"COME, MY CORINNA, COME!"
Miss Marty drew aside her window curtain to watch the rising moon.
She could not sleep. Knowing that she would not be able to sleep,
she had not undressed.
She gazed out upon the street, dark now and deserted. No light
signalled to her from the attic window behind which Dr. Hansombody so
often sat late over his books and butterfly cases. He had gone with
the others.
She listened. The house was silent save for the muffled snoring of
Scipio in his cupboard-bedroom under the stairs. She raised the
window-sash gently, leaned out upon the soft spring night, and
listened again.
Far down the street, from the purlieus of the Town Quay, her ear
caught a murmur of voices--of voices and happy subdued laughter.
The maidens of Troy were embarking; and to-morrow would be May
morning.
Miss Marty sighed. How long was it since she had observed May
morning and its rites? The morrow, too, if the Vicar and the Major
were right in their calculations, would usher in the Millennium.
But again, what was the Millennium to her? Could it bring back her
youth?
She heard the boats draw near and go by. The houses to the left hid
them from her: but she leaned out, hearkening to the soft plash of
oars, the creak of thole-pins, the girls' voices in hushed chorus
practising the simple native harmonies they would lift aloud as they
returned after sunrise. She recognised the tune, too; the old tune
of "The Padstow Hobby-horse,"--
"Unite and unite, and let us all unite,
For summer is a-come in to-day--
And whither we are going we will all go in white
In the merry merry morning of May.
"Rise up, Master--, and joy you betide,
For summer is a-come in to-day--
And blithe is the bride lays her down by your side
In the merry merry morning of May."
Hushed though the voices were, each word fell distinct on her ear as
the boats drew near and passed up the tideway.
"Rise up, Mistress--, all in your smock of silk,
For summer is a-come in to-day--
And all your body under as white as any milk
In the merry merry morning of May."
The voices faded away up the river. Only the lilt of the song came
back to her now, but memory supplied the words. Had they not been
sung under her window years ago?
"Rise up, Mistress Marty, all out of your bed,
For summer is a-come in to-day--
Your chamber shall be spread with the white rose and red
In the merry merry morning of May.
"O where be the maidens that here now should sing?
For summer is a-come in to-day--
They be all in the meadows the flowers gathering,
In the merry merry morning of May."
What magic was there in this artless ditty that kept Miss
Marty lingering awhile with moist eyes ere she closed the
window-sash?
"Wh'st! Miss Mar-ty!"
Heavens! Whose voice was that, calling up hoarsely from the shadows?
She peered out, but could see nobody. Suddenly her maiden modesty
took alarm. What possessed her to be standing here exposed, and
exposing the interior of her lighted bed-chamber to view from the
street? She ran back in a flurry and blew out the candles; then,
returning, put up a hand to draw down the window-sash.
"Wh'st! Miss Mar-ty!"
"Gracious goodness!" After a moment's hesitation she craned out
timorously. "Cai Tamblyn . . .?"
"Miss Marty!"
"What on earth are you doing there at this time of night?"
"Sentry-go."
"Nonsense. What do I want of a sentry?"
"You never can tell."
"Are you here by the Major's order?"
"Ch't!" answered Cai Tamblyn. "_Him!_"
"Then go away, please, and let me beg you to speak more respectfully
of your master."
"I reckon," said Cai, slowly, "you don't know that, barrin' the
nigger under the stairs, this here town's as empty as my hat.
Well, a man can but die once, and if the French come, let 'em; that's
all I say. Good night, miss."
"The town empty?"
"Males, females and otherwise, down to Miss Jex at the post-office."
(Cai Tamblyn nursed an inveterate antipathy for the post-mistress.
He alleged no reason for it, save that she wore moustaches, which was
no reason at all, and a monstrous exaggeration.) "There's Miss Pescod
gone, and Miss Tregentil with her maid."
"But where? Why?"
"Up the river. Gallivantin'. That's what I spoke ye for, just now.
Mind you, I don't propose no gallivantin'; but there's safety in
numbers, and if you've a mind for it, I've the boat ready by the
Broad Slip."
"But what foolishness!"
