Alice sat in the orchard. The boughs of the old apple-tree overshadowed
her with a roof of emerald green and radiant snow. A warm air blew out
of the south and toyed with the jet black curls hanging loose round her
shoulders. The sunlight, piercing through the leafage, fell in vivid
splotches upon her face and bare arms, as she bent busily over her
embroidery.
Suddenly a long low whistle came from the hedge, repeated three times.
At the first whistle Alice raised her head attentively, at the second
she smiled and a swift look of joy shot into her dark eyes, at the
third she threw down her work and ran to the hedge.
It was as she had thought. Philip had climbed the hedge. The next
moment he held her in his arms.
‘My darling,’ he said, ‘I am right glad to find thee here. I guessed I
should.’
‘Oh Philip,’ she answered, ‘this is a sight for my poor eyes. But I
didn’t hope that thou wouldst dare come. Oh, and if my father finds us
together, he will be mad with rage.’
‘I dare anything for thy sake, pretty Alice,’ he answered, kissing her.
‘But cheerly, my dearest, there’s no chance of your father happening
upon us, for I watched him into town a half an hour ago.’
‘Praise Mary,’ said Alice. ‘If he caught us he would buffet me sorely,
and he would tell Sir Gilbert, and then woe to thee, poor Philip.’
The young squire groaned and bit his underlip fiercely.
‘I would to God the old knight were lying in his grave,’ he said.
‘Sh-sh,’ said Alice, putting her little fingers over his tense mouth.
‘Tell me now,’ quoth he, ‘canst thou not persuade thy father against
this iniquitous marriage, or at least thy mother? It is a shameful
and wicked thing to wed a young maid like thee against her will, and
especially to a greybeard like old Sir Gilbert, a notorious villain and
ribald to boot.’
Alice sighed deeply. ‘I would by Our Lady I might. But father says that
Sir Gilbert has bonny lands and castles and gold and silver in great
plenty, nay, he is the lord of all these parts. Mother says the match
is God’s own fortune, and I shall have many pretty gowns to wear and go
in a great chariot and folk shall call me “My Lady.”’
‘Holy Cross, that _thou_ shouldst speak thus. It shall not be, I swear
it by the Blessed Saints, it shall not be. When do they speak of making
the contract?’
The girl hesitated.
‘To--to-morrow,’ stammered she at last. ‘Father has bespoke Master
Richard the Parson and Robert the Bailiff to the wine-drinking, and to
stand as witnesses afterwards.’
‘To-morrow? To-morrow?’
‘Yea.’
‘And thou didst not tell me. Thank the Lord I came hither this
afternoon. Oh Alice, sweet Alice, thou dost love me, dost thou not?
Thou dost love me, sweet Alice?’
She gazed at him reproachfully, then put her arms round his neck and
kissed him.
‘Thou knowest I do, dear Philip.’
‘Thou dost? Then all is well. We shall wed in spite of all; we shall,
I say. By Mary, I would go through Hell to win thee, my darling Alice.
Now, sweeting, be brave and adventure a little for our dear love’s
sake, and I will save thee from that cursed old villain and thy
father’s covetousness. Listen: to-morrow the contract is to be signed;
there is but one way; thou must escape this night.’
‘Escape? This night?’
‘Yea, this night. ’Tis the only way out. Listen. Thou sleepest alone
except for old Annie? I will bribe old Annie to carry a rope-ladder
into thy chamber. At midnight I will whistle outside the window; do
thou descend by the ladder, and ere sunrise we will put a dozen miles
between us and Sir Gilbert.’
‘Ah--but Annie?’
‘Never fear; I know the hag. I have dealt with her before this. She
would sell her soul to Hell for a gold angel. She will help thee. Thou
wilt come with me? Say thou wilt come.’
‘Oh Mary, never was a poor girl so perplexed,’ cried Alice, and the
round childish tears tumbled down her cheeks.
Philip kissed them away passionately.
‘My darling; my heart’s darling,’ he cried, ‘dost not love me better
than all?’
‘Yea, yea, thou knowest I do,’ she answered piteously.
‘Then wilt thou stay to be the wife of that hoary sinner, who had
damned himself into Hell long before thou wert born? One brave step and
thou art mine for ever. Once married before the priest, and not even
the Lord King upon his throne can part us, praise Holy Mother Church.
Escape with me to-night; promise me, promise, promise.’
‘Jesu, Jesu,’ sobbed the poor girl.
‘Ah, thou dost not love me after all,’ groaned Philip, ‘thou dost not
love me.’ He unlaced her arms from his neck, and pushed her away from
him, covering his face with his hands.
‘But I do, I do,’ she cried, clinging to him passionately.
‘Then promise to come with me to-night; promise!’
‘Ah, I promise, I promise.’
He kissed her fervently again and again.
‘I must not stay,’ quoth he. ‘I must get everything to hand. I shall
get horses ready. I must think of the road and the priest, and I must
see old Annie. Remember thou hast promised. To-night, to-night.’
He kissed her again, and with one last passionate embrace they parted.