THE ROAD TO NOTTINGHAM
Over in the marsh beyond the dim highway the frogs were piping their
lonesome note; the shrilling call of autumnal insects sounded from the
wayside; of a sudden the waste darkness reëchoed with solitary noises.
All came clearly to Hugh’s ear in the hush that followed his
grandfather’s words, and with them something that was akin to fright
laid hold on him. Outside the park gate the world looked vast and black;
he felt himself weak in his youthfulness, so even the butt of his pistol
for which he groped did not strengthen his courage. He looked to his
grandfather and involuntarily made a step toward him, but Master
Oldesworth still stood with his hands upon the top of his staff and
watched him but made no sign. With a stinging sense of rebuff Hugh drew
back and held himself quiet, while he strove to think clearly and so
make his resolution without prejudice. But all the time he felt that
invisible hands were surely haling him back to Everscombe and with his
whole will he struggled against them. “Will it be ended past question
when I go out at the gateway?” he cried, almost before his thought had
framed the words.
He did not even wait for an assent, but as he spoke stepped out beyond
the pillars of the gate into the rough highway. There he faced about
suddenly. “Grandfather,” he cried, “I—I am grateful for all you have
done for me. Prithee, forgive me.” The words died away then, for he saw
Master Oldesworth had turned and was walking slowly toward Everscombe,
nor did he once look back.
For an instant it was borne in on Hugh to run after his grandfather, to
implore pardon, to beg to be taken back and suffered to live the old
dull life at the manor house; then the impulse left him and he was more
ashamed of it than of his previous wavering. Still he lingered by the
gate, straining his eyes into the dusk of the park till long after he
had lost sight of Master Oldesworth. Once more he became aware of the
sad piping of frogs in the marsh, and he listened stupidly, while
heavier and heavier he felt the weight of loneliness press upon him. For
he now realized that his decision had indeed been irrevocable; for all
time he was cut off from his kinsfolk and his only home.
When at last he turned slowly from the gateway there was no hopefulness
in his step nor did he lift his eyes from the ground, unless to glance
up at the familiar trees of the park that he should not see again. But
at length, through the branches before him, he beheld Charles’s Wain
shining clear and the bright Pole Star that seemed to point him
northward to the king and to his father. At that Hugh straightened his
drooping shoulders resolutely and in good earnest set forth upon his
journey.
The new moon had long been set, but the stars were bright and the way
amid the trees was plain to follow. A pleasant freshness of the early
fall was in the faint night breeze and yet a lurking chill, that made
Hugh glad to draw his cloak closer and trudge on more briskly. It was
not long after midnight when he reached the first cottage on the
outskirts of the village of Kingsford; he had passed the cheery little
timbered dwelling many a time, but now, muffled in the night, it seemed
unfamiliar. As his feet crunched the gravel of the road before the
cottage he heard the house dog bark within, and a sudden feeling of
being shut out came over him. The dark houses, as he hurried by them,
had the awesome blankness of sleeping faces; even in the woods he had
not been so lonely as here in Kingsford, where human beings were within
call.
But as he drew to the end of the straggling village he slackened his
pace. The road, ascending slightly here, skirted the churchyard, where
he could see the light streak that marked the pathway, and the huddled
stones, blacker against the turf. For a moment he rested his arms upon
the lich wall and stood gazing across the graves at the dense bulk of
the little Norman church, with its side porch overshadowed by a dark yew
tree and its square tower cleanly outlined against the starry sky. In
the chancel of the church his mother lay buried. She would have approved
what he was doing, he told himself; she would gladly have returned to
Alan Gwyeth. With every fibre of his resolution newly braced he once
more took up his march, down the gentle slope and across the one-arched
bridge that spanned the river Arrow. There, with the sound of the
hurrying water in his ears, he paused and took a final glance at the
tower of Kingsford church, and as he passed on wondered vaguely if he
should ever set eyes on it again, and when, and how.
Beyond Kingsford the road ran once more through woods with now and again
a space of open land or a retired farmhouse. Hugh gave little heed to
the country round him, however; he noted only that he had firm road
beneath his feet, the cool morning wind in his face, and the stars
overhead to light him. But the wind grew chilly and faint with
approaching dawn; the stars paled; from far away across the cleared
fields a cock crowed and another answered him. When Hugh entered the
village next beyond Kingsford, the sky was fading to a dull leaden color
and he shivered with the cold of breaking day. Already people were
beginning to stir; he met laborers going afield and from roadside barns
heard men shouting to cattle, and the bark of dogs. About the little inn
there were some signs of life, so he entered and bought bread of a
tousled-headed woman. Coming out of the house he saw the eastern sky was
breaking into billows of pink, and a little later the cold yellow sun
burst forth.
