Volume II Part 96 (1/2)

Wildly beat his heart, and his blood began to race.

Then--there came a light step and, suddenly, beside him Stood his lady Alice, with a light upon her face.

'Quick,' she said, 'O, quick,' she said, 'they want you, Richard Whittington!'

'Quick,' she said; and, while she spoke, her lighted eyes betrayed All that she had hidden long, and all she still would hide from him.

So--he turned and followed her, his green-gowned maid.

There, in a broad dark oaken-panelled room Rich with black carvings and great gleaming cups Of silver, sirs, and ma.s.sy halpace built Half over _Red Rose Lane_, Fitzwarren sat; And, at his side, O, like an old romance That suddenly comes true and fills the world With April colours, two bronzed seamen stood, Tattered and scarred, and stained with sun and brine.

'_Flos Mercatorum_,' Hugh Fitzwarren cried, Holding both hands out to the pale-faced boy, 'The prentice wins the prize! Why, Whittington, Thy cat hath caught the biggest mouse of all!'

And, on to the table, tilting a heavy sack, One of the seamen poured a glittering stream Of rubies, emeralds, opals, amethysts, That turned the room to an Aladdin's cave, Or magic goblet brimmed with dusky wine Where cl.u.s.tering rainbow-coloured bubbles clung And sparkled, in the halls of Prester John.

'And that,' said Hugh Fitzwarren, 'is the price Paid for your cat in Barbary, by a King Whose house was rich in gems, but sorely plagued With rats and mice. Gather it up, my lad, And praise your master for his honesty; For, though my cargo prospered, yours outs.h.i.+nes The best of it. Take it, my lad, and go; You're a rich man; and, if you use it well, Riches will make you richer, and the world Will prosper in your own prosperity.

The miser, like the cold and barren moon, s.h.i.+nes with a fruitless light. The spendthrift fool Flits like a Jack-o-Lent over quags and fens; But he that's wisely rich gathers his gold Into a fruitful and unwasting sun That spends its glory on a thousand fields And blesses all the world. Take it and go.'

Blankly, as in a dream, Whittington stared.

'How should I take it, sir? The s.h.i.+p was yours, And ...'

'Ay, the s.h.i.+p was mine; but in that s.h.i.+p Your stake was richer than we knew. 'Tis yours.'

'Then,' answered Whittington, 'if this wealth be mine, Who but an hour ago was all so poor, I know one way to make me richer still.'

He gathered up the glittering sack of gems, Turned to the halpace, where his green-gowned maid Stood in the glory of the coloured panes.

He thrust the splendid load into her arms, Muttering--'Take it, lady! Let me be poor!

But rich, at least, in that you not despise The waif you saved.'

--'Despise you, Whittington?'-- 'O, no, not in the sight of G.o.d! But I Grow tired of waiting for the Judgment Day!

I am but a man. I am a scullion now; But I would like, only for half an hour, To stand upright and say ”I am a king!”

Take it!'

And, as they stood, a little apart, Their eyes were married in one swift level look, Silent, but all that souls could say was said.

And 'I know a way,' said the Bell of St. Martin's.

'Tell it, and be quick,' laughed the prentices below!

'Whittington shall marry her, marry her, marry her!

Peal for a wedding,' said the big Bell of Bow.

He shall take a kingdom up, and cast it on the sea again; He shall have his caravels to traffic for him now; He shall see his royal sails rolling up from Araby, And the crest--a honey-bee--golden at the prow.

Whittington! Whittington! The world is all a fairy tale!-- Even so we sang for him.--But O, the tale is true!

Whittington he married her, and on his merry marriage-day, O, we sang, we sang for him, like lavrocks in the blue.

Far away from London, these happy prentice lovers Wandered through the fern to his western home again, Down by deep Dorset to the wooded isle of Purbeck, Round to little Kimmeridge, by many a lover's lane.

There did they abide as in a dove-cote hidden Deep in happy woods until the bells of duty rang; Then they rode the way he went, a barefoot boy to London, Round by Hamps.h.i.+re forest-roads, but as they rode he sang:--

_Kimmeridge in Dorset is the happiest of places!

All the little homesteads are thatched with beauty there!

All the old ploughmen, there, have happy smiling faces, Christmas roses in their cheeks, and crowns of silver hair.

Blue as are the eggs in the nest of the hedge-sparrow, Gleam the little rooms in the homestead that I know: Death, I think, has lost the way to Kimmeridge in Dorset; Sorrow never knew it, or forgot it, long ago!