A LETTER FROM COURT.
Affairs in the forest had settled down; "excursions and alarums" were
no longer the order of the day and the dread of the night. Wounded men
were healed of the hurts gotten in the fray with the conspirators, and
their whole-skinned neighbours had ceased to ask them how they did and
envy them the marks of patriotic valour that they carried on their
bodies. The dead were buried, and the tears of wives, mothers, and
sisters were dried, and sad memories--when they came--called up only a
sigh of resignation: "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away!"
They humbly thanked the Lord that He had given their men honourable
passage into the next world.
The admiral was no longer at Gatcombe, but had gone to London, and
thence to Plymouth. Raleigh had gone to London with him, and in London
had he stayed. After the solitude of the forest, the gaiety of the
court attracted him strongly; and, as her most gracious Majesty was
disposed to smile upon him, he had said to Drake, "The sun shines,
Frank; beshrew me if I stray out of the circle of its warm rays." To
which the seaman replied, "God forgive thee, Wat, for dancing so much
after a woman's heels. The sea--as I know full well--can be
treacherous, but I serve a less fickle mistress than thou."
Raleigh laughed lightly, kissed the storm-roughened cheek of his
friend, and bade him God-speed. "What would our royal mistress say if
she heard thee call her 'fickle'?" he whispered.
"I am not fool enough, Wat, to speak such words in her hearing. But
have a care--courts are slippery places in which to walk. An honest
man is safer on a ship's deck during a hurricane than on a palace floor
even when the royal sun is shining. Have a care of thyself, dear
heart, if only for the sake of us rough sea-dogs of Devon that love
thee."
Whereupon Raleigh kissed the admiral again, and sent loving messages to
Jack Hawkins and Dick Grenville and all the other gallant gentlemen
that quaffed their ale with eyes on the sea on Plymouth Hoe.
Johnnie Morgan stood watching the last wagon from his harvest field go
creaking and groaning into the rickyard in the rear of his house. It
was quite early in the afternoon, and the September sun shone with an
ardour worthy of fierce July. There was a wind, but it came dead from
the south, and its passage across the hot, moist sands of the river had
no cooling influence upon it. Johnnie mopped his brow and leant
wearily upon a pitchfork whilst a maiden ran indoors for a flagon of
cider. She came back, followed closely by a dusty stranger.
The farmer stared at the stranger. The latter surveyed Johnnie pretty
coolly, measured him from head to heel, and then took off his hat with
a sweeping forward movement of the arm. "By the look of thee thou art
Master Morgan, the yeoman of Blakeney, for whom I have hunted high and
low since noon," he exclaimed.
"I am Master Morgan," replied Johnnie; "who art thou?"
"Timothy Jeffreys, at your service. I serve the good knight, Sir
Walter Raleigh."
"Say no more until thy throat be better moistened," cried Morgan,
handing him the flagon of cider. "Let it never be said that a message
from the noble Sir Walter was spoken to me with dry lips."
Master Jeffreys took the cider off at a draught. "Passable--on a hot
day, palatable--to a man thirsty enough to lap from a wayside ditch;
but--!" he shook his head expressively, "'tis not Devonshire juice,
Master Morgan."
"True; 'tis good Glo'stershire, and we humble forest folk keep sound
heads and sound stomachs by quaffing it. I'm sorry 'tis not to your
liking; maybe I should cry 'faugh!' over your Devonshire tipple, good
sir." Johnnie was annoyed, for he prided himself on his apple-brew,
and the airs and graces of Master Jeffreys were not altogether to his
liking. "You have a message to me," he said. "No doubt you will tell
it better sitting than standing. Come into my parlour.--Meg, take this
gentleman's cloak and dust it, and bring him a brush for his boots."
The maid took the horseman's cloak, and her master led his guest
indoors. Meg was ready on the threshold to brush off the heavy coating
of red, forest dust.
"Bachelor?" asked Jeffreys when he found himself lying back in a cosy
chair, a bowl of sweet, old-time flowers adjacent to his nose.
"Bachelor!" answered Johnnie.
"Pardon my question; but this room is so trim and neat that, methought,
there must be some dainty housewife under the roof."
"And thou wert curious to see her."
"Exactly. I have travelled, Master Morgan, and I love to look about me
and ponder upon what I see."
"Thy conclusions are not always correct."
"The wisest men make mistakes, Master Morgan."
"What a comfort to us that are fools!" ejaculated the forester. "But
thy message, my good sir."
"I like thy house; 'tis uncommon pretty."
"A good enough nest," assented Morgan.
"Wants another bird in it."
"True!"
"Thou hast no thought of quitting the homestead?"
"Heaven forbid! 'twas my father's before me. I'll never leave it."
"That's a pity."
"How so?"
"I've come down to fetch thee away."
Johnnie was losing patience with his visitor. His thoughts were busy
with the rick-makers in the yard, and Master Jeffreys was in no hurry
to say his say and be gone. He gave himself more airs than the knight
his master. "Sit and rest thyself," exclaimed the farmer, getting up.
"I can see that thy story will keep another hour. I'll send the wench
into thee with some ale and venison. Eat and drink and take thine ease
until I come to thee again." Without another word he vanished.
"A hasty fellow," commented Master Jeffreys. "A few trees and a muddy
river make up his world. A winter in London will open his eyes and
give him a broader view of life; then he will behave in a more leisured
manner."
