by Howard Pyle
“Thou naughty implet! What hour o’ the clock is it?”
“I know not the hour o’ the clock; but o’ the sun ’tis past rising time, and Couthin Mary is stirring already.”
“Then we must be stirring too; but first sit thee down here on the edge of the bed and try to listen as if thou wert grown.”
“I am, mother, — I am above thy waist.”
“Ay,” said Elinor, smiling, “but the question is, art thou up to my meaning? Hearken! Dost thou know what a tenant is?”
“Ay,— ’tis a man who farms thy land, giving thee half and keeping three quarters for himthelf.”
His mother laughed.
“Thou hast a good understanding for one so young, and the description is apt enough for most tenants; but how sayst thou of one who would give thee three quarters and keep only one for himself?”
“Why, ’twould not become a Calvert to drive such a bargain with such a poor fool.”
“Thou art not far wrong. Share and share alike is fair dealing ‘twixt land and labor, and so let it be between thee and Sir Christopher Neville.”
“Thir Chrithtopher Neville! The gentleman that came last night? Why, he ith no laborer. He cannot be in need to work for a living.”
“Nay, Cecil, ’tis a labor of love.”
“There, mother, I knew he liked me, for all thou saidst my borrowing of his sword and cloak did anger him. Every one likes me. Couthin Mary says so.”
“Vain popinjay! thou art too credulous of flattery.”
“Would Couthin Mary tell a lie?”
“Never mind that question now, but don thy best clothing for the ceremony of receiving the homage of thy tenant this morning.”
“Hooray! Am I to wear my morocco shoes with the red satin roses?”
“Ay.”
“And my thilver-broidered doublet?”
“Ay, little peacock.”
“And my stockings with the clocks of gold? Oh, Mother, it makes me feel so grand! I like being lord of the manor. And Thir Chrithtopher Neville must kneel before me; and how if I tickle him on the neck when he bends, and make him laugh out before them all?”
“Cecil, if thou dost disgrace me by any of thy clownish pranks, thou and I will never be friends more. And give thyself no airs either with this kind new friend. Say to thyself, when he bows before thee, that it is strength bending to weakness, and pride stooping that it may help the helpless.”
“Do I stand on the platform at the end of the hall where Couthin Mary stands when her tenants come in?”
“Yes, with Cousin Mary and me beside thee.”
“I hope Thir Chrithtopher trips on the step. But I like him, for all he hath the eyes of a hawk and the mouth of a mastiff.”
“Well thou mayst like him! Friends like him are scarce enough anywhere, and most of all in this new land. Now run away and make haste lest we vex Cousin Mary by our tardiness, and so begin awry the day which should open with all good omens. But, Cecil, I have a gift for thee, something I gave thy father on our marriage. I did think to keep it till thou shouldst be of age; but on the whole I would rather thou hadst it to remember this day by.”
So speaking, Elinor unlocked her jewel-chest of black oak bound with brass, and drew from within a pomander-box of gold, the under lid pierced with holes which permitted the fragrance to escape till it nearly filled the room with the mingled odor of rose attar and storax, civet and ambergris, the upper lid adorned with a miniature of Elinor Calvert painted on ivory and set in pearls like the picture of Cecil which she wore at her breast. The artist had worked as one who loves his task, and the delicate tints of neck and arms shone half-veiled by the creamy lace that fell over them. In the golden curls a red rose nestled, and around the throat glistened a necklace of rubies.
“Mother!” exclaimed Cecil, “wert thou once as beautiful as that?”
Elinor smiled; but it was not quite a happy smile.
“Yes, once I was as fair as that, and in those days there were many to care whether I was fair or not. Now there be few either to know or care.”
“Nay, to me thou art still fair, Mother, and there is another who thinks so too.”
“Who is that?”
“Thir Chrithtopher. I saw him looking at you last night, and, Mother, dost not think, since he thinks to deal so generously with us, it would be a fine thing for me to give him this portrait of thee to bind the bargain?”
“Foolish baby, ‘twill be time enough to think of that when he asks for it.”
