Part 9 (1/2)
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 a.s.sisting 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 fis.h.i.+ng, 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 br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 washb.a.l.l.s, 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 fis.h.i.+ng?”
”I'm sure I shouldn't.”