I LEAVE JOAN AND RIDE TO THE WARS.
You may guess how I felt at being thus properly fooled. And the worst
was I could see no way to mend it; for against the barricade between us
I might have beat myself for hours, yet only hurt my fists: and the wall
was so smooth and high, that even by standing on Molly’s back I could
not—by a foot or more—reach the top to pull myself over.
There was nothing for it but to turn homewards, down the hill: which I
did, chewing the cud of my folly, and finding it bitter as gall. What
consoled me somewhat was the reflection that his threats were, likely
enough, mere vaporing: for of any breach of the late compact between
the parties I had heard nothing, and never seem’d a country more wholly
given up to peace than that through which I had ridden in the morning.
So recalling Master Tingcomb’s late face of terror, and the confession
in my pocket, I felt more cheerful. “England has grown a strange place,
if I cannot get justice on this villain,” thought I; and rode forward,
planning a return-match and a sweet revenge.
There is no more soothing game, I believe, in the world than this of
holding imaginary triumphant discourse with your enemy. Yet (oddly) it
brought me but cold comfort on this occasion, my wound being too recent
and galling. The sky, so long clouded, was bright’ning now, and growing
serener every minute: the hills were thick with fox-gloves, the vales
white with hawthorn, smelling very sweetly in the cool of the day: but
I, with the bridle flung on Molly’s neck, pass’d them by, thinking only
of my discomfiture, and barely rousing myself to give back a “Good-day”
to those that met me on the road. Nor, till we were on the downs and
Joan’s cottage came in sight, did I shake the brooding off.
Joan was not in the kitchen when I arrived, nor about the buildings; nor
yet could I spy her anywhere moving on the hills. So, after calling to
her once or twice, I stabled the mare, and set off up the tor side to
seek her.
Now I must tell you that since the day of my coming I had made many
attempts to find the place where Joan had then hidden me, and always
fruitlessly: though I knew well whereabouts it must be. Indeed, I had
thought at first I had only to walk straight to the hole: yet found
after repeated trials but solid earth and boulders for my pains.
But to-day as I climb’d past the spot, something very bright flashed in
my eyes and dazzled me, and rubbing them and looking, I saw a great hole
in the hill—facing to the sou’-west—in the very place I had search’d
for it; and out of this a beam of light glancing.
Creeping near on tiptoe, I found one huge block of granite that before
had seemed bedded, among a dozen fellow-boulders, against the turf—the
base resting on another well-nigh as big—was now rolled back; having
been fixed to work smoothly on a pivot, yet so like nature that no eye,
but by chance, could detect it. Now, who in the beginning designed this
hiding place I leave you to consider; and whether it was the Jews or
Phoenicians—nations, I am told, that once work’d the hills around for
tin. But inside ’twas curiously paved and lined with slabs of granite,
the specks of ore in which, I noted, were the points of light that had
once puzzled me. And here was Joan’s bower, and Joan herself inside it.
She was sitting with her back to me, in her left hand holding up the
mirror, that caught the rays of the now sinking sun (and thus had
dazzled me), while with her right she tried to twist into some form of
knot her tresses—black, and coarse as a horse’s mane—that already she
had roughly braided. A pail of water stood beside her; and around lay
scatter’d a score or more of long thorns, cut to the shape of hair pins.
’Tis probable that after a minute’s watching I let some laughter escape
me. At any rate Joan turned, spied me, and scrambled up, with an angry
red on her cheek. Then I saw that her bodice was neater lac’d than
usual, and a bow of yellow ribbon (fish’d up heaven knows whence) stuck
in the bosom. But the strangest thing was to note the effect of this new
tidiness upon her: for she took a step forward as if to cuff me by the
ear (as, a day agone, she would have done), and then stopp’d, very shy
and hesitating.
“Why, Joan,” said I, “don’t be anger’d. It suits you choicely—it does
indeed.”
“Art scoffing, I doubt.” She stood looking heavily and askance at me.
“On my faith, no: and what a rare tiring-bower the Jew’s Kitchen makes!
Come, Joan, be debonair and talk to me, for I am out of luck to-day.”
