The Yeoman Adventurer

by George W. Gough

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE CONJURER'S CAP

  I awoke between darkness and daylight. Mistress Waynflete still sleptpeacefully and there was as yet no need to rouse her. I had slept in myshoes, but now, I drew them off, lifted the bar of the door, and stole outto look around. Not a soul was stirring about the farm, and the onlyliving creature in sight was a sleepy cock, which scuttled off noisily atmy approach. I entered a cowshed, where a fine, patient cow turned areproachful eye on me, as if rebuking me for my too early visit. Icheerily clucked and slapped her on to her hoofs, and then, failing tofind any sort of cup or can, punched my hat inside out and filled it withwarm foaming milk. With this spoil I hurried back to our quarters.

  I had to leave the door open, and this gave me light enough to look moreclosely at my companion. She was still sleeping, her face calmly content,and so had she slept through the night, for the coverlet of hay was risingand falling undisturbed on her breast. It was now time to wake her, and,having no free hand, I knelt down to nudge her with my elbow. As I did so,her face changed. A look of concern came over it, then one of hesitation,then a sweet smile, chasing each other as gleam chases gloom across themeadows on an April day. She was dreaming, dreaming pleasantly, and it wasto a hard world that I awakened her.

  At my second nudge she half-opened her eyes and murmured, "It's verywide." Then my greeting aroused her fully, and she blushed wondrous redand beautiful.

  "Good morrow, Mistress Waynflete," said I. "I grieve to disturb you, and,pray you, do not move too abruptly or over goes the breakfast."

  "Good morrow, Master Oliver," she replied. "I have slept well. I feel asif I've quite enjoyed it. We do enjoy sleep, I think, sometimes."

  "Or the dreams it brings, madam."

  She glanced quickly at me, as if afraid that I had the power of readingdream-thoughts, and gaily said, "And breakfast ready! This is even betterthan the Paris fashion. What is it? More of dear Kate's cordial?"

  I did not know what the Paris fashion of breakfast was, and she did notenlighten me. Anyhow, I, the yokel, had improved on it, and that wassomething.

  "A far better brewage, madam," I said, "but you must pardon theStaffordshire fashion of serving it."

  She sat up, took the cap, and drank heartily, the dawn still in her eyesand cheeks, and masses of yellow hair tumbling down from under her hood onthroat and bosom. When she handed back the cap, I could not forbear fromsaying, "You look charming after your night's rest, and I profess thattear of milk on the tip of your nose becomes you admirably." With the rimof my cap at my lips, I added with mock concern, "Have a care, MistressWaynflete, or you'll rub off tip as well as tear."

  "I suppose you thought 'As a jewel of gold' and the rest of it," shesaid, squinting comically down to examine her nose.

  "Really, no, madam; I thought of nothing so scandalous, from the Biblethough it be. I thought of--of...."

  "I'm all ears," she said archly.

  "I'm a poor hand at turning compliments to ladies," said I.

  "On the contrary, you turn them admirably. See!" She held up my soppingcap, and laughed merrily.

  "It's ruined for best," said I, "but it will do for market days. And now,madam, it's cold enough to freeze askers, as Joe Braggs says, and fortoilet you must e'en be content with first a shiver and then a shake. Iwill await you at the yard gate, and pray close the door behind you. Thequicker the better."

  She rejoined me in two or three minutes. I closed the gate cautiouslybehind me, and we started our journey. From the farm we got away quiteunobserved, but I looked behind me at every other step to make surer, tillwe turned the top of the knoll, and it was with great relief that I sawthe chimney-pots sink out of sight.

  For a time we walked along briskly and in silence. So far I had carriedeverything with a high hand and successfully, but the cold grey of themorning began to creep into my thoughts as I looked ahead over miles andmiles of dreariness and danger. Houses were few and far between; everyvillage was a source of danger; the high roads were closed to us by ourfear of the troops. Further, the object we had in view was vague andunformed, if not impossible of achievement, for even if we arrived at thevery place where Colonel Waynflete was held prisoner, what could we do tohelp him? We should be safe from immediate need and danger if we couldreach the Prince's army, but where that was, and which way it wastravelling, were unknown to us. Certain it was that between us and anyreal help ranged some thirty miles of cold, bleak country packed withenemies for miles ahead. And here we were, on foot, penniless and hungry.I had longed for a man's work; this was a regiment's.