Johnnie saw to the unlading of his last wagon and the shaping off of
his wheat-rick. Then he went indoors again, and found his visitor
ready to deliver his message without any more beating about the bush.
It was short, but pointed. Jeffreys--who described himself as a poor
gentleman of Devon attached to the fortunes of his more famous
neighbour--was instructed to invite, or rather command, Master Morgan's
presence in London. Raleigh had spoken of him to the Queen, and the
admiral had also written concerning him. Her Majesty was anxious to
see the valiant forester, and Jeffreys duly impressed upon him the
necessity of seizing so glorious a chance to push his fortunes.
But Morgan was not so eager; in fact, he told the messenger that, much
as he loved Raleigh and honoured the Queen, he did not propose to
venture into London. Jeffreys argued. Morgan was firm. "I'll not
come except at the direct command of the good Sir Walter or the Queen.
If I am left any choice in the matter, I choose to abide in the forest."
"Very well," said Jeffreys, "then I'll be going. My steed will be
rested. Canst give me a guide to Newnham? I want a Captain Dawe."
"Ah!" cried Johnnie, all ears in a moment.
"The knight hath commissioned me to deliver a letter to a Mistress
Dorothy Dawe."
"Then I'll get me out of my workday suit and walk to Newnham with
thee," exclaimed the farmer. "There's nought so refreshing as a tramp
along the shaded, woodland ways, and I have a little business of mine
own to do with Captain Dawe. I shall serve thee and myself at the same
time." So much the yeoman said aloud. Inwardly he muttered, "I'll not
have this bowing and scraping image ducking and bobbing before my
Dolly, and sniffing round her parlour like a dog that hopes to start
some quarry from behind chair or table. He'll be in luck if his
message-carrying doesn't get him a cracked crown. I hope the knight
hath not many such as he in his train."
Jeffreys stared when his guide came again into the sunny parlour
prepared for his walk to Newnham. The rough farmer in hodden gray had
disappeared, and in his place stood a stalwart and handsome young
gentleman in green slashed doublet and hosen of soft cream cloth. A
green cap with a white swan's feather perched jauntily on the dark,
curling hair, and from a belt of pale buckskin hung a sword with a
delicately chased handle. The "poor gentleman of Devon" fresh from
London and the court felt as gay as a dusty barndoor fowl might feel
beside a lordly peacock.
"La! Master Morgan," he cried, "I'm glad thou hast no mind for London
in my company. In good sooth, I've no wish to walk down Chepe or
Whitehall with thee at my elbow. Ne'er a wench would give an eye to
me. Even through the forest, with nought save the birds and beasts to
quiz at us, I think I'll come along humbly in the rear with my cap in
my hand. You foresters go a-visiting in as smart a guise as a town
gallant goes to the play. Dost mind if I wash my face, comb my locks,
and have another brushing ere we set forth?"
"Ha' done with thy jesting, good sir; thou art a traveller from afar,
and lookest the part to perfection. I am at mine ease at home going to
pay a call to a pretty neighbour. Let us be jogging; 'tis a long walk
to Newnham, and the afternoon is wearing late."
The two young men set out for the little river town. Morgan at first
had little to say, and let his companion rattle on as he pleased about
London--its streets, shops, taverns, and theatres. But, by-and-by, he
became eager over the wild beauties of river and forest, and he told
tales of cave and cliff and pool, of boar and deer, pirate and
fisherman, and forced Master Jeffreys to listen. And so they got to
Newnham and the pretty cottage with fair flowers outside and a fairer
flower within. "This is Captain Dawe's house," said Johnnie.
"I thank thee heartily. I can knock and introduce myself and mine
errand, and leave thee free to go at once to the pretty maid in whose
honour thou hast decked thyself so gallantly."
"Trouble not thyself, Master Jeffreys; I shall do my business the
better by coming in to quicken thine. Follow me; I am in the habit of
entering this house without going through the ceremony of knocking."
Saying this, the forester lifted the latch and stood aside for his
companion to cross the threshold first. A sound of singing came from
the kitchen.
"A pretty bird in a pretty cage," said Jeffreys.
"E'en so," commented Morgan; "thine eyes and ears are passably good for
a townsman. Pardon me leaving thee for a moment."
Morgan strode off kitchenwards. There was a sudden, "La, Jack! thou
dost look like a feast day. Mind the flour!" After that Jeffreys
always declared that he heard the sound of a vigorous kiss. Silence
followed; then excited whisperings; then a scamper of light feet; and
Morgan returned and ushered his waiting companion into the parlour.
"Captain Dawe is down by the river," he said; "Mistress Dorothy will be
with us anon."
"And the pretty bird that sang in the kitchen over the flour tub?"
"Was Mistress Dorothy."
"Thy sleeve is whitened, Master Morgan."
Johnnie coolly brushed away the tell-tale smudge. "Women always
smother a room up on baking-day," he replied.
Dorothy came in.
"This is Sir Walter's man, who hath a packet for thee.--Master
Jeffreys, this is Mistress Dawe."
Dorothy curtsied, and the messenger bowed. "Never had long journey so
pretty and pleasant an ending," he said. "Here is a packet from my
master, the gallant knight Sir Walter Raleigh. I am to take back an
answer."
Dorothy took the packet, blushing at the sight of the pretty ribbons
wherewith it was tied. "I am honoured indeed," she murmured; "pray you
be seated, fair sir."