Part 9 (2/2)
”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 Staffords.h.i.+re 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 Staffords.h.i.+re 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 da.s.ses 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.”
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