which was the town wall, here some twelve feet high
and in a fair state of preservation. Many generations of schoolboys had
cut and worn a series of big notches on each side of the wall, and by long
practice I could run up and down in a trice to fetch ball or tipcat which
had been knocked over.
From the bridge at the Hanyards onwards, Mistress Waynflete had always
acted promptly and exactly to my wish. I felt a boor, and was in truth a
boor, in comparison with her. Brocton's 'yokel blood' gibe had put murder
into my blows, but it had truth enough in it to make it rankle like a
poisoned arrow. Yet here was this wonder-woman, trustful as a child and
meeker than a milkmaid. My work was new, but at any rate I had sometimes
dreamed that I could do a man's work when I got my chance, and I had limbs
of leather and steel to do it with. My thoughts, however, were newer
still, and had no background of daydreams to stand against. Moreover,
things had gone with such a rush that I had had no time to shake and sift
them into order. At the foot of that wall all I knew, and that but dimly,
was that there were thoughts that made a man's work the one thing worth
living for.
"Get your breath, madam," said I. "You want it all now, and there's no
need to hurry."
She leaned easily against the wall, and peered round to make out her
surroundings. The only result could be to give her the impression that she
was cooped up like a rat in a trap, but with characteristic indifference
for herself, she only said:
"And this was your school?"
"For many years, seven or more."
She was silent for a time and then went on.
"You have led a quiet life, Master Wheatman?"
"Ha," thought I, "she's gauging my capacity to help her," and added
aloud, bitterly reminiscent, "The life of a yokel, madam."
"You have read much?"
"Yes, I'm fond of reading. It passes the long winter nights."
"And no doubt you know by heart the merry gests of Robin Hood and the
admirable exploits of Claude Duval?"
I felt her eyes on me in the dark, and longed for the sun so that I could
see the blue glint in them.
"No such rubbish, indeed," said I hotly. It was a slight on Master
Bloggs, droning away yonder at the fall of Troy, not to say the sweet old
vicar.
"What then?"
"Livy and Caesar, and stuff like that, but mainly Virgil."
"Then it's very, very curious," she whispered emphatically.
No doubt yokel blood ought not to run like wine under the mighty pulse of
Virgil, and I sourly asked, "What's curious, madam? Old Bloggs has nothing
to teach except Latin, and I happened to take to it. Why curious?"
"Really, Master Wheatman, not curious? Here we are in a narrow yard at
the foot of a high wall. I'm perfectly certain that within five minutes I
shall be whisked over to the other side. And you got that out of Virgil?"
"Straight out of Virgil, madam. Stafford was our Troy, and this the wall
thereof. I've got in and out thousands of times."
She peered comically around the dark playground and said gaily, "I see no
wooden horse. There should be one, I know. Master Dryden says so, and he
knows all about Virgil."
"Poof," said I. "If old Bloggs heard you, he'd tingle to thrash you black
and blue."
"He couldn't now I've got my breath again," she laughed.
"I'm glad of that. Let me explain. Here is a ladder of notches in the
wall, left and right alternately. Feel for them." She did so, and I went
on: "They are roughly three feet apart on each side. I'll climb up first
and assist you up the last few. Your skirts will trouble you, I fear."
"Not much, for I'll turn them up." She promptly did so, and fastened the
edges round her waist. She also discarded the long, cumbrous domino, and I
took it from her.
"Watch me," said I, "and follow when I give the word. I'll have a look
round first."
Up I went, hand over hand, as easily as ever I had done it. I crouched
down on the top of the wall, which, fortunately, lay in the shadow of the
schoolhouse. I saw in the sky the reflected glare of a fire at the north
gate, another picket I supposed, but there were houses without the gate,
and these were dark and silent. There was no fear of our being observed.
"Come!" I whispered.
She started boldly and came up with cheering swiftness. I spread the
domino in readiness, then stretched down to help her, and in another
moment she was sitting the wall as a saddle.
"Splendid, for a novice," I said.
"And a novice in skirts, short ones."
She went first down the other side, and I nearly pitched headlong in
assisting her as far down as possible. She lowered her skirts while I
followed and then I helped her into the domino, rejoicing in the silken
caress of her hair on my hands as I arranged the hood, a pleasant piece of
officiousness for which I got thanks I did not deserve, and off we started.
Again she asked nothing as to what we were going to do and whither we
were bound. The blazing windows of a comfortable inn might have been in
sight for aught she cared to all outward seeming. Yet here she was, close
on midnight, in bitterly cold weather, stepping out into rough and unknown
country in company with a man she had only known a few hours.
I went ahead and thought it over. For ten minutes we picked our way in
the deep shadow along the foot of the wall, _per opaca locorum_, as
the great weaver of words puts it, and then I turned outwards into the
open field and the clear moonlight. Of her own accord she placed her arm
in mine, and we stepped it out bravely together.
"We are in unenclosed land here," I explained. "On our right is a patch
which varies between bog and marsh and pool, according to the rains. The
townsmen call it the King's Pool, whatever state it is in. Just ahead, you
can see the line of it, is a little stream, the Pearl Brook. If it isn't
frozen over yet, I can easily carry you across, as it's not more than six
inches deep. The freemen of the Ancient Borough--yon little town has
slumbered there nearly eight hundred years--have, by immemorial custom,
the right of fishing in the Pearl Brook with line and bent pin."
"They do not catch many thirty-pound jack, I suppose?"
"Dear me, no. But it was here I learned to like fishing, and I went on
from minnows and jacksharps to pike."
"And wandering damsels," she interrupted, with a laugh that sounded to me
like the music of silver bells. A minute later, on the edge of the brook,
she said vexedly, "And it's not frozen over." But I had already noticed
that fact with great elation.
"Not more than six inches, you say," she muttered, and made to step in.
"And if it were not so much as six barley-corns," I said, "I would not
suffer you to wade it. What am I for, pray you, madam?"
Without more ado, I lifted her once more in my arms--the fourth time that
day--and started. I cursed the narrowness of the Pearl Brook. I could
almost have hopped across it, but by dawdling aslant the stream I had her
sweet face near mine in the moonlight, and my arms round her proud body,
for a couple of minutes. "Yokel blood or not," I thought, "this is
something my Lord Brocton will never do."
A quarter of an hour later, after helping her up a short, steep scarp, we
stood and looked back on the little town. Its roofs were bathed in
moonlight, and the great church tower stood out in grey against the
blue-black sky. Patches of dull, ruddy glow in the sky marked the sites of
the picket-fires, and there came to us, like the gibbering of ghosts in
the wind, the dying notes of the day's excitement. To our left, bits of
silver ribbon marked the twistings of the river, and that darker line in
the distant darkness was the hills of my home and boyhood. At their feet
was the Hanyards, and Kate and mother. There was a little mist in my eyes,
and the eyes I turned and looked into were brimming with tears.
"And now, Mistress Waynflete," said I, "let us on to our inn."
"Our inn!" she echoed, and there was dismay in her voice. "Our inn, and I
haven't a pennypiece. For safety, I put my hat, my riding jacket, and my
purse under the bed at Marry-me-quick's, and the fight and hurry drove
them out of my mind completely."