WAYFARING HOME
At Kensington watering-place, five miles from London town, Nick held the
pail for the horses of the Oxford man. “Hello, my buck!” quoth he, and
stared at Nick; “where under the sun didst pop from all at once?” and,
looking up, spied Cicely upon the carrier’s wain. “What, John!” he
shouted, “thou saidst there were no more!”
“No more there weren’t, sir,” said John, “but there be now”; and out
with the whole story.
“Well, I ha’ farmed for fifty year,” cried honest Roger Clout, “yet
never have I seen the mate to yonder little maid, nor heard the like o’
such a tale! Wife, wife!” he cried, in a voice as round and full of
hearty cheer as one who calls his own cattle home across his own fat
fields. “Come hither, Moll—here’s company for thee. For sure, John,
they’ll ride wi’ Moll and I; ’tis godsend—angels on a baggage-cart!
Moll ha’ lost her only one, and the little maid will warm the cockles o’
her heart, say nought about mine own. La, now, she is na feared o’ me;
God bless thee, child! Look at her, Moll—as sweet as honey and the
cream o’ the brindle cow.”
So they rode with kindly Roger Clout and his good wife by Hanwell,
Hillingdon Hill, and Uxbridge, where they rested at the inn near old St.
Margaret’s, Cicely with Mistress Clout, and Nick with her good man. And
in the morning there was nothing to pay, for Roger Clout had footed all
the score.
Then on again, through Beaconsfield and High Wycombe, into and over the
Chiltern Hills in Buckinghamshire. In parts the land was passing fair,
with sheep in flocks upon the hills, and cattle knee-deep in the grass;
but otherwhere the way was wild, with bogs and moss in all the deeps,
and dense beech forests on the heights; and more than once the guards
made ready their match-locks warily. But stout John Saddler’s train was
no soft cakes for thieves, and they came up through Bucks scot-free.
At times it drizzled fitfully, and the road was rough and bad; but the
third day was a fair, sweet day, and most exceeding bright and fresh.
The shepherds whistled on the hills, and the milkmaids sang in the
winding lanes among the white-thorn hedges, the smell of which was
everywhere. The singing, the merry voices calling, the comfortable
lowing of the kine, the bleating of the sheep, the clinking of the
bridle-chains, and the heavy ruttle of the carts filled the air with
life and cheer. The wind was blowing both warm and cool; and, oh, the
blithe breeze of the English springtime! Nick went up the green hills,
and down the white dells like a leaf in the wind, now ahead and now
behind the winding train, or off into the woods and over the fields for
a posy-bunch for Cicely, calling and laughing back at her, and filling
her lap with flowers and ferns until the cart was all one great,
sweet-smelling bower.
As for Cicely, Nick was there, so she was very well content. She had
never gone a-visiting in all her life before; and she would see Nick’s
mother, and the flowers in the yard, the well, and that wondrous stream,
the Avon, of which Nick talked so much. “Stratford is a fair, fair town,
though very full of fools,” her father often said. But she had nothing
to do with the fools, and daddy would come for her again; so her
laughter bubbled like a little spring throughout the livelong day.
As the sun went down in the yellow west they came into Oxford from the
south on the easterly side. The Cherwell burned with the orange light
reflected from the sky, and the towers of the famous town of olden
schools and scholars stood up black-purple against the western glow,
with rims of gold on every roof and spire.
Up the High street into the corn-market rolled the tired train, and
turned into the rambling square of the old Crown Inn near Carfax church,
a large, substantial hostelry, one of merry England’s best,
clean-chambered, homelike, full of honest cheer.
There was a shout of greeting everywhere. The hostlers ran to walk the
horses till they cooled, and to rub them down before they fed, for they
were all afoam. Master Davenant himself saw to the storing of the wains;
and Mistress Davenant, a comely dame, with smooth brown hair and ruddy
cheeks, and no less wit than sprightly grace, was in the porch to meet
the company. “Well, good Dame Clout,” said she, “art home again? What
tales we’ll have! Didst see Tom Lane? No? Pshaw! But buss me, Moll;
we’ve missed thy butter parlously.” And then quite free she kissed both
Nick and Cicely.
“What, there, Dame Davenant!” cried Roger Clout, “art passing them
around?” and laughed, “Do na forget me.”
“Nay, nay,” she answered, “but I’m out. Here, Nan,” she called to the
smutty-faced scullery-maid, “a buss for Master Clout; his own Moll’s
busses be na fine enough since he hath been to town.”
So, joking, laughing, they went in; while plain John Saddler backed out
of the porch as sooty Nan came running up, for fear the jilt might offer
somewhat of the sort to him, and was off in haste to see to his teams.
“There’s no leaving it to the boys,” said he, “for they’d rub ’em down
wi’ a water-pail, and give ’em straw to drink.”
