The Yeoman Adventurer
I, who had been to America, was as a god. My first visit to Stafford put
the sleepy old town into commotion.
Every night around the fire in the house-place I told them of my
adventures. Jack, the sly fox, sat among his cushions, which he had not
been fool enough to discard along with his slops, with Kate on a low stool
at his knees. The vicar sat by mother's side on the settle. I drew a chair
close to her, so that her hand could clasp mine as I talked, and very
helpful I found it, for she understood in silence and in silence comforted
me. Jane laid supper, taking a long time over it, for between journeys to
and from the kitchen she would stand behind the settle and listen
wide-eyed to a spell of my talk. Every night the vicar said grace, adding,
in his simple, apostolic way, a special thanksgiving to the good God who
had brought the young lad safe home again, through perils by sea and
perils by land, and out of the very hands of evil men who had compassed
him about to destroy him. Then, after supper, I escorted the good man home
and came back through the moonlit lanes; and every night, without fail, I
went and stood on the very spot where the gaff had slipped out of my
collar, and I had turned round to see Margaret.
The only discontented person in our little circle was Joe Braggs, who had
caught the dace that caught the jack, and so started me out of my jog-trot
yeoman's round into the great world of life and adventure. Joe had done
well while I had been away; our fields had yielded fruitfully under his
care as bailiff; and, having had a favourable harvest, we were much money
in hand on the year's working. I had thanked him heartily, confirmed him
as my bailiff now that I was back, and given him fifty guineas, a sum
which to him was wealth untold. Still the rascal was not satisfied, and
went about with a bear on his back, as Jane had it, so that I was greatly
tempted to clip his ear for him.
The day before Christmas, he was busy all morning under Jane's garrulous
command, getting in bunches of holly and other evergreens from the
hedgerows. His last journey had been to one of the farms on the Upper
Hanyards in quest of mistletoe, which grew abundantly there in an ancient
orchard. On getting back he had held a sprig over Jane's head for a
certain familiar and laudable purpose, and had been rewarded with a smack
that sounded like the dropping of an empty milk-pail. A little later I
found him glowering in a cowhouse, and had it out with him.
"Look here, Joe, my lad," said I, "tell me straight what's the matter
with you or I'll break your head."
"What d'ye want to come back 'ere for, upsettin' Jin like this'n?" he
blurted.
"What the blazes have I done to upset Jin?" I asked.
"Why didna y' bring 'er back wi' ye, then?"
"Who's her, you jolt-head?" I demanded angrily.
"That leddy o' yourn. Jin's that upset 'er wunna luk at me, an' we wor
gettin' on fine."
It was no use talking to Joe. I explained that she was a great lady and
was to marry a marquess, that is a much more important person than an
earl. He knew what an earl was, for of course he had heard of the 'Yurl,'
meaning that old rascal Ridgeley. A marquess, however, was outside his
ken, and the information was wasted.
"Why didna y' marry 'er y'rsel', Master Noll, and bring 'er back 'ere,
then Jin wud 'a' bin all rate?"
"I couldn't," said I.
"Did y' ask 'er?"
"No."
"More fule yow," said he bitterly. "She'd 'a' 'ad y', rate enough. Jin
says so, an' 'er knows."
What could be done with such a silly fellow? I left off discussing and
took him indoors with me. In front of Jane I pledged him in a mug of ale
and told him he was one of the best lads breathing, and I was greatly
beholden to him. In front of him I kissed Jane under the mistletoe and
told her that, bonny lass as she was, she was lucky to have the best lad
in Staffordshire. I left them in the kitchen, and heard no more crashes.
Later on, Joe whistled his three tunes with admirable skill and
intolerable persistency while, under Jane's orders, he took in charge the
boiling of the Christmas puddings in a vast iron pot hung over the kitchen
fire.
It was growing dark. Everybody was happy. Mother was out and round the
village with her Christmas gifts, attended by one of our men and a cart
packed with good things. Nothing could have made her happier. Jack and
Kate were in the house-place busy with all sorts of housewiferies, in
which he was as interested as she. Joe and Jane were in the kitchen, as
merry as grigs. I went into my own room, across the passage from the
parlour, sacrosanct to me, my books and my belongings.
There, too, was the great jack, set up to the very life by the skilful
hand of Master Whatcot. He appeared to be cleaving a bunch of reeds to
pounce on a dace, just as he had done once too often on that memorable
day. Brothers of the angle had made pilgrimages to see him from thirty
miles round, and it was an added charm to fancy that the monster had been
caught in a spot where Izaak Walton had fished as a boy, he having been
born and bred in these parts. My jack is a famous jack, for the curious
reader will find an account of him, with his dimensions and catching
weight exactly given, in Master Joshua Spindler's folio volume entitled
"Rudimenta Piscatoria, or the Whole Art of Angling set forth in a Series
of Letters from a Nobleman to his Son," London, 1751. No one who has yet
seen him has seen a bigger, though most of them have heard of one.
I lit my candles, got my pipe going, and drew my chair near the fire to
read and smoke. It was, however, early days yet for me to read for long.
