The Yeoman Adventurer

by George W. Gough

  CHAPTER VII

  THE RESULTS OF LOSING MY VIRGIL

  We slipped down the blind alley and came out in the street leading to theEast 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 thearrival of the army. The smaller houses were crowded with soldiery,hob-nobbing with the folk on whom they were billeted, and all were yellingout, "Let the cannakin clink!" and other rowdy ditties in the intervals ofdrinking. At the East Gate itself, a fire blazed, and pickets warmedthemselves round it, while along the street late-coming baggage andammunition wagons were trailing wearily. It was idle to expect to passunseen, so we plunged into the throng, threaded through the wagons, andskirted leftward till we arrived at a quieter street running down to theline of the wall.

  Here every brick and stone was as a familiar friend, for the littlegrammar school backed on to the wall at the very spot where the mainstreet led through the old north gate of the town. Old Master Bloggs livedin a tiny house on the side of the school away from the gate. There werethe candles flickering in the untidy den in which the old man passed allhis waking hours out of school-time, and there, I doubted not, they wouldbe guttering away if the Highlanders sacked the town. I led the way acrossthe 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 figurewas, eyesight feebler, shoulders rounder, hair whiter, and clothingshabbier than of yore, crumpled over a massive folio. He was readingaloud, 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 listenedit became clear that the old man had that night been moved to selectsomething appropriate to the occasion, for he was going through theaccount 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. Wewill not disturb the old man. Poor little Marry-me-quick may have tosuffer on our account, and old Bloggs shall at any rate have the excuse ofknowing nothing about us. He's happy enough over the fall of Troy. Nothingthat he can do can help us. Let him be."

  She nodded assent and I looked round. Opening a cupboard, I found half aloaf 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 thebread and cheese. Troy went on falling steadily meanwhile, and when we hadfinished our scanty nuncheon I once more led the way, and we passed outinto the little yard behind the schoolhouse, and gained the playground,the outer boundary of which was the town wall, here some twelve feet highand in a fair state of preservation. Many generations of schoolboys hadcut and worn a series of big notches on each side of the wall, and by longpractice I could run up and down in a trice to fetch ball or tipcat whichhad been knocked over.

  From the bridge at the Hanyards onwards, Mistress Waynflete had alwaysacted promptly and exactly to my wish. I felt a boor, and was in truth aboor, in comparison with her. Brocton's 'yokel blood' gibe had put murderinto my blows, but it had truth enough in it to make it rankle like apoisoned arrow. Yet here was this wonder-woman, trustful as a child andmeeker than a milkmaid. My work was new, but at any rate I had sometimesdreamed that I could do a man's work when I got my chance, and I had limbsof leather and steel to do it with. My thoughts, however, were newerstill, 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 siftthem 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 worthliving for.

  "Get your breath, madam," said I. "You want it all now, and there's noneed to hurry."

  She leaned easily against the wall, and peered round to make out hersurroundings. The only result could be to give her the impression that shewas cooped up like a rat in a trap, but with characteristic indifferencefor 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 addedaloud, 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 theadmirable exploits of Claude Duval?"

  I felt her eyes on me in the dark, and longed for the sun so that I couldsee the blue glint in them.

  "No such rubbish, indeed," said I hotly. It was a slight on MasterBloggs, droning away yonder at the fall of Troy, not to say the sweet oldvicar.

  "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 ofVirgil, and I sourly asked, "What's curious, madam? Old Bloggs has nothingto teach except Latin, and I happened to take to it. Why curious?"

  "Really, Master Wheatman, not curious? Here we are in a narrow yard atthe foot of a high wall. I'm perfectly certain that within five minutes Ishall 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 wallthereof. I've got in and out thousands of times."

  She peered comically around the dark playground and said gaily, "I see nowooden horse. There should be one, I know. Master Dryden says so, and heknows all about Virgil."

  "Poof," said I. "If old Bloggs heard you, he'd tingle to thrash you blackand 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 thewall, left and right alternately. Feel for them." She did so, and I wenton: "They are roughly three feet apart on each side. I'll climb up firstand 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 theedges round her waist. She also discarded the long, cumbrous domino, and Itook it from her.