Hugh munched his bread as he tramped along, and the food and the
daylight heartened him wonderfully. When the sun got higher he slung his
cloak over one shoulder, whistled for company, and almost felt it in his
heart to run when he came to an especially even bit of road. For he was
his own man now, out in the world, with his pistol at his side, his five
shillings and odd pence in his pocket, and his face set toward
Nottingham.
Something before noon he trudged into the great town of Warwick and made
his way to a tavern he knew from his school days. That time was now a
good four months past, so he felt entitled to put a bit of swagger into
his gait and rather hoped that in his new freedom he might meet with
some of his former schoolfellows. But he kept a wary eye out for his old
master, Doctor Masham, who, he suspected, might apprehend him on the
spot for a runaway and pack him off to Everscombe; so he drew a breath
of relief when he reached the tavern in safety. There he bought him
sixpence worth of bread and meat, and, too hungry to give great heed to
the varied company in which he found himself, spared expense by eating
in the common room.
As his hunger abated he became aware of an exceeding stiffness in the
muscles of his legs which made him almost wince when he rose again. He
hobbled as far as the door, where a bench in the sun proved so tempting
that he sat down to rest him just a moment before starting out. Not only
did his legs ache but he found his eyelids heavy and his head dull, and
he was possessed of a great desire to yawn and stretch himself. He
finally lay down with his head on his arms and would have given himself
up to thoughts of Nottingham, only an endless line of swaying trees and
dark farmhouses kept sliding before his eyes.
The next thing he knew some one shook him, and he heard the voice of one
of the drawers saying, “Now then, master, dost mean to pay us for the
use o’ that bench?”
Hugh blinked his eyes open and sat up stiffly; one or two idlers stood
gazing at him with amused faces, but for the rest the inn porch was
deserted, and the sunlight had climbed above the windows of the second
story. “Why, what’s the time?” he cried, broad awake as he perceived
that.
“Mid-afternoon and long past,” said the drawer, whereat Hugh jumped to
his feet and walked away, so vexed at his sluggishness that for the
first half-mile he scarcely heeded the soreness of his legs.
After that his gait grew slower and more halting, but he set his teeth
and pulled himself along, as if it were an enemy he held by the collar;
he had made up his mind to sleep some six or eight miles out of Warwick
at a hamlet that marked the furthest limit of his school rambles, and
his plan should not be altered because he had foolishly slept away
precious time. The sun set and left him toiling along the highway; the
twilight darkened; and the crescent of the moon was riding low among the
stars, when Hugh dragged his tired feet over the threshold of the inn
for which he aimed. The house was about closing and there was little
welcome for this belated traveller, but from sheer weariness the boy was
past resenting uncivil usage. He ate thankfully what was given him,
stumbled away to his chamber, and, almost before he had flung off his
dusty clothes, was sound asleep.
When he woke the mid-morning sun was streaming through the window full
in his face, but there was a sharpness in the air of the little chamber
that made him pull the blankets up to his chin. The poor inn bed seemed
far more comfortable than any he had slept upon at Everscombe; it took
an inordinate amount of resolution to rise from it, and an equal courage
to drag his shoes on to his swollen feet. But he had already lost the
bracing early hours of the day and he must waste no more time in
coddling himself, so he took the road at once, as briskly as his limbs
would bear him.
Sore and stiff as he still was from yesterday’s long march, he made slow
progress; it was close on midday when, passing through the town of
Coventry, he entered upon the old Roman road, the Fosse, which he was to
follow. The sight of the straight way stretching endlessly northeast
discouraged him at first, but after a short rest he pulled himself
together and, hobbling on, half forgot the pain in his heels in the
exhilaration of going forward. It was new country he was now passing
through, for he was no traveller; Everscombe to Warwick had been his
usual round, save for that one trip into Worcestershire with Frank
Pleydall. Since the last year, when Peregrine had been up to London with
his father, Hugh had fretted at the narrow range of his journeyings and
felt aggrieved at having made his German travels so young that he could
cudgel up only scant recollections of them. But now Peregrine might go
to London or Staffordshire or whither he pleased; Hugh felt no jealousy,
for he knew it was far pleasanter to be an independent traveller, bound
to Nottingham and a soldier father.
Thus, though he no longer had any wish to run, he contrived to jog along
quite cheerily till mid-afternoon. Then the low-lying clouds darkened
and a soft rain, striking chilly against Hugh’s face, made him glad to
pull his cloak up to his eyes. The fields and cottages looked gray
through the downpour, and then all he saw was the broad puddles of the
roadway, as of necessity he bent his head against the storm. At each
step he could hear the water oozing in his shoes, his stockings were
clammy wet, and his hat brim flapped cold against his forehead; but as
the afternoon waned he lost these single sensations, and only knew that
from head to foot he was soaked and numb and weary. Still he plodded on,
because he must hold out till he reached an inn, but it was at a heavy
mechanical pace, while he counted the steps and wondered drearily if the
march would never end.
