The Yeoman Adventurer
"And I'm in the same case exactly," said I, and laughed outright. I had
little use for money at the Hanyards, least of all in the pockets of my
Sunday best, and not until she told me her plight did I realize the fact
that in the elation of starting from home, I had forgotten that money
might be necessary. Though I laughed, I watched her closely. Now she would
break down. No woman's heart could stand the shock.
"My possessions," she said, "are precisely two handkerchiefs, one of
Madame du Pont's washballs, and most of a piece of the famous
marry-me-quick."
I had been mistaken. She made no ado about our serious situation, but
spoke with a grave humour that fetched me greatly.
"Quite a lengthy inventory," I replied. "My contributions to the common
stock are--" and I fumbled in my pockets--"item, one handkerchief; item,
a pocket-knife; item, one pipe and half a paper of tobacco; item, one
flask, two-thirds full of Mistress Kate Wheatman's priceless peppermint
cordial, the sovereign remedy against fatigue, cold, care, and the
humours; item, something unknown which has been flopping against my hip
and is, by the outward feel of it, a thing to rejoice over, to wit, one of
Kate's pasties."
I pushed my hand down for it, and then laughed louder than ever, as I
drew forth my dumpy little Virgil.
"Item," I concluded, "the works of the divine master, P. Vergilius Maro,
hidden in my pocket by that mischievous minx and monkey, Kate Wheatman of
the Hanyards." And I told the story.
"Then if Kate had not hidden your beloved Virgil, you would not have gone
fishing?"
"I'm sure I shouldn't."
"Life turns on trifles, Master Wheatman, and to a pretty girl's sisterly
jest I owe everything that has happened since I first saw you on the river
bank."
"We owe it, madam," I corrected gently, and I turned to go on, for I saw
that she was moved and troubled at the evil she thought she had brought on
me. Evil! I was enjoying every breath I drew and every step I took, and my
heart was like a live coal in the midst of my bosom.
"Have no fear, Mistress Margaret," said I cheerfully, sweeping my hand
out. "There's broad Staffordshire before us, a goodly land full of meat
and malt and money, and we'll have our share of it."
"But you'll have to steal it for me."
"'Convey the wise it call," "I quoted.
"That's better," and she smiled up at me in the moonlight. "Virgil puts
you right above my poor wits, but say you love Shakespeare too, and we
shall have one of the great things of life in common."
"I do, madam, but you must learn to rate things at their true value. You
speak French?"
"Oh yes."
"And Italian?"
"Yes."
"And play the harpsichord?"
"Yes."
"Then, madam, I am a half-educated boor compared with you, for I know
none of these things. But though I do not know the French or Italian for
marry-me-quick, if you will get it out of your pocket, I'll show you the
Staffordshire for half of it."
We marched on gaily for another quarter of an hour, eating the sweet
morsel. Then I said, "Even an old traveller and campaigner like you will
be glad to learn that our inn is at hand."
"Very glad, but I see no signs of it."
"Well, no," said I, "it's not exactly an inn, but just a plain barn. You
shall sleep soft and safe and warm, though, and even if we had money and
an inn was at hand, it would be foolish to go there. Your case is hard,
madam, and I wish I could offer you better quarters."
Under the shelter of a round knoll clumped with pines, lay an ancient
farmhouse. We were approaching it from the front, and its sheds and barns
were at the rear. We therefore turned into the field and fetched a
circuit, and soon stood at the gate leading into the farmyard. No one
stirred, not even a dog barked, as I softly opened the gate and crept,
followed by Mistress Waynflete, to the nearest building. I pushed open the
door, we entered a barn, and were safe for the night. The moon shone
through the open door, and I saw that the barn was empty, probably because
the year's crops, as I knew to my sorrow, had been poor indeed in our
district. The fact that the barn was bare told in our favour, as no farm
hand would be likely to come near it should one be stirring before us next
morning.
A rick stood handy in the yard, and on going to it I found that three or
four dasses of hay had been carved out ready for removal to the stalls. I
carried them to the shed, one by one, and mighty hot I was by the time I
dumped the last on the barn floor. Starting off again, I poached around in
another shed, and was lucky enough to find a pile of empty corn sacks.
Spreading these three or four deep in the far corner of the barn, I
covered them thickly with hay, and having reserved a sack on purpose, I
stuffed it loosely with hay to serve for a pillow.
All this busy time Mistress Waynflete stood on the moonlit door-sill,
silent as a mouse, and when I stole quietly up to tell her all was ready,
I saw that her hands were clasped in front and her lips moved. I bared my
head and waited, for she had transformed this poor barn into a maiden's
sanctuary.
She turned her face towards me. "Madam," said I, very quietly, "your bed
is ready, and you are tired out and dead for sleep. Pray come!"
Still silent, she stepped up and examined my rude handiwork. Then she
curled herself up on the hay, and I covered her with more hay till she lay
snug enough to keep out another Great Frost.
"Good night, madam, and sweet sleep befall you," and I was turning away.
"Ho!" she said, "and pray where do you propose to sleep?"
"I shall nest under the rick-straddle."
"Sir," and her tone was almost unpleasant, "for the modesty you attribute
unto me, I thank you. For the gratitude you decline to attribute unto me,
I dislike you. But pray give me credit for a little common sense. I shall
desire your services in the morning, and I do not want to find you under a
rick, frozen to a fossil."
