The Yeoman Adventurer 7The Results of Losing My Virgil
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Literature · Historical Fiction
The Yeoman Adventurer 7
The Results of Losing My Virgil
GoughEnglish
We slipped down the blind alley and came out in the street leading to the East 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 the arrival of the army. The smaller houses were crowded with soldiery, hob-nobbing with the folk on whom they were billeted, and all were yelling out, "Let the cannakin clink!" and other rowdy ditties in the intervals of drinking. At the East Gate itself, a fire blazed, and pickets warmed themselves round it, while along the street late-coming baggage and ammunition wagons were trailing wearily. It was idle to expect to pass unseen, so we plunged into the throng, threaded through the wagons, and skirted leftward till we arrived at a quieter street running down to the line of the wall.
Here every brick and stone was as a familiar friend, for the little grammar school backed on to the wall at the very spot where the main street led through the old north gate of the town. Old Master Bloggs lived in a tiny house on the side of the school away from the gate. There were the candles flickering in the untidy den in which the old man passed all his waking hours out of school-time, and there, I doubted not, they would be guttering away if the Highlanders sacked the town. I led the way across the 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 figure was, eyesight feebler, shoulders rounder, hair whiter, and clothing shabbier than of yore, crumpled over a massive folio. He was reading aloud, 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 listened it became clear that the old man had that night been moved to select something appropriate to the occasion, for he was going through the account 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. We will not disturb the old man. Poor little Marry-me-quick may have to suffer on our account, and old Bloggs shall at any rate have the excuse of knowing nothing about us. He's happy enough over the fall of Troy. Nothing that he can do can help us. Let him be."
She nodded assent and I looked round. Opening a cupboard, I found half a loaf 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 the bread and cheese. Troy went on falling steadily meanwhile, and when we had finished our scanty nuncheon I once more led the way, and we passed out into the little yard behind the schoolhouse, and gained the playground, the outer boundary of which was the town wall, here some twelve feet high and in a fair state of preservation. Many generations of schoolboys had cut and worn a series of big notches on each side of the wall, and by long practice I could run up and down in a trice to fetch ball or tipcat which had been knocked over.
From the bridge at the Hanyards onwards, Mistress Waynflete had always acted promptly and exactly to my wish. I felt a boor, and was in truth a boor, in comparison with her. Brocton's 'yokel blood' gibe had put murder into my blows, but it had truth enough in it to make it rankle like a poisoned arrow. Yet here was this wonder-woman, trustful as a child and meeker than a milkmaid. My work was new, but at any rate I had sometimes dreamed that I could do a man's work when I got my chance, and I had limbs of leather and steel to do it with. My thoughts, however, were newer still, 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 sift them 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 worth living for.
"Get your breath, madam," said I. "You want it all now, and there's no need to hurry."
She leaned easily against the wall, and peered round to make out her surroundings. The only result could be to give her the impression that she was cooped up like a rat in a trap, but with characteristic indifference for 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 added aloud, 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 the admirable exploits of Claude Duval?"
I felt her eyes on me in the dark, and longed for the sun so that I could see the blue glint in them.
"No such rubbish, indeed," said I hotly. It was a slight on Master Bloggs, droning away yonder at the fall of Troy, not to say the sweet old vicar.
"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 of Virgil, and I sourly asked, "What's curious, madam? Old Bloggs has nothing to teach except Latin, and I happened to take to it. Why curious?"
"Really, Master Wheatman, not curious? Here we are in a narrow yard at the foot of a high wall. I'm perfectly certain that within five minutes I shall 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 wall thereof. I've got in and out thousands of times."
She peered comically around the dark playground and said gaily, "I see no wooden horse. There should be one, I know. Master Dryden says so, and he knows all about Virgil."
"Poof," said I. "If old Bloggs heard you, he'd tingle to thrash you black and 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 the wall, left and right alternately. Feel for them." She did so, and I went on: "They are roughly three feet apart on each side. I'll climb up first and 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 the edges round her waist. She also discarded the long, cumbrous domino, and I took it from her.
"Watch me," said I, "and follow when I give the word. I'll have a look round first."
Up I went, hand over hand, as easily as ever I had done it. I crouched down on the top of the wall, which, fortunately, lay in the shadow of the schoolhouse. I saw in the sky the reflected glare of a fire at the north gate, 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 the domino in readiness, then stretched down to help her, and in another moment 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 in assisting her as far down as possible. She lowered her skirts while I followed and then I helped her into the domino, rejoicing in the silken caress of her hair on my hands as I arranged the hood, a pleasant piece of officiousness 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 we were bound. The blazing windows of a comfortable inn might have been in sight for aught she cared to all outward seeming. Yet here she was, close on midnight, in bitterly cold weather, stepping out into rough and unknown country 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 in the deep shadow along the foot of the wall, per opaca locorum, as the great weaver of words puts it, and then I turned outwards into the open field and the clear moonlight. Of her own accord she placed her arm in mine, and we stepped it out bravely together.
"We are in unenclosed land here," I explained. "On our right is a patch which varies between bog and marsh and pool, according to the rains. The townsmen call it the King's Pool, whatever state it is in. Just ahead, you can see the line of it, is a little stream, the Pearl Brook. If it isn't frozen over yet, I can easily carry you across, as it's not more than six inches deep. The freemen of the Ancient Borough--yon little town has slumbered 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 on from minnows and jacksharps to pike."
"And wandering damsels," she interrupted, with a laugh that sounded to me like 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 noticed that 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 not suffer 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 that day--and started. I cursed the narrowness of the Pearl Brook. I could almost have hopped across it, but by dawdling aslant the stream I had her sweet 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 is something my Lord Brocton will never do."
A quarter of an hour later, after helping her up a short, steep scarp, we stood and looked back on the little town. Its roofs were bathed in moonlight, and the great church tower stood out in grey against the blue-black sky. Patches of dull, ruddy glow in the sky marked the sites of the picket-fires, and there came to us, like the gibbering of ghosts in the wind, the dying notes of the day's excitement. To our left, bits of silver ribbon marked the twistings of the river, and that darker line in the distant darkness was the hills of my home and boyhood. At their feet was 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 I haven't a pennypiece. For safety, I put my hat, my riding jacket, and my purse under the bed at Marry-me-quick's, and the fight and hurry drove them out of my mind completely."
"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.