  A sidelong look at my companion drove all the mist and frost out of myheart. Something about her made me feel a sneak and a traitor even forharbouring such thoughts. From the first she had asked for no help ofmine. I had forced it on her, or circumstances had forced me to help herin helping myself, as when I cut our way from Marry-me-quick's cottage.The more I was with her, the better I began to understand Brocton'smadness. It was the madness of the mere brute in him to be sure, and a manshould kick the brute in him into its kennel, though he cannot at timeshelp hearing it whine. Her majestic beauty had dazzled him as a flamedazzles a moth, but at this stage, at any rate, it was not her beauty thatmade me her thrall. That I could have withstood. Because she was sobeautiful, so stately, so compelling, she made no appeal to me. What Imean is, that I did not fall in love with her at first sight, simplybecause the mere stupidity of such a thing kept me from doing it.Glow-worms do not fall in love with stars or thistles with sycamores. Shewas something to be worshipped, served at any cost, saved at anysacrifice, but not loved. No, that was for some lucky one of her own classand state, not for a simple squireling like me. Her comradeship, hergraciousness, her sweet equalizing of our positions, were, I felt, justthe simple, natural adornments of the commanding modesty which was herspiritual garment.

  Manlike, however, I had an evil streak in me, and thence, later, camemadness. In any company I must be top dog. I had been head of the school,not because of any special cleverness, but because I would burst ratherthan be second to anybody in anything. I had fought and fought, at allhazards, until not a boy in school or town dare come near me. So now,since my Lord Brocton--and many a lord beside, I doubted not--had failed,I must needs step in and say, "I will please her, whether she like it ornot." And so, plain countryman as I was, I had done my work ungrudginglybut not, I feared, too modestly, and since I could not speak court-like, Ihad been over-masterful, and given her mood for mood, and turned no cheekfor her sweet smiting. And as I had of old time licked every lad inStafford, so now neither Staffordshire nor all the King's men in it shouldturn me back. Through she should go, and in safety and comfort, so thatwhen the time came for me to hand over my precious charge to a worthier,she should say that the yokel had done a man's work and done itgentlemanly. Therefore, when Mistress Waynflete looked up to me from thebleak uplands with serious, questioning eyes, I said, as calmly as if wewere pacing the garden at the Hanyards, with Kate and Jane active in thekitchen behind us, "Ham and eggs for breakfast!"

  "I don't see any," she said, in answering mood, scanning the fieldsaround us. "Not that that matters. I didn't see the steps, but they werethere. You make me think, Master Wheatman, of a Turk I saw in a booth atVienna, who drew rabbits and rose-bushes out of an empty hat.Staffordshire is your conjurer's hat. And I do like ham and eggs."

  My assurance and her comfortable belief in it made us both brighter, andwe stepped out merrily. She gave me an entertaining account of Vienna,where she had spent some months, and which was then the great outpost ofChristendom against the Turk. When this talk had brought us on to thefield of Hopton Heath, I gave her the best account I could of the battlethere in the Civil War time, and of the slaying of the Marquis ofNorthampton. And this led me on to my pride of ancestry, and I told her ofCaptain Smite-and-spare-not Wheatman, a tower of strength to theParliament in these parts, who fought here and later on Naseby Fielditself. Many tales I told of him that had been handed down from o
negeneration of us to another, and how so greatly was he taken with hisincomparable lord-general that he had named his first-born son Oliver, andever since there had been an Oliver Wheatman of the Hanyards. Then I toldhow one of these later Olivers, which one a matter of no consequence, hadwritten verses and put them into the mouth of the doughtySmite-and-spare-not, sitting his horse, stark and strong, at the head ofhis men on Naseby Field, and gazing with grim, grey eyes on the openingmovements of the fight. And, nothing loth, I trolled them out roundlyacross the meadows, till the peewits screamed and a distant dog began tobay:

