Part 50 (1/2)

”Better not, I think,” said Ermine, with a smile. ”I almost wish I could be hidden behind a curtain, to hear your talk with her.”

Stephen laughed. ”Well, I won't deny that I rather enjoy putting spokes in her wheels,” said he.

The next morning he told Odinel to make up his goods, and he would carry them to Oxford on the following Monday.

Odinel's parcel proved neither bulky nor heavy. Instead of requiring a sumpter-mule to carry it, it could readily be strapped at the back of Stephen's saddle, while the still smaller package of his own necessaries went in front. He set out about four o'clock on a spring morning, joining himself for the sake of safety to the convoy of travellers who started from the Black Bull in the Poultry, and arrived at the East Gate of Oxford before dark, on the Tuesday evening. His first care was to commit Odinel's goods to the safe care of mine host of the Blue Boar [Note 4] in Fish Street, as had been arranged. Here he supped on fried fish, rye bread, and cheese; and having shared the ”grace-cup” of a fellow-traveller, set off for Saint John's anchorhold. A young woman in semi-conventual dress left the door just as he came up. Stephen doffed his cap as he asked her--”I pray you, are you the maid of the Lady Derette?”

”I am,” was the reply. ”Do you wish speech of her?”

”Would you beseech her to let me have a word with her at the cas.e.m.e.nt?”

The girl turned back into the anchorhold, and the next minute the cas.e.m.e.nt was opened, and the comely, pleasant face of Derette appeared behind it. She looked a little older, but otherwise unaltered.

There was nothing unusual in Stephen's request. Anchorites lived on alms, and were also visited to desire their prayers. The two ideas likely to occur to the maid as the object of Stephen's visit were therefore either a present to be offered, or intercession to be asked and probably purchased.

”Christ save you, Lady!” said Stephen to his cousin. ”Do you know me?”

”Why, is it Stephen? Are you come back? I _am_ glad to see you.”

When the natural curiosity and interest of each was somewhat satisfied, Stephen asked Derette's advice as to going further.

”You may safely go to see Mother,” said she, ”if you can be sure of your own tongue; for you will not meet Anania there. She has dislocated her ankle, and is lying in bed.”

”Poor soul! It seems a shame to say I'm glad to hear it; but really I should like to avoid her at Aunt Isel's, and to be able to come away at my own time from the Lodge.”

”You have the chance of both just now.”

Stephen thought he would get the worse interview over first. He accordingly went straight on into Civil School Lane, which ran right across the north portion of Christ Church, coming out just above Saint Aldate's, pursued his way forward by Pennyfarthing Street, and turning up a few yards of Castle Street, found himself at the drawbridge leading to the porter's lodge where his brother lived. There were voices inside the Lodge; and Stephen paused for a moment before lifting the latch.

”Oh dear, dear!” said a querulous voice, which he recognised as that of Anania, ”I never thought to be laid by the heels like this!--not a soul coming in to see a body, and those children that ungovernable--Gilbert, get off that ladder! and Selis, put the pitchfork down this minute! Not a bit of news any where, and if there were, not a creature coming in to tell one of it! Eline, let those b.u.t.tons alone, or I'll be after--Oh deary dear, I can't!”

Stephen lifted the latch and looked in. Anania lay on a comfortable couch, drawn up by the fire; and at a safe distance from it, her four children were running riot--turning out all her treasures, inspecting, trying on, and occasionally breaking them--knowing themselves to be safe from any worse penalty than a scolding, for which evidently they cared nothing.

”You seem to want a bit of help this afternoon,” suggested Stephen coolly, collaring Selis, from whom he took the pitchfork, and then lifting Gilbert off the ladder, to the extreme disapprobation of both those young gentlemen, as they showed by kicks and angry screams.

”Come, now, be quiet, lads: one can't hear one's self speak.”

”Stephen! is it you?” cried Anania incredulously, trying to lift herself to see him better, and sinking back with a groan.

”Looks rather like me, doesn't it? I am sorry to find you suffering, Sister.”

”I've suffered worse than any martyr in the Calendar, Stephen!--and those children don't care two straws for me. n.o.body knows what I've gone through. Are you come home for good? Oh dear, this pain!”

”No, only for a look at you. I had a little business to bring me this way. How is...o...b..rt?”

”He's well enough to have never a bit of sympathy for me. Where are you living, Stephen, and what do you do now?”

”Oh, up London way; I'm a baker. Have you poulticed that foot, Anania?”

”I've done all sorts of things to it, and it's never--Julian, if you touch that clasp, I declare I'll--Are you married, Stephen?”