When the guests all came to the fourpenny table to sup, Nick spoke to
Master Roger Clout. “Ye’ve done enough for us, sir; thank ye with all my
heart; but I’ve a turn will serve us here, and, sir, I’d rather stand on
mine own legs. Ye will na mind?” And when they all were seated at the
board, he rose up stoutly at the end, and called out brave and clear:
“Sirs, and good dames all, will ye be pleased to have some music while
ye eat? For, if ye will, the little maid and I will sing you the latest
song from London town, a merry thing, with a fine trolly-lolly, sirs,
to glad your hearts with hearing.”
Would they have music? To be sure! Who would not music while he ate must
be a Flemish dunderkopf, said they. So Nick and Cicely stood at one side
of the room upon a bench by the server’s board, and sang together, while
he played upon Mistress Davenant’s gittern:
“Hey, laddie, hark to the merry, merry lark!
How high he singeth clear:
‘Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing
That cometh in all the year!
Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing
That cometh in all the year!’
“Ring, ting! it is the merry springtime;
How full of heart a body feels!
Sing hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly,
When springtime cometh with the summer at her heels!
“God save us all, my jolly gentlemen,
We’ll merry be to-day;
For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings,
And it is the month of May!
For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings,
And it is the month of May!”
Then the men at the table all waved their pewter pots, and thumped upon
the board, roaring, “Hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly!”
until the rafters rang.
[Illustration:
1. Hey! lad-die, hark, to the mer-ry, mer-ry lark, How high he sing-eth
clear. O a morn in Spring is the sweeter thing That cometh in all the
year; O a morn in Spring is the sweet-est thing That com-eth in all
the year!
REFRAIN. Piano.
Ring! Ting! It is the mer-ry Spring-time. How full of heart a bod-y
feels! Sing hey trol-ly lol-ly! O to live is to be jol-ly, When
Spring-time cometh with the Summer at her heels!
2. God save us all, my jol-ly gen-tle-men! We’ll mer-ry be to-day; For
the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month of May;
For the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month
of May!
_Repeat Refrain after 2d Stanza._]
“What, lad!” cried good Dame Davenant, “come, stay with me all year and
sing, thou and this little maid o’ thine. ’Twill cost thee neither cash
nor care. Why, thou’ldst fill the house with such a throng as it hath
never seen!” And in the morning she would not take a penny for their
lodging nor their keep. “Nay, nay,” said she; “they ha’ brought good
custom to the house, and left me a brave little tale to tell for many a
good long year. We inns-folk be not common penny-grabbers; marry, no!”
and, furthermore, she made interest with a carrier to give them a lift
to Woodstock on their way.
When they came to Woodstock the carrier set them down by the gates of a
park built round by a high stone wall over which they could not see, and
with his wain went in at the gate, leaving them to journey on together
through a little rain-shower.
The land grew flatter than before. There were few trees upon the hills,
and scarcely any springs at which to drink, but much tender grass, with
countless sheep nibbling everywhere. The shower was soon blown away; the
sun came out; and a pleasant wind sprang up out of the south. Here and
there beside some cottage wall the lilacs bloomed, and the later
orchard-trees were apple-pink and cherry-white with May.
They came to a puddle in the road where there was a dance of
butterflies. Cicely clapped her hands with glee. A goldfinch dipped
across the path like a little yellow streak of laughter in the sun. “Oh,
Nick, what is it?” she cried.
“A bird,” said he.
“A truly bird?” and she clasped her hands. “Will it ever come again?”
[Illustration: ““OH, NICK, WHAT IS IT?” SHE CRIED.”]
“Again? Oh, yes, or, la! another one—there’s plenty in the weeds.”
And so they fared all afternoon, until at dusk they came to Chipping
Norton across the fields, a short cut to where the thin blue
supper-smoke curled up. The mists were rising from the meadows; earth
and sky were blending on the hills; a little silver sickle moon hung in
the fading violet, low in the western sky. Under an old oak in a green
place a fiddler and a piper were playing, and youths and maidens were
dancing in the brown light. Some little chaps were playing
blindman’s-buff near by, and the older folk were gathered by the tree.
Nick came straight to where they stood, and bowing, he and Cicely
together, doffed his cap, and said in his most London tone, “We bid ye
all good-e’en, good folk.”
His courtly speech and manner, as well as his clothes and Cicely’s
jaunty gown, no little daunted the simple country folk. Nobody spoke,
but, standing silent, all stared at the two quaint little vagabonds as
mild kine stare at passing sheep in a quiet lane.
“We need somewhat to eat this night, and we want a place to sleep,” said
Nick. “The beds must be right clean—we have good appetites. If ye can
do for us, we will dance for you anything that ye may desire—the
‘Queen’s Own Measure,’ ‘La Donzella,’ the new ‘Allemand’ of my Lord
Pembroke, a pavone or a tinternell, or the ‘Galliard of Savoy.’ Which
doth it please you, mistresses?” and he bowed to the huddling young
women, who scarcely knew what to make of it.