“Forgit it, then” (and she pointed to the sun), “whiles yet some o’t is
left. Tell me a tale, an thou’rt minded.”
“Of what?”
“O’ the bloodiest battle thou’st ever heard tell on.”
So, sitting by the mouth of the Jew’s Kitchen, I told her as much as I
could remember out of Homer’s Iliad, wondering the while what my tutor,
Mr. Josias How, of Trinity College, would think to hear me so use his
teaching. By-and-bye, as I warm’d to the tale, Joan forgot her new
smartness; and at length, when Hector was running from Achilles round
the walls, clapp’d her hands for excitement, crying, “Church an’ King,
lad! Oh, brave work!”
“Why, no,” answered I, “’twas not for that they were fighting;” and
looking at her, broke off with, “Joan, art certainly a handsome girl:
give me a kiss for the mirror.”
Instead of flying out, as I look’d for, she fac’d round, and answered me
gravely—
“That I will not: not to any but my master.”
“And who is that?”
“No man yet; nor shall be till one has beat me sore: him will I love,
an’ follow like a dog—if so be he whack me often enow’.”
“A strange way to love,” laughed I.
She look’d at me straight, albeit with an odd gloomy light in her eyes.
“Think so, Jack? then I give thee leave to try.”
I think there is always a brutality lurking in a man to leap out
unawares. Yet why do I seek excuses, that have never yet found one? To
be plain, I sprang fiercely up and after Joan, who had already started,
and was racing along the slope.
Twice around the tor she led me: and though I strain’d my best, not
a yard could I gain upon her, for her bare feet carried her light and
free. Indeed, I was losing ground, when coming to the Jew’s Kitchen a
second time, she tried to slip inside and shut the stone in my face.
Then should I have been prettily bemock’d, had I not, with a great
effort, contrived to thrust my boot against the door just as it was
closing. Wrenching it open, I laid hand on her shoulder; and in a moment
she had gripp’d me, and was wrestling like a wild-cat.
Now being Cumberland-bred I knew only the wrestling of my own county,
and nothing of the Cornish style. For in the north they stand well
apart, and try to wear down one another’s strength: whereas the Cornish
is a brisker lighter play—and (as I must confess) prettier to watch.
So when Joan rush’d in and closed with me, I was within an ace of being
thrown, pat.
But recovering, I got her at arm’s length, and held her so, while my
heart ach’d to see my fingers gripping her shoulders and sinking into
the flesh. I begg’d off; but she only fought and panted, and struggled
to lock me by the ankles again. I could not have dream’d to find such
fierce strength in a girl. Once or twice she nearly overmastered me: but
at length my stubborn play wore her out. Her breath came short and fast,
then fainter: and in the end, still holding her off, I turned her by the
shoulders, and let her drop quietly on the turf. No thought had I any
longer of kissing her; but stood back, heartily sick and ashamed of
myself.
For awhile she lay, turn’d over on her side, with hands guarding her
head, as if expecting me to strike her. Then gathering herself up, she
came and put her hand in mine, very meekly.
“Had lik’d it better had’st thou stamped the life out o’ me, a’most. But
there, lad—am thine forever!”
’Twas like a buffet in the face to me. “What!” I cried.
She look’d up in my face—dear Heaven, that I should have to write
it!—with eyes brimful, sick with love; tried to speak, but could only
nod: and broke into a wild fit of tears.
I was standing there with her hand in mine, and a burning remorse in my
heart, when I heard the clear notes of a bugle blown, away on the road
to Launceston.
Looking that way, I saw a great company of horse coming down over the
crest, the sun shining level on their arms and a green standard that
they bore in their midst.
Joan spied them the same instant, and check’d her sobs. Without a word
we flung ourselves down full length on the turf to watch.
They were more than a thousand, as I guess’d, and came winding down the
road very orderly, till, being full of them, it seem’d a long serpent
writhing with shiny scales. The tramp of hoofs and jingling of bits were
pretty to hear.
“Rebels!” whisper’d I.
Joan nodded.
There were three regiments in all, whereof the first (and biggest) was
of dragoons. So clear was the air, I could almost read the legend on
their standard, and the calls of their captains were borne up to us
extremely distinct.