"Ay," Mr. Tamblyn assented. "That's what I said to the Doctor when
he first mentioned it. 'What foolishness,' I said, 'at _her_ time o'
life!' But then we never reckoned on the whole town goin' crazed."
"The Doctor?" queried Miss Marty, with a glance down the dark street.
"He thinks of everything," she murmured.
There was a pause, during which Mr. Tamblyn somewhat ostentatiously
tested the lock of his musket.
"You are not going to frighten me, Cai."
"No, miss."
"I--I think an expedition up the river would be very pleasant. If,
as you say, Miss Pescod has gone--"
"Yes, miss."
"I must bring Scipio."
"Very well, miss. If the French come, they _might_ think o' looking
under the stairs."
Twenty minutes later Miss Marty--escorted by Scipio, who bore a
lantern--tiptoed down the street to the Broad Slip, fearful even of
her own light footstep on the cobbles.
The Broad Slip--it has since been filled in--was in those days a sort
of dock, inset between the waterside houses and running up so close
to the street that the vessels it berthed were forced to take in
their bowsprits to allow the pack-horse traffic to pass. On its
south side a flight of granite steps led down to the water: and at
the foot of these (the tide being low) Cai Tamblyn waited with his
boat.
"I declare my heart's in my mouth," Miss Marty panted, as she took
her seat. Cai directed Scipio to sit amidships, pushed off in
silence, and taking the forward thwart, began to pull.
"Now there's a thing," he said after a few strokes with a jerk of his
head towards the dark longshore houses, "you don't often see nor hear
about outside o' the Bible; a deserted city. Fine pickings for Boney
if he only knew."
Miss Marty's thoughts flew back at once to a corner cupboard in the
parlour, inlaid with tulips in Dutch marqueterie, and containing the
Major's priceless eggshell china. To be sure, if the French landed,
she--weak woman that she was--could not defend this treasure.
But might not the Major blame her for having abandoned it?
"I--I trust," she hazarded, "that our brave fellows have succeeded in
their enterprise. It seemed to me that I heard the sound of distant
firing just now."
"If they hadn't, miss, they'd ha' been back afore now. I had my own
doubts about 'em, for they're a hair-triggered lot, the Troy
Gallants. No fear of their goin' off; but 'tis a matter o' doubt in
what direction."
"Your master," said Miss Marty, severely, addressing Cai across
Scipio (who for some reason seldom or never spoke in Cai's company)--
"your master has the heart of a lion. He would die rather than
acknowledge defeat."
"A heart of a lion, miss, if you'll excuse my saying it, is an
uncomfortable thing in a man's stomach; an' more especially when 'tis
fed up on the wind o' vanity. I've a-read my Bible plumb down to the
forbidden books thereof, and there's a story in it called Bel and the
Dragon, which I mind keeping to the last, thinkin' 'twas the name of
a public-house. 'Tis a terrible warnin' against swollen vittles."
"You are a dreadful cynic, Cai."
"Nothin' of the sort, miss," said Cai, stoutly. "I thinks badly o'
most men--that's all."
His talk was always cross-grained, but its volume betrayed a quite
unwonted geniality to-night. And half a mile farther, where the dark
river bent around Wiseman's Stone, he so far relaxed as to rest on
his oars and challenge the famous echo from the wooded cliffs.
Somewhat to Miss Marty's astonishment it responded.
"And by night, too! I had no idea!"
"Night?" repeated Mr. Tamblyn, after rowing on for another fifty
strokes. He paused as if he had that moment heard, and glanced
upward. "'Tis much as ever. The sky's palin' already, and we'll not
reach Lerryn by sunrise. I think, miss, if you'll step ashore, this
here's as good a place as any. Scipio and me'll keep the boat and
turn our backs."
Miss Marty understood. The boat's nose having been brought alongside
a ridge of rock, she landed in silence, climbed the foreshore, up by
a hazel-choked path to a meadow above, and there, solemnly thrusting
her hands into the lush grass, turned to the east and bathed her face
in the dew. It is a rite which must be performed alone, in silence;
and the morning sun must not surprise it.
"You've been terrible quick," remarked Cai, as she stepped down to
the foreshore again in the ghostly light. "You can't have stayed to
dabble your feet. Didn't think it wise, I s'pose? And I dare say
you're right."
