MOTHER GOOSE'S TALES.
Lovelier spring than this one now passing into early summer had not
been within living memory. Never had the trees budded more green and
fresh-looking, and the roses and larkspurs shown more hurry to break
forth and mingle their fragrance with the breath of the soft sweet
air; and yet Ruth Rumbold's heart felt as wintry as if some load of
ice-bound earth weighed it down.
Poor old Maudlin wondered sorely what ailed her pet, that she went
about the place, doing her little household duties as carefully and
deftly indeed as she always did do them, but not to the tune of her
own sweet young voice, as her wont was. No, the child had grown
silent as any stock and stone, and as grave--and that wasn't saying a
little neither--as the master himself; and then Maudlin set about
concocting a variety of messes and electuaries in the still-room with
a view to restoring the roses to the pale cheeks, and charming back
the lost music. And then, after all her trouble, to think that Ruth
refused to swallow a mouthful of her medicaments, and vowed that
nothing ailed her--if only Maudlin would leave her to herself!
For three whole days this sort of thing has been going on; and
to-night, tired out with her ineffectual expostulations, the old
woman has gone off, not without dudgeon, to "get a mouthful of fresh
air," as she says. And truly the atmosphere is heavy--as if a storm
were not so far off--and to indulge in a little interchange of ideas
in the gate-house parlour; for there you are always safe to pick up
the latest news stirring, trifling and important, just as you would
come upon it in the Mall or the Covent Garden coffee-houses.
[Sidenote: Ruth at her studies.]
And so Ruth is left to her musings; for though at the first glance
you might call them studies, since one book of the little heap piled
up on the broad ledge of the window where she is seated, lies open on
her lap, you have but to look again, to see she is not reading it.
As, however, the sound of a heavy step descending the stairs falls
upon her ear, she drops her eyes to the page, not even raising them
again when the maltster enters, and crossing slowly to her side,
stands gazing out absently into the rays of the setting sun, which
are luridly firing the yew-tree peacock into a blaze of red and
yellow.
Presently, however, he turned his eyes upon Ruth. "Does not the book
please you?" he asked, pointing to the volume before her. "I see,"
he went on, when she looked up, but made no answer, "that you have
not turned the page since you opened it haphazard when I bid you be
reading it half an hour ago. Or is it that the picture of the
blessed martyrdom of Mistress Anne Askew so fascinates you?"
"'Tis a fearful thing!" said Ruth, shuddering, as she looked, for the
first time, if truth must be owned, at the pictured page. "Poor
Mistress Askew! She must have been a right brave lady."
"A bold Christian woman, rather," quickly corrected the maltster,
"who counted her life for nought beside the truth."
"Truth is indeed a pure noble thing to live for," acquiesced Ruth.
"And to die for. Yes," said Rumbold; "that blessed work of Master
Fox's is indeed a mighty treasure-house of the scores who have shed
their blood for it."
"Ay," sighed Ruth, "'tis indeed a book of death, and ghastliness,
and--"
[Sidenote: A batch of books.]
"And wholesome teaching, and fitter far for thy recreation moments
than all this farrago of chap-book trash I found you head over ears
upon. Where did you get it?"
"I bought it of the old packman who came to the gatehouse yesterday
morning; and a fine collection there was in his wallet," continued
Ruth, her eyes waxing bright. "He had come straight by way of Bow
and Waltham, and on here across the Rye, from the 'Looking Glass,'
the big chap-bookseller's shop that stands on London Bridge, father,
dear, and he'd got _Reynard the Fox_, the sly wicked creature.
Father, what an odious hypocrite he was--eh? And _Mother Bunch_, and
_Jack and the Giants_--
"'Fe! Fi! Fo! Fum!
I smell the blood of an English--_mun_!
Let him be alive, or let him be dead,
I'll grind his bones--'"
"Tut! tut! tut!" frowned the maltster.
[Sidenote: The maltster hates romance.]
"To make my bread!" went on Ruth, absorbed in the vision of the
valiant little Cornishman's attack on the three-headed monster.
"Yes, and then there was _Tarlton's Jests_," she hurried on, all
unconscious of the deepening frowns of Rumbold, "and _Guy of
Warwick_, and--let me see, what came next? Why, to be sure, 'twas
the _Blind Beggar's Daughter of Bethnal Green_--'Pretty Bessee,' you
know, father; and the history of the _Two Children in the Wood_, poor
pretty dears! with a picture running all along atop of the page,
showing all the sad woes they suffered, and ending up with the
hanging of the cruel uncle. And then--well, I protest, there was
such a heap, that I cannot remember them half. But I know he had
_John Barleycorn_, because--well, father, it made me think"--and a
merry smile rippled on Ruth's mobile lips--"of somebody we know, eh?
and how they squeezed the poor old fellow to death. And then,"
chattered on Ruth, encouraged by the faint smile that dawned on the
maltster's stolid face, "then there was _The World Turned Upside
Down_. Well, I had half a mind for that; but just then I came upon
this, and it looked the very best of all, and as I--" Ruth hesitated
to explain that her resources had not reached to the purchase of all
the chap-books she had coveted, and the thrilling woodcuts of the one
she now held towards him had carried the day with her. "Well, 'twill
divert you, I'm sure, father, dear."