  "Princelet and king, and mitre and ring, Earl and baron and squire, Oliver worries 'em, harries and flurries 'em, With siege and slaughter and fire. With the arm of the Flesh and the sword of the Spirit, Push of pike and the Word, Smiting and praying, and praising and slaying, Oliver fights for the Lord. With the sword He brought the work is wrought, We finish here to-day. When yon rags and remnants of Babylon Are blown and battered away.

  Hurrah for the groans of 'em, soon shall the bones of 'em, _Steady!_ Hell-rakers at large, Rot under the sod. _Pass the word: 'God_ _Is our strength?'_ There goes Oliver. _Charge!_"

  When I had done she applauded so that my face burned until I wasdiscommoded and fell into her trap.

  "I wish you'd written them, Master Wheatman."

  "Well, I did," said I grumpily, not liking to be bereft of any littleglory in her eyes.

  "What, you?" Her eyebrows arched and her lips curled. "You, oh, never.'Smiting and praying'? 'The arm of the Flesh and the sword of theSpirit.'" She mouthed the words deliciously.

  "But, doubtless, when you see my Lord Brocton again, you'll put in theWord and the praying." Here her sweet voice trailed off into a daintysnuffle: "'My dear lord, since out of the mouths of babes and sucklingsproceedeth wisdom, hearken, I pray you, unto me, Oliver Wheatman, to witof the Hanyards, and amend ye your ways lest I hit you over your cockscombagain, and very much harder than before. Repent ye, my lord, for the houris at hand, and if you don't, I'll thump you into one of our Kate'sblackberry jellies.' And here endeth the goodly discourse of that saintlyrib-roaster, Master Hit-him-first-and-then-pray-for-him Wheatman of theHanyards."

  It was simply glorious to be so tormented by this witch with the dancingblue eyes.

  "For this scandalous contempt of the Muses," said I soberly, "I shallpunish you by frizzling your share of the ham to a cinder."

  During my schoolboy days I had roamed the countryside till I knew it asan open book, and this minute knowledge was our salvation now. Theimmediate need was food, and food obtained without price and without ourbeing observed by anyone. At seven o'clock on a hard winter morning inopen country, this seemed to require a miracle. As a matter of fact, itwas as easy as shelling peas.

  Since crossing the heath we had been travelling nearer to one of the mainroads, that leading out of the east gate to the town, and now we got ourfirst glimpse of it lying like a broad, brown ribbon half-way down theslope of a very steep hill. In the upper half, this hill was pretty wellwooded and the road cut clean through the wood, but between us and thewood there lay the level crest of the hill, cut by hedges into severalfields, and crossed by a rough cart-track leading past a roomy,one-storied cottage, grey-walled and brown-thatched, and on through thewood into the main road. The cottage, with its outbuildings, made alittle farmstead, and here lived Dick Doley and his wife Sal, who did alittle farming, but mainly lived by huckstering. Today was market-day atStafford, and unless they had broken the routine of half a lifetime, theywould now be packing their little cart with marketables and soon be offfor the town. They had neither chick nor child, lad-servant nor lassie,and they would leave the cottage empty and at our disposal. At this timeof the day I could, of course, have trusted both, but they were very humanbodies of a sort to rejoice the business side of the heart of Joe Braggs,and it was best not to give them the chance of blabbing later in the daywhen, for a moral certainty, they would both be market fresh. Besides, itwas unfair to thrust myself on the kindness of anyone. I had more thanonce wondered what had happened to poor little Marry-me-quick.

  I scrambled through the hedge and peeped down the road. I was right. Dickand his wife were busy loading up. So we waited behind the hedge till theyhad cleared off, and indeed did not move till I saw them and their cartpass along the road at the foot of the hill.