Moreover, by habit I had picked up my Virgil, and it was as yet impossible
for me to feel the tips of my fingers in the teeth-marks without thinking
of the poor wretch who had made them. I could see in exactest detail his
dead body lying in the road and Swift Nicks beside it, pitching the bag of
guineas up and down in the air, and smiling gleefully and yet wistfully at
me. From that grim event, whether my mind travelled backwards or forwards,
it traversed scenes such as few men are privileged, or fated, to pass
through.
It was, again, too soon for me to realize the full effect of my
experiences on myself. I was not moody, as in the days aforetime. I
neither loathed my lot nor cursed my destiny. I had seen warfare and
bloodshed, I had had my heart wrung and my nerves racked, and now the
peaceful meadows winding along the river and stretching up to the purple
hills were dear to eyes from which the scales had fallen. This was the
life and labour on which the world was based, and it was worthy of any
man. I had seen Death the Harvester at work, and he was a less alluring
figure than Joe Braggs with a flashing sickle in his hand and a swathe of
golden grain under his arm.
I should never be really alone again. I had company of which I should
never tire as I sat here with my memories. Margaret was rarely absent from
my mind, and every memory of her was a blessing and an inspiration. I did
not regret my love, foolish and vain as it had been. The thing that really
mattered was that Jack was alive. I could now look back on everything
without bitterness. If Margaret came for me now, to call me forth to
another hard round of struggle and adventure, I should be off with her
like a shot. She had made a splendid companion. She would make a splendid
marchioness. Some day, when the pain would not be unendurable, I would go
to London and steal another peep at those matchless eyes and that tower of
golden, gleaming hair.
I did not hear the door open, but I heard mother's calm voice, gently
reproving Jane for an unseemly giggle. A pair of arms crept round my neck,
and slim white fingers cupped my chin. Kate did not know that it was I who
had so nearly sent her sweetheart to an untimely grave, for Jack had
sternly forbidden me to mention the subject to anyone, and, as I have
said, it might never have happened so far as he was concerned. Therefore
Kate, always a loving and attentive sister, was now more loving and
attentive than ever because she knew in her heart that, though I had
gained much in my wanderings, I had lost the one thing she had found in
the quiet sickroom where, during long weary months, she had lured Jack
back to life. It was always her task to fetch me from my books and my
thoughts to the beloved circle in the house-place, when, as now, she had
prepared a dish of tea for us.
The soft resolute hands raised my chin, and I gasped as I looked into
Margaret's eyes.
She lightly held me down, and, as if we had only parted five minutes
before in the house-place, began to speak, quietly but rapidly.
"Oliver, do you remember waking me in the barn?"
I nodded. I was too amazed to speak, and there was that in her eyes which
made me tremble.
"I was dreaming," she said, and I nodded again and remembered how she had
flushed like the dawn.
"Because you are the greatest goose of a man that ever lived, I am going
to tell you my dream. I dreamed that you were carrying me across the Pearl
Brook, and as you carried me the brook got wider and wider--you had made
it as wide as you could, you know--until it seemed as if we should never
get across it. And you would not put me down, though I begged you to do
so, but carried me on and on. You grew tired and weary, and your face went
white and drawn, as I find it now, but you would not let me go. Was it not
a curious dream, Oliver?"
Again I nodded.
"Why can't you speak, Oliver? Anything would make it less hard. Then,
because you were so weary, and so good to me, and so faithful, and
long-enduring, I did in my dream ... in my dream, you mark ... something
very un-maidenly ... and immediately we were both on the other side; and I
awoke as you put me down at last and found you by my side, having, in your
knightly unselfishness, ruined your hat to give me a drink of milk. And
because you are the best man on earth, and also a blind silly goose,
Oliver, and I must take some risk or lose my all, I am going ... to do the
unmaidenly thing I did in my dream ... and ... you ... must not misjudge
me, Oliver."
She stopped, smiled as only Margaret can, and bent her head until a loose
coil of amber hair fell on my face Then she brushed it aside and, after a
little gasping cry, kissed me on the lips.
EPILOGUE
THE LITTLE JACK
AT THE HANYARDS STAFFORDSHIRE _August 9th, 1757_
Margaret and I had a hot dispute this morning. True she went away,
singing happily, to rebuild the masses of yellow hair that had fallen all
over her shoulders and mine, for the dreadful stuff seems to tumble down
if I look at it, but still we had disputed, and vigorously, too. The plain
fact is she had sniffed at Aristotle.
The trouble arose out of this story of mine which I have been busy
writing for the last twenty months. It has been hard work, for I was new
to the business, and had to learn how to do it, but it has been a pleasant
task and a labour of love. Now we disputed about it. I said it was
finished. She said it wasn't. I said I ought to know. She replied not
necessarily, since I was such a great goose. Then I loaded my big gun and
thought to blow her clean out of the water.
"My dear Margaret," said I, "Aristotle lays it down that every work of
art has a beginning, a middle, and an end. The beginning of our story was
the catching of the great jack, the middle of it was the fight at the 'Red
Bull,' and the end of it was the kiss you gave me. You see, dear, how
exactly I have done what Aristotle says I ought to do."
"Bother Aristotle! What does he know about us?" It was here that she
sniffed, not figuratively but actually. That is to say she held up her
nose, on pretence of looking at me, and audibly ... well, sniffed. There's