It was _The Seven Champions of Christendom_!
"Seven dunderheads!" frowned Rumbold, turning the book's pages with a
contemptuous finger. "Harkye, Ruth," he continued, in stern tones,
"not a groat more of pocket-money will I waste on you till you have
learned to spend it something more discreetly than on trash like
this. I had rather see my money at the bottom of the moat than
frittered so. Pah! dragons, forsooth, and fair captive ladies! and
knights-errant, and saints--beshrew them, all! Mighty saints, I'll
warrant me they were. Pagans in motley! Saint David of Scotland.
If he set foot there now the presbytery would be for hanging him high
as Holyrood tower. And Saint Patrick of Ireland, with his
superstitious shamrock symbol, and Saint George of England."
"Merry England, father," corrected Ruth.
[Sidenote: A burning shame.]
"Pah! pish! a seemly time this for England to be merry! when she
needs bow her head even to the dust for the weight of her sins!" and
he turned and threw the book angrily into the fire. "That for your
chap-book saints!"
"Now," thought poor Ruth, "he would be as cruel to them, if they were
real flesh and blood men, as ever Bishop Bonner and Queen Mary were
to the poor Protestant martyrs;" and silently, for she dared not
trust herself to speak, she began to turn the pages of the volume on
her knee; but Rumbold took it from her.
"Read no more," he said, "till your spirit is better attuned to such
profitable instruction. Lay it by till to-morrow," he went on, in
less harsh tones; "mayhap when you have slept on what you have read,
and digested it--"
"I doubt I shall not do that," despairingly answered Ruth, "for the
woodcuts alone would serve to give bolder hearts than mine a
nightmare."
[Sidenote: A soft place in his heart.]
"And yet," went on Rumbold, softening still more at the notion that
his favourite reading had impressed Ruth more strongly than he had at
first assumed, "I do not think yours is lacking in courage. Your
father's daughter would dare much in a righteous cause were she
called upon to do it. Eh, Ruth?"
She did not answer; but sat gazing dreamily at the fire as it reduced
the poor chap-book to a few filmy shreds. "But now, little one,"
went on the maltster, "to your room. Good-night!" and he bent and
kissed her forehead,
"Nay, father!" she rejoined, looking up in surprise; "not good-night
yet awhile. 'Tis hours too early."
"I like not thy trick of exaggerating," rebukefully said he. "One
hour, and barely, for the clock has already struck seven--it may be
sooner--"
"Yes, indeed," briskly interrupted she, "and I am not for going to
sleep at sunset, with the little chits of sparrows--"
[Sidenote: Cross-questioning.]
"And magpies! You grow pert, mistress. Come!" sternly added
Rumbold, "I'll have no more of the May-day wantonness we wot of. Do
as I bid you."
"But, father--"
"Do you hear me?" thundered the maltster. "I desire to be alone.
That is--I need not your company."
"'Twill be so lonesome for you," said Ruth; "I think it would have
cheered you in this twilight time if--"
"I need it not, I tell you," quickly interrupted Rumbold. "I
expect--visitors," and he coughed huskily.
"Visitors!"
"Ay; that is to say," stammered Rumbold, "it--it is possible."
"Visitors! and nothing prepared for them to eat!" cried the little
housemistress aghast.
"They are not of the sort who set store by rich meats and costly
wine-bibbing. They come--to confer with me, on--on important
questions."
"Is it the price of grain, father? I heard Parson Alsides saying to
Master Lockit only this very morning that it was at a most ruinous
price--seventy shillings a quarter, he said; and that if the farmers
and the employers--such as you, father, dear, and Lawrence Lee, I
suppose, would but put their heads together to devise how it could be
cheapened for the poor, 'twould be, he said, a right blessed day's
work, and a vast deal better than the hatching of all sorts of plots,
and--"
"Eh! eh! eh! Parson Alsides is a chattering old sycophant, who is
always prating for the pensions he gets out of the king's own privy
purse. Though, mind you, child, I don't say I would not spare the
matter consideration when more serious concerns allow me leisure."
"I hoped you had done with those for ever, father," said Ruth
gravely; "'twas a serious concern, indeed, when poor King Charles was
killed, and you--"
"I! how now?" cried Rumbold, turning sharply upon her. "What had I
to do with that?"
"What had you not, father?" said Ruth, in tones of sturdy reproach.
"Why, many's the time Maudlin has told me how you stood by and saw it
done."
[Sidenote: A bitter-sweet story.]
"And beshrew her chattering old tongue for her pains! I'd have had
it cut out, had I caught her at her tales. 'Tis no fit one for your
ears, Ruth," he added, in sad slow tones.