Twilight was turning to night when he splashed at last into a
considerable village and stumbled into the first inn to which he came.
There was a brisk fire in the common room and but one other guest, so
Hugh was free to slip into the chimney corner and dry his dripping
clothes while he ate his supper. For civility’s sake he began talking to
his companion, from whom he learned that he was now over the boundary
and into Leicestershire. The knowledge gave him a childish homesick
pang; Everscombe seemed to have fallen hopelessly far behind him and
Nottingham was still distant the length of a county. With no further
care to eat he thrust aside his trencher and dragged himself off to bed.
In his waking moments he heard the rain plashing softly on the thatch of
the shed beneath his window, and with the morning light he found the sky
still gray and the storm still beating down. He put out one hand to his
coat, flung on the stool beside his pallet, and felt that it was not
half dried from yesterday’s soaking. Then for a time he rested quiet
again, while he wondered in half-shamed fashion if he might not lie by a
day till the storm was over. But when he reckoned up his store of money,
he saw he could not afford to lose so many hours; it was yet more than
two days’ march to Nottingham, and he had not full three shillings to
keep him on the way. He wondered at the speed with which money went, for
he was new to ordering such matters; hitherto he had been sure of his
three meals a day and bed at night, and looked upon stray sixpences as
valuable only for the apples and tops into which they might be turned.
He put that last recollection out of his head as speedily as possible,
ashamed of his scarcely ended childhood, and, accepting the
responsibilities of the manhood he had claimed for himself, got up and
dragged on his damp clothes.
After breakfasting he wrapped his sodden cloak about him and plunged
resolutely out into the rain. The heavy mud stayed him with clogging his
shoes, but he was now somewhat seasoned for the march and managed to
keep up a pace that, though not of the fastest, was steady. So he came
at length through the afternoon drizzle to the town of Leicester, which
he loyally told himself was not the half as fine as his own old Warwick.
But none the less he made his lodging there that night, and he went to
bed hopefully; for the western clouds were showing a faint yellow streak
that promised better weather on the morrow.
Sure enough, when morning came the rain had ceased to fall, and though
the air was still heavy with mist there seemed a prospect the sun might
yet break through. Hugh took the highway in gay spirits, and plodding
along at a stouter pace than on the day before congratulated himself on
covering such a deal of ground. But by noon he came to a less flattering
estimate of himself; for, talking with an idler at a small tavern he had
entered to buy his dinner, he discovered he was now following the Fosse
not to Nottingham but to Newark. Thereat Hugh faced about to retrace his
steps, too vexed at his own stupidity to allow himself to stop for
dinner. His informant called after him some direction about a cross-way
to the Nottingham road, which he scarcely heeded at the moment; but
afterward, when he was out of the village, he remembered, and striking
across the fields came into a narrow road full of ruts and great
puddles.
At first Hugh splashed along recklessly, but presently, when a streak of
sunlight crept through the trees and turned the puddles bright, he let
his pace slacken and little by little brought himself back to a more
contented mood. After all, he could make up by steady walking what he
had lost, and in any case Nottingham was now less than two days’ journey
distant. He began whistling for content, then stopped, as a rustling in
the bushes ahead caught his ear. He saw the branches crackle outward,
and two men, bursting through, came swinging down the roadway to meet
him.
Recovering from his first surprise, Hugh prepared to give them the usual
traveller’s good day, but on second glance kept to his side of the road
and walked more rapidly. One of the fellows was thick-set and well
tanned, and chewed a straw as he trudged; the other, a younger man, clad
like a field laborer, was taller and hulking, with a bearded, low-browed
face. As they came abreast he bade Hugh a surly good even and on the
word, almost before the boy could reply, gave a grip at his collar. Hugh
dodged back and pulled out his pistol, while the thought flashed through
his head that running was impossible in this mire,—and then it was not
befitting his father’s son. Next instant the tall man sprang upon him
and Hugh, thrusting the pistol into his face, pulled the trigger, then
felt the weapon knocked out of his hand and found himself grappling with
his big antagonist. The man’s fingers pressed into his throat, he knew;
and he remembered afterward how a smooch of red flecked the fellow’s
beard, as he dashed his fist against his mouth. Then he was griping the
other about the neck, hammering up at that stained face, and he heard
the fellow bawl, “Devil and all! Why don’t ’ee come in and help me,
Jock?” Another gruff voice retorted, “If thou canst not handle a younker
like that, thou deservest to have bloody teeth.” Then of a sudden Hugh
found himself twisted over so he saw the sky above him all shot with
black, and he felt a bursting pain in his forehead. Thrusting up his
hands gropingly, he went down full length in the mud without strength
enough in him to move, even when the tall man knelt over him and, with
one hand on his throat, rifled his pockets.