“Then if he asks for it, I may give it—”
“A safe promise truly,” said Elinor, smiling this time with beaming eyes and cheeks, whose rose flush matched the coloring of the ivory portrait. “Now hasten with thy dressing.”
Cecil’s head was so filled with thoughts of the pomander-box and his own greatness that his mother was fully dressed while he sat mooning over the lacing of his hose and breeches, and gazing with admiring fondness at the red roses on his holiday shoes.
Three times Cousin Mary had called to him to make haste, and when at last he entered the hall every one had finished eating, and he was sent in disgrace to take his breakfast in the buttery. This was too great a blow for his new-swollen pride, and he fell to howling lustily, while the tears flowed into his cup of milk and salted it with their brine. The day which an hour ago had been one glow of rose color all arranged as a background for the figure of Cecil Calvert in his velvet suit and gold-clocked stockings, had become a plain Thursday morning in which a little boy was crying into his milk in a bare buttery hung with pails and pans.
Suddenly he felt a strong arm thrown over his shoulder, and a kind voice said in his ear: “I have been late more than once, Cecil; but it will not do for pioneers, least of all for Little John or Robin Hood.”
“Go away; I hate thee,” answered the amiable child.
“Dost thou truly? and why?”
“Because were it not for thee I had not put on my best suit with the troublesome lacings, and but for that I had not been late, and but for that Couthin Mary had not been vexed, and but for that Mother had not punished me.”
“I see clearly it is I am to blame; and now if thou hast finished thy bread and milk let us go and ask pardon for our — I mean my fault, and perhaps we shall be forgiven.”
Hand in hand the Lord of the Manor and his tenant sought the hall.
As they walked along the corridor, Neville’s face wore a characteristic smile. This smile of his seemed to begin in one corner of his mouth and ripple along without ever quite reaching the other, which, to tell the truth, would have required a goodly journey. There was a certain fascination in the smile; but one who would fathom its meaning must look for it, not in the lips at all, but in the pucker of the eyelids and the gray twinkle of the eyes and the chuckle that lay hid somewhere in the little creases that the years had drawn in diverging lines from the point where the lids met.
If Neville was amused he felt no need of proclaiming the fact. A sense of the ridiculous marks the noisy man, wit the talkative man; but humor and silence have a strange affinity, and a smile needs no interpreter to itself.
“Pray, Mistress Brent,” said Neville, bowing before his hostess when they reached the hall, “wilt thou forgive me for being the cause that Master Cecil did put on his best suit with the troublesome lacings, whereby he was late to breakfast?”
Mary Brent, being a literal soul, replied, “Why, ’twas not thy fault at all.”
“Then,” said Neville, “let the offence become a fixed charge upon the estate, which I as tenant must assume, and whereupon I promise to give a breakfast party at Robin Hood’s Barn to those here present on this date each year in remembrance of this day’s delinquency.
“As for thee, Sir Landlord, I will give thee an Indian bow and arrows, that thou mayst play Little John, and when thou dost come a-hunting at Robin Hood’s Barn, thou mayst work havoc at thy will among the heron and wild duck which I am told do specially abound on the shores of the bay.
“How say you, Mistress Brent, are the terms accepted, and are we ready for the ceremony of investiture?”
“I have already bidden in the household,” said Mary Brent, and following on her words there came filing in a train of men and maid servants, white and black, all arrayed in holiday attire, till the lower part of the long room was filled.
“’Tis a stately ceremonial thou hast planned,” said Elinor, smiling at her cousin.
“Well enough!” Mary Brent answered, veiling her satisfaction in deprecation, “since thou hast as yet no tenants, and canst not hold a court baron at Robin Hood’s Barn. I would Giles and Leonard Calvert were here, for in truth ’tis as goodly a show as we have held.”
The tenantry were gathered.
On the dais stood Cecil, his eyes dancing under the page-cut hair which fell like thatch over his forehead, and his curls tremulous with the excitement, which would not let him be still for an instant. Elinor stood beside him in a white dress with a golden girdle, and on the step knelt Neville.