  "Watch me," said I, "and follow when I give the word. I'll have a lookround first."

  Up I went, hand over hand, as easily as ever I had done it. I croucheddown on the top of the wall, which, fortunately, lay in the shadow of theschoolhouse. I saw in the sky the reflected glare of a fire at the northgate, 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 thedomino in readiness, then stretched down to help her, and in anothermoment 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 inassisting her as far down as possible. She lowered her skirts while Ifollowed and then I helped her into the domino, rejoicing in the silkencaress of her hair on my hands as I arranged the hood, a pleasant piece ofofficiousness 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 wewere bound. The blazing windows of a comfortable inn might have been insight for aught she cared to all outward seeming. Yet here she was, closeon midnight, in bitterly cold weather, stepping out into rough and unknowncountry 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 inthe deep shadow along the foot of the wall, _per opaca locorum_, asthe great weaver of words puts it, and then I turned outwards into theopen field and the clear moonlight. Of her own accord she placed her armin mine, and we stepped
it out bravely together.

  "We are in unenclosed land here," I explained. "On our right is a patchwhich varies between bog and marsh and pool, according to the rains. Thetownsmen call it the King's Pool, whatever state it is in. Just ahead, youcan see the line of it, is a little stream, the Pearl Brook. If it isn'tfrozen over yet, I can easily carry you across, as it's not more than sixinches deep. The freemen of the Ancient Borough--yon little town hasslumbered 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 onfrom minnows and jacksharps to pike."

  "And wandering damsels," she interrupted, with a laugh that sounded to melike 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 noticedthat 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 notsuffer 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 thatday--and started. I cursed the narrowness of the Pearl Brook. I couldalmost have hopped across it, but by dawdling aslant the stream I had hersweet 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 issomething my Lord Brocton will never do."

  A quarter of an hour later, after helping her up a short, steep scarp, westood and looked back on the little town. Its roofs were bathed inmoonlight, and the great church tower stood out in grey against theblue-black sky. Patches of dull, ruddy glow in the sky marked the sites ofthe picket-fires, and there came to us, like the gibbering of ghosts inthe wind, the dying notes of the day's excitement. To our left, bits ofsilver ribbon marked the twistings of the river, and that darker line inthe distant darkness was the hills of my home and boyhood. At their feetwas 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 Ihaven't a pennypiece. For safety, I put my hat, my riding jacket, and mypurse under the bed at Marry-me-quick's, and the fight and hurry drovethem out of my mind completely."

  "And I'm in the same case exactly," said I, and laughed outright. I hadlittle use for money at the Hanyards, least of all in the pockets of mySunday best, and not until she told me her plight did I realize the factthat in the elation of starting from home, I had forgotten that moneymight be necessary. Though I laughed, I watched her closely. Now she wouldbreak down. No woman's heart could stand the shock.

  "My possessions," she said, "are precisely two handkerchiefs, one ofMadame du Pont's washballs, and most of a piece of the famousmarry-me-quick."

  I had been mistaken. She made no ado about our serious situation, butspoke with a grave humour that fetched me greatly.

  "Quite a lengthy inventory," I replied. "My contributions to the commonstock are--" and I fumbled in my pockets--"item, one handkerchief; item,a pocket-knife; item, one pipe and half a paper of tobacco; item, oneflask, two-thirds full of Mistress Kate Wheatman's priceless peppermintcordial, the sovereign remedy against fatigue, cold, care, and thehumours; item, something unknown which has been flopping against my hipand is, by the outward feel of it, a thing to rejoice over, to wit, one ofKate's pasties."

  I pushed my hand down for it, and then laughed louder than ever, as Idrew 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 ofthe Hanyards." And I told the story.

  "Then if Kate had not hidden your beloved Virgil, you would not have gonefishing?"

  "I'm sure I shouldn't."

  "Life turns on trifles, Master Wheatman, and to a pretty girl's sisterlyjest I owe everything that has happened since I first saw you on the riverbank."