“Here, have back your pistol, master,” he heard the gruff voice say, and
he dimly saw the well tanned man, with a grin on his face, fling the
pistol down in the mud beside him. Then the two walked off at their old
swinging pace, and Hugh dragged himself up on his elbow and lay staring
uncomprehendingly at his bleeding knuckles. After a time he got
painfully to his feet and in mechanical fashion reckoned up the damages;
they had taken his cloak and cleaned his pockets of money and of
everything but the creased letter from Frank Pleydall and a loose bit of
string. They had left him nothing but the torn and well-muddied clothes
he wore and the pistol, that now was all befouled with mire. As Hugh
picked it up all the hot anger of the actual conflict swept over him
again, and with some wild idea of making the robbers restore their
plunder he staggered a few steps down the road. Then strength failed
him, and dropping down by the roadside he sat with his aching head in
his hands. The world was a brutal place, he reflected with dumb
resentment; even if a man had courage enough he did not always have the
muscle to defend his own, not even with a pistol to back him.
It did not better matters to sit there and whimper so after a time he
rose and, still rather dazed with his drubbing, went unsteadily on his
way. At the first brook he halted to wash his wounded hands and cleanse
the pistol, which he dried upon his coat as well as he could. The rest
of the afternoon he marched slowly because of the dizziness in his head,
and so the twilight had overtaken him before he reached the main road
and a village that lay upon it.
Close by the wayside stood a tavern, where candles were lighted and food
would be cooking, but Hugh only gave one wistful look and passed on. He
made his supper of a drink of water from the public well, and, falling
in speech there with some loiterers, he found he was now into the shire
of Nottingham and not above ten miles from the town. His heart jumped at
the news, but next moment he was telling himself he could not tramp
those miles in the dark and he grew sober as he realized unwillingly
that he must sleep in the open. Till mid-evening he lingered in the
village street, then, drawing reluctantly away from the sight of the few
candles that still shone in cottages, passed on to the outskirts of the
hamlet. After a cautious reconnoissance he crept through a hedge into a
field, where he had dimly made out in the darkness a stack of straw, in
the lee of which he snuggled down. The straw rustled with startling
loudness at his least movement, and the earth beneath him was so damp
his teeth chattered in his head. The strangeness of the place kept him
many moments awake, but he held his eyes shut that he might not have
sight of the lowering sky. Little by little he forgot it all and fell to
thinking of the last time he had lain in the open, when he and Sam
Oldesworth had stolen out for a frolic to lie the night in Everscombe
Park. How Sam would have marvelled at this nights doings! And Lois, only
Lois would have pitied him, like a girl.
Then he knew there had been a long space in which Lois and all other
remembrances left him, and he found himself shivering in the midst of
wet straw with gray morning light all around him. He crawled to his feet
and making his way to the highroad slowly set forth again. He was keenly
hungry with his twenty-four hours of fasting and stiff with the dampness
of his lodging, but he cheered himself with the thought that before
night he would be in Nottingham. He would have enough to eat then, and a
bed to sleep in, and decent clothes once more; but he put aside these
creature comforts at the thought that he would see his father before he
slept again. He wondered what his father would say, and he planned what
he would tell him, and how he would make light of his long walk and the
hunger and the cold.
His heart fairly jumped within him when at last, in the mid-afternoon,
he saw from a hill a great congregation of houses and steeples, which he
knew must be Nottingham. He started down the hill on the run, though his
knees were smiting together with his long fast. He thought he could keep
up the pace clear to the gates of the town, but a troublesome stone got
into his shoe, so presently he had to pause and sit down under a hedge
to look to it. As he was pulling on the shoe again a man passing by bade
him good day, and Hugh, seeing there were houses within call, so he need
not fear a second assault, entered into talk with him: “Yonder’s
Nottingham, is it not?”
“O’ course,” answered the other, proportioning his courtesy to the state
of Hugh’s jacket.
“How do you like having a king lie so near?” Hugh laughed for the sheer
happiness that was in him.
“Ill enough,” growled the other, “wi’ his swaggering ruffians breaking
our fields and kissing our wenches. Praise Heaven they be gone now.”
“Gone?” Hugh echoed blankly.
“Ay, his Majesty and the whole crew of his rakehelly followers went
packing westward three days back.”