  Time has not blurred the memory of a single detail of our stay in thiswelcome house of refuge, but the telling of what was moving and charmingto me would, I fear, bore others. There was a ham, two indeed, andflitches beside, in the rack hanging from the ceiling, and there wereeggs--three, to be precise--in the larder, to which, by equal good luckconsidering the time of the year, I added two more by a raid into thehen-house. It was all natural and simple enough, but Mistress Waynfletehailed their production almost as amazedly as if I had indeed drawn themout of my hat. But how I fetched and carried, chopped wood and drew water,swept the floor and laid the table, fried ham and boiled eggs, doing allthese things with music in my heart and a noisy song on my lips--iseverything to me and nothing to my tale.

  Mistress Waynflete had disappeared into one of the three or four rooms ofwhich the house consisted, to make herself presentable, as she absurdlyput it. When the table was laid and the ham cooked, I halloed the news toher, and rushed off to the shed to attend to my outward appearance. I didwant it, being indeed not far short of filthy.

  Perhaps I hurried unexpectedly. At any rate, on returning I foundMistress Waynflete bending over something on the hearth. Straighteningherself hastily, and with a pretty confusion, at my approach, she cried,"Oh, Master Oliver, the ham was burning, and you threatened my share ofit, you know!"

  I could not reply. Down to her hips her rich amber hair flowed like abridal veil, and from amid a wealth of snowy lace, fluttering on the orbedglory of perfect womanhood, her neck rose smooth and stately as a shaft ofalabaster. Her cheeks crimsoned with maiden shamefastness, but the blueeyes met mine without a hint of maiden fear, and for that thanks as wellas reverence filled my heart as I bowed to her. Maidenlike, she drew hergolden veil more closely over her bosom, and tripped back to finish hertoilet, leaving me amated and abashed by the vision I had beheld. I thinkit was from that moment that my joy in my work began to be mingled withthe despair of my love. Certainly it was a chastened Oliver Wheatman whoplaced a chair for her when she came in again for breakfast, and helpedher to the good things a kindly fortune had provided.

  It is my belief that each of us was secretly amused at the steady zealwith which the other attacked the meal. We wrangled over the odd egg, eachinsisting on the other having it, she because I was strong, and needed it,I because I was strong and could do without it, and finally adopted theusual compromise. We had more than gone round the clock with barely amouthful, and we ate as those who know not where the next meal's meat isto come from. Frankly, I, at any rate, gave myself a fair margin beforethe pinch should come again, and Mistress Waynflete averred that she hadnever in her life before eaten so much or so toothsomely.

  Our meal over, I stacked the fire with fresh logs, asked and obtainedpermission to smoke a pipe, and made my sweet mistress cosy in thechimney-corner. Then we began to take stock of our position.

  "There's no good to come of hurrying," said I. "Here we are both snug andsafe, and your night's rest was but short. Let us see where we stand."

  I did not really believe that any amount of talking would help much, butrepose would do her good, and I had a big idea running in and out of mymind. Our first difficulty, food and rest, had been overcome, and I wasbent on mastering the next. No amount of discussion gave us any key to theone great mystery. When Brocton had captured Colonel Waynflete at Milford,the obvious thing to do with him was to send him prisoner to the Duke atLichfield. Though the Colonel carried no papers which made his purposeclear, Brocton knew well what the object of his journey was, and thesuspension of the Habeas Corpus Act put the Colonel in his power. Or, hemight
have carried him before a justice of the peace, his friend MasterDobson for choice, and had him committed to the town jail. The courseactually taken, that of sending him ahead, under guard, in the very van ofthe royal army, was to us utterly inexplicable. His mad lust for MistressMargaret explained the separation of father and daughter. The thought didoccur to me, though I took great care not to hint at it, that he intendedto make away with the Colonel, and looked to finding tools among hisblackguardly dragoons and an opportunity when in actual conflict with theHighlanders. I hesitated, however, to believe that Brocton was such avillain as to commit an unnecessary murder. The plan he had adopted had,anyhow, this advantage to us that, when we did come into touch with theprisoner, our chances of assisting him were far greater than if he were injail in Stafford or Lichfield.