  "We owe it, madam," I corrected gently, and I turned to go on, for I sawthat she was moved and troubled at the evil she thought she had brought onme. Evil! I was enjoying every breath I drew and every step I took, and myheart was like a live coal in the midst of my bosom.

  "Have no fear, Mistress Margaret," said I cheerfully, sweeping my handout. "There's broad Staffordshire before us, a goodly land full of meatand 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 putsyou right above my poor wits, but say you love Shakespeare too, and weshall have one of the great things of life in common."

  "I do, madam, but you must learn to rate things at their true value. Youspeak French?"

  "Oh yes."

  "And Italian?"

  "Yes."

  "And play the harpsichord?"

  "Yes."

  "Then, madam, I am a half-educated boor compared with you, for I knownone of these things. But though I do not know the French or Italian formarry-me-quick, if you will get it out of your pocket, I'll show you theStaffordshire for half of it."

  We marched on gaily for another quarter of an hour, eating the sweetmorsel. Then I said, "Even an old traveller and campaigner like you willbe 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. Youshall sleep soft and safe and warm, though, and even if we had money andan 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 ancientfarmhouse. We were approaching it from the front, and its sheds and barnswere at the rear. We therefore turned into the field and fetched acircuit, and soon stood at the gate leading into the farmyard. No onestirred, not even a dog barked, as I softly opened the gate and crept,followed by Mistress Waynflete, to the nearest building. I pushed open thedoor, we entered a barn, and were safe for the night. The moon shonethrough the open door, and I saw that the barn was empty, probably becausethe year's crops, as I knew to my sorrow, had been poor indeed in ourdistrict. The fact that the barn was bare told in our favour, as no farmhand would be likely to come near it should one be stirring before us nextmorning.

  A rick stood handy in the yard, and on going to it I found that three orfour dasses of hay had been carved out ready for removal to the stalls. Icarried them to the shed, one by one, and mighty hot I was by the time Idumped the last on the barn floor. Starting off again, I poached around inanother 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, Icovered them thickly with hay, and having reserved a sack on purpose, Istuffed 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 myhead and waited, for she had transformed this poor barn into a maiden'ssanctuary.

  She turned her face towards me. "Madam," said I, very quietly, "your bedis ready, and you are tired out and dead for sleep. Pray come!"

  Still silent, she stepped up and examined my rude handiwork. Then shecurled herself up on the hay, and I covered her with more hay till she laysnug 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 attributeunto 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 shalldesire your services in the morning, and I do not want to find you under arick, 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, Ithank you, but you are going to put your bed here," stamping her foot, "sothat we can talk without raising our voices. I am much more willing tosleep in the same barn with you than in the same town with my LordBrocton. Where's your share of the sacks?"

  I did without sacks, but I fetched more chunks of hay, and she helped mestrew a bed for myself close up to her own. I tucked her up once more, andthen made myself cosy. I was miserable lest I should snore. Yokels sooften 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. Ifelt 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 andwithin."

  "Then I may take it that you are comfortable?"

  "If it were not for two things, I should say this was a boy-and-girlescapade of ours, every moment of which was just pure enjoyment."

  "Naturally you are uneasy about your father, but I cannot think he willcome to any immediate harm. Why Brocton should send him north instead ofsouth is, I confess, a mystery, but to-morrow will solve it. And what elsemakes 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 youwould wish me to try to ape my betters, so I say plainly that our meetinghas not made me uneasy. Why then you?"

  "Had you not met me, you would now be asleep at the Hanyards, a free andhappy country gentleman. Instead you are here, a suspect, a refugee, anoutlaw, one tainted with rebellion, the jail for certain if you arecaught, 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, butto-morrow's trouble is like yesterday's dinner, not worth thinking on. Weare here, safe and comfortable. Let that suffice. And to-day, so far fromdoing 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 fewminutes it became clear that she was really asleep, and I pretended nolonger, but stretched out comfortably in the fragrant hay and soon sleptlike a log.