"Indeed, father; I could always stop them with my fingers when she
begins about it; and yet still I must listen. 'Tis such a
bitter-sweet story--poor king!"
"And yet," went on Rumbold, changing his mood, "after all, why should
I be sorry to think that you know your father can look his duty in
the face."
"Oh, father!" she began reproachfully.
"Let be, child," he interrupted, turning away, and thrusting his
hands gloomily down into his pockets, "'Whatsoever thy hand findeth
to do,' saith the Scripture, 'do it with all thy might.' 'Tis
enough."
"Indeed, indeed enough," said Ruth, stealing beside him, "and you
will meddle no more in such things, eh, father?"
"And who told you I dreamed of doing so?" he demanded in unsteady and
excited tones.
"You must rest and be comfortable," went on Ruth, twining her arms
about his neck, and stroking his rugged face; "so snug here, isn't
it, in our beautiful old Rye House? And you must be content to rest
now, and have your little Ruth take care of you, and sing--for you
say I have a tuneful voice, eh, dear--of the Land 'where the wicked
cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest,' and the gentle
green pastures, and the godly hymns you taught me when I was a small
thing you could dandle on your knee. Promise me, dear heart," she
went on coaxingly, when Rumbold's only answer was an attempt to shake
her off, "never to meddle more. Let the bad cruel-hearted men make
their plots, for 'tis all their wits can reach to, I doubt. But for
one like you, who can make such malt as is not to be found besides in
all Hertfordshire, oh, I'd stick to it."
[Sidenote: Rumbold's changes of mood.]
"And stick you to your churn and your wheel, Mistress Oracle," said
the maltster, fondly stroking her soft brown hair, "and discourse not
so glibly of what you do not understand a whit more than your own
frisky Tab there, who is tearing up your fine chap-books with her
claws. What should kings, and such kittle cattle's doings be to you?"
[Sidenote: Words about majesty.]
"Nay, little enough," said Ruth, turning to rescue her precious
books, and taking the destructive Tab in her arms, "though in truth
sometimes I think I should like to see our King Charles," she went
on, dreamily twiddling the kitten's ears.
"Have you not seen him many a time, silly child?" said Rumbold.
"In a fashion, ay, yes, as he has ridden by yonder in his coach, and
his Grace of York too of course, but 'tis such a glimpse; just enough
to set one caring to look him face to face. Have you ever done that,
father?"
"No--yes--I scarcely know," frowned Rumbold.
"'Tis a right kind merry face, isn't it?"
"I see no such things in it," growled Rumbold; "an ordinary swarthy
one enough to my thinking."
"Yet Goodman Speedwell, when he went up to London last year to sell
his pigs, said 'twas a rare and gracious one, and a pure fine sight
to see him playing with his little dogs in Saint James's Park, and
feeding the ducks in the canal with his own royal hands. Oh, he must
be a pleasant-humoured gentleman!"
"He's just a mortal man, I take it, very mortal, and when he's
angered spares none, for all his fine forgetting and forgiving talk."
"There it is," said Ruth, "'tis scarce to be expected that he who has
been so wronged, should be so forgiving as the Bible would have us.
Nowadays, if a man sin against his brother, and kings are our
brothers, eh, father? in a fashion of speaking they are our elder
brothers, eh, father, dear?"
"Beshrew thee, child," impatiently frowned the maltster, "what has
come to you?"
"I say 'tis a stretch if that man shall be forgiven twice, that is
what I am thinking of; and those who plotted the killing of Charles
the First, and were pardoned, would scarce be let go a second time,
if--if--" she faltered, and coloured deeply.
"If what, mistress?" sternly challenged Rumbold.
"If they should harbour ill thoughts against Charles the Second."
It was the maltster's turn to look aside, as she lifted her appealing
eyes to his face. "Come, come," he said, "a truce to this silly
chatter. Good-night; and hark you, give me the key of the
communicating door between your chamber and the Warder's Room. Have
it you about you?"
[Sidenote: The key of the warder's room.]
"Yes, father; here," and she disengaged one of the keys from the
bunch hanging at her girdle, and handed it to him, wonderingly.
"Very good," he said, taking it from her and pocketing it, "'tis your
own fault, for your carelessness, Ruth," he went on; "this morning
was the second time I found that door ajar. If I find it so ever
again, I'll have it walled up. For the present I'll hold the key in
my keeping."
"But, father," protested Ruth, "Adam Lockit--"
"Adam Lockit grows stupid and deaf, and Diggles is but one remove
from an idiot, and the arrantest coward breathing."
"Only about ghosts, father; you should see him lay about him with the
cudgels on double his size in flesh and blood. And he's keen as any
hare for the slightest sound or stir."
[Sidenote: An abrumpt "good-night."]
"Humph!" said the maltster, "flibbertigibbets, all should be abed and
snoring by nine o' the clock. So good-night, child, and pleasant
dreams." And with another kiss, Rumbold dismissed his daughter.