From far ahead of them as they started again, the voices of the
singers came borne down the river; and again Miss Marty's memory
supplied the words of the song:
"The young men of our town, they might if they wo'ld--
For summer is a-comin' in to-day--
They might have built a ship and have gilded her with gold
In the merry merry morning of May."
"The young men . . . the young men . . . they might if they wo'ld."
Ah, Miss Marty, was it only the edge of the morning that heightened
the rose on your cheek by a little--a very little--as the sky paled?
And now the kingfishers were awake, and the woodlands nigh, and the
tide began to gather force as it neared the narrower winding channel.
To enter this they skirted a mud-flat, where the day, breaking over
the tree-tops and through the river mists, shone on scores upon
scores of birds gathered to await it--curlews, sandpipers, gulls in
rows like strings of jewels, here and there a heron standing sentry.
The assembly paid no heed to the passing boat.
Miss Marty gazed up at the last star fading in the blue. How clear
the morning was! How freshly scented beneath the shadow of the
woods! Her gaze descended upon the incongruous top-hat and
gold-laced livery of Scipio, touched with the morning sunshine.
She glanced around her and motioned to Cai Tamblyn to bring the boat
to shore by a grassy spit whence (as she knew) a cart-track led
alongshore through the young oak coppices to the village.
"And Scipio," she said, turning as she stepped out on the turf, "will
like a run in the woods."
She had walked on, maybe a hundred paces, before the absurdity of it
struck her. She had been thinking of Mr. Pope's line:
"When wild in woods the noble savage ran."
And at the notion of Scipio, in gilt-laced hat and livery, tearing
wildly through the undergrowth in the joy of liberty, she halted and
laughed aloud.
She was smiling yet when, at a turning of the leafy lane, she came
upon the prettiest innocent sight. On a cushion of moss beside the
path, two small children--a boy and a girl--lay fast asleep.
The boy's arm was flung around his sister's shoulders, and across his
thighs rested a wand or thin pole topped with a May-garland of wild
hyacinths, red-robin and painted birds' eggs. A tin cup, brought to
collect pence for the garland, glittered in the cart-rut at their
feet. It had rolled down the mossy bank as the girl's fingers
relaxed in sleep.
They were two little ones of Troy, strayed hither from the
merrymaking; and at first Miss Marty had a mind to wake them, seeing
how near they lay to the river's brink. But noting that a fallen log
safeguarded them from this peril, she fumbled for the pocket beneath
her skirt, dropped a sixpence with as little noise as might be into
the tin cup, and tiptoed upon her way.
About three hundred yards from the village she met another pair of
children; and, soon after, a score or so in a cluster, who took toll
of her in pence; for almost everyone carried a garland. And then the
trees opened, and she saw before her the village with its cottages,
grey and whitewashed, its gardens and orchards, mirrored in the
brimming tide, all trembling in the morning light and yet exquisitely
still. Far up the river, beyond the village and the bridge, a level
green meadow ran out, narrowing the channel; and here beneath the
apple-trees--for the meadow was half an orchard--had been set out
many lines of white-covered tables, at which the Mayers made
innocently merry.
Innocently, did I say? Well, I have known up-country folk before
now to be scandalised by some things which we in the Duchy think
innocent enough. So let me admit that the three long-boats conveyed
something more than the youth and beauty of Troy to that morning's
Maying; that when launched from Mr. Runnells' yard they were not
entirely what they seemed: that from their trial spin across the bay
they returned some inches deeper in the water, and yet they did not
leak. Had you perchance been standing by the shore in the half-light
as they came up over the shallows, you might have wondered at the
number of times they took ground, and at the slowness of the tide to
lift and float them. You might have wondered again why, after they
emerged from the deep shadow of Sir Felix Felix-Williams' woods upon
the southern shore, albeit in shallow water, they seemed to feel
their hindrances no longer.
Have you ever, my reader, caught hold of a lizard and been left with
his tail in your hands?
Even so easily did these three long-boats shed their false keels,
which half an hour later were but harmless-looking stacks of timber
among Sir Felix's undergrowth. Half an hour later, had your unwary
feet led you to a certain corner of Sir Felix's well-timbered
demesne, you might have scratched your head and wondered what magic
carpet had transported you into the heart of the Cognac District.