Elinor found leisure to note the elegance of the jewelled buckles which he wore on his shoes, and that his collar was of Venice point. It pleased her that he had taken as much trouble to array himself for his investiture as he would have done for a court function.
Of what was Neville thinking as he knelt there on the step of the dais?
Was it of Cecil and his manor?
Not at all.
Of law and leases?
Still less.
Of what, then?
Why, of the tiny point of a lady’s slipper under a white robe, a slipper that tempted him to bend a little lower still and kiss it. Would she feel it, he wondered? Would she chide him if she did? Men kissed the foot of a saint without blame. If the adorable is to be adored and the lovable to be loved, why was not the kissable to be kissed? Besides, — only a slipper!
He was in the hem-of-the-garment stage of his passion, and fancied himself humble in his desire.
“Stretch out thy rod, Cecil!” It was Elinor’s voice that broke in on Neville’s indecision.
The boy reached forth the stick of ebony tipped with silver which was Baltimore’s gift to Mary Brent on her coming out of England. Neville grasped the other end, and smiling at Cecil, with a single upward glance at Elinor bending over him, he said, —
“Hear you, my lord, that I, Christopher Neville, shall be to you both true and faithful, and shall owe my fidelity to you for the land I hold of you, and lawfully shall do and perform such customs and services as my duty is to you, so help me God and all His saints.”
“Amen!” said Father White.
“By the terms assigned I do promise to pay to you on taking possession of the manor at Cecil Point ten Indian arrows and a string of fish, and thereafter, when the land shall be cleared, to yield you three quarters of the harvest yearly.”
“Nay,” interrupted Cecil, “’tis not the bond mother and I did agree upon; ’twas to be share and share alike. Saidst thou not so in bed this morning, Mother?”
Before Elinor could reply, Father White spoke as he stepped forward, —
“The case may be happily settled, my daughter, by the yielding of the quarter in dispute to the revenue at St. Inigo’s for the benefit of Holy Church.”
The mutinous blood rose in Neville’s cheeks and his chin went out quarter of an inch; but he held his peace and looked toward Elinor, who also colored but spoke firmly, —
“Nay, Father, ‘twere not well that the Church should profit by an injustice. What duty Cecil hath to the Church is for thee and me to settle later, but it must come from his share and not from Sir Christopher’s. Now, Cecil, ’tis thy turn to make thy promise to thy tenant. Go on: ‘I, Cecilius Calvert—’”
“Now, Mother,” said the young landlord, shaking off the admonishing hand from his shoulder with a petulance for which a young Puritan would have been roundly punished, “if thou dost prompt me like that none will believe I know my part, and I have learned it as well as thou, thus: I, Cecilius Calvert, do hereby accept thee, Chrithtopher Neville, as my tenant at Cecil Point, and promise to protect thee in thy rights to the extent of the law, and if need be by the aid of my sword.”
Neville smiled in spite of himself at the words, and a ripple of laughter went round the circle of tenants as they noted the comparative size of protector and protected; but Cecil was too full of his new-fledged dignity to heed them. He called for the written deed and the candle and the wax, and on the oaken table he scrawled his name under those of his mother and Sir Christopher, and then taking off his signet ring— ’twas his father’s and a deal too wide for his chubby finger, — he pressed it firmly into the wax covering the seam of the folded paper, and then stood looking with admiration at the print of the crest; a ducal crown surmounted by two half-bannerets. “’Tis a pretty device, is it not, Thir Chrithtopher? I would you had as pretty a one. Mother, if Thir Chrithtopher Neville married thee would he bear the Calvert crest?”
If one could slay one’s child and bring him to life again after an appropriate interval many of us might be tempted to infanticide. A great flame of anger and shame rose to Elinor’s cheek; but Neville came to her assistance.
“Nay, little landlord,” he said coolly, “no husband of thy mother could bear thy crest. ’Tis for thee, as the only heir in this generation, to bear it worthily before the world. Mistress Brent, is the ceremony ended?”
