The Yeoman Adventurer
held out her hand, he bowed over it formally, but very kindly, and kissed
it. She blushed prettily, and then, after a moment's hesitation,
stretching it out to me, said, "But I must not forget the original
partner." I took the splendid prize in my rough, red, farmer's hand, and
kissed it reverently. The touch of my lips on her sweet, smooth flesh made
me tremble, and I knew the madness was creeping over me, but I gritted my
teeth, and our eyes met again. The blush had gone, but not the smile. It
was not now, however, the smile of a frank maiden but of an inscrutable
and dominating woman. I knew the difference, for instinct is more than
experience, and I chilled into the yokel again and wondered.
"In one sense, at any rate," said Master Freake, "I am the senior
partner, and as such may, without presumption, speak first. I must go on
to Stone, but that will, I think, be best for our purpose. As I view the
situation, two things are requisite, first that you, Master Wheatman,
should get Mistress Waynflete in advance of all the royal troops, and so
out of danger, and secondly that we should learn precisely what has become
of Colonel Waynflete."
"Exactly," I agreed. "The action of Lord Brocton in sending the Colonel
north instead of south, or at least of lodging him in jail at Stafford, is
inexplicable. True, his plan separates father and daughter, which is what
he wants, but either of the other methods would have served equally well
for that."
Of course I said nothing of the other idea that was haunting my thoughts,
the idea that Brocton was scheming to get rid of the Colonel altogether.
In his lust and anger he might not stick at that, and any kind of
encounter with the enemy would serve his turn. The rascals under him were
worthy of their commander, a fact of which we had already ample proof.
"It looks crooked, I confess," was his reply, "but there is this to be
said for it, that the Duke is following north along with the bulk of his
army, and, I hear, intends to make Stone his head-quarters."
"That seems absurd," said I, "but of course he knows best."
"The movements of the Prince's army are uncertain. The plan of their
leaders is never to say where the next halt will be. They will be to-day,
I know, in or near Macclesfield, and I learn that it is possible they may
turn off for Wales, where they believe they will find many recruits. The
farther north the Duke can safely go, the better placed he will be for
checking them if they do that, and his advance guard is posted at
Newcastle. The question is, how are you to get there first and without
being taken?"
"By travelling the by-roads," said I. "We'll go through Eccleshall."
"How long will it take you to get there?" he asked.
"About three hours," said I, "if Mistress Waynflete can stand the pace."
"Very good," he replied. "I will join you there, and do my best to get
horses for you in the meantime, and bring them along with me."
"That's splendid," said I, "but I'd rather we met outside the village.
Not more than a mile and a half beyond it on the Newcastle road there's a
little wayside ale-house called the 'Ring of Bells,' at the foot of a
steep hill, with a large pool ringed with pines, known as Cop Mere, in
front of it. It's a lonely place and will serve better. Small place as
Eccleshall is, I shall skirt round it, and so get to the 'Ring of Bells.'
You cannot miss it if you ride through the village on the Newcastle road.
Whoever's there first will await the other."
"Then in about three hours we'll meet at the 'Ring of Bells,' and I hope
I shall bring good news of the Colonel. Believe me, dear lady, short of
foul play on Brocton's part, and we have no reason to suspect that, your
father will be all right. Plain John Freake is not without influence. As
for the ruffian lying dead in the road, think no more of him."
So saying he unhitched his horse, led her into the road, and mounted. He
bowed and smiled, said cheerily, "A pleasant walk to the 'Ring of Bells,'"
and cantered off.
I stepped between madam and the dead man. "We've found a good friend
there, Mistress Waynflete. Now we'll put the hat and coat as we found
them, save for the guineas, and go back to the cottage for your domino."
She gave them to me, and stepped out briskly towards the cottage. I
folded up the coat, put the hat on it, looked again at the still, stiff
horror in the road, soaking in its own blood, and silently followed her.
CHAPTER X
SULTAN
The lie of the land was as follows: To get to the "Ring of Bells," Master
Freake would have to ride over the hill to the main road at Weston, thence
some six miles north-west to Stone, thence another six or seven miles
south-west to the inn. Mistress Waynflete and I had a stiff walk of about
nine miles in front of us. For the first three miles our way ran east by
north, and then bent almost due east to the ale-house. Our difficulty
would come at the bending point, for there we should have to cross the
main road from Stafford along which the troops would be filtering north to
get into touch with the Prince and his Highlanders. If the Duke had heard
of the supposed intention of the Jacobites to turn off for Wales, he
would, I imagined, send a scouting party through Eccleshall to look out
for them, and we should, for the second time in our journey, be on
dangerous ground in the neighbourhood of that village. The "Ring of
Bells," however, lay north of that village, off his obvious line of march
in that direction, so that we stood a good chance of passing unchecked to
our goal, provided that we got across the main road north in safety.
Fortunately, at the place where I intended to cross, it climbed over a
fairly steep hill, and we could, if need were, lie and watch the road till
it was safe to venture out.