  Whatever my lord's motives were, it was clear that he was not acting inthe plain, straight-dealing manner to be expected of one in his position.There were other signs of crookedness, slight but not without weight. Icould understand his joy on finding me at Marry-me-quick's. It meant thatI was a rebel, and as a loyal man, who had gone to expenses to prove hisloyalty, he might easily get the Hanyards as a reward, and thus round offthe family property in our neighbourhood. His reference to a "solatium"puzzled me, but it did not seem anything of consequence. What had I butthe Hanyards to solace him with? A more important puzzle had been hisbehaviour at Master Dobson's. To find me on the royal side, as he thensupposed, and to hear my reason for it, had clean dazed him. Then therewas the look, a signal-look beyond a doubt, which I had surprised himgiving his bully, Major Pimple-face, and which was followed by thelatter's attempt to embroil the stranger from London in a row.

  "It is useless, Master Wheatman, to speculate further on what LordBrocton is doing," said my mistress at last. "He has his ends. I am one ofthem. Another is, no doubt, to fill his pockets, somehow or other. It wascommon talk in town that he was head over ears in debt."

  While we had talked and had rested, I had not been idle. Dick Doley'sroomy kitchen had two windows, one overlooking the cart-track, and anotherthe slope of the hill. The hill was so made and the house so placed thatfrom this second window we could see the strip of road at the bottom ofthe hill where it curved on to the level again. I had kept a sharp lookout on that bit, but had seen no one pass along it either way as yet.

  In one corner of the room Dick kept an ancient fowling-piece, more of atool of husbandry than a weapon, since his only use for it was to scarebirds. It was a heavy, unhandy thing, with a brass barrel down which Icould have dropped a sizable duck egg, and round its thick-rimmed nozzlesome one had rudely graven, "Happy is he that escapeth me." I fetched itout of its corner, and cleaned and oiled it. I now loaded it, forpowder-horn and shot-bag hung near it on the wall, putting in a handfulof the biggest sort of shot, swan-shot as I should call them. During thistask, Mistress Waynflete watched me narrowly, but made no reference to it.

  "Now," said I, "our main requisite is the stuff, the ready, the rhino,the swag--call it what you will. How do you fancy me as a knight of theroad? The first copper-faced farmer I come across shall surely stand anddeliver. Here's an argument he cannot resist."

  At last my scrutiny of the road was rewarded. A solitary horseman came insight from the direction of the town.

  "Mistress Waynflete," said I, picking up the fowling-piece, "there's atraveller yonder coming from Stafford. It will be well if I go and ask hima few questions."

  She almost leaped at me, red anger flashing in her eyes but her facewhite as milk. "Sir," she said, "you shall not turn thief for me. I willnot have it."

  "Pray, madam," replied I huffily, "expound the moral difference betweenstealing ham and stealing guineas. I'm all for morality."

  "I cannot, Master Wheatman, but you must not, shall not go." She caughthold of my sleeve. "Say you won't! If you are found out it means--"

  "I shall not be found out. You may take that for sure. Think you that Icannot pluck yon chough without being pinched? It's no more robbery thanour eating Dick's ham and eggs. We are soldiers in enemy's country, and weplunder by right of the known rules of war. As a concession to yourprejudices in favour of the jog-trot morality of peace, I will e'en askhim whether he be for James or George, and borrow or command his guineasin accordance with his reply. Loose my sleeve, madam!"

  I loosened the grip of her fingers, and led her back to her chair. "Youoverrate my danger, sweet mistress, and under rate our need. Withoutmoney, we might as well lie under the nearest hedge and leave Jack Frostto settle matters his way, and a cold, nasty way it would be. Your guineais a good fighter, and we need his help. It must be done, and, never fear,I'll carry it through safely."

  So I left her, white hands grappling the arms of her chair, and whiteface turned away from me.