“Ay, and most happily,” said Mary, nervously, struggling between desire to laugh and cry; “let us have in the cake and wine.”
The servants went out to fetch the great trays of oaken wood with rim and handles of silver which had been in the Brent family for generations. As they re-entered in procession, — for Mary Brent dearly loved form and ceremony, and kept it up even here in the wilderness, — a knock was heard at the iron-studded door.
Being flung open it revealed the figure of a man, a tall, slender man with Saxon flaxen hair and true blue eyes.
“Mistress Brent?” he said questioningly, looking from Mary to Elinor.
“I am she,” said Mary, stepping forward and holding out her hand with even more than her usual warmth of hospitality. “Can I be of service to you?”
“The question is, rather, are you willing to allow my claim upon your far-famed hospitality?”
“I think it has never yet been denied any one.”
“I believe it well, but perhaps no one ever yet claimed it who lay under such a shadow. If you consent in your goodness to shelter a traveller, you must know that you are harboring the brother of Richard Ingle.”
Mary Brent started, for her brother had confided to her Richard Ingle’s treasonable speeches, and in her eyes treason ranked next to blasphemy among the unpardonable sins. For an instant she hesitated and half withdrew her hand, then stretching it out again she looked full at him and said, —
“‘Twere a pity frank truth-telling like yours should cost you dear. Let me ask but one question, Do you hold with your brother in his treason?”
A pained look came into Ralph Ingle’s eyes. “Lady,” he said, “’tis a hard matter to hear or speak evil of one’s brother — one’s only brother.” His lip trembled, but the voice rang clear and steady. “Yet when the time comes to choose between brotherly affection and one’s duty to King and Commonwealth, the knot must be cut though the blood flows. So I told Richard yesterday, there on the deck of The Reformation, and hereafter we have sworn to forget that the same father called us both son.”
“You speak like a true man,” said Mary Brent, “and shall be taken at your word. You find us celebrating the tenancy of Sir Christopher Neville yonder, who is taking up land of Mistress Calvert and her son.
“Elinor, this is Master Ingle. Judge him on his deeds — not his name!”
Ingle swept the ground with the plumes of his hat before Elinor as he murmured, —
“Nay, rather judge me of your own gentleness, and let mercy temper the verdict.”
Neville stood, looking c
oldly at the intruder. He was jealous, for he saw the light of a new interest dawning in Elinor Calvert’s face, and he saw the hot, passionate light of love at first sight as clear as day in Ralph Ingle’s eyes.
For the first time he was conscious with angry protest that he was growing old. His cast-down glance fell upon his grizzled mustachios, and he inwardly cursed the sign of age. “The conceited stripling!” he muttered, as he looked at the bowing golden curls. “I know I am not just. I have no ambition to be just. I hate him. Come, Cecil,” he said, crossing over to where the child stood holding a wine cup in one hand and a distressingly large slice of fruit cake in the other, “thou and I have no larger part to play here than the cock in Hamlet.”
“What part did he play?” asked Cecil, crowding his mouth with plums, while he held the remaining cake high above his head to escape Knut’s jumping.
“Oh, the important office was his to announce the daybreak and put an end to the ghost’s walking. Do ghosts walk nowadays dost thou think, Cecil?”
“Sure.”
“I think so too; I have seen them, — in fact, I feel sometimes as if I were one of them.”
“Art thou really?” Cecil’s eyes were round as saucers.
“Well, never mind that question just now. Perhaps I am — perhaps I am not; do thou drain thy wine, and let us be off outside to build a snow-man in the road.”
Nothing loath, the child slipped his hand into the big, muscular one held out to him, and unobserved by the preoccupied group around the fire, they slipped out.
Ralph Ingle turned as they passed him. “I must watch that man,” he thought. “He who takes a child by the hand takes the mother by the heart.”
“Wait,” said Cecil at the door. “I must doff my finery, for who knows when I may need it to receive another tenant?”
“Prudent lad! I will do the same, lest I catch the fever and then thou must needs seek a new tenant. But, Cecil, promise me one thing.”