As they rode leisurely past, I thought of Master Tingcomb’s threat, and
wonder’d what this array could intend. Nor, turning it over, could I
find any explanation: for the Earl of Stamford’s gathering, he had said,
was in the northeast, and I knew such troops as the Cornish generals had
to be quarter’d at Launceston. Yet here, on the near side of Launceston,
was a large body of rebel horse marching quietly to the sou’-west. Where
was the head or tail to it?
Turning my head as the last rider disappear’d on the way to Bodmin, I
spied a squat oddly shap’d man striding down the hill very briskly: yet
he look’d about him often and kept to the hollows of the ground; and was
crossing below us, as it appeared, straight for Joan’s cottage.
Cried I: “There is but one man in the world with such a gait—and that’s
Billy Pottery!”
And jumping to my feet (for he was come directly beneath us) I caught up
a great stone and sent it bowling down the slope.
Bounce it went past him, missing his legs by a foot or less. The man
turn’d, and catching sight of me as I stood waving, made his way up
the hill. ’Twas indeed Captain Bilty: and coming up, the honest fellow
almost hugg’d me for joy.
“Was seeking thee, Jack,” he bawled: “learn’d from Sir Bevill where
belike I might find thee. Left his lodging at Launceston this mornin’,
and trudged ivery foot o’ the way. A thirsty land, Jack—neither horse’s
meat nor man’s meat therein, nor a chair to sit down on: an’ three women
only have I kiss’d this day!” He broke off and look’d at Joan. “Beggin’
the lady’s pardon for sea manners and way o’ speech.”
“Joan,” said I, “this is Billy Pottery, a good mariner and friend of
mine: and as deaf as a haddock.”
Billy made a leg; and as I pointed to the road where the cavalry had
just disappeared, went on with a nod—
“That’s so: old Sir G’arge Chudleigh’s troop o’ horse sent off to Bodmin
to seize the High Sheriff and his _posse_ there. Two hour agone I spied
’em, and ha’ been ever since playin’ spy.”
“Then where be the King’s forces?” I made shift to enquire by signs.
“March’d out o’ Launceston to-day, lad—an’ but a biscuit a man between
’em, poor dears—for Stratton Heath, i’ the nor’-east, where the rebels
be encamp’d. Heard by scouts o’ these gentry bein’ sent to Bodmin, and
were minded to fight th’ Earl o’ Stamford whiles his dragooners was
away. An’ here’s the long an’ short o’t: thou’rt wanted, lad, to bear a
hand wi’ us up yonder—an the good lady here can spare thee.”
And here we both look’d at Joan—I shamefacedly enough, and Billy with a
puzzled air, which he tried very delicately to hide.
She put her hand in mine.
“To fight, lad?”
I nodded my head.
“Then go,” she said without a shade in her voice; and as I made no
answer, went on—“Shall a woman hinder when there’s fightin’ toward?
Only come back when thy wars be over, for I shall miss thee, Jack.”
And dropping my hand she led the way down to the cottage.
Now Billy, of course, had not heard a word of this: but perhaps he
gathered some import. Any way, he pull’d up short midway on the slope,
scratched his head, and thunder’d—
“What a good lass!”
Joan, some paces ahead, turn’d at this and smil’d: whereat, having no
idea he’d spoken above a whisper, Billy blush’d red as any peony.
’Twas but a short half hour when, the mare being saddled and Billy fed,
we took our leave of Joan. Billy walked beside one stirrup, and the
girl on the other side, to see us a few yards on our way. At length she
halted—
“No leave-takin’s, Jack, but ‘Church and King!’ Only do thy best and not
disgrace me.”
And “Church and King!” she call’d thrice after us, standing in the road.
For me, as I rode up out of that valley, the drums seem’d beating and
the bugles calling to a new life ahead. The last light of day was on the
tors, the air blowing fresher as we mounted: and with Molly’s every step
the past five months appear’d to dissolve and fall away from me as a
dream.
On the crest, I turn’d in the saddle. Joan was yet standing there, a
black speck on the road. She waved her hand once.
Billy had turn’d too, and, uncovering, shouted so that the hilltops
echoed.
“A good lass—a good lass! But what’s become o’ t’other one?”