And all this was the work of the men of Troy (not being volunteers)
who had come either in the long-boats or in the many boats escorting
these.
But the women of Troy, being deft with the oar one and all, took the
places of the men left behind in the woods, and, singing yet, brought
both the long-boats and these other boats safely to Lerryn on the
full flood of the tide, and disembarking upon the meadow there,
gathered around the tables under the apple-trees to eat bread and
cream in honour of May-day, looking all the while as if butter would
not melt in their mouths. Between their feasting they laughed a
great deal; but either they laughed demurely, being constrained by
the unwonted presence of Miss Pescod and other ladies of Troy's
acknowledged _elite_, or Miss Marty as yet stood too far off to hear
their voices.
Let us return to Scipio, who, on receiving Miss Marty's permission to
wander, had made his way up through the woods in search of the
Devil's Hedge, along which, as he knew, his master would be leading
back the triumphant Gallants.
Fidelity was ever the first spring of Scipio's conduct. He adored
the Major with a canine devotion, and by an instinct almost canine he
found his way up to the earthwork and chose a position which
commanded the farthest prospect in the direction of Looe. From where
he sat the broad hedge dipped to a narrow valley, climbed the steep
slope opposite, and vanished, to reappear upon a second and farther
ridge two miles away. As yet he could discern no sign of the
returning heroes; but his ear caught the throb of a drum beaten afar
to the eastward.
Of the Major's two body-servants it might be said that the one spoke
seldom and the other never; and again that Cai, who spoke seldom,
was taciturn, while Scipio, who spoke never, was almost affable.
In truth, the negro's was the habitual silence of one who, loving his
fellows, spends all his unoccupied time in an inward brooding, a
continual haze of day-dreams.
Scipio's day-dreams were of a piece with his loyalty, a reflection in
some sort of his master's glory. He could never--he with his black
skin--be such a man; but he passionately desired to be honoured,
respected, though but posthumously. And the emblazoned board in the
church, appealing as it did to his negro sense of colour, had
suggested a way. It is not too much to say that a great part of
Scipio's time was lived by him in a future when, released from this
present livery, his spirit should take on a more gorgeous one, as
"Scipio Johnson, Esquire, late of this Parish," in scarlet twiddles
on a buff ground.
He seated himself on the earthwork, and the better to commune with
this vision, tilted his gold-laced hat forward over his eyes,
shutting out the dazzle of the morning sun. Once or twice he shook
himself, being heavy with broken sleep, and gazed across the ridges,
then drew up his knees, clasped them, and let his heavy, woolly head
drop forward, nodding.
Let us not pursue those stages of conviviality through which the Looe
Diehards, having been seen home by the Troy Gallants, arrived at an
obligation to return the compliment. Suffice it to say that Major
Hymen and Captain Pond, within five minutes of bidding one another a
public tearful farewell, found themselves climbing the first hill
towards Lerryn with linked arms. But the Devil's Hedge is a wide one
and luckily could not be mistaken, even in the uncertain light of
dawn.
And, to pass over the minor incidents of that march, I will maintain
in fairness (though the men of Troy choose to laugh) that the sudden
apparition of a black man seated in the morning light upon the
Devil's Hedge was enough to daunt even the tried valour of the Looe
Diehards.
"The De'il's awa', the De'il's awa',
The De'il's awa' wi' th' exciseman."
The eye notoriously magnifies an object seen upon a high ridge
against the skyline; and when Scipio stood erect in all his gigantic
proportions and waved both arms to welcome his beloved master, the
Diehards turned with a yell and fled. Vainly their comrades of Troy
called after them. Back and down the hill they streamed pell-mell,
one on another's heels; down to the marshy bottom known as Trebant
Water, nor paused to catch breath until they had placed a running
brook between them and the Power of Darkness.
For the second time that night the Gallants rolled about and clung
one to another in throes of Homeric laughter; laughter which,
reverberating, shout on shout, along the ridge and down among the
tree-tops, reached even to the meadow far below, where in the sudden
hush of the lark's singing the merrymakers paused and looked up to
listen.
But wait awhile! They laugh best who laugh last.