It was ticklish work at the best and any break in our run of luck might
ruin us. How ticklish was vividly brought home to me within a few minutes
of our getting safe under cover in the cottage. I had, of course, brought
back the birding-piece and, after once more helping in the blissful task
of getting Mistress Waynflete into the domino, bungling as usual over
arranging the hood because my fingers lost control of themselves at the
touch of her hair, I sat down to reload it, intending to carry it with me.
I had settled matters with the absent gaffer, Doley, by putting one of my
guineas conspicuously on the table, and was just finishing my task when
Mistress Waynflete, who had stepped to the rear window and was looking
back on the scene of my recent exploit, suddenly called out, "Oliver! Come
here!"
My heart leaped within me at that 'Oliver.' True, it was the familiarity
of one born to command, one who had last night icily desired my services
in the morning, and, womanlike, knew that she could queen it over me as
she listed, but still, and this was the main thing, it was familiar and
friendly, and seemed to lift me a shade nearer to her.
"What is it, madam?" I asked respectfully, and ran toward her, but not so
swiftly that I had not time to see the blue eyes fixed hard on mine. For
answer, she turned and pointed down the hill, and there I saw the patch of
brown road covered with wagons and soldiers. In five minutes they would
come across the dead body of the Major.
"Good," said I indifferently, "they save me a guinea," and I put the coin
back in my pocket. The soldiers didn't matter, but that look in her eyes
did.
"Isn't that rather mean?" For some reason she spoke quite snappily. The
soldiers clearly didn't matter to her, and something else did.
"Which of the soldiers provided our breakfast, madam? We might as well
leave a note asking them to pick us up at the 'Ring of Bells.' And, madam,
you can trust me to make Dick Doley content enough some day."
She smiled, with her characteristic touch of chagrin. I liked her best
so, for she never looked daintier. "With a bit of luck, Master Wheatman,"
she said whimsically, "there will surely come a time when you'll be wrong
and I right. Then, sir, look out for crowing. I've never been so unlucky
with a man in my life. But you'll slip some day!"
"Surely, madam," I said, and smiled, "and then I'll abide your gloating.
Now, pray you, let us be off. We've hardly a minute to spare."
Without losing another second we started on our long walk. It was now
about ten of the clock. The sun was shining cheerily, with power enough to
melt the white rime off every blackened twig it lit upon, and it was still
so cold that sharp walking was a keen delight.
"Eight miles and more of it, Mistress Waynflete. I hope you can stand the
pace and the distance."
"I'm a soldier's daughter, not an alderman's," she replied curtly.
The vicar was right. "Oliver," he said to me one day, "what is the
difference between the Hebrew Bible and a woman?"
"Sir," said I, gaping with astonishment, "I know not, but of a truth it
seems considerable."
"It is, Oliver," replied the sweet old scholar. "Man can understand the
one in a dozen years, if he try, but the other not in a lifetime, strive
he as earnestly as he may."
This fragment of my dear friend's talk came back to me now as we walked
in silence side by side. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her sweet
face set in earnest thinking, her rich lips compressed, her speaking eyes
fixed resolutely ahead. Not having to trouble about finding the road, and
there being no sign of anyone, either enemy or neutral, stirring on the
countryside, I let her go on thinking, and set myself the pleasant but
impossible task of accounting to myself for her mood. I went over all we
had said and done together that day, and at last, after perhaps half an
hour of unbroken silence, fell back on what seemed the only possible
explanation. She was thinking of her father. But why that suspicion of
asperity on her face? Was this explanation correct?
The vicar was right. She suddenly slipped her hand round my arm, looking
at me with laughing lips and dancing eyes, and said, "Isn't it splendid to
be alive on a day like this?"
"Yes, indeed it is," I replied, "but from your looks and your long
silence, I should hardly have judged that you were thinking so."
"You have been taking stock of me, sir!"
"Certainly I have been wondering why you were so silent, and looked
so ... grave."
"Be honest and fear not, Master Wheatman. You were not going to say
'grave.'"
"At the expense of many whippings from old Bloggs, I learned to be
precise in the use of words."
"I know, hence you were not going to say 'grave.'"
"You will allow me to choose my own words, madam."
"Certainly, so long as you choose the right ones."
She unhooked her hand, and we walked a minute or two without another
word, she frowning, and I fuming. Then she said wistfully, "Why did you
think I was cross?"
"I feared I had offended you," said I hastily and innocently.
She laughed long and merrily. "Old Bloggs taught you the silly rigmarole
you men call logic, but he didn't teach you woman's logic, that's plain.
Don't you see what I've made you do, Master Wheatman?"
"Not yet, Mistress Waynflete."
"Poof, slow-coach! I've made you admit that you were going to say 'cross'
but altered it, too late, to 'grave.'"
"You outrun me with your nimble and practised wit," said I, smiling.
"And when did you offend me, think you?"
"I answered you rather roughly when you took me up about the guinea."
"Oh, then? Not at all. You snibbed me, but I richly deserved it."
Another silence.
"Well?" she said. "Go on! I say I richly deserved it. Go on!"
"Go on where?" I asked testily. "You're not expecting me to say you
didn't, are you?"
"No, I'm not," she said, "but it was good practice trying to make you."
So saying, she slipped her hand under my arm again, and we stepped it out