"No, madam."
She sprang out of bed, tumbling the hay in all directions.
"Master Wheatman, I will not pretend to misunderstand you, and indeed, I
thank you, but you are going to put your bed here," stamping her foot, "so
that we can talk without raising our voices. I am much more willing to
sleep in the same barn with you than in the same town with my Lord
Brocton. Where's your share of the sacks?"
I did without sacks, but I fetched more chunks of hay, and she helped me
strew a bed for myself close up to her own. I tucked her up once more, and
then made myself cosy. I was miserable lest I should snore. Yokels so
often do. Joe Braggs, for instance, would snore till the barn door rattled.
I remembered the cordial, and we each had a good pull at the flask. I
felt for days the touch of her smooth, soft fingers on mine as she took it.
"It certainly does warm you up," she said. "I feel all aglow without and
within."
"Then I may take it that you are comfortable?"
"If it were not for two things, I should say this was a boy-and-girl
escapade of ours, every moment of which was just pure enjoyment."
"Naturally you are uneasy about your father, but I cannot think he will
come to any immediate harm. Why Brocton should send him north instead of
south is, I confess, a mystery, but to-morrow will solve it. And what else
makes you uneasy?"
"You," she replied, very low and brief.
"I? And pray, madam, what have I done to make you uneasy?"
"Met me." Still the same tone.
"I am not able to talk to you in the modish manner, nor do I think you
would wish me to try to ape my betters, so I say plainly that our meeting
has not made me uneasy. Why then you?"
"Had you not met me, you would now be asleep at the Hanyards, a free and
happy country gentleman. Instead you are here, a suspect, a refugee, an
outlaw, one tainted with rebellion, the jail for certain if you are
caught, and then--"
She broke off abruptly, and I think I heard a low sob.
"And then?"
"Perhaps the gibbet."
"It's true that the thieving craft is a curst craft for the gallows, but
to-morrow's trouble is like yesterday's dinner, not worth thinking on. We
are here, safe and comfortable. Let that suffice. And to-day, so far from
doing harm at which you must needs be uneasy, you have wrought a miracle."
"Wrought a miracle? What do you mean?"
"You have found a cabbage, and made a man. Good night, Mistress Waynflete."
"Good night, Master Wheatman."
I imitated the regular breathing of a tired, sleeping man. In a few
minutes it became clear that she was really asleep, and I pretended no
longer, but stretched out comfortably in the fragrant hay and soon slept
like a log.
CHAPTER VIII
THE CONJURER'S CAP
I awoke between darkness and daylight. Mistress Waynflete still slept
peacefully and there was as yet no need to rouse her. I had slept in my
shoes, but now, I drew them off, lifted the bar of the door, and stole out
to look around. Not a soul was stirring about the farm, and the only
living creature in sight was a sleepy cock, which scuttled off noisily at
my approach. I entered a cowshed, where a fine, patient cow turned a
reproachful eye on me, as if rebuking me for my too early visit. I
cheerily clucked and slapped her on to her hoofs, and then, failing to
find any sort of cup or can, punched my hat inside out and filled it with
warm foaming milk. With this spoil I hurried back to our quarters.
I had to leave the door open, and this gave me light enough to look more
closely at my companion. She was still sleeping, her face calmly content,
and so had she slept through the night, for the coverlet of hay was rising
and falling undisturbed on her breast. It was now time to wake her, and,
having no free hand, I knelt down to nudge her with my elbow. As I did so,
her face changed. A look of concern came over it, then one of hesitation,
then a sweet smile, chasing each other as gleam chases gloom across the
meadows on an April day. She was dreaming, dreaming pleasantly, and it was
to a hard world that I awakened her.
At my second nudge she half-opened her eyes and murmured, "It's very
wide." Then my greeting aroused her fully, and she blushed wondrous red
and beautiful.
"Good morrow, Mistress Waynflete," said I. "I grieve to disturb you, and,
pray you, do not move too abruptly or over goes the breakfast."
"Good morrow, Master Oliver," she replied. "I have slept well. I feel as
if I've quite enjoyed it. We do enjoy sleep, I think, sometimes."
"Or the dreams it brings, madam."
She glanced quickly at me, as if afraid that I had the power of reading
dream-thoughts, and gaily said, "And breakfast ready! This is even better
than the Paris fashion. What is it? More of dear Kate's cordial?"
I did not know what the Paris fashion of breakfast was, and she did not
enlighten me. Anyhow, I, the yokel, had improved on it, and that was
something.
"A far better brewage, madam," I said, "but you must pardon the
Staffordshire fashion of serving it."
She sat up, took the cap, and drank heartily, the dawn still in her eyes
and cheeks, and masses of yellow hair tumbling down from under her hood on
throat and bosom. When she handed back the cap, I could not forbear from
saying, "You look charming after your night's rest, and I profess that
tear of milk on the tip of your nose becomes you admirably." With the rim
of my cap at my lips, I added with mock concern, "Have a care, Mistress
Waynflete, or you'll rub off tip as well as tear."
"I suppose you thought 'As a jewel of gold' and the rest of it," she
said, squinting comically down to examine her nose.
"Really, no, madam; I thought of nothing so scandalous, from the Bible
though it be. I thought of--of...."
"I'm all ears," she said archly.
"I'm a poor hand at turning compliments to ladies," said I.