“La! Joan,” whispered one, “he calleth thee ‘mistress’! Speak up,
wench.” But Joan stoutly held her peace.
“Or if ye will, the little maid will dance the coranto for you, straight
from my Lord Chancellor’s dancing-master; and while she dances I
will sing.”
“Why, hark ’e, Rob,” spoke out one motherly dame, “they two do look
clean-like. Children, too—who’d gi’ them stones when they beg for
bread? I’ll do for them this night myself; and thou, the good man, and
Kit can sleep in the hutch. So there, dears; now let’s see the Lord
Chancellor’s tantrums.”
“’Tis not a tantrums, goody,” said Nick, politely, “but a coranto.”
“La! young master, what’s the odds, just so we sees it done? Some folks
calls whittles ‘knives,’ and thinks ’t wunnot cut theys fingers!”
Nick took his place at the side of the ring. “Now, Cicely!” said he.
“Thou’lt call ‘Sa—sa!’ and give me the time of the coup d’archet?” she
whispered, timidly hesitant, as she stepped to the midst of the ring.
“Ay, then,” said he, “’tis off, ’tis off!” and struck up a lively tune,
snapping his fingers for the time.
Cicely, bowing all about her, slowly began to dance.
It was a pretty sight to see: her big eyes wide and earnest, her cheeks
a little flushed, her short hair curling, and her crimson gown
fluttering about her as she danced the quaint running step forward and
back across the grass, balancing archly, with her hands upon her hips
and a little smile upon her lips, in the swaying motion of the coupee,
courtesying gracefully as one tiny slippered foot peeped out from her
rustling skirt, tapping on the turf, now in front and now behind. Nick
sang like a blackbird in the hedge. And how those country lads and
lasses stared to see such winsome, dainty grace! “La me!” gaped one,
“’tis fairy folk—she doth na even touch the ground!” “The pretty dear!”
the mothers said. “Doll, why canst thou na do the like, thou lummox?”
“Tut,” sighed the buxom Doll, “I have na wingses on my feet!”
Then Cicely, breathless, bowed, and ran to Nick’s side asking, “Was it
all right, Nick?”
“Right?” said he, and stroked her hair; “’twas better than thou didst
ever dance it for M’sieu.”
“For why?” said she, and flushed, with a quick light in her eyes; “for
why—because this time I danced for thee.”
The country folk, enchanted, called for more and more.
Nick sang another song, and he and Cicely danced the galliard together,
while the piper piped and the fiddler fiddled away like mad; and the
moon went down, and the cottage doors grew ruddy with the light inside.
Then Dame Pettiford gave them milk and oat-cakes in a bowl, a bit of
honey in the comb, and a cup of strawberries; and Cicely fell fast
asleep with the last of the strawberries in her hand.
So they came up out of the south through Shipston-on-Stour, in the
main-traveled way, and with every mile Nick felt home growing nearer.
Streams sprang up in the meadow-lands, with sedgy islands, and lines of
silvery willows bordering their banks. Flocks and herds cropped beneath
tofts of ash and elm and beech. Snug homes peeped out of hazel copses by
the road. The passing carts had a familiar look, and at Alderminster
Nick saw a man he thought he recognized.
Before he knew that he was there they topped Edge Hill.
There lay Stratford! as he had left it lying; not one stick or stack or
stone but he could put his finger on and say, “This place I know!” Green
pastures, grassy levels, streams, groves, mills, the old grange and the
manor-house, the road that forked in three, and the hills of Arden
beyond it all. There was the tower of the guildhall chapel above the
clustering, dun-thatched roofs among the green and blossom-white; to
left the spire of Holy Trinity sprang up beside the shining Avon. Bull
Lane he made out dimly, and a red-tiled roof among the trees. “There,
Cicely,” he said, “_there—there!_” and laughed a queer little shaky
laugh next door to crying for joy.
Wat Raven was sweeping old Clopton bridge. “Hullo, there, Wat! I be come
home again!” Nick cried. Wat stared at him, but knew him not at all.
Around the corner, and down High street. Fynes Morrison burst in at the
guildschool door. “Nick Attwood’s home!” he shouted; and his eyes were
like two plates.
Then the last lane—and the smoke from his father’s house!
The garden gate stood open, and there was some one working in the yard.
“It is my father, Cicely,” he laughed. “Father!” he cried, and hurried
in the lane.
Simon Attwood straightened up and looked across the fence. His arms were
held a little out, and his hands hung down with bits of moist earth
clinging to them. His brows were darker than a year before, and his hair
was grown more gray; his back, too, stooped. “Art thou a-calling me?”
he asked.
Nick laughed. “Why, father, do ye na know me?” he cried out. “’Tis
I—’tis Nick—come home!”
Two steps the stern old tanner took—two steps to the latchet-gate. Not
one word did he speak; but he set his hand to the latchet-gate and
